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- Herausgeber: Unicorn
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In A Case of Royal Blackmail, the 24-year-old Sherlock Holmes recounts how he untangled the web of blackmail and deceit surrounding the 'complex romantic endeavours' of the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, those of Lillie Langtry and her various suitors and the morass of scandal surrounding the Prince's court of 1879. In between times he also reveals how he solved the cases of Vamberry the Wine Merchant, Ricoletti of the Club-foot and His Abominable Wife and Oscar Wilde's Amethyst Tie-pin.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Contents
Chapter 1
Oscar Wilde
Every crime must have a motive, that much is clear. The motive behind my crime against the English language in writing this account is that I have just completed a case that may be of some significance to historians in years to come. The case lasted for just one month, the whole of July 1879. The opportunity to write it is occasioned by spare hours during the Christmas and New Year celebrations, when as usual Brother Mycroft and I find ourselves here in the East Riding of Yorkshire spending time with our parents. I am also aware that events just five months old are still fresh in my mind, that the many case notes kept during that time are still decipherable, and so with time to write and recall, and with paper and ink to spare, my crime shall commence.
It is tempting to start at what seems to be the beginning, the invitation to a meeting with the royal solicitor George Lewis to help him untangle a blackmail case arising out of the Prince of Wales’s abundant romantic endeavours. I shall explain how that came about presently. However, the case really began with something that at the time seemed to be completely unconnected, a visit to my Montague Street rooms by an unknown poet, Oscar Wilde.
I was feeling unusually melancholy on that uncomfortably hot and airless morning of 1 July. I had spent most of the morning in the Reading Room at the British Museum 8researching the subject of bees with which I have a growing fascination, and from whom I am increasingly taking instruction. Another reader had left a glass door open and the way the light fell I saw a reflection of myself in it, too clearly. I saw a rather gaunt-looking 24-year-old man, too tall for many, too thin for most, with prospects that amounted to a dream, with rooms that amounted to the barely adequate, with friends that amounted to the far between, with clients as sparsely scattered as friends and with habits shared only by the antisocial. I am usually content with my lot, a lot I had after all chosen for myself. Maybe the unusual melancholy was spurred on by the long spell of summer heat, the air stuck and lifeless in the great domed room, the habitués stretching the Reading Room’s ‘Rules of Attire’ with loosened ties, rolled-up sleeves and even, out of sight, kicked-off boots.
The first sign of trouble came at eleven o’clock as I was about to leave to keep the appointment with Mr Wilde. All the doors and windows were wide open in a vain attempt to let the air circulate, when the noise of a voice amplified by a megaphone struck up in the near distance. Inquisitive, I hastened to leave. This sound outside became louder as I neared the main door, and outside on the steps was a man with his back to me standing on a half-yard box rabblerousing a crowd of about a hundred malcontents arranged in a loose semicircle in front of him. They held banners and placards, all proclaiming the bearers to be members of the Marylebone Anarcho-Syndicalists Union. Now the speaker’s words became clearer. 9
‘…we ever see this so-called “Majesty”? No, we don’t. Do we want to see her? No, we don’t. Do we need to see her or her kind ever again? No, brothers and sisters, no we don’t. And why don’t we ever see her? Because she’s cosseted away in one of her luxury palaces paid for by the skin off your knuckles and the blisters on your feet, that’s why we don’t see her. Flunkies attend her every wish, why, I don’t suppose she even has to wipe her own royal arse. Parasites, feeding off your blood, every one of them. Now this dwarf queen is bad enough, but you know the worst of them all? Her fat pig of a son Edward, calls himself Bertie, the Prince of [foul word] Wales. Never even thought about doing an honest day’s work, let alone done one. Leech number one, mark my words brothers and sisters and – Hello, hello, comrades…what have we here?’ I was aware that all eyes were now looking at me. ‘Leech number two, by the look of this particular specimen of a bourgeois running dog!’
Now others started abusing me.
‘Shame!’ cried one.
‘Swine!’ shouted another.
‘Monarchist lackey!’ yelled yet another.
I grant that compared to the rabble I was cleanly dressed and the satchel full of papers may have given an un-anarchic impression. I turned to confront my accuser. Instantly I recognised him: Frank Connell, a well-known confidence trickster and illegal bookmaker who had featured in the May edition of the Illustrated Police News.
