The Coombs Contrivance

When leaving our rooms in Baker Street, it is sometimes necessary to slip out in disguise, or through the rear entrance and across the small yard where a sole plane tree keeps vigil, hoping to avoid whomever might be observing the house. Other departures might be more forthright – when keeping an appointment or catching a train, or simply stepping down the street to the tobacconist.

On rare occasions, I am sometimes able to convince my friend, Sherlock Holmes, to take a stroll in the evening, stepping out occasionally after a day of being immersed in the stultifying and poisonous atmosphere of one of his chemical investigations, only to return and find a client or policemen, anxious to tell a story and draw us away again. Holmes will glance my way with a feigned frown, indicating that my insistence upon his physical well-being, fresh air, and good walk, has come dangerously close to depriving him of a new case.

But whatever the reason for going away, there was never a guarantee of a calm return.

I had walked back from Paddington that afternoon, having visited the medical practice that I had recently purchased. It was few weeks before my marriage, and I was in that odd mental state of anticipating a change while feeling rather melancholy about what I would be leaving behind. However, I was certain that I would continue to be involved in Holmes’s investigations.

But upon opening the door, I recalled some of the dismay associated with that same situation. I entered to find Mrs. Hudson, tensely standing at the foot of the stairs, her back protectively against a waist-high plinth that supported a white ceramic jug. I smiled.

“The Irregulars?” I asked.

She nodded, her frown staying in place.

It was no great deduction upon my part. The various boys – and a few girls – that Holmes employed as his eyes and ears throughout the city, going places and seeing things that others would miss while themselves being ignored, were, by necessity, occasional visitors to our rooms – much to the dismay of our landlady. She had a stern mien with them, though it was realized by all that she a soft heart underneath her exterior. At times, however, that exterior could be especially tart and thorny – as we had discovered the previous year when a number of the Irregulars, as they were called, had come barreling down the stairs, each richer than when they had arrived, and turned loose upon some unknowing subject. Young Abel Peake, no more or less enthusiastic than his friends, had knocked against the plinth as he left the stairs for the ground floor hall, causing the vase that had rested there to tumble and shatter into a million pieces.

It was an accident that could have happened to any of us, and Mrs. Hudson knew it. The vase was a cheap piece of crockery that she had purchased from the shop and factory of a distant relative, Morse Hudson, in the Kennington Road. Nevertheless, she had given young Abel a memorable scolding until she saw the chagrined expression on his face. He would have been free to go after that, if she hadn’t taken him aside to give him a slice of cake and some tea. Nevertheless, he and the other Irregulars had been much more careful after that. Still, when they were inside the house, Mrs. Hudson became nervous and, until they had left again, she would stand guard at the foot of the steps to protect the vase’s replacement, an unfortunate and ugly jug, purchased at the same source, that mysteriously seemed to appeal to her.

“How many of them?” I asked her.

“Nearly two-dozen,” was her grim reply. I raised an eyebrow – a substantial number indeed. But then again, this was an important case. It was at that moment that we heard muted and boyish laughter from upstairs, punctuating her concern – any high spirits might result in a temporary forgetfulness regarding the fate of the last object to be in danger. She stood a little straighter, as if renewing her resolve to protect the domicile.

Hiding my smile, I nodded and went upstairs. Opening the door to the sitting room, I found it crowded with Irregulars – on the chairs at the dining table and the desks and at Holmes’s chemical corner, on the settee, and on the rug before the fire. A score of them – not quite the two-dozen estimated by Mrs. Hudson, but certainly capable of causing destruction as their tide washed out to the street.

“Keep to your positions,” Holmes was saying, nodding my way as I entered and closed the door. “Clayton must not know that he is being watched. Some of you remain near his lodgings, and others in Covent Garden. I will be along at different times. Whatever my guise, you will know me by a red bandanna. Now… Dismissed!”

He said it with a cry and a twinkle in his eye, and – as if a starting gun had been fired at a horse race – the lads scrambled into motion and surged toward the door. “Slowly… slowly,” I cautioned, tapping a lad here and there on the shoulder as they stepped out to the landing. I could hear them pounding down the steps – faster than I would have liked, but still slower than it might have been otherwise.

I closed the door and turned back to question Holmes about the boys’ report when I saw that one of them hadn’t left.

Sitting in my desk chair, turned around sideways with his feet not quite touching the floor, was young Levi, who had been indispensable to Holmes on several recent investigations. Not long a member of the Irregulars, he was the son of pair of well-meaning parents who worked too hard to support their growing family. Levi had been recruited by Wiggins himself, the leader of the group, and following a small service that Holmes was able to perform for Levi’s father soon after, the boy’s parents had felt no concern regarding his continued association with the Irregulars or the detective.

Holmes had his back turned while he packed tobacco into his pipe. And yet, he revealed that he was aware of the boy’s presence by asking, “Is there something else, Levi?”

The boy appeared nervous, which was unusual, as he was usually brimming with a cheerful confidence. However, he waited no more than an extra second before replying, “I saw something.”

