Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [96]
“You see Mr. Holmes,” Miss Drayson continued. “Your investigation has only just begun. You’ll wish to be paid of course, my father will see to the details. You understand they do not allow us currency in the asylum else I would settle our account now. Oh, and Mr. Holmes, there is one more thing I feel I should mention. I did not include it in my note as I was uncertain how to properly explain such a thing to you but now that you’re here, now that you’ve heard my explanations, perhaps you will understand. The last victim, Mr. Wolfe, as he perished I tasted a fear in his blood, a concern that his friend — Mr. Willingham — was in grave danger. I understood this to mean Mr. Willingham was likely to be my next victim. You understand I know nothing of Mr. Willingham beyond the fact Mr. Wolfe feared for him. I do hope you will be able to prevent his murder. When I am in this world I find thoughts of death and murder most distressing.”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed, his expression humorless. “Miss Drayson, who told you of these murders?”
Smiling in a friendly manner at Holmes, she answered sweetly. “If you have looked in my file, Mr. Holmes, and spoken to the doctors and staff here, you know I receive no visitors aside from my father. No doubt you will have noticed how newspapers and the like are not permitted within the institution? The staff feels news from the outside world is not helpful to those suffering nervous disorders. If that is all Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes looked as if he wished to say more but was unable to articulate his questions. Instead he merely tipped his head to the slight girl. “I trust you will have a pleasant day Miss Drayson,” he said in farewell.
“And you Mr. Holmes,” Miss Drayson returned the courtesy with a smile. “A pleasant and productive day.”
Holmes stepped aside and, as if a switch had been thrown, Miss Drayson bowed her head and her expression slackened as she resumed her joyless walk along her invisible path. For a moment Holmes and I watched the young woman walk away from us. The detective’s hands twitched as he watched her. It seemed to me he was reaching for the pipe and tobacco which he’d unthinkingly left behind in Baker Street. Then Holmes turned and indicated with a tilt of his head that we should be leaving.
“Holmes,” I asked when we were in the cab leaving the asylum behind us. “What on Earth was all that about?”
In answer Holmes reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small, carefully folded note and handed it to me. The stationary was plain, the woman’s writing somewhat ornate but easily read.
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I am writing to you in hopes of securing your services. Much to my dismay, I have been witness to a series of ghastly murders. I wish for you to investigate the following deaths:
Russell B. Wolfe: Killed in a room overlooking London’s Hammersmith Bridge.
David J. Johnson: Killed in a flat with a large brass clock.
Ronald A. Pursey: Killed in a small room with the ocean all around.
Robert W. Elliott: Killed out of doors, on a city street.
Jonathan E. Mulchinock: killed in a library not his own.
It may make no difference however I feel compelled to add that each of these gentlemen’s murders occurred quite late at night.
As to the matter of your fee, I have enclosed my father’s address and a note to him explaining how very important this matter is to me. You must understand that there are decisions I am compelled to make but, until I know the truth of these crimes, I lack the information necessary to make such choices. Obviously if I am guilty of five murders such knowledge will affect the future I must select for myself.
Appreciatively yours,
Catherine