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charleygirlTitle: The Inheritance of Barnabus Aloysius Peabody 1/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3173
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. I do however own Cressida Cunningham and her family. Cressida has previously been mentioned in my fic The Puzzle Box and appears in Chapter 11 of Jottings from a Doctor's Journal.
Summary: Holmes is rescued from boredom by a summons from his cousin Cressida. The assignment, however, is not quite what he expected...
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER ONE
“I have received a summons, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes announced one morning in the spring of 1899. We were partaking of one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfasts, I myself having just finished a very fine dish of kedgeree, while Holmes had moved on to coffee and perusal of the first post of the day. He held out a yellow telegram form with the sugar tongs.
“From your brother?” I asked, taking the paper. I could think of no one other than Mycroft Holmes who would dare to send such an order to my friend.
“I could almost wish that the message did indeed come from Mycroft, for it would have very been very much the lesser of two evils. Sadly, however, it does not. It is my cousin Cressida who demands my presence in Harrow this afternoon.” Holmes did not look at all enamoured of this proposed family gathering – in fact, I am sure I saw his lip curl in contempt at the mention of his cousin. Having briefly met the lady in question myself a few months earlier, I could understand why. Both were strong, commanding personalities, and there was certainly no love lost between them, despite that fact that they had once been engaged (unwillingly, as Holmes had been quick to assure me).
I examined the telegram for myself. The wording was curt, and gave no clues as to the reason for the summons:
SHERLOCK, EXPECT YOU AT THREE O’CLOCK TODAY. IMPORTANT. NO EXCUSES, CRESSIDA.
“It tells us nothing,” I observed. “Will you go?”
Holmes reached for his pipe. “I admit that I am very tempted to refuse, but you know how bored I have been these last two weeks, Watson. I have come to the point where even the prospect of a confrontation with cousin Cressida is preferable to sitting here waiting for the doorbell to ring.”
I carefully put the telegram to one side and busied myself pouring a cup of coffee while he packed and lit the old briar. When he had it drawing to his satisfaction he said,
“I suppose you wish to properly meet Mrs Cunningham.” I must have looked blank, for he rolled his eyes and elaborated, “My delightful cousin.”
“Oh, of course. Well, if I will not be in the way I would be more than happy to accompany you this afternoon,” I said.
Holmes stood before the fireplace, puffing on his pipe, for some moments before he nodded. He glanced at me with a swift smile. “And so you shall. I have a little business to attend to this morning, but I will meet you at Marylebone at two to catch the quarter-past train out to Harrow. Then we shall see what Cressida really wants.”
***
And so we did.
Holmes was punctual, arriving at the station at two o’clock precisely. He would not elaborate as to where he had been, but it was evidently somewhere in town and entirely respectable for his dress and appearance were as neat as a new pin. Far from being irritable at the prospect of a meeting with his cousin – a rather formidable lady, I recalled – he seemed positively cheerful, a circumstance I could only put down to the possibility of a case being dangled before him like a carrot to a donkey.
“Have you ever visited your cousin’s home?” I enquired as the train pulled into the station at Harrow-on-the-Hill.
“Never, and I have also not been near her for long enough since she and Charles returned from Aldershot to discover exactly where she lives, hence my visit to Mycroft before joining you. He was less than amused to be disturbed at luncheon, as you can imagine.”
I could. The elder Holmes disliked disruptions to his routine intensely, especially at mealtimes. “And Mycroft knows her address?”
“Yes, though I had to promise to assist in some government business to make him give up the information. I will be up to my ears in state affairs for weeks.” Holmes’s sunny demeanour faltered for a moment, and he growled. “What do I care about the state of Siam?”
“Well, you were complaining of boredom this morning,” I reminded him.
He snorted. “I can assure you that I am not yet that bored, Watson! Had Cressida just wired her address it would have saved my making such a sacrifice, but it is not in her nature. She would always withhold information when we were children, purely to test my abilities.”
“And you do not mind? Surely, a grown woman behaving in so childish a manner - ”
Holmes just smiled slightly. “It is her intention to catch me out. She does not realise that she will never succeed. Ah! Here we are.” He leapt up from his seat and led the way from the train.
An enquiry of the station porter furnished us with directions, and we set out on a pleasant stroll through the twisting, leafy lanes up the hill towards the famous church. The spire climbed into the blue sky, impassively surveying the town beneath. Eventually we reached a large modern house of red brick set back in its own modest grounds. The gate, when Holmes tried it, was open, and we proceeded through a pretty little garden shaded by a spreading chestnut tree, to the front door.
