“But they’re not adolescent cats. They are grown-ups. And grown-ups of whatever species should not just vanish without telling responsible people where they are going!”
Lois paused for him to say something reassuring.
She had to wait several moments, partly because the connection was so bad that it was hard for Nigel to pick up on her tone of voice, and also because he was indeed on the freeway; he heard horns and squealing brakes and realized he had just nearly caused a pileup of all the vehicles behind him, and he had to pull over.
“Do you think we should call the police?” asked Lois, still waiting for his response.
“And tell them two grown-ups are on their honeymoon and haven’t checked in?”
“Yes.”
Now, given a moment, Nigel thought about it and understood: Lois believed the reason Reggie and Laura hadn’t shared their destination—and had, in her opinion, gone missing—was because of that one mistake she had made with the paparazzi.
His sigh was audible, despite the bad connection.
“Lois, they are most certainly fine, and it is not your fault that they’ve gone into hiding. As you said, they’re grown-ups. Or at least one of them is, and as long as my brother, Reggie, does what Laura says, one is enough.”
Perhaps that made sense, although Lois wasn’t sure. But now the phone connection grew even weaker, she thought she heard something like horns honking again, and in another moment Nigel declared something about not being able to talk, and the connection went dead.
Lois sighed. Despite Nigel’s attempt at dispensation—if that’s what it was—she was still certain that it was all her fault.
She couldn’t get that out of her head, sitting alone at her desk at Baker Street Chambers. Everything in chambers had been put on hold, because everyone in the legal community knew there was no barrister present. Not the senior barrister, Reggie Heath, QC, and not even the junior barrister, Nigel Heath, with his new license. He had gotten an invitation from his overseas girlfriend to come back and try his luck with her again—hence his presence in Los Angeles. So no one was present now except the receptionist, the chambers clerk, and the secretary.
That is to say, it was just Lois, by herself.
And then on top of it all, there were all those incoming letters. They were another matter entirely.
There were times when she wished simply that the man himself were real. That the person to whom the letters were addressed actually existed. Then they would be his problem.
But of course he wasn’t real; he was fictional. Only the letters were real, and they were on Lois’s desk, and so Lois had another real problem, in addition to the one she was actually worried about. She sighed and closed her eyes, wishing the bloody things would just go away.
But her wish was interrupted. She couldn’t even have the satisfaction of imagining it, because now a little bell chimed, alerting her that the lift had brought someone up.
The doors opened. A tall man carrying a violin case stepped out of the lift onto the hardwood floor and paused to get his office bearings.
He was rather unkempt. And he did not have the look of the chambers’ usual visitors, who were typically solicitors in somber brown suits, looking for a barrister to represent their clients. If anything, this man must be one of the clients. He surely wasn’t a solicitor.
But Lois was no snob, and was disinclined to act on presuppositions, and she smiled pleasantly as he stepped up to her desk.
“How can I help you?” asked Lois.
“I gather business is not exactly humming,” said the man. “At least not the paying business.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious. Law chambers that have only one person—you—as receptionist, barrister’s clerk, and secretary cannot be doing terribly well.”
“I didn’t ask how you came to the conclusion,” said Lois. “I asked why you said it. I mean, it’s an odd way of requesting a barrister’s assistance.”
“I’m not requesting a barrister’s assistance,” said the tall man. “At least not in a barrister’s capacity.”
Lois puzzled over that for a moment, and she studied the man closely.
“You look familiar,” said Lois.
“Yes,” said the tall man. “I suppose I do.”
“I’ve seen you in the underground. You’re a busker. You play the violin for tips.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been many things. I believe you tossed in a tenner once. I appreciated it.”
“It was rather an accident,” said Lois. “I was searching for something smaller, and when I realized it was all I had, I was too embarrassed to toss in nothing at all.”
“I appreciated it, either way.”
She studied him a moment longer.
“Do you … make much of a living doing that?”
“Not as bad as you might think. The tips are good in the city. Not enough to keep a flat in London, of course.”
“Where do you live, then?”
He just raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
“Do you have a name?”
“My friends call me Sig.”
“Unusual. Short for Sigmund?”
“What else would it be short for?”
“Oh, I don’t know, but I think there are some Scandinavian surnames that begin with Sig—”
“Well, it’s not important,” said the man quickly. “Sig, or Siger, either short form is fine. In any case, I can see that your employer is not here. He is on his honeymoon, I surmise.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Are you asking how I reached the conclusion this time, or why I bothered pointing it out?”
“This time, I’m asking both.”
“Very well. First, there is the stack of incoming correspondence on your desk. I can tell from your attire that you are an efficient person who takes her responsibilities seriously. Surely you would not have so many unprocessed letters on your desk if the person to whom they were addressed were here to receive them.”
“Ha!” said Lois. “You’ve got it wrong.”
“I have? You mean your employer is here after all?”
“Um, no. I just mean that the person to whom they are addressed is not my employer and is never here to receive them.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“None of your business.”
