The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye

by Springer, Nancy;

  I am afraid my smile deserted me. “How long have you known?”

  “Only since I went to inquire of Duque Luis del Campo whether his wife was feeling better, and he credited Dr. Ragostin with finding her.” Sherlock seemed to find his tea remarkably invigorating, for now his eyes sparkled and his voice swelled, vibrant, as he said, “The upstart girl is my competition, Mycroft!”

  Because he could not follow, Mycroft responded peevishly, “Sherlock, do please present your thoughts in some sensible order.”

  But Sherlock had turned to me. “Ivy Meshle worked as Dr. Ragostin’s assistant?”

  I sighed. “No, merely as his secretary. I have since promoted myself to assistant. Under another name.”

  Catching the conversational tiger by the tail at last, Mycroft sat up and ogled me. “You invented this Dr. Ragostin?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So that you could devote yourself to finding missing persons?”

  For a moment I could not reply; there seemed to be a warm obstruction in my throat. Both pairs of brotherly eyes were fixed on me, each exhibiting the same earnest desire to understand this strange creature, their sister, and in that moment I realised why I was no longer afraid of them.

  They cared for me.

  And I for them.

  How—how delightful, how filling, how sweet was this knowledge—better than any birthday cake ever.

  It enabled me to confide in them. “Yes, missing persons and things. I meant at first to find Mum—but I kept putting it off. . . .”

  “Wise,” Mycroft said with a nod.

  “One must know oneself,” said Sherlock softly. “How much one can take upon oneself. What one can bear.”

  For a moment we all sat quite silent, and I daresay we were all three thinking of our mother, whom we loved, I suppose, as well as we were able, being the persons we were.

  Mycroft was first to rouse himself. “So, Enola,” he asked, “what now? How can I best ‘nurture’ you, as our dear departed mother would say, and keep you from getting yourself killed, but no longer incur your enmity? Sherlock says you would like some higher education.”

  “I would,” I admitted, “and I would like, for a change, to breathe air that has neither a greasy texture nor any visible smoky colour—”

  “You would like to take a holiday from London?”

  “For a while. Perhaps a few weeks in Ferndell.” Reginald Collie leaned warm against my skirt as absentmindedly I stroked him. “Also, I would very much like to call on Lady Cecily Alistair and see how she does, and whether we might be friends. Perhaps she might even consent to be a lady scholar along with me.”

  “A very good idea,” said Mycroft, who knew something of my affection for Cecily. “And after that?”

  “I will let you know. I need time to think. But, my dear brothers, both of you . . .” Sitting up, I engaged both pairs of hawk-grey eyes at once. “Please allow yourself no illusions of my ever becoming a traditional woman. Finding the lost is my passion, my life’s calling. I am a perditorian.”

  “Excellent!” cried Sherlock.

  “Scandalous,” grumbled Mycroft in a resigned tone.

  “Enola.” Sherlock addressed me with as much emotion as one was ever likely to perceive in him. “My cherished sister, I beg of you, be whatever you like. Selfishly, I have become quite addicted to you, your flair—the zest of never knowing—truly, I cannot wait to see what on Earth you will do next.”