The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (80 page)

“And did you see where he … where
they
went, lad?” Holmes enquired.

The newsboy’s eyes gleamed greedily. “What’s it worth t’yuh?” he asked.

“Five dollars,” said Holmes. “But I want the
truth,
mind!” He brandished the sketch of James Phillimore again. “Where did this man go?”

“There was
two
of him, I tol’ yuh … so y’ought to pay
double
,” said the newsboy.

Holmes sighed, and pressed two fivers into the newsboy’s eager hands. “Now, then!”

“I seen ‘em get into a cab,” the boy reported. “Just b’fore the door closed, I heard one o’ the twins – the one ‘thout an umbreller – tell the driver to take ‘em both to Madison Square.”

Thus it chanced that, five minutes later, Sherlock Holmes and I were in another cab hastening towards Madison Square: a place unknown to us, yet which the cab-driver assured us he knew intimately.

“ ‘Pon my word, Watson,” Holmes declared, as our cab went south on Broadway, “but this mystery gets stranger every moment. Thirty-one years ago, James Phillimore stepped through a doorway and ceased to exist. This morning he returned from the void: not a day older, and none the worse for his absence. And now it seems that he has become
identical twins.”

“Do you suppose the newsboy told the truth, Holmes?” I pondered. “He might have lied to us, just to claim a reward.”

“I think not, Watson.” Once more Holmes produced his jotter, revealing the thumb-nail portrait of James Phillimore flanked either side by the two colossi of Moriarty and Moran. “A liar posing as an eyewitness would have claimed to recognize the first likeness he saw. Our newspaper johnny went right past the two largest and most obvious portraits in my impromptu rogues’ gallery – he did not recognize them, Watson – and he seized upon the smaller study that he
did
recognize: our quarry James Phillimore … who now appears to have borrowed a trick from the
amoeba
and split himself into identical twins.”

The southward traffic along Broadway was more congenial than its northbound counterpart had been, and soon we turned eastward and arrived at the crossroads of Madison Avenue and East Twenty-Seventh Street. Here awaited us a green quadrangle of parkland which, of a certainty, must be Madison Square. I paid the cabman, and I had no sooner alighted on the kerb than the hand of Sherlock Holmes was at my shoulder: “Watson!
Look!
”

I turned, and looked … and thought I must be seeing double.

At the far end of the park stood two identical men. Both were dressed in pin-striped suiting, of an outmoded cut. Both wore moustaches and dundreary whiskers.

Both of them were James Phillimore.

In swift movements of his lithe muscular limbs, Sherlock Holmes crossed the quad. In consequence of my Jezail wound, I was unable to keep pace with him. Thus I was still several yards from our quarry when Holmes approached them and asked: “Have I the honour of addressing Mr James Phillimore and Mr James Phillimore?”

Both men laughed in unison. “You have that honour, sir,” said one, in British tones.

“You have indeed,” said his twin, in an American accent.

Now I came huffapuffing up to join them, and I made a strange discovery. The two James Phillimores were not identical. One of them – the Englishman – was in his early thirties: of a certainty, the same man whose likeness we had witnessed in the Vitascope. But the American was in his sixties. He was also, I saw now, some three inches shorter than his British confederate, and slightly fuller of physique. The American’s eyes were light blue, whilst the Englishman’s eyes had irises of a queer pale hue which I can only describe as
horn
-coloured. His face was long and lantern-jawed, whereas the American’s face was nearer square-shaped. The strong resemblance of the two men was due to the fact that they were dressed in matching outfits, and their faces sported identical side-whiskers and similar moustaches of chestnut-coloured hair.

Remembering Holmes’s words, I glanced at both men’s shoes. Neither one’s footwear matched the other man’s, nor did their boot-laces. The eyelets of the older man’s shoes were laced criss-cross, in what I gather to be the American manner. The younger man’s boots were laced straight across the instep, in the familiar British form.

“Might as well take these off, don’t you think?” asked the Englishman. He reached up to his face, and plucked off his own whiskers … leaving only a few stray wisps of crepe hair still stuck in place with spirit-gum.