Holmes turned then and dropped into his chair. With a hand he waved toward the basket chair facing the fire. “Move closer and tell us about it.”

I found my own seat as well while Levi climbed into the chair situated between us. He tried sitting all the way to the back, but his legs were at an uncomfortable position, so he shifted forward again and let his feet dangle toward the rug.

“I was one of them that you had in Covent Garden,” he began. “Watching when the cab passed.”

Holmes simply nodded. Levi glanced my way, but he knew Holmes well enough by now and was not intimidated by the silence. “I was standing near the two sisters’ stall. Where they sell the cakes.”

“I know it,” said Holmes, who then glanced my way.

I nodded. “The Coombs sisters. They’ve been there selling pastries to market-goers since before I was in medical school.”

“I’ve been there three days,” Levi continued, “leaning against that one corner. Wiggins thought it would be the best place when the cab comes by, because it has to go slow to get through the posts, and I can jump on the back if I need to.

“As he told you a few minutes ago, Clayton has been by there several times since we started watching, but he hasn’t had the other man with him, so we’ve let him pass. I’ve had a lot of time to stand and think, and when you do that, you start to notice what’s going on around you. You see what’s regular, and what isn’t.

“Every day, at about three o’clock, one of the ladies, the dark-haired one, brews up a pot of tea over a little lamp that they keep in the stall.”

“You know the time from the clock across the court?”

“Right. The market has gotten quiet by then, since most of the customers have come and gone. All three times that I’ve seen them drink the tea, the other lady, the older one with white hair, has started to cough soon after, and then she seemed to get tired and had to sit down. It happened on the first two days, so today I was watching to see if it happened again. And it did. But this time I saw something else.

“After the dark-haired lady brewed the tea, she poured it out into two cups. She left them sitting on the counter to cool, and after a while, the older lady started boxing up the cakes that hadn’t sold. She was still all right then. But once while she was turned away, the dark-haired lady reached under her shawl and pulled out a little bottle. She opened it very quickly and then poured something from it into the older one’s cup. The older lady never saw her, but a few minutes later, when the tea had cooled off some more, she drank it all away, and then she started to cough and sat down like before, very fast, like she was out of breath.”

He glanced back and forth between Holmes and me, to see if we comprehended what he was thinking. “I didn’t see if she did it the first two days, but maybe the dark-haired one poured something into the tea on those days, too.”

“And you’re sure that she only started to cough and sat down after she drank the tea?” I asked, although I believed him. “Possibly the work had already wearied her, and it was only then that she gave into it.”

“It was after,” said Levi firmly. “The older lady had seemed fine-enough before.”

“What about the younger woman’s tea?” asked Holmes.

“When it was first poured, the two cups were side by side, no difference. The younger lady hadn’t taken any, and then the older one picked a cup and moved it onto her side of the counter. Then the younger one took the other and had a sip. She was fine.”

He fell silent, as if realizing that there was nothing more to relate. He had already learned to stick to the facts and let Holmes put together the pieces.

My friend was not long in coming to a decision. “The matter with Clayton is stagnant at the moment, until his brother comes down from Yorkshire and tries to kill him,” he said, “and in any case, I’ll be in and out of Covent Garden over the next few days. It won’t hurt to devote a little time to this additional matter in order to see what we shall see.” He stood. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Levi. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.”

The boy slid forward and off the chair, gravely nodding at the man more than twice his height. Then, he turned and made for the door. I wondered if Mrs. Hudson had kept count of how many boys had departed, realizing that one had remained behind, forcing her to stay on guard. She needn’t have worried, for Levi slipped down the stairs at a steady pace, rather than in the manner of a Red Indian on the warpath.

“Do you think this is worthy of investigation?” I asked Holmes as he walked toward his bedroom.

“We have become involved in any number of serious matters that have begun with smaller incidents than this,” he replied over his shoulder. I heard him rummaging around for a few minutes, and then he returned dressed as a common laborer – a favorite guise. I knew that it didn’t matter what personality he portrayed when he left, as there was a good chance he would return as someone else, following a visit to one or more of the various hidey-holes he had scattered throughout the metropolis.

He adjusted the red bandanna which would identify him to his troops. “Should word come from Yorkshire that Clayton’s brother is on the move, get a message to Wiggins. He’ll be able to find me. I also have some ten or twelve other little matters on hand at present, but none with any features of interest, and therefore they will wait.”

With that, he departed, leaving me to my own devices. I resumed the ongoing planning for my impending move. When Mrs. Hudson brought up my evening meal, I saw that she carried nothing for Holmes, so he must have given instructions to her on his way out that he would be away. If she hadn’t been told, she would have optimistically fixed something for him as well, always hoping that he would eat this time, rather than risk – as he put it – diverting essential blood-flow from his mind “toward the purely animalistic activity of digestion”.

Early that night, a telegram arrived from Mycroft Holmes indicating that Clayton’s younger brother had departed for London, as expected. I stepped outside and relayed the information to one of the lads always waiting nearby, instructing that it be delivered to Wiggins, and thence to Holmes, straightaway. Then I went back upstairs and so on to bed.

