The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (12 page)

Outside in the square we had to hold our hats against the blustering wind. We trudged in silence for several minutes.

“What did you make of that melodrama?” enquired Holmes, presently.

“Decidedly odd. But at least we know Lady Abernetty is alive and can set Mrs Bertram’s fears at rest.”

My companion snorted. “Did anything strike you about the sickroom?”

“I thought it uncommonly cold.”

“It was as chill as a morgue. No fire, no steam kettle, both of which I’m sure would be recommended for a patient suffering from congestion of the lungs.”

“Indeed. Are you suggesting neglect?”

“What else struck you? Come, man, you must have been in dozens of sickrooms. That slight odour common to all …”

“… was missing. You’re right, Holmes. Not even a whiff of carbolic. What does that imply?”

“I think we may receive a note from the Abernettys offering apologies for Sunday afternoon,” was his only reply.

Holmes was not often confounded, but the next event produced that effect.

We were sitting beside the fire after supper that evening when we heard a light quick step on the stairs followed by a sharp rap on the outer door.

“Who could that be?” I asked, surprised.

“I suggest you open the door, Watson,” replied Holmes in that slightly caustic tone he could adopt at times.

A woman stood in the doorway, shrouded in a long woollen cloak with a hood. Pushing past me, she advanced into the room, throwing back her hood to reveal the face of Sabina Abernetty.

Holmes rose from his chair and faced her. For the space of a minute they examined each other.

“So I’ve tracked you down, Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective,” she said, bitterly.

“I congratulate you.” Holmes’s voice was slightly uneven.

“Why have you donned disguise to make my brother’s acquaintance? Why have you flattered and deceived him, and come to our home? I know the answer? You have been employed by that hateful woman, Mabel Bertram to pry into our affairs. What has she been telling you?”

“She’s concerned for your mother’s health, nothing more.”

“Oh, there is a great deal more, Mr Holmes.”

She checked her passionate outburst and fell silent. I took the opportunity to express a concern of my own.

“I trust you did not come alone through the night, Miss Abernetty.”

“Minter is waiting in a hansom downstairs,” she replied, curtly.

“Where is your brother?”

“At a meeting of his dramatic society.” She turned fiercely on Holmes. “What will satisfy you? What will end this persecution?”

I was shocked at the violence of her words, but Holmes answered her promptly.

“Seeing Lady Abernetty is alive and in reasonable health.”

“Very well. You shall meet her on Sunday afternoon.” She crossed to the door, but turned on the threshold, her lip curling. “I despise you.”

She drew up her hood and hurried down the stairs.

“There is a lady who does not bestow her contempt lightly.” Holmes tried to laugh, but the tremor was still in his voice.

“A remarkable adversary,” I observed.

“She is not my adversary,” said Holmes, softly. “She is my enemy. Or rather I am hers.” He crossed to the window. “Ah, there they go. Be a good fellow, Watson, and whistle me up a cab while I throw on my cap and Ulster. I have to go out for a short time.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No, it’s better that I go alone.” Holmes looked shaken by the incident, but at the same time some grim determination had seized him and I knew better than to persist.

The following day he was restless and moody and spent hours scraping on his old violin until I felt compelled to protest.

“How does an evening at the theatre appeal to you?” Holmes became suddenly brisk. “Dan Leno’s playing at Drury Lane. We’ll dine out first.”

I was surprised at his choice of entertainment since he usually preferred a violin recital at the Albert Hall.

As usual he read my thoughts. “Come, Watson, the most celebrated clog-dancer and dame of our time. The man’s an artist, probably in his own field a genius.”

Dan Leno was certainly in fine form that evening, performing acts of incredible physical ingenuity, and changing from persona to persona with an inimitable blend of Cockney humour and sentiment and a variety of wigs and gowns.

While the patrons about us rocked in their seats with laughter, Holmes sat silent, his fingers steepled across the front of his evening clothes, watching the performance under slumbrous lids. I had the impression, however, he was watching the little man’s antics intently.

The following day, to my surprise, he dressed for his appointment with the Abernettys without his usual disguise.

“The game’s up, Watson,” he answered my look. “I think both parties are now aware of my identity and interest.”

