Since it was so cheap to dine very well, we could not resist prolonging the evening with a quick drink at a local pub. There, I ran into some old friends from the regiment; drinks led to toasts, which led to cards. I lost track of Holmes at one point—he had done pretty well at cards, as he tends to—but rather than exploit his advantages, he left before anyone could grumble about his winnings. I saw him across the way discussing something with an unsavory-looking Egyptian, just as one of my mates took offense at something a sailor said. As the first punch was thrown, I felt that familiar red haze descend and the calm that came before a good row . . .
The next morning, the curtains were pulled open with a racket I usually associate with locomotives. “Oh, John, the state of you. And you’d been doing so well.”
“Mags, please . . .” Razors seemed to fill my eye sockets. “We just need to get our feet under us again . . .”
“No time for that. Drink your tea, and do better next time. You have a letter from a Miss Hartley.” Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “On scented paper.”
“A client.”
“Hmm.”
As Holmes and I set off for our appointment that morning, I was profoundly grateful it was raining, for sunlight would have been unbearable. I did wish, however, the rain would not beat down on my hat with such heavy, echoing blows.
Holmes’s aspect was ghastly, showing all the sad characteristics of a recent opium binge.
When we arrived at the hotel, Miss Hartley received us in a small parlor. She was a trifle late, but as we stood to greet her, I could only say that it was time well spent. A stunning petite blonde, she was dressed de rigueur in dark green velvet. I was utterly bewitched by the little Silesian iron ornament in her upswept hair, making as charming a figure as could be imagined. As she bade us sit, I could see the deep blue of her eyes, like the sea after a storm.
Holmes, who abhors the untidiness of latecomers and missed appointments, obstinately refused to be charmed. He was politeness itself, as he invariably is in public, but I recognized the slight hardening around his eyes that communicates—to those familiar with it—a disdain. For him, punctuality was a cardinal rule of etiquette, and before even shaking hands, Miss Hartley had blotted her copybook.
I’m sure that from her appearance, her claim, and this breach, he had deduced the whole of her history. I myself noted that, while her movements were graceful, there was an anxiety that informed her smallest gestures. The twisting of a handkerchief, the way her eyes darted around the room, her startlement at the least noise all told me of a lady in trouble.
“Thank you for seeing us, Miss Hartley,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you know already why I requested this appointment?”
“My claim to the fortune left by Anna Hoyt.” She looked away. “I hardly expected to meet the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “How did you learn about the bequest?”
“I had been traveling in the continent; a friend sent me a letter with the clipping from the paper. I contacted Mr. Deering.”
“Why were you abroad?”
“I was visiting friends.” She hesitated, then looked up at Holmes directly. “I had formed an . . . attachment there . . . and later learned he was untrue to me. I returned because . . . my health declined.”
“And the bequest—” Holmes started.
“I’m a doctor,” I broke in. “If I may be of any assistance—?”
She laughed, a lovely sound. “Thank you, I am nearly better now. But if I find Anna Hoyt’s bequest, I shall travel to Egypt and let the ancient sun heal me.”
Holmes frowned briefly at me. “But to the case at hand. You’ll forgive me asking—how is it that no record of your birth exists in the United States?”
“For the simple reason that my family has always been in England. It is my belief that Anna’s son—my many-times great-grandfather—was the result of either a hidden marriage or an illicit love affair.” She blushed prettily. “But the records for my family are here, even if Anna Hoyt did not remain.”
“You met your distant cousin, Habakkuk Sewall, while you were in Prague, correct?”
Suddenly, her features sharpened. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but do you work for Mr. Sewall?”
“It is true.” He raised an eyebrow. “One cannot always choose one’s clients.”
I frowned; it was unlike him to be so indiscreet.
“Then I believe this interview is at an end,” Miss Hartley said. “I have no interest in furthering the interests of a gentleman—and I must only use the term in its most general sense—who seeks to rob a young lady of something that is rightfully hers. Good morning.”