FIC: "The Adventure of the Buttoned Glove" (H/W, PG-13) part 1/4
Title: The Adventure of the Buttoned Glove
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Part: One of four
Disclaimer: I'm not ACD. Top hats make me think of naughty things.
Feedback: Commentary, feedback, and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.
Summary: Holmes is called in to aid in the investigations of a high society kidnapping, to some startling consequences.
Notes: Queen's English is what I learned, yet it has deteriorated into a semi-Californian melting pot; thus, all Americanisms and anachronisms and abuses of Brit-speak that linger in this slash pastiche are entirely mine. Mea culpa. The story is complete, clocking in at about 20,000 words, and will be put up in four parts to keep the length of posts manageable. Originally posted in the holmesslash Yahoo! group.
The Adventure of the Buttoned Glove (1/4)
by Penumbra (c) 2004
For some time now, I have been worried about what is to become of my immortal soul upon the occasion of my passing, for I will surely burn in Hell -- not for sins perceived by ignorant men and law-makers, but for being guilty of the most grievous sin of all: the perpetration of a lie through cowardice. This tale, this roman à clef, is thus my act of repentance, for the only things concealed are the names of the noblemen discussed herein. There shall be neither fictitious wives nor glossing over scandalous details in the name of propriety; it will be but the unmitigated, brave truth.
Yet I do get ahead of myself, it seems. Were Holmes here and permitted to read this account, he would undoubtedly exclaim incomprehensibilities, remind me that order is the fountainhead of lucidity, and implore me to start from the beginning; namely, with Inspector Lestrade and the buttoned glove.
It was one of those dreary, dun evenings our great city manages to produce with unfailing accuracy during its Novembers. Fog lay heavily on the cobbles of Baker Street, obscuring everything beyond the pallid spheres of the gas-lights and laying a damp chill upon one's spirit. Truly, it was an evening so dreadful it made me overjoyed at the prospect of spending it indoors with the papers and my pipe, and sympathetic to the plight of anyone venturing out into the gloom.
Presently, one such wretched figure emerged from the fog. It was a man of obvious vigour and agitation, somehow familiar yet unrecognisable through the impregnable haze. Regardless, I recognised the symptoms of his appearance very well, for surely one cannot co-habit with Sherlock Holmes without acquiring some of his knowledge.
"Holmes," I said, curious. "There's a very strange man on the street, and I daresay he is coming here."
"Undoubtedly, it is Inspector Lestrade's progression towards 221B you are observing, Watson."
Surprised, I turned to my companion. "What makes you say so, Holmes?" I asked, frowning. His seat offered no view of the street.
Eyes closed and head obscured behind the wreaths of blue smoke emanating from his nostrils and pipe, Sherlock Holmes was ensconced in his armchair, his legs drawn up and his long, white hands dancing a nervous tune on his knees. What tune it was, I could not hear, for the music was internal to the wonder inside his considerable cranium; it was as much an enigma to me as his knowledge regarding the identity of our apparent caller.
"My insight is entirely due to the wonders of the telegraph," Holmes replied and tossed a telegram in my general direction. "The good inspector was remarkably un-forthcoming in his missive, save for the hour of his arrival."
As Holmes' lissom frame uncoiled from the chair and he made a desultory attempt at straightening his collars, I idly reflected upon the injustices of one's existence. Surely, I had often mused, if there ever were a Purgatory on this God's Earth, it resided in the sitting room of our modest lodgings on 221B Baker Street. Its name was Sherlock Holmes.
My friend Sherlock Holmes, you should know, is a tall man of most singular, epicene mannerisms, of pointed ears and clear, hard eyes that not only see but observe the very state of your soul. My eyes often follow the lines of his narrow shoulders and that strangely regal, ramrod-straight posture his body insists on maintaining when upright; I track the nervous energy that his hands betray even when the rest of him stands in dead stillness. His skin is pale and glowing in contrast to the black void of his garments and hair; only the fevered red of his lips and the gleam of fire in his eyes interrupt the monochrome of his being.
That was my Purgatory: his existence and his very being. Holmes, this intractable man of deplorable habits and the allure of a martyr, was not only my sole companion in life, but also the provenance of the Devil and the dark desires that resided in me. Through the years of our acquaintance I had sought to banish these illegal, mortifying wants from my self -- alas, in vain. So I suffered in silence, grateful of this pain of his presence, for it was also my greatest joy.
An obviously vigorous tug on the bell-pull roused me from my sombre if melodramatic reverie. It also announced Inspector Lestrade's arrival and I descended to welcome him in.
"Mr. Holmes," the inspector greeted my friend as he preceded me into our sitting room. "I trust this dreary eve finds you well?"
"Whatever news of excitement you bring to us, inspector, it shall undoubtedly heighten my appreciation of Wednesdays," Holmes informed him as he took Lestrade's waterproof and steered him into the chair by the fire. "Chase away the chill first, Lestrade, and perhaps a dash -- MRS HUDSON! -- a dash of brandy would do you well? Or tea?"
A grateful smile graced Lestrade's countenance. "Much appreciated, Mr. Holmes."
"MRS HUDSON! -- ah, there you are, Mrs. Hudson. Please attend to the inspector's waterproof. And bring up some tea, at your convenience, if you please. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
As Mrs. Hudson was shooed out, I re-seated myself and sucked on my unlit pipe. The electric feel of Holmes' excitement relieved me greatly, for my friend had been in the doldrums for some time. Dearth in the need for his particular genius always had that effect on him, so knowing what it took for Lestrade to brave the fog -- a murder, perchance, or a case so odd it strained credulity - I breathed easier. Holmes lived for such obstacles; the more curious the crime the less likely he was to eye his hypodermic syringe with set intentions.
A stout measure of brandy in hand, a cup of tea at his elbow, and a cigar clamped between his teeth, Lestrade turned to his attentive audience of two, one of which was fidgeting up a fury by the fireplace and the other, your humble chronicler, seated and attentive with a note-pad, a pen, and pipe at ready.
"I trust you have heard of the Lord Eddington case, Mr. Holmes," the inspector began. Holmes gestured impatiently towards the newspapers littering the floor. "Very well. Dr. Watson?"
In reply, I merely nodded, for my interest was greatly piqued. The papers had been full of the story: Amos, Lord Eddington, the son of the late Lucius, Earl of Mayford, had gone missing the previous Sunday and had not been seen since. The police had resorted to trawling the Thames and questioning people as far away as Kensington, yet to no avail; his last known whereabouts placed him at his club's door, from which he had vanished with no trace.
"As you are familiar with the public details, I shan't bore you with them. I am utterly at my wit's end," Lestrade confessed, "for this case has me baffled like never before, Mr. Holmes. The facts point to conclusions that have been proved wrong; there is evidence that points to an entirely different set of facts; finally, there appears an abundance of characters involved, yet no clear suspect to investigate."
"The dramatis personae are, if I am not mistaken, Miriam, Dowager Countess of Mayford," Holmes interjected, referring to Lord Eddington's mother, "and a Mr. Edward Cartwright, cousin to Lord Eddington, as well as Robert, Earl of Erne and his wife Elenia, Lady Marster."
"Lord Eddington's father has been deceased for some time now, correct?" I queried. The Marsters I remembered being family friends of the Eddingtons, people of impeccable character and place in the upper echelons of the high society.
"Quite so, Dr. Watson. Lord Marster is beyond reproach, as is his wife; our young Mr. Cartwright has the capricious disposition of a passionate man, yet he is hardly a suspect. And then there is the matter of the glove."