The American laughed. “Yes, I was getting hot in these.” He snatched away his own set of side-whiskers. His moustaches remained in place, and they appeared to be the genuine articles. But now, in the bright sunlight of Madison Square, I noticed a faint chestnut-coloured stain along the edges of his collar: the American’s hair was naturally
white
, and he had dyed it brown in order to match the colouring of his British companion.

And yet, even without their disguises, there was a certain kindred quality in these two editions of James Phillimore, a look of keen intelligence within the countenance of both men … which suggested that – despite their outer discrepancies – these two men might indeed be identical twins of the
mind.

The southwest corner of Madison Square’s quadrangle was truncated, creating a space in which a row of park benches were secluded from the traffic of nursemaids and perambulators. My friend beckoned the three of us to join him there. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr Watson,” he announced to the counterfeit twins. “Please have the goodness to reveal your true names, and the reason for this peculiar hoax.”

The American bowed before seating himself. “Might as well tell it all, since no harm’s done. My name is Ambrose Bierce, and I am the Washington correspondent for Mr Hearst’s
Cosmopolitan.
Perhaps you’ve read my column ‘The Passing Show’?”

“I have not.” Holmes transferred his attentions to the younger man. “And you, sir?”

The lantern-jawed Englishman smiled. “My name is Aleister Crowley.”

“Ambrose and Aleister.” Holmes sniffed. “Two unusual names, with the same initial. What is the connexion between you two, pray?”

The two culprits exchanged shamefaced glances. “We may as well spill the works,” the American ventured to his cohort, with a grin. “It’s too good a joke to keep to ourselves.”

“Very well,” said the long-faced Englishman. He turned to confront Sherlock Holmes, and began to explain: “My name at birth was
Edward
Crowley,
Junior.
”

“Named after your father,” I murmured, but Crowley shot a glance of the most withering scorn in my direction as soon as I said this.

“Named for my mother’s
husband,
” he corrected me. “At the time of my birth, my mother Emily Bishop Crowley resided at number 30, Clarendon Square, in Leamington, Warwickshire. I was born there on 12 October, 1875.”

“Shortly after the disappearance of James Phillimore,” said Sherlock Holmes, nodding sagely. “Come, what else?”

“As to
my
birth,” ventured Ambrose Bierce, “that calamity occurred in Ohio, in 1842. Nine siblings preceded me. For some reason, it amused my father to afflict all his offspring with names employing the initial letter ‘A’. Our
dramatis personoe,
in the order of appearance, reads as follows: Abigail, Amelia, Ann, Addison, Aurelius, Augustus, Almeda, Andrew, Albert … and Ambrose.”

“What has this to do with James Phillimore, then?” asked Holmes.

“I was just coming to that,” said Ambrose Bierce. “In my thirtieth year, in the company of a wife whom I never loved, I emigrated to England and became a writer for Tom Hood’s
Fun
magazine and
The Lantern.
My wife and I lived at first in London, but during the spring of 1874 we set up housekeeping at Number 20 South Parade, in ...”

“… in Leamington, Warwickshire,” Holmes finished for him. “Watson, I recall the general topography of Leamington Spa from my sojourn there in 1875. Clarendon Square and the South Parade are scarcely a mile apart. Directly between them is Tavistock Street … and the house from which James Phillimore performed his disappearance. Which was indeed a
performance …
was it not, Mr Bierce?”

Ambrose Bierce nodded sadly. “I shall say nothing against the character of Mrs Crowley, except to observe that – like myself – she was trapped in a loveless marriage. Suffice it to report that she and I
...
consoled
each other during the spring and summer of 1875.”

I began to see where this was leading. There was a physical resemblance between Bierce and Crowley that transcended their identical costumes. And if Ambrose Bierce had known Emily Crowley some eight or ten months before the birth of her son Aleister, then it was quite possible that …

“The house in Tavistock Street, Bierce,” said Sherlock Holmes impatiently. “Was this the scene of your trysts?”

Bierce nodded once more. “Leased by me from the estate-agents. A false identity was advisable, of course …”

“And so you took the name James Phillimore?”

