Allardice, a wine merchant of St James’s; and Mr Cecil Harrowgate, a bachelor residing in Bayswater; Of the others, two brave Officers, Harris and Mason, died together fighting in the Battle of Isandlwana, But…” He hesitated, and his careful façade seemed to tremble for a moment. “…It is the manner of the last two deaths which has brought me here.”
He paused, firstly looking at me and then Holmes. Holmes leaned forward. “Pray, continue your most interesting narrative..”
“Eighteen months ago, Mr. Oliver Denstone, the fifth survivor, was drowned and washed ashore while yachting just off the coast of Cornwall. He was an excellent sailor, Mr. Holmes, and the sea was calm that day. The inquest returned a verdict of accidental death, though there were whispers in Penzance to the contrary. Then, barely six months later, Mr. Charles Winthrop was found dead in his library at his home in Kent, with a gunshot wound to the chest. His manservant testified that Mr. Winthrop had been cleaning his revolver when it discharged. Once again, the coroner returned a verdict of accidental death.”
Holmes’s eyes had taken on that hawk like gleam which I had seen in so many cases. “You suspect otherwise?”
“I do, Mr Holmes. The tontine now represents a capital sum of thirty two thousand pounds, the whole of which will fall to the last survivor. I cannot but feel that someone has been, shall we say, accelerating the natural course of events.”
“A grim incentive indeed,” murmured Holmes. “Tell me, Mr. Fairbrother, what links still bind these four gentlemen together? Do they meet regularly?”
“To my knowledge they have not all been together in years, though they exchange letters from time to time. My firm handles the distribution of the interest payments. I should add that Sir Reginald Poynter has been known to suffer from financial embarrassments; Major Blackwood is a man of some means, though he has expensive tastes; Mr. Allardice’s wine business is said to be precarious, and Mr. Harrowgate….well, Mr Harrowgate is a recluse. He seldom leaves his house, and has lately written to me in alarm, fearing for his safety.”
Holmes was silent for a moment, tapping his long fingers together. “What do you wish me to do?”
“I wish you to determine, if you can, whether these deaths were indeed accidental and, if they were not, to identify the person responsible before another life is taken.”
Holmes rose and paced slowly before the hearth. “A case with no lack of motive, Watson clear, simple, and capable of precise definition. But the means and opportunity will be less easy to establish. You have, I trust, the addresses of the four survivors?”
Fairbrother produced a small notebook and handed it to Holmes, who glanced at it briefly before passing it over. “Sir Reginald Poynter, Gilbert street,; Major Blackwood, the Pall Mall Club; Mr. Allardice, Bury Street; Mr Harrowgate, Inverness Terrace. The late Mr. Denstone’s yacht was at Penzance, you say?
Well, we must begin with the living, Watson, before the dead increase in number.”
Fairbrother looked relieved. “Then you will take the case?”
“Most certainly. Time, as you have hinted, is of the essence. Return to your office, Mr. Fairbrother, and we will be in touch in due course. Watson and I will call upon them in turn, beginning with Sir Reginald. I would be obliged if you would forward any correspondence that you know of relating to the tontine for the past five years.”
When our visitor had departed, Holmes turned to me with an air of quiet satisfaction. “A singular combination, Watson: a compact made in youth, an ever diminishing circle, and a fortune to be gained by the last man standing. It is the very soil in which murder fertilizes. Let us see if it has borne its poisonous fruit.”
I knew from the tone of his voice that the case had taken firm hold upon his mind. Within the hour, we were in a hansom rattling through the damp streets towards Mayfair, to call upon the first of the four men who might, even now, be reckoning the value of another’s life in pounds, shillings, and pence.
The rain had slackened somewhat as our hansom turned from the bustle of Oxford Street into the quieter elegance of Mayfair. The pavements gleamed darkly under the lamps, for though it was barely two o’clock, the autumn sky had already drawn a murky veil across the sun. Our driver pulled up before a tall, dignified house in a row of similar structures each with its own uniform façade of cream stucco, black railings, and a flight of steps leading up to a fan lighted door. Holmes sprang down lightly, his eyes travelling over the upper windows with that alert, rapid glance which seemed to absorb a dozen details at once.
“You observe, Watson,” he murmured as we mounted the steps, “a house in which wealth is at least presented, though not necessarily possessed. There is fresh paint upon the door and a new knocker, but the curtains at the upper windows are worn and the carpet in the doorway is heavily worn. A man may maintain the semblance of affluence long after the reality has gone.”