Holmes' fidgeting hands stilled on the mantelpiece, where they had been arranging and re-arranging the varied knick-knacks occupying it to orders that eluded my sensibilities. He cast a sharp eye upon the inspector, as did I, for the newspaper accounts had mentioned nothing of a glove.
"The glove?" Holmes prompted.
"Found in the kitchen of the Marsters' house on the very evening of Lord Eddington's disappearance," Lestrade explained. "Lady Eddington has identified it as one of hers, yet she claims the pair has been missing for several months and that she could not fathom how the glove turned up where it did. You, Mr. Holmes, seem to thrive on these things, so here we are."
From his pocket, the inspector presented a woman's glove to Holmes, who ardently seized it. As Lestrade and I watched, Holmes proceeded to fondle, tweak, tug, crumple, and measure the glove with his oftentimes-vexing yet characteristic attention to details quite unfathomable to either my eye or brain. Completing his scrutiny by sniffing the glove and inspecting it against the light of the fire, Holmes returned it to Lestrade with an imperious flourish.
"A fascinating object, my dear inspector," he uttered and flashed me one of his momentary smiles -- it was present one second, gone the next, with only a ghosting of white teeth remaining as my memento. "The glove was as it is, buttoned, upon discovery?"
"Yes, quite so."
"Very well. Pray continue."
Lestrade proceeded with a detailed account of his activities relating to the case, which I shall not re-iterate here, for the details are well known and amount to little but frustration for the venerable Yarder. And frustrated he was, I observed, as I scribbled down his words: he was twisting and turning in his chair and his hold on the glass was quite white-knuckled. Holmes, in stark contrast, had assumed his usual investigatory mien of apparent indifference, gazing alternatively at the inspector, the window, and one of his morning slippers that had taken seemingly permanent residence on the sideboard.
"...and so, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade concluded, "I've come to you for advice, for my progress seems to be temporarily stalled."
"Ah, the reputation of Scotland Yard once again hinges on yours truly?" Holmes ventured with a vague gesture of his hand and a sardonic tinge to his words. "How I wish you had sought me earlier, inspector, for I fear the trail may have gone cold in my absence."
Lestrade fidgeted again; he was not overtly fond of the occasions when a civilian excoriated his professional behaviour, even when said civilian was Sherlock Holmes himself. However, a person of intense intellect or unusual beauty -- a descriptor often attributed to Holmes in case of the former, and in my private thoughts, of the latter as well -- will be excused great many a thing that would otherwise scandalise polite company. Inspector Lestrade certainly took no permanent offence, having heard similar castigations from my companion in the past.
"Nevertheless, I should very much like for your eye to see what we have not," he implored Holmes as he stood up. His obsequiousness spoke volumes about the grave pressure he was under.
"Oh, very well," Holmes replied and clicked his tongue in what amounted to resignation on his part. "I should need to investigate the locales of the participants, as well as this pivotal glove again. Leave it with me, please."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said with obvious relief and laid the glove on the side table. "I'll send a carriage for ten o'clock to-morrow."
"Good evening, inspector."
Upon Lestrade's departure, my eyes were naturally drawn to the glove. I could sense Holmes' indulgent gaze on me as he subsided into his chair.
"A wonderful man, Lestrade -- the tenacity of an ox, as well as the brain of one. You know my methods, Watson. What do you make of the glove?"
I scrutinised the item in question. "A woman's glove, certainly, from her left hand. Expensive, though it has seen extensive use. The owner is obviously a woman of some means and taste, yet forgetful enough to leave it lying about."
"And?"
I shrugged, by now resigned to Holmes' superior vision when it came to minutiae. "That is all I see, Holmes. It is a glove, not a ledger of personal characteristics."
"Oh, Watson, come now! You disappoint me. In the narratives that you inflict upon the general public, you claim to be a student of my methods, yet you choose not to apply them even at this wondrous opportunity!"
Holmes' impassionate exclamation, though seemingly insulting, produced nothing but weary, sarcastic amusement in me. He is a man living in the constant torment of his too-keen senses and the power of his brain, which dictate that he should interact mostly with people more dim-witted and less perceptive than he -- an eternal frustration that is sure to drive any man insane. So I forgive him his outbursts, for they are merely convenient vents to that agitating madness with which he finds himself.
"What would you add to my observations, then?"
Holmes made a perfunctory gesture over the glove and glanced at me with that gleam in his eye that accompanies the supreme manifestations of his deductive intelligence. "A great deal, a great deal indeed. However, the point to remember, Watson, is that in addition to habits unbecoming of a proper lady, the owner has most peculiar and malleable hands."
"What, pray tell, do you mean?"
"All in good time, Watson. Shall I have the pleasure of your company to-morrow on this tiresome errand of Lestrade's?"
"Of course. In fact, I insist."
"Ah, my good Watson."
I barely heard Holmes' murmured words, for he had cast as affectionate gaze as he had ever managed in my direction; it promptly suffused me with warmth. Some of it must have transferred itself onto my countenance, for Holmes' eyes turned stranger still, their dark grey depths unfathomable yet riveting. I despaired, for whenever Holmes turned his scrutiny upon me, it had an embarrassing yet not wholly unexpected reaction on my body.
"I shall retire, then. Good night, Holmes," I said as I stood quite abruptly, cursing the weakness of my flesh. I received no reply from Holmes; he had already turned away, his mind in the world of his own making, one of deductions and logic.
* * *
I slept badly through the night, for I was plagued by mystifying, intimate dreams and the sound of Holmes' bow scraping against the oft-tortured strings of his violin. As dawn broke, my spirits were lifted by the clearing weather, yet not enough to banish the pull of insomnia upon my limbs.
"What do you make of this little mystery, Watson?" Holmes asked as we boarded our carriage. "Brentwood Hall!" he called out to the driver before ensconcing himself into his shawl, seated across from me and with a smile playing about his lips. It heartened me to see him in such good spirits.
"A true mystery, to me, as to why anyone should want to wish harm on Amos Eddington. By all accounts, he was a well-liked young man and few men of two-and-twenty years have acquired many enemies. The sole note of discord in the good characters of all involved seems to be the capricious nature of his cousin's temper."
"Ah, the young Mr. Cartwright," Holmes pronounced and flashed a sardonic smile as his eyes focused on points distant beyond my shoulder. "A rising star at Whitehall, if I'm not mistaken."
I snapped my fingers. "Holmes, you devil! I was certain the name was familiar, yet I could not place it. Indeed, secretary to Lord Hutchinson himself." Hutchinson, an old fox in the game of politics and a distinguished Cabinet Minister, was currently the leading candidate to become the next premier.
"Quiet me lest the word 'nepotism' fall from my lips," Holmes remarked with a tone so dry it would have cured plums; I nodded, for Lord Hutchinson's long-standing friendship with Mr. Cartwright's father was well-known. "The rest of our assembled actors are no less impressive in their services to the Empire, which explains the extra-ordinary attention this simple disappearance has merited."
After a ride of about quarter of an hour, the carriage halted in front of Brentwood Hall, the home of the Earl of Erne. Upon exiting, we found Lestrade waiting for us. With little preamble, we were escorted into the house and on Holmes' request, to the kitchens.
"It's as we left it, Mr. Holmes, save for the glove that was found by the work table," Lestrade explained and pointed at a spot on the floor.
"As such?" Holmes asked and dropped the glove at the approximate location.
"Somewhat more underneath the table, but quite close, yes."