I strode straight up to him and could sense the crowd 10closing in around us. ‘Frank Connell, I know who you are, and these fine people should know too. Give me that megaphone this instant!’ I had the considerable advantage of height over him, even standing on his box, and as I strode up advanced, in shock he stumbled backwards. I grabbed the megaphone, took his place on the crate and addressed the throng:
‘Good anarchists of Marylebone, you have been misled. Your speaker is a well-known fraud, Frank Connell. He is no more the anarcho-syndicalist than I am. His usual twist is Bible-bashing, quackery, or scratch-bookmaking. Why, I can see his colleague passing with a hat among you now. Give these rogues not a penny.’
‘How do you know?’ a shout came back from the crowd.
‘Because I’m a consulting detective, and it’s my job to know. This man is no stranger to the police or the press.’
Behind me a scuffle between Connell and one of the mob broke out. I skipped down from the box and made my way out through the crowd.
‘Oy, not so fast. Who are you?’ A large man of military bearing stood in my way. He wore the black badge of anarchy and the red badge of communism and stank of un-wash. I said: ‘My name is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Now please, let me through.’
‘You look like a toff to me.’
‘I assure you, sir, I am no toff. Look out!’ I pointed to the sky. As he looked up, I brought my heel down hard on his toes and as he took to one leg, I barged myself a gap in the horde, made my excuses, was rewarded only by more foul oaths and abuse, and left. 11
Back at my rooms in Montague Street I prepared for my visitor with a swift tidy-up. I looked again at the card he had hand-delivered two days ago. The address at the top read: ‘13 Salisbury Street, London, WC2’. I knew the road, just off the Strand backing down to the River Thames, hard by Waterloo Bridge. I read the message aloud: ‘Mr S. Holmes, I am, sir, indebted to our mutual friend Victor Trevor, Esq., for recommending I consult with you about a theft, in the hope of recovery thereof. Unless you inform me otherwise, I intend to visit you on Thursday at noon. Yours in the keenest of anticipations, Oscar Wilde.’
What to make of it? The handwriting was neat, right-handed, symmetrical, generously looped, carefully crossed and forward-facing – and reminded me that the new science, some say false science, of graphology was on my list of subjects to study. From what minima I knew of graphology at that time, his card yielded little in the way of clues beyond pointing to a warm-hearted and generous personality. Salisbury Street is not particularly residential, being mostly clerical offices and Number 13 meant nothing to me. I imagined the rent would be low, the convenience middling and depending where it was on the street, the river view variable. Neither a smart nor disreputable address, but certainly an unusual residential one. To start the note with ‘Mr S. Holmes’ shows a lack of formality, whether on purpose or out of ignorance was hard to tell. Presuming that he had actually met my friend Victor Trevor, that must have been in Norfolk as Victor is 12a home bird given the choice. Unless of course they met at Oxford for some reason. Then there is ‘consult with’ which hints at an Irish, or even an American author. The middle sentence is finely balanced, suggesting someone with an eye or ear for literature. ‘Yours in the keenest anticipations’ is not a recognised complimentary close, far from it, indicating a creative, extrovert streak in my visitor. Musing thus, I was grateful for my alarm clock sounding at 11.55am, its five-minute warning bell a habit I have developed to remind myself of immediate events.
Twenty-one minutes later the doorbell rang and I greeted Wilde at the front door and invited him to follow me up to the first-floor rooms. We both had to clamber over and around a gang of plumbers installing hot water pipes for the new boiler, with my landlady and cousin Sara Holmes overseeing manoeuvres. He was tall, as tall as me but considerably more heavily built. The two of us made fine use of the small front room. His hair was chestnut brown and fashionably long, his soft face unfashionably close-shaven and noticeably pale, made more so by stray freckles, great green eyes and perfectly arched eyebrows. His smile showed slightly green teeth, probably caused by mercury, possibly taken as a cure for syphilis, but that would be to prejudge him. He wore no hat, in itself singular, even at this time of year. The large black frock coat was silk-trimmed and cross-sewn, and carried over his arm in a concession to the heat of the day. He still wore a brightly flowered waistcoat covering a black silk shirt, ending in harp-motif amethyst cufflinks, and a silk 13cravat, black with white lilies, held in place by a ruby tie-pin. His trousers were pale brown, the socks hidden, and the brown brogue shoes dusty from a long walk in London’s streets. He was out of breath, surely not caused by the short flight of stairs, as well as sixteen minutes late.
