The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [279]
With a smile, Ambrose Bierce acknowledged his handiwork. “Brilliant, wasn’t it? All the various details – the footprints leading to nowhere, the scorched floorboards, the decapitated umbrella, even the two impeccable witnesses brought to the scene by a pretext – all the details were part of my scheme, sir.”
“And yet you vanished into thin air …” I began.
“Not at all, sir. ‘Twas simplicity itself. When I came out the house’s front door to greet my callers from the bank, the foyer was already bedecked with the tokens of my abduction. I went back in through the front door as James Phillimore, took a moment to call out for help while I donned a cobbler’s smock and yanked off my false whiskers … and then I slipped out the back way, like any respectable tradesman.”
Aleister Crowley chuckled. “Because James Phillimore was heard to cry for help, the witnesses assumed that he disappeared against his will. It never occurred to anyone that he’d done a bunk voluntarily.”
Sherlock Holmes arose from the park bench and – with great solemnity – bowed to Ambrose Bierce, then reseated himself. “Come now, sir!” said my companion to Bierce. “I confess that you foxed me. Now for the rest of the tale, if you please: why, after so many years, has James Phillimore resurfaced of a sudden?”
This time it was Bierce’s turn to chuckle. “Although I left England shortly before the birth of Emily Crowley’s only child, I corresponded with her secretly. She kept me apprised of her son’s progress. In 1897 – following the death of Edward Crowley, Senior – I took the liberty of writing to his heir, and revealing my role in his past. I also mentioned my family’s tradition of forenames beginning with the letter A.”
Crowley nodded. “That was the year in which I changed my forename to Aleister.”
“We have maintained our correspondence ever since,” Bierce revealed. “In the meanwhile, my tasks as a journalist have obliged me to travel throughout the United States without ever returning to Europe. Young Crowley here has journeyed to Russia and Tibet, but never until now has he visited America. My wife died in April of last year, and my two sons that I had off her have been dead these past five years: one of them a suicide. I am therefore alone, which means that I am in bad company. I live in Washington at present, but I make frequent trips to New York City to call upon my employer Mr Hearst. When Aleister Crowley wrote to me a few months ago from his home in Scotland, informing me of his intention to visit New York, I decided that we should meet at last.”
“But why bring James Phillimore back from the dead?” queried Sherlock Holmes.
“That was part of the joke,” answered Aleister Crowley, placing his hand upon Bierce’s shoulder fondly. “I have always had a taste for bizarre jests. My mother’s husband was entirely devoid of humour, yet Ambrose Bierce’s wit is keenly similar to my own: I should like to believe that I have inherited this from him. Several years ago, Father Ambrose – as I choose to call him – sent me a cabinet photo of himself in his James Phillimore disguise, with a letter recounting the hoax in all its delicious details. When I agreed to call upon Mr Bierce at the Cosmopolitan offices, I decided to amuse myself by visiting him in the guise of James Phillimore. I had the costume made up in London before my departure.”
“Clearly my own sense of humour and Aleister Crowley’s run on similar lines,” said Ambrose Bierce. “For we both hatched the same notion independently, and I too decided to resurrect James Phillimore for our meeting. I still had the suit handy in camphor-balls, so I let it out a bit and bought some stage-whiskers to match the ones I wore thirty years ago. Say, all the boys in Hearst’s office busted out laughing fit to kill when I walked in there dressed like