Chapter Text

I

I feel a pleasant sense of trepidation as I sit down again after almost exactly ten years at my desk, insert a sheet of paper into the typewriter and type the title of my story: "Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Missing Daughter". It has now been a long time since I wrote about my great friend, though there would be plenty to tell. As his work is also his pleasure, the consulting detective of Baker Street would never agree to abandon solving puzzles and problems. Only Sherlock Holmes resides in Baker Street no longer, but in a cottage on the Sussex Downs. He has discovered a passion for beekeeping, to which he applies himself with devotion and, although he has left his address to Scotland Yard, his brother Mycroft and to me, he wishes to be left undisturbed, unless the business is particularly urgent. 

The account of these events will never be published, as none of the involved parties would agree to it. I have, however, decided to put them down on paper anyway for old times sake and because the adventure I am about to relate has some extraordinary elements to it, as well as originating from an accumulation of what Holmes would very much dislike to call “coincidences”. I shall send him a copy for his amusement when I am done and perhaps give one to dear Mrs. Eleanor Brown, whose boy is so fond of detective stories.

It was early September, 1912, and on a sunny Monday morning—being fortunate enough to have no patients in my appointment book—I sat down on the bench at the back of my practice to enjoy the fine weather. It had been a terribly wet summer, but the temperature had risen a little in those days, and a warm breeze was blowing from the south. Soon after my secretary—lovely Mrs. Brown—joined me and I rose, thinking that an unexpected patient had arrived. However, she waved her hand, smiling, and handed me a letter. It had been sent all the way Paris and in a flying hand read:

Paris, 15th August 1912

Dear Dr Watson,

My name is Penelope Eagleton and I am writing to you as I seek to consult your friend and colleague Mr Sherlock Holmes on a matter of great urgency. I am aware of the fact that he is retired, hence, my addressing this letter to your practice instead. Nevertheless, I was hoping that you might be able to forward this message to him. 

I am contacting you in the name of my somewhat unorthodox family, which consists of myself, my sister Helena and our mother. A concerning situation has developed, as my sister soon wishes to move in with her partner and start her own independent life. She has therefore requested her father to sign over the bank account which he still holds in her name, but he has refused to do so, as he disapproves of the match. Helena insisted over multiple months without success, as the tones of the written exchanges with her father became more and more heated. He finally requested that she meet him in London for a face-to-face discussion of the matter (as we currently reside on the Continent) and my sister agreed to do so. She made the passage from Calais to Dover on 16th July and sent us a telegraph from there, confirming her arrival. Since then, however, we have not received any further message. 

Both Helena and I are not unused to travelling alone and have done so multiple times in the past, so her lack of communication did not cause any concern to our mother and I initially. As I am writing this letter, however, a month has passed and I fear greatly for my sister. Attempts of all kinds have been made to contact her father, but he seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth alongside her. Knowing the man I would not be surprised if he were the cause of this sudden vanishing of himself and his daughter. 

I will come to London myself to search for my sister, but I am hoping that I will be able to count on your and Mr Holmes’ support. I shall arrive on Saturday, 7th September and, if you are willing to help me, would be most grateful to come and meet you at your practice in the afternoon.

Kind regards,

Penelope Eagleton 

 

I was certainly quite puzzled by the letter and read it twice over in the hope of discovering some detail that had escaped me. For the first time I had been contacted regarding one of Holmes’ cases before the detective himself. I was struck by Miss Eagleton’s decisive tone and resourcefulness which shone through in the letter, despite the terrible anguish which she and her mother must have felt at the thought of a missing family member. Apart from these vague impressions as to the character of the lady, I could not, however, gather anything of consequence, and I therefore decided to assume the role of postman myself and deliver the letter to Holmes in person that very evening. In spite of the impressive progress of the Royal Mail in these years, the Sussex Downs remain a rural and sparsely populated area, to which a letter usually takes around five days to arrive.

In the evening Mrs. Brown and I took a hansom together, as she lives quite near St. Pancras, and she reminded me before going into the house not to let Holmes’  famously bad appetite influence me, and to eat a wholesome supper. 

After the hustle and bustle of St. Pancras I enjoyed the pleasant feeling that comes over one when leaving the chaotic city behind and heading for the countryside. We pulled into the station just as the setting sun began to turn the sky red and I made the short walk to my friend’s cottage in high spirits. 

As so often on my visits, I found Holmes among the bees. A fitting place for him in my opinion: the buzzing of the hives is perhaps the manifestation of the workings of that brilliant mind. Total confusion and yet only apparent; as my friend had explained to me on previous visits, each individual bee has its own task and they work incessantly towards one common goal. In the case of the bees this is the maintenance of the colony, in the case of the celebrated detective the search for truth.

“Good evening, Holmes,” I called cheerfully, waving my arm in greeting.

“Ah, Watson!” he replied, raising his fencing veil.

He strode over to me and shook my hand, smiling.

“It is always a pleasure to see you! But I see from your lack of luggage and your excited air that this is not a leisurely visit, so tell me, what is it?” he then asked, sharp as ever.

“It is good to be here, old chap!” I returned the greeting.

Then, remembering dear Mrs Brown, I added: “There is indeed something on which I—or rather a certain Miss Eagleton—would like to consult you. But as London is not in flames, and Baker Street is still standing, I should be grateful to discuss it over a cup of tea—and perhaps a bite of food!”

“Of course, my dear Watson, where are my manners? Come in, come in!” Holmes patted my shoulder with a laugh.

The cottage was what dear Mrs. Hudson would have called “her personal nightmare.” If she had succeeded in keeping my friend somewhat in check when we still resided in our apartments in Baker Street, this was now Holmes’s sole domain, and looked accordingly. It was chaotic, yet there was a certain irregular order and sense of care for the objects in the house. I would have called it “cosy,” but my friend would not have appreciated it.

Holmes went to change out of his beekeeping attire, and then served me tea and some cold sandwiches, which were perhaps not quite what Mrs. Brown had meant by “wholesome supper,” but which satisfied me perfectly.

I handed him the letter. “This came this morning from Paris, and I found it so intriguing that I decided to do exactly as requested and carry the message to you.”

My friend read the contents, and then took a few moments to study the paper and envelope more closely.

“Any surprising findings you would like to share? For old times’ sake?” I asked after a few moments of silence. Holmes smiled.

“I am afraid there is nothing of particular interest. The paper and envelope are of the cheapest quality, probably bought singly for the purpose of writing the letter. And yet the sender, or at least her family, must be at least of the middle class, as the letter was sent by express, which is more expensive,” he said, and then asked: “What do you make of it, Watson?”

“Not much, except that this Miss Eagleton shows extraordinary strength of character under such circumstances,” I repeated my thoughts of the morning. Then it occurred to me, and I added: “Oh, and I suppose the unorthodox family situation to which she refers is the separation of mother and father.” 

Here Holmes held up his forefinger: “The sister’s father. The lady always writes of this man as her father , referring to Helena, who would in fact be her half-sister.”

“An unorthodox family indeed!” I exclaimed. My friend looked amused. 

“Indeed. A family whose daughters are accustomed to travelling alone from an early age, and of which one comes to London by herself in search of her lost sister,” murmured Holmes, stretching out his long fingers to the pipe on the small table before us.

“The case seems to have caught your interest,” I noted, as I handed him some tobacco from the Persian slipper that, just as it had been in Baker Street, hung near the fireplace. “Will you come to London to meet Miss Eagleton?”

“I believe I shall. What interests me the most about this possible kidnapping are the people involved and that, Watson, is a rarity nowadays.”

I spent the night in the comfortable guest room, leaving Holmes late still smoking in his armchair, and found him in the same place early the next morning, as if he had never stirred. I gathered, however, that he had retired to his room during the night, for he looked well rested, his hair neatly combed, and was now in his silk dressing gown. I prepared to leave the cottage after just a cup of tea, so as to be able to catch the first train to London and arrive in time at my practice.

“I shall see you on my Saturday afternoon, then,” I said to my friend as I went out, but he shook his head.

“You shall see me on Friday evening at 10.40 at St. Pancras, if that suits.”

“Friday evening? But Miss Eagleton will not be arriving until the next day!” I exclaimed.

