"You need not worry," I said, rather stiffly. "As we were told, Salisbury does not appear in this book. It really is rather fine, Holmes. Don't allow your prejudices to cause you to ignore it.
"You are the one who should have taken up the law," my friend remarked. "You are a persuasive spokesman. Very well, pass me the chapter."
He read the first pages of the book in silence and then, before I could ask his reaction, lapsed back into his dream-like state. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.
"I have been obtuse, Watson! Quick, we need to call on the younger Abergavenny at once!"
"But Holmes, what can we hope to achieve that his brother cannot?"
His strong-set features were twisted with pain. "We must strive to prevent a terrible crime. Yet I fear that already we may be too late."
"I don't understand," I said. "What crime are you talking about?"
"The murder", he said bitterly, "of John Abergavenny."
We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the tailor's shop in Lamb's Conduit Street. When we reached our destination, I saw that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the door beside the entrance to the shop. As we dismounted, two familiar figures emerged from the doorway.
"As I feared," my friend muttered under his breath. "We have been out-foxed."
"Mr Holmes!" cried Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. "Were your ears burning? We have just been talking about you."
He indicated Matthew Dowling, who stood by his side. The old solicitor's face was grey and drawn.
"How is John Abergavenny?" demanded my friend.
"He was taken to hospital less than a quarter of an hour ago. He is in a coma."
"Not dead, then?" A flame of hope flickered in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
"Not expected to live, though," said Lestrade. "Seems that after marching out of his office, he came home and took a massive overdose of chloral hydrate. There's a half-empty jar of the stuff on his sideboard."
Holmes's shoulders sagged and so did mine. We both knew the power of the notorious sedative. Many East End publicans, to my knowledge, still kept a jar of chloral hydrate underneath their counter so that they could slip one or two knock-out drops into the drink of any customer who started spoiling for a fight. A highly effective remedy for trouble-makers, perhaps, but if administered in excess it was lethal.
"Apparently the fellow's been behaving oddly," Lestrade continued. "Mr Dowling here and his brother have explained to me his peculiar actions of the last few days."
"Hugh Abergavenny is present also?"
"Not now," said Dowling. "He arrived here a few minutes after I did. I had become increasingly concerned about John's
safety after he left Essex Street. Finally I plucked up the courage
to come out here. I wanted to talk to John, to make him see sense. I could see a light in John's room, but my knocking was
not answered. Ultimately I prevailed upon the tailor, who lives in
the back basement, to let me use the spare key. I rushed upstairs and found John in a dreadful state. It was clear that he was very
sick. I immediately made arrangements for him to be taken to
hospital and contacted the police. No sooner had I done that than Hugh turned up. He explained that he'd been searching
for John, going round the drinking dens in which he might be found. When he had no luck, he came here. Like me, he was hoping that reason might prevail. The pity is that we were too late. I suggested to Hugh that his place was by John's side at the hospital, but we both fear that the omens are bleak."
Suddenly Holmes clapped a hand to his brow. "Lestrade, has anyone touched the jar of chloral hydrate?"
"Why, no," the detective replied. "There was no immediate need." "Mr Dowling?"
"I did not, sir. The contents are plainly marked. I fear that John knew what he was doing."
"Not John," Holmes said harshly. "Hugh."
"I don't understand, Mr Holmes. What do you mean?"
"I mean," said my friend, "that your partner was poisoned by his brother. Quick, Lestrade, let us go upstairs. The question now is whether we can prove our case."
It was late the following night before my friend and I had the opportunity to talk at length about the case over a whisky-andsoda at Baker Street. By then John Abergavenny had died, a victim of cardiac and respiratory collapse, without having regained consciousness and his brother had been arrested on a charge of fratricide.
"My interest in the case", Holmes said, "was aroused by the differences in the way John Abergavenny reacted when his senior partner put complaints to him. He quickly acknowledged his acts of carelessness. It was plain that he was over-tiring himself. That might have been because he went out drinking every night, but it seemed entirely out of character for him to do so. Besides, there was a possible alternative explanation. Perhaps he was continuing to work on his fiction late into the night after a full day's legal work, keeping it a secret because of Dowling's disapproval and a natural lack of confidence in his own literary talents. I also entertained a degree of scepticism about the incidents reported by both Bevington and Stewart -which John vehemently denied.Yet why should the witnesses lie? The contradictions intrigued me. When I mentioned the case to you originally, I drew an analogy with Stevenson's romance and from the outset the business seemed to me to possess certain of the features of a cheap thriller. An apparently respectable man leading a double life, dipping his toe in the world of vice. It is a perennial theme."
He took another sip from his glass. "I had only to meet Bevington and Stewart to be sure that they were not lying. On the contrary, they seemed unimpeachable. So – either John was behaving as wildly as they described, or someone was impersonating him. I noticed at once that Hugh resembled him in build and features. True, he did not have a moustache, was balding and his hair was different in colour. But any actor worth his salt could easily change all that."
"But Hugh was a writer, not an actor," I objected.
"He had been a court advocate," Holmes said impatiently, "and few men are better suited to playing a part than barristers. They have the advantage of professional training coupled with constant practice. I once said to you,Watson, that when a doctor goes wrong he is the first of criminals, but I should have added the rider that a practitioner of the law comes a close second." He gave a grim chuckle. "I hope I was not unduly prejudiced because I had found his writing slick and meretricious. It puzzled me that, as little better than a hack wordsmith, he had not published a book for some time. With that in mind, I regarded his explanation for haunting his old chambers as less than convincing."
I raised my eyebrows. "Surely he was wise to be seeking out fresh stories?"
"If that was so, why had he been silent for so long? I wondered if he was suffering from simple inability to write. It is a curse which, I believe, afflicts many authors. I had rather the impression of a man living on past glories, a pathetic shadow of his former self, hanging around the legal world where he had scored his early successes. A sad man, too, no doubt overtaken by younger men who had not been distracted from their careers by the lure of appearing in print. Did you notice that his cuffs were threadbare?"
"I thought it a Bohemian touch, appropriate enough in a man who had given up his wig for the pen."
"That is no doubt what he hoped people would think," Holmes said dismissively. "He seemed alarmed to see us, which further fuelled my suspicions. Yet he was no fool. How careful he was to portray himself as a man on the brink of renewed success. I could not guess why he would wish harm to his brother – who had, according to Dowling, always envied him. I was concerned for John, but failed to realize that his life was in imminent danger. As soon as he knew of my involvement, Hugh decided that the time had come to perfect his plan."