We had met John Clayton, of 3 Turpey Street in the Borough, the previous year, when he had driven the cab that was used by a very bad man to dog the footsteps of our client through London. At that time, Holmes had noticed that Clayton was wearing a pin with a unique coat-of-arms. Curious about him, it only took a few hours to subsequently learn that cab-driver Clayton was actually of the nobility, but of a socialist turn – thus his renouncement of family and title so that he could drive about London, unencumbered of both wealth and responsibility, leaving the care of his Yorkshire estate in the hands of his disreputable younger brother. Holmes had turned the occasional eye toward the man over the next few months, mostly due to simple curiosity. But a week earlier, Holmes’s brother Mycroft had summoned us to his office in Whitehall, seeking my friend’s assistance. Clayton’s son, of the Colonial Office, had been lost at sea the previous year, his young wife perishing with him. With the cab-driver’s legitimate heir removed, Mycroft had caught the vaguest of hints that Clayton’s younger brother, still residing in Yorkshire, intended to take steps to remove his socialist-leaning sibling and then assume the title and all that went with it for himself. Holmes’s job was to protect the elder brother until such time as the younger could be warned off by Mycroft’s agents. However, to avoid a premature accusation, the younger brother had to be allowed to make a play first. A plan involving the Irregulars was quickly devised, and the waiting game began.

I saw no more of Holmes until late afternoon the next day, when he entered, dressed as some sort of clerk. I could discern something of my friend underneath the hair parted on the wrong side and combed low across his forehead, and the underslung jaw resting upon a frame several inches shorter than normal, giving his walk and very stance an oddly simian gate. He nodded and remained in character as he passed through the sitting room, returning in just a few moments as himself to join me before the fire, where he filled and lit his pipe.

After letting me know that Clayton was still being watched, as was his brother while he slowly made his way to London, Holmes said, “I had the opportunity to observe the younger Coombs sister, Portia, surreptitiously pour something from a small glass vial into her older sister’s tea. Upon drinking it, the elder woman, Letitia, immediately began to cough and show symptoms of fatigue, as described. Portia was very solicitous, graciously offering to finish boxing up the unsold stock before they both left to make their way home.”

“You know their names now?” I asked. “In the ten years or more that I’ve been aware of them and their stall, I don’t think that I ever heard what they were called.”

“And no reason that you should. But I know much more about them now than simply their names. Yesterday afternoon, while watching Clayton’s cab pass on several occasions through Covent Garden, I made myself useful as the vendors were packing up near the sisters’ stall. I learned that they live in nearby Langley Street, in a fourth floor room near the brewery. They rent kitchen space a block or two away, and they’re up before dawn six days a week, constructing the cakes and treats that have made them modestly noted in that very small circle.

“Letitia, the older sister, is truly quite a bit older – some twenty years, as a matter of fact. Even though their stall identifies them as the Coombs sisters, they are regularly taken to be mother and daughter.”

“An interesting set of characters, I’m sure, in a minor Dickensian way,” I interjected. “But what does this have to do with the possible poisoning that Levi – and then you – witnessed?”

“An excellent question. A superficial observation of their assets is not encouraging, and the younger killing the older would, on the surface, gain very little. They have a rickety setup in Covent Garden, where they have operated for a number of years, and also the very modest shared lodgings to the north. They have no partners or assistants, and the labor – quite a bit of it, apparently – is shared equally. If one were to be removed from their joint harness, it’s unlikely that the other could carry on without assistance. Oh, a helper could be found, and the baking could continue as before, but it is not a business with a great deal of wealth that could be shifted from one to the other if a death should occur – in contrast to the situation if John Clayton were to die, thereby enriching his younger brother’s means considerably. Upon initial examination, there is no motive for Portia to murder her older sister.”

“You neglect,” I added with a tone of weary worldliness, “the motivation of simple dislike. Perhaps Letitia has complained incessantly for multiple decades about her sore feet, and Portia has finally had enough of it, deciding to rid herself of the drone of it all in the same way that the anonymous narrator of Poe’s ‘The Tell-tale Heart’ vowed to remove the old man’s staring and filmed vulture eye.”

“Then surely,” was Holmes’s rejoinder, “there is a more decisive way to do so than whatever is being slipped into Letitia’s tea, simply causing her to cough and feel suddenly weary. If that is the case, Portia is certainly playing a long game. Whatever trouble she went to in order to obtain the mysterious poison could have also been better purposed to finding a faster method of murder – saving her sooner rather than later from hearing further tales of tired feet.

“In any case,” he added with a smile, “there is another factor.”

“Ah,” I replied. “There often is.”

“There are rumors that the sisters have expectations of an inheritance.”

I shifted in my seat. “This makes things a bit clearer.”

