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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 10/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Summary: Holmes is in immediate danger...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TEN
“Holmes!” I shouted desperately, wondering what I should do.
To try and dislodge the creature might force it to press its attack, but to just leave it…how the devil had it become animated in the first place?
“Holmes!” I raised my voice, hoping that it would reach him, but he only stirred and muttered; no closer to waking. It was one of the great ironies that just when I needed him to be his usual alert self he was insensible. “Holmes! Holmes, for the love of God, wake up!”
I scanned the room, hoping for something to aid me – a revolver would be no use, even if I had time to fetch it. My eye fell on the poker, which I had abandoned on the grate. It still bore the dent in the middle from its impromptu bending by Doctor Grimesby Roylott all those years ago. I called my friend’s name again, even louder than before, as I snatched it up, but still he did not wake. The scarab’s forelegs were tentatively plucking at his collar. Without properly thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed for the carafe of water on the table, lifting it and dashing the entire contents into Holmes’s slumbering face.
The effect was immediate. He sat up with a shout, staring wildly around him. “Watson! What the devil - ”
“Your collar, Holmes!” I shouted, ignoring him and gesturing urgently at his neck. “Quickly!”
He must have seen the thing from the corner of his eye, as he threw off the dressing gown like a man who has just discovered that his clothing is on fire. It fell to the ground, and I fell with it, raising the poker and bringing it down once, twice, three times on the bundle of fabric. With great satisfaction, I heard the sound of something within smashing, and I kept hitting it until eventually a hand closed over mine, stilling my arm. I glanced round, startled, to see Sherlock Holmes’s white, dripping face barely two inches from mine.
“It’s all right, Watson,” he said. “I think you have killed it.”
***
The remains of the scarab lay in state between us on the table.
I cradled a glass of brandy, my heart still hammering from the shock. Holmes sat opposite me, shrouded by a cloud of blue smoke, cigarette in hand. He had lit it claiming that he needed something to steady his nerves – I did not believe it, but let it go, and tried to ignore his half-smothered coughs.
“You have saved my life once again, Watson,” he had said as we stared at each other in those moments after the scarab’s destruction. “I owe you a thousand apologies.”
“How the devil did it come to be animated once more?” I wondered now, looking with distaste at the broken pieces, damaged beyond repair.
“In my investigations I had cause to replace the abdomen. Evidently it triggered what remained of the clockwork mechanism,” said Holmes. “When fully it wound it must have been able to run for some time.”
“Hideous thing.” The words did not do justice to the revulsion I felt.
“And infinitely dangerous. I was fortunate that your reflexes were so quick, Watson. Had you not been…”
“Don’t say it, Holmes. It did not happen.”
“But it could have done.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, coughing as he exhaled. There was frustration evident in his expression, frustration at his own weakness. “I am slow, Watson, this illness has made me slow.”
“All the more reason to allow yourself those things you need to recover,” I said. How ridiculous that it had taken the threat of imminent death to make us speak to one another again!
He shook his head, eyes closed. “I have to see this case through. Just this case. Then we will see.”
“Holmes,” I said, not wishing to provoke another quarrel, but knowing that I had to make the situation clear, “There must be no more - ”
“No, Watson. Do not speak of it. The end of the case, and then we will see.”
I sighed. It was the best I was going to get. “What should we do with that?” I asked, gesturing towards the scarab.
“Give it to Lestrade. It is evidence, after all.”
“What sort of man would create such a fiendish method of death?” I wondered.
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “An extremely ruthless and inhuman one,” he said.
***
I stared at the remains on the table. They held a macabre fascination, and I could not draw my eyes away. I half-expected them to rise up and fuse themselves together, becoming whole again. There was something so incredibly…alien about them, like nothing of this earth.
I was being fanciful, I knew, the product of extreme fatigue and anxiety. Still, I could not bring myself to look away. “I will never be able to sleep with that thing in the house,” I told Holmes.
I expected him to brush aside my concerns with a caustic comment, but instead to my surprise he opened the drawer of his desk and took out a cigar box. The contents emptied into the coal scuttle to join their fellows, he scooped up what was left of the scarab and placed it in the box, firmly closing the lid. This he put upon his desk and stood a heavy paperweight on top. But would that be enough to hold it?
