Imagine my utter disorientation, then, when I realized that it was not the literary equivalent of a beacon lit in alarm.
I am flabbergasted—flabbergasted—Holmes, by what you saw fit to transmit by post. Did you for a moment think of all those who had labored to revolutionize our system of letter delivery, eliminating abuse and corruption and instituting efficient modern methods so that we may send a letter anywhere in the United Kingdom for all of one penny?
Or were you smiling to yourself at how much smut you could convey in half an ounce of ink and paper? No, no, I’m sure your face remained impassive throughout, but dear God—in my stupefaction I have now profaned in writing for the first time in my life. But dear God—I might as well repeat the offense now—how can one penny ferry this much epistolary prurience to my doorstep?
You shoved a stone’s worth of obscenity into a small, defenseless envelope. And then affixed our sovereign’s blameless visage upon the entire enterprise to give it a gloss of respectability, so that it may safely pass through many pairs of trusting hands before landing with an inaudible exhalation of sulfur upon my desk.
As soon as I finished reading, I glanced at the window to make sure there wasn’t a rain of fire and brimstone outside. I then sent a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward that your erotic tale was composed entirely in shorthand. Even if twice I was brought up short by what the man was doing with his “crock”—and laughed out loud the second time—it did not lessen my gratitude that I needed not fear this tale’s discovery by an overeager servant or my unwary descendants.
And then I paced. And occasionally rested my forehead against the cold glass panes of the window, as if that could restore clarity of thinking and purpose of action. I hope you are happy to learn that I shall be completely useless the rest of the day and very likely half of tomorrow as well.
Oh, Holmes, what have you done?
Your bewildered servant
Ash
P.S. To at last finish that previously abandoned train of thought, in other news I still have not managed to speak to the children about my impending divorce.
Every night, unprompted, they pray for their mother. They pray for her good health, her happiness, and her safe return without expecting their wishes to be granted in the near or even the intermediate future.
About her continued absence they are wistful, rather than forlorn. It is but a condition of their existence now. Some children stutter. Some are frail and sickly. And Lucinda and Carlisle have a mother who no longer lives with them.
I admire the resilience with which they have borne this great change to their lives. At the same time, I suspect that what I see, this seeming equanimity, is but a steadfast patience: They can endure her absence because they believe deeply and unquestioningly in the certainty of her return.
To take away that certainty—in fact, to inform them that we will never again live together as a family—I fear their serenity will crumble. And so night after night, after their bedtime stories, I say only good night and nothing else.
P.P.S. When I met Miss Olivia, we spoke briefly about our young friend. Though I could sense her inner disturbance, she remained stoic. She has often been a pessimist in the past, but this time it appears she has opted for hope. It both gladdens me and makes my chest pull taut. Hers—and ours, too—is a most slender hope, as frail as the single hair holding up the sword of Damocles.
P.P.P.S. Help me, to pass this long evening, I have now sat at my desk and copied out, in my own dreadfully legible longhand, the entirety of your salacious tale.
* * *
My dear, dear Ash,
I would set the scene for you again except I am wearing thoroughly sensible garments and it is too early in the day for my next slice of cake—it says something about your letter that I cannot wait to reply.
I adore the portrayal of your pure and unblemished self sputtering like an altar flame when the church door flings open on a dark and stormy night. Would you have dropped to your couch in a dead faint, to the panic of your house steward, if my almost-innocent little story had not simply featured a man watching a woman undress, but physical contact?
You play the abstemious gentleman perfectly. Someone who reads only your letter would never guess the very provocative role you played in the matter. Indeed, sometimes even I wonder whether I have hallucinated those fuchsia stockings.
Is there an equally scandalous item of clothing a woman may gift a man? I have become familiar with a gentleman’s wardrobe, from having dressed as one numerous times, yet I have no answer to that question. Which leads me to ponder
—————
Dear Ash,
Mrs. Watson knocked on my door some minutes ago. As soon as I opened the door she thrust a letter into my hand. “This came for Sherlock Holmes.”
Below I reproduce this letter in its entirety.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I would like to arrange for a meeting with you at the earliest possible date, to discuss a matter of great importance.
Most sincerely,
Alain de Lacey
The letter was written on De Lacey Industries stationery. I need not remind you to whom that particular enterprise belongs. When I looked up from the letter, Mrs. Watson had her fist in her mouth. I pulled her hand down and saw teeth marks around her knuckles.
“What should we do?” she asked, her eyes so wide I could see a rim of white around each pupil. “I have a thousand pounds in cash and two satchels already packed. Has the time come for us to run?”
I also have ready banknotes, though an order of magnitude fewer. In that moment, I calculated how long eleven hundred pounds would last us, if we took only Bernadine as opposed to if we took Mrs. Watson’s entire household.
No, not too excessive a reaction when a representative of Moriarty declares his intention to call.
But when I spoke, I said only, “If Moriarty wishes to endanger us, he need not send a note first.”
Mrs. Watson swallowed. “You said something similar on New Year’s Eve, my dear, when you told me that we were under surveillance and would be for the foreseeable future. Then, too, you said that we need not worry for our safety. But the situation has clearly escalated, has it not? First he sent people to watch us. Now he’s sending someone to interrogate us. How long would it be before we are whisked away somewhere like Château Vaudrieu’s dungeons?”
“Let me say the same thing now that I said to you then, ma’am,” I answered. “Moriarty needs to watch us and speak to us because he doesn’t know what we have done. He has suspicions but no firm evidence. If we run, however, it will be an unequivocal admission of guilt.”
Mrs. Watson said nothing.
I walked to the window. No one lingered outside in the rain, but then again, no one needed to. Moriarty’s underlings have taken two flats nearby, one diagonally across from 18 Upper Baker Street, the other a mansard on Allsop Place, high enough that its view of the back of Mrs. Watson’s house is not obstructed by the mews.
I turned back to Mrs. Watson, who now held on to a bedpost with both hands. “Since you usually reply to clients, ma’am, may I ask that you offer Mr. de Lacey an appointment late in the day tomorrow?”
“What if he’s going to ask you about—”
“Then there is even less chance for us to escape undetected.” I took Mrs. Watson’s hands. “Let us listen to de Lacey and find out what he knows and what he wants. And then we will make our decisions as to what to do.”