A nighttime sojourn to Noel Street provided for me two important pieces of information. For one, the house was indeed unoccupied and had likely been so for the duration suggested by Miss Clarke. As to the second, my gentle housebreaking to ascertain that first determination allowed me time enough to conclude that I was, at that point, the sole party interested in the empty home.
But I could not spend my days watching an empty residence of a man who had already been gone for weeks. And any leads I sent out into the darkness of London’s underworld were not likely to bear fruit until more time had passed.
So I was to spend time in the light, learning what I could of our mysterious usurper: Mr. Tobias-Henry Price of the Oaks Club, St. James’s Street.
Unfortunately, I feared that my own person did not gleam as brightly as time in Mr. Price’s circle would require. I would have to leave myself behind. And, while it was easy to fall through the ranks of society with the introduction of a ragged coat, a changed gait, or an adopted malady to one’s appearance, rising was decidedly difficult.
But all that would come later, after I had called upon both Toby’s uncle and his worried fiancée. Thus I forwarded my things to one of the more annoyingly fashionable hotels and, myself, set off towards Norfolk.
The train ride to Sheringham was uneventful and my carriage ride to Holt even less so. It gave me ample time to reflect. I had begun my investigations on the premise that Miss Clarke was telling the truth. If she were in any real danger, that was the safest course to pursue. And if she lied? The truth of it would out.
The question remained: what crime was actually being committed here? Appearances pointed more and more to Miss Clarke’s “Toby” being the villain—something I had suspected from the first. Yet if that man bore more personal resemblance to someone Miss Clarke had known all her life than he who wore the name publicly, the question of wrongdoing fell on the side of the man at the Oaks.
My impression of Sir Edgar Price might serve to answer many of my misgivings.
At least there were not two of him.
The reclusive uncle of Mr. Tobias-Henry Price lived just east of the village of Bodham, which made my pre-excursion to Holt something of a backwards manoeuvre. To call upon Sir Edgar without having first done away with the wrinkles and fatigue of my travels, however, would have put me at the disadvantage. I desired a good impression, for I desired candour from him.
I rang. I was admitted. There, in a cold but sumptuous parlour, I waited for the master of the house. A quick look around gave me a firm impression of the man’s taste in artwork: requisite paintings plus some more worldly curiosities which sat high on a shelf but very pointedly on display. The air of the manor itself seemed strained, as though every occupant were in the habit of holding their breath, guilty like a child who had been caught in a misstep. The invisible pressure seemed to rob even the hall clock of its stately sound. The marking of the hour fell muted within the elegant furnishings. This was a house of secrets, no doubt. At length I heard a measured step and turned from my observations to greet Sir Edgar a moment later.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Of London,” this the master of the house said with a growl, levelling piercing eyes at me from under a heavy brow. His grizzled head hung low over his shoulders, and he stood stooped like some bird of prey. His hands he kept clasped behind him, and his legs quivered so that the rest of him shook as if with uncontainable fury or energy. While I knew the man to be in his fifties, Sir Edgar was aged beyond his years, the toll of decades of stress and emotional turmoil leaving his remaining sharpness and vitality to show through all the more for it. Langdale Pike’s words returned to me, his lament that a child had had to grow up under the care of such a harsh, uncompromising person. For all that Sir Edgar posed no threat to me, I found something within me fearing him.
He noted where I stood and inclined his head, saying, “Have you any knowledge of the pottery and stone carving traditions of the Americas?”
I replied in the negative but complimented the little collection. Sir Edgar gave a non-verbal grunt and took several shuffling, trembling steps over to a stiff-looking chair where he sat heavily. He indicated its partner. “Well then, have a seat. Brandy? Whisky?”
I thanked him and applied for the latter.
“We will have our drink, stare daggers at one another, and then you will be on your way, Mr. Holmes.” He lifted his glass and downed its contents. “There. Now you tell Miss Clarke that if my nephew wishes to pursue her, she will be second to know of it. Absent that, she should stay clear of him and his set.”
I smiled at his presumptions behind my having called. If he were to as eagerly lay the rest of his potential guilt out for me, I should have an easy time of it. I said, “I believe that the incident where she confronted your nephew on St. James’s was a simple case of mistaken identity—”
“And here? She mistook me, too? And in my own home? No, Mr. Holmes, you won’t put me out like that.”
“You know Miss Clarke? You’ve met her?” Surprise got the better of me. That was one lie tallied to her account, then.
“She has met me, yes. Pretty thing. Smart, too, if a bit too feeling for my tastes. But altogether an admirable specimen of her sex. As I said, Tobias is free to pursue her if he so chooses and not the other way around.”
“Then you would not object to Miss Clarke for your nephew?”
“Ha! She is headstrong. Bold beyond propriety. But you’ve seen my nephew, I dare say.” Those shrewd gimlet eyes were back on me, boring into me. “Or heard of him. A peacock, dancing close as he dares to the edges of what good society will quietly accept. Quite a pair they would make, yes? No, I would not object. I do not object. What I am is annoyed. Her impertinence is one thing. Yours quite another.”
Him annoyed? I buried my ire with a cool smile, saying, “My only wish is to clear up a little matter and prevent Miss Clarke from being unfairly used.”
“And my wish is to avoid scandal.”
“There has been no inconsistency that you are aware of?”
“On her end, I do not know.”
“Any enemies?”
“Besides unofficial detectives poking their noses into business they would be better off staying out of?” Sir Edgar parried, growling the words at me and half rising from his chair. “I tell you, the woman has ideas. Notions and fancies. Harmless, of course, but not worth your time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
We sat in silence for a half minute, each measuring the other and determining our next play.
“Mr. Holmes, are you married?” Sir Edgar did not wait for an answer. “I have not bothered to secure for myself a pleasant domesticity. I have made money. That came easy. I’m good at it. Yes, I’ve made money. But no family. I am alone in this world save for my nephew. It is his lot in life to be social. Pleasant. Romantic, even. So long as he does not dishonour himself or anyone else while he is at it.”
“So your family name—”
“Oh, family name be damned. You’re not listening, Mr. Holmes! Unlike others of my station, my name is not on buildings. I’m not the type to carve it in stone, you see. Put it on paper, however. A deed. A contract, even one of marriage. Then! A-ha. Then you’ve something to it. Then it matters. Money. I can make money. I’m good at it.”
As he had spoken, Sir Edgar’s eyes took on a feverish gleam, and his voice pitched downward until, at the end of his tirade, he had sunk into an almost private conversation with himself. It was an interesting change of tack. His priorities were not unique, of course. And his words did not have the scent of a false lead. More importantly, he was solid on the issue of Mr. Tobias-Henry Price, member of the Oaks Club in London, as being his nephew. His subsequent discourse, strange as it was, had built upon that premise and left me little doubt as to the way things stood with him.
It was, again, looking more and more likely that Miss Clarke had been taken in by an imposter. But why? Miss Clarke was not destitute; however, the money in this equation was wholly on the side of the Price family. And there was the fact that her “Toby” had run off before any game could be played against her.
An image rose up in my mind, a flash of brightness lightning swift, that of a gentleman’s walking stick swung carelessly, impudently about so as to catch the golden sunlight and throw it back upon his fellow man. An advertisement in boldness, in devil-may-care. Why that image struck my mind just then, I did not know. But it contrasted oddly with Sir Edgar’s parting shot to me.
“My name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has meaning and weight. What of yours? Pitted one against the other, say, in a case of libel, which would triumph? Have a care, and good day to you, sir.”