“Does it? I wonder. Several of the nearby vendors with whom I spoke related that in years past, the sisters have occasionally referenced a rich relative, from whom they hope to be remembered in his will. It isn’t a frequent theme, but on days when the weather is too cold or too hot, they are sometimes heard to mention that one day, selling cakes to the patrons of Covent Garden might no longer be their burden.”

I rose and poured a brandy. Holmes declined. “Is there any way to determine the nature of this inheritance?” I asked.

“An excellent idea, Watson! I’m happy to report that an examination of the matter has already been undertaken. After I learned of this factor, I visited Marchmont and set him on the trail. It was really no challenge for him, as he already knew of their situation. Apparently the story is well known.”

Marchmont was a solicitor in Gray’s Inn, for whom Holmes had performed several investigations. Their complete and satisfying success had converted Marchmont into one of those many individuals scattered around the capital who would do anything for Holmes in gratitude. The fellow was stout and pleasant, and I had used him myself for a few of my own legal matters.

“Letitia and Portia Coombs,” Holmes explained, “are the nieces of old Silas Coombs.”

It was suddenly clear to me, as rumors of the man’s impending death had been reported for weeks. A miser who had made a small fortune during the expansion of the railways, he was surely well beyond seventy now.

Holmes saw that I recognized the name. “Old Silas outlived two wives before his third, dying in the process, presented him with a daughter, Susan Coombs, who should have been his only heir. She never married and spent her entire life taking care of her father – when not helping the London poor. In a fit of anger several months ago, jealous of the time that she was spending assisting the less fortunate instead of catering to him, he disinherited her, directing that his fortune should go to his two nieces, Letitia and Portia – with whom, I might add, he had never maintained any association whatsoever, having long since separated himself from the rest of his own family.

“However, before he could correct that error, he suffered an aneurism, leaving him unable to function. Soon after, in one of those terrible turns of fate, the daughter Susan dropped dead from a long-standing heart problem, and the two sisters, living in conditions barely above penury, are now in line for a fortune, as soon as the old man shuffles off. Yet, according to Marchmont, the twist is that both sisters have to inherit jointly, according to the terms of the will. If one dies before the other, all is forfeit to The Society for Displaced Communards – apparently chosen at random by the old man out of spite.”

“But that makes no sense!” I cried. “If they have to inherit together, then why is the younger trying to kill the older?”

“Ah, but is she?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you trust Levi’s judgment, Watson?”

I considered. “For an eight-year-old, he’s remarkable perceptive – as much as any of the other Irregulars who have assisted you. The Wiggins family, or the Peakes, or Thorndyke, before he went away to university.”

“And yet, he is young. When I watched the sisters today, I had the impression that Portia was looking to make sure that none of the neighboring vendors at nearby stalls saw her action, and not her sister. She seemed indifferent as to whatever the itinerant strangers, such as myself, might observe.”

He set down his pipe. “We need to determine the nature of the liquid being poured into Letitia’s tea. If a crime is taking place, it might be enough to warn Portia that all is known, but without definite facts…” He was silent for a moment, and then, “I will have to devise some method of examining the tea. I can think of seven separate stratagems that might serve the purpose, but – ”

At that moment, the doorbell peeled, and within moments, Wiggins himself had appeared at our doorway. Clayton’s younger brother had arrived in London and revealed himself. Without further comment, Holmes and I donned coats and hats and joined the Irregular in a quickly obtained four-wheeler.

I gave no further thought to the Sisters Coombs until early the next day, when we wearily sank into our chairs before the sitting room fireplace. Holmes’s pipe and my brandy glass were exactly as we had left them at the time of our abrupt departure. John Clayton’s younger brother had indeed attempted to kill him, but Holmes had cast his net so well around the man that his effort was an exercise in futility. Following his exposure, the younger brother had ranted at us, and my friend most of all, but he was interrupted by an intercession of Mycroft Holmes’s agents. An astonished John Clayton, his younger brother, and the government agents who had assisted us had all climbed into suddenly present cabs and had then vanished within moments like wraiths into the fog, leaving Holmes, the Irregulars, and myself, standing in the silent empty street. The matter was now out of our hands, and Holmes gave a barking laugh – he has always been amused by the most unusual aspects of situations.

The situation was recalled eighteen months later when John Clayton was actually murdered. Holmes, hearing of the event, summoned me to join him, and his investigations had only begun when his brother Mycroft made it very clear that the matter was to remain unsolved at the behest of the Crown. I’m aware that Holmes ignored the request, and determined to his satisfaction the true killer – the identity of which would surprise no one who knew the facts of the case. However, the younger brother did indeed become the new Duke of G--------, and a century must pass before my notes can reveal the truth of the matter. As I write this now, in May 1910, the current Duke’s son is presumed lost at sea, in a cruel parallel to the fate of his long-lost cousin, and I’m aware that the Duke has approached Holmes, now retired, to see what facts, if any, might be learned. Holmes had previously done another reluctant service for the Duke in 1901, when this same son who is now lost at sea was kidnapped as a boy while attending school, and his distaste for the man, still evident then, has not subsided even now. I don’t know what his decision will be as to whether he will provide assistance in the current occurrence.

