The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer

Chapter Nineteen: Judgement

Miles's prediction proved to be astute. A good many accusations were thrown around that night, mostly levelled at me on the grounds of my being a thief and a murderer, and a charge of complicity against Miles, which he took in good humour and countered with a suggestion that a search of the bedrooms might be in order. The inspector in charge of the debacle, an unprepossessing man with a vacant expression by the name of Sidebottom, who had thus far proved himself to be of limited imagination and largely untroubled by an over-active intellect, threw himself into the task with gusto and it was not long before a bag of jewels was found in the possession of Lady Agnes's companion.

Any doubts that there was more to this case "than what met the eye", as Inspector Sidebottom so eloquently put it, were dispelled when Jane bit the constable charged with the task of detaining her and tried to make a run for it. The waters were further muddied by my revelation that Ricoletti was really Mr Wilfred Pickles, the allegedly deceased husband of Mrs Jane Pickles. Declaring that "there was something fishy about the whole caper", Sidebottom had arrested all three of us and had said he would deal with us in the morning after a good night's sleep.

I assumed he meant after he had had slept, for there was no peace for me that night. I paid for my time in the well with violent and crippling nausea. By the time morning came, I was in no fit state for anything, let alone an interview with an ecclesiastical-looking man, all spectacles and gaiters, who was introduced to me as Sir Sidney Perrin.

That he was a stranger to the local constabulary was evidenced by the stir his presence caused that morning in the police station. My suspicion was proved correct when he informed me he had been sent by a 'friend' to deal with the matter. Miles's promise to alert my brother of my predicament had had the desired effect and, while Sidebottom had slept and I re-acquainted myself with my evening meal, the wheels had turned and produced this government official with his incongruous waxed moustache and Whitehall whiskers.

I told him my story, to which he listened with polite interest, before suggesting that the events of last night as I had described them had never taken place. Dr Wendell, Lady Agnes's physician, had confirmed that his patient had been in very poor health and her death had been expected at any time. An inquest, so Perrin told me, was not necessary in this case, as there was nothing to suggest suspicious circumstances. In the case of Lady Anstead, too long dead to be troubled from her grave, I was assured that she too had also died from natural causes and, since no one had benefitted financially from her death save certain charitable institutions, foul play was not suspected.

As for me, Perrin was keen to offer his commiserations on the death of my benefactress. As far as anyone around the table that night was concerned, Lady Agnes had been confused, a lamentable result of her illness, and any public revelation that she had tried to disinherit her niece in my favour would only serve to tarnish the poor lady's good name. It would never be mentioned again, said he, and it would be in my best interests to discontinue my foray into society, at least until what he described as "natural wastage" had thinned both the numbers and memories.

I had no problem with abandoning my career as society butterfly – that had never been my intention in the first place. What did concern me was that two murders were to go unpunished. Perrin had neatly avoided my question by stating that no crime had been committed; even the theft of Lady Agnes's jewellery had been explained away by her companion's practice of keeping the items under close guard at all times.

There was, however, an outstanding warrant for the arrest of a Mr and Mrs Wilfred Pickles in Limerick on a charge of fraud and peddling quack medicines. An elderly widow, blind since birth, had paid vast sums of money to a couple who had assured her that her sight would be restored with their so-called patent tonic. The husband had read her palm and told her one day she would see again. The tonic was then recommended to accelerate the process. The poor woman had gladly paid more than five thousand pounds for what was little more than sugar water with an infusion of lavender. The couple were long gone by the deception was discovered and, as the widow had not been able to describe them, once Pickles had come to London and changed his name to Ricoletti, the police had held out little hope of finding him.

This then was the lesser charge that Miles had anticipated. For Perrin it was a satisfactory conclusion. The pair would be taken back to Limerick to answer the charge, to which both had already admitted their guilt of their own volition, and that was an end of the matter. The trial was a formality and there would be no scandal. Ricoletti would simply disappear. The space he would leave was already being filled by a Madame Strauss, who held séances in which she laughed a great deal, resulting in her title of 'The Happy Medium'. With a new diversion, the chiromancer would be forgotten, but not by me.

