The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (11 page)

“I’m sure he’s competent enough.” I hastened to the defence of my colleague.

My friend’s only reply was a grunt.

“I must confess I’m baffled, Holmes. Do you believe Mrs Bertram’s anxiety is genuine?”

“I believe Lady Abernetty’s health is a subject of immense concern to quite a few people. The question is why.”

“You surely give no credence to Mrs Bertram’s suspicion that she’s met with foul play. Having met Charles Abernetty …”

“Did I envisage him as capable of matricide, that vilest of crimes? Did Alice Abernetty, like Clytemnaestra, dream she had given birth to a serpent who suckled blood from her breast?” He threw away his mood with his cigar.

“Come, Watson, deal the cards.”

The house in Mayfair, that most discreetly elegant of London districts was Georgian with a protective railing of iron spikes, double doors with flanking Doric pillars, large bay windows, a set of steps on the left leading down to the servants’ entrance and mews leading to stable and coach-house.

“How much do you think this would fetch in realty?” murmured Sherlock Holmes. He had resumed his disguise of the previous day with luxuriant locks and moustache. “Sebastian Flood and John Watson,” he announced to the elderly butler who answered the door. “I believe Mr Charles Abernetty is expecting us.”

The small salon to which we were conducted had the furnishings of an earlier era with its marble Adam fireplace, its Chinese wallpaper and carpet and Chippendale furniture. Charles Abernetty greeted us enthusiastically. His sister, dressed in a dark cashmere gown, rose from a wing chair and glided across the floor to meet us. Her manner was more restrained, but no less welcoming. They were a singularly colourless pair, when one recalled the vivacity of their half-sister, both slight of build and with scarcely a year between them in age. They were so alike that the only differences between them were those determined by gender and a certain variance of personality. What soon became apparent was their deep affection for each other.

“You must forgive our old-fashioned furnishings,” said Charles when introductions were exchanged. “This was how the rooms were originally when the house came into the family’s possession, and Mother has always preferred it this way.”

“Ah, you have a parent in residence,” observed Holmes. “Will we have the pleasure of meeting Mrs Abernetty?”

“Our mother is an invalid and does not receive visitors,” interposed Sabina. “The cold weather disagrees with her.”

“Perhaps you would care to have my friend take a look at her.” At their startled look he hurried on. “Watson here is a fully qualified medical practitioner. I’m sure that at any time he’d be happy to give you his professional opinion.”

As I murmured acquiescence I saw Charles dart a look at his sister. She maintained an impeccable composure.

“Thank you, you’re very kind, but we have our own family doctor who takes care of Mother’s needs.”

“Perhaps you might know him, Watson. What is his name?”

“Dr Halliwell,” she replied, after a brief hesitation. She was beginning to look a trifle annoyed, as well she might, by Holmes’s persistence.

“I’m sure he’s a very good man,” I said soothingly. “And pray don’t apologize for your furnishings. This is a charming room.”

“You are most fortunate,” added my friend, in the irrepressible role he had adopted, “in owning this delightful residence in such an elite location. Its worth must be prodigious.”

Charles flushed up to the eyes. “Mother would never consider selling up. It’s quite impossible.”

“I’ve offended you,” said Holmes. “My candour runs away with my discretion at times. Ah, I see the cards are on the table. I enjoy nothing so well as a good game of whist with friends.”

“Shall we play?” said Charles, eagerly, drawing out a chair.

As the game progressed companionably, I felt a sense of awe at the expertise in which Holmes sustained the bogus personality of Sebastian Flood. It was evident that Charles Abernetty admired him immensely and hung on his every word. It was equally apparent that Sabina Abernetty was reserving her judgement on their new acquaintance. She was pleasant, but decidedly cool.

At four o’clock she rose from the table and pulled on a bell-rope hanging beside the fire-place.

“Are you calling for tea, Sabie?” asked Charles. “That would be welcome.”

Miss Abernetty’s change of position had allowed her to see the fire had fallen low. “We must ask Minter to throw on more coal,” she remarked.

“No need to bother Minter. He has enough work to do. I’ll attend to the fire myself,” responded her brother.

Another bell rang somewhere in the house. A look of vexation crossed Charles Abernetty’s face. “There’s Mother,” he said, tersely.

