"I can understand that."
"But then it transpired that Sir Hector's youngest brother, Sydney, who had been shooting in Bengal, had met with an untimely and very fatal accident. He was staking out a goat to attract a tiger when the goat, sensing perhaps that what was about to happen was not to his best interest, butted Sir Sydney in the stomach. Ruptured his spleen. It took a while for news of this to reach England. It actually happened several months before Sir Hector died."
"I see," Barnett said. "And Sir Hector was Sydney's heir?"
"Sydney was still youthful enough to be unaffected by intimations of mortality. He never made a will. But they both had an elderly aunt named Agatha, who passed on about a week before Sir Hector. And thus, you see, a month or so after Sydney, although nobody realized it at the time."
"Yes?"
"Dame Agatha had left her considerable private fortune to Sydney, long her favorite, to sustain himself with and to use for whatever good works he deemed appropriate. But as Sydney predeceased Dame Agatha, her estate went to Sir Hector. He died without ever knowing that he was a millionaire."
"And the valet?"
"As residual legatee, Fellows suddenly found himself a man of considerable wealth. Since his unwitting benefactress, Dame Agatha, had wished part of her fortune to be used for good works, Fellows endowed the Gentlemen's Gentlemen as a club for butlers and valets in service in London, along with a generous fund to take care of former or retired men of these professions who have fallen on hard times."
"A fine gesture," Barnett said, looking up from his notebook. "Is Fellows in residence here himself?"
"No longer," Mr. Palmar said.
"I see," Barnett said. "Has he, ah, passed on?"
"In a sense. He has moved to Paris. Having reverted to a family name which I am not at liberty to tell you, he has taken up painting in oils. Now, is there any other way in which I can be of service to you?"
"I think so," Barnett said. "What brought me here in the first place, Mr. Palmar, was a Scotland Yard report that the two gentlemen's gentlemen who were arrested on suspicion of murdering their employers this past week are both members of this club."
"Ah!" Mr. Palmar said. "Lizzard and Margery. Yes, they are indeed. Let me point out, purely in the interest of accuracy, that they are both butlers. In current usage, the phrase 'gentleman's gentleman' properly applies only to a valet."
"I understand," Barnett said. "Thank you for making that distinction. In my profession we strive for verbal accuracy, of course. But we need all the help we can get. Do you know Lizzard and Margery? Can you tell me anything about them?"
"I actually don't know either of them too well," Palmar said. "As club steward, of course, I am acquainted with all of our members, but both Lizzard and Margery were noticeably reserved with their confidences. Which is not unusual, you must understand; their vocations tend to encourage habitual reticence. I believe, however, that I can introduce you to someone who knows them both quite well."
"I would appreciate that," Barnett said.
"I shall go and see if he's here." Mr. Palmer excused himself and went off down the dark wood-paneled hallway. Barnett sipped his sherry and considered multiple murder. He composed his thoughts and began to construct the lead paragraph for the article he would write for the American News Service. A bit of philosophy to lead off. It would make the reader feel as though he were exploring the human condition instead of merely indulging a morbid curiosity.
As ripples in a pond, Barnett scribbled in his notebook, radiate from every stone, no matter how casually flung, so do unforeseeable consequences emanate from every human action, no matter how seemingly minor.
Barnett paused to chew on his pencil and stare down at the page. It read fairly well, he decided. After all, as an unforeseen result of this series of murders, Professor Moriarty, who was completely unconnected with the crimes, had been seriously inconvenienced by the unwarranted attentions of Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard. But surely any of the victims would rather have been seriously inconvenienced than have had his throat cut.
Barnett decided to work on the text of his article later, make a few notes first, and try to produce something that was actually worth saying. NOTE: he wrote large on the rest of the page, Murder is the worst crime of all. Why? Because it is the only one which cannot be taken back and cannot be apologized for.
Not a bad thought, Barnett decided, folding his notebook and sticking it back in his pocket. With a little work he should be able to get five hundred to a thousand words out of it.
Palmar came back down the hall. With him was a slender, stoop-shouldered man, whose intelligent brown eyes peered out of a face that was habitually set in a serious mien. "Mr. Barnett," he said, "permit me to introduce Mr. Quimby. Mr. Quimby was, until recently, the valet for Lord John Darby. He has been staying with us since his lordship's unfortunate demise, and has had occasion to become reasonably well acquainted with both Lizzard and Margery."
"A pleasure," Barnett said. "Please, sit here. You don't mind if I ask you a few questions? I trust Mr. Palmar has explained what I'm here for."
"A journalist," Quimby said, continuing to stand.
Barnett sensed hostility. "That's right," he said, trying to look as open and honest as possible. "I'd like to talk to you about your friends Lizzard and Margery."
"Why?"
"I am trying to gather information on the events surrounding the murders of their employers."
"They were not responsible."
"I am convinced of that also," Barnett said. "Scotland Yard does not seem to be. They have been placed under arrest."
"I know. I believe that Inspector Lestrade was acting hastily."
"That's so," Quimby agreed. "And it was the newspapers that made him do it. Long stories about how nobody was safe, not even the nobility. Not even in their own homes, or in their own beds. The people were becoming agitated, and the Home Secretary had to do something. Scotland Yard had to arrest somebody, and right quick, too, just to show they was doing their jobs."
"There may be something in what you say," Barnett admitted. "And if journalistic outcry caused your friends to be incarcerated, then perhaps a renewed outcry can get them released again."
"The authorities will have to let them go soon anyway," Quimby said, nodding with satisfaction. "Five killings all committed the same way, and the last while they were already locked up. It stands to reason."
"Five?" Barnett asked, surprised. "I know of only four."
"Five," Quimby said. "And I'm the one who should know."
"Let's see," Barnett said, counting on his fingers. "There's Venn and Stanhope and Lord Walbine and Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff—"
"And my late master," Quimby said. "Lord John Darby."
"He was murdered?" Barnett asked. "I don't remember hearing of it. When did it happen?"
"His body was found early in the morning of Tuesday, the fifteenth of February."
"By you?"
"No, sir. By the Earl of Arundale."
"In his bedroom?"
"No, sir. In the dining room."
"I see." Barnett leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly. He shifted forward again. "What makes you think that your master's death is related to the others?"
"His throat was cut. And there was no way for anyone to have got in or out. An impossible crime, Mr. Barnett. The only one who could have committed it was me."