My friend rapped sharply upon the knocker, and a moment later the door was answered by a timid uniformed maid. She looked rather taken aback at the sight of the imposing figure of Holmes on the step, and asked in a querulous voice,
“Can I help you, sir?”
“We are here to see Mrs Cunningham,” Holmes replied, handing her his card. “We have an appointment.”
“If you’d care to wait in the hall, gentlemen, I’ll inform the mistress of your arrival,” The girl shut the door behind us and scurried off.
“She looks terrified,” I whispered to Holmes when we were alone.
He shrugged. “You have seen Cressida, Watson – surely you can understand why?” he said, turning to look around the hall with his usual incisive gaze.
I recalled my own encounter with the rather…brusque person of Mrs Cunningham. That she had a temper had been quite evident from barely a few moments’ acquaintance. I owned that I would not like to have her as an employer, and assumed that her somewhat superior attitude was a trait of the Holmes family that my friend had fortunately not inherited. Sharp and cold though he could sometimes be, Holmes would always treat servants with respect and occasional kindness. My impression that Cressida was something of a tartar grew.
As I glanced about me, a large portrait which hung above the fireplace drew my attention – an elderly woman, straight-backed and imposing, her bright blue eyes staring out from the canvas, looked down upon us with a disapproving frown. She bore more than a passing resemblance to Cressida, and I remarked upon the likeness to Holmes.
“Great-Aunt Sophronia,” he replied. “She took to the black crepe after Uncle Tiberius died, even though they never agreed on anything in forty years of marriage. The poor man just keeled over and passed on without a warning, finally unable to stand the lash of her tongue a moment longer.”
“Do any of your family actually like one another?” I asked, only half in jest.
“I believe my Aunt Adelphia once had quite a tolerable conversation with her son Wolfram,” Holmes said quite seriously. “That was quite some time ago, however…”
I shook my head. This antipathy towards one’s own flesh and blood was quite alien to me, but then my friend was a most unusual man. I could not expect him to have come from such solid, normal stock as I had done myself. No such family could ever have produced a Sherlock Holmes.
As we waited, I gradually became aware of being watched, and not by the portraits in the hall. I was about to mention the sensation to Holmes, when he lightly touched my arm and pointed upwards.
“Holmes - ” I began, but he just put a finger to his lips.
I raised my head to see what had attracted his attention, and nearly jumped when I realised that two pairs of eyes were peering down at us through the banisters on the landing. Though I could make out little of their appearance, it would seem that two small children crouched there in the shadows, observing us.
“And what, pray, have you deduced from your observations?” Holmes asked loudly, his train of thought obviously having been running along similar lines to my own, but as always, at a faster rate.
After a pause, the voice of a young boy piped up, clear and confident, “That you must be our cousin Sherlock. Are you really the famous detective Papa reads about in The Strand?”
My friend exchanged a glance with me, and one of his swift smiles touched his lips. “I am indeed,” he replied, “and perhaps you would come down and explain your reasoning Master - ?”
“Ptolemy,” came the immediate response, “and this is Xanthe.” There was a rustle of clothing as the children scrambled to their feet, and then they were hurrying down the broad staircase, Ptolemy in the lead with his sister a few paces behind. They were polar opposites in appearance, Ptolemy so fair as to be almost white like his mother, in contrast to the glossy black locks of Xanthe. Both had the sharp features and even sharper gaze which characterised the Holmes family, even at such a tender age.
“Well, Master Ptolemy,” Holmes said when the two had reached the foot of the stairs and stood before him, “Tell me how you know who I was.”
“That’s easy,” Ptolemy replied. Though he could not have been more than nine years old, he showed no reticence or nervousness at being questioned by two complete strangers. He stood almost at ease, his hands folded in the small of his back, head held high. Xanthe was less forthcoming, preferring to hover shyly at his shoulder and peep at us through her curls. “Mama said you would be coming this afternoon, and you look enough like Mama for me to make the obvious connection. You don’t look much like the pictures in The Strand though - neither does Doctor Watson.”
I was not surprised that the lad had also deduced my identity. Instead I found myself wondering whether Holmes had been anything like Ptolemy at the same age.
“That is quite deliberate,” Holmes said smoothly in answer to the boy’s remark. “My career would be over in an instant were the population of London able to recognise me so easily.”
