By the time he had gotten into the garment and lighted his pipe, Mrs. Hudson was ushering a tall, blond, good-looking chap into our parlour. I estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. He was assuredly a man of breeding; except for a single startled glance, he made no reference to Holmes’s battered appearance.
“Ah,” said Holmes. “Mr. Timothy Went-worth, I believe. You are welcome, sir. Take the seat by the fire. The air is damp and chill this morning. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”
Mr. Timothy Wentworth bowed acknowledgement, and took the proffered chair. “Your name is famous, sir,” said he, “as is that of Dr. Watson. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. But I have a busy schedule in Paris, and I tore myself away only because of my regard for a friend, Michael Osbourne. I have been utterly mystified by his unheralded disappearance from Paris. If I can do anything to help Michael, I shall consider the Channel crossing well worth the inconvenience.”
“A most admirable loyalty,” said Holmes.
“Perhaps we can enlighten each other, Mr. Wentworth. If you will tell us what you know about Michael’s sojourn in Paris, I shall pick up for you the end of his story.”
“Very well. I met Michael some two years ago, when we enrolled together at the Sorbonne. I think I was attracted to him because we were opposites. I am myself somewhat retiring; indeed, my friends consider me shy. On the other hand, Michael was possessed of a fiery spirit, sometimes gay, sometimes bordering upon the violent, when he felt that he had been put upon. He never left the least doubt as to his opinion on any subject; however, by making allowances for each other’s short-comings, we got on well together. Michael was very good for me.”
“And you for him, sir, I’ve no doubt,” said Holmes. “But, tell me. What did you learn of his personal life?”
“We were candid with each other. I quickly learned that he was second son to a British nobleman.”
“Was he embittered by the misfortune of second birth?”
Mr. Timothy Wentworth frowned as he considered his answer. “I should have to say yes, and yet no. Michael had a tendency to break out, one might say, to go wild. His breeding and background forbade such behaviour, and caused a guilt to arise within him. He needed to palliate that guilt, and his position as second son was something against which to revolt, and thus justify his wildness.” Our young guest stopped self-consciously. “I’m putting it badly, I fear.”
“To the contrary,” Holmes assured him, “you express yourself with admirable clarity. And I may assume, may I not, that Michael harboured no bitterness against either his father or his elder brother?”
“I am sure he did not. But I can also understand the contrary opinion of the Duke of Shires. I see the Duke as a man of proud, even haughty, spirit, preoccupied with the honour of his name.”
“You see him exactly as he is. But pray go on.”
“Well, then there came Michael’s alliance with that woman.” Timothy Wentworth’s distaste was apparent in his tone. “Michael met her in some Pigalle rat’s-nest. He told me about her the following day. I thought nothing of it, considering it a mere dalliance. But I now see Michael’s withdrawal from our friendship as dating from that time. It was slow when measured in hours and days, but swift enough as I look back upon it―from the time he told me of the meeting, to the morning he packed his clothes in our digs, and told me that he had married the woman.”
I interjected a comment. “You must have been shocked, sir.”
“Shocked is hardly the term. I was stunned.
When I found words with which to remonstrate, he snarled at me to mind my own affairs, and left.” Here, a deep regret appeared in the young man’s honest, blue eyes. “It was the termination of our friendship.”
“You did not see again?” murmured Holmes.
“I tried, and did see him briefly on two other occasions. Word of that sort of thing, of course, cannot be kept secret―a short time later, Michael was dropped from the Sorbonne. When I heard this, I made a point of seeking him out. I found him living in an unspeakable sty on the Left Bank. He was alone, but I presume his wife was living there with him. He was half-drunk, and received me with hostility―a different man by far from the one I had known. I could not even begin to reach him, so I placed some money upon the table and left. A fortnight later, I met him in the street, near the Sorbonne. His appearance cut me to the quick. It was as if a lost soul had returned to gaze wistfully upon the opportunities he had thrown away. His defiance remained, however. When I attempted to accost him, he snarled at me and slunk away.”
“I gather, then, that you have never laid eyes upon his wife?”
“No, but there were rumours concerning her. It was whispered about that the woman had a confederate, a man with whom she had consorted both before and after her marriage. I have no certain knowledge of that, however.”
He paused, as though pondering the tragic fate of his friend. Then he raised his head and spoke with more spirit. “I believe that Michael was somehow put upon in that disastrous marriage, that in no way did he deliberately seek to bring shame upon his illustrious name.”
“And I believe,” said Holmes, “that I can reassure you on that point. Michael’s kit of surgical instruments has recently come into my possession, and I discovered upon examining it that he had carefully covered the emblazoned coat of arms it bore with a piece of velvet cloth.”
Timothy Wentworth’s eyes widened. “He was forced to dispose of his instruments?”
“The point I wish to make,” continued Holmes, “is that this very act of concealing the insignia indicates, not only shame, but an effort to protect the name he has been accused of seeking to disgrace.”
“It is intolerable that his father will not believe that. But now, sir, I have told you all I know, and I am eager to hear what you have to tell me.”
Holmes was markedly reluctant to reply. He arose from his chair and took a quick turn across the room. Then he stopped. “There is nothing you can do for Michael, sir,” said he.
Wentworth seemed ready to spring up. “But we made a bargain!”
“Michael, some time after you last saw him, suffered an accident. At present he is little more than mindless flesh, Mr. Wentworth. He remembers nothing of his past, and his memory will probably never return. But he is being well cared-for. As I have said, there is nothing you can do for him, and in suggesting that you do not see him I am attempting to spare you further distress.”
Timothy Wentworth turned his frown upon the floor, considering Holmes’s advice. I was glad when he sighed, and said, “Very well, Mr. Holmes, then it is over.” Wentworth came to his feet and extended his hand. “But if there is anything I can ever do, sir, please get in touch with me.”
“You may depend upon it.”
After the young man left, Holmes stood in silence, gazing from the window at our departing visitor. When he spoke, it was in so low a voice that I could scarcely catch his words. “The more grievous our faults, Watson, the closer a true friend clings.”
“What was that, Holmes?”
“A passing thought.”
“Well, I must say that young Wentworth’s account changes my opinion of Michael Osbourne.”
Holmes returned to the fire to stab a restless poker at the log. “But I am sure you realise that his hearsay was of far more significance than his fact.”
“I confess I do not follow you.”
“The rumour that the woman, Michael’s wife, had a male accomplice throws additional light upon the problem. Now, who could this man be, Watson, other than our elusive missing link? Our tiger who set assassins upon us?”