But on that early morning in April 1889, John Clayton still lived, though under a grim cloud for a time, and Holmes and I both had a feeling of dissatisfaction and business unfinished. I was considering pouring a new brandy when he began to speak again of the Coombs sisters, and I needed a moment to shift from the sordid affairs of the Clayton family and back those of the sisters and the possibility of sororicide.

“I will need your assistance, Watson,” he said. “I should have it all arranged by this afternoon.”

“Hmm. Pardon me?” I said, confused.

“The Coombs sisters. While we were busy saving John Clayton, I had Layton Rathe burgle the Coombs sisters’ rooms, but he couldn’t find any of Portia’s mysterious liquid. I’ve decided that I must instead get a sample of some of her tainted tea.

Rathe was one of Holmes’s agents in the underworld, a barely reformed burglar who was nearly as good as Holmes himself at that craft. “And how will you do that?”

“There is a method that has worked well for me in several cases. The Arnsworth Castle business, and the Darlington Substitution, along with that business for the King of Bohemia a couple of years ago.”

I laughed. “As I recall, this method involves making a woman believe there is a fire or something of that sort, forcing her to reveal where she has placed what she values the most. You mentioned once that a married woman will grab her baby, and an unmarried one her jewel box. Neither of the Coombs sisters has baby or jewels. How is this scheme relevant?”

“This,” he said with a smile, “will be a variation. I don’t need for them to show me where something will be hidden. Rather, I simply need for them to be distracted while I get a sample of the tea.”

“Why not simply try to obtain the vial itself?”

“I certainly could, but there are social considerations to follow. Pickpocketing a woman is not an optimal plan. In any case, it would be missed and raise suspicions. A sample of the tea will suffice.”

And so it was that, in the middle of the afternoon, we found ourselves scattered around Covent Garden. Holmes was again disguised as the loafer of a few days earlier, and he had insisted that I look the part as well. Thus, I was in one of my own quite worn suits, saved for just such an occasion as this. Along with several Irregulars, Levi had joined us, as Holmes felt that he’d earned a place as well. I also recognized two or three of Holmes’s other agents.

Glancing around from where I leaned against a stained wall, I saw that a quiet had descended upon the market. The fruit and vegetable vendors, so busy that morning providing their wares to restaurants and homes, had mostly emptied their booths, and some were starting to clean up or close.

Nearby was a salesman that I recognized named Breckinridge – unusual in this vegetable and fruit market, he was a purveyor of fowl. Holmes and I had once had a passing interaction with him. I knew that he kept his books well, but he was abrasive and a gambler. It wouldn’t be long after these events that he would go out of business.

Shifting my gaze around the market, I turned toward the Coombs sisters’ stall which, like a number of others that peripherally catered to the customers lured there for produce, had seemingly come to the end of its working day. Without being too obtrusive in my observations, I saw that the dark-haired sister, Portia, was making tea.

It went just as Levi described. She was a handsome woman of around forty, and moved with sureness as she lit a small spirit lamp and then boiled the water. Taking out two mugs from beneath the counter, she fixed the tea leaves, and then poured the water when it had come to a boil. Leaving it to steep, she turned to help the older woman in the packing up of the remaining cakes.

After a few moments, the older woman selected one of the cups, raised it to her lips, blew across it, and took a hesitant sip, afraid of burning her mouth. Then she set it down and turned away. In a moment or two, but not immediately, the younger sister reached beneath her shawl and withdrew… something. I couldn’t see clearly, but she twisted at the top with her other hand, lowered the object to the other’s teacup and tipped something into it. Then she had replaced the cover and tucked it out of sight.

Alerted by Holmes, I tried to see if she was more interested in hiding her actions from her sister or the other vendors, but it happened so quickly that I couldn’t tell. I glanced at Levi to see if he had done anything to give away the game, but he was simply reclining where he had been before, looking here and there in a bored manner. There was nothing that would cause anyone to give him a second glance.

I had asked Holmes beforehand whether we would wait for the older sister to take another sip, after the second liquid had been added, but he indicated that our plan would move forward immediately. So, as I had several years before while then standing in the twilight outside of Briony Lodge, I waited for Holmes’s signal. When it came, I pulled a plumber’s smoke rocket from beneath my coat, looked to ascertain that I was unobserved, activated it, and tossed it at the foot of the sisters’ stall.

“Fire!” came the cry immediately from half-a-dozen boys and adults scattered around the court. “Fire!”

The sisters turned quickly, looking here and there and, seeing that the thick smoke was billowing from their own stall, made as if to run from behind it and learn more about the impending disaster. But a rush of humanity pushed toward them, forcing them back and away from the smoke. I saw that a stout matron named Hilda Stanholt, one of Holmes’s acquaintances, had shepherded the two sisters over to the wall near Levi. An Irregular loped forward carrying a bucket of water, which he used to dowse the smoke rocket. Another slid by so quickly to pick it up and carry it away that one would be hard-pressed to see what had happened. And through all the confusion, Sherlock Holmes, in his guise of a loafer, stood at the stall counter with his back to the sisters and calmly poured some of the altered tea into a vial of his own. Then he was away, and the crowd began to disperse. None was the wiser, and the sisters were left with a mysterious fire that had no apparent origin and produced no damage. The entire drama had started and finished in less than half-a-minute.

