Page 1 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Prologue
February 1887
Alain de Lacey sprang up from his chair. “What did you say?”
He had not been de Lacey very long. At his immense mahogany desk, flanked by eighteenth-century oil portraits, sometimes he felt as if he had been reborn into the household of a manufacturer wealthy enough to buy a viscount for a son-in-law. And on most days, the sight of his secretary at the door, relaying the latest news with deference, only reinforced the impression that he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Today, however, he broke into a sweat.
“Mr. Baxter is coming to Britain, sir,” repeated his secretary. “And he wants you to make an appointment for him to call on Sherlock Holmes.”
So he’d heard correctly the first time. But didn’t Mr. Baxter usually visit Britain in summer? It was only February.
And Sherlock Holmes—or Charlotte Holmes, rather—had been under surveillance since Christmas. If anything, De Lacey would have thought that Mr. Baxter wished to get rid of the woman, not to undertake a formal visit.
An interview followed by a bullet or a strangling? But that was not de Lacey’s concern. Visits to Britain typically did not please Mr. Baxter. De Lacey needed to check everything he’d done since becoming de Lacey to make sure he hadn’t made any mistakes that would bring down Mr. Baxter’s wrath.
He took a deep breath and waved away the secretary. “Very well. Go prepare for Mr. Baxter’s arrival and I will have Sherlock Holmes ready to receive him.”
1
Dear Ash,
Allow me to set the scene.
The day is cold and drizzly. A fire crackles in the grate. I am seated at the desk in my room, a cup of hot cocoa to my left, and a plate of still-warm plum cake to my right.
I’ve portrayed my usual sybaritic setting, you say? Why, patience, my old friend.
For what do I see when I look down but enough lace and frill to astonish Louis XIV himself, an eruption of white foam upon a wildly pink sea. Yes, I am wearing my very first tea gown, which you kindly gifted me at Christmas.
Alas, I had to put on a dressing gown over this fuchsia splendor. Even with a fire in the room, the tea gown by itself is still too insubstantial a garment for this time of the year.
Now that you can picture me, let me relay some news.
It has been three weeks since we eliminated both milk and bread from my sister Bernadine’s diet. Not only does she no longer curl up into a ball after her meals, holding her innards in pain, she has gained five pounds. Madame Gascoigne remains astonished. Earlier she was convinced that nothing could be more wholesome than milk and bread. But I’ve long suspected that it must be some very common foodstuff that caused Bernadine’s perennial gastrointestinal distress. At home I couldn’t persuade my parents to agree to a scientific trial, but here I was able to put my ideas to the test.
I would have liked to give Livia a thorough account of Bernadine’s improvement. Unfortunately, what with the sums I remitted home last December for the family’s upkeep, my parents have become much more interested in the contents of the post and Livia can no longer count on always being the first person to examine incoming letters. In the end I conveyed my news in a small notice in the paper.
But in a small notice, there is no room to describe Bernadine’s new peacefulness or the beginning of a healthy blush to her complexion. Similarly, I can assure Livia that Sherlock Holmes flourishes, but must wait for a future moment to let her know that Mrs. Watson and I solved five cases in the past three days and that my esteemed partner levied from one client an exorbitant seven pounds eleven shillings for our trouble. Mrs. Watson can always smell those who will be happier with the services they receive if they are charged more, a valuable skill too seldom taught to young ladies such as my former self.
Ahem. Are you impatiently scanning this rambling letter, my friend? Well, skim no more, for here is where I at last thank you for the lovely, lovely microscope I received for Valentine’s Day.
I have heard of elaborate Valentine’s Day cards that can conceal a watch or some other small valuable items inside, but I must be the first person of my acquaintance to find a Valentine’s Day card amidst the scattered straws of a packing crate.
I digress. But what a shining beauty. What a perfect apparatus. After the unboxing, I sat and admired the microscope for a solid quarter hour before opening the instructional manual you’d so thoughtfully sent along.
After learning the controls, I quickly went through the dry-mount slides that had been supplied alongside the telescope. This past week saw me invade the kitchen on numerous occasions, to Madame Gascoigne’s wry amusement, to borrow bits of vegetable matter that I then sliced with a scalpel to make my own wet-mount slides.
I’ll spare you a full treatise of what I’ve learned about dying the specimens and illuminating them for maximum clarity and resolution, as this letter is running long. But allow me to express my gratitude once again. I adore the microscope and I can’t say enough good things about it.
Yours,
Holmes
P.S. But the letter isn’t so long that I can’t append a postscript or two. Apologies for using my own shorthand from this point forward as I answer the questions you posed in your letter. No, since you last inquired, I have not heard from either of the gentlemen in question. Our erstwhile companion in mischief has been silent since his abrupt departure last December. And my kin, after his brief but welcome message in the papers early in January, has also abstained from further communication.
P.P.S. I do worry a little about Livia. Granted, the swift acceptance of her Sherlock Holmes story for publication inBeeton’s Christmas Annualput her in a state of euphoria. But euphoria never lasts long in the Holmes household and she has been stuck there too long without a respite.