“Ah,” said Holmes, “that cannot actually be the case, for I know for a fact that there are no ships of the Calais-Dover line at week-ends.”

“But why should the lady give us the wrong information?” I asked in surprise. “Could she have confused the dates?”

“That may be the case, but as an experienced traveller Miss Eagleton should not be given to oversights of this kind. No, I believe she will actually arrive by the last boat from Calais on Friday, which arrives in Dover at seven. She will then take the train to St Pancras half an hour later and will be in London by ten forty. She will need the evening to settle into her accommodation and perhaps the morning to rest from the journey,” he explained.

“I do not follow, Holmes, can we not give the lady time to compose herself and see her as requested the following afternoon?” I suggested.

My friend looked thoughtful. 

“No, Watson, I should prefer to meet Miss Eagleton at a time she does not expect. The spontaneous reactions of people in unanticipated situations always reveal a great deal about their character and, as you have noticed, this lady is of a rather unique disposition.”

I declared myself happy to meet Holmes at St Pancras on Friday and assist him in this new case as so often before. He bade me a hearty farewell, and then I hurried off to the station, curious to see what would await us.

Chapter Text

II

The weather on Friday did not bode well. A furious wind had piled leaden clouds in the sky over London, and by evening it was pouring. I abandoned all hope of using my umbrella as soon as I stepped out of my practice, as it would have been simply blown away by the storm that was raging, and although I had travelled all the way to St Pancras in a hansom, I arrived with my coat already quite damp. 

By 10:30 I was on a fairly empty platform, as those who had no immediate need of leaving London had taken shelter in their homes. I quickly found Holmes, leaning lightly with one shoulder against a pillar like a waiting cat. He was in city attire, and although he had not been able to escape the rain, as I noticed from his damp hair, I suspected he looked distinctly neater than I.

“Watson, I am glad you could come,” he greeted me.

“Holmes,” I shook his hand, “every time you show up in London I feel as if I have stepped back in time. I am no longer accustomed to seeing you in anything but a beekeeping suit or a wrinkled shirt!”

The detective laughed, “ In vestimentis non est sapientia mentis, my friend” he reminded me and indeed the phrase was truly fitting for Sherlock Holmes, whose sharp mind was always on the alert, regardless of what type of hat was covering it.

We then stood in a pleasant, familiar silence for a few minutes, waiting for the train. A slight delay was announced, probably due to the bad weather, and it occurred to me that the crossing from Calais to Dover might have been cancelled for the same reason.

“Do you think Miss Eagleton made it to England in this storm?” I asked.

“I believe so,” my friend replied. “I checked with the line office here and they told me the ship sailed, so I should think everything will go to plan.”

The rain poured down on the tracks like buckets of water from the dark sky.

“Perhaps the lady has changed her mind in this awful weather regardless and will take the next crossing,” I suggested.

“If Miss Eagleton is really as fainthearted as you paint her, there is Bizet and Saint‐Saëns at Queen’s Hall this evening, and we should make it there just in time for the second half,” Holmes commented.

The train did then finally arrive, but my friend did not move, and I noticed that he had strategically positioned himself right next to the steps that led into the tunnel towards the main exit. There was no need to search among the passengers, as everyone would soon come towards us.

I watched the swarm of people trying to reach the sheltered part of the platform as fast as possible to avoid the rain and realized, “Holmes, we don’t know who we’re looking for!”

The detective was also focused on the passengers, but answered calmly, “We can exclude everyone who is not an unaccompanied young woman, which is a considerable number. But even if that were not the case, we might not  exactly know who we’re going to meet, but Miss Eagleton knows who she’s looking for and I think we’ve become quite a recognizable pair by now, my good old fellow.”

In fact, we couldn’t have overlooked the lady if we had tried. The turquoise hat with sweeping side-brim she wore seemed to be alight like a patch of bright summer sky. A in Paris’ latest fashion shapely cut jacket of the same blue and light brown, was paired with what I was astonished to notice was not a skirt, but wide high-buttoned trousers. As she reached the canopy and removed the hat and a mass of fiery auburn curls broke free against the leaden sky. She stopped when her gaze met ours and then came towards us.

“Forgive my unkempt hair,” Miss Penelope Eagleton said and quickly twisted her locks into a bun before replacing her hat. “Tight hairstyles give me headaches on long journeys.”

Then she held out her hand first to me and then to Holmes with a charming, yet somewhat fatigued smile.

“Dr. Watson, thank you for forwarding my message, and Mr. Holmes, how kind of you to make yourself available. I did not expect to be met by you so swifty,” she said.

I could not tell whether my friend had obtained from the surprise effect what he had wanted, for my part I thought that the attempt had produced no result whatsoever.

“With this bad weather we wanted to make sure that the crossing had gone well and that you had reached London as expected,” Holmes gave as reply; the lady nodded.

I offered to carry her only suitcase, but she refused with a smile and pointed to my left leg.

“I couldn’t, Dr Watson. The humidity must give you enough pain and I’m truly not travelling with heavy luggage,” she said and I thought that Mrs Brown would have very much agreed with her.  

“Have you any accommodation, Miss Eagleton?” Holmes asked, once we reached the main exit of the station.

She looked towards St Pancras Gardens, where the sky was darker, and clutched her hat.

“I’m afraid I haven’t arranged anything, but I’m sure I will be able to find something quickly,” she replied.

“In this storm and so late at night? Most respectable places won’t even take guests at this hour!” I had to protest.

“I know my way around the city centre, I’ll find somewhere to stay,” she insisted, but my friend intervened on my behalf, and  after a quick ride on the underground we emerged, as if ten years had never passed, in Baker Street and quickly made our way to the door under the number 221B.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” was the first thing our landlady exclaimed at the door, “My nerves are really too old for unexpected visitors!”

“You’ll have to forgive us, Mrs. Hudson, for this visit is due to an unexpected change of plans,” explained the detective with a smile.

At that Miss Eagleton protested again that she did not wish to be an inconvenience. Mrs Hudson, however, took one look at her and then sternly declared: “Oh, get this poor woman inside, she’s already half soaked!” 

My heart warmed as we went up to our comfortable sitting-room. Holmes hastened to start the fire, and soon we were sitting in our fireside armchairs, ready to hear the details of a new case from Miss Eagleton in the easy-chair before us.

"Please, Miss Penelope," said my friend, "If you are quite comfortable, tell us how we can help you."

At this moment, however, our blessed old housekeeper came in with hot tea and improvised sandwiches. Her hands trembled as she put down the tray, and I was reminded that time had passed, though I had for a moment forgotten about it. Our guest very kindly quickly reached her at the door and took the heavy tray from her, before setting it down on the little wooden table in front of the fireplace and taking her place once more.

“Well, then. I assume you have read the letter I sent Dr Watson?” the lady asked and I could tell that behind the composure of her green eyes, there was a good deal of nervousness. 

“I have and I gathered from it is that your half-sister Helena has broken off all contact after an appointment with her father here in London during which they were supposed to discuss Miss Helena’s finances in view of her impending marriage. Your mother and you now fear that something may have happened to her, correct?”

Miss Eagleton was silent for a moment, as if checking the validity of the statement in her mind and then confirmed: “Yes, that is correct.”

Holmes nodded.

“Very well, this provides me with a good general picture, but I would like to get some further details that are quite essential.”

The lady nodded for him to continue and at this my friend laid back in his armchair, lowering his eyelids and preparing to focus all the energy of his powerful intellect on the information that was to be provided.

“First of all, I would like to rule out the possibility that your sister has ceased communication by choice.”

This time our client was quick to respond. “It is so unlikely that it approaches impossibility,” she said. “We are very close.”

“Do you suspect that her disappearance is directly connected to the meeting with her father?” Holmes asked next.

“Yes. Helena’s relationship with her father has never been particularly good, but the tone of the letter exchange they had on this matter was outright hostile. He refused any type of compromise for months, until he suddenly bade my sister to meet him.”

“And Miss Helena felt quite safe doing so alone?” 

“Yes, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, both of us are used to travelling alone since early age and though the situation was tense, my sister’s father has never committed any acts of violence toward her, if not verbal ones. Helena knows it is within her right to ask for her savings to be signed over to her and she’s quite assertive when it comes to claiming her rights.”