As if he had not heard Lestrade, Holmes fidgeted beside the glove, his eyes darting here and there. At one point, he knelt down and unceremoniously scooted his long frame underneath the tabletop, only to emerge on the other side to bend down further and study the floor tiles through his magnifying glass from a distance of a scant quarter inch. He proceeded to investigate the floor in this manner at several points; the inspector and I exchanged tolerant glances at the stream of whispered commentary and encouraging whistles and ejaculations that Holmes put forth during his probe.
"But, Lestrade," I ventured, quietly so as not to distract Holmes; "how can you be certain the glove is linked into this investigation at all?"
"I cannot be certain, but if there is one thing Mr. Holmes has taught me, it is to regard coincidences as anything but. The glove of the mother of the missing boy, appearing in the kitchen of his closest acquaintances on the very night of his disappearance? Surely quite strange a coincidence, Dr. Watson."
"I see your point," I replied, although some doubts still lingered. "So do you suspect the Lord Marster?"
"That was my first thought, but a valid motive is yet to surface, not to mention proof of involvement beyond a wayward glove." Lestrade sighed. "Perhaps you're right, Dr. Watson. Perhaps the glove has nothing to do with Lord Eddington."
"Oh, do not sell your instincts short, my dear Lestrade!" Holmes exclaimed as he stood. "The glove is of pivotal consequence in the matériel of this investigation. Did you, by any chance, notice these marks on the floor?"
"Chair marks, I presume?"
"Perhaps. They tell an intriguing tale hereabouts," Holmes mused and waved his long arm in an arc. "Alas, the floor has been swept not two days ago."
Lestrade shrugged. "As this is the sole kitchen in the house, we do need to allow for his lordship to dine on occasion."
Holmes tutted, as if dining were an activity naturally subservient to his investigations. But before he could utter anything more, something caught his eye by the pantry door and he bent over so rapidly that for a moment, I thought he had collapsed. Instead, he had stooped to scrape something off the much-scrutinised floor into a small envelope.
"I am done here, inspector," he pronounced solemnly and put the envelope, along with the buttoned glove, into his pocket as he stood. "I would like to have a word with the cook and Robert, Lord Marster, if possible."
"Alas, Lord Marster is in Whitehall now, but Lady Marster has granted an audience."
"She will do. But first, the cook?"
Lestrade nodded. "Right away, Mr. Holmes. Smith?" The said constable nodded. "His lordship has graciously allowed us the use of his drawing room for the duration of our investigation. Shall we retire there, gentlemen?"
"A sit-down and a brandy -- splendid, Lestrade!"
We made our way to the sumptuous drawing room, which was decorated in dark leathers and the portraits of some seven generations of the family. Presently, the door re-opened and admitted the cook -- a woman whose girth fought to exceed her height. An apron was straining around her generous middle as if it were the sole thing keeping her proportions from becoming grotesque.
"Millicent Berker, sir," she said and curtsied with some difficulty.
"The esteemable cook of the household, I gather. Would you be so kind, Miss Berker, as to educate me regarding the configuration of your pantries?"
Had she been expecting a question, Holmes' was certainly not it. "Pardon me, sir?"
"Your pantries. Pantries, Miss Berker," Holmes repeated -- irritably, undoubtedly because he considered repetition a dullard's art. "How many are there and what is their internal organisation?"
"Well, two pantries, sir," she said in her lilting Yorkshire accent, obviously bewildered at the singular eccentricity of the gentleman addressing her. I could hardly contain my mirth. "One for dry goods, the other for the daily purchases of the market. The order is as it has always been."
"And how long have you been in the house?"
"Going on six years now, Mr. Holmes."
"Did you ever meet your predecessor? What was her name, if you know?"
"I did not have the pleasure of meeting Miss Wilbeforce, but some of the other staff -- Emily, the maid, at least -- have been employed by his lordship longer than I."
"Splendid," Holmes ejaculated and stood up to pace. "Thank you, Miss Berker; you may go. And Lestrade? Lady Marster, if you please."
As the cook waddled her way out the door, still gazing at Holmes with some perplexity, Lestrade sprang into action. Slipping through the side door, he returned not two minutes later with a tall, handsome woman of some five-and-thirty years. Her dress was a simple affair in dove grey velvet, sombre yet elegant; her raven hair was impeccably coiffed; her eyes were shining with red-rimmed dismay.
"Mr. Holmes, so very good of you to assist us in this matter," Elenia, Countess of Erne, said as she offered her hand to Holmes; her voice held the hint of a Continental accent.
Grasping her hand, Holmes murmured his greetings and introduced me to the lady. I merited but a perfunctory glance, yet I was not affronted for one could say her manner was aloof towards all mankind. Taking a seat on the settee, she gestured towards Lestrade with one small, white hand.
"I do apologise for the early hour; it was entirely my thought to involve you in this matter. I hope I have not inconvenienced you. "
Holmes cast a sharp eye at Lestrade, who had the good grace to blush. "Not at all, Lady Marster," he said and sat down. "Pray, do tell the story as you have witnessed it."
The lady, though reticient in manner and appearance, proceeded not to mince her words. Her account was remarkably similar to what the papers had printed, yet her affection for Lord Eddington was palpable, as if he were the child she and her husband had never conceived. This observation of mine puzzled me, for the difference of ages between Lady Marster and Lord Eddington was scarcely a decade. However, when Holmes queried the lady as to her sentiments towards Miriam, Dowager Countess of Eddington, her reply caught my attention.
"Pah!" Lady Marster exclaimed and flipped open her fan with such violence I feared it would break. "That tottering nag, a fool unworthy of her husband's title. Why she dotes over that awful boy Edward Cartwright is quite beyond comprehension!"
This outburst somewhat stunned me, yet Holmes seemed as if it were exactly what he had been expecting to hear from the good lady. "You are not fond of the young man?" he queried.
Her ladyship fanned herself vigorously. "Certainly not! The boy has no manners to speak of; furthermore, I am quite convinced he was the sole culprit in poor Poppy's death."
Holmes' ears perked. "Poppy?"
"My husband's most priced foxhound, Mr. Holmes. A dreadful tragedy some ten years ago."
"Ah," Holmes uttered; I clamped my lips around my cigarette so as not to smile at his mien of dejection. "Lady Marster, you have been most helpful in our case. I thank you for your time."
With a few additional pleasantries, Lady Marster sailed out of the room, her back straight and her fan clasped in a white-knuckled hand. As the door shut behind her, Holmes implored Lestrade to fetch the maid, Emily, only to have the inspector inform him that Thursdays were the maid's day of rest.
"A shame," Holmes said, frowning, and harrumphed. "Haste is of essence, but no matter. I shall speak with her at a later occasion, if you would be so kind to arrange it, Lestrade. Now, what of Lady Eddington?"
"I have requested an audience with her ladyship at one o'clock."
"Is there a doctor attending upon her?" I asked, for the sudden disappearance of an only son will certainly move the strongest of us.
"She is in remarkable spirits given the circumstances and has thus declined medical attention," Lestrade assured me as he stood. "Now, gentlemen, we must hurry lest we miss our appointment."
We lunched -- or rather, the inspector and I ate while Holmes inhaled his way through eight cigarettes -- at a restaurant around the corner before setting out towards Eddington Hall. During the short hansom ride, Holmes was remarkably quiet. Sitting back in the shadows, the only signs of liveliness on him were the steely glint in his eye and the faint grin that tugged at his lips; to Lestrade's intermittent attempts at engaging him in conversation, he did nothing but stare into a middling distance.