“My apologies. But in any case, the stack of letters tells me that your employer is not here, and the photo on your laptop tells me why. No, no, you needn’t power down now to hide it; I’ve already seen it. It is a wedding photo. Somewhat more disorderly than most, I must say. You are in the photo, the maid of honor, apparently. The groom—that tall fellow with the air of someone who thinks he knows everything—is most certainly a barrister. He must be the head of these chambers. I suppose one could attribute his expression just to his incredible luck at snagging that redheaded beauty standing next to him, but the confidence of his expression indicates that he’s had this smugness for some time; therefore, he is the QC for these chambers. His younger brother is a junior barrister in these chambers, which is not a guess, actually, because I believe I met him once on jury duty. In any case, there you are, in the photo, looking quite alarmed and as though you are about to throw a bouquet of flowers at someone, and not in the traditionally good way. Do I have any of it right?”
“I confirm or deny nothing, because it’s none of your business. But I’ll allow you to believe what you like.”
“You are very kind,” said Siger. “I would also point out some items in the background of the photo that make me think the location for the vows was rather hastily arranged. But I am not here regarding your employer’s family issues. I am here because it has come to my attention that your employer appears to be neglecting his duty regarding these—”
Siger put his hand firmly on the stack of letters on Lois’s desk.
“When you say ‘these,’ what, exactly, is it that you think—”
The man shook his head dismissively and picked up a handful of the letters. He read their addresses in rapid succession.
“‘To Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at 221B Baker Street.’ And ‘To Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, at 221B Baker Street.’ And ‘To Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, at 221B Baker Street.’ Shall I go on?”
“Um … what, exactly, is your point?”
Siger sighed, then said, “It is common knowledge, you know. The original banking establishment that put up this building in the 1930s, when the two hundred block of Baker Street was first created—well, the moment they opened the doors, the Royal Mail began delivering the letters here, and from then on, the owners of this building have always faithfully fulfilled their duties in caring for them. Your employer—the Baker Street Law Chambers—for whom you clerk, only began to receive the letters in the last few years, when your senior QC took the sublet of this floor. And I’m sure he could only do so under the express condition that he take responsibility for responding to the letters addressed to Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yes, yes, that is all true,” said Lois. “But Reggie Heath, QC, and his brother are both away. So I don’t think there is anyone here to help you. Whatever it is that you want.”
Siger smiled kindly and, unbidden, sat down in the guest chair by her desk.
“Forgive me, dear woman, but whether it is business of mine or not is beside the point. The point is that the letters are going unanswered. That must not be.”
Now he reached for a letter from the incoming baskets, but he got one from the wrong stack.
Lois told him so.
“No, those are already done,” she said. “Or at least opened. That’s the stack that Nigel finished before all bloody hell broke loose.”
“Oh?”
He unfolded the letter and glanced at it very briefly, but Lois didn’t give him time to read it.
“That is, before I bolluxed up the entire wedding plan at the rehearsal,” she said.
“Ah,” said Sig. He put the letter down and looked again at the photo on her laptop. “Of course. All bloody hell. The wedding.”
“Yes. Because I bolluxed everything up. Now Nigel has gone back to America to try to patch things up with his girlfriend, Mara—or else he is just driving aimlessly around on the motorways I think, from the sound of it. But the letters are piling up, and Reggie and Laura are missing, and it’s all my fault!”
“Hmm,” said Siger. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingertips together in the shape of a gable roof, perfectly pitched on both sides. When he was fully settled, and balanced, apparently, he said, “Tell me everything that happened. Start from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”
“Oh, please,” said Lois, and she gave him a glare to make sure he caught her attitude.
But he didn’t move. His eyes remained closed.
And though she hadn’t really intended to, something in the man’s pose made Lois willing to talk. In any case, she had to talk to someone; she was about to burst if she didn’t.
“If only I hadn’t got tipsy on the Chianti,” she began, sighing deeply. “Then I know I wouldn’t have sat down next to Nigel and Mara and said, ‘So, my dears, when are you two going to follow suit and tie the knot yourselves?’”
She glanced at Siger, fully expecting to see a judgmental reaction from him, but there was nothing. She continued.
“One should never say that at a wedding, of course. And here I had gone and done it. And then—oh, and then when I saw the faces of the two dears—well, one of them anyway, because Nigel’s reaction was quite the opposite of Mara’s, and that became the problem—I knew I had put my foot in it, and well above the ankle, too.
“Mara was on a plane back to America the next day. It took hours of prying to get Nigel to admit it, but I knew: It was she who had blanched, not him.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it. Oh no, the worst was what I did to the Laura Rankin/Reggie Heath wedding plans themselves.”
Again she checked for Siger’s reaction, and still he showed nothing.
“The location of the wedding had to be a secret,” she continued, “because the paparazzi simply wouldn’t let Laura alone.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Siger without moving a muscle.
“They had scouts out just everywhere trying to figure out where it would be. So we had a wedding rehearsal in advance at a different location in London, at Hampstead Heath, to divert them from where the actual wedding would be in Cornwall. We had a little dinner party after the rehearsal in Hampstead Heath. We knew paparazzi spies would try to weasel in among Laura’s celebrity friends, and that was the whole point, to let them think they had found the actual location, when, in fact, it was going to be somewhere else. All it required was that we be alert and very careful about everything we said.”