“And the letters, do you have them with you?”  

Miss Eagleton took a sip of tea. “No,” she said then. 

At this Holmes’ full attention snapped back to her and he leaned forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on the tip of his joined fingers.

“You do realise Miss Penelope, that they are a main piece of evidence without which I lack a considerable amount of data?” 

The lady herself had sat up straight, but answered quite calmly: “I am sorry, but the best I can do is relate their content to you.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be enough” replied my friend and at this point I felt compelled to take the side of our client, who had travelled far and must be in a very worried state.

“But Holmes, I am sure Miss Eagleton would be able to provide a good summary of what was said in the letter exchange!” 

At last the detective tore his stern gaze from the lady. “I’m sure that is the case, Watson. Yet it is not about the contents, but about the great number of details one can gather from the paper, envelope, stamp, handwriting, ink and so on. A letter is a unique type of document, let alone a whole exchange of them. Since they were sent from here, it would have been possible to trace them back to specific post offices.”    

“That wouldn’t have been the case, Mr Holmes,” Miss Penelope cut in. “All letters were sent from the General Post Office in St. Martin’s Le Grand with the office of Helena’s father as the sender’s address.” 

“So he wanted to be untraceable!” said I. 

“Or his office simply happens to be on Lombard Street and the GPO therefore the closest post office,” my friend reminded me.

“Tell me about Miss Helena’s father. Who is this man? And what would he obtain by kidnapping your sister?”

The lady took some more sips of tea, as if taking some time to gather all the information in her mind.

“He is an Englishmen and my mother’s former husband from her first marriage. The breaking of the relationship between them left him with a strong distrust of women and a wish to control those partly under his power as much as possible. He has made my mother’s life at times very hard and has often tried to cause discord between Helena and our mother without success. Another thing I should mention is that my sister’s chosen partner, as well as our entire family, supports the Suffragettes’ Movement, which is particularly infuriating to my mother’s former husband.” 

“Ha! One of those proud  traditionalists then. And the name of the man?” 

Miss Eagleton fell silent for some moments. 

“I cannot tell you,” she said at last.

Holmes raised a quizzical brow: “Pray why is that?” 

The lady sat clutching her teacup rigidly, but stayed resolute and did not give in. There was a sternness in her manner that in a way matched Holmes’.

“As I wrote to Dr Watson already, my family is an unorthodox one and it needs to be protected. It is not up to me alone to decide to give you this information, when it would impact both my mother and my sister.”

“Holmes and I have taken on cases that depended on absolute secrecy before, we would swear to never divulge anything,” I tried my best to convince her. After all, if kings and heads of states had deemed us to be trustworthy, why shouldn’t this young lady? 

She shook her head, however: “I know that, Dr Watson, and I do not doubt that you would keep your promise. As I said, though, it is not for me alone to make this decision. I hope you can understand that.”

At this I sat somewhat astonished in my armchair, as I had stood astonished on the train platform, and didn’t quite know what to reply. Holmes and I had taken on plenty of complex cases, during which it had seemed impossible to discover any useful clues as to the solution. It was, however, the first time information was willfully retained from us in all openness. Perhaps, I thought, I had greatly misjudged the graceful face of the lady in front of us. 

“Pardon me asking,” I therefore said, “but your family is not connected to some criminal network?”

That seemed to amuse Miss Penelope and she assured me that it was not the case, but she still wouldn’t yield any other details.
The detective, on the other hand, sighed impatiently. “Very well, his occupation then—” he asked, but was interrupted by our client. 

“I cannot tell you anything about this man, but that he is well educated, of reasonable resources and works in the public sector. He is held in high regard by his colleagues and has never remarried. As for his character, he is not irascible, but very proud and becomes extremely vindictive if his pride or reputation are compromised.” 

Holmes seemed displeased, as whenever he was missing data, and this time I couldn’t help but agreeing  with him.

“You are giving me very little to work with here,” he indeed remarked.

“I am aware of that,” replied Miss Eagleton, but did not appear to be in any way closer to changing her mind. 

The detective leaned back in his armchair once again and our client also seemed to slightly relax.

“What attempts have you made to find your sister so far?”

“We have various connections here in London, whom we have asked to keep an eye out for Helena and try to contact her at places she would usually go to, but she wasn’t seen by anyone, nor did she reach out to our friends.”

Holmes hummed in agreement.

“You’ve declared her as missing to the police, I assume?”

At that a bitter smile spread over the lady’s face. 

“We’ve tried. But we were informed by Scotland Yard via telegram that ‘it is not possible to declare Helena as missing, when she is with her father’. Nor would they provide us with any information regarding missing young women here in England, so that we could perhaps have recognised her from a description. I hope that might change with your intervention.”

My friend silently regarded Miss Penelope for a moment and at that she turned her gaze to me, as if to seek my assistance.

“You are not asking me to take this case, but rather to be your passepartout ,” Holmes finally broke the silence.

“I’m asking for your help because I desperately need it to find my sister,” our client corrected him.  

Chapter Text

III

As it had already been late when we had arrived at Baker Street and Miss Eagleton had a long journey behind her, we soon suggested she retire after Holmes had agreed to accompany her on the following morning to the Yard. Our indispensable Mrs Hudson had prepared a spare room in her apartment downstairs for our guest and so it was soon just my friend and I sitting near the fire in a heartwarmingly familiar scene.  It was getting very late, but it being Sunday the following day, my practice would be closed and I had no other appointments.

I watched my friend puff away at his pipe until I couldn’t help but ask: “Well, Holmes, what do you think?”

“I am in the process of it,” he replied. “But tell me, my friend, what are your impressions?” 

I was at that moment much too tired to try to apply his methods, as I had tried multiple times in the past, so I simply said: “That Miss Eagleton is an extraordinary, charming young lady with secrets that she has to safeguard for some reason.”

“Extraordinary indeed,” murmured Holmes, “Everything about this case so far is extraordinary.”

“You’ve taken some cases before in which you weren’t even told the identity of your client. At least this we know!” I reminded him.

The detective was looking at the flames in the fireplace, lost in thought.

“That might be true, yet this is the first case in which I cannot somehow grasp what is left unsaid. At least for now.”

I thought over what we had learned from Miss Eagleton so far. 

“Perhaps the family’s involvement with the Sufraggette’s Movement has something to do with it. Meetings among members are often secret for protection,” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” Holmes nodded. “But that does not explain Miss Penelope’s unwillingness to reveal any details about her sister’s father.”

“Maybe we are indeed once again dealing with members of a royal house!” I jokingly suggested, but my friend waved his hand, unconvinced. 

“A young female member of royalty would never travel alone. No, no, Watson, a member of European royalty, or British—given her surname—is easily recognised.”

That was a blatantly obvious fact and I had, of course, not really meant my suggestion to be a serious one. Then again, members of Royal Houses had come to consult my friend in disguise on a couple of occasions, so could a suffragette be one of them? Most likely not, I decided.

 “From some very rich European family then, perhaps originally from England. Her attire is quite sophisticated!”

“That is less certain than what it might seem, my friend. Her clothing is certainly costly, yet also new. Furthermore, if she did have all that money, she would hardly travel in such minimalistic manner.  And there is the matter with the tea tray.”

“The tea tray?” I failed to follow.

“She stood up to help Mrs Hudson with the tea,” Holmes explained. “A person who grew up wealthy would not react in that way.”

“You mean, then, that she has come to wealth recently. Perhaps inheritance from her own father? Her mother’s second marriage could have been a rich one,” I proposed.

My friends sighed. 

“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, Watson! Yet all of these are nothing but baseless conjectures. I shall wait for some more data—if I will be allowed some—before I make any hypothesis.

At that point it was already midnight and I left Baker Street, promising to meet my friend and his client at the Yard on the following day. 

By the morning most clouds had been blown away by the strong wind. As I had maintained throughout the years the habit of waking early and my leg had improved greatly with the change of weather, I decided to take a long walk to Scotland Yard and add a small detour to Mrs Brown’s home and give her lad Finn a new of his beloved penny dreadfuls, whose stories he devoured—sometimes to his mother’s concern. 

Under the clock over the Yard’s gates I found my friend and Miss Eagleton standing straight like the hands of the clock striking ten. I cheerfully said “good morning” to them and then we proceeded easily beyond the gate, as Holmes was by then as well known a face to the police as the King to the country. 

