I remain yours truly,

David Harker

***

It was about eight-thirty that evening when Holmes finished the recital, to great excitement. For the first few minutes, Wattisfield, Curtis and I talked eagerly, astonished that such an incredible story appeared to lay behind the curious events which had befallen the manor house earlier that day. Only Holmes remained silent, his brow furrowed, as he stared up at a painting of David Harker - or Peter Coleman as we then knew him - which hung above the fireplace of the spacious room. When at last he spoke, it was with some disappointment. “This is indeed a convoluted state of affairs, my friends, and some elements of this mystery remain unclear to me.”

It was Wattisfield who replied. “Such as, Mr Holmes?”

“Well, the letter was written in 1921. It seems curious that our man should wait the better part of five years to travel across to England to claim this Descartes Inheritance. And in doing so, he finds Harker to be deceased, which can only have added to his difficulties in seeking to obtain what was rightfully his. And knowing that Barrington Henshaw had assisted Harker in locating him, it seems odd, again, that Descartes did not appeal to the man’s better nature and present the Harker letter as proof of his claim.”

“I take your point, Mr Holmes, but we should be in a position to run all of that past the young valet very soon. I have arranged for him to be brought here for questioning first thing tomorrow, and Mrs Dawson has extended us an invitation to dine at Trimingham this evening and to stay overnight.”

“That is most welcome,” said Holmes. “Bravo, for Mrs Dawson! She puts me in mind of another very able housekeeper, for whom I had every admiration.” He cast me a glance, before adding with touching candour: “Alongside your good self, Watson, Mrs Hudson was as close a companion as I ever had. Her passing was a great blow to me.”

It was the first, and only, time I had ever known him to speak so affectionately of our long-dead landlady and housekeeper. In that moment, I realised that the ten years of his physical isolation and self-imposed mental introspection in Sussex had left Holmes as lonely and vulnerable as I. With the loss of my dear wife, some seven years before, I had never come to terms with living alone. And it was clear to me that for all of his upbeat banter and declarations about the virtues of self-sufficiency neither had my dear friend.

The next morning, I awoke to see the sun already warming and illuminating the large double room that I had slept in at Trimingham. When I ventured downstairs some thirty minutes later, I was embarrassed to find that Holmes and Wattisfield had been up for a good two hours and a telephone call to the manor had confirmed that Descartes was on his way and likely to be with us within fifteen minutes. They told me that Curtis had been relieved from his overnight watch over the crime scene, which made me feel doubly guilty that I had slept in for so long.

I helped myself to two rashers of bacon, some toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg from the serving dishes which Mrs Dawson had left in the dining room, as Holmes and Wattisfield sat engrossed in the headlines of the day’s newspapers.

It was twenty minutes later, when I heard the bell ring loudly at the door of the manor and followed Holmes through to greet the prisoner. Descartes cut a rather poor figure, dwarfed as he was by two burly uniformed constables on either side of him. He was around five feet, nine inches tall, with black hair, a small dark moustache and matching goatee beard. His keen eyes were an intense blue hue and his gaze most piercing. On being introduced to us by Wattisfield, he nodded his head and said in a distinctly Germanic tone, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Directed by the Chief Inspector, we assembled once more in the drawing room. Wattisfield, Holmes and I sat on a large sofa to one side of the fireplace. Descartes was seated on a sofa facing us, his two guards having been directed to stand by the door. Under the watchful gaze of the young German, Wattisfield removed the Harker letter from inside his jacket and placed it very visibly on a small coffee table in front of us. Descartes sat up smartly, a look of trepidation on his face.

Holmes sought to reassure him. “Herr Descartes. Please do not be alarmed. Having read the letter, we understand fully why you came to Trimingham and the very colourful story behind your family inheritance. What is still unclear to me, however, is why you waited so long to respond to Harker’s invitation and why you did not take Henshaw into your confidence on first arriving at the manor? Perhaps you could start with the letter?”

A look of anguish settled on Descartes’ face. “I can tell you everything you need to know about that damned letter - a document that has forever ruined my life, despite the enormous potential it could and should have held for me. While David Harker sent the letter in August 1921, I knew nothing of its existence until six months ago. Since that time I have sought to claim only what is rightfully mine, although I now realise that in doing so, I have unwittingly placed my head inside a hangman’s noose. My tale is best told from the start, gentlemen, so you would be wise to ensure that you are sitting comfortably, for there is much to tell.”

Holmes smiled appreciatively and extended his left hand to prompt Descartes to recount his tale. What followed was every bit as compelling as the Harker letter.

“My name is Heinz Descartes, although my birth certificate records me more formally as ‘Heinrich’. Until reading the Harker letter earlier this year, I knew little about my father, Franz Descartes, who died during the war when I was sixteen years old. At that time, I lived with my mother, Nicole, in the Altona district of Hamburg. But when she passed away in the summer of 1919, I moved into a nearby house with Aunt Hilde, one of my mother’s older sisters.

“I grew very much attached to Hilde Rosen, a woman in failing health who doted on me as if I were her own. Over time, the idiopathic hydrocephalus she endured began slowly to eat away at her body and mind. Confused and subject to occasional blackouts, she became convinced, in all but her most lucid moments, that I really was her son - a role that I was happy to play along with given my own emotional deprivations.

“On the day that Harker’s letter arrived, it is likely that Hilde opened it, not realising that it was addressed to me. In the two years that I had lived with her, I had never previously received any correspondence. But as she began to read, I believe she would have realised to her surprise that it was intended for me.

“Being able to read English sufficiently well to understand the opening few paragraphs and the serious nature of the communication, she would have continued to read the remainder of the letter in her private quarters - this she always did with important correspondence, sat at her bureau amid the splendour and finery of her French-style parlour. I can imagine that by the end of the document she understood enough of its contents to decide that I must never see the letter - perhaps she would not allow me to be taken in by what she believed to be a confidence trickster, who had invented a pack of lies to entice a young man to leave his home for foreign soil. But in that moment of illness or calculation, she put at risk the inheritance that was my birthright and that David Harker had struggled so hard to preserve. Whatever her motivations, I believe that Hilde placed the letter in the locked and hidden draw of her bureau, where it remained undiscovered for nearly five years.

“In the summer of 1923, two years after Harker’s original letter, a second envelope arrived at the house addressed to me. On this occasion, I had intercepted the post and opened it. It was not a long letter. In fact, it was somewhat curt and to the point. It merely informed me, that as two years had passed and I had been unable or unwilling to contact Harker, the latter felt he had done all that he could to honour his promise to Franz Descartes, my father. It went on to say that if he did not receive any subsequent communication from me in the next six months, he would consider the matter closed by mutual consent. The letter was written by the solicitor, Barrington Henshaw.