Lois stopped, a catch in her voice.
“And I am normally a very discreet person!” she said.
“Focus, please,” said the man, his eyes still closed.
“It was my fourth glass of wine that did it. That and the Italian gentleman who offered it to me. But he was wearing such a very respectable gray suit, and he had spoken so knowledgeably about gardening and how to prune roses, that it just did not occur to me that he was the paparazzi spy. I thought he was Nigel’s girlfriend’s cousin. And when he got me talking about the flowers that would be at the wedding, and whether they would be locally grown or brought in, and I started to brag about the roses that Laura’s aunt grows at her estate in Cornwall—well, I know that’s what did it. That’s how the paparazzi knew how to find the actual wedding, and spring out from behind those very rosebushes at the last minute, with their nasty cameras flashing and clicking away, and pursuing Reggie and Laura across the lawn. I managed to delay two of them by tipping a reception centerpiece into their path—it was one of those bubbling chocolate things that you dip strawberries into. But it helped for only a moment. There was barely time for Mr. Spenser—that’s Laura’s aunt’s butler—to take Reggie and Laura in the groundskeeper’s lawn tractor out past the back lawns, where Laura’s aunt keeps their old Cessna 150 covered up in a shed. I had no idea anyone in her family even knew how to fly. Laura got in the pilot’s seat and Reggie in the passenger’s, and Spenser cleared the stored antique furniture and bric-a-brac out of their way, and off they went.”
Lois stopped for a breath. And now she began to tear up from the reliving of it.
“And—and—now we haven’t heard a word from Reggie and Laura, and that plane looked to me like it’s older than I am, and God knows what might have happened to them!”
Siger’s eyelids fluttered, and then one opened completely.
“Please don’t cry,” he said.
“Sorry,” said Lois, sniffling.
Siger stood, found a box of tissues on Lois’s desk and handed it to her. Then he picked up the opened envelope and letter that he had handled a moment earlier. He gave them both to Lois.
“Notice that the envelope has postage, but it was never canceled,” he said. “There is a date and time stamp, but not one from the Royal Mail—just the one that the mail room of this building uses to mark the arrival of incoming mail.”
Lois looked at it.
“This was received on the day Reggie and Laura left for the wedding in Cornwall,” she said.
“Was the younger brother, Nigel, still here in chambers at that time?”
“No. He had gone to the States to try to get his girlfriend back. He even missed the wedding itself.”
“Does the older brother ever open and read these letters?”
“No, hardly ever, if he can help it. Especially not when he was trying to wrap up work and get away on his honeymoon.”
“Then who opened this one?”
“I know it wasn’t me,” said Lois. “I don’t refold the letters and tuck them back in the envelopes like that.”
“Then who could it have been?
”
“Why … it would have to have been Laura! She must have sat here at my desk to wait for Reggie!”
“Yes,” said Siger, nodding slightly. “I think I detect just the slightest scent of transferred perfume on it that would have been hers—she would have had to hold it for several minutes for that to occur. And I think it puts things in perspective. It’s quite a nice little problem.”
“Is it?” said Lois. “Nigel seems to think I’m worried over nothing.”
“Perhaps,” said Siger. “But read the letter.”
Lois did so, aloud:
“Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
I swore a solemn vow not to tell a single living soul. But it is said that you are a character of fiction. And therefore not a living soul. I can tell you, then, without breaking my vow:
Something is terribly wrong in Bodfyn. Please send Scarecrow.”
“And no signature,” said Lois when she finished reading.
“No,” said Siger. “And the ‘scarecrow’ reference is puzzling. Have you any idea what it means?”
“No.”
“Do you know what the letter might mean to Laura Rankin? That she would hold on to it and study it for so long, and then make a photocopy of it to take with her on her own honeymoon?” asked Siger.
“No. What makes you think she made a copy of it?”
“Some people carry their coffee cups with them to the copy machine,” said Siger. “And sometimes they—probably Nigel, because you would be too careful—spill a bit on the underside of the top cover, and the coffee spill dries, and when the next poor soul comes along to use it—that would have been Laura, the following day or so—they get a faint coffee-stain mark on the back of whatever original they are copying.”
“Oh,” said Lois. “Well, I’m sure you are right about all that. I’ll just go get a paper towel and clean that thing—”
“Please,” said Siger. “The coffee stain will keep. Now, if it were only the letter, I would see a puzzle, but no cause for concern. If it were only Laura and Reggie’s being so late, I would see reason for some mild concern, but no real puzzle to investigate. But given both—well, that’s too much of a coincidence. And finally, there’s you. You are too worried to let it go. And so we won’t. I don’t believe we should wait. The aunt’s home is on the Cornwall coast, is it not? Do you drive, by the way? I did once—I was even a cabbie for a while—but that was decades ago, I’m more than a bit rusty, and my license is quite expired.”
A Baker Street Wedding Page 11