Eddington Hall is not the grandest hall that lines the great thoroughfare of Piccadilly, but it is certainly neither the most modest nor smallest. At the death of Lucius, Lord Eddington, Earl of Mayford -- a man with a long and lucrative career in the East India Company -- young Lord Eddington had assumed his father's title and lands. However, since all his uncles were accounted for -- two in India, one in the Americas -- changing the order of succession seemed to me very unlikely a motive.
A sombre groom whose livery was as impeccable as it was exquisite greeted us at the door. The room we were ushered into was equally lavish, replete with French furnishings and with a blazing fire chasing away the November chill. Our wait was only a few minutes, during which Holmes scrutinised the family portraits on the walls with rather more attention than their respective artistic values should have merited. However, before I could enquire as to the purpose of his study, the far door opened.
"Lady Eddington," Lestrade said and made a small bow as the lady entered. "So very kind of you to see us in this time of distress."
After Lestrade made introductions, Lady Eddington invited us to seat ourselves by the fire. The groom, Babish, re-entered with a carafe of excellent cognac, which warmed my insides to a remarkable degree as Holmes questioned the matriarch of the Eddingtons -- a formidable woman with the proportions and apparent constitution of the Rock of Gibraltar.
"Madam, could you, in your own words, please inform us of the happenings of the eight of this month?"
"The day Amos disappeared," Lady Eddington pronounced. Save for a faint quiver of her voice, no emoting was apparent. "A most ordinary Sunday for us. I occupied myself for most of the day with my correspondence, while Amos went to visit with Lord Marster and Edward retired to his room. After supper, Amos fetched his hat and overcoat, announcing that he intended to spend the evening at his club. Sunday is my card night, Mr. Holmes, so I did not notice he never came home until the next morning when the maid found his bed un-slept and alerted me."
"What game do you play, Lady Eddington?"
"Bridge, Mr. Holmes, with people I have played with for the better part of three decade. They are well above reproach, and regardless, they all arrived after Amos had parted." For the first time, a ghost of a smile appeared on Lady Eddington's lips. "Our evening was quite profitable for me, and therefore it ran late. I retired after half past eleven, if my memory serves."
"And where was Mr. Cartwright during the evening?"
"In his office on the first floor, tending to Lord Hutchinson's matters, I presume."
"Babish, the groom, has testified sending the page to deliver an evening meal of cold beef and beer to him at fifteen to nine o'clock," Lestrade interjected. "I have spoken with him, along with the hansom driver, who recalls the clock chiming seven o'clock bells when he let Lord Eddington out at the Boodle's Club entrance on St. James' Street."
At this point, our discourse was interrupted by the door, which opened with considerable force. In barged a young man of some five-and-twenty years, lean as whippet in appearance and clad in the latest fashion that young men of style prefer, right down to the purple borders of his frock coat. His chestnut hair flew wildly about his head, he was clean-shaven, and possessed a disturbing intensity to his eyes.
"Dear aunt, are you not supposed to be resting? I shall have to call Dr. Phelps soon," the young man chided, giving us but a passing glance as he came to Lady Eddington's side.
"The gentlemen are here to help us find Amos," the lady replied, regarding the boy with as much love as I have ever seen an aunt bestow on her favourite nephew. "Edward, you know Inspector Lestrade; Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Edward Cartwright."
"Sherlock Holmes?" Cartwright said, his interest suddenly on my companion. "The private detective?"
"Indeed," Holmes muttered, unruffled, as he met the young man eye to eye. It did not surprise me one whit that after a moment, it was the young man who had to avert his gaze. "A pleasure, Mr. Cartwright, I'm sure. Fortunate that you should be here now, for I wished to present some questions to you."
"Naturally, Mr. Holmes. Anything I can do to help to uncover my poor cousin's whereabouts, please, do ask."
Despite his eagerness to help, his account seemed to shed no new light on the matter. What was more interesting was young Cartwright himself, for he was somewhat as I had envisioned a young Sherlock Holmes to have been, save for the Bohemian tendencies that blunted the sharpness of my companion's more abrasive qualities. That tendency for sloth was replaced by ambition in Mr. Edward Cartwright; he fairly reeked of hunger and impatient cunning, and I did not for a second doubt his competence in whatever services he provided to Lord Hutchinson, for his brain was obviously as quick as his manner.
His account was brief, for he did indeed spend the evening with Lord Hutchinson's papers, not leaving his room until the morning to discover the house in upset over his missing cousin.
"Very well," Holmes said, lounging in his wingback chair with indolence that was borderline scandalous. For a moment, he tapped his fingertips together, thinking, as we all gazed expectantly at him; then, he sprang upright and regarded Lady Eddington with a keen eye. "I thank you, Lady Eddington and Mr. Cartwright, for your time. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should anything you deem relevant come across you."
Lady Eddington stood as well. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I implore you -- find my boy," she said, offering a slightly shaking hand to Holmes.
"I shall do my very best, milady," he replied, ignoring her hand. "Watson, Lestrade, let us go."
Babish delivered our hats and sticks to us and we were back out in the raw November air. The day had cleared during our visit to Eddington Hall, and I could somewhat discern the pale circle of the sun upon the sky. However, the particulars of the weather barely registered with me, for the excitement of the mystery had roused my good spirits.
"What now, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade queried.
"Dinner, my dear inspector," Holmes proclaimed and took my arm. "Dr. Watson and I shall retire to Baker Street to nourish ourselves, and then I shall conduct some enquiries both into this matter and the properties of copper sulphates."
"So you have some inclination as to the whereabouts of Lord Eddington?"
"I have my suspicions and a theory that is passable," Holmes said, and pressed his finger onto his lips. "More information is needed, however, before this dark matter can be fully unravelled for you to see, Lestrade."
"You think we may find him alive?"
"Alas, I fear that young Lord Eddington may be lost to us."
"Holmes! Unless you are absolutely certain, please, do not make such pronouncements," I remonstrated, grasping at Holmes' arm with my free hand. My mood sank upon the solemn look he gave me.
"I never theorise on anything save the facts, my dear Watson; as things stand, I hold little hope."
"Well, for once, I do hope you're wrong, Mr. Holmes. Do let me know when you have news for me," Lestrade said and touched the brim of his hat. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."
After we bid our good-byes, we hailed a cab from the street. As we sped towards Baker Street, I leaned towards Holmes and tapped him on the knee. This jerked him out of his silent contemplation and he offered me a desultory smile, kind even in its preoccupation.
"Yes, Watson?"
"You are being more secretive than on most occasions."
"For valid reasons, I assure you, my friend. I cannot elucidate on motives that are still unclear to me, even when the acts of the players in this mortal play are becoming clearer."
"What will your next actions be, then?"
Holmes smiled again. "I daresay an evening with the chemicals beckons me."
"But what of the case, Holmes?" I implored of him.
"I have some facts but not all; the rest will have to await to-morrow to be unearthed. Little can be done at this moment except send off some investigative notes and, perhaps, mull the matter over a pipe."
Which was exactly what he did upon our return to Baker Street. We dined in amicable quiet, after which I settled down by the fire with my pipe and the latest volume of Clark Russell sea-stories. Holmes smoked two pipes before abandoning that trusty tool with an exclamation of disgust. After some further histrionics, he retreated to his chemistry tools and through the evening, a steady stream of mumbled observations regarding saltpeter, the whistle of the Bunsen burner, and the roiling racket of the retort were my music. I retired when the experiment proved to be a particularly malodorous one, leaving my friend to his single-minded studies of substances that could interest only a mind such as his.