“I did.” said Bierce. “Edward Crowley was a strait-laced man who considered all forms of entertainment to be highly immoral. He avoided restaurants, theatres, and music-halls … and forbade his wife to visit such emporia. My own wife Mollie was of similar demeanour. On the other hand, Mr James Phillimore
and his female companion
– do I make myself clear, sir? – gave much custom to Leamington’s pleasure-palaces. At some point during this period, Emily Crowley found herself with child.”

Bierce paused a moment, then resumed: “In May of 1875, my wife departed for California … taking our two infant sons with her. Tom Hood – my literary sponsor in England – had died a few months previously. By late August, Mrs Crowley’s expectant condition was approaching its climax, and – as she had no intention of leaving her husband – I felt it politic to return to America.”

This time it was my turn to serve as questioner: “But what about Mr Phillimore’s strange disappearance?” I asked. “The signs of the peculiar vortex …”

Ambrose Bierce threw his head back and laughed. “I have always been intrigued by the idea that there might be holes in the universe –
vacua
, if you will – capable of swallowing a man whole, so that he vanishes without a trace. I have written several stories on the subject. I have already decided that – when my time comes to call it quits – I shall vanish into one of the holes in the universe, and leave no mortal remains. So when it came time for me to abandon my Tavistock residence – and my Phillimore identity – I fancied that it might be amusing to stage-manage such a vanishment. And then to watch the results from a distance, in the safety of my
own persona.
”

Sherlock Holmes shifted his posture on the bench. “Now I understand a detail which has baffled me these thirty years”, he nodded. “The weather in Warwickshire was
fair
for two weeks before Phillimore vanished, with no rain at all. Yet Phillimore somehow tracked mud into his own house, even though he stepped outside for only a moment. Had I not been so untrained in the art of detection in those early days, I should have noticed that the muddy trail within the house had no corresponding source in the gutters without. Now I comprehend: the muddy footprints in the antechamber were set there in advance,
moulded from clay.
”

With a smile, Ambrose Bierce acknowledged his handiwork. “Brilliant, wasn’t it? All the various details – the footprints leading to nowhere, the scorched floorboards, the decapitated umbrella, even the two impeccable witnesses brought to the scene by a pretext – all the details were part of my scheme, sir.”

“And yet you vanished
into thin air
…” I began.

“Not at all, sir. ‘Twas simplicity itself. When I came out the house’s front door to greet my callers from the bank, the foyer was already bedecked with the tokens of my abduction. I went back in through the front door as James Phillimore, took a moment to call out for help while I donned a cobbler’s smock and yanked off my false whiskers … and then I slipped out the back way, like any respectable tradesman.”

Aleister Crowley chuckled. “Because James Phillimore was heard to
cry for help
, the witnesses assumed that he disappeared
against his will.
It never occurred to anyone that he’d done a bunk voluntarily.”

Sherlock Holmes arose from the park bench and – with great solemnity – bowed to Ambrose Bierce, then reseated himself. “Come now, sir!” said my companion to Bierce. “I confess that you foxed me. Now for the rest of the tale, if you please: why, after so many years, has James Phillimore resurfaced of a sudden?”

This time it was Bierce’s turn to chuckle. “Although I left England shortly before the birth of Emily Crowley’s only child, I corresponded with her secretly. She kept me apprised of her son’s progress. In 1897 – following the death of Edward Crowley, Senior – I took the liberty of writing to his heir, and revealing my role in his past. I also mentioned my family’s tradition of forenames beginning with the letter A.”

Crowley nodded. “That was the year in which I changed my forename to
Aleister.
”

“We have maintained our correspondence ever since,” Bierce revealed. “In the meanwhile, my tasks as a journalist have obliged me to travel throughout the United States without ever returning to Europe. Young Crowley here has journeyed to Russia and Tibet, but never until now has he visited America. My wife died in April of last year, and my two sons that I had off her have been dead these past five years: one of them a suicide. I am therefore alone, which means that I am in bad company. I live in Washington at present, but I make frequent trips to New York City to call upon my employer Mr Hearst. When Aleister Crowley wrote to me a few months ago from his home in Scotland, informing me of his intention to visit New York, I decided that we should meet at last.”

“But why bring James Phillimore back from the dead?” queried Sherlock Holmes.