“I’ll go,” said his sister, serenely. “It’s time for her medicine.”

“I suppose,” remarked Holmes, idly, as he watched our host at his fireside task, “it requires quite a few servants to maintain a household of this magnitude.” Charles did not appear to hear, but Holmes persisted. “It is admirable of Miss Abernetty to take the place of a nurse.”

“It’s how she wishes it,” replied Charles. “While my sister is away, gentlemen, I think we have time for a glass of this very excellent port.” He crossed to a decanter on the sideboard.

“Not an excellent port,” observed Holmes, as he sipped appreciatively, “but a superb one.”

Charles flushed with pleasure. “From my own cellar. I shall fetch you each a bottle.”

“Nonsense. I’ll go at once.”

“For shame, to leave you alone,” said Miss Abernetty a moment or two later. “Where is Charles? Minter is just about to bring in the tea.”

“I believe your brother has gone down to the cellar.”

A coal exploded from the fire onto the rug. Sabina started violently, seized the tongs and threw it back on the grate. She spent some little time examining the rug for signs of damage while my friend sat observing her.

Charles returned presently with a bottle under each arm. His demeanour had markedly changed. His face had a pale clammy look and his hands shook as he placed the bottles on the table.

“Why, Abernetty, you are ill!” exclaimed Holmes.

“Charles, come and sit down.” His sister led him to the wing chair, turning a grave face to us over her shoulder. “My brother suffers from a morbid fear of confined spaces. You should have sent Minter, Charles.”

“You’re right, of course,” Charles mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “but he does so hate to go there himself.”

“Stuffy places, cellars,” agreed Holmes. “I’m distressed that your kindness has caused you such discomfort.”

“My dear fellow, think nothing of it. It’s a foolish whimsy of mine and will soon pass.”

After tea we took our departure with the promise to return the following Sunday afternoon for another hand. Once outside, the air of
bonhomie
Holmes had exhibited before the Abernettys fell away and his mood became thoughtful.

“Well, Holmes,” said I, “we’re no closer to solving the mystery, if there is one. It all seemed perfectly straightforward to me. Devoted children, really rather a sad pair. At least we know the mother exists.”

“How do we know that, Watson?”

“Why, you heard it yourself. She rang for attention.”

“A bell was rung from somewhere in the house, nothing more. But you are right, they are a sad pair. But there are undercurrents, Watson, that could be sinister. There were several incidents that pointed to this which you completely overlooked.”

“I wish you’d explain them to me.”

“By this time next week I will have uncovered their secret and I think it will be more evil than you can comprehend.”

“If you say so. But I wish you weren’t so jealous with your deductions.”

I feel that Holmes’s overweening vanity caused him to be mysterious in case he was proven wrong, or, in the instance of proving himself right, so that he could produce his solution with a flourish like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat.

“There’s far more to be unearthed before I can confide in you. But I do value your assistance.”

“I don’t seem to have contributed much,” I replied somewhat ruefully.

“More than you know. Are you acquainted with Dr Halliwell?”

“No, but I can look him up in the Medical Register.”

“Good man. There’s a cab. Hail it, Watson. An early night for us, I think. There’s work to be done tomorrow.”

Holmes was up and about before I had stirred from my bed. When he returned at noon he made an even more astonishing figure in the rough clothes and hobnail boots of the British workman. His hat was worn on the back of his head, he wore a rakish scarf and had not shaved that morning.

“I’ve been out looking for work, Watson,” he chuckled.

“Were you successful?”

“Not in Grosvenor Square.”

“You tried the Abernettys’ address?”

“I thought they might be in need of a coachman or groom. I went in through the mews. Quite deserted, Watson. No carriage, no horses, the coachman’s house stood empty. Minter must have glimpsed me from the servants’ quarters and came out. Sent me off with a flea in my ear. Curious, isn’t it, that the only servant we’ve seen is the old butler? No maid, no footman, for all we know no boots.”

“Mrs Bertram did mention the servants had been dismissed.”

“Yes, I find that useful information.”

“It simply means the Abernettys could no longer afford to keep them.”

Holmes chuckled. “A great deal escapes your attention, Watson.”