Holmes and I were a block or two away when we heard a woman’s voice call from behind us. It was Hilda Stanholt, and she waved Holmes back with some urgency. “A moment, Watson,” he said, taking a few steps to join her. She whispered something to him which caused his eyebrows to raise. Then, with a half-smile, he thanked her and rejoined me. I tipped my hat to her, but she only scowled, having distrusted me ever since I had inadvertently ruined one of her schemes in Charing Cross Station.

“A possible twist, Watson,” he said. I knew that he would tell me if he wanted, or more likely withhold it until he had both verified it and could then present it in that dramatic way he so favored. I resolved to maintain my patience.

Back in our rooms, we resumed our regular attire, and then Holmes spent only a quarter-hour at his chemical table analyzing the tea. With a satisfied grunt, he closed the flame of his Bunsen burner and sat back on his stool, one arm across his chest, and the other resting on it to cup his chin. He was looking toward the window and the houses opposite, but I knew that he was seeing something far different.

When he stood up, it was to move around to his own chair, where he sat and reached for his pipe. Seeing that something – either Hilda Stanholt’s information or the results of his chemical investigation – had given him a puzzling new aspect to consider, I went about my business. I had thought that the poison would be identified and the younger sister confronted, or perhaps arrested. It seemed that it was to be a bit more complicated than that. Knowing that it might be a two- or even three-pipe problem, with the resulting poisonous atmosphere that accompanied it, I absconded for my club.

When I returned, I met Holmes as he was leaving. “I believe this will be easier to arrange in person,” he said. “Will you be available tomorrow morning?”

I averred that I would be, and he nodded and departed. Later that night, I received a wire to be at Marchmont’s office at ten a.m. I heard nothing more before retiring.

I presented myself at Marchmont’s office promptly the next morning, where his taciturn secretary showed me into his large meeting room. I hadn’t been there for over a year. I recalled that day, which had begun as a rather routine appointment, just hours before the dreadful incident on the street in front of Simpsons, related to the terrible affair of the Heka idol.

Already seated around the table was a gruff looking man in a fine suit, another man in more modest clothing – I took him to be a gardener, correctly as it turned out – and a heavy-set older woman who appeared to be in domestic service of some sort. I nodded, but no introductions were made. I was just finding a seat when Holmes joined us. Following him through the door were two women, being shepherded in by Hilda Stanholt. One was Portia Coombs, while the other was unidentifiable in a dark veil, although it was more than likely that this was her sister, Letitia, as verified by her white hair.

“They didn’t want to come, Mr. Holmes,” said Hilda Stanholt.

“Nevertheless, here they are.”

“It’s the busiest time of the day,” complained Portia Coombs, her voice rough.

“You’ll be free to go soon,” explained Holmes. “Provided that I have a full and satisfactory understanding of the situation.”

With that, he gave a nod, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Stanholt.” Marchmont’s man appeared, allowing Hilda to pass by him before he pulled the door shut.

“Please sit down, ladies,” said Holmes. “This won’t take long.”

Portia started to speak again, and then nervously took her sister’s arm and led her to two adjoining chairs.

“This is unnecessary, Mr. Holmes,” said the well-dressed man. His voice was gruff and angry, but I thought that he looked a trifle uneasy as well.

“I think that it is,” replied Holmes. “Watson, this is Sir Edwin Bales, Silas Coombs’ doctor. Beside him is Mrs. Gates, the housekeeper of the Coombs estate, and Samuel Morton, the groundskeeper.”

“Sam,” wheezed Mr. Morton. “You can call me Sam.”

“Thank you,” replied Holmes. He looked at the three of them. “I suppose that I could have summoned all of the staff as witnesses, but you two, along with the doctor, will suffice.”

He turned his head. “And this, Watson, as you certainly know, is Miss Portia Coombs. With her is – ”

“Letitia,” interrupted the dark-haired woman. “This is my sister, Letitia.”

“It’s no use, Portia,” growled Sir Edwin. “He knows.”

“That’s right, Miss Coombs,” Holmes said, speaking not to Portia, but the other woman. “I do wish that you would remove the veil.”

With some hesitance, and her masked features turning from Portia to the doctor, she reached up and unfastened the veil.

Her face was strangely young, and quite familiar somehow.

“And the wig, as well,” added Holmes.

With lowered eyes, she reached up again and tugged away the white tangled mane, revealing instead hair as dark as that of Portia Coombs beside her!

The two women looked at one another, and I was stunned to see that they might have been twins. Both of the same approximate age, their features and builds were nearly identical. Portia reached for the other’s hand. Before I could find an explanation on my own, Holmes smiled and said, “Cousins, Watson. May I introduce you to Susan Coombs, the daughter of Silas, and not quite as deceased as the world has been led to believe.”

