Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(25)

Holmes, who abhors the untidiness of latecomers and missed appointments, obstinately refused to be charmed. He was politeness itself, as he invariably is in public, but I recognized the slight hardening around his eyes that communicates—to those familiar with it—a disdain. For him, punctuality was a cardinal rule of etiquette, and before even shaking hands, Miss Hartley had blotted her copybook.

I’m sure that from her appearance, her claim, and this breach, he had deduced the whole of her history. I myself noted that, while her movements were graceful, there was an anxiety that informed her smallest gestures. The twisting of a handkerchief, the way her eyes darted around the room, her startlement at the least noise all told me of a lady in trouble.

“Thank you for seeing us, Miss Hartley,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you know already why I requested this appointment?”

“My claim to the fortune left by Anna Hoyt.” She looked away. “I hardly expected to meet the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “How did you learn about the bequest?”

“I had been traveling in the continent; a friend sent me a letter with the clipping from the paper. I contacted Mr. Deering.”

“Why were you abroad?”

“I was visiting friends.” She hesitated, then looked up at Holmes directly. “I had formed an . . . attachment there . . . and later learned he was untrue to me. I returned because . . . my health declined.”

“And the bequest—” Holmes started.

“I’m a doctor,” I broke in. “If I may be of any assistance—?”

She laughed, a lovely sound. “Thank you, I am nearly better now. But if I find Anna Hoyt’s bequest, I shall travel to Egypt and let the ancient sun heal me.”

Holmes frowned briefly at me. “But to the case at hand. You’ll forgive me asking—how is it that no record of your birth exists in the United States?”

“For the simple reason that my family has always been in England. It is my belief that Anna’s son—my many-times great-grandfather—was the result of either a hidden marriage or an illicit love affair.” She blushed prettily. “But the records for my family are here, even if Anna Hoyt did not remain.”

“You met your distant cousin, Habakkuk Sewall, while you were in Prague, correct?”

Suddenly, her features sharpened. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but do you work for Mr. Sewall?”

“It is true.” He raised an eyebrow. “One cannot always choose one’s clients.”

I frowned; it was unlike him to be so indiscreet.

“Then I believe this interview is at an end,” Miss Hartley said. “I have no interest in furthering the interests of a gentleman—and I must only use the term in its most general sense—who seeks to rob a young lady of something that is rightfully hers. Good morning.”

She rose, and for a moment, I could see in her defiance and disdain a great deal of her ancestress. With the barest of nods to me, Miss Hartley moved past with a rustle of silk satin. At the door, she weakened. We ran to her aid, and she would have fallen had I not caught her.

She thanked me, squeezing my hand with a sad smile, and fled before I could ascertain her illness.

“Bravo, Holmes,” I said angrily. “She’s clearly still unwell!”

“Watson, please.” He patted his pockets, frowning. “She knew that I am working for Mr. Sewall.”

“What of it?”

“And yet she waited to bring it up as a way to exit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply this: Why meet us, if she wants to avoid Mr. Sewall?” He cocked his head. “Much more sensible to make up some excuse to us and hide herself away again. And there’s the question of why Mycroft would want me to keep me my distance from her. I think, Watson, she wanted to . . . show herself to me. To let me read her history in her words and in her person. Communicate something to me.”

One of Wiggins’s troop of mercenaries ran in. “Mr. Holmes, come quick!”

“What is it, Mr. Coupe?”

“Mr. Deering’s office—it’s on fire!”



We got there too late. The conflagration kept everyone far back; it was not known if Mr. Deering was alive or dead.

“There is more at stake here than money,” Holmes murmured. “This is an act of rage.”

“But how—?”

We were interrupted by a shout. Another of the Irregulars ran across the busy thoroughfare, skillfully dodging omnibuses and hansoms, reaching us, out of breath.

“Mr. Holmes! I came as fast as I could!” It was the young man got up as a clerk doing research for Holmes.

“What have you found, Mr. Morris?”

“Miss Morris—my twin brother can’t read as well as me,” she said; I belatedly realized that her hair was tucked under her collar and cap. “I’ve found the location of the house!” She held up a scrap of paper with an address. “It’s in Sussex! On the South Downs, near Eastbourne.”

“Very well done, Miss Morris!”

When I saw the way the young lady’s face lit up, I could not help but think Holmes was correct in giving the Irregulars the chances he did. With her ink-stained fingers and third-hand clothing, Miss Morris was as proud as an empress at her achievement.