“Evans,” the detective tipped his hat at the officer that met us at the door.

“Pleasure to see you back in town, Mr Holmes!” he greeted our party, “What burning trail are you following?”

“Miss Eagleton here is searching for her missing sister  and it would be most helpful to consult your case files on missing young women.”

We were led through the doors, however, once we passed the main foyer we were stopped by an unfamiliar face.

“Evans!” called a forceful voice, “What is going on?”

“Inspector Davies, Sir, this is Mr Holmes of Baker street and Dr Watson,” the officer made the introductions.

“I have eyes. I meant, what brings Sherlock Holmes to Scotland Yard? And go back to where you are supposed to be, Evans,” the unknown inspector said sternly.

He turned to us: “So then, why are you here?”

“Pleasure to meet you, Inspector Davies, you are new here. From Southampton?” the detective said as a greeting and I could see from the look in his eyes that he already had a perfect picture of the newcomer in his mind.

This Inspector Davies seemed to have a strong dislike for my friend out of pure principle. This had been the case for most men of the official police force in Holmes’ early days, but were now few and usually uncommonly stubborn ones. 

“I have heard of your magic tricks, Mr,” he said with an annoyed puff, “but I am working and not in need of entertainment. So I would kindly ask you to get to the point.”

The detective’s corner of the mouth almost imperceptibly shot upwards for a second, but then he replied in all seriousness: “Very well. We are here on the matter of disappearance, perhaps kidnapping. Miss Eagleton enlisted my help to find her sister and I would like to consult the case files regarding similar occurrences at the moment.”

Inspector Davies regarded our client and then spat: “I can tell by one look what the matter is here. This is one of those suffragette girls, who think they’re men because they wear trousers! Let me tell you where her sister is: maybe buried under a pile of rubble after blowing up some building, or kidnapped by one of her own mad companions!”

I was quite shocked at such an open display of hatred. It was true that the situation between the Suffragettes and the police was particularly tense, but as part of the public service a certain decorum was usually maintained by the police.

Miss Eagleton, however, was not so stunned as I and sharply retorted: “I assure you, Inspector Davies, we really are just women in trousers, but you seem very scared of us nonetheless, even when the only threat we make is that of equality.”

His face grew red, but Holmes was quick to intervene. “Inspector, may I remind you that the police are to be of equal assistance to all citizens, regardless of personal preference?” he said, sternly. 

Davies raised an eyebrow almost comically. “May I remind you , Mr Holmes, that case files are classified information? Ha! We can’t just have anyone walk into Scotland Yard and rummage through whatever documents they want! And now, I will ask you to leave, I have plenty of work to do.”

It had been a long, long time since we had been treated so rudely by the police, but Sherlock Holmes was not a man to waste energy on things he deemed to be unimportant, so he sighed and turned saying: “Welcome to London, Inspector, and if you should ever be in need of my magic tricks, my address is in what I presume is your new office.”

His manner was easy, but judging by the rigidity in his shoulders I was quite certain that my friend was annoyed by this inconvenience.

“I understand, Miss Penelope, that being insulted in that manner is intolerable, but your reaction was not a smart one. We might have still persuaded him,” he reproached her. 

Again our client proved to be uncommonly outspoken and said: “I suppose it would also be smarter for all the women fighting for rights to stay home as they always have and avoid the police’s mace.”

Sherlock Holmes, impossibly, did not reply. At that moment, however, as we were almost by the exit, a man’s head popped out of a side door: “Mr Holmes!”  

“Hopkins!”  

We were ushered into a tight office that was in every way overflowing with papers and which distinctly reminded me of how our own rooms in Baker Street had looked at times. 

“That’s our new chief inspector,” Hopkins said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the closed door. “Not a bad man, but hasn’t been here a week, so he’ll be tough for a time to gain some respect in the Yard. But tell me, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, how can I be of help?”

The matter was explained once again, as the inspector stood rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Sorry to hear that, Miss,” he said at the end.

“Can we count on your help, Inspector?” Holmes asked. 

“Hmph,” Hopkins scratched his balding head. “Theoretically I would be in the position to grant you access to case files, but Davies wouldn’t be very happy about that… Though, if you give me a description of your sister, Miss, I would let you know if I find anything matching.”

Our client gave him an appreciative smile: “That would be most kind. Helena has blond, curly hair and blue eyes. She’s of a similar height to me and quite slender.” 

“Noted,” the inspector tipped the side of his head. “And I will contact you at Mr Holmes’ address?”

“Oh no, Mr Holmes was very kind to host me last night, as I arrived late from Dover, but I shall not intrude for longer and will stay with friends. If you give me a paper I will write it down for you,” she said. 

This was new to me and, as we left Scotland Yard, it turned out that my friend hadn’t been informed either. 

“These friends of yours are expecting you?” the detective asked.

“Not exactly, but I am always welcome to stay with them, as they are welcome to stay with us. I just did not want to show up there unannounced last night when it was so late.”

Holmes nodded: “Where will you be staying?”

Miss Penelope looked at him apologetically, but stayed silent. The detective was clearly irritated and so we took the underground back to Baker Street in a rather tense silence, so that our client could pick up her luggage. Though our dear Mrs Hudson had complained the evening before at our unexpected arrival, she now seemed almost sad to let go of her overnight guest and remarked “that such fine ladies were rare now”, which from our rather curt housekeeper was as good as a warm hug. 

Miss Eagleton was quick to pack everything, put her bright turquoise hat on and stood at the door rather uncomfortably, fully aware that the detective was rather frustrated at her conduct.

“You are being of great help, Mr Holmes, truly,” she offered as an apology.

“I’m glad to be a useful resource,” Holmes replied rather cynically. “May I at least know what you intend to do now?”

Perhaps because our client felt guilty at her lack of collaboration she informed us that it was her intention to go to the office of her sister’s father to continue her search there and that she would have contacted us promptly if anything new of importance arose. 

She was out of the house barely half a minute when Holmes exclaimed “Come, Watson!” and we were on her heels. She was a fast walker, perhaps facilitated by the trousers, and made her way quickly towards the narrow roads of Marylebone, instead of the usual underground stop on Baker Street. It was not an easy stakeout, but both my friend and I could have walked among those twists and turns blind, as we knew them by heart. We watched Miss Eagleton disappear behind a sharp corner towards Bond Street and suddenly she was simply gone. I stared at the street before us, but there were no trees behind which one could hide and the high gates and fences of the many Georgian villas on that road made it impossible to do anything but go straight ahead. 

Then Holmes knocked his fingers on the bars of the tall black gate just on our right and I noticed that it was not completely barred, but merely on the latch. 

“Ha! She must have found this open and gone straight through the garden to Bond Street just on the other side where she’ll already be God knows where,” the detective explained what was of course the only possible solution.

“Then she saw us following her!” I suggested, but my friend shook his head.

“I doubt that, Watson, but she probably suspected it and took the first opportunity to make sure that we didn’t.”

 “What an extraordinary young woman!” I exclaimed and Sherlock Holmes seemed to agree, as he nodded, though I doubt that he was very pleased about it at that moment.

Chapter Text

IV 

As there was nothing left for us to do but accept our small defeat, we went back to Baker Street where, remembering the kindness shown by Miss Penelope, I insisted with Mrs Hudson to carry upstairs the lunch she had lovingly prepared for us. As so often during his cases, it was left untouched by Holmes, who went up and down the room like a caged bloodhound. At some point he sighed resignedly, took his pipe from the mantelpiece and stood smoking, leaning on it. 

“You know, Watson, in Sussex on those slow neverending days in winter, I do sometimes give into nostalgia and reminisce on all the cases I took here in the City, and yet, I always fail to remember these unbearable dead times one spends waiting, and now I find that I miss my bees, who are constantly and reliably at work, just like my mind.”

I smiled at my friend, whom, I thought, could have been a great philosopher, in a different life and said: “Well, I certainly do remember the dead times. And the syringe you liked so much to use then.” 

My tone was cheerful, for it was not meant as a reproach and thankfully Sherlock Holmes had after some years of our friendship taken my medical advice and ceased the use of his beloved seven percent solution.