I poured tea; he took one sugar and no milk.
’Where did you meet our mutual friend Victor Trevor?’ I asked.
‘At Oxford,’ he replied, sitting down. ‘We were all three there together as it happens, different colleges of course. You left a year before your time. Trevor and I were both members of Apollo Lodge and we stayed in touch. Last week was the Lodge reunion and he mentioned your genius at detection. The mystery of the good ship Gloria Scott.’ His voice was loud and soft at the same time, his speech perfectly rhythmical, a combination I had never heard before.
‘And what needs detecting?’ I asked.
‘The very devil,’ he said, standing up, ‘someone has stolen my tie-pin. Normally I would be merely annoyed, but like Beelzebub rising from an undiscovered circle, my mothership Lady Wilde is visiting me next week. Annoyance would be a mercy compared to her ladyship noticing the vanishment of the tie-pin.’
‘It was a present from her?’
‘Worse, it’s a family heirloom. The unkind would posit the family heirloom.’
‘Intaglio amethyst, 28-carat?’
‘How did you know that?’ he asked, almost accusingly.
‘From the motifs on the cufflinks you are wearing now. 14Clearly part of an incomplete set. The jeweller I presume was Carragher’s of Dublin?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He seemed a bit put out. ‘And I suppose you know the value?’
‘About two hundred pounds.’ He didn’t disagree. ‘I notice that you have just arrived by boat from Ireland,’ I asked.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he said.
‘You didn’t have to,’ I replied. ‘Your frock coat is cross-sewn in the Irish style. Your accent is almost perfectly English, except for the smallest lilt on the elongated “a” vowel; an Irish or West Country denominator. You said you were at Oxford, but there was no need; your cravat has the Magdalen crest and Magdalen arranges with Trinity College Dublin. The dock strike in Dublin only ended last weekend, so you have either been here a few days or more than a month. You still have the faintest trace of the passenger’s exit stamp on your left wrist, so the former. And the missing tie-pin is just that, a simple pin without a clasp or catch?
‘Yes, straight in and out.’
‘You couldn’t have been pickpocketed or mug-handed as the tie-pin is five feet three inches off the ground and right in front of your eyes. It must have been taken when you were sitting down and almost certainly asleep. Have you been on public transport or in a club recently?’
‘I never go on public transport, the seats are too sordid and the passengers too variable. And the germs, insufferable. But yes, I was in the Arts Club in Dover Street three lunches ago, my first day back, and did fall asleep in an armchair after a particularly famous lunch.’ 15
‘And who were you lunching with?’
‘Algy Swinburne, if you must know. Are you suggesting – ?’
‘No, not at all. I am merely calculating that it’s not impossible for anyone in the club at the time, members, guests or staff, to easily have removed it when you were asleep. It’s a wide field. When did you notice it missing?’
‘In my rooms at Thames House, when I was disrobing.’
‘Thames House?’
‘It’s what we fondly call 13 Salisbury Street. On account of the view. If you lean out of the top floor window and someone hangs on to your ankles, you can just glimpse the odd putrid ripple on the river. Look, Holmes, here’s my idea. Why don’t you come round and see if there’s been a burglary? To put my mind at rest. The alternative is that I’ve lost it. I could of course never live with myself, although equally I will have to do so. We are having an art-and-tea party Sunday afternoon, why don’t you join us?’
I explained that there was no point, as the tie-pin had certainly been stolen when he was asleep in an armchair at the Arts Club. But he insisted, and I am, I suppose, a man for hire. At this point we agreed upon my fee, a guinea a day plus incidentals to run for ten days if needed. On his insistence on my attending Thames House, I asked what an art-and-tea party was.
‘Just that, a tea party with art,’ he replied. ‘You’ve heard of Frank Miles, I suppose?’
‘I regret not.’
‘He is an artist, of society portraits, largely. Very largely 16in his case, as you will see. He has the second floor and I have the first. We entertain on the third. Jimmy Whistler will be painting Lillie Langtry. Probably. Millais will be there, possibly, if we are lucky. Rosa Corder, usually. Prince Leopold or Princess Louise may be present too, if they are lucky. It’s a cast of plenty and a moving feast. Art and tea, and a party too, you see.’
‘Are you an artist too?’ I asked.
‘I am a poet,’ he replied. ‘Life is my art.’
