Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [59]
An urgent telegram demanding my presence in London upon that date at noon sharp vexed my good nature, but also piqued my curiosity. Such an august individual, who was once described by his own brother as the “British Government, Personified”, could not easily be denied. Not even by an old retired army surgeon.
I was duly shown to the Strangers Room, the only place within the eccentric building that allowed normal conversation, and immediately recognized the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes, much grayer and less corpulent than I remembered from our last encounter. Seated mournfully by a window was a small perfectly elegant lady, dark of hair and eye. She was very handsome, if worry-worn, her fine features denoting a more exotic heritage than usual in an attractive English woman. I would certainly have remembered if I’d met her before. Standing stalwartly beside Mycroft Holmes, much to no small amazement upon my part, was the solemn iron-mustached Prime Minister himself.
“Dr. Watson, good of you to come,” Mycroft Holmes offered his great flipper of a hand. “You know the Prime Minister.”
The Prime Minister hardly nodded, remaining nearly as motionless as his official portrait. Although the lady was not introduced, she favored me with a sad yet attractive smile.
Mycroft Holmes consulted his watch, snapping it shut again with a distinctive air of conviction.
“I perceive a multitude of queries forming behind your brows, Doctor. Pray remain silent one minute longer and all shall be revealed.”
He spanned the space of the room in three prodigious strides, swinging open the door, revealing — to my great surprise — his celebrated brother, and my old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, upon the threshold.
“Welcome, Sherlock. I apologize for the deception, but I surmised nothing less could lure you from those infernal bees,” Mycroft Holmes tilted his massive head in my direction.
I hadn’t seen Sherlock Holmes in nearly a year. He was leaner, and as a result seemed taller, than ever. At Holmes’ first sight of me, the steely fierceness burning in his grey eyes immediately dimmed. I thought for a moment to detect something akin to sentiment settling on his hawkish features, but with a blink he was the aloof Holmes of old once more.
Without so much as a glance toward the Prime Minister, Holmes pressed my hand.
“My dear, Watson, it’s quite gratifying to discover the full extent of my brother’s rather imaginative exaggeration,” he smiled faintly, presenting a crumpled telegram which I read with astonishment.
DR. WATSON DECEASED. COME AT ONCE. MYCROFT.
I didn’t know what to remark, so I remained quiet within the uncomfortable silence of the room.
“Well, Doctor,” said Sherlock Holmes, “since I somewhat inexplicably find myself suddenly in London, I suggest that we take advantage of the new Greek and Etruscan vase exhibit at the British Museum. What do you say?”
My old friend hooked my elbow with his wiry forearm.
“Mr. Holmes, I protest your cavalier manner, sir,” the Prime Minister came suddenly to livid life. “I ordered your brother to arrange your presence before us. He has done so, as was his duty. Your country has need of you, sir.”
Holmes continued to spirit me hastily from the room.
“My country,” replied Sherlock Holmes, “appears to suffer from a chronic form of reprehensible and unconscionable embellishment. Good day to you. Come along, Watson.”
“The Prime Minister does not exaggerate, Mr. Holmes,” the lady abruptly spoke out. “I am Mrs. George Edward Challenger. I understand you’ve met my husband.”
Holmes halted, sighed slightly, and turned to face her.
“Once, more than a decade ago,” a smile hinted at the notorious name. “I can certainly personally testify to the professor’s scientific proficiency … as well as his rather brutal bare-knuckled straight left.”
Mrs. Challenger beamed, brightening her dark beauty.
“However brief your meeting may have been, George always