“Even I have to be allowed some foolishness in youth,” he replied amusedly, however, his gaze snapped to the window at that moment. “Ha! Speaking of which…”

Mere seconds later Miss Penelope Eagleton reentered our living room and I was shocked to see that a dark red bruise was blooming on her cheek. The detective was just as surprised.

“What happened?” he asked rather curtly.

“I was being expected, someone tried to take me, just like Helena,” our client replied rigidly.

“This was a very irresponsible choice, you ought to have let us accompany you when there was a risk of getting seriously injured or kidnapped.”

“Is that why you tailed me?” she retorted with sharp tongue and I could tell that Holmes was at the limits of his patience.

“Indeed. You have asked me to take up this case, but continuously kept relevant data from me. I cannot work like this, nor assist you.” 

“I have explained that I cannot tell you more,” Miss Eagleton repeated once again, sternly. 

“This is an unsatisfactory answer, if I am to find your sister,” the detective said sharply.

Our client raised her chin: “Are you refusing to help me, Mr Holmes?” 

“If you do not speak now, I do not see how I can.”

Her lips were pressed into a thin line: “Giving this information to you could have a huge impact on the life of people I love and I will not risk that.”

“I cannot help you, if you do not trust me. Is lying worth perhaps never finding your sister again?” Sherlock Holmes pressed further and, I thought, Miss Eagleton’s gaze turned fiery at that.

“You yourself seem to have very little trust in me, Mr Holmes,” she remarked bitterly. 

“I came all the way—,” she faltered just a moment, “I came all the way here to ask for your help and, I assure you, there is nothing I want more than being reunited with Helena. But you must understand that I cannot and I will not tell you what I have omitted so far. You are, of course, free to tell me to go now, but it will not affect my decision.”

I had witnessed few people withstanding Sherlock Holmes’ demands and even fewer who dared confront him in such manner. I believe my friend was rather impressed by such an immovable will, as he stood silent, regarding our client for some moments until he finally said: “Watson, would you please get Miss Penelope some ice for her cheek?”   

“And, please, sit down,” he continued towards her, “And do tell me whatever you judge fit for me to hear.” 

I left the sitting room for the kitchen with both of the still silent and clearly displeased by the words they had exchanged; Holmes rigidly filling his pipe and Miss Eagleton rigidly looking out of the window. 

When I came back upstairs with some pieces from the ice-box wrapped in a cloth and a buttered scone Mrs Hudson had insisted on me bringing it to our client, Holmes passed me a white anonymous envelope he must have just obtained from her. 

“ Bastard, ” it said on it and inside was a slip of paper with written on it: “ Police involvement often leads to scandals.”  

“What’s the meaning of this?” I asked perplexedly. 

“Nothing, really, the threat was just meant to distract me.”

“I do not quite follow,” I admitted.

“You were attacked the moment you took the envelope to read it,” the detective gathered and Miss Penelope nodded in confirmation. 

“I arrived at the office building just as most men were taking their lunch break and slipped in easily among the many people going in and out, without anyone asking questions. I was almost completely sure that Helena’s father would not be there, as he has done very well in his profession and therefore has no necessity to work with regularity. And of course, the address of his office is easily obtained, so if he wanted to avoid being traced that is the last place he would go to. But then I found his office door unlocked and, not believing my luck, stupidly thought that he might be there after all and taking his lunch break outside. I went in and the envelope was there to immediately catch my attention, propped up against a vase on the desk, so that it was the first thing one would see when entering. It took just a moment while I was opening it and suddenly a man moved from behind the door and tried to incapacitate me with a chloroform cloth.”

Holmes observed the envelope in his hand and then raised his gaze to our client: “You knew the letter was addressed to you.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “It’s Helena’s writing.”

“Ah!” said my friend, “Now, this is an extremely relevant detail!”

“So he is admitting that he kidnapped her!” I exclaimed, “Could this paper not be used as evidence for the police to obtain a warrant and access this man’s house?”

Holmes shook his head: “Not without proof and Scotland Yard would hardly take Miss Eagleton’s word for it. Now, the question is, whether he does in fact know that we have been to the police and is warning us of consequences, or if it is simply a threat.”

“I believe we would have noticed if we had been followed,” our client remarked. 

“Yes, I agree,” said the detective, “So for now, I am inclined to think that the message is merely an empty threat, written in your sister’s hand to attract your attention and to intimidate.”

“But Miss Eagleton was attacked, Holmes! That is most certainly not an empty threat!” I reminded him.

He nodded: “Kidnapping someone in the light of day is a big risk. Do you have an idea regarding his motives, Miss Penelope?”

“It would increase the pressure enormously,” she said.

“The pressure for what? Money, a certain action?”

“He wishes my mother to marry Helena off to some wealthy Englishman of his choice, I presume.”

“But mostly he enjoys exerting power over her,” she added dryly and then was silent for a moment. 

“There is very little legal protection for women who have children outside of marriage, let alone the social disdain they have to bear.” 

She said no more and yet the full meaning of the addressee on the envelope she had shown us became clear to me then. 

Holmes did not seem fazed and continued his questioning. 

“And your sister’s husband-to-be? He has not accompanied you to look for Helena?”

“No, we agreed it was better for me to come to London, as my sister’s partner appearing here would only cause an escalation.”

This was indeed surprising, as, while fathers might not be all too enthusiastic about their children’s choice in sweethearts often enough, we are hardly living in times in which the father’s blessing is still an absolute requirement. 

“What makes him so detestable to Helena’s father besides his political views?”

“My sister’s partner is involved with the IAW, which he does not support.”

“The IAW?” The initialism was unfamiliar to me.

“The International Alliance of Women,” she explained.

 I was somewhat ashamed at not recognising the shortened name, as Mrs Brown, who met with her district’s branch of the National Union of Women Suffrage Societies every Saturday to sell The Common Cause and raise money for the movement, had taught me a great deal on the subject of women’s rights.

“Well,” I therefore said and cleared my throat, “I am myself a member of Mr Brailsford’s Men’s League for Women’s Suffrage and I believe that hardly makes me a detestable man,” I said rather proudly.

Sherlock Holmes was looking at me amusedly, which did not go unnoticed by our client, who rather drily commented: “As amusing as you might find it, Mr Holmes, I assure you, it becomes less so when it is your right to determine your own existence you are fighting for.”

The detective bowed his head in acknowledgment: “Not at all, Miss Penelope, the cause has my fullest support. I was merely smiling at Watson’s embarrassment, for I know well that he is a great supporter of women, which, as he remarked, is perhaps still a cause of dislike, but hardly for such hatred. There must be something else about this man.”

Miss Eagleton went silent and regarded us with slightly furrowed brow. I had rarely felt so watched and had the distinct feeling that we were undergoing some sort of judgement. She looked at Holmes pensively and finally said, without lowering her gaze: “That she is not a man.”

For quite some moments I did not know how to react, though, I would like to add, it was not because of any sort of aversion regarding what our client had revealed. I have been fortunate enough to love and be loved and therefore believe that there is not much else to say on the matter. 

The detective gave a nod: “Ah, well this certainly puts things into perspective,” and then added: “Thank you, Miss Penelope, for trusting us with this information.”

Her expression was still quite tense: “It will not alter your willingness to be of assistance?”

“No,” Holmes said firmly. “I believe we all ought to be able to make our own choices, so long as they are not harmful to others.” 

And at that I finally found my voice again and added: “I very much share the sentiment, Miss.”

She gave us a heart-warming smile which I returned, her shoulders relaxing as she let go of a breath.

“Oh and about the man in the office, I thought he could have been his butler,” she said then, regaining her composure.

“A butler? But why?” I exclaimed. 

Holmes inclined his head and gestured for her to continue. 

“He was wearing unremarkable clothes of a working man, but his shoes were polished and barely worn out as if they had been used mostly indoors. And he was wearing cologne,” Miss Eagleton astoundingly recalled.

The detective hummed appreciatively: “Excellent, Miss Penelope, that is finally some starting point!”

“Will it bring us closer to finding the father of Miss Helena’s sister?” I asked him. 