And so we agreed to meet again on Sunday afternoon at Thames House. On seeing him out I saw a fresh envelope on the mat. Inside was a card from George Lewis of Lewis & Lewis & Co. To say I was surprised would be to underestimate my reaction, and not just because it was made on one of these new type-writers. It was to some extent like a royal summons; he was after all the royal solicitor and his wife Elizabeth was reported to keep one of the liveliest salons in London in their Portland Place house. Or so I had read in my favourite penny dreadful scandal sheet Vanity Fair. The summons was quite specific: meet me in the Strangers Room at the Diogenes Club at noon tomorrow. From no clients to two new clients on one cold and foggy morning: prospects were brightening up.
Chapter 2
A Royal Case of Blackmail
Before the second day of writing here in Yorkshire I thought I would take an early morning walk, three miles over to the nearest hamlet, Foggathorpe, and back. It would be impossible for anyone who lives hereabouts all the time, or any other country dweller who never visits one of our great cities, to imagine what this still, cool, clear, quiet and bright morning here would be like in London. A light mist rests like a wraith over the East Riding, waiting for the sun to rise enough to vanish it away. The only sound is birdsong and the occasional stone moving underfoot.
In London now, and this last summer to when my story relates, with the high-pressure air sitting steady overhead, the coal smoke rises from the locomotives and factories into something the cab-men call by a good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon word: clag. There is not even a cab-man’s word for the colour of the air, a kind of grey-brown, perhaps like faded hessian. Neither is there a term for the smell; acrid-acid is the nearest I can find. The eyes smart, the mouth feels clammy, the throat itchy. Much like the gardener longs for rain, the Londoner longs for wind to come back and blow the clag away.
And then there’s the noise. The two-wheeled hansom cabs, the four-wheeled growlers, the six- or eight-wheeled 18omnibuses, all with steel-shod wheels rumbling over the cobblestones accompanied by three hundred thousand horses and their hoofs, light carts pushed along by hawkers and mongers selling their wares, shoe-blacks and street doctors touting and shouting; a Yorkshireman from here wouldn’t so much see London, the air alone would make sure of that, as hear it.
Far from these dales, it was on such an unpleasant morning just over six months ago that I left 24 Montague Street, passed the Museum Tavern, turned left onto Duke Street and down Shaftesbury Avenue, over Cambridge and Piccadilly Circuses, cut through St James’s Church, walked through St James’s Square and onto Pall Mall. The War Office stood to attention opposite and left, the Oxford & Cambridge Club opposite and right, the Army & Navy Club on my right, the Junior Carlton Club to the left and just beyond lay the Diogenes Club. My pocket watch told the tale: 11.57am: 21 minutes for 1.2 miles; just as I had expected.
The Diogenes Club is my regular West End staging post. Luckily Brother Mycroft was one of the co-founders and I soon found myself near the top of the small waiting list for membership. There is only one rule: no talking. This Trappist existence is fine between members, in fact it is the very purpose of the place, but was sometimes vexing when members could not communicate with the staff. A form of semaphore soon evolved. On arrival, the hall porter (I think his name is Jenkins, but we have never said hello), tapped his left shoulder twice and pointed upstairs: my visitor had arrived and was in the one place where 19conversing was allowed, the Strangers Room.
George Lewis is middle height, middle weight and middle-aged. Most people passing him in the street wouldn’t look twice in his direction. Not that he is non-descript: his clothes are expensively, rather than exquisitely, tailored, his shoes handmade, his cane silver-topped with the hallmark on display and his moustache carefully tended. His only remarkable feature is his eyes: onyx green, darting, full of life and inquisitiveness. I had certainly noticed him at the Diogenes before.
‘Good morning, Mr Lewis,’ I said, introducing myself. ‘I’ve seen you here on other occasions, but as a member or a guest?’
‘As a guest, usually accompanying your brother Mycroft. That’s how I learned about it. The most discreet place in London. But it’s you I want to meet today. Sit down there. Order us some coffee, will you? You have come to our attention recently.’
‘Favourably, I trust, and not just because of my brother?’
I pulled the summons cord. Even in the Strangers Room the staff are not allowed to talk so I made the accepted signs for two Turkish coffees, two glasses of water and a plate of tack biscuits.
‘Yes, very favourably. After all, you have recovered the lost gold crown of England. Tell me about that.’