By the time I was well enough to return to London, matters had long since overtaken me. Ricoletti and his wife, or properly the Pickles, were on their way to Ireland to begin their prison sentences. The gathering at Easton Court had gone back to their respective homes in possession of what they had been told was the truth and sworn to secrecy out of respect for a woman succumbed to strange fancies in her closing days.

The papers were silent too. Langdale Pike had gone back to providing his readers with the usual diet of gossip and the latest court fashions. He had been muzzled, but whether this was on Miles's advice or by one of those 'persuasive' forces Perrin represented was not immediately obvious. Pike held no grudge against me, and although he would have to wait a while longer to make his name, our relationship flourished in time into one of mutual co-operation. As Miles had taught me, the press was a very useful thing, if one knew how to use it.

My own departure from the police station was viewed as a travesty of justice, certainly by Inspector Sidebottom, who tugged at his beard and declared that in his opinion I would "come to a bad end". I asked him whether he considered death by water to be bad enough. This confused him, and led to his assertion that "hanging was too good for me", although why and for what crime he was at a loss to say. On the whole, I was never so glad to be back at Montague Street, albeit five pounds lighter in weight, my career and reputation in tatters and Lady Agnes's murder troubling my conscience.

There was another matter too. I was loath to address it, yet clearly it could not be allowed to continue unchecked. I knew what was expected of me, but whether it was the right thing to do was another matter. Before I acted, I needed to talk to Miles. And that meant finding him first.

He was absent from his rooms at Mayfair when I called, as was his valet. His neighbour, a man with eyes so red that one could see the blood pulsating through them, told me that he had not seen him since his return from the Cotswolds on Saturday afternoon two days ago. Miles had effected yet another of his disappearing acts, except this time I had a fairly good idea of where he had gone to ground.

The Albany – prefaced with or without the definite article depending on the inclination of individual – had been providing comfortable bachelor accommodation to rakes, roués and respectable gentlemen alike for nigh on sixty years by the time I appeared on its elegant doorstep. The building, a stone's throw from the Royal Academy, itself no longer the centre of attention since the investigation into the jewel thefts had stalled, lay back from the road in a quiet close, by-passed by the bourdon throb of the traffic shuffling along Piccadilly.

The problem of discovering which room was his was easily resolved by my passing the concierge a note addressed to Mr Miles Holmes and watching him place it in a room-numbered pigeon-hole. Then, when the man's back was turned, I slipped past him, took a key from the hook, and hurried upstairs to Miles's private sanctum.

In some respect, the room was something of a revelation. Miles left to his own devices displayed a pleasing disdain for personal tidiness that made my own carefully-cultivated mess pall by comparison. It was not that the room contained anything shabby or inexpensive, but it was comfortable in a way that can only be produced by years of indolent experience. It was everything a grown man could wish for, whether in terms of the tobacco set close at hand in a ginger jar, the tantalus unlocked and within arm's reach, and a table doubling as a footstool with an impressive array of scuffs and knocks only achievable in a home where the will of a wife did not prevail.

The armchair too, a brown leather monstrosity that had seen better days, was gloriously comfortable, moulded by long use to its owner's body-shape, so that it wrapped about the sitter like a favourite dressing gown. I was less surprised to find books ranged in untidy rows along one wall as Madame de Mont St Jean had alerted me to his interests. An inspection of the titles revealed a curious mix of the profound and the profane, much like their absent owner, a Janus torn between saint and sinner. It was with regret that I realised I still did not understand Miles or why he chose to live this life of two halves, divided between society's expectations and his own inclinations, and perhaps never would.