“They meet down in Soho at what they call the Lord’s House on Great Pulteney Street. It’s an informal club for butlers and other members of staff of wealthy households and mostly an incredibly useless place to be in, for butlers keep their mouths well shut if not among themselves. In our case, however, they are not required to speak: it would be enough for Miss Eagleton to point out the man who attacked her.”

It was therefore decided that we would meet the following evening at the butlers’ club in Soho to test Miss Penelope’s theory and our client finally bid us good-day and left to join the friends that would host her. 

She was almost at the door to the corridor when Holmes said: “One more thing, Miss, how did you get away when you were attacked?”

“Luckily, I’m not easily spooked, so I managed to slip from his grasp and run away.”

Holmes nodded: “Very good. See you tomorrow then.”

Chapter Text

V

“What an extraordinary turn of events!” I exclaimed once I was alone with my friend once more. 

“Mmmh,” he hummed, “We finally have some more details, though there is still much we don’t know.” 

“The lady certainly has a fiery temperament!” I said and at that a wide, amused grin spread across my friend’s face.

“Indeed. She punched him right across the face, I suspect.”

“What do you mean, Holmes?”

“The knuckles of her right hand were bruised. Miss Penelope did not slip away at all, she gave him a punch, and a good hard one at that!”

I was rather baffled by that information and the only thing that occurred to me to say was: “Well, she is a suffragette after all!” and Holmes laughed heartily. 

“Come, Watson, let us go and listen to some music; I need to think!”

They were playing Brahms at the Royal Albert Hall that evening and Holmes was in high spirits, for the Romantics were his favourites. Miss Myra Hess, one of our most promising young musicians, delighted us for about an hour with the Piano Concert No. 2 and gained a long and enthusiastic applause for it, which my friend and I happily joined. 

We then decided to finish off the evening with a quick bite and a drink close by, but ended up passing the first well-lit and loud restaurant in search of a quieter place. Finally, we wandered into an old pub in the streets at the back of the Royal Albert Hall. The gold paint of the sign above the door, which welcomed us to The Bard, was slowly peeling off and there seemed to be only a few gas lamps, while most tables were lit by a candle. 

While far away from the hustle right in front of the concert hall, the pub was still lively enough and people were conversing freely. As Holmes went to order us some ale and jacked potatoes, I let myself be lulled by that chatter and fancied hearing foreign tongues in it as well; maybe Dutch or German. Trying to find the source of the sound I looked at a large table in the back of the pub and to my delight spotted Miss Hess! She was chatting in German, I assumed, for she was originally from Alsace, to what must have been some of her young colleagues from the orchestra. Holmes came back with the ale and, as I pointed out the pianist, we suddenly heard a familiar voice, though she was also speaking German. 

“But it’s Miss Eagleton!” I exclaimed as I recognised her bright turquoise jacket hung over the back of the chair. I moved to go over to greet her, but the detective held my arm.

“Let us wait for a couple of moments,” he said and we sat down at our table. 

Sherlock Holmes was, of course, fluent in German, but we were sitting quite far away and I thought it would be difficult to distinguish anything regardless. I heard “Mendelssohn” at some point and then realised that some of the people were speaking some romance language as well, but couldn’t make out much more. Our observation was cut short as the group of musicians paid and got up to leave, at which point Miss Eagleton spotted us and was rather surprised. 

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is my friend and exceptional pianist Myra Hess,” she introduced us and the lady charmingly shook our hands.

“It is an honour to meet you personally, Miss Hess,” the detective said.

“The honour is mine, if you are truthful in your stories, Dr Watson, Mr Holmes is a violinist like our Penelope here!” she replied.

Our client’s gaze snapped to her face and what seemed to me to be embarrassment.

“Myra, my musical skills are hardly worth talking about!” she hushed her. 

The pianist looked slightly taken aback, but then said: “Forgive me, I did not wish to cause you unease.” 

“Well, in my experience Sherlock Holmes is almost as good a violinist as he is at solving crimes,” I told her to lift the spirits once more.

At that the Lady’s expression turned serious. “Of course, Penelope told me you are helping her to find Helena. We’re all so worried!”

“I hope to be of useful assistance,” Holmes confirmed, gazing at our client. 

“And I thank you for it,” Miss Eagleton replied. 

Miss Hess looked back at her silently, perhaps lost in thought about her missing friend, and then they left, bidding us a good night. 

We walked towards the tube stop in the crisp evening air; it was going to rain again soon.  

“Well, Holmes,” I said, “I wouldn’t know how else to call that, if not a coincidence!”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, as he put on his pipe, “That we met Miss Penelope tonight perhaps, but that the friends she so badly wanted to keep secret from us are musicians, hardly. There’s lots to think about.”

“What were they saying? Anything useful?” I asked. 

“Not much, I am afraid. Someone asked if they would do Mendelssohn again, regarding the orchestra’s schedule, I presume.”

“But they were speaking another language as well,” I recalled.

“Yes, Italian, of which I have a very basic knowledge, but I believe someone invoked a ‘divine mother’ at some point, which is hardly more helpful.” 

“I would call it a fruitless evening then, if we hadn’t just had the pleasure of encountering one of Great Britain’s best pianists!” I commented.

“Not quite, my dear old fellow, besides meeting talented Miss Hess, we  now also have some more information regarding Miss Penelope’s provenance.”

“How so, Holmes? You too speak German, but are English.”

“Ah but remember that she told us that her friends, whom we now know to be musicians, frequently stay with her family.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed and took the concert’s flyer out of my pocket. 

“Miss Myra Hess, Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2, exclusively with the Munich Philharmonic," I read out triumphantly, “That’s where Miss Eagleton is from, then!”

Holmes smiled. 

“But if the orchestra is from Munich, why would the musicians be in need of hospitality in their own city?” he pointed out.

“The Munich Philharmonic is a popular choice for Italian musicians, as we could hear. I believe it’s more likely that Miss Penelope lives somewhere in Northern Italy and that members of the orchestra stay with her on their way to Munich.” 

We walked in silence for some moments.

“There is something very odd about this case I cannot quite put my finger on yet.”

That was all I could get out of him for the moment and we parted at the Hide Park stop, both of us towards our respective homes. 

On the next day practice was slow, though, as Mrs Brown merrily pointed out, “not slower than usual, just not as fast paced as an investigation with Sherlock Holmes”. Finally, when evening came, I walked my secretary to the tube stop where I bid her goodnight and then continued towards Soho where I had agreed to meet Holmes and Miss Eagleton at the Lord’s House. 

When I arrived I saw my friend standing next to a young man who greatly surprised me when “good evening, Dr Watson” came from under his lush moustache in our client’s voice. I laughed heartily and Sherlock Holmes smirked at the successful prank. 

“I can see that Holmes has introduced you to his art of disguise!” I said. 

“It seems that, like many things in life, it is necessary for me to be a man to be allowed access,” Miss Eagleton explained, though there was a mischievous twinkle to her eyes.

We therefore wasted no time and entered the club thanks to Holmes’ cards which he sent ahead and was as good as a key to almost any door in England and perhaps even beyond. 

As the detective had predicted, the tone of conversations noticeably decreased as we came in and club members made sure to keep some distance from the table we sat at. Holmes had chosen the spot wisely in a corner of the room, so that we would not be all too noticeable, yet could still maintain an overview of the present people. 

It only took a couple of minutes, then our client tapped Sherlock Holmes’ arm and slightly nodded towards the bar counter. There stood a big man with orderly combed back dark hair and a neat, though not particularly expensive, black suit. His nose, just as Holmes had predicted, was red and swollen, though he had tried to conceal it with some make-up.

Miss Eagleton stood up: “He mustn’t see us or he might recognise you.”

The detective nodded in agreement: “We’ll wait for him on the street.” 

Our client was quiet as we exited the Lord’s House. Finally, when we were standing in the shadows of the house opposite she said: “You both have to promise me something.”

“What is it,” I enquired amicably.

She raised her gaze to my friend.

“Whatever house this butler will lead us to, you have to promise that for now you will not try to find out who lives in it.”

I was baffled and Holmes raised a brow at her: “This seems like a rather absurd request.”

“In return, I promise that I will tell you more as soon as it becomes relevant,” she said. 

“You are demanding quite a lot from me,” the detective pointed out.

“Please,” was all she answered.