“I still do not think I could sleep,” I said, despite the unpleasant prickling sensation behind my eyelids.
“If you fear leaving the room, you are welcome to take my bed. I have too much to contemplate for sleep,” he told me.
“Holmes,” I began in a chiding tone, but he held up a hand.
“When the case is done, Watson, not before. And to bring this case to a conclusion, I must consider the facts at hand.”
“Then I will bear you company,” I replied, not quite stifling a yawn.
He gave me a despairing glance which softened into a smile. “If you insist.” Moving back to the table, he spread out the papers he had been perusing that afternoon. I looked at the drawings once again, and frowned.
“This looks very familiar.”
“I am glad of it. My skill as an architect is poor, but I would hope that you might recognise a house you visited only two days ago.”
“Of course! Harcourt House. But why the sketches?”
Holmes sat down and lit up another cigarette. “The house did not look exactly right to me on Friday. You remember the case of the Norwood builder?”
“Very well. And we found the same ideas at Pondicherry Lodge only recently. You suspected there to be some secret, hidden room?”
“The study fireplace appeared to be too large for its function. Did you notice that, Watson?”
I shrugged. “Large houses frequently have exaggerated fittings. It is a design convention.”
“Indeed. But the chimney breast in the drawing room was not on the same scale. For a relatively small room, much of the study was taken over by the fireplace.” Holmes pulled one of the drawings towards him, regarding it with a frown. “I returned to the house after my trip to Greenwich today, and was fortunate enough to speak with the Honourable Charles Ravensley, a young man not inclined to be constrained by his father’s orders. He was quite happy to show me over the building while the rest of the family were out.”
“The earl would not have been pleased with that!”
“Indeed not. And the Honourable Charles was well aware of that fact, hence his cooperation. My tour of the house confirmed my suspicions. The study chimney, and those in the rooms directly above, is far wider than any of the others.”
“What would one conceal in a chimney?” I asked, puzzled.
“Consider the requirements of the astronomer, Watson. In the country the earl might build himself an observatory, but in London he would have to be more inventive. Where would one get the best view of the stars?”
I considered for a few moments. There could only be one place, above the smog and the gas light… “The roof?”
“Bravo, Watson! The earl built himself a secret stair to the side of the chimney, to allow easy and undisturbed access to the roof,” said Holmes. “It has long been his intention to study the lunar eclipse that is to take place tomorrow night. The fact that the celestial event also occurs on the festival of the god Seth would not doubt have made the date doubly important to him.”
“And to the person who stole the statue, no doubt.”
“Of course. The two events are inextricably linked. What is that?”
It took me a moment to realise that Holmes was pointing to an envelope protruding from beneath his papers. I picked it up and found it to be the message given to me hours before by the girl Sarah. I had completely forgotten about it. Holmes watched me with some interest as I tore open the envelope and scanned the contents.
“‘As the moon swallows the sun, so Sutek will swallow the earth’,” I read, mystified. “What does it mean?”
“It confirms that which we suspect: they will strike when the eclipse is at its fullest extent,” said Holmes, plucking the note from my fingers and reading it himself.
“Who will strike?”
He glanced up at me in surprise, eyebrows raised. “The cult of Seth, of course. They mean to raise their god, and Ibrahim Namin is their high priest.”
***
I am afraid to say that at some point during the night I did finally succumb to sleep, despite the attempts of murderous scarab beetles and menacing figures in hoods to invade my dreams. When I finally awoke I had a crick in my neck and a dull ache in the small of my back. Pulling my head up, I realised I had been sleeping where I sat, hunched over the table. Someone – Holmes presumably – had covered me with a blanket. Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in the curtains. It was Sunday morning – we had only a few hours to bring the case to a conclusion.
Rubbing at my eyes, I struggled up from the table. Holmes had taken possession of the sofa once more, and was fast asleep himself. Had he been in good health he would have sat up and smoked through the small hours, consumed with a case such as this. And we had never before tackled a case quite so bizarre, even taking into account the business involving the stage magician, the pelican and the corkscrew. I cast a glance towards Holmes’s desk, and was relieved to see the cigar box exactly where it had been left the night before.