“One thing hasn’t.” I was standing at the window as I spoke. “The urchin who stands across the street watching our premises. He answers the description of the lad who came to our rooms earlier enquiring about me. He wasn’t in need of my services so Mrs Hudson sent him off, but he’s still hanging about. He must have seen you come in, Holmes.”

My friend came to stand beside me. The youth leaning against a lamp-post wore a greatcoat two sizes too large for him and a cloth cap pulled down over his ears. Between his muffler and his cap nothing much could be seen of his face, but he occasionally darted glances up at our window.

“Things are moving fast and we must move with them,” murmured Holmes. “Did you check the Register?”

“I’ll do so straightway after lunch.”

“I’m off to the Doctors’ Commons after which we’ll sacrifice that bottle of cognac on the sideboard as a gift for Mr Charles Abernetty to repay him for his kindness of yesterday.”

When next we met Holmes’s sallow cheeks bore the flush of a grim excitement.

“Well, what did you learn about Dr Halliwell? Are we able to contact him?”

“Only if we hold a seance. Been dead a year.”

Holmes gave an odd little laugh. “I too have just spent an informative hour. Let me don my disguise, Watson, and we’ll be away.”

Miss Sabina Abernetty was not at home at Grosvenor Square, but Mr Charles Abernetty greeted us cordially although with some surprise.

“We were passing your door and hoped you would not mind us calling in with this little token of gratitude for your hospitality.” He produced the bottle with a flourish.

Charles was suitably gratified and bade us sit in the small salon while he rang for tea.

“May we enquire about Mrs Abernetty’s health?” Holmes was all solicitude.

Charles studied him in silence for several minutes before he spoke. “You know, I do believe Mother would like you as much as we do. Would you like to meet her?”

“Very much,” declared Holmes.

“I’ll go and see that all is in readiness. She’s very vain despite her advancing years.”

He left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. I glanced quizzically at my friend, but he was frowning into the fire.

“Let’s just give Mother half an hour, shall we?” Charles said on his return. “I warn you, you’ll find her in a darkened room. She dislikes the light, even on a wintry day such as this. Invalids do have their little fancies, as the good doctor here will know.”

Charles Abernetty’s manner seemed both excited and nervous. He kept rubbing his hands together and smiling, not at his new acquaintances but inwardly as if silently congratulating himself.

“I can’t think what’s keeping Minter with the tea,” he complained. “Shall we have cognac instead?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” said Holmes, hastily. “Tell me, have you quite recovered from your indisposition of yesterday.”

Abernetty’s smile faded. In fact, he looked annoyed at the reminder. “Quite. A trifling matter. Shall we go up to Mother? I’ll just ring the bell to let her know we are coming.”

He led the way up a balustraded staircase to the next floor and along an unlit carpeted passage. Away from the snug salon the air was chill, the passage gloomy and the carpet thin and worn under our feet.

“This is Mother’s room,” he said with his hand on the knob. “Do speak softly. She dislikes loud noises.”

He flung open the door. “Mother, I’ve brought two gentlemen to see you.”

The room was indeed dark, unlit by fire or lamp and with the curtains drawn. In a large old-fashioned fourposter bed lay the shadowy form of an elderly woman whose features could just be made out within the frill of a large nightcap. Her eyes were closed and we could hear her stertorous breathing.

“Oh, bother,” said Charles, in vexation. “She’s dropped off.”

“Charles, what are you doing?”
There was a piercing whisper from the passage behind us.

Sabina Abernetty had arrived home. The violence of the weather was evident in her pink cheeks and disordered hair. She had apparently just come in and discarded her coat and hat downstairs.

“Ah, Miss Abernetty, again a pleasure,” drawled Holmes.

She ignored him and continued to address her brother indignantly. “You know how perverse Mother can be. She might have had one of her tirades.”

“As it turns out, she’s asleep,” said Charles, sulkily.

“Which is as well. Do forgive my brother,” she turned to us, summoning a smile. “He means well.”

“No harm done. I’m sorry we missed the pleasure of meeting your mother,” replied Holmes, cheerfully. “We must take our leave, but look forward with pleasure to our game on Sunday afternoon. Come, Watson.”