The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [29]
“A prospective client.” Holmes took a note from inside his pocket and spread it open on his knee. “The hour mentioned is three. Ah, there strikes the clock.”
“Anything of interest?” I enquired, eagerly.
“I fear not,” sighed Holmes. “A domestic dispute, I fancy. Cases worthy of engaging my complete attention have been sparse in recent weeks.”
I echoed his sigh. I had learned to dread these periods of inactivity when my friend lapsed into boredom and melancholy. I had discovered only recently his injudicious use of cocaine in such lapses, a regrettable weakness from which I seemed powerless to dissuade him.
“A carriage has just stopped at the kerb.” I observed a rather large lady in furs and a rather small man in greatcoat and Homburg alight. “Could these be our visitors?”
“Ah, since you speak in the plural the lady must be accompanied. A Mrs Mabel Bertram, Watson, a widow she writes, so the gentleman is not her husband.” He rose, gave his shoulders a twitch and stood with his back to the fire.
The knock on our door could almost be described as deferential. At my friend’s nod, I admitted our visitors.
“Have I the honour to address Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?” enquired the gentleman, in a pleasant yet suave manner.
“I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Won’t you come in?”
The woman who advanced into the room was indeed Junoesque and stylishly dressed in a fur-trimmed coat of the colour that, I believe, was called cobalt blue, and a feathered hat perched somewhat coquettishly on Titian hair that owed more to the cosmetician than to nature. I perceived her to be a woman of fifty, whose features bore the remnants of a once-proud beauty.
Her companion was slim and dapper with dark lively eyes and a waxed moustache. He removed his Homburg to reveal a sleek, dark head.
“Mr Holmes, how kind of you to see me,” greeted the lady, warmly. “I am Mabel Bertram. May I present Mr Aston Plush?”
Bows were exchanged and, standing well back, Holmes invited his visitors to take seats before the fire. Mr Plush preferred to stand with his back to the window so that he was almost in silhouette.
“Draw your chair closer to the fire, Mrs Bertram,” coaxed my friend. “I observe you are shivering from the inclement weather.”
“It is not the chill that makes me shiver, but the anxiety caused by my dilemma.” She fixed her gaze imploringly on his face. “You are my last hope, Mr Holmes.”
“Dear me!” After one swift scanning glance over her entire person, he leaned back in his armchair steepling his fingers against the shabby velvet front of his smoking-jacket and examining her face from eyes that were mere slits under his drowsy lids.
“You mentioned in your note you were concerned about the welfare of a relative. Pray go on.”
“To be precise, my stepmother. I am the eldest daughter of Sir William Abernetty by his first marriage. Upon the death of my mother he married Miss Alice Pemberton, a lady some ten years older than myself. There was a daughter from this second marriage, Sabina, and a son born posthumously, Charles. You may be amazed at my concern for my stepmother when she has two children of her own, but being so close in age we have always been on the best of terms. Until recently.”
“And what has happened to cause this rift?”
“Nothing!” burst out the lady. Restraining herself quickly, she went on. “Nothing that I can account for. There’s been no quarrel, no exchange of harsh words, yet Charles and Sabina have informed me in the plainest of terms that she refuses to see me. I should add here that Lady Abernetty is an invalid. Neither my half-brother nor sister are married and both reside with their mother in Grosvenor Square.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He had begun to look rather bored, but at the mention of the élite address he perked up a little.