He was talking about my most recent case. I explained to Lewis how an old college friend, Reginald Musgrave of the Manor House of Hurlestone, had found his man Brunton up to no good with what transpired to be an 20obscure family ritual. Fortunately, with the help of the maid Rachel Howells I was able to unravel his plot to steal the gold crown of King Charles I; unfortunately, Brunton died and so was unable to stand trial. Howells escaped.
‘Most impressive,’ said Lewis. ‘Now, I have a new case for you. You are at the start of your career and still relatively unknown, if you will allow, so would be the ideal person to help me unravel the third most heinous crime of all.’
‘So not murder, nor kidnapping, but blackmail?’
‘Quite so. Take a look at this,’ he said handing me a buff office envelope with a smaller, pale one inside it and inside that a sheet of plain writing paper.
It was a blackmail note written in marine blue ink, and clearly scrawled either left-handed by a right-handed author, or vice versa. It read:
I have in my possession the Prince of Wales’s notebook. His lady-loves are in code. By now I know the code. His entries on Ireland are scandalous too. My price is 1 gold bar, deposited with Rahn+Bodmer Co. Zurich, London account 8006. You have one month to pay or Reynolds News will print. Once paid, the notebook is burnt or sent to the jew.
Taking the lens from my inside pocket I examined it from all the angles and with all the light available.
‘It’s addressed to you at your office and marked private,’ I remarked. ‘Is that a guarantee that it wouldn’t be opened by anyone else?’ 21
‘Yes.’
‘It hasn’t been steamed and resealed, so you’re the only person who’s seen it, who knows about it?’
‘Apart from you, yes.’
‘And it arrived yesterday? So, written then or the day before, probably?’
‘Probably. As you can see there’s no stamp, so it must have been hand-delivered. Certainly after the office closes at six.’
‘And it was sent to you because you are the Prince’s solicitor. Are you the only one?’
‘Look, I will be frank, and you will be discreet, I’m sure we can agree.’ I nodded; he went on: ‘I am the only one who deals with his private affairs. Aspects of his private affairs are of course his private affairs. There have been a number over the years, of course, as is well known. My job is to keep the private affairs private. He doesn’t exactly help me, so in this case the word “private” means not widely reported.’
‘The first question is how seriously to take it,’ I replied. ‘The notebook may not exist. The note is rather scant and an expected part of a blackmail note is missing.’
‘Oh, take it seriously. He has lost his notebook, he told me so last week, asked if I had picked it up by mistake or he’d left it behind. The mistresses are bad enough, but at least everyone in his circle knows about them. I’m more worried about the Ireland entries. Bertie’s views on the Irish are not likely to be charitable. The epithet “bog” may well feature, frequently. It could be more than embarrassing.’ 22
‘My first thought is that if he’s told you he’s lost his notebook, he’s told other people in his circle. So we know the notebook exists, but we don’t know where it is or who has it.’
‘True, and you said something in the note was missing. What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Whoever is behind it left us no means of contacting them. In other cases I have studied, for instance the Zanoni blackmail in Calabria or the von Püelm child kidnapping in Munich, or the recent O’Dyer blackmail in Chicago, there has always been a contact method. Not here. We could take the initiative and place a coded announcement in The Times. See if they reply.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lewis. ‘Let’s see what else you can discover from the note first. Any obvious clues?’
‘I need to find out the type of ink and the type of paper the blackmailer has used. The author is clearly not writing with their natural hand. The study of graphology is new but of interest. But first, I wonder why is the wording in the first sentence so verbose? Why “I have in my possession” not just “I have”? Surely someone writing with the wrong hand would want to be as succinct as possible. What do you know about the notebook itself?’
‘He carries it with him from time to time. About six inches by four, fits any pocket, nothing unusual,’ he said.
‘And who could have taken it?’
‘That’s a large part of the problem. He lives in Marlborough House and it might have been almost anyone who lives or works there. That’s a few dozen 23people there and then. The Marlborough House staff with access to his dressing room and study, in fact any of the Marlborough House staff. Or two of them colluding. I’d say it was unlikely to have been any of the mistresses stealing it when he was asleep, or first thing next morning he’d have realised it could only be her, but it would have been easy enough for them otherwise. Apart from Marlborough House, he goes to so many functions, every time someone takes his coat and hangs it up another guest, or a pickpocket, or one of the host’s staff could have taken it.’