Ptolemy’s face screwed up in a thoughtful frown for a moment before he nodded. “That makes sense.”
“I would, however, be interested to know why your mother told you I would be coming when I did not confirm the appointment,” Holmes continued.
“Oh, that’s easy, too.” When my friend looked confused, the child smiled and said, “Everyone always does what Mama tells them.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, then, you had better conduct us to her. I am interested to know exactly what it is she wants of me.”
“She’s in the garden,” said Ptolemy cheerfully. “Xanthe, go and tell Mama that cousin Sherlock and Doctor Watson are here.” His sister ran off at once, black curls streaming behind her, and vanished into the depths of the house. Ptolemy turned back to Holmes and said, “I know why you’re here. You’ve come to solve Mama’s mystery.”
Holmes’s right eyebrow raised to join its fellow. “Your mother has a mystery of her own?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said soberly. “She needs you to find Barnabus Aloysius. He’s not been home for days, and Mrs Peabody is going mad with worry.”
***
Before I could even begin to wonder about the identity of Mrs Peabody and her remarkably-named missing person, Ptolemy had shown us through the house to the conservatory. This room, with its large windows and greenery would have been delightfully lush and airy had it not been rendered uncomfortably hot on such a glorious afternoon. I was most grateful when we were permitted to emerge into the garden, where a cooling breeze stirred the leaves of the shrubbery plants which surrounded a small patio.
Here, in a wrought-iron garden chair, her pale face shaded from the sun’s harmful rays by a wide-brimmed straw hat, sat Mrs Cressida Cunningham herself. She appeared, when she rose to greet us, no less self-contained and strong-willed than I recalled from our very brief encounter in the hallway at Baker Street. Her piercing pale blue eyes took our measure immediately, and she waved us both to seats, her thin mouth twitching in the roughest approximation of a smile.
“I knew you would come,” she said, after sending the nervously hovering housemaid for tea, “If you were going to refuse I would have received an express telegram informing me that you had urgent business in Outer Mongolia.”
“The notion did cross my mind,” Holmes replied, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his chair. “However, cases are somewhat scarce at present, and I am therefore grateful for any intellectual stimulus which comes my way. I take it that it is a professional capacity in which you wish to consult me?”
Cressida nodded. “It is on behalf of my neighbour.”
“Mrs Peabody?”
She looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know that? I mentioned nothing in my wire.”
“Your son told us,” I said, and earned myself a glare from Holmes.
“Of course.” Cressida’s hard face softened at the mention of her child, who had scampered off to play with his sister at the bottom of the garden. “He has been eager to meet you, Sherlock – you have become something of a hero to him since Charles started reading Doctor Watson’s stories at bedtime.”
“I am glad the lad enjoyed them, ma’am,” I ventured, only to gain an unimpressed glance.
“Well, they are not to my taste, but such florid romanticism will do for children, I suppose,” she replied, and I heard Holmes snigger. This time I glared at him.
He forced the smile from his face. “Watson’s tales are extremely popular,” he said, “ so much so that The Strand have requested another thirteen. It only remains to decide which of our many cases should be next put before the public.”
I tried not to show my surprise, for that he had agreed to the publication was news to me. It had been over a month since I had mooted the idea, only to have him dismiss it out of hand. “Er…your children have unusual names,” I remarked, thinking it time to change the subject. “Ptolemy I know, of course, but Xanthe?”
“Greek, meaning golden haired,” said Holmes in amusement. “Rather ironic, under the circumstances.”
Cressida shot him a freezing glare. “She was fair at her birth, as were you,” she replied with a pointed look at his dark head.
Needled, he sat up, immediately businesslike. “Tell me why you summoned me out here, Cressida. I wish to have the facts.”
“Very well. My neighbour has lost her cat.”
There was silence for some moments. I waited, fully expecting a storm, and I was not disappointed. Holmes straightened, as though someone had run a ramrod up the back of his jacket, and said in a dangerous tone, “Her cat?”
“Yes. He has not been seen for five days now, and she is frantic with worry. She practically begged me to ask you to come up and look into the case.” Cressida’s tone suggested that had the lady not pleaded she would have done no such thing.
“I see.” Holmes’s face contracted in anger, and he stood, towering over Cressida and myself. “Watson, at what time is the next train to Marylebone? My time has been wasted in the most appalling fashion. A cat? Ha! I could really be quite insulted at being dragged all the way here on such a trivial errand.”