He walked to the side of the table where he could equally face all of those seated. “It isn’t a new idea. Sidney Carton substituted himself for the look-alike Darnay in A Tale of Two Cities. There was something like it in America – the Driscol case Missouri I believe, in the earlier part of this century, where an inheritance was obtained through a swap. But perhaps this matter is more similar to the tale of Isaac and Esau, wherein Isaac disguised himself to obtain the elder brother’s birthright from their father, Jacob.”

“It’s nothing like that,” growled the doctor. “It was all my idea. They didn’t want to do it, but we all knew how evil old Silas really is! There would have been no justice if his fortune had gone to those drodded Communards!”

“He treated her something terrible,” added Mrs. Gates, her voice an outraged squeak. “She’s an angel, is our Susan, and she wasted her life taking care of that old devil!”

Susan Coombs looked at the old woman with warm affection.

“My idea,” repeated Sir Edwin. “I’ll take the blame.”

“Blame?” asked Holmes. “We’re here to determine facts, not to affix blame.” He shifted to the two women, now sitting huddled together, tightly gripping one another’s hands. “Please, ladies. Tell us the story, so that we may know the truth.”

“It’s really very simple,” said the woman who had pretended to be Letitia Coombs. Her voice was much smoother than that of her cousin. “My father has always been beastly, but it was my duty to care for him. And yet, he became enraged one day. He ordered me from the house and altered his will. He might have changed his mind, but his illness prevented it.

“At first, my emotions overwhelmed me. I left the house, not knowing where to go. Then it came to me to throw myself on the mercy of my cousins, Portia and Letitia. I barely knew them, having been separated from that side of the family since I was a child. But I remembered that they had a baking stall in Covent Garden, and when I showed up there, they took me in.”

“She is family,” said Portia grimly, holding her cousin’s hand tighter.

“Soon after, Father had his attack, and when it was determined that his condition was hopeless, I returned home and began to care for him again. He couldn’t speak, but I could see that he appreciated it – at least, I have convinced myself of it. Then… just a few days later, cousin Letitia suddenly died.”

“Heart problems,” muttered Sir Edwin. “Family trait.” He glanced toward Susan, and then away quickly, a pitying look upon his face. He sat up straighter. “That’s when I thought of it. There was no way that the will could be changed by then – Silas was too sick. We might try to break it in court, but what if we failed? The estate would bypass Susan. Now, with Letitia dead, the ridiculous requirement that both sisters should jointly inherit would be the final nail. Rather than see it all go to a pack of French fanatics, I broached the idea of Susan taking Letitia’s place – at least for a time. Take the chance while we have it. It… it won’t be long until Silas passes.”

“But you had a spare body for which to account,” said Holmes.”

“Indeed. It didn’t take long to decide that we could say that it was Susan who had died instead of Leticia. We hired undertakers who wouldn’t know the difference. Silas has always held the world at arm’s length, so that most everyone now is a stranger to him. We sent word to the mission where Susan volunteered that she had passed, and that there would be no services, hoping she would be mourned but quickly forgotten – as was the case. Then we interred Leticia in the family crypt.”

“Under a false name,” added Holmes.

“Not so, Mr. Holmes,” said Portia Coombs. “Her middle name was Susan. It was our grandmother’s name. So she is buried correctly.”

Holmes turned to Morton. “This is why I wanted you here, Mr. Morton. By all accounts, you are a solid British citizen – a jury of one. Can you confirm that the body was buried with respect in the family crypt?”

The groundskeeper cleared his throat. “I can, sir. Very carefully, and with dignity, and with the blessing of a minister that we know who understood. Nothing shady about it.” He glanced down. “You can call me Sam.”

“Thank you, Sam.” He shifted his gaze to the housekeeper. “You are also honest, Mrs. Gates. Do you affirm this story?”

“I do! Mr. Silas is a beast, and this girl is an angel!”

“Thank you. And so,” continued Holmes, looking back at Susan, “you became Letitia and joined your cousin, Portia, in Covent Garden, helping with the baking and the selling. Why not simply remain at your father’s estate?”

“We knew,” answered Portia, “that people might be aware of my connection and… and Letitia’s to Uncle Silas. If we let it be known that Letitia had died, or if she simply disappeared, it might raise questions. Better to wait until the inheritance was settled, and then quietly fade away, with no suspicions.” She frowned. “But how did you get onto us?”

“Someone saw you pouring medicine into your cousin’s tea – presumably for the same type of heart condition that affected Letitia.” She nodded. “After drinking the medicated tea, Susan evinced a period of coughing and weakness. It raised suspicions.” He looked at Susan. “You knew, of course, what she was doing.”

“I did. I’ve always been a bit forgetful about my medications, so I asked Portia to remember it for me.”

“And to preserve the medication’s effectiveness, you poured it in after the tea had cooled?”

