Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(24)

“There was almost a half month’s rent in there!” I said, shocked. “You gave them all of it?”

“There was also the bribe to let my ‘secretary’ take my place in the archives, and more to buy that boy something approximating a suit. I spent a great deal on cables to America last night, after Mr. Sewall left. Then there was the investment in locating Miss Hartley here in London. That was no easy matter, for she didn’t want to be found, though the Irregulars always succeed. I’ve sent a note requesting an hour of her time tomorrow at eleven.” He paused, frowning. “She evaded me quite a while. However, one must spend money to get more in, Watson.”

He sounded so prim and marmish I would have laughed, if I hadn’t been so angry.

“Well,” I said, mollified, and not a little relieved. “What have you found out?”

Holmes’s eyes glittered like a dragon on a hoard; he loved nothing so much as information. “I’ve discovered that Mr. Sewall is a first-rate cad. He may have made a promise to his wife, but I doubt he intends to keep it. He certainly never kept any of the other vows he made to her; if my source is correct, Sewall has a string of fancy women from New York to San Francisco. And he is in very dire straits, far worse than he suggested. He’s squandered a great deal of his family money, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, with debts coming in fast.”

I grinned; that in and of itself was gratifying. “I suspected as much. What about his claim? Is he legitimately part of the family?”

“That I believe is true, and have confirmed it with records in Boston. The question is, why come to us?”

“You said it yourself. It takes money to make more money, and if time is a factor, then it’s well spent to come to you.”

“Perhaps. But he’s up to something, Watson, and I do not like not knowing what it is.”

“What about Miss Hartley?”

“She is more difficult. My instincts are all a-tingle, what with both Sewall and brother Mycroft so set against her. She is something more than a mere ‘adventuress.’ Her claims to be a descendant seem in order, though I have not satisfactorily determined what Mistress Anna Hoyt might have been doing on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Hmm, well, if we find Sewall’s inheritance, he’d better pay us. The kitty is now quite empty.”

“I always honor my debts,” Holmes said, a trifle peevishly.

Then he looked at me, an amused smirk playing about his lips. “You do realize, Watson, that if I decide to dip into the butter and egg money to buy cocaine, I shall probably not leave a note saying I have done so?”

“I never imagined . . .” But I felt my face going red all the same and hastened to tell him of the attack. “There might have been dire consequences, Holmes.” I recounted my meeting with Dermody and his boys, Margaret’s rescue, and Aggie’s initiation into one of the household’s peculiar habits.

He frowned. “In that case, my apologies. What should have been a slight inconvenience for you was very nearly something much worse.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I have a friend who owes me dinner at his chop-house; we’ll go there tonight, form our battle plans. But you must tell me one thing.”

“Of course.”

“How does it feel to have your lady friend save your life? Again?”

I shrugged, showing nothing but mild amusement at his jibe. “It’s rather wonderful, you know. No end of useful in, er, matters of the boudoir. Better than gin. You should look into it, Holmes—oh, my pardon. You don’t have a lady friend, do you?”

“I don’t require anything so base. Mine is a life of the mind.”

He looked so pious, I could not help but laugh, as I reached for my hat. “Ha! You only say that when you haven’t any lady friend.”



Since it was so cheap to dine very well, we could not resist prolonging the evening with a quick drink at a local pub. There, I ran into some old friends from the regiment; drinks led to toasts, which led to cards. I lost track of Holmes at one point—he had done pretty well at cards, as he tends to—but rather than exploit his advantages, he left before anyone could grumble about his winnings. I saw him across the way discussing something with an unsavory-looking Egyptian, just as one of my mates took offense at something a sailor said. As the first punch was thrown, I felt that familiar red haze descend and the calm that came before a good row . . .

The next morning, the curtains were pulled open with a racket I usually associate with locomotives. “Oh, John, the state of you. And you’d been doing so well.”

“Mags, please . . .” Razors seemed to fill my eye sockets. “We just need to get our feet under us again . . .”

“No time for that. Drink your tea, and do better next time. You have a letter from a Miss Hartley.” Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “On scented paper.”

“A client.”

“Hmm.”

As Holmes and I set off for our appointment that morning, I was profoundly grateful it was raining, for sunlight would have been unbearable. I did wish, however, the rain would not beat down on my hat with such heavy, echoing blows.

Holmes’s aspect was ghastly, showing all the sad characteristics of a recent opium binge.

When we arrived at the hotel, Miss Hartley received us in a small parlor. She was a trifle late, but as we stood to greet her, I could only say that it was time well spent. A stunning petite blonde, she was dressed de rigueur in dark green velvet. I was utterly bewitched by the little Silesian iron ornament in her upswept hair, making as charming a figure as could be imagined. As she bade us sit, I could see the deep blue of her eyes, like the sea after a storm.