‘Yes, I see the problem. Then the “lady-loves” is archaic, but could be written like this as a bluff. And “the code”, any idea what that means?’
‘I can only think it is a code for his sexual encounters, maybe the type or the frequency. Or both. I’m guessing. As for being able to break the code, as the blackmailer claims to have done, I can only imagine it’s not too difficult, having seen a number of them. The Prince is no Archimedes.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ I said. ‘Then, who would have a Swiss bank account? It’s not too difficult to open one, most Swiss banks have London offices and it’s the no names no pack drill, but equally it’s not that usual. The gold bar could be deposited in their London office just as well as in Zurich. Takes it away from being a chambermaid or footman for instance, in fact pretty much anyone in service. If they were acting alone, of course.’
‘And a gold bar doesn’t seem like a servant’s form of currency. Surely they’d want ready cash?’ he suggested. 24
‘I agree. Also, why the plus sign rather than the ampersand between the bankers’ names?’
‘Speed and ease, I suppose. As you say, whoever it was wrote with the wrong hand.’
‘Maybe. Then “burnt” and not burned. Burnt is the American usage for the verb form, doesn’t sit well with the archaic “lady-loves”. Again that could be a blind. Are there any Americans in his circle?’
‘Not in his circle but in his orbit. In other words, he meets people from all over the world, and again at a function any one of them could have taken his notebook.’
‘And then “sent to the jew”, without a capital J. Any idea who that might be?’
‘Yes, me. At least I presume it’s me, but I don’t know for sure, only that it was sent to me. The person who sent it evidently doesn’t like Jews. Unfortunately, that doesn’t much narrow the field.’
‘Is it widely known that you’re Jewish?’
‘I make no attempt to hide it or promote it. To me it’s totally irrelevant. I never go to the synagogue unless I have to. I couldn’t say that it’s either helped or hindered me, but one way or another I am the most successful divorce lawyer in London and for those on the losing side it’s an easy way to blame my success against them in court. But widely known? I don’t know how to answer that.’
I looked again at the blackmail note. ‘Reynolds News is an interesting choice; why not Vanity Fair or Truth or Sketch or Sphere or any of the others? I must confess to reading them all,’ I said, ‘and penny dreadful novels too, 25the more sensational the better. I suppose Reynolds News is slightly more respectable, coming out every Sunday, whereas the others come out as scandal demands.’
‘So, tell me, Holmes, how will you go about this?’
‘I’m going to need your help as I don’t know any of the likely suspects, the people in the Prince’s orbit. But let’s start with the likeliest candidates. First, I rule out the impossible, for example anyone who was physically absent, so out of town or abroad; or incapable, so anyone illiterate, or anyone without the wherewithal to commit the crime. Whoever remains, however unlikely, is a suspect. A suspect must have a motive, for no one commits a crime without a reason. Then I exclude those suspects without a motive and whomsoever remains is a – or usually the – prime suspect. It’s just a logical process of elimination and deduction. Given time. Let’s start with his mistresses.’
‘That’s why we are in the most discreet location in London,’ Lewis laughed, looking round to check that no one had slipped in without us noticing. ‘In no particular order: Agnes Keyser; Daisy Maynard; Jennie Spencer-Churchill, that’s Lady Randolph; Lillie Langtry; Patsy Cornwallis-West; Lady Edith Denison. Edith, Countess Aylesford of course, she’s one whose name got out in earlier days before my time. Lady Susan Vane-Tempest. Those are the steadier ones. The overnighters, if I may describe them thus, are less likely candidates, perhaps, with so much else of obvious value to steal.’
‘And their spouses? Are they worth considering?’ I asked. 26
‘It’s possible they might be in cahoots. Rather embarrassing, I’d think, but as you say not impossible. Ned Langtry is always broke, as of course is Lillie. William Cornwallis-West is too high and mighty to be involved in something like this would be my guess. Edith Denison is not married, closest would be her father Lord Londesborough. Lord Randolph Churchill, unlikely to the point of impossibility, I’d say. Jennie is American, by the way, you mentioned burnt not burned. Who’s left? Agnes is alone and rich, too rich for this. Daisy is engaged, about to become Countess of Warwick, so no. Susan’s a widow, quite a merry one too. Not her style. Don’t you take notes?’