“Sometimes,” replied Portia. “Not always.”

“You did so on each of the days that you were observed, and it seemed suspicious. I see now that we had too few data points to make definite conclusions. In fact, you were hiding it from the neighboring vendors.”

Portia nodded. “Nosy busy-bodies. It was none of their business. We didn’t want anyone being too curious or concerned, only to start a conversation and realize that Susan wasn’t Letitia.”

“What’s this about coughing and weakness?” asked Sir Edwin. “I prescribed that medication, Mr. Holmes.” Looking back at the cousins, he said, “There should be no coughing or fatigue. Just how much have you been giving her, Portia?”

“Just a tip in the afternoon, and another at bedtime.”

“A tip? Good Lord, woman! She’s only supposed to receive a few drops at a time!”

“I… I didn’t know…”

“I’m sure it will be all right,” said Holmes. “I am not a doctor, but after an analysis the other day of the tea and my identification of the medication, I believe that no long-lasting effects will have occurred.”

“The tea…” said Susan, and then, with a sudden enlightened expression, she smiled. “The fire! That was you! When it was all over, half of my tea was gone. You managed all of that just to take some of it!”

“That’s correct. And at the same time, the woman who blocked your path happened to notice that you were wearing a wig – a fact that she wasted no time in relating to me. After I analyzed the tea and discovered that it was dosed with medication and not poison, I realized that the matter required further thought. Then, I realized that, with the odd terms of the will, a substitution of sorts had almost certainly taken place. It was no great leap to realize that Susan, who had no chance to inherit, was likely pretending to be Letitia, who was no longer in the picture. It was unlikely that Portia would have killed her, although she might conceivably done so a fit of anger. More likely that she died by natural causes. The rest was easy to verify, and I thought it best to clear things up here, in this private setting.”

“I didn’t kill my sister,” Portia murmured.

“We know, dear,” whispered Mrs. Gates, glaring at Holmes.

“So what are your plans now, sir?” grumbled Sir Edwin. “Exposure? A miscarriage of justice, allowing these girls to be punished by one evil old man’s temporary whim?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “I’m an unofficial agent, Sir Edwin. I was drawn to examine this affair because there seemed to be some slight chance that a murder might be committed. I’m satisfied with your explanations here today – especially because I have already confirmed so many of them independently. But – ” and his smile faded and he took on a steely aspect, “ – I wanted to make you aware that all is known, should any other irregularities be planned.”

He looked at the two women, so alike in appearance, watching him while holding one another’s hands. “I would advise that you both go carefully. What has been observed before might be noticed again. I understand that Mr. Silas Coombs will pass soon. May I ask your future intentions?”

The two women looked at one another. “We’ll gradually fade from Covent Garden, as we said,” replied Portia. “Then, Susan wants to keep helping the poor – but we can’t do that here, because she is known, and believed to be dead. Likely we’ll go to another town where we’ll start a mission of our own.”

Holmes nodded. “As I expected.” He looked around the room. “Then I see no reason to keep you here any longer.” He gestured toward the door, while those around the table expressed surprise at the quick finish to the affair. Then, they slowly stood and made their way out. Both of the Coombs women quietly thanked Holmes. Sam Morton kept his head down, but nodded in passing, and Mrs. Gates peered at him when she went by, as if he were a zoo animal. Sir Edwin looked as if he wanted to stay and discuss something further, but in the end he simply departed.

Thanking Marchmont for the use of his office, we stepped outside. Holmes felt like walking back to Baker Street, and I concurred. Making our way along High Holborn, the morning sun at our backs, Holmes stated, “I believe that you plan to publish again.”

Puzzled, I replied, “Possibly. I was dissatisfied when my first effort appeared in that throw-away Christmas journal. I’ve written up many cases, but I’m hoping that Doyle will next find a place for the matter of the Sholtos.”

Holmes smiled. I was surprised, as I knew he hadn’t been pleased with my initial effort. “That will be satisfactory. Whereas this affair,” he said, the smile fading, “and the matter of the Claytons as well, must join that ever-growing collection of narratives in your tin dispatch box that will not be seen by this generation – the Clayton investigation as a matter of State secrecy, and the Coombs sisters’ contrivance to guard their secret.”

I replied, a bit stiffly, “I would naturally treat them both with such discretion. Additionally, I wouldn’t wish for anyone to know of our own collusion in this matter of subverting a dying man’s wishes, however willing we might be.”

“I would rather having something like this on my conscience than to know that these women were prevented from accomplishing their good works by an old miser’s spiteful impulse. And,” he added, revealing his ever-pervasive distrust of human nature, “their awareness of our oversight in the matter will prevent any temptations to accelerate natural events.”

And so it was. When Silas Coombs died a few weeks later, Holmes and I satisfied ourselves that he had indeed passed at his proper time, without a gentle push. As planned, the two cousins accepted the inheritance and slowly withdrew from Covent Garden, reestablishing themselves in Portsmouth, where they continue provide great comfort to that city’s poor and downtrodden.