Not knowing when he would be back, I helped myself to a book from Miles's collection with the dubious title of The Lives and Loves of the Caesars and settled myself into the armchair to await his return. I did not have long to wait. The clock had chimed the half hour when the door opened and Miles entered, dressed in black mourning. If he was taken aback by my presence, seated in his chair, reading his books and drinking his best sherry, he did not register the fact. Instead, he pulled the coat from his shoulders, threw it over the couch and regarded me with studied weariness.

"They released you then," said he.

"As you said they would."

"Brother Mycroft worked his usual wonders, no doubt."

"With a little help from others, I should imagine."

He ambled over to the decanter and poured himself a large whisky. I gave him time to down it and help himself to a cigarette, watching as he tossed the burned-down match into a large metal vessel, flat-based and shaped like a blunted oblong, before asking him where he had been.

"Theo's funeral was this morning. We were a sad collection of souls."

His gaze travelled to the window. Spring was finally shouldering off the stubborn vestiges of winter, and the sunlight shafting through the glass brought with it heat enough to warm where it touched.

"It should have rained. Funerals, I think, should always be conducted in the rain. Funerals… and executions. It seems fitting somehow." He fell for a moment into a brown study before directing his dull gaze in my direction. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

What I had to say required care. I did not want to address the matter outright, perhaps because I retained some faint hope that I was mistaken.

"I have a problem, Miles. I needed to see you about it."

"You've proved yourself more than capable of dealing with your own problems. All would appear to be in your favour. You have your chiromancer under lock and key… and now you've come for me."

Not knowing how he had discerned my purpose made me slow to answer, and when I did I was scarcely able to string a decent sentence together. Miles held up his hand and put an end to my confusion.

"No, no, Sherlock, let us be reasonable about this. I must confess I have been expecting this for some time. I knew that the time had come when George handed me this note." He brandished the blank piece of paper I had given the concierge. "A word of advice, cousin. If you do not wish to alarm your victims into flight, I suggest you come up with something more original than this. You could not have announced your presence any louder had you trumpeted it from the rooftops."

I conceded that the gesture had been ill-judged. It lacked my usual finesse, as had many of my deeds and actions of late. Miles had that effect on me. But I could not place all the blame with him, for I could not discount that it had been deliberate on my part. Perhaps I had wanted him to flee. It would have been easier on us both.

That Miles, however, had no intention of making the situation easy was evident by his settling himself on the sofa, propping a cushion behind his back and putting his feet up. As acts of insolent defiance went, I found myself grudgingly admiring the sheer gall of the man.

"Now, cousin, you have something to say. Do go on. I'm sure your narrative will prove most interesting."

"What is there to say, Miles? You're a thief."

"Slander, my dear boy?" Miles tutted. "Well, I suppose it is to be expected. When one leads an interesting life, speculation is bound to occur. 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny'. I dare say that is as true today as when the Bard put quill to parchment. In any case, aren't you forgetting something?"

"If you mean proof, do we need to look any further than this?"

I nudged the object, currently home to his growing collection of speckled ash and spent matches, around to face him. It stood between us on the table, a proud if impertinent eight inches of engraved and gilded metal.

"An ash tray?" said Miles, raising a questioning eyebrow. Even faced with the evidence of his crimes, he remained unrepentant.

"It's the brayette stolen from the Royal Academy on the night of the ball."

"Is it really? I shall have to take your word for it. What would I know of such things?"

"I think you know a great deal. You owe me an explanation."

"No, cousin, what you seek is a confession. Now, let us say, for argument's sake, that I was this thief of yours. It would be very foolish of me to make any rash statements when all you have is a tin toy bought in all innocence."

"In innocence, you say. Do you have a receipt?"

Miles made an apologetic gesture. "The man approached me in the street. I did not know him and he did not offer his name. Would I like to buy it, he asked. Well, at five shillings, I thought it worth the price asked. I was not to know it had a dubious provenance."

It was the worst story I had ever heard, and we both knew it to be a lie. In its favour, the tale of how he came by the brayette was extraordinary enough to be true, more so than my laughable theories about how my ineffable cousin happened to be one of the most skilled thieves in London.

