The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [277]
Both men laughed in unison. “You have that honour, sir,” said one, in British tones.
“You have indeed,” said his twin, in an American accent.
Now I came huffapuffing up to join them, and I made a strange discovery. The two James Phillimores were not identical. One of them – the Englishman – was in his early thirties: of a certainty, the same man whose likeness we had witnessed in the Vitascope. But the American was in his sixties. He was also, I saw now, some three inches shorter than his British confederate, and slightly fuller of physique. The American’s eyes were light blue, whilst the Englishman’s eyes had irises of a queer pale hue which I can only describe as horn-coloured. His face was long and lantern-jawed, whereas the American’s face was nearer square-shaped. The strong resemblance of the two men was due to the fact that they were dressed in matching outfits, and their faces sported identical side-whiskers and similar moustaches of chestnut-coloured hair.
Remembering Holmes’s words, I glanced at both men’s shoes. Neither one’s footwear matched the other man’s, nor did their boot-laces. The eyelets of the older man’s shoes were laced criss-cross, in what I gather to be the American manner. The younger man’s boots were laced straight across the instep, in the familiar British form.
“Might as well take these off, don’t you think?” asked the Englishman. He reached up to his face, and plucked off his own whiskers … leaving only a few stray wisps of crepe hair still stuck in place with spirit-gum.
The American laughed. “Yes, I was getting hot in these.” He snatched away his own set of side-whiskers. His moustaches remained in place, and they appeared to be the genuine articles. But now, in the bright sunlight of Madison Square, I noticed a faint chestnut-coloured stain along the edges of his collar: the American’s hair was naturally white, and he had dyed it brown in order to match the colouring of his British companion.
And yet, even without their disguises, there was a certain kindred quality in these two editions of James Phillimore, a look of keen intelligence within the countenance of both men … which suggested that – despite their outer discrepancies – these two men might indeed be identical twins of the mind.
The southwest corner of Madison Square’s quadrangle was truncated, creating a space in which a row of park benches were secluded from the traffic of nursemaids and perambulators. My friend beckoned the three of us to join him there. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr Watson,” he announced to the counterfeit twins. “Please have the goodness to reveal your true names, and the reason for this peculiar hoax.”
The American bowed before seating himself. “Might as well tell it all, since no harm’s done. My name is Ambrose Bierce, and I am the Washington correspondent for Mr Hearst’s Cosmopolitan. Perhaps you’ve read my column ‘The Passing Show’?”
“I have not.” Holmes transferred his attentions to the younger man. “And you, sir?”
The lantern-jawed Englishman smiled. “My name is Aleister Crowley.”
“Ambrose and Aleister.” Holmes sniffed. “Two unusual names, with the same initial. What is the connexion between you two, pray?”
The two culprits exchanged shamefaced glances. “We may as well spill the works,” the American ventured to his cohort, with a grin. “It’s too good a joke to keep to ourselves.”
“Very well,” said the long-faced Englishman. He turned to confront Sherlock Holmes, and began to explain: “My name at birth was Edward Crowley, Junior.”
“Named after your father,” I murmured, but Crowley shot a glance of the most withering scorn in my direction as soon as I said this.
“Named for my mother’s husband,” he corrected me. “At the time of my birth, my mother Emily Bishop Crowley resided at number 30, Clarendon Square, in Leamington, Warwickshire. I was born there on 12 October, 1875.”
“Shortly after the disappearance of James