For a moment I thought Holmes would not accept such bizarre terms, but finally he agreed; probably wanting to avoid another disagreement with our client.

At half eleven our man finally emerged from the club and we pressed our backs to the building we were standing under, so as to completely disappear in the darkness. The butler lit a cigarette and then made his way down Great Pulteney Street in regular steps. We waited for a couple of moments and then followed suit, Holmes and Miss Eagleton on one side of the road and I on the other, so as not to attract too much attention. We passed Picadilly and then continued down towards Pall Mall until we reached Scotland Yard. Then to our surprise the butler entered one of the houses on Whitehall Place just a couple of yards further away. 

“These are police’s apartments,” Holmes said and turned to Miss Eagleton, “Was this where you expected him to lead us?”

She shook her head: “Not at all.” 

“May I enquire further, in that case?” the detective asked and promptly received our client’s permission. 

Scotland Yard kept a row of terraced houses for men of the force that either moved to the city with their families from further away to take on their position, or had no family home at all to return to after work. As it was not yet midnight and policemen were in any case used to being called upon at all odd hours, Holmes gave the doorbell a determined ring. Shortly after the door was opened by the butler we had followed from the club, who gave a violent start as she saw the detective and tried to immediately shut the door once more. I prevented him from doing so, though, by quickly putting my foot in the doorstep and blocking his motion. 

“Pardon the intrusion, but I’d have a couple of questions for you regarding an attack on a young woman earlier today,” said Sherlock Holmes, cordially on the surface, though his tone admitted no refusals. 

Miss Eagleton shrank into the shadows behind my back at that.

The man’s face turned almost as red as his bruised nose, but he remained composed and said: “I’m afraid that no visitors are welcome at this hour, Sir.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” the detective pressed and I could tell by the sweat that was trailing down the butler’s face and the clench of his jaw that it was becoming increasingly harder for him to keep his calm.

“Leave, or—”

“Malcom!” boomed a voice from inside, “What’s the meaning of this?”

And suddenly we found ourselves face to face with Chief Inspector Davies. His amazed expression must have mirrored ours, but quickly recovered.

“Now, this is insanity,” he growled and pointed a finger at Holmes. 

“The famous detective thinks that he can just show up at the police’s doorstep in the middle of the night as if he were the bloody king of England!”

The detective was not impressed with Davies’ outburst and took a further step towards the door.

“What is rather insane is that you are harboring a criminal, Inspector.”

The policeman’s eyes grew so wide that I feared they would pop out of his skull.

“You are mad,” he finally said.

“I am here on behalf of my client who has been attacked and injured by your man in a public space and I would represent her in a legal setting if need be. I am not quite sure how well you are settled at the Yard yet, but I assure you that my word is gladly heard in the London courts and your career would not benefit from bringing this man to trial,” Holmes said flatly. 

Inspector Davies looked at him for some moments, grinding his teeth, but then surprisingly turned his head to the butler and asked: “Is this true, Malcom?”

The man stared back at his employer who did not take his eyes off him and finally muttered: “I will not say anything.”

It took a little time more, but then Davies gazed at Sherlock Holmes in his doorstep and proclaimed: “In that case, I declare you under arrest, James Malcom. You will proceed with me to the Yard without struggle. Everything you say now can be used against you in legal court.”

We walked in a strange procession to the police station and finally left the inspector and his newly acquired prisoner there.

“I hope you are quite satisfied now, Mr Holmes,” the policeman said rather dryly. 

“Good night, Inspector,” was the only thing that Holmes offered.

As we made our way back to the closest tube station both of my companions were quiet. Sherlock Holmes was surely lost in thought about the new data he had just obtained and Miss Eagleton had of course not spoken before to conceal her identity, yet she remained silent still.

“This is bad business you are in, Miss Penelope,” the detective said suddenly, “I hope you are aware.”

It took a couple of steps more for our client to reply.

“I don’t know what to think. I confess that the events of tonight took a completely unexpected turn,” she admitted at last and sounded tired.

“At least we got a hold of that brute, the butler,” I offered as comfort, but my friend shook his head.

“I’m afraid you are too optimistic, Watson. I do not believe it for one moment to be pure coincidence that specifically Davies’ butler was our attacker and the arrest followed much too smoothly.”

I thought Holmes’ words over for a moment and then turned to him in astonishment: “Are you suggesting misconduct on the inspector’s side? Felony!”

I could see from the rigidity of my friend’s shoulders that he was at least as troubled as I by that notion, but at last he said: “It makes no sense to scatter uninformed theories to the wind now. We will go back tomorrow with you, Miss Penelope, in your own person as primary witness and hope to gain some clarity.

She nodded, but as we parted at Piccadilly Circus I clearly saw the worried lines of her face under her concealment.

Chapter Text

VI

I have lived through a great deal of adventures and have seen, I would say, a fairly good deal of what the world has to offer. Yet, I can confidently state that the next day was one of the most extraordinary and utterly surprising I have ever experienced. 

It had started fairly normally with an early breakfast before going down the stairs to my practice and having a look at my schedule for the day. Before, however, I could welcome my first patient at 08:00 o’clock, Mrs Brown suddenly rushed in with the morning’s paper.  

“John,” she called me by my forename, something she did only when great excitement came over her. 

She laid the newspaper on the desk and pointed to a short article in the scandalous style of the front page.

“Isn’t this the woman you and Mrs Holmes were looking for?”

Indeed there it was, though I could never have expected what it revealed:

PROMISE OF THE MUSICAL WORLD MISSING 

Early this morning, the well-known lawyer Mr Godfrey Norton has reported to Scotland Yard that his daughter, Miss Helena Norton, is missing. The young woman had in recent years achieved some fame within the Italian circles of classical music as one of the most promising conductors of the next generation, despite her sex; she is furthermore known as the daughter of the retired, but well-beloved opera singer Irene Adler.

Miss Norton was travelling to London with her sister, Miss Penelope Adler, known for her performances as soloist in the Mendelssohn and Tschaikovsky violin concertos at the Teatro della Pergola in Florence and with the Philharmonic in Munich. Both sisters were known to be involved with the Suffraggette’s movement, though, as Mr Norton reported, Miss Helena had been trying to distance herself. 

This decision was clearly not appreciated by Miss Penelope Adler, who fostered strong connections with the movement in England and most likely took advantage of these to organise a kidnapping of her own sister; a cruel reaction in the fashion of the Suffraggettes, who show no mercy to those who do not share their radical thought. 

Scotland Yard reacted energetically and a warrant of arrest for Miss Penelope Adler was issued in the hopes of soon recovering the poor sister.

I had hardly finished reading before I put on my hat and coat and ran out towards Baker Street. I reached Holmes’ door at the same time as our client. She looked me in the eye for a moment, with cheeks flushed and her auburn curls loose and wild from the frantic run. There was, however, an alertness and determination in her green eyes that struck me and as I regarded her without the flash of her turquoise hat and jacket to blind me, I suddenly found myself sucking in a sharp breath as it became all clear at once.

She must have witnessed my shock, for there was no way I could have concealed it, but still rang the doorbell with decisiveness  and said: “Come, Doctor Watson, there is no time to lose.”

Suddenly, I felt as if I had better leave, but Sherlock Holmes himself opened the door: “Come in.”

We stepped inside, but did not go further than the hall. I stood there in a state of such amazement that I could utter no sound and my friend and Miss Penelope remained just as silent for a couple of moments. 

Then the heavy clock that stood by the wall on the right chimed the quarter of the hour. The young lady’s gaze snapped to it and she suddenly regained her confidence, though she took a shaky breath. 

“Please believe me, I am very sorry that it has to happen like this, but the police know that I consulted you, so this will be the first place they’ll search for me and there are things I have to tell you.”

Holmes nodded gravely, then said in such an earnest tone of voice as I had never quite heard him use before: “Then, please, do.”

Miss Penelope stood rigidly, regarding him with her hands pressed to her sides like a marble caryatid, but she still spoke quickly and clearly. 

“I don’t understand what he is trying to achieve with this besides harming me, but Malcom, the butler, must be involved in some way. I cannot think clearly right now, so the only lead I can offer you is Godfrey Norton’s office. I was only able to go in for a couple of seconds before the butler attacked me, so I imagine that you’d have better chances of finding something of use. It is in the building complex on the corner between St Martin’s Le Grand and Angle Street, on the ground floor, first corridor and then sixth door on the right. It’s a Mortice Deadlock, but I suppose it won’t prove a big obstacle for you.”