He smiled at my irritation. "Come now, Sherlock, there is no shame in defeat when the opponents are equally matched. From what I read in the papers, I understand it was a masterful performance. The thief, whoever he is, must be an exceptional one."

"That I do not deny. I would not have suspected but for that night at the well."

"Gave himself away, did he?"

"It was the gardener's shed that finally convinced me."

"Ah, you mean the locked door."

"Yes. You picked it, didn't you, Miles?"

He eyed me with amusement and said nothing.

"Such skills aren't usually required by gentlemen of means, unless for gaining entrance to their lovers' homes." Miles had the decency to look a little affronted by my remark, and I continued before he had the chance to make some repost about my impudence. "To open a lock so quickly spoke of experience, nerve too, especially to do so in front of me, aware as you were of my interest. But then you displayed that same nerve the night you broke in to the Royal Academy. Your skill was undoubted, for the traces you left behind of your activities were minute. As for locking the doors behind you…"

"A very thoughtful thief," Miles observed dryly. "Who knows who might have wandered in and helped themselves?"

"By then, I was wondering about other things too. Your lies about where you had been the night of the ball, where you had got the money for Fairfax and about your having rooms here at the Albany. I knew you must have had another refuge in London, because Madame de Mont St Jean told me of your love of books."

"Ah, Célestine, beautiful but indiscreet!"

"Yet there were no books at your Mayfair rooms. Nor did it seem to fit with your character. You strive to appear superficial, but in fact you are as cunning as a fox."

His eyes twinkled with mischief. "You seem to think I'm cleverer than I am."

"No, Miles, you are supremely intelligent. That you choose to conceal it and squander your talents in this way is a senseless waste."

"That is ungenerous of you, Sherlock. First you accuse me of burglary, and now you attempt to batter my sensibilities with the deathly hand of middle-class morality. What have I done to deserve such foul treatment?"

He fixed me with a level, challenging stare, but I would not be intimidated.

"The Diadem, I want it back."

"Do you now? How do you propose to get it?"

"I know it's here somewhere. I'll tear the place apart if I have to. I would prefer that you gave it to me."

"You presume that I have it."

"You know you do."

"Then by handing it over, I would be admitting to the crime."

"This brayette already proves that."

It was a very poor bluff, and one that had Miles chuckling merrily. "Have you actually examined this petty piece of evidence of which you are so proud? You tell me that it belonged to King Henry VIII, yet the thing you have there is not yet a hundred years old. It's a copy, probably made to replace the original worn out by generations of curious fingers. There's a story about its efficacy in curing infertility, did you know?"

"Is that why you took it? Because it was a forgery?"

"Your thief strikes me as being something of a connoisseur. Now imagine the scene: he has what he came for and then he espies a glass case covered by a velvet cloth with an absurd little notice warning about its contents. Naturally he looks and what he sees raises his ire. He throws caution to the window and smashes the glass, for time is pressing." He hesitated. "Had events not overtaken him, I'm sure he would have returned it, anonymously, by way of an expert who would have confirmed that the brayette was not a piece of authentic Tudor metalwork."

"Would the death of a friend be such an event?"

Miles inclined his head. "One may lose heart under such circumstances. That is no doubt why he took to the streets and sold it to the first person he met, in this case me."

"Describe him."

"My dear Sherlock, I can scarce remember what I did yesterday, let alone what some fellow looked like days ago," he said, chuckling. "Besides, I quite agree with him. If there is offence, then it is men like Rodney-Ware who have given it, by duping the fee-paying public into accepting a poor copy as the genuine article."

"Yet by your own admission, only a connoisseur would know the difference."

"Any fool could tell you that was a replacement. Use your eyes, Sherlock! Look at the depth of the engraving, as crisp as the day it was made, and then tell me it is over 300 years old. That never adorned the person of His Royal Majesty. If you ask me, it serves a better purpose now than that intended for it."