‘I reserve a part of my brain for memory and I’m selective in its storage. What about opportunity? I’m presuming the book was stolen recently. Which of them would have seen him in the last month?’
‘In the last month I’d say Lillie Langtry for sure, also Patsy Cornwallis-West as they’re always together. Ah, I forgot Gwladys Herbert, now Lady Lonsdale. Sister of Lord Pembroke, you’ve heard of him, no doubt. And Gwladys with a double-u is now Gladys without a double-u. Not a mistress, but she is part of a trio with Patsy and Lillie and has certainly seen the Prince recently. Also, he would have met Edith; the Lady Denison one, not the Countess Aylesford one; that was a long time ago. Also, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest in the last week, but socially.’
‘Lady Lonsdale, if it were she, has she a motive?’
‘Just married to the fourth Earl, but they live apart. He’s 27always away hunting, shooting or catching something. No obvious motive, but she’s trouble. Mischievous.’
‘And the Prince’s friends, if we can call the blackmailer a friend?’
‘He is friends with Lonsdale, but more sports than social. His best friend is Christopher Sykes. They’re always together. Sykes was once richer than he is now, mainly because he spends so much money entertaining Bertie. There aren’t too many other people he can count as best friends. The fact is, he prefers female lovers to male friends. He knows dozens of people, of course, but not as friends.’
‘Christopher Sykes is my local MP, in Yorkshire not London. He is nominally of the Conservative persuasion, but not known to have any interest in politics at all. What else do you know about him?’
‘He’s the second son of Sir Tatton Sykes, the famous horse breeder, which is the connection with the royal family. His main job is being Bertie’s best friend, probably only friend in the sense that the rest of us have friends. That he is totally loyal and discreet, but just by keeping Bertie’s company he must know about skeletons in cupboards that even I don’t know about. Alix, that is Alexandra, the Princess of Wales is fond of Sykes too and often invites him to her parties to make up the numbers. He entertains the Waleses at his house in Berkeley Square and his Yorkshire pile, Brantingham Thorpe. What else? Rosa Corder is painting Sykes’s portrait.’
I remembered Wilde mentioning her name in connection with the forthcoming tea-and-art party. 28
‘And at Marlborough House, who are the main people there?’
‘The ones whom I’ve met are Francis Knollys, his private secretary. He has a deputy, William McLeod and an equerry, Major John Lavery. The Earl of Gifford is Master of the Royal Household at Marlborough House. Princess Alix has just her private secretary, Commander Stephen Sandeman and her lady-in-waiting, Alice, the Countess of Derby. Alix and she are inseparable. She is also close to the royal nanny Valentina Kasperskaya, who was her childhood nanny. She’s an old woman now, of course. But Francis Knollys is the principal player. Everything turns around him.
‘A suspect?’ I asked.
Lewis’s clear eyes looked away, down and left, and he said thoughtfully, ‘No, well, probably no. I suppose that means maybe yes. He’s not rich, nor well paid, but lives in style, of course. I always think he is Queen Victoria’s spy, but I have no proof of that. I’m sure you’ve heard that the Queen and the Prince fight like cat and dog. Once or twice I have thought, how can she possibly know that? He is loyal but untrustworthy, if that tallies.’
‘Who’s the cat and who’s the dog?’ I asked.
‘Well, she is king of the castle to muddy the metaphorical waters. Ultimately, she controls the purse strings and she knows where every penny of his lavish life is spent. For his sake, and mine come to that, I really prefer she didn’t find out about this missing notebook. One of the reasons I’m hoping for a quick result. She’s the first to take the moral high ground on any personal issues and as for Ireland, 29heaven knows what he’s written about that benighted isle. And then there’s a whole other group of people that the Prince, and my wife come to that, know quite well, artists and their clique. He’s not as close to them as his own Marlborough House set, but he does know them socially.’
‘Anyone I might have heard of?’
‘Jimmy Whistler is the most famous. He’s gone bust. You heard about his court case?’
I said I had. I could hardly not have heard of it, reading the type of papers I read. The critic John Ruskin, talking of James McNeill Whistler, had said he’d never expect to hear a coxcomb asking two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face. I must say I could see Ruskin’s point, but it’s not really my field. Whistler took Ruskin to court for libel and had won and lost. He won a farthing damages but no costs, and so lost every penny he had.