Yawning hard enough to crack my jaw, I stumbled up the stairs to my own room. I never had become used to broken nights, despite the many cases in which I had assisted over the years. Holmes could usually run on next to no sleep, but I was made differently. I would have liked nothing more than to lie down on my own bed and sink once more into dreams, but there was no time for that now and so I did my best to make myself look presentable. Shaved and dressed, I made my way back to the sitting room in time to hear a furious shriek from below and the sudden pattering of feet on the stairs. Before I could even consider closing the door, the small figure of Ned Wiggins, the red-headed leader of Holmes’s band of street urchins, catapulted into the room.
“Mr ‘Olmes! Mr ‘Olmes! It’s tonight, jus’ like you said!” the boy exclaimed at the top of his lungs, causing me to issue a vociferous sotto-voce request for quiet.
The lad looked puzzled. “You don’t mean Mr ‘Olmes is asleep, do yer, sir?” he asked.
“That is exactly what I do mean,” I hissed, well aware that for anyone who knew Holmes’s habits it was an unusual claim to make. “You will wake him with such unwarranted noise!”
“It is a little late for such a warning, but thank you, Watson,” said a familiar voice, and a hand appeared over the back of the sofa, which was shortly followed by Holmes’s pale face, his sleep-ruffled hair falling over his forehead. “What the devil is the matter, Wiggins?”
“It’s jus’ like you said, Mr ‘Olmes,” said the boy, rounding the settee to hop from one foot to the other on the hearthrug while Holmes disentangled himself from the afghan in which he had wrapped himself. “Whatever they’re plannin’ it’s ‘appenin’ tonight!”
“So we had surmised. Have you heard any definite plans?”
“The little fella was there again this mornin’,” Wiggins said. “I ‘id in the water butt under the kitchen winder – could ‘ear every word they said.”
I blinked in surprise. “Was the butt not full?”
“Not after I kicked the bung out,” the imp replied with a wink. “That Arab bloke said everything was ready, and that ‘e’d got the key for tonight. Bribed one of the watchmen to get it.”
“Key to where? And which ‘Arab bloke’ would that be?”
“The British Museum. And the Egyptian ambassador, of course,” said Holmes, as though I should already be aware of the fact. “Or, should I say the false ambassador, as I have no doubt that the real one disappeared somewhere between London and Cairo. Do you recall Mycroft describing him as ‘an odd little fellow’? Remember as well the footprint on the carpet at Harcourt House.”
I struggled to recall – a great deal had happened since then. “You mean that - ”
“Indeed. The false ambassador was at the house the night Lord Amsworth was murdered.”
There was a knock at the door, and a disgruntled Mrs Hudson appeared with a telegram. She cast a disapproving glance in Wiggins’s direction, but the lad took no notice, awaiting his orders from Holmes.
“You heard nothing more?” my friend asked.
Wiggins shook his head. “They started talkin’ funny after that – shoutin’ at each other and runnin’ on a mile a minute. Couldn’t understand ‘em.”
“Very well. You had better get back there and let me know immediately if there are any further developments.”
The boy saluted and darted off, nipping round Mrs Hudson, who was still standing in the doorway. A few moments later the front door banged shut behind him.
“Mr Holmes - ” our long-suffering landlady began, but he stalled her with a raised hand and a smile.
“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I know. But at least this time he came alone. There will be no more invasions, I promise you.”
“So I should think!” Mrs Hudson declared as Holmes opened the telegram. I watched as his face became, if possible, paler than before.
“It is from Lestrade,” he told me, crumpling the sheet of paper into a ball and springing to his feet with an energy I had not seen since before his illness. He vanished into his bedroom, blanket flying behind him like a cloak. “Hurry, Watson! We must leave immediately!”
I exchanged a baffled glance with Mrs Hudson, who shrugged and left the room. “Where to, Holmes?” I called.
