Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [40]
“Very good, sir,” replied Sergeant Cumber. He started to close the door, but just before it snapped shut, he added, “ ’E did say Mr. Sherlock sent him over, sir.”
The door shut before McIntyre could answer. He sat there with his mouth open for an instant; then with an explosion that this time did send his tea slopping over the saucer and on to the desk, he erupted from behind the chair and stalked to the door. A big man, who had fought heavyweight for his uniformed division before joining Scotland Yard, he flung the door open with a weighty fist and was all set to bellow again when he saw that he was being stared at by a lady and a gentleman, and by Cumber, who clearly had not quite gathered the intellectual power to tell them to go away in a nice fashion suitable to their obviously superior social standing.
McIntyre saw a relatively young man, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, with a not very memorable face, short pale hair, and something on his upper lip and chin that could charitably be viewed as a Vandyke beard. He was only of medium height, had a slight build, and was wearing a very well-cut grey morning suit, made somewhat eccentric by a curiously shaped and very heavy gold watch-chain visible on his waistcoat, which was surmounted by a pearly white stiff-necked shirt with a dark red ascot tie, again made odd by the large and peculiar tiepin that was thrust through it, which had the appearance of being made of a bundle of small golden sticks and so looked rather raffish.
The woman next to him was a very different matter. She was of a similar age, but where he was very much of average appearance, she was striking, dark-haired, and blue-eyed. Her charms were subdued under her not very flattering black-and-white dress that was somewhat reminiscent of a uniform, though it was drawn in tightly at the waist and had an elegant ruffled neck of obviously very expensive lace. She carried a small leather Gladstone bag, which was not at all a normal item of apparel for a lady of quality. McIntyre automatically noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Inspector McIntyre!” called out the man. “We were just trying to impress on the good sergeant here that we had come to call upon you, at the express request of my cousin Sherlock.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” asked McIntyre warily. “He is your cousin?”
“Second cousin, actually,” said the man. “Something to do with our grandfathers. I can’t quite recall, but my father grew up with Sherlock, and when my grandfather gambled away the old place and my father had to turn to trade, Sherlock was one of the few who stood by him, or so Father always said, though I don’t—”
“And you are?” asked McIntyre, cutting short what otherwise seemed likely to be a long discourse on Holmes family history.
“Oh, I’m Sir Magnus Holmes,” said the man happily. “Just plain Magnus Holmes till Father dropped off the perch last year. He was made a baronet in ’87, services to the Worshipful Company of Tallow Chandlers . . . Lucky for me, if they’d left it any later I’d have missed out inheriting. Makes it easier to get a decent table, don’t you know, and theatre tickets—”
“Indeed,” said McIntyre. He looked at the door to the corridor, which had a glass window and thus might show the shadows of any observers, as he was beginning to wonder whether Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself was playing a trick upon him. Seeing nothing untoward, he glanced at the lady, who had maintained her station a pace or two away from Sir Magnus and was looking with detached interest at both the inspector and the baronet.
“And Miss . . .”
“Allow me to introduce Almost-Doctor Susan Shrike,” declared Sir Magnus. “My . . . um . . . keeper.”
McIntyre’s brow lowered, a frown compressing his rather bull-like features, a likeness now accentuated by the narrowing of his mighty nostrils.
“I don’t appreciate having a May-game made of me—” he began.
“I beg your pardon, Inspector,” interrupted Susan Shrike. Her voice was cool and commanding and both soothed and dominated all