Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(42)
“Thank you.” Mr. Daley sat in the one empty chair in our office, a ladder-backed swivel inherited from the now-shuttered copper mining museum at the end of Lodestar Street. Our local copper industry faded in the late 19th century, but its lore and lure have branded our little town since then. Our sturdy office bookshelves, the pockmarked wood now filled with my favorite textbooks and research materials, were once used in the museum library.
“My partner,” Mr. Daley began, “has received a, well, I’m not sure what word I would use. Unusual? Disturbing? Confusing? Series of emails. It might be spam, I suppose, except I think my partner was clearly upset by it.”
“Partner?” I imagined many possible clarifications for this imprecise word choice. “Personal? Professional? Or both?”
“Both.” Daley swiveled left, then right, then back again, fidgeting. The peevish hinge connecting the seat to the base squeaked in protest. “Wait. I’ll show you.”
He slid his slim fingers into his jacket pocket, extracted a cell phone in a black plastic case. He tapped a few keys, then paused, waiting. “Before I tell you about the emails, let me play you a video,” he said.
I heard a few measures of an old-fashioned tune, one of my favorites, Ella Fitzgerald’s version of Cole Porter’s “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” its distinctive opening minor key instantly recognizable even through the phone’s tiny speaker.
Watson approached as Daley held out the screen, and we both leaned in to watch. The music continued, and we saw an empty room with an expanse of wooden floor. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Doors in the others might lead to other rooms, or perhaps closets.
“Where’s this?” Watson asked.
No explanation was necessary, though, as after the introductory notes, the room was no longer empty. Three couples—Daley and another man in evening clothes, one in an ill-fitting sport coat, and three women wearing flowing ankle-length dresses—whirled into the scene. As the music played, the couples dipped and twirled, dancing an elegant if elementary fox-trot. Forward forward side close, I could almost hear the instructions as I watched. I’d been sent to dancing lessons as a young girl. To my mother’s delight, I became quite proficient. As my family’s fortunes changed, and my attentions were turned elsewhere, my dancing days ended.
Even from this tiny video, I could see that the dancer in our visitor’s arms held center stage. She fairly glowed with bliss. I smiled, with a bit of nostalgia, as Arthur Daley dipped her backwards, her toes pointed, her long dark hair almost brushing the dance floor. Then, seemingly with no effort, he swept her back onto her feet and they twirled gracefully away.
“You’re a dancer,” I said. The camera panned right, revealing a sign on the wall: Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio. “Or an instructor?”
The music died as our visitor clicked off his cell phone. “Instructor. Harrison had his assistant take this video of my class. It’s on the studio website, too.”
“Here’s the website.” Watson had fetched her laptop and held it so I could see.
Located nearby, I noted. The site listed classes, and instructors, as well as job openings and recitals. I could look more closely later, if need be.
“So, Miss Holmes?” Daley gestured at me with his phone. “After the gym where I was a personal trainer closed, the dance studio opened, and I convinced them to let me become a dance instructor. I’m into it now, you know? Even in a small town there’s a need for dancing. Weddings, or an anniversary. The prom. Or just a good time. The studio’s brand new, but making it. Most students are women, seems like. Some watch old movies on Turner Classics, and want to be swept around the floor in a pretty dress. I teach them, dance with them, give them some—romance.”
“Ro—?” I began. This was taking a potentially unsavory turn.
“Oh, no way, not really romance, not like that.” He put up both palms, as if to ward off any incorrect assumptions. “But when the music’s right, and the skirts twirl, well . . .” He shrugged, envisioning the entirety. “They have fun.”
“When you said your partner,” I now understood, “you meant your dance partner.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Well, to begin with, anyway. The woman you saw, dancing with me? She’s Penelope Moran. She moved back here, a year or so ago. Not to downtown Norraton, but out a mile or two. She’s the last of her family, and lives in her parents’ old house, they left it to her. It’s more like a mansion, really, what they call Stoke Moran. She told me it’s been in the family forever, and she’s really attached to it. ‘All I have left of my history,’ she says. Anyway, Penny and I got to know each other in class. We got along great. She started taking lessons twice a week.”
His face brightened, and he sat up straighter. “She’s—she’s good at it, you know? A fast learner, and smart, and . . . well, things developed. A month ago, I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”
He glanced at the now-opaque screen of his cell phone. “But now she’s—acting strange. Avoiding me. We always tell each other everything, but she’s not responding to my calls. She didn’t show up for last night’s lesson. That’s why I’m here.”
“Would you email that video to me?” Watson, interrupting, had been watching and listening in silence. She gave her email address, Watson at Holmes dot com, which provides everyone a chuckle. “Best never to have only one copy of anything.”