But this evening his friend was not himself.
To the casual observer, his lordship would seem to command the meeting room, thorough in his knowledge, eloquent in his presentation, and deft with a touch of dry humor—his comparison of the ancient family strife caused by variation in size and ornateness of each member’s jeweled brooches with the modern jealousy aroused by the handsomeness of a sibling’s new brougham drew peals of laughter from the audience.
To Inspector Treadles, however, Lord Ingram’s delivery had little of its usual élan. It was a struggle. A futile struggle, moreover: Sisyphus pushing that enormous boulder up the hill, knowing that it would roll away from him near the top, condemning him to start all over again, ad infinitum.
What could be the matter? Lord Ingram was the scion of a ducal family, an Old Etonian, and one of the finest polo players in the world. Of course Inspector Treadles knew that no one’s existence was perfect behind closed doors, but whatever turbulence Lord Ingram navigated in his private life had never before been made visible in his public demeanor.
After the lecture, after the throng of admirers had dispersed, the two men met in a book-lined nook of the society’s soaring library.
“I’d hoped we could dine together, Inspector,” said Lord Ingram. “But I’m afraid I must take leave of you very soon.”
Treadles was both disappointed and relieved—he didn’t think he would be able to offer Lord Ingram much consolation, in the latter’s current state.
“I hope your family is well,” he said.
“They are, thank you. I’m obliged to pay a call on short notice, that is all.” Lord Ingram’s words were calm, yet there was a hollowness to his tone. “I trust we shall have the pleasure of a more leisurely meeting in the not too distant future.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Inspector Treadles did not mean to delay his friend, but at that moment he remembered his other purpose for being at Burlington House this evening. “If it isn’t too much trouble, sir, may I ask you to convey a note to Holmes? I’m most grateful for his assistance on the Arkwright case and wrote a few lines to that effect.”
“I am afraid that would be impossible.”
Inspector Treadles almost took a step back at his friend’s expression: a flare of anger that bordered on wrath.
“I understand that you are engaged this evening, my lord,” Treadles explained hesitantly. “My note requires no haste and needs be relayed only at your lordship’s convenience.”
“I didn’t make myself clear,” said Lord Ingram. All hints of rage had left his countenance. His eyes were blank, the set of his jaw hard. “I can’t—nor can anyone else—convey any notes to Holmes. Not anymore.”
“I—I don’t—that is—” Treadles stuttered. “Has something terrible happened?”
Lord Ingram’s jaw worked. “Yes, something terrible.”
“When?”
“Today.”
Inspector Treadles blinked. “Is . . . is Holmes still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness. Then we haven’t lost him completely.”
“But we have,” said Lord Ingram, slowly, inexorably. “Holmes may be alive, but the fact remains that Holmes is now completely beyond my reach.”
Treadles’s confusion burgeoned further, but he understood that no more details would be forthcoming. “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear that.”
“As am I, to be the bearer of such news.” Lord Ingram’s voice was low, almost inaudible.
Treadles left Burlington House in a daze, hounded by dozens of unhappy conjectures. Had Holmes leaped from a perilous height armed with nothing but an unreliable parachute? Had he been conducting explosive experiments at home? Or had his brilliant but restless mind driven him to seduce the wrong woman, culminating in an illegal duel and a bullet lodged somewhere debilitating but not instantly lethal?
What had happened to the elusive and extraordinary Sherlock Holmes?
Such a tragedy.
Such a waste.
Such a shame.
Two
“The shame. Oh, the shame!” Lady Holmes screeched.
From her crouched position before the parlor door keyhole, Livia Holmes glared at the young maid peeking around the corner. Back to your duties, she mouthed.
The girl fled, but not before giggling audibly.
Did no one understand the concept of privacy anymore? If there was any spying to be done in the midst of a reputation-melting scandal, it ought to be left to a member of the family.
Livia returned her attention to the sturm und drang in the parlor. Her view through the keyhole was blocked by her mother’s skirt, a ghastly mound of heliotrope silk that shook with Lady Holmes’s outrage.