He was banging drawers and wardrobe doors. “Harcourt House! Mr William Ravensley has been abducted!”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Summary: Holmes is in immediate danger...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TEN
“Holmes!” I shouted desperately, wondering what I should do.
To try and dislodge the creature might force it to press its attack, but to just leave it…how the devil had it become animated in the first place?
“Holmes!” I raised my voice, hoping that it would reach him, but he only stirred and muttered; no closer to waking. It was one of the great ironies that just when I needed him to be his usual alert self he was insensible. “Holmes! Holmes, for the love of God, wake up!”
I scanned the room, hoping for something to aid me – a revolver would be no use, even if I had time to fetch it. My eye fell on the poker, which I had abandoned on the grate. It still bore the dent in the middle from its impromptu bending by Doctor Grimesby Roylott all those years ago. I called my friend’s name again, even louder than before, as I snatched it up, but still he did not wake. The scarab’s forelegs were tentatively plucking at his collar. Without properly thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed for the carafe of water on the table, lifting it and dashing the entire contents into Holmes’s slumbering face.
The effect was immediate. He sat up with a shout, staring wildly around him. “Watson! What the devil - ”
“Your collar, Holmes!” I shouted, ignoring him and gesturing urgently at his neck. “Quickly!”
He must have seen the thing from the corner of his eye, as he threw off the dressing gown like a man who has just discovered that his clothing is on fire. It fell to the ground, and I fell with it, raising the poker and bringing it down once, twice, three times on the bundle of fabric. With great satisfaction, I heard the sound of something within smashing, and I kept hitting it until eventually a hand closed over mine, stilling my arm. I glanced round, startled, to see Sherlock Holmes’s white, dripping face barely two inches from mine.
“It’s all right, Watson,” he said. “I think you have killed it.”
***
The remains of the scarab lay in state between us on the table.
I cradled a glass of brandy, my heart still hammering from the shock. Holmes sat opposite me, shrouded by a cloud of blue smoke, cigarette in hand. He had lit it claiming that he needed something to steady his nerves – I did not believe it, but let it go, and tried to ignore his half-smothered coughs.
“You have saved my life once again, Watson,” he had said as we stared at each other in those moments after the scarab’s destruction. “I owe you a thousand apologies.”
“How the devil did it come to be animated once more?” I wondered now, looking with distaste at the broken pieces, damaged beyond repair.
“In my investigations I had cause to replace the abdomen. Evidently it triggered what remained of the clockwork mechanism,” said Holmes. “When fully it wound it must have been able to run for some time.”
“Hideous thing.” The words did not do justice to the revulsion I felt.
“And infinitely dangerous. I was fortunate that your reflexes were so quick, Watson. Had you not been…”
“Don’t say it, Holmes. It did not happen.”
“But it could have done.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, coughing as he exhaled. There was frustration evident in his expression, frustration at his own weakness. “I am slow, Watson, this illness has made me slow.”
“All the more reason to allow yourself those things you need to recover,” I said. How ridiculous that it had taken the threat of imminent death to make us speak to one another again!
He shook his head, eyes closed. “I have to see this case through. Just this case. Then we will see.”
“Holmes,” I said, not wishing to provoke another quarrel, but knowing that I had to make the situation clear, “There must be no more - ”
“No, Watson. Do not speak of it. The end of the case, and then we will see.”
I sighed. It was the best I was going to get. “What should we do with that?” I asked, gesturing towards the scarab.
“Give it to Lestrade. It is evidence, after all.”
“What sort of man would create such a fiendish method of death?” I wondered.
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “An extremely ruthless and inhuman one,” he said.
***
I stared at the remains on the table. They held a macabre fascination, and I could not draw my eyes away. I half-expected them to rise up and fuse themselves together, becoming whole again. There was something so incredibly…alien about them, like nothing of this earth.
I was being fanciful, I knew, the product of extreme fatigue and anxiety. Still, I could not bring myself to look away. “I will never be able to sleep with that thing in the house,” I told Holmes.
I expected him to brush aside my concerns with a caustic comment, but instead to my surprise he opened the drawer of his desk and took out a cigar box. The contents emptied into the coal scuttle to join their fellows, he scooped up what was left of the scarab and placed it in the box, firmly closing the lid. This he put upon his desk and stood a heavy paperweight on top. But would that be enough to hold it?