* * *
Continued in part two.
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Part: One of four
Disclaimer: I'm not ACD. Top hats make me think of naughty things.
Feedback: Commentary, feedback, and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.
Summary: Holmes is called in to aid in the investigations of a high society kidnapping, to some startling consequences.
Notes: Queen's English is what I learned, yet it has deteriorated into a semi-Californian melting pot; thus, all Americanisms and anachronisms and abuses of Brit-speak that linger in this slash pastiche are entirely mine. Mea culpa. The story is complete, clocking in at about 20,000 words, and will be put up in four parts to keep the length of posts manageable. Originally posted in the holmesslash Yahoo! group.
The Adventure of the Buttoned Glove (1/4)
by Penumbra (c) 2004
For some time now, I have been worried about what is to become of my immortal soul upon the occasion of my passing, for I will surely burn in Hell -- not for sins perceived by ignorant men and law-makers, but for being guilty of the most grievous sin of all: the perpetration of a lie through cowardice. This tale, this roman à clef, is thus my act of repentance, for the only things concealed are the names of the noblemen discussed herein. There shall be neither fictitious wives nor glossing over scandalous details in the name of propriety; it will be but the unmitigated, brave truth.
Yet I do get ahead of myself, it seems. Were Holmes here and permitted to read this account, he would undoubtedly exclaim incomprehensibilities, remind me that order is the fountainhead of lucidity, and implore me to start from the beginning; namely, with Inspector Lestrade and the buttoned glove.
It was one of those dreary, dun evenings our great city manages to produce with unfailing accuracy during its Novembers. Fog lay heavily on the cobbles of Baker Street, obscuring everything beyond the pallid spheres of the gas-lights and laying a damp chill upon one's spirit. Truly, it was an evening so dreadful it made me overjoyed at the prospect of spending it indoors with the papers and my pipe, and sympathetic to the plight of anyone venturing out into the gloom.
Presently, one such wretched figure emerged from the fog. It was a man of obvious vigour and agitation, somehow familiar yet unrecognisable through the impregnable haze. Regardless, I recognised the symptoms of his appearance very well, for surely one cannot co-habit with Sherlock Holmes without acquiring some of his knowledge.
"Holmes," I said, curious. "There's a very strange man on the street, and I daresay he is coming here."
"Undoubtedly, it is Inspector Lestrade's progression towards 221B you are observing, Watson."
Surprised, I turned to my companion. "What makes you say so, Holmes?" I asked, frowning. His seat offered no view of the street.
Eyes closed and head obscured behind the wreaths of blue smoke emanating from his nostrils and pipe, Sherlock Holmes was ensconced in his armchair, his legs drawn up and his long, white hands dancing a nervous tune on his knees. What tune it was, I could not hear, for the music was internal to the wonder inside his considerable cranium; it was as much an enigma to me as his knowledge regarding the identity of our apparent caller.
"My insight is entirely due to the wonders of the telegraph," Holmes replied and tossed a telegram in my general direction. "The good inspector was remarkably un-forthcoming in his missive, save for the hour of his arrival."
As Holmes' lissom frame uncoiled from the chair and he made a desultory attempt at straightening his collars, I idly reflected upon the injustices of one's existence. Surely, I had often mused, if there ever were a Purgatory on this God's Earth, it resided in the sitting room of our modest lodgings on 221B Baker Street. Its name was Sherlock Holmes.
My friend Sherlock Holmes, you should know, is a tall man of most singular, epicene mannerisms, of pointed ears and clear, hard eyes that not only see but observe the very state of your soul. My eyes often follow the lines of his narrow shoulders and that strangely regal, ramrod-straight posture his body insists on maintaining when upright; I track the nervous energy that his hands betray even when the rest of him stands in dead stillness. His skin is pale and glowing in contrast to the black void of his garments and hair; only the fevered red of his lips and the gleam of fire in his eyes interrupt the monochrome of his being.
That was my Purgatory: his existence and his very being. Holmes, this intractable man of deplorable habits and the allure of a martyr, was not only my sole companion in life, but also the provenance of the Devil and the dark desires that resided in me. Through the years of our acquaintance I had sought to banish these illegal, mortifying wants from my self -- alas, in vain. So I suffered in silence, grateful of this pain of his presence, for it was also my greatest joy.
An obviously vigorous tug on the bell-pull roused me from my sombre if melodramatic reverie. It also announced Inspector Lestrade's arrival and I descended to welcome him in.
"Mr. Holmes," the inspector greeted my friend as he preceded me into our sitting room. "I trust this dreary eve finds you well?"
"Whatever news of excitement you bring to us, inspector, it shall undoubtedly heighten my appreciation of Wednesdays," Holmes informed him as he took Lestrade's waterproof and steered him into the chair by the fire. "Chase away the chill first, Lestrade, and perhaps a dash -- MRS HUDSON! -- a dash of brandy would do you well? Or tea?"
A grateful smile graced Lestrade's countenance. "Much appreciated, Mr. Holmes."
"MRS HUDSON! -- ah, there you are, Mrs. Hudson. Please attend to the inspector's waterproof. And bring up some tea, at your convenience, if you please. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
As Mrs. Hudson was shooed out, I re-seated myself and sucked on my unlit pipe. The electric feel of Holmes' excitement relieved me greatly, for my friend had been in the doldrums for some time. Dearth in the need for his particular genius always had that effect on him, so knowing what it took for Lestrade to brave the fog -- a murder, perchance, or a case so odd it strained credulity - I breathed easier. Holmes lived for such obstacles; the more curious the crime the less likely he was to eye his hypodermic syringe with set intentions.
A stout measure of brandy in hand, a cup of tea at his elbow, and a cigar clamped between his teeth, Lestrade turned to his attentive audience of two, one of which was fidgeting up a fury by the fireplace and the other, your humble chronicler, seated and attentive with a note-pad, a pen, and pipe at ready.
"I trust you have heard of the Lord Eddington case, Mr. Holmes," the inspector began. Holmes gestured impatiently towards the newspapers littering the floor. "Very well. Dr. Watson?"
In reply, I merely nodded, for my interest was greatly piqued. The papers had been full of the story: Amos, Lord Eddington, the son of the late Lucius, Earl of Mayford, had gone missing the previous Sunday and had not been seen since. The police had resorted to trawling the Thames and questioning people as far away as Kensington, yet to no avail; his last known whereabouts placed him at his club's door, from which he had vanished with no trace.
"As you are familiar with the public details, I shan't bore you with them. I am utterly at my wit's end," Lestrade confessed, "for this case has me baffled like never before, Mr. Holmes. The facts point to conclusions that have been proved wrong; there is evidence that points to an entirely different set of facts; finally, there appears an abundance of characters involved, yet no clear suspect to investigate."
"The dramatis personae are, if I am not mistaken, Miriam, Dowager Countess of Mayford," Holmes interjected, referring to Lord Eddington's mother, "and a Mr. Edward Cartwright, cousin to Lord Eddington, as well as Robert, Earl of Erne and his wife Elenia, Lady Marster."
"Lord Eddington's father has been deceased for some time now, correct?" I queried. The Marsters I remembered being family friends of the Eddingtons, people of impeccable character and place in the upper echelons of the high society.
"Quite so, Dr. Watson. Lord Marster is beyond reproach, as is his wife; our young Mr. Cartwright has the capricious disposition of a passionate man, yet he is hardly a suspect. And then there is the matter of the glove."
