LITMIR.BIZ

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of no one’s arrival,” he countered.

      “Mr Mandeville invited me by his own hand,” John said. “We’ve come from London.”

      Now another man appeared in the doorway, a darkly handsome fellow of perhaps a year or two over twenty, but whose cool eyes emitted the blasé attitude of a jaded elder.

      “What is it, Jenkins?” the youth demanded.

      “Mr Phillip, this man says the master sent for him,” Jenkins replied.

      “Impossible,” the young man said, frowning.

      “But I have his letter!” John protested. This was quickly followed by another, lighter voice, which called: “Dr Watson, is that you?”

      “Yes!” John confirmed as another young man appeared at the door. This one bore a strong resemblance to one called Phillip, but was considerably younger and softer, perhaps still in his teen years. I took them for brothers. “Father spoke of you often,” the younger man said, “please come in.”

      “Edward, what is this about?” the elder, darker brother demanded, but before the doe-like youth could answer, yet another voice was heard, this one shouting: “Good God, close that door! It’s cold as a barn in here!”

      A third youth then appeared, this one so identical to Phillip that I assumed they must have been twins. Only a pair of wire spectacles on the face of the newly-arrived brother distinguished him from his sibling.

      Once inside (which was thankfully warm, courtesy of a raging fire in the hearth), John handed his letter of invitation to Phillip, who grimly examined it before inquiring, “When did you receive this?”

      “Yesterday,” John answered.

      The twins glanced at each other. “A pretty trick,” the bespectacled pronounced.

      “Indeed,” echoed the other. “Since you are here, I suppose I should be civil. I am Phillip Mandeville, and these are my brothers Charles and Edward. And frankly, I am quite puzzled by this note.”

      “Perhaps your father could straighten this matter out,” John said. “Might I see him?”

      “I’m afraid not,” Phillip stated. “Father was buried a fortnight ago.”

      “A fortnight?” John cried. “Then how could I receive—?”

      “My question exactly,” Phillip said.

      After a long, uncomfortable pause, Edward Mandeville spoke up. “I wrote the letter,” he said. “I copied father’s handwriting and posted it without your knowing, Phillip.”

      The anger and frustration that this confession provoked from Phillip Mandeville was tangible, and for a moment I was afraid he might actually strike his younger brother.

      “You know how father spoke of Dr Watson,” Edward continued defensively. “You know how he read and collected his stories about Sherlock Holmes. Father knew someone was trying to kill him, and I thought Dr Watson would be able to help. After hearing the circumstances of father’s murder, I hoped he would be able to get Sherlock Holmes involved.”

      Involving Sherlock Holmes would, of course, have been impossible, since he was off somewhere working on his own, labouring over a long, difficult, and quite personal case. So long and difficult, in fact, that he had put forth the story that he had relocated to Sussex to keep bees. But only John, Mr Holmes’s brother Mycroft, and myself knew this, and while we knew the truth behind his “retirement,” even we did not know where he was.

      “Edward, for once and for all, nobody killed father,” Phillip said through clenched teeth. “His death was perfectly natural.”

      “A dickey ticker,” Charles confided to us, tapping his chest for illustration.

      “But I spoke with him repeatedly,” Edward shot back, “and father believed he was being poisoned.”

      “Believed, Edward, believed!” Phillip cried. “You know that father was not himself in the last few months. He was delusional.”

      “I refuse to believe that,” Edward muttered.

      “I am sorry to have intruded,” John said. “Perhaps it is best that we go and leave this house to its mourning.”

      “Leave?” I moaned. “Now? John, I simply cannot face that train trip back tonight.”

      “We shall stay the night in the village, then,” John decided. “Is there an inn near here?”

      “Phillip,” said Edward, “it is my fault they are here, and I would feel terrible turning them away. Can’t we at least let them stay the night?”

      “Let them stay where, Eddie?” Charles challenged, “the guest room is already taken.”

      “Father’s room is unoccupied,” the boy replied.

      “Father’s room?” the twins shouted in unison.

      “We cannot simply turn them away on a night like this.”

      “Oh, very well,” Phillip sighed, adding under his breath, “though I cannot imagine a worse time for visitors. Jenkins, put a fire in father’s room. I will ask Cook to prepare some dinner for the two of you.” With that, he spun around and marched out away.

      “You know, dear brother, you have a positive genius for making things difficult for us,” Charles declared to Edward before likewise turning and leaving.

      “I guess it’s up to me, then, to show you to your room,” Edward said, instructing Jenkins to bring our bags.

      As we proceeded to the heavy-balustered, oaken staircase, we passed a dining room in which a large oblong table was set for something other than a meal, unless one was accustomed to dining with black candles. All the drapes in the room were drawn closed, behind the head of the table was a large wooden box that I recognized from a picture in a magazine as a medium’s cabinet.

      The room was set up for a séance! Edward must have noticed me staring, for he said: “I fear my brother Charles has a passion for spiritualism. A medium is staying with us; she is the one in the guest room. I find it thoroughly immoral. Come, this way.”

      Save for its chill, the room to which Edward led us could not have been bettered by the finest inn in the realm. There was a huge, four-poster bed and an ornate hearth, which Jenkins swiftly packed with logs and lit. Every wall was adorned with paintings and tapestries.

      Once Jenkins had accomplished his tasks and left, Edward opened up. “I really feel I need to apologize for my brothers,” he said. “They have always tended to treat me like a child, but of late…well, I had no idea Phillip would react this way.”

      “Why did you send that letter after your father was already dead?” John asked, draping his greatcoat over a chair near the hearth.

      “I thought that if the appeal for help came from him, you would respond more so than if it had come from me—someone you had never met. And you did respond. I know it is too late to save father, but I pray now that his killer can be caught.”

      “You are convinced that he was murdered?” I asked.

      “Absolutely convinced,” Edward said. “You see, I am younger than Phillip and Charles, and because of that I had a different relationship with father than they did. We confided in each other. He knew he was being poisoned, Mrs Watson. He was not delusional, nor was he imagining things, despite what my brothers say.”

      “Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?” John asked.

      “No,” Edward replied.

      “Did your father name a primary heir in his will?” I asked.

      “We assume it is Phillip, who is the eldest, though only by couple minutes. You have probably already figured out that Phillip and Charles are twins. But we cannot know for certain because father’s will was nowhere to be found

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