“I still do not think I could sleep,” I said, despite the unpleasant prickling sensation behind my eyelids.
“If you fear leaving the room, you are welcome to take my bed. I have too much to contemplate for sleep,” he told me.
“Holmes,” I began in a chiding tone, but he held up a hand.
“When the case is done, Watson, not before. And to bring this case to a conclusion, I must consider the facts at hand.”
“Then I will bear you company,” I replied, not quite stifling a yawn.
He gave me a despairing glance which softened into a smile. “If you insist.” Moving back to the table, he spread out the papers he had been perusing that afternoon. I looked at the drawings once again, and frowned.
“This looks very familiar.”
“I am glad of it. My skill as an architect is poor, but I would hope that you might recognise a house you visited only two days ago.”
“Of course! Harcourt House. But why the sketches?”
Holmes sat down and lit up another cigarette. “The house did not look exactly right to me on Friday. You remember the case of the Norwood builder?”
“Very well. And we found the same ideas at Pondicherry Lodge only recently. You suspected there to be some secret, hidden room?”
“The study fireplace appeared to be too large for its function. Did you notice that, Watson?”
I shrugged. “Large houses frequently have exaggerated fittings. It is a design convention.”
“Indeed. But the chimney breast in the drawing room was not on the same scale. For a relatively small room, much of the study was taken over by the fireplace.” Holmes pulled one of the drawings towards him, regarding it with a frown. “I returned to the house after my trip to Greenwich today, and was fortunate enough to speak with the Honourable Charles Ravensley, a young man not inclined to be constrained by his father’s orders. He was quite happy to show me over the building while the rest of the family were out.”
“The earl would not have been pleased with that!”
“Indeed not. And the Honourable Charles was well aware of that fact, hence his cooperation. My tour of the house confirmed my suspicions. The study chimney, and those in the rooms directly above, is far wider than any of the others.”
“What would one conceal in a chimney?” I asked, puzzled.
“Consider the requirements of the astronomer, Watson. In the country the earl might build himself an observatory, but in London he would have to be more inventive. Where would one get the best view of the stars?”
I considered for a few moments. There could only be one place, above the smog and the gas light… “The roof?”
“Bravo, Watson! The earl built himself a secret stair to the side of the chimney, to allow easy and undisturbed access to the roof,” said Holmes. “It has long been his intention to study the lunar eclipse that is to take place tomorrow night. The fact that the celestial event also occurs on the festival of the god Seth would not doubt have made the date doubly important to him.”
“And to the person who stole the statue, no doubt.”
“Of course. The two events are inextricably linked. What is that?”
It took me a moment to realise that Holmes was pointing to an envelope protruding from beneath his papers. I picked it up and found it to be the message given to me hours before by the girl Sarah. I had completely forgotten about it. Holmes watched me with some interest as I tore open the envelope and scanned the contents.
“‘As the moon swallows the sun, so Sutek will swallow the earth’,” I read, mystified. “What does it mean?”
“It confirms that which we suspect: they will strike when the eclipse is at its fullest extent,” said Holmes, plucking the note from my fingers and reading it himself.
“Who will strike?”
He glanced up at me in surprise, eyebrows raised. “The cult of Seth, of course. They mean to raise their god, and Ibrahim Namin is their high priest.”
***
I am afraid to say that at some point during the night I did finally succumb to sleep, despite the attempts of murderous scarab beetles and menacing figures in hoods to invade my dreams. When I finally awoke I had a crick in my neck and a dull ache in the small of my back. Pulling my head up, I realised I had been sleeping where I sat, hunched over the table. Someone – Holmes presumably – had covered me with a blanket. Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in the curtains. It was Sunday morning – we had only a few hours to bring the case to a conclusion.
Rubbing at my eyes, I struggled up from the table. Holmes had taken possession of the sofa once more, and was fast asleep himself. Had he been in good health he would have sat up and smoked through the small hours, consumed with a case such as this. And we had never before tackled a case quite so bizarre, even taking into account the business involving the stage magician, the pelican and the corkscrew. I cast a glance towards Holmes’s desk, and was relieved to see the cigar box exactly where it had been left the night before.