‘Then there’s Sir John Millais, another from my wife’s salon. But it’s just not his style, and I’m not saying that because of her. There’s Rosa Corder, one of Whistler’s models, a beautiful woman, a belle dame sans merci if ever there was one. She’s a good artist too. Millais told my wife she forges Rossettis.’
‘That’s an interesting thought,’ I said. ‘That the entries could be forged.’
‘I would consider that differently. I know there is a notebook, because I’ve seen it and he says he has lost it. The question is, does the blackmailer actually have the notebook or not?
Also, you know it is just exactly the kind of thing Bertie 30would do, boast about his conquests. And we don’t know what else is in there. I mean on top of Ireland. Private thoughts about Disraeli and Gladstone, foreign royalty, ambassadors. The Queen. It could be a catastrophe.’
The Thames House invitation was becoming increasingly relevant. ‘Are there any others in this artists’ clique he knows?’ I asked.
‘There’s Frank Miles. He owns Thames House and many of the women meet there too, Patsy Cornwallis-West, Lillie Langtry and Gladys Lonsdale. And Oscar Wilde, a poet; he lives there too.’
I told Lewis I had met him, but not why.
‘And George Reynolds of Reynolds News, now, that’s an interesting connection,’ he added.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘May I keep the blackmail note? Also the envelope? I need to work on the paper and ink. And handwriting. And look for fingerprints.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Yes, it’s early days but could be highly significant. I’ve been corresponding with Henry Faulds, a Scottish surgeon, who is working on a paper now. Each one of us has his own unique prints. I’m sure you can see the value, but I fear paper is not a good recorder.’
‘Of course you must keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ve noted the contents. Oh, and one other member of the sets. Langdale Pike.’
‘Now him I know,’ I said. ‘We were at school together. He gave me lunch at the Savage Club two months ago. He gossips non-stop. Now you mention him he’ll be my starting point, I think.’ 31
‘Unless he’s the blackmailer,’ said Lewis. ‘Be careful. And I don’t exist, so we’ve never met.’
‘Indeed we haven’t,’ I said, pulling the summons cord again to sign the chit. ‘The announcement in The Times, I think we should do it. How about:
Edward’s lost notebook. Reward given if sample page seen by George.
‘Very well,’ said Lewis. ‘At least then we’ll know if the blackmailer has the lost notebook or not. It sounds suitably obscure to everyone but our culprit. Why don’t you put it in Reynolds News too? Seems to be their organ of choice.’
‘By the way,’ I asked, ‘does Mycroft know about this?’
‘Not in any detail. I had to vet you, though. In case anything went wrong later.’
‘He would be to blame.’
‘That’s about the size of it, yes. But in fairness Mycroft is worried. As am I. The monarchy is unpopular as you know and this is the type of scandal that could easily spill over and excite the republicans. Not to mention the anarchists and communists.’
‘Or the anarcho-syndicalists,’ I added. ‘Well, we’d better get to the bottom of it, and quickly.’
We exchanged cards and went our ways. I knew the exact shelves in the British Museum Reading Room where I could swot up on past cases of blackmail, and it was to these very shelves that I repaired for the rest of the day.
Chapter 3
A Tea-and-Art Party
It is a commonplace among Londoners that, every day, horses expel a thousand fresh tons of dung on to its streets. It is also accepted that every day only half of it is swept up. So to walk from Montague Street to Salisbury Street, to keep my appointment with Oscar Wilde and his art-and-tea party, is more pleasantly undertaken on lesser streets and alleys, unfrequented by horses and donkeys and their cabs and carts. But there is unpleasantness on the backstreets too: barely controlled high-wheeler bicyclists themselves avoiding the main streets, and the menace of crime. Not the interesting type of crime to which I intend to devote my life’s endeavours, but the petty and violent crime carried out by snarlers and mug-hunters, as well as the ever-present crime, unseen until too late: pickpocketing.
I am tall, young and fit, an accomplished amateur pugilist and stride briskly with a swordstick, so I often venture where others might be more cautious. Thus, on this Friday afternoon, rather than endure he filth and odour of the more direct Drury Lane route, I planned to add a tenth of a mile to my walk, taking me along Bloomsbury Street, Endell Street, Bow Street and Wellington Street, and then over the Strand to my destination.
The footpads were waiting for me in Martlett Court off Bow Street. Three of them: one much more elderly 33than the others; one clearly drunk and one who looked quite capable. This latter would be my target, but first I must wait for their move.