"And what of the Diadem? And Mrs Farintosh's opal tiara? What purpose have you assigned to them?"

Miles smiled. "Ah, Mrs Farintosh, a most winning woman with an unfortunate weakness for the gaming tables. But you are mistaken if you believe your thief meant the dear lady any harm. As with the brayette, he knew the tiara was a fake. It was obvious what she had done. By removing it, the thief knew she would be compensated for her loss and so be able to redeem her debts."

I stared at him. "You weren't intending to expose her?"

"I should not, but then we aren't talking about me, are we? Your thief must have been put out when he read in the papers that the tiara had turned up again after he had gone to such trouble on the lady's behalf. Was it you, cousin, who advised her how to extricate herself from the awkward situation? I did wonder when I saw mention of a certain Inspector Lestrade in connection with the case, and your reaction just now proves it. Let me see, in your place, I would have advised that she redeemed her jewels before the dreaded exposure took place."

"Yes, that is exactly what I did."

"My meddling little cousin. What is it they say about the best laid plans?"

"Where is the fake tiara now?"

"Probably at the bottom of the Thames – does it matter?"

"It does if the Diadem is with it."

"I should say it is not. Your thief is a connoisseur, after all, not a philistine. Destroying a thing of beauty would not fit with his sense of morality. He would steal to help a friend, yet he goes to great pains to expose fraud."

"And murder too. Lestrade told me about the Cambridge Mummy case."

"Indeed." Miles smiled and rose to pour himself another drink. "Well, we have played battledore and shuttlecock with these theories of yours for long enough. What is your next move?"

"I cannot allow you to continue."

"Allow?" he echoed. "Good heavens, you sound like your brother. He said he could not allow me to continue, not with my studies when he discovered I was intending to sell a dusty old book that no one would ever have missed to pay off my debts. So very pious in his disapproval, he had the gall to lecture me about right and wrong. 'The fundamentals of justice are that no one shall suffer wrong, and that the public good be served'. As if I didn't know my Cicero."

"You lied."

"Yes, I did, didn't I? Perhaps I did not want to disappoint you."

I did not believe he had been content simply to disillusion me about Mycroft. When I thought back to that night at the well, something that had happened there now began to make more sense.

"You hesitated before you threw me that rope. Why?"

He took a moment to stare at the contents of his glass as he marshalled his thoughts.

"I was wondering whether I could stand by and watch you drown. I must confess I was tempted. You were becoming a nuisance, and I was certain that you already suspected the truth. At the dinner table, I caught you looking at me, and I knew. Your expression was that of a man awoken to revelation. Then there was Mycroft to consider. When he was dispensing his own brand of justice, I told him that there would come a day when he needed something from me, and when that time came we would settle our account. Well, that day came. He gave me you in payment, and what a poisoned chalice you proved to be."

I started from my chair. "Miles, what are you saying?"

"Quite simply, Sherlock, that your brother has played us both like seaside marionettes. He sent you to do what he could not, namely to destroy me. He's too much the coward for that. For myself, I do not mind so much. I have only myself to blame. The Royal Academy was a foolish mistake; a man should not sully his own doorstep. But I needed the money, and it was convenient."

"You admit it then?"

"I don't see why not. It so happens that I'm very good at what I do. A man should take pride in his work, and you must admit that the theft of the Diadem was well done."

"Yes, it was."

"I was taught by the best, you see. After I left Oxford, I had the good fortune to share a railway carriage with an accomplished burglar, a few days out of prison and looking for an apprentice. I was an excellent student."

"The man who is now your valet."

Miles nodded. "Algernon said he fancied that ferret-faced inspector had recognised him. He has gone now. We agreed it was best that he leave. As for me, Célestine tells me she is forsaking London for Paris. I shall go with her."

"What if I stop you?"

"No, Sherlock, I don't think you shall. You will not allow yourself to be your brother's puppet. I hope if nothing else I have taught you that much. That alone is repayment enough for me. That is why I could not let you die. Mycroft would have been wounded but once by your death. Every day you live and defy him, I shall be content."