Holmes nodded, but then said: “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

She gazed at him for a couple of seconds with the big eyes of a scared child and took a step forward, hands now tightly pressed together.

Then, though, all she said was: “You must not let him know.” 

She looked ashamed to pose such a request, her gaze finally dropping.

“My mother never revealed anything about you to him and I’m scared that if he were to find out, it would only make things worse for Helena.”

An unmistaken shadow of worry clouded my friend’s face, a troubled breath escaping him.

“Penelope, If I won’t reveal our relation to the police you will be taken to Saint Luke’s”, he regained his steady tone. Saint Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics was the most common destination for arrested Suffragettes and famous for its cruelty. 

“I know,” she replied quietly, yet still looked up again, “but I am more afraid of what might happen to my sister.”

I could no longer just stand still and protested: “Holmes, but there must be something we can do!”

“I appreciate your concern, but I am a grown woman capable of making my own choices,” she restated her decision, but even as she spoke confidently, I saw that her eyes were shiny with unspilled tears.

It was Sherlock Holmes now who took a step towards her and laid his hands on her shoulders. I was, I am sure, witnessing one of the most intimate moments of his life, though I was at the time so overwhelmed by the situation, that all thoughts of intrusion had completely left my mind.

“You are your own person and I understand your concern for your sister, but I will do all in my power to find her. You cannot expect me to stand passively as you are locked up in that madhouse,” he insisted, looking her in the eye.

Still, she shook her head stubbornly: “No. Anything you say will immediately end up in the papers and you don’t know Godfrey Norton and what degree his jealousy can reach!”

“And your mother?” my friend cut in, “Do you think she would have me watch silently as you are arrested?”

I could see the words had shaken Miss Penelope, as her lips parted in surprise, but they were like an ill omen because we heard the police car outside followed promptly by a loud ring of the doorbell. And then, just a moment before the police came in, the young woman raised her hand to Sherlock Holmes’ wrist and said: “The only thing you can do is get me out of there as quickly as possible.”

There was not much either of us could do as Chief Inspector Davies triumphantly stepped inside and declared Miss Penelope Adler under arrest with perverse satisfaction. 

“I find that our situations are reversed, Mr Holmes. You are now harbouring the criminal,” the policeman boomed, which gained him a chilling look from the detective.

“I expect, Davies, that you will be a decent enough man and act accordingly,” was the only thing he said as Miss Penelope was being escorted out and anyone would have been a fool not to hear the threat in his voice. 

I watched the door close and Holmes walk up the steps to our old rooms. I followed him, for even though I was not sure how to be of help, I knew what was to be done as a friend. 

He was standing at the window with his pipe, as if he were merely looking down at the road, but I could tell from his absent gaze that he was looking in, rather the outwards. I stopped rather awkwardly in the middle of the room, not quite certain of what to say. In the end it was him who broke the heavy silence.

“I’m always surprised by how we choose to be blind even when something is right before our eyes.”

“Holmes…” I started, but ended up admitting: “I don’t know what to say.”

He turned to me finally: “I find the same. So if you’d pour us a glass of brandy, I’d be much obliged.”

I did so and we sat down in our armchairs. For the first time in my life I witnessed my friend drown his drink in one go.

“Obvious, wasn’t it? And yet the thought did not cross my mind once,” he said somewhat bitterly.

“You are being too harsh on yourself, my friend,” I tried to comfort him, “I also was utterly oblivious, even after I read the news. It was just when I saw her at the door that…”

A melancholy half smile spread over Holmes’ features: “She was rather good, with that daring Parisian attire and her bright hat which would attract attention except to her face. Miss Eagleton… it’s a funny thing how we can never quite let go of ourselves, even when we are trying to conceal our own identity. My father’s name was Siger, I went as Sigerson after Reichenbach and ‘eagle’ in German is, of course, ‘Adler’.”

I had never inquired much about Sherlock Holmes’ private affairs, as he never inquired about mine; though he had probably over time deduced much more about me than I ever could about him. Now, however, I found that there were many questions I wanted to ask. I held my curiosity in check for the moment, however, as my friend had fallen silent once more and I knew that he would tell me in time, even without me explicitly questioning him. 

Very rarely had I witnessed Holmes losing his easiness with words, yet now he seemed to struggle to add any more. Finally, he inspired through his nose and as his eyes fell close he said: “A daughter…”

What could I have replied to such a monumental statement which, until just an hour before, I could have never imagined coming from Sherlock Holmes’ lips? 

The only thing I could think of was: “Well, how do we get her out of Saint Luke’s?”

That earned me a smile, as his gaze came to focus on me once more: “Watson, you’ve often painted me as the hero of your stories, yet I believe you make a much better candidate for that role.”

I returned his smile, glad to have been of some comfort, and my friend stood up with a sigh.

“We’ll start with the office,” he said and took his coat from the hanger.

Rush hour was not quite over as we got to Saint Martin’s Le Grand and, just like Miss Penelope had described after her lunch time visit, it was easy to slip in unnoticed among people that were constantly entering and exiting the building. By following the indications we had been given, we quickly found ourselves in front of a heavy mahogany door next to which a golden placket declared “Esq. Godfrey Norton”. 

Holmes slipped a small pouch out of his pocket, similar to a slim pencil case, which turned out to contain a variety of different picklocks.

“Watson, if you’d be so kind to see that we are not interrupted…”, he said and I moved to the beginning of the corridor to keep watch.

Finally, I heard the click of the lock giving in and we slipped into the office. Just as we had been told by our client, there was a desk just opposite the entrance and on it to the right a small, but certainly expensive Chinese vase. As the door opened inwards, I could see how someone might easily hide behind it and go unnoticed by a person entering the room, just like it had happened to Miss Penelope. 

Holmes moved methodically around the office, observing all carefully before touching anything in a way that had become so familiar to me that I almost did not notice anymore. The room was decorated with heavy wooden furniture and kept orderly. It was, all in all, the typical office of a successful lawyer in central London and I could not see anything that would stand out as a useful clue. 

My friend opened the drawers of the armoire, which contained several folders and worked through them, careful to maintain them in the correct order. Finally, he pulled out one and looked through the documents it contained.

“I’m afraid felony it is, Watson,” he said drily.

“What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked, as I looked over his shoulder.

In his hand he held a headed piece of parchment by the Hartley Law School, Southampton, declaring Godfrey Norton had graduated in 1881 with Honours. 

“I don’t follow.”

My friend put all the papers back into order and replaced them in the drawer.

“Inspector Davies has a faint accent, remember?”

I thought a moment about the few times I had heard the man speak and finally it dawned on me what my friend was suggesting.

“Why Southampton, Holmes, but it must be mere coincidence! It would be a serious crime!”

“Indeed,” he said and moved to the door. 

We exited the building quietly, but I had to inquire further as soon as we were outside.

“Are you saying the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard is involved in a kidnapping?”

“You are letting yourself be blinded by titles, my friend. The fact is that Godfrey Norton couldn’t have obtained information regarding the arrival of Penelope in Great Britain, or that she was consulting me from anyone but the police. We know we weren’t tailed and the only situation in which this information was divulged is when we accompanied Penelope to Scotland Yard on the morning after her arrival. We were seen by three people, Evans, Hopkins and Davies, the first two I have known for many years and I trust. That leaves only one candidate for our mole: the new Chief Inspector Davies, who just so happens to be from Southampton, the same city Norton went to University and possibly grew up in.”

Still, I was not quite convinced: “But it would still be a very serious felony! Why would a Chief Inspector agree to it?” 

“As to that I can only offer some possible hypotheses until we have more data we can rely on, but remember that Davies lives in police housing, which indicates that he is not particularly well off, never mind his position. So money could be a very good incentive and, of course, there is his strong dislike for the Suffragettes’ movement, which may act as further motivation.”

“My God, Holmes, what are we to do? Not even you can go to Scotland Yard and have the Chief Inspector arrested!” I exclaimed. 

“No, not without tangible proof,” he conceded grimly, “And yet I must get Penelope out.”