Holmes' fidgeting hands stilled on the mantelpiece, where they had been arranging and re-arranging the varied knick-knacks occupying it to orders that eluded my sensibilities. He cast a sharp eye upon the inspector, as did I, for the newspaper accounts had mentioned nothing of a glove.
"The glove?" Holmes prompted.
"Found in the kitchen of the Marsters' house on the very evening of Lord Eddington's disappearance," Lestrade explained. "Lady Eddington has identified it as one of hers, yet she claims the pair has been missing for several months and that she could not fathom how the glove turned up where it did. You, Mr. Holmes, seem to thrive on these things, so here we are."
From his pocket, the inspector presented a woman's glove to Holmes, who ardently seized it. As Lestrade and I watched, Holmes proceeded to fondle, tweak, tug, crumple, and measure the glove with his oftentimes-vexing yet characteristic attention to details quite unfathomable to either my eye or brain. Completing his scrutiny by sniffing the glove and inspecting it against the light of the fire, Holmes returned it to Lestrade with an imperious flourish.
"A fascinating object, my dear inspector," he uttered and flashed me one of his momentary smiles -- it was present one second, gone the next, with only a ghosting of white teeth remaining as my memento. "The glove was as it is, buttoned, upon discovery?"
"Yes, quite so."
"Very well. Pray continue."
Lestrade proceeded with a detailed account of his activities relating to the case, which I shall not re-iterate here, for the details are well known and amount to little but frustration for the venerable Yarder. And frustrated he was, I observed, as I scribbled down his words: he was twisting and turning in his chair and his hold on the glass was quite white-knuckled. Holmes, in stark contrast, had assumed his usual investigatory mien of apparent indifference, gazing alternatively at the inspector, the window, and one of his morning slippers that had taken seemingly permanent residence on the sideboard.
"...and so, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade concluded, "I've come to you for advice, for my progress seems to be temporarily stalled."
"Ah, the reputation of Scotland Yard once again hinges on yours truly?" Holmes ventured with a vague gesture of his hand and a sardonic tinge to his words. "How I wish you had sought me earlier, inspector, for I fear the trail may have gone cold in my absence."
Lestrade fidgeted again; he was not overtly fond of the occasions when a civilian excoriated his professional behaviour, even when said civilian was Sherlock Holmes himself. However, a person of intense intellect or unusual beauty -- a descriptor often attributed to Holmes in case of the former, and in my private thoughts, of the latter as well -- will be excused great many a thing that would otherwise scandalise polite company. Inspector Lestrade certainly took no permanent offence, having heard similar castigations from my companion in the past.
"Nevertheless, I should very much like for your eye to see what we have not," he implored Holmes as he stood up. His obsequiousness spoke volumes about the grave pressure he was under.
"Oh, very well," Holmes replied and clicked his tongue in what amounted to resignation on his part. "I should need to investigate the locales of the participants, as well as this pivotal glove again. Leave it with me, please."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said with obvious relief and laid the glove on the side table. "I'll send a carriage for ten o'clock to-morrow."
"Good evening, inspector."
Upon Lestrade's departure, my eyes were naturally drawn to the glove. I could sense Holmes' indulgent gaze on me as he subsided into his chair.
"A wonderful man, Lestrade -- the tenacity of an ox, as well as the brain of one. You know my methods, Watson. What do you make of the glove?"
I scrutinised the item in question. "A woman's glove, certainly, from her left hand. Expensive, though it has seen extensive use. The owner is obviously a woman of some means and taste, yet forgetful enough to leave it lying about."
"And?"
I shrugged, by now resigned to Holmes' superior vision when it came to minutiae. "That is all I see, Holmes. It is a glove, not a ledger of personal characteristics."
"Oh, Watson, come now! You disappoint me. In the narratives that you inflict upon the general public, you claim to be a student of my methods, yet you choose not to apply them even at this wondrous opportunity!"
Holmes' impassionate exclamation, though seemingly insulting, produced nothing but weary, sarcastic amusement in me. He is a man living in the constant torment of his too-keen senses and the power of his brain, which dictate that he should interact mostly with people more dim-witted and less perceptive than he -- an eternal frustration that is sure to drive any man insane. So I forgive him his outbursts, for they are merely convenient vents to that agitating madness with which he finds himself.
"What would you add to my observations, then?"
Holmes made a perfunctory gesture over the glove and glanced at me with that gleam in his eye that accompanies the supreme manifestations of his deductive intelligence. "A great deal, a great deal indeed. However, the point to remember, Watson, is that in addition to habits unbecoming of a proper lady, the owner has most peculiar and malleable hands."
"What, pray tell, do you mean?"
"All in good time, Watson. Shall I have the pleasure of your company to-morrow on this tiresome errand of Lestrade's?"
"Of course. In fact, I insist."
"Ah, my good Watson."
I barely heard Holmes' murmured words, for he had cast as affectionate gaze as he had ever managed in my direction; it promptly suffused me with warmth. Some of it must have transferred itself onto my countenance, for Holmes' eyes turned stranger still, their dark grey depths unfathomable yet riveting. I despaired, for whenever Holmes turned his scrutiny upon me, it had an embarrassing yet not wholly unexpected reaction on my body.
"I shall retire, then. Good night, Holmes," I said as I stood quite abruptly, cursing the weakness of my flesh. I received no reply from Holmes; he had already turned away, his mind in the world of his own making, one of deductions and logic.
* * *
I slept badly through the night, for I was plagued by mystifying, intimate dreams and the sound of Holmes' bow scraping against the oft-tortured strings of his violin. As dawn broke, my spirits were lifted by the clearing weather, yet not enough to banish the pull of insomnia upon my limbs.
"What do you make of this little mystery, Watson?" Holmes asked as we boarded our carriage. "Brentwood Hall!" he called out to the driver before ensconcing himself into his shawl, seated across from me and with a smile playing about his lips. It heartened me to see him in such good spirits.
"A true mystery, to me, as to why anyone should want to wish harm on Amos Eddington. By all accounts, he was a well-liked young man and few men of two-and-twenty years have acquired many enemies. The sole note of discord in the good characters of all involved seems to be the capricious nature of his cousin's temper."
"Ah, the young Mr. Cartwright," Holmes pronounced and flashed a sardonic smile as his eyes focused on points distant beyond my shoulder. "A rising star at Whitehall, if I'm not mistaken."
I snapped my fingers. "Holmes, you devil! I was certain the name was familiar, yet I could not place it. Indeed, secretary to Lord Hutchinson himself." Hutchinson, an old fox in the game of politics and a distinguished Cabinet Minister, was currently the leading candidate to become the next premier.
"Quiet me lest the word 'nepotism' fall from my lips," Holmes remarked with a tone so dry it would have cured plums; I nodded, for Lord Hutchinson's long-standing friendship with Mr. Cartwright's father was well-known. "The rest of our assembled actors are no less impressive in their services to the Empire, which explains the extra-ordinary attention this simple disappearance has merited."
After a ride of about quarter of an hour, the carriage halted in front of Brentwood Hall, the home of the Earl of Erne. Upon exiting, we found Lestrade waiting for us. With little preamble, we were escorted into the house and on Holmes' request, to the kitchens.
"It's as we left it, Mr. Holmes, save for the glove that was found by the work table," Lestrade explained and pointed at a spot on the floor.
"As such?" Holmes asked and dropped the glove at the approximate location.
"Somewhat more underneath the table, but quite close, yes."
