A Sherlock Holmes Adventure. Bonnie Macbird

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СКАЧАТЬ letter, Watson.’

      Mrs Hudson departed, throwing me an encouraging look.

      I snatched the letter from the tray and held it away. ‘Eat first,’ I demanded.

      With a murderous look, he emerged from his cocoon and slammed a biscuit into his mouth, glaring at me like an angry child.

      I held the letter away and sniffed it. I was rewarded by an unusual and delicious perfume, vanilla, perhaps, and something else. ‘Ahh,’ I said in pleasure, but Holmes succeeded in snatching the letter from my hand, immediately spitting out the biscuit. He examined the envelope thoroughly, and then tore it open, extracting the letter and scanning it quickly.

      ‘Ha! What do you make of it, Watson?’ His keen grey eyes were shaded by exhaustion, but lit by curiosity. A good sign.

      I took it from him. As I unfolded the letter I noticed that he was eyeing the teapot uncertainly. I poured him a cup, added a splash of brandy and handed it to him. ‘Drink,’ said I.

      The letter bore a Paris postmark with yesterday’s date. It was written in bright pink ink and on fine stationery. I glanced at the delicate handwriting.

      ‘It’s in French,’ I stated, handing it back. ‘And hard to read even if not. Here.’

      Impatient, he snatched the letter and announced, ‘Writing – most definitely female. Scent, ahh … floral, amber, a touch of vanilla. I believe this is a new scent of Guerlain, “Jicky”, in development but not yet released. The singer – for this is how she describes herself – must be successful or at least very much admired to have obtained a bottle in advance.’

      Holmes moved to better light near the fire and began to read with the theatricality I have come to enjoy at times, and tolerate at others. His fluent French made translation simple for him.

      ‘“My dear Mr Holmes,” she says, “your reputation and recent recognition by my government has led me to make this unusual request. I seek your help in a highly personal matter. Although I am a concert singer in Paris, and as such may perhaps be considered by you to be of lower “caste” – caste, an odd choice of word for a chanteuse – “I beg you to consider helping me.” Ah, I cannot read this; the ink is so pale!’

      Holmes held the letter to the gaslight over our fireplace. I noticed that his hand was shaking and he looked unsteady. I moved behind him to read over his shoulder.

      ‘She continues, “I write on a matter of the greatest urgency concerning an important man of your country, and the father of my son—” here the lady has crossed out the name – but I perceive it is— What the devil?’

      Holding the letter up closer to the light, he frowned in puzzlement. As he did so, a curious thing began to happen. The ink on the letter began to fade so quickly that even I noticed it standing behind him.

      Holmes cried out and immediately pushed the letter under the cushion on the couch. We waited a few seconds, then pulled it out to look at it again. It was completely blank.

      ‘Ah!’ said he.

      ‘It’s some kind of disappearing ink!’ I cried, silenced immediately by Holmes’s sidelong glance. ‘The father of her son?’ I asked. ‘Did you catch the name of this important personage?’

      ‘I did,’ said Holmes, standing quite still. ‘The Earl of Pellingham.’

      I returned to the couch wondering. Pellingham was one of the wealthiest peers in all of England, a man whose generosity and immense power in the House of Lords – not to mention his virtuous reputation as a humanitarian and collector of fine art – made him nearly a household name.

      And yet here was a French cabaret singer claiming ties to this well-known figure.

      ‘What are the chances, Holmes, of this lady’s claim being valid?’

      ‘It seems preposterous. But perhaps …’ He moved to a cluttered table and spread the letter out, under a bright light.

      ‘But why the disappearing ink?’

      ‘She did not want a letter with the gentleman’s name to fall into the wrong hands. The Earl is said to have a long reach. And yet she has not told us all, I think—’

      He now aimed his magnifying glass at the letter. ‘How curious, these scratches!’ He sniffed the page. ‘This blasted perfume! Yet I detect the slightest odour of— wait!’ He began rummaging through a collection of glass bottles. With small dabs, he applied droplets to the page, muttering as he did so. ‘There must be more.’

      I knew better than to disturb him at such work and turned back to the newspaper I was reading. Not long after, I was startled from my dozing reverie by a cry of triumph.

      ‘Ha! Just as I thought, Watson. The letter that disappeared was not the entire message. I have revealed a second letter underneath, in invisible ink. Clever indeed—a double use of steganography!’

      ‘But how—?’

      ‘There were small scratches on the page that did not match the writing we saw. And the faintest odour of potato. The lady has employed a second ink that only appears upon the application of a reagent, in this case iodine.’

      ‘Holmes, you amaze me. What does it say?’

      ‘It reads: “My dear Mr Holmes, it is with the utmost panic and terror that I write this to you. I did not wish a letter naming the boy’s father to remain extant; hence my precaution. If you are as astute as reputed, you will discover this second note. Then I will know you are the man to help me.

      ‘“I write to you because my young son, Emil, aged ten, has disappeared from the unnamed’s estate, and I fear he has been kidnapped or worse. Emil has until recently lived with this man and his wife under complicated conditions which I would like to make known to you in person.

      ‘“I am allowed to see him only once a year at Christmas time, when I travel to London and must follow explicit instructions for a most secretive assignation.

      ‘“A week ago, I received a letter telling me that our meeting, to have taken place three weeks hence, is now cancelled and I will not see my boy this Christmas, nor ever again. I was enjoined to accept this on pain of death. I cabled at once, and a day later I was accosted in the street by a vicious ruffian, knocked to the ground and warned to stay away.

      ‘“There is more, Mr Holmes, but I fear a strange net is closing in on me. May I call on you in London next week? I implore you in the name of humanity and justice to take my case. Please cable your reply to me signed as Mr Hugh Barrington, London Variety Producer. Very sincerely yours, Emmeline ‘Cherie’ La Victoire.”’

      Holmes paused, thinking. He picked up a cold pipe, grasping it with his teeth. His tired features took on a hint of animation. ‘What do you make of this “strange net,” Watson?’

      ‘I have no idea. She is an artist. Perhaps a touch of the dramatic?’ I said.

      ‘I think not. This letter displays intelligence and careful planning.’

      He tapped his cold pipe on the page in a sudden decisive gesture, glanced at the clock and stood, his eyes afire. ‘Ah, there is just time to make the last ferry from Dover. СКАЧАТЬ