But now two months had passed by without any news and Charlotte was beginning to feel uneasy about his chances. Had he been captured by Moriarty, which would indeed account for his silence? Or was it far more likely that he was on a fifty-day voyage from London to Adelaide via the continental United States, which would also explain his lack of communication?
As she was about to set aside the newspaper, a knock came on the door. It was Mr. Mears, Mrs. Watson’s butler, with the latest correspondence that he had retrieved from Sherlock Holmes’s private box at the General Post Office.
Charlotte and Mrs. Watson had been absent from London recently. Before they left, they had advertised Sherlock Holmes’s sabbatical in the papers. During their time away, they unexpectedly handled a case at Stern Hollow, Lord Ingram’s country estate. Miss Redmayne, Mrs. Watson’s niece, rushed back from Paris, where she was studying medicine, to help with the investigation. And Mrs. Watson, who had seen Miss Redmayne only briefly, had wished to spend some more time with her. Soon after she helped Charlotte move Bernadine to London, she’d taken off for Paris.
Charlotte had also not been in a great hurry to resume her work: Bernadine had been moved around a great deal in a short time, and Charlotte wanted to make sure that her sister was properly settled down before she took on any tasks that might require her attention elsewhere.
So they had not made it known to the public that Sherlock Holmes was back. Therefore not many letters came for the consulting detective. But today there were a few, and she was glad to see them: She could postpone, for a little more time, the reply she owed Lord Ingram.
There should be nothing difficult about writing to him—they’d corresponded since they were children. The nature of that correspondence had changed upon his marriage, the wide-ranging, sometimes digressive discussions of their youth narrowing to concrete and immediate subjects. He wrote about his archeological digs, his children, and his other responsibilities. She gave accounts of the gatherings she attended, her minor chemical experiments, and occasionally, very occasionally, Bernadine’s unhappy bowels.
Both their lives had changed dramatically in the past six months. Yet now that their correspondence had resumed, he still stuck to the same topics. She supposed she could easily tell him about her cases, Madame Gascoigne’s latest foray into fine pastry, and occasionally, very occasionally, Bernadine’s still tormented bowels.
But she didn’t want to. And she didn’t want to with a force that surprised her.
With a flick of her wrist, she sliced open the letters that had come for Sherlock Holmes.
Half were early Christmas cards, wishing the great detective and his very helpful sister the joys of the season. Two more were clearly pranks, composed by those who didn’t have enough cunning or experience to make a convincing go of it.
The last letter in the stack came on stationery from the Langham Hotel.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
It has come to my attention that you are someone to whom one could appeal, if one needed important objects retrieved.
I should very much like such a retrieval. May I call on you at your earliest convenience?
Yours,
A Traveler from Distant Lands
She read the letter again, then she picked up the newspaper she’d just discarded. If she was correct in her assumptions, then this was a woman in need.
And Charlotte Holmes could use the distraction of a woman in need.
Two
The woman in need was indeed a traveler from distant lands. It was obvious that she hailed from the Indian subcontinent—and she was exceptionally lovely.
Well, lovely was a lazy description. Her features were clean and sharp, her eyes large and dramatic. But more than beauty she possessed magnetism, a commanding presence that mesmerized without ever needing to be something as commonplace as pretty.
Lifting one elegant hand, she adjusted the diaphanous shawl draped around her hair. The shawl, which matched her dark green tunic and trousers, was a translucent green, embroidered with golden flowers and leaves. The hair it covered contained a few traces of grey. But her face was very nearly unlined; only her hand, with its faintly crepe-like skin, gave away her age.
“I am very sorry to hear of Mr. Holmes’s misfortune,” she said, her voice soft and cultured, her accent as subtle as the fragrance of a rose petal.
But Charlotte heard her disappointment.
From the moment she had walked into the parlor at 18 Upper Baker Street, and had seen that she would be received by Charlotte and Charlotte alone, that disappointment had been palpable. She’d politely listened to Charlotte’s usual explanation of Sherlock Holmes’s incapacity. But whereas other clients became anxious, wondering whether the consulting detective would still be able to help them, what Charlotte read on this woman’s face was an absolute certainty that she had wasted her time.
“Despite his handicap,” Charlotte pressed on, “my brother has helped a number of clients, many of whom are happy to provide testimonials for the services they have received. Would you like a list of names to whom you may apply for such reassurances?”
A vertical crease appeared at the center of the woman’s forehead. “That will not be necessary. I thank you for your time, Miss Holmes, but I do not believe that your brother is the right person for the task I have in mind.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure, ma’am, that there is nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?”
The woman looked as if she were on the verge of another emphatic no. But then she glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. “Frankly, Miss Holmes, I am not even convinced that there is indeed someone in that room.”
Different clients reacted differently to news of Sherlock Holmes’s incapacity, but this was the first time anyone had openly called into question the fundamental conceit of Charlotte’s masquerade.
Charlotte raised a brow. Her client’s tone was not adversarial—in fact, her voice remained as soft as a shower of feathers. But there was no mistaking the challenge in her claim.
“Madam, I cannot satisfy your wish in that regard. My brother cannot speak due to his injuries, and you must forgive me for not allowing clients to intrude on his privacy. So my word will have to suffice on this matter—my word, that is, and a demonstration of Sherlock’s mental acuity.”
“And how will this demonstration proceed, given all Mr. Holmes’s infirmities?”
Despite her disinclination to use Sherlock Holmes’s services, there was still a note of curiosity in her voice.
“We have built a camera obscura between those two rooms, so he has observed your image as projected on his walls. And he can communicate by touch via a modified Morse code.” Charlotte rose from her chair. “I will be a very short while. And when I return, I will relay my brother’s deductions and you can judge to what extent he is correct.”