As if he had not heard Lestrade, Holmes fidgeted beside the glove, his eyes darting here and there. At one point, he knelt down and unceremoniously scooted his long frame underneath the tabletop, only to emerge on the other side to bend down further and study the floor tiles through his magnifying glass from a distance of a scant quarter inch. He proceeded to investigate the floor in this manner at several points; the inspector and I exchanged tolerant glances at the stream of whispered commentary and encouraging whistles and ejaculations that Holmes put forth during his probe.
"But, Lestrade," I ventured, quietly so as not to distract Holmes; "how can you be certain the glove is linked into this investigation at all?"
"I cannot be certain, but if there is one thing Mr. Holmes has taught me, it is to regard coincidences as anything but. The glove of the mother of the missing boy, appearing in the kitchen of his closest acquaintances on the very night of his disappearance? Surely quite strange a coincidence, Dr. Watson."
"I see your point," I replied, although some doubts still lingered. "So do you suspect the Lord Marster?"
"That was my first thought, but a valid motive is yet to surface, not to mention proof of involvement beyond a wayward glove." Lestrade sighed. "Perhaps you're right, Dr. Watson. Perhaps the glove has nothing to do with Lord Eddington."
"Oh, do not sell your instincts short, my dear Lestrade!" Holmes exclaimed as he stood. "The glove is of pivotal consequence in the matériel of this investigation. Did you, by any chance, notice these marks on the floor?"
"Chair marks, I presume?"
"Perhaps. They tell an intriguing tale hereabouts," Holmes mused and waved his long arm in an arc. "Alas, the floor has been swept not two days ago."
Lestrade shrugged. "As this is the sole kitchen in the house, we do need to allow for his lordship to dine on occasion."
Holmes tutted, as if dining were an activity naturally subservient to his investigations. But before he could utter anything more, something caught his eye by the pantry door and he bent over so rapidly that for a moment, I thought he had collapsed. Instead, he had stooped to scrape something off the much-scrutinised floor into a small envelope.
"I am done here, inspector," he pronounced solemnly and put the envelope, along with the buttoned glove, into his pocket as he stood. "I would like to have a word with the cook and Robert, Lord Marster, if possible."
"Alas, Lord Marster is in Whitehall now, but Lady Marster has granted an audience."
"She will do. But first, the cook?"
Lestrade nodded. "Right away, Mr. Holmes. Smith?" The said constable nodded. "His lordship has graciously allowed us the use of his drawing room for the duration of our investigation. Shall we retire there, gentlemen?"
"A sit-down and a brandy -- splendid, Lestrade!"
We made our way to the sumptuous drawing room, which was decorated in dark leathers and the portraits of some seven generations of the family. Presently, the door re-opened and admitted the cook -- a woman whose girth fought to exceed her height. An apron was straining around her generous middle as if it were the sole thing keeping her proportions from becoming grotesque.
"Millicent Berker, sir," she said and curtsied with some difficulty.
"The esteemable cook of the household, I gather. Would you be so kind, Miss Berker, as to educate me regarding the configuration of your pantries?"
Had she been expecting a question, Holmes' was certainly not it. "Pardon me, sir?"
"Your pantries. Pantries, Miss Berker," Holmes repeated -- irritably, undoubtedly because he considered repetition a dullard's art. "How many are there and what is their internal organisation?"
"Well, two pantries, sir," she said in her lilting Yorkshire accent, obviously bewildered at the singular eccentricity of the gentleman addressing her. I could hardly contain my mirth. "One for dry goods, the other for the daily purchases of the market. The order is as it has always been."
"And how long have you been in the house?"
"Going on six years now, Mr. Holmes."
"Did you ever meet your predecessor? What was her name, if you know?"
"I did not have the pleasure of meeting Miss Wilbeforce, but some of the other staff -- Emily, the maid, at least -- have been employed by his lordship longer than I."
"Splendid," Holmes ejaculated and stood up to pace. "Thank you, Miss Berker; you may go. And Lestrade? Lady Marster, if you please."
As the cook waddled her way out the door, still gazing at Holmes with some perplexity, Lestrade sprang into action. Slipping through the side door, he returned not two minutes later with a tall, handsome woman of some five-and-thirty years. Her dress was a simple affair in dove grey velvet, sombre yet elegant; her raven hair was impeccably coiffed; her eyes were shining with red-rimmed dismay.
"Mr. Holmes, so very good of you to assist us in this matter," Elenia, Countess of Erne, said as she offered her hand to Holmes; her voice held the hint of a Continental accent.
Grasping her hand, Holmes murmured his greetings and introduced me to the lady. I merited but a perfunctory glance, yet I was not affronted for one could say her manner was aloof towards all mankind. Taking a seat on the settee, she gestured towards Lestrade with one small, white hand.
"I do apologise for the early hour; it was entirely my thought to involve you in this matter. I hope I have not inconvenienced you. "
Holmes cast a sharp eye at Lestrade, who had the good grace to blush. "Not at all, Lady Marster," he said and sat down. "Pray, do tell the story as you have witnessed it."
The lady, though reticient in manner and appearance, proceeded not to mince her words. Her account was remarkably similar to what the papers had printed, yet her affection for Lord Eddington was palpable, as if he were the child she and her husband had never conceived. This observation of mine puzzled me, for the difference of ages between Lady Marster and Lord Eddington was scarcely a decade. However, when Holmes queried the lady as to her sentiments towards Miriam, Dowager Countess of Eddington, her reply caught my attention.
"Pah!" Lady Marster exclaimed and flipped open her fan with such violence I feared it would break. "That tottering nag, a fool unworthy of her husband's title. Why she dotes over that awful boy Edward Cartwright is quite beyond comprehension!"
This outburst somewhat stunned me, yet Holmes seemed as if it were exactly what he had been expecting to hear from the good lady. "You are not fond of the young man?" he queried.
Her ladyship fanned herself vigorously. "Certainly not! The boy has no manners to speak of; furthermore, I am quite convinced he was the sole culprit in poor Poppy's death."
Holmes' ears perked. "Poppy?"
"My husband's most priced foxhound, Mr. Holmes. A dreadful tragedy some ten years ago."
"Ah," Holmes uttered; I clamped my lips around my cigarette so as not to smile at his mien of dejection. "Lady Marster, you have been most helpful in our case. I thank you for your time."
With a few additional pleasantries, Lady Marster sailed out of the room, her back straight and her fan clasped in a white-knuckled hand. As the door shut behind her, Holmes implored Lestrade to fetch the maid, Emily, only to have the inspector inform him that Thursdays were the maid's day of rest.
"A shame," Holmes said, frowning, and harrumphed. "Haste is of essence, but no matter. I shall speak with her at a later occasion, if you would be so kind to arrange it, Lestrade. Now, what of Lady Eddington?"
"I have requested an audience with her ladyship at one o'clock."
"Is there a doctor attending upon her?" I asked, for the sudden disappearance of an only son will certainly move the strongest of us.
"She is in remarkable spirits given the circumstances and has thus declined medical attention," Lestrade assured me as he stood. "Now, gentlemen, we must hurry lest we miss our appointment."
We lunched -- or rather, the inspector and I ate while Holmes inhaled his way through eight cigarettes -- at a restaurant around the corner before setting out towards Eddington Hall. During the short hansom ride, Holmes was remarkably quiet. Sitting back in the shadows, the only signs of liveliness on him were the steely glint in his eye and the faint grin that tugged at his lips; to Lestrade's intermittent attempts at engaging him in conversation, he did nothing but stare into a middling distance.
