“I see you have been at the new studio,” I said, eyeing Watson as she returned to our office. A week had passed since the arrest of Mr. Anthony Selwyn Harrison. His suspiciously large bank accounts were now under federal scrutiny, Officer Lester confided, as were the geological maps he’d stolen from the local library. His arson of Penelope’s beloved home had been a scheme to convince the terrified woman to leave, and sell him the potentially copper-rich property beneath it—the precious contents of which her parents had died before revealing to her. Except, I mused, through naming her Penny. It was the biggest story Norraton had seen since I’d recovered the Baskervilles’ missing dog. (They’d sent me yet another smiley-face email commending me on it.)
“You can’t know where I’ve been!” Watson cried. “There’s completely no way. Do I have paint on me from where Della and I redid the hallway color? Or some sort of wax under my fingernails from where we refinished the dance floor?”
Watson is not quite comfortable, yet, with my good-natured teasing. Now that Arthur Daley and Penelope Moran are the new proprietors of Norraton’s hottest (and only) dance studio, my many-talented Watson has discovered she has a love not only for dancing but for the mercurial Della, too, and spends many hours in her company.
The others I met on my foray into dance instruction are equally delighted that their dance classes will continue (now-jailed former proprietor notwithstanding). The young couple Elsie and Patrick, whose nuptials we’ll attend in a fortnight, the ever-persistent Mr. Brett, and the enigmatically romantic “Ginger Rogers,” a widow whose name I now know to be Mrs. Cubitt. I have noticed her dancing with Mr. Brett recently. If it is as romantic as it appears, they may someday be partners of another sort. Or she may soon possess a new car.
“Seriously, Annabelle,” Watson said. “How do you know I’ve been at the studio? I’ve gotta say, you’re pretty amazing.”
“I have my moments.” I handed Watson a mug of fragrant tea, then pointed to the phone on my desk. “But in this case, Della called me,” I said, settling into my chair. “To remind you about dinner.”
Watson made a noise, dismissive and admiring at the same time. She wheeled her desk chair to our front window, our favorite place for case postmortems, and propped her feet on the low sill, parallel to mine.
“Anthony Selwyn Harrison, there’s a piece of work,” she said. “Trolling vulnerable students to bilk them out of money? Must have thought he’d hit the jackpot with Penny Moran—until Arthur Daley came along. And you, of course, Sherlock. He’ll never dance again, that’s for sure. Score one for the good guys.”
A gust of wind swirled up the last of the leaves, briefly plastering a few against our plate glass until they flew off again. The winds had changed here, and so had many lives. I wondered if mine would change as well.
“And thank you,” Watson interrupted my thoughts. “I feel like—I have a purpose again. I can make a difference. This is a hell of a lot better than Afghanistan, I can tell you that.”
She toasted me with her tea. “And for you? Way better than being a high school geology teacher.”
I sighed. Watson is sometimes cavalier with details. Not high school.
“Elementary,” I said.
RAFFA
by Anne Perry
It was one of the nicest hotels in London. The dining room was suitably lush, sombre, and filled with the chink of china and the delicate odors of coffee and bacon, but Marcus St. Giles was unimpressed with it. His fame as the current television Sherlock Holmes had accustomed him to such places. He would rather have eaten at a truck stop, and played Hamlet, brilliantly, to a single audience. There was no passion in Sherlock Holmes, not a great deal of complexity that had not already been explored a hundred times.
He was making money, but he had lost enjoyment, purpose. It was all automatic, a caricature more than an art. There was no life in it.
“Please, sir . . .”
He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him, wide eyes staring at him solemnly. She looked to be about seven or eight years old—a child! A small, thin child with long hair and clothes which did not match.
“You are Sherlock Holmes,” she said in little above a whisper.
He drew in his breath to try to explain to her that he was Marcus St. Giles, playing Sherlock Holmes on television. Sherlock Holmes was an imaginary character, not a real person. He never had been real.
But she cut him off. “Please, sir, Mr. Holmes, my mummy has been kidnapped and I need you to help me.”
He froze. This was awful. He stared around the dining room to find the child’s mother. What on earth was she thinking of to let this . . . urchin . . . wander around alone, and not even properly dressed? But all the diners were busy with their plates of fruit, bacon and eggs, toast. They were all properly English, minding their own business, reading the Times, sipping tea.
“Please, Mr. Holmes,” she said again. “I saw you on the television, and I’ve read all your stories. Most of them, anyway. You can help me, can’t you?” There was a note of desperation in her voice and she was clinging onto her composure with great difficulty.
He had no children of his own and he had no idea how to deal with her. Was she even old enough to grasp the idea of acting? Pretending to be someone you were not?
“Look . . . what is your name?”
“Sarah,” she said with a gulp. Now there were tears in her eyes.
People at the nearby tables looked up. One of them clearly recognized him and drew the attention of her companion.