Cressida stood, too. She was some inches shorter than Holmes, but still above the average height for a woman and the high heels on her shoes meant that she could almost look him in the eye. “If you would allow me to elaborate, Sherlock, before you fly up into the boughs and bemoan the insult to your reputation, I will point out to you that this particular cat is very old and very fat and has not left the house in six years. It could not have gone missing of its own will, and so it must have been stolen!”
“Then may I suggest you try the nearest police station? They have far more experience at recovering lost pets than I,” Holmes said tartly.
She folded her arms. “As a matter of fact, we informed the police on the first day. They made a search of the house but found nothing. Sherlock, an old lady is beside herself with worry because her companion has been taken from her. Have you no compassion?”
I watched as they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. It was stalemate, and at length Holmes resumed his seat with a martyred air.
“You surprise me, cousin,” he said, “Aiding the helpless was never much in your style.”
“We all change with age,” said Cressida with a flick of a perfectly-arched brow. “I can see, however, that you are just as objectionable now as you were at the age of twelve.”
I had to hide my smile behind my hand, for the expression upon Holmes’s face was thunderous.
“I commit myself to nothing,” he told his cousin, and she sighed, nodding. “Very well. Tell me the exact situation.” He closed his eyes, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
Cressida’s mouth twitched in irritation. “I have told you. The cat is gone. Mrs Peabody heard no one enter the house, and no one was seen loitering outside. There is no cat flap, and no way for the animal to leave the house unaided. It is too overweight and infirm to even make the attempt. On Monday evening it was there, the next morning gone without a trace.”
“There have been no visitors, no strangers to the house in the past few weeks?”
“None.”
“The breed of cat owned by Mrs Peabody?”
“A long-haired Persian. I believe he is very valuable – she has spoken more than once of his worth,” Cressida said. “Now, will you accept the case?”
There was a very long pause, during which Cressida’s impatience became almost tangible and I felt most uncomfortable caught in the middle of a decades-long animosity. Holmes sat there, brows drawn together in a deep frown, for some time, before he eventually leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together.
“Very well,” he said. “I suggest we go and speak to your Mrs Peabody immediately.”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3173
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. I do however own Cressida Cunningham and her family. Cressida has previously been mentioned in my fic The Puzzle Box and appears in Chapter 11 of Jottings from a Doctor's Journal.
Summary: Holmes is rescued from boredom by a summons from his cousin Cressida. The assignment, however, is not quite what he expected...
THE INHERITANCE OF BARNABUS ALOYSIUS PEABODY
CHAPTER ONE
“I have received a summons, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes announced one morning in the spring of 1899. We were partaking of one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfasts, I myself having just finished a very fine dish of kedgeree, while Holmes had moved on to coffee and perusal of the first post of the day. He held out a yellow telegram form with the sugar tongs.
“From your brother?” I asked, taking the paper. I could think of no one other than Mycroft Holmes who would dare to send such an order to my friend.
“I could almost wish that the message did indeed come from Mycroft, for it would have very been very much the lesser of two evils. Sadly, however, it does not. It is my cousin Cressida who demands my presence in Harrow this afternoon.” Holmes did not look at all enamoured of this proposed family gathering – in fact, I am sure I saw his lip curl in contempt at the mention of his cousin. Having briefly met the lady in question myself a few months earlier, I could understand why. Both were strong, commanding personalities, and there was certainly no love lost between them, despite that fact that they had once been engaged (unwillingly, as Holmes had been quick to assure me).
I examined the telegram for myself. The wording was curt, and gave no clues as to the reason for the summons:
“It tells us nothing,” I observed. “Will you go?”
Holmes reached for his pipe. “I admit that I am very tempted to refuse, but you know how bored I have been these last two weeks, Watson. I have come to the point where even the prospect of a confrontation with cousin Cressida is preferable to sitting here waiting for the doorbell to ring.”
I carefully put the telegram to one side and busied myself pouring a cup of coffee while he packed and lit the old briar. When he had it drawing to his satisfaction he said,
“I suppose you wish to properly meet Mrs Cunningham.” I must have looked blank, for he rolled his eyes and elaborated, “My delightful cousin.”
“Oh, of course. Well, if I will not be in the way I would be more than happy to accompany you this afternoon,” I said.