Eddington Hall is not the grandest hall that lines the great thoroughfare of Piccadilly, but it is certainly neither the most modest nor smallest. At the death of Lucius, Lord Eddington, Earl of Mayford -- a man with a long and lucrative career in the East India Company -- young Lord Eddington had assumed his father's title and lands. However, since all his uncles were accounted for -- two in India, one in the Americas -- changing the order of succession seemed to me very unlikely a motive.
A sombre groom whose livery was as impeccable as it was exquisite greeted us at the door. The room we were ushered into was equally lavish, replete with French furnishings and with a blazing fire chasing away the November chill. Our wait was only a few minutes, during which Holmes scrutinised the family portraits on the walls with rather more attention than their respective artistic values should have merited. However, before I could enquire as to the purpose of his study, the far door opened.
"Lady Eddington," Lestrade said and made a small bow as the lady entered. "So very kind of you to see us in this time of distress."
After Lestrade made introductions, Lady Eddington invited us to seat ourselves by the fire. The groom, Babish, re-entered with a carafe of excellent cognac, which warmed my insides to a remarkable degree as Holmes questioned the matriarch of the Eddingtons -- a formidable woman with the proportions and apparent constitution of the Rock of Gibraltar.
"Madam, could you, in your own words, please inform us of the happenings of the eight of this month?"
"The day Amos disappeared," Lady Eddington pronounced. Save for a faint quiver of her voice, no emoting was apparent. "A most ordinary Sunday for us. I occupied myself for most of the day with my correspondence, while Amos went to visit with Lord Marster and Edward retired to his room. After supper, Amos fetched his hat and overcoat, announcing that he intended to spend the evening at his club. Sunday is my card night, Mr. Holmes, so I did not notice he never came home until the next morning when the maid found his bed un-slept and alerted me."
"What game do you play, Lady Eddington?"
"Bridge, Mr. Holmes, with people I have played with for the better part of three decade. They are well above reproach, and regardless, they all arrived after Amos had parted." For the first time, a ghost of a smile appeared on Lady Eddington's lips. "Our evening was quite profitable for me, and therefore it ran late. I retired after half past eleven, if my memory serves."
"And where was Mr. Cartwright during the evening?"
"In his office on the first floor, tending to Lord Hutchinson's matters, I presume."
"Babish, the groom, has testified sending the page to deliver an evening meal of cold beef and beer to him at fifteen to nine o'clock," Lestrade interjected. "I have spoken with him, along with the hansom driver, who recalls the clock chiming seven o'clock bells when he let Lord Eddington out at the Boodle's Club entrance on St. James' Street."
At this point, our discourse was interrupted by the door, which opened with considerable force. In barged a young man of some five-and-twenty years, lean as whippet in appearance and clad in the latest fashion that young men of style prefer, right down to the purple borders of his frock coat. His chestnut hair flew wildly about his head, he was clean-shaven, and possessed a disturbing intensity to his eyes.
"Dear aunt, are you not supposed to be resting? I shall have to call Dr. Phelps soon," the young man chided, giving us but a passing glance as he came to Lady Eddington's side.
"The gentlemen are here to help us find Amos," the lady replied, regarding the boy with as much love as I have ever seen an aunt bestow on her favourite nephew. "Edward, you know Inspector Lestrade; Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Edward Cartwright."
"Sherlock Holmes?" Cartwright said, his interest suddenly on my companion. "The private detective?"
"Indeed," Holmes muttered, unruffled, as he met the young man eye to eye. It did not surprise me one whit that after a moment, it was the young man who had to avert his gaze. "A pleasure, Mr. Cartwright, I'm sure. Fortunate that you should be here now, for I wished to present some questions to you."
"Naturally, Mr. Holmes. Anything I can do to help to uncover my poor cousin's whereabouts, please, do ask."
Despite his eagerness to help, his account seemed to shed no new light on the matter. What was more interesting was young Cartwright himself, for he was somewhat as I had envisioned a young Sherlock Holmes to have been, save for the Bohemian tendencies that blunted the sharpness of my companion's more abrasive qualities. That tendency for sloth was replaced by ambition in Mr. Edward Cartwright; he fairly reeked of hunger and impatient cunning, and I did not for a second doubt his competence in whatever services he provided to Lord Hutchinson, for his brain was obviously as quick as his manner.
His account was brief, for he did indeed spend the evening with Lord Hutchinson's papers, not leaving his room until the morning to discover the house in upset over his missing cousin.
"Very well," Holmes said, lounging in his wingback chair with indolence that was borderline scandalous. For a moment, he tapped his fingertips together, thinking, as we all gazed expectantly at him; then, he sprang upright and regarded Lady Eddington with a keen eye. "I thank you, Lady Eddington and Mr. Cartwright, for your time. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should anything you deem relevant come across you."
Lady Eddington stood as well. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I implore you -- find my boy," she said, offering a slightly shaking hand to Holmes.
"I shall do my very best, milady," he replied, ignoring her hand. "Watson, Lestrade, let us go."
Babish delivered our hats and sticks to us and we were back out in the raw November air. The day had cleared during our visit to Eddington Hall, and I could somewhat discern the pale circle of the sun upon the sky. However, the particulars of the weather barely registered with me, for the excitement of the mystery had roused my good spirits.
"What now, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade queried.
"Dinner, my dear inspector," Holmes proclaimed and took my arm. "Dr. Watson and I shall retire to Baker Street to nourish ourselves, and then I shall conduct some enquiries both into this matter and the properties of copper sulphates."
"So you have some inclination as to the whereabouts of Lord Eddington?"
"I have my suspicions and a theory that is passable," Holmes said, and pressed his finger onto his lips. "More information is needed, however, before this dark matter can be fully unravelled for you to see, Lestrade."
"You think we may find him alive?"
"Alas, I fear that young Lord Eddington may be lost to us."
"Holmes! Unless you are absolutely certain, please, do not make such pronouncements," I remonstrated, grasping at Holmes' arm with my free hand. My mood sank upon the solemn look he gave me.
"I never theorise on anything save the facts, my dear Watson; as things stand, I hold little hope."
"Well, for once, I do hope you're wrong, Mr. Holmes. Do let me know when you have news for me," Lestrade said and touched the brim of his hat. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."
After we bid our good-byes, we hailed a cab from the street. As we sped towards Baker Street, I leaned towards Holmes and tapped him on the knee. This jerked him out of his silent contemplation and he offered me a desultory smile, kind even in its preoccupation.
"Yes, Watson?"
"You are being more secretive than on most occasions."
"For valid reasons, I assure you, my friend. I cannot elucidate on motives that are still unclear to me, even when the acts of the players in this mortal play are becoming clearer."
"What will your next actions be, then?"
Holmes smiled again. "I daresay an evening with the chemicals beckons me."
"But what of the case, Holmes?" I implored of him.
"I have some facts but not all; the rest will have to await to-morrow to be unearthed. Little can be done at this moment except send off some investigative notes and, perhaps, mull the matter over a pipe."
Which was exactly what he did upon our return to Baker Street. We dined in amicable quiet, after which I settled down by the fire with my pipe and the latest volume of Clark Russell sea-stories. Holmes smoked two pipes before abandoning that trusty tool with an exclamation of disgust. After some further histrionics, he retreated to his chemistry tools and through the evening, a steady stream of mumbled observations regarding saltpeter, the whistle of the Bunsen burner, and the roiling racket of the retort were my music. I retired when the experiment proved to be a particularly malodorous one, leaving my friend to his single-minded studies of substances that could interest only a mind such as his.
* * *
Continued in part two.