"What if I happen to agree with him?"

"Then call the police. I do not care. I suspect, however, that you have made up your own mind about the business. You want the Diadem returned. I want to retain my liberty. A Judgement of Solomon is required of you, cousin. Are you equal to the task?"

"Compromise?"

"No, sacrifice. The question is, what are you prepared to sacrifice in order to get what you want? You cannot have it both ways. In retrospect, I could have talked my way out of a difficult situation, stayed on at college and never had this life. I realise now how much I would have missed if not for your brother. I owe him that much. That is why I give you back to him, a man rather than the callow youth he sent to me. I am glad he caught me in my innocence, as I have caught you in yours. You will never make this mistake again. But it will cost you."

"What do you propose?"

"That what has passed between us remains a secret. You will have your Diadem, and I shall leave England and never return. It will be no hardship for me. Now Theo is dead, London holds too many memories and too few comforts. Think carefully – what you have is little enough to go on and would never place me in the dock. But I would not have Célestine think ill of me. People do talk so. Whatever I have done, I have never knowingly hurt another soul. Can you say the same of Mycroft?"

I could not. What Miles had said was true. Mycroft had engineered my meeting with Miles, knowing of his past history, probably knowing that he had continued with his crimes, and in the certain knowledge that I too would discover them. Because of him, what was being asked of me was as much an anathema to my soul as was Ricoletti and his wife going unpunished for the deaths of two women. There was no excuse for what Miles had done. I hated that he had chosen this life and was forcing me to accept his terms, but I did not hate him. That was the difference, and why I could not turn him over to the police.

"Give up this life," I urged. "Return the Diadem and I shall say nothing, but do not continue. One day you will be found out, and then it will be prison."

"I cannot," he returned. "Could you give up your life? Personally, I find the thought of a member of the family being in trade quite humiliating. Promise me you will never advertise your services in the newspapers. I could not live with the shame. I would never try to dissuade you from your chosen career, however, for I hold that a man must follow his own nature. And I have every confidence that you will thrive."

With that, he reached out and grasped my shoulder. I was sure I saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes.

"It has been an honour to know you, cousin. Were my brothers like you, I would be proud."

I could not summon up a reply.

"Come, now, Sherlock. Do not flinch at the moment of decision. Be no Jack Ketch with me. I have paid my five guineas to the executioner, and I expect you to make a clean job of it. 'Morituri te salutant', as the gladiators used to say. You have done well." He gave a small laugh. "Only, don't tell Mimi I said that."

"No, I won't."

"Then go. Here, take your brayette with you. That inspector of yours will thank you for it. If he asks, tell him you bought it from a man in the street. He will believe you."

I wrapped it in newspaper to spare the blushes of other pedestrians, picked my coat and made for the door. When I looked round, Miles had his back to me and was staring out of the window, veiled in the smoke of his cigarette and deep in thought. If certain images stay with us long after the event has passed, then my last abiding memory of Miles is as he was that afternoon, half-shadow, half-light, as much as contradiction as the man himself, neither all bad nor all good.

Before I left, however, I had one final question. In my last case, I had heard mention of someone whose identity eluded me. If anyone could tell me, Miles might, moving as he did in the same shadowy world as the diamond thieves of the Tankerville Club.

"What do you know of someone called The Professor?" I asked.

"He pays well," Miles said noncommittally.

"He does exist then?"

"I've never actually met the man. He usually works through intermediaries. Why?"

I told him the reason for my interest.

"That is an avenue I would advise you not to pursue," he said. "He is not a man I should like to cross. If anyone could make that chiromancer's prediction come true, he would. Stay away from water, Sherlock – and stay away from him."

Farewell, Miles, you old reprobate, it's been fun writing about you. A rogue, but a lovable one, I hope. But this isn't over yet – so let's return that brayette and see what Lestrade has to say.

Continued in Chapter Twenty!