“His eyes had... an unusual glint.”
“How old would you take him to be?” Sherlock asked.
“His late fifties.”
“He is nearly eighty, but woe to any youthful fool who should wish to fight him! His first wife bore him several sons before expiring, one of whom was driving the carriage, and his new wife is expecting a child, no doubt another son.” Holmes took his top hat and stick. “The weather is exceptional. Let us walk for a while.”
“Where are we going? High society, I presume.”
He smiled. “Oh yes.”
We started down the street. The gloomy weather of the past few days had lifted, winter retreating before a returning autumn. Great coats and mackintoshes had been left at home. The golden sun was low in the sky and lit up the bronze leaves of an oak tree across the way.
“Do you recall Lord Harrington visiting me on Monday? Yesterday, I went to the home of his deceased brother, the former Lord Harrington, and spoke with his coachman and an elderly butler. I convinced them at last to give me the name and address of the woman he was seeing. I assured them I would not involve the police or allow their master’s good name to be impugned. They seemed genuinely fond of him. The coachman had often seen the woman greet his master at her door, and that particular day, the butler admitted her into the house. An hour later, he found Lord Harrington in a pool of blood, and the lady had fled. He was not surprised, because his master had been acting oddly and had even bid him farewell earlier that day. Harrington was a big strong man, and neither the coachman nor the butler thought the small woman could have possibly murdered him in such a violent way. Hence their silence with the police.”
“So we go to question the lady. And her address? She must dwell in one of the more respectable houses of accommodation.” Sherlock took a piece of paper from his pocket. I stared at the writing for a few seconds. “Good Lord—there must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake.”
“But one must be well-off and above reproach to live on that street.”
Holmes smiled again. “Obviously only the first is true.”
We soon hailed a hansom and took a brief ride through the sunny streets. There were wealthier neighborhoods than our destination, but none more respectable; it was a favorite of retired officers, rising young bankers, and solicitors. We went to the main entrance of the house in question, and Holmes rapped with the door knocker.
“Contradict nothing I say,” he said. “I want our quarry to believe we are prospective clients.”
I gave him a suitably dumbfounded look. The door swung open. In the musty shadow stood an enormous woman dressed in gray. Her colorless, soiled hair was parted exactly down the middle, and she had a greasy curl before each ear. Her chin and mouth floated upon a great moon of flesh, which bloated forth from a lace collar. Two grayish-brown eyes, like flecks of mud, stared from under half-closed lids, and two rosy spots on either cheek, obviously rouge, clashed with the rest of her complexion. The pink of her tongue flickered across her lower lip, and she smiled at us, an expression which made me want to turn and run.
“Good day, gentlemen. What might I do for you?”
Holmes held his hat in his hands, long fingers clutching at the brim. “We wish to see Miss Flora Morris.”
The woman’s chin bobbed in its sea of flesh. “Ah, yes—my niece, Flora. And what business would you gentlemen have with her?”
“A friend recommended her to us, madam. He said her acquaintance might prove a fruitful one.” Holmes winked at her and attempted to leer.
The woman gave a great hah! of a laugh. “Fruitful, yes—that’s very good.”
“I can assure you that it will be a very profitable meeting, if you take my meaning.” He gave his pocket a pat.
The woman laughed again. “I’m sure!” She glanced about somewhat warily. “Do come in, gentlemen. No use standing about in the street.”
We stepped inside, and she closed the heavy oak door behind us, shutting out the warm sun and the autumnal breeze. The parlor had an odd odor; dark maroon curtains hung on either side of the tall windows, the blinds pulled almost to the sills, leaving it dim and chill. I shuddered as I glanced about. The furniture was massive and solid; ornate lace doilies were pinned to the arms of the overstuffed chairs and sofa. The carpet was thick and appeared new, a pattern of somber reds and purples.
“I am Mrs. Morris. I can take you to Flora. However...” She glanced at me, her eyes briefly conducting an appraisal. “I have another niece, Louise, who will be back shortly.”
“We both wish to meet Flora,” Sherlock said.
Mrs. Morris scratched at her chin. “It will cost you extra.”
“The expense is not a problem.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes dug his fingers into my arm and smiled grotesquely. “My friend is very shy.”
Mrs. Morris smiled again. “We shall remedy that.”
She turned and started for the stairs. She must have weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, but she wore a bustle, the worst possible fashion for such a figure. The gray dress was fully cut, not tight, an expensive-looking fabric—and there were yards of it. Her upper arms were as big around as a stevedore’s, though not so hard, and the girth at her waist reminded me of a young oak growing before the house. We followed her up the stairs. My cheeks felt warm as I reflected upon the few brief words between her and my cousin.
“Exactly how many nieces do you have, Mrs. Morris?” Sherlock asked.
“Just the two, and very good girls they are. They do me proud.” We went down the hallway, and she wrapped at a door. “Flora! Flora! Visitors, dear.”
The door swung open. The girl inside was so different from Mrs. Morris that any lingering doubts that they might actually be related vanished at once. She was a slight little thing, frail, blonde, and very pale. She was not truly beautiful, but she had a pleasant enough face: large blue eyes, a narrow mouth with almost colorless lips, and a small, slightly turned-up nose. She smiled at us, revealing a pair of dimples, but she seemed weary. Her blue silk dress was well cut with the puffy upper sleeves coming into fashion. It emphasized her tiny waist.
“These gentlemen said a friend had recommended your acquaintance.”
Flora’s chest swelled as she inhaled. I could not hear any whistling, but she appeared almost consumptive. “Do come in, gentlemen.”
Mrs. Morris folded her arms as we walked by. “I’ll be close by if you need anything. And I shall want fifty pounds.” She spoke in such a way that she sounded both accommodating and threatening.
Flora closed the door. She was a good six inches shorter than her supposed aunt. We were in a large sitting room, the furniture, carpet, drapes, and decorations all of the highest quality. “Do sit down, gentlemen.”
She herself sat in a wicker chair near the window, the light quite flattering. She wore gloves, but she pulled them off. Her hands were small and slender, and I could see the blue veins under the skin. Her smile had vanished, but she attempted to resurrect it.
“A friend gave you my name? I hope he was pleased.” Something about her articulation was a bit strained; her “H”s were overemphasized.
Holmes had sat at one end of the velvet sofa. Even the furniture seemed suggestive. “I presume so, Miss Morris.”
She ran the fingertips of one hand across the palm of the other; the skin of her palm had a rosy orange flush. Despite the smile fixed on her lips, her blue eyes seemed detached, curiously vacant. I could almost see her thoughts losing focus and drifting, but then she willed herself back into the room, again becoming conscious of our presence.
“We do our best to please. Would you gentlemen care to go out somewhere for supper, or would you prefer...?” The sudden awkwardness did not fit with her profession, but she was so very young—at most a year or two past twenty—that she could not have been thus employed for long.