Yawning hard enough to crack my jaw, I stumbled up the stairs to my own room. I never had become used to broken nights, despite the many cases in which I had assisted over the years. Holmes could usually run on next to no sleep, but I was made differently. I would have liked nothing more than to lie down on my own bed and sink once more into dreams, but there was no time for that now and so I did my best to make myself look presentable. Shaved and dressed, I made my way back to the sitting room in time to hear a furious shriek from below and the sudden pattering of feet on the stairs. Before I could even consider closing the door, the small figure of Ned Wiggins, the red-headed leader of Holmes’s band of street urchins, catapulted into the room.
“Mr ‘Olmes! Mr ‘Olmes! It’s tonight, jus’ like you said!” the boy exclaimed at the top of his lungs, causing me to issue a vociferous sotto-voce request for quiet.
The lad looked puzzled. “You don’t mean Mr ‘Olmes is asleep, do yer, sir?” he asked.
“That is exactly what I do mean,” I hissed, well aware that for anyone who knew Holmes’s habits it was an unusual claim to make. “You will wake him with such unwarranted noise!”
“It is a little late for such a warning, but thank you, Watson,” said a familiar voice, and a hand appeared over the back of the sofa, which was shortly followed by Holmes’s pale face, his sleep-ruffled hair falling over his forehead. “What the devil is the matter, Wiggins?”
“It’s jus’ like you said, Mr ‘Olmes,” said the boy, rounding the settee to hop from one foot to the other on the hearthrug while Holmes disentangled himself from the afghan in which he had wrapped himself. “Whatever they’re plannin’ it’s ‘appenin’ tonight!”
“So we had surmised. Have you heard any definite plans?”
“The little fella was there again this mornin’,” Wiggins said. “I ‘id in the water butt under the kitchen winder – could ‘ear every word they said.”
I blinked in surprise. “Was the butt not full?”
“Not after I kicked the bung out,” the imp replied with a wink. “That Arab bloke said everything was ready, and that ‘e’d got the key for tonight. Bribed one of the watchmen to get it.”
“Key to where? And which ‘Arab bloke’ would that be?”
“The British Museum. And the Egyptian ambassador, of course,” said Holmes, as though I should already be aware of the fact. “Or, should I say the false ambassador, as I have no doubt that the real one disappeared somewhere between London and Cairo. Do you recall Mycroft describing him as ‘an odd little fellow’? Remember as well the footprint on the carpet at Harcourt House.”
I struggled to recall – a great deal had happened since then. “You mean that - ”
“Indeed. The false ambassador was at the house the night Lord Amsworth was murdered.”
There was a knock at the door, and a disgruntled Mrs Hudson appeared with a telegram. She cast a disapproving glance in Wiggins’s direction, but the lad took no notice, awaiting his orders from Holmes.
“You heard nothing more?” my friend asked.
Wiggins shook his head. “They started talkin’ funny after that – shoutin’ at each other and runnin’ on a mile a minute. Couldn’t understand ‘em.”
“Very well. You had better get back there and let me know immediately if there are any further developments.”
The boy saluted and darted off, nipping round Mrs Hudson, who was still standing in the doorway. A few moments later the front door banged shut behind him.
“Mr Holmes - ” our long-suffering landlady began, but he stalled her with a raised hand and a smile.
“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I know. But at least this time he came alone. There will be no more invasions, I promise you.”
“So I should think!” Mrs Hudson declared as Holmes opened the telegram. I watched as his face became, if possible, paler than before.
“It is from Lestrade,” he told me, crumpling the sheet of paper into a ball and springing to his feet with an energy I had not seen since before his illness. He vanished into his bedroom, blanket flying behind him like a cloak. “Hurry, Watson! We must leave immediately!”
I exchanged a baffled glance with Mrs Hudson, who shrugged and left the room. “Where to, Holmes?” I called.
He was banging drawers and wardrobe doors. “Harcourt House! Mr William Ravensley has been abducted!”
TBC