Holmes stood before the fireplace, puffing on his pipe, for some moments before he nodded. He glanced at me with a swift smile. “And so you shall. I have a little business to attend to this morning, but I will meet you at Marylebone at two to catch the quarter-past train out to Harrow. Then we shall see what Cressida really wants.”
***
And so we did.
Holmes was punctual, arriving at the station at two o’clock precisely. He would not elaborate as to where he had been, but it was evidently somewhere in town and entirely respectable for his dress and appearance were as neat as a new pin. Far from being irritable at the prospect of a meeting with his cousin – a rather formidable lady, I recalled – he seemed positively cheerful, a circumstance I could only put down to the possibility of a case being dangled before him like a carrot to a donkey.
“Have you ever visited your cousin’s home?” I enquired as the train pulled into the station at Harrow-on-the-Hill.
“Never, and I have also not been near her for long enough since she and Charles returned from Aldershot to discover exactly where she lives, hence my visit to Mycroft before joining you. He was less than amused to be disturbed at luncheon, as you can imagine.”
I could. The elder Holmes disliked disruptions to his routine intensely, especially at mealtimes. “And Mycroft knows her address?”
“Yes, though I had to promise to assist in some government business to make him give up the information. I will be up to my ears in state affairs for weeks.” Holmes’s sunny demeanour faltered for a moment, and he growled. “What do I care about the state of Siam?”
“Well, you were complaining of boredom this morning,” I reminded him.
He snorted. “I can assure you that I am not yet that bored, Watson! Had Cressida just wired her address it would have saved my making such a sacrifice, but it is not in her nature. She would always withhold information when we were children, purely to test my abilities.”
“And you do not mind? Surely, a grown woman behaving in so childish a manner - ”
Holmes just smiled slightly. “It is her intention to catch me out. She does not realise that she will never succeed. Ah! Here we are.” He leapt up from his seat and led the way from the train.
An enquiry of the station porter furnished us with directions, and we set out on a pleasant stroll through the twisting, leafy lanes up the hill towards the famous church. The spire climbed into the blue sky, impassively surveying the town beneath. Eventually we reached a large modern house of red brick set back in its own modest grounds. The gate, when Holmes tried it, was open, and we proceeded through a pretty little garden shaded by a spreading chestnut tree, to the front door.
My friend rapped sharply upon the knocker, and a moment later the door was answered by a timid uniformed maid. She looked rather taken aback at the sight of the imposing figure of Holmes on the step, and asked in a querulous voice,
“Can I help you, sir?”
“We are here to see Mrs Cunningham,” Holmes replied, handing her his card. “We have an appointment.”
“If you’d care to wait in the hall, gentlemen, I’ll inform the mistress of your arrival,” The girl shut the door behind us and scurried off.
“She looks terrified,” I whispered to Holmes when we were alone.
He shrugged. “You have seen Cressida, Watson – surely you can understand why?” he said, turning to look around the hall with his usual incisive gaze.
I recalled my own encounter with the rather…brusque person of Mrs Cunningham. That she had a temper had been quite evident from barely a few moments’ acquaintance. I owned that I would not like to have her as an employer, and assumed that her somewhat superior attitude was a trait of the Holmes family that my friend had fortunately not inherited. Sharp and cold though he could sometimes be, Holmes would always treat servants with respect and occasional kindness. My impression that Cressida was something of a tartar grew.
As I glanced about me, a large portrait which hung above the fireplace drew my attention – an elderly woman, straight-backed and imposing, her bright blue eyes staring out from the canvas, looked down upon us with a disapproving frown. She bore more than a passing resemblance to Cressida, and I remarked upon the likeness to Holmes.
“Great-Aunt Sophronia,” he replied. “She took to the black crepe after Uncle Tiberius died, even though they never agreed on anything in forty years of marriage. The poor man just keeled over and passed on without a warning, finally unable to stand the lash of her tongue a moment longer.”
“Do any of your family actually like one another?” I asked, only half in jest.
“I believe my Aunt Adelphia once had quite a tolerable conversation with her son Wolfram,” Holmes said quite seriously. “That was quite some time ago, however…”
I shook my head. This antipathy towards one’s own flesh and blood was quite alien to me, but then my friend was a most unusual man. I could not expect him to have come from such solid, normal stock as I had done myself. No such family could ever have produced a Sherlock Holmes.
As we waited, I gradually became aware of being watched, and not by the portraits in the hall. I was about to mention the sensation to Holmes, when he lightly touched my arm and pointed upwards.