“Do you think we’ll be introduced to the mother?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

A pall of fog lay over London. The church bells sounded muffled and melancholy. It showed no signs of dissipating by early afternoon and I was amazed when Holmes suggested we stroll to Grosvenor Square.

“In this pea-souper? You must be mad, Holmes! Why on earth … ?”

“I want to arrive at Grosvenor Square in a certain frame of mind and that only the fog can achieve. If you don’t wish to accompany me by all means stay by your cosy fireside, but if you want to experience one of the strangest adventures you’ve ever put to paper, and I know how you like to jot down these little cases of ours, then put on your hat and greatcoat, your warmest muffler, take your stoutest stick and oh, yes, your service pistol.”

“My pistol, Holmes? Surely you don’t expect to encounter any danger from that pair?”

“It would be wise to prepare for any eventuality.”

I found the next half-hour or so distinctly unpleasant. I flatter myself that I am not a nervous man or highly imaginative, but I seemed to feel the fog crawling on me like ghostly fingers. Lamp-posts stood out like beacons eagerly attained and reluctantly abandoned. The snickerings of leaves along the pavements seemed like the pattering of feet running up behind us. I was obliged to restrain myself from constantly glancing over my shoulder. A hansom looming at us suddenly like a phantom coach as we crossed Oxford Street gave me quite a start.

“Nearly there, Watson,” chuckled Holmes.

“Mayfair seems almost deserted. Every sensible person in indoors.”

Charles Abernetty evinced not the slightest surprise or curiosity at his new acquaintance’s shorn hair and moustache. He greeted us with the same cordiality and drew us to the fire in the small salon.

“How damp your clothes are!” he exclaimed.

“We walked.”

Charles blinked rapidly several times. “Through the fog? How extraordinary!”

“May we please see Lady Abernetty?” requested Holmes, rather tersely.

“Ah, here’s Sabina. Sabie, the gentlemen would like to see Mother now.”

“I’m afraid she’s taking a nap, gentlemen. But rest assured, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you will meet her this afternoon.”

Miss Abernetty’s face was pale above a gown of maroon merino trimmed with velvet and lace, elegantly draped to a slight bustle. Her manner towards my friend, although distant, was not overtly hostile.

“Shall we play a hand or two while we’re waiting?” suggested Charles.

An expression of annoyance flitted over the detective’s face, but he shrugged and sat down at the table. It was an uncomfortable game in a charged atmosphere. Only Charles seemed determined to make it companionable. I noticed that my friend observed Charles closely. Under the prevailing circumstances, the fellow seemed in unnaturally high spirits.

A knock at the door was followed by the appearance of the tall, gaunt butler.

“What is it, Minter?” asked Charles, peevishly. “I didn’t ring for you.”

“This just came for you by messenger, Sir.” The butler presented a letter on a silver salver.

Charles excused himself and slit open the envelope. “It’s from Randell Burke.”

“One of my brother’s thespian friends,” explained Sabina.

“He’s mislaid his script and wishes to borrow mine. Gentlemen, I’m afraid I shall have to step out for a minute.”

“Oh, Charles, in this weather?” demurred his sister.

“It’s only in Brook Street. A brisk walk will do me good. If our friends can walk from Baker Street I can manage a swift jaunt around the corner. It’s a pity to spoil our game, but there is is.”

Holmes crossed to the bay window and held aside the curtain. Presently we saw Abernetty hurrying past the spiked fence in greatcoat and muffler.

“May we see your mother now?” He turned to Miss Abernetty.

“I’ll see if she’s awake.” She pulled the bell-rope. “Meanwhile, will you take tea?”

“Miss Abernetty, we both know this is not a social occasion, but strictly a business matter. Please allow me to see your mother at once.”

“Mr Holmes,” she came close to him and looked earnestly into his face, “please allow me to apologize for my words of Friday evening. My sister and I have not been on good terms for many years, but it still shocks me that she would hire a detective to spy on us. Are you aware of her motives?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss Mrs Bertram’s motives,” Holmes replied, coldly.

Minter re-appeared, pushing a tea-trolley. Holmes refused to partake and returned to the window. Feeling rather embarrassed, I joined Miss Abernetty in a cup of tea, but refused the seed-cake.

“Are you watching for Charles?” enquired Sabina, almost tranquilly. “He shouldn’t be long.”