“Holmes - ” I began, but he just put a finger to his lips.
I raised my head to see what had attracted his attention, and nearly jumped when I realised that two pairs of eyes were peering down at us through the banisters on the landing. Though I could make out little of their appearance, it would seem that two small children crouched there in the shadows, observing us.
“And what, pray, have you deduced from your observations?” Holmes asked loudly, his train of thought obviously having been running along similar lines to my own, but as always, at a faster rate.
After a pause, the voice of a young boy piped up, clear and confident, “That you must be our cousin Sherlock. Are you really the famous detective Papa reads about in The Strand?”
My friend exchanged a glance with me, and one of his swift smiles touched his lips. “I am indeed,” he replied, “and perhaps you would come down and explain your reasoning Master - ?”
“Ptolemy,” came the immediate response, “and this is Xanthe.” There was a rustle of clothing as the children scrambled to their feet, and then they were hurrying down the broad staircase, Ptolemy in the lead with his sister a few paces behind. They were polar opposites in appearance, Ptolemy so fair as to be almost white like his mother, in contrast to the glossy black locks of Xanthe. Both had the sharp features and even sharper gaze which characterised the Holmes family, even at such a tender age.
“Well, Master Ptolemy,” Holmes said when the two had reached the foot of the stairs and stood before him, “Tell me how you know who I was.”
“That’s easy,” Ptolemy replied. Though he could not have been more than nine years old, he showed no reticence or nervousness at being questioned by two complete strangers. He stood almost at ease, his hands folded in the small of his back, head held high. Xanthe was less forthcoming, preferring to hover shyly at his shoulder and peep at us through her curls. “Mama said you would be coming this afternoon, and you look enough like Mama for me to make the obvious connection. You don’t look much like the pictures in The Strand though - neither does Doctor Watson.”
I was not surprised that the lad had also deduced my identity. Instead I found myself wondering whether Holmes had been anything like Ptolemy at the same age.
“That is quite deliberate,” Holmes said smoothly in answer to the boy’s remark. “My career would be over in an instant were the population of London able to recognise me so easily.”
Ptolemy’s face screwed up in a thoughtful frown for a moment before he nodded. “That makes sense.”
“I would, however, be interested to know why your mother told you I would be coming when I did not confirm the appointment,” Holmes continued.
“Oh, that’s easy, too.” When my friend looked confused, the child smiled and said, “Everyone always does what Mama tells them.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, then, you had better conduct us to her. I am interested to know exactly what it is she wants of me.”
“She’s in the garden,” said Ptolemy cheerfully. “Xanthe, go and tell Mama that cousin Sherlock and Doctor Watson are here.” His sister ran off at once, black curls streaming behind her, and vanished into the depths of the house. Ptolemy turned back to Holmes and said, “I know why you’re here. You’ve come to solve Mama’s mystery.”
Holmes’s right eyebrow raised to join its fellow. “Your mother has a mystery of her own?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said soberly. “She needs you to find Barnabus Aloysius. He’s not been home for days, and Mrs Peabody is going mad with worry.”
***
Before I could even begin to wonder about the identity of Mrs Peabody and her remarkably-named missing person, Ptolemy had shown us through the house to the conservatory. This room, with its large windows and greenery would have been delightfully lush and airy had it not been rendered uncomfortably hot on such a glorious afternoon. I was most grateful when we were permitted to emerge into the garden, where a cooling breeze stirred the leaves of the shrubbery plants which surrounded a small patio.
Here, in a wrought-iron garden chair, her pale face shaded from the sun’s harmful rays by a wide-brimmed straw hat, sat Mrs Cressida Cunningham herself. She appeared, when she rose to greet us, no less self-contained and strong-willed than I recalled from our very brief encounter in the hallway at Baker Street. Her piercing pale blue eyes took our measure immediately, and she waved us both to seats, her thin mouth twitching in the roughest approximation of a smile.
“I knew you would come,” she said, after sending the nervously hovering housemaid for tea, “If you were going to refuse I would have received an express telegram informing me that you had urgent business in Outer Mongolia.”
“The notion did cross my mind,” Holmes replied, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his chair. “However, cases are somewhat scarce at present, and I am therefore grateful for any intellectual stimulus which comes my way. I take it that it is a professional capacity in which you wish to consult me?”
Cressida nodded. “It is on behalf of my neighbour.”
“Mrs Peabody?”
She looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know that? I mentioned nothing in my wire.”