She lingered over her tea, making desultory small talk with me. Instead of becoming impatient, Holmes in his expression grew grimmer. When at last a bell sounded somewhere in the house there was a gleam of irony in his eyes.

“I think your mother is ready to receive us. Shall we go up?”

With the strain on my nerves occasioned by our eerie walk through the fog, I fancied the dim passage had a clammy feel as if the fog had seeped into the walls. Sabina moved softly, almost stealthily before us until she came to the door of the sickroom.

“Mother, I’ve brought some gentlemen to see you.” She pushed open the door.

The shadowy figure in the four-poster bed hunched itself up on the pillows. Wisps of grey hair from under the frilled nightcap straggled over the forehead, eyes glared peevishly from a face grey with age and ill-health. Her hand came up from beside the bed, holding a walking-stick.

“What’s this, you know my orders. I won’t see anyone,” she shrilled at us, querulously. “Go away, all of you. Get out of my sight.”

“Mother, don’t upset yourself,” the daughter glided towards her, but was driven back by the flailing stick.

I will never forget the scene that followed; though I do not remember the words, the tone of the dreadful imprecations, the humiliating insults and cruelties that stripped the soul of our

companion bare have never left me. I felt a deep shame at being, however obliquely, the cause of Miss Abernetty’s discomfiture.

Throughout she was calm, but at last she turned to us and said in a low, tremulous voice. “Will that be all? Are you satisfied?”

Holmes turned abruptly and walked out of the room and I was fast on his heels. The strident voice followed us down the stairs. In the hall, Miss Abernetty faced us gravely. Her eyes looked large and dark in a face that had been drained of all its colour.

“Miss Abernetty, I owe you the profoundest of apologies and bid you good afternoon,” said Holmes. “Minter, my Ulster.”

The elderly butler was hovering by the front door.

“You are leaving,” she said, quickly. “Won’t you wait until my brother returns? Don’t you also owe him an apology?”

“Pray convey to him my regrets. Come, Watson, we must go.”

“At least allow me to send Minter down to the corner for a cab.”

“Thank you, no, we will return as we came – on foot.”

I smothered a groan as I struggled into my damp greatcoat and picked up my stick.

“That was an embarrassing exposure for Miss Abernetty,” I observed, when we had regained the square. “I hope you’re satisfied.” I could not suppress the note of censure that crept into my tone.

Holmes gripped my arm. “Not another word.”

We had reached the corner when he suddenly swung back. “Come, Watson, I want a word with Lady Abernetty.”

“What! Have you gone mad, Holmes?”

“Not I. Not as mad as that poor raving invalid we’ve just left. Come on, Watson, the chase is on, this way through the mews and around to the coach-house. Ah, just as I thought!”

A candle was burning within, visible through a dingy window. My companion flung open the door. A figure in nightdress and frilled cap gave a startled cry.

“The game’s up,” Holmes said, grimly, “Mr Charles Abernetty.”

Abernetty shrank back against the wall, his features contorted with fury under the grotesque make-up. “Damn you! I was brilliant. How could you possibly have found me out?”

“Indeed, you were comparable with the great Dan Leno. Let’s say there were other factors that led to your unmasking.”

Abernetty’s eyes skimmed past Holmes to the doorway. “No, Sabie, don’t!”

Sabina, equally as grim as Holmes, had materialized through the fog. She aimed a pistol at the detective’s head.

“Do you feel quite so clever now, Mr Sherlock Holmes? Don’t move, Dr Watson. Put your hand near your pocket and I’ll put a bullet through your friend’s head.”

“Don’t be foolish, Miss Abernetty,” said Holmes, quietly. “You haven’t yet committed murder.”

Her face was a mask of cold, calculating fury. “There’s no proof that you’ve been at Grosvenor Square. You didn’t even hire a cab.”

Holmes’s hand moved swiftly to his lips. He blew three sharp blasts on his police whistle. “Inspector Lanner and his men will be here soon. Put away the pistol, Miss Abernetty. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

In her rage she fired at him. The expression on her face changed quickly to one of chagrin as the pistol misfired. I quickly brought up my stick, taking advantage of her confusion, and knocked the weapon from her grasp. Holmes kicked it out of sight as Inspector Lanner and two constables burst into the room.