“Your son told us,” I said, and earned myself a glare from Holmes.
“Of course.” Cressida’s hard face softened at the mention of her child, who had scampered off to play with his sister at the bottom of the garden. “He has been eager to meet you, Sherlock – you have become something of a hero to him since Charles started reading Doctor Watson’s stories at bedtime.”
“I am glad the lad enjoyed them, ma’am,” I ventured, only to gain an unimpressed glance.
“Well, they are not to my taste, but such florid romanticism will do for children, I suppose,” she replied, and I heard Holmes snigger. This time I glared at him.
He forced the smile from his face. “Watson’s tales are extremely popular,” he said, “ so much so that The Strand have requested another thirteen. It only remains to decide which of our many cases should be next put before the public.”
I tried not to show my surprise, for that he had agreed to the publication was news to me. It had been over a month since I had mooted the idea, only to have him dismiss it out of hand. “Er…your children have unusual names,” I remarked, thinking it time to change the subject. “Ptolemy I know, of course, but Xanthe?”
“Greek, meaning golden haired,” said Holmes in amusement. “Rather ironic, under the circumstances.”
Cressida shot him a freezing glare. “She was fair at her birth, as were you,” she replied with a pointed look at his dark head.
Needled, he sat up, immediately businesslike. “Tell me why you summoned me out here, Cressida. I wish to have the facts.”
“Very well. My neighbour has lost her cat.”
There was silence for some moments. I waited, fully expecting a storm, and I was not disappointed. Holmes straightened, as though someone had run a ramrod up the back of his jacket, and said in a dangerous tone, “Her cat?”
“Yes. He has not been seen for five days now, and she is frantic with worry. She practically begged me to ask you to come up and look into the case.” Cressida’s tone suggested that had the lady not pleaded she would have done no such thing.
“I see.” Holmes’s face contracted in anger, and he stood, towering over Cressida and myself. “Watson, at what time is the next train to Marylebone? My time has been wasted in the most appalling fashion. A cat? Ha! I could really be quite insulted at being dragged all the way here on such a trivial errand.”
Cressida stood, too. She was some inches shorter than Holmes, but still above the average height for a woman and the high heels on her shoes meant that she could almost look him in the eye. “If you would allow me to elaborate, Sherlock, before you fly up into the boughs and bemoan the insult to your reputation, I will point out to you that this particular cat is very old and very fat and has not left the house in six years. It could not have gone missing of its own will, and so it must have been stolen!”
“Then may I suggest you try the nearest police station? They have far more experience at recovering lost pets than I,” Holmes said tartly.
She folded her arms. “As a matter of fact, we informed the police on the first day. They made a search of the house but found nothing. Sherlock, an old lady is beside herself with worry because her companion has been taken from her. Have you no compassion?”
I watched as they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. It was stalemate, and at length Holmes resumed his seat with a martyred air.
“You surprise me, cousin,” he said, “Aiding the helpless was never much in your style.”
“We all change with age,” said Cressida with a flick of a perfectly-arched brow. “I can see, however, that you are just as objectionable now as you were at the age of twelve.”
I had to hide my smile behind my hand, for the expression upon Holmes’s face was thunderous.
“I commit myself to nothing,” he told his cousin, and she sighed, nodding. “Very well. Tell me the exact situation.” He closed his eyes, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
Cressida’s mouth twitched in irritation. “I have told you. The cat is gone. Mrs Peabody heard no one enter the house, and no one was seen loitering outside. There is no cat flap, and no way for the animal to leave the house unaided. It is too overweight and infirm to even make the attempt. On Monday evening it was there, the next morning gone without a trace.”
“There have been no visitors, no strangers to the house in the past few weeks?”
“None.”
“The breed of cat owned by Mrs Peabody?”
“A long-haired Persian. I believe he is very valuable – she has spoken more than once of his worth,” Cressida said. “Now, will you accept the case?”
There was a very long pause, during which Cressida’s impatience became almost tangible and I felt most uncomfortable caught in the middle of a decades-long animosity. Holmes sat there, brows drawn together in a deep frown, for some time, before he eventually leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together.
“Very well,” he said. “I suggest we go and speak to your Mrs Peabody immediately.”
TBC
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Date: 2009-05-05 05:00 pm (UTC)Plus I really love all the strange names of Holmes' family.
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Date: 2009-05-05 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-06 04:11 pm (UTC)I had fun finding those names. *g*