“Always it is the weather that is blamed, Watson.”
“Impossible! In every single circumstance?”
“I admit the little puzzle I was asked to solve today was not a result of the weather, but the weather did cause me to become acquainted with it sooner than some person anticipated.” He stretched his feet out to the fire.
“What puzzle was that?”
“A set of clothes found upon Dartmoor.”
I felt a small disappointment. “That seems a little ordinary,” I ventured to remark. “Clothing is abandoned and lost every day.”
“Not clothing like this,” Holmes replied. He stood and removed a cloth bag from the hat rack and emptied the contents onto the table. I moved closer and examined the clothing, trying to utilize my powers of observation as Holmes did.
I fingered the items, separating them. A shirt. A pair of trousers, waistcoat and a jacket, collar and cuffs and their pins. All were cut in small proportions. On the shirt, waistcoat and jacket there was a small tear in correspondingly identical positions. It was obvious that whatever instrument had caused the tear had passed through the material of all three garments in one pass. It would have to have been exceedingly sharp.
Holmes was watching me and I shrugged. “Perhaps the suit belongs to a youth. It is a peculiar size. Beyond that, I cannot guess.”
“These clothes were made for a woman,” he told me. He held up the trousers, displaying the length of leg. “The size of the waist is disproportionate to the leg for a man, but for a tall female, these would suit. The woman that owned these clothes was in her late twenties to early thirties and a liberal thinker. Unmarried, red-headed and neat. If it were she who secreted them, she is forward planner and in trouble of some sort. She is in hiding from some person or agency and these clothes would distinguish her too readily if found in her possession. My general impression is that she is highly intelligent and uses her mind logically. A unique woman I would very much like to meet, but I am afraid that is out of the question.”
I looked again at the clothes. “How on earth…?”
Holmes smiled good naturedly and threw himself into the chair. “I had a slight advantage, Watson, for I saw where this cloth bag had been secreted and well hidden it was, too. It was sheer unfortunate chance they were discovered. They were buried out on the moor, beneath a stone that was well covered with snow. Whoever it was that buried them—and I strongly suspect that it was the owner of the clothes, for she would not be the sort to let them fall into a stranger’s hands—she obviously intended that the clothes remain safely hidden under the snow, but the weather has undone her plans.”
“But to conclude she is red headed and unmarried….” I prompted him with disbelief tingeing my voice.
He moved his hand toward the clothing. “I gave you a clue, Watson. I drew attention to the proportion of waist size to leg. The neatness of the waist indicates she is young and has had no children yet. A married woman’s husband typically would not allow the frivolous activities indicated by these clothes, so she is unmarried. She is a liberal thinker and that is indicated by the styling of the clothes. Whatever their purpose, it would take a woman of rare talent to exploit them. Recall Irene Adler, if you will.
“She is neat, because the clothing has been cared for and was folded carefully inside the bag. This also indicates they have not been entirely abandoned. She is a redhead, as several long strands of hair about the collar of the jacket indicate.
“That she is a forward planner is indicated by the removal of any identifying tags at the neck and waist of each garment and their careful hiding place, which also indicates her desire to keep their owner’s identity a mystery. She thought she might need to retrieve the garments one day and did not throw them in the river or down the sewers. Hence my impression that she is intelligent and in trouble.”
“And the logical thinking?” I asked, allowing my admiration to reveal itself upon my face.
“She has carefully obliterated any possible evidence I might have seen near the hiding place and has managed to successfully disappear into the city and remain hidden for the two days I have been searching for her. The trail is cold now and I won’t find her without considerable effort.” Holmes leaned back in the chair, stretching out his legs.
“No, she is a very clever woman, Watson, who is hiding very successfully. It is a pity we will never have a chance to unravel the mystery, but my time is too limited.”
It would have been the end of the affair. I was concentrating on my practice and there were many cases of the elderly, frail and infirm succumbing to the rigors of this peculiar winter and I was busy.
For the greater part of January Holmes was in Europe, going about his mysterious affairs. Just as the winter deepened its hold in February, I received a new client. The lady’s name meant nothing to me, so it was with something of a shock that I found myself facing a tall, red-headed woman. A quick glance at her left hand confirmed her status as an unmarried woman.
She complained of a series of headaches. These were easily remedied with an application of salicylic powders, which I prescribed for her. Throughout the short interview I found my mind engaged instead on wondering if she was Holmes’ mystery lady.
However, by the time I showed her to the door I had convinced myself that coincidence does not stretch that far. There would be a good many red-headed ladies in London—even tall, neat and beautiful ones. The chances that Holmes’ redhead had actually called on me professionally were too slim.
Again, I all but forgot the incident. Holmes returned from Europe in March for a short sojourn before taking up his activities in France once more. I called to see him on one of the nights that he was not out and about on his business and we shared a companionable meal before settling in front of the fire and exchanging the considerable amount of news of each other’s lives since Christmas.
It is here that my story departs from that other I have previously related. For as I was searching my memory for any other scraps of news that Holmes would find interesting, I recalled my red-headed patient.
“Do you remember that mysterious redhead you were trying to trace…the one with the male costume?”
Holmes nodded, his eyes closed and his pipe jutting out aggressively.
“Last month I had a new patient who could have doubled as your mystery lady. It surprised me. I thought your redhead herself had appeared.”
Holmes sat abruptly upright, dropping his pipe into his hand. “Describe her,” he commanded.
“That’s just it, Holmes. Her description tallies almost exactly with your conclusions. Redhead, tall, trim, neat. It’s difficult to judge forward planning and intelligence with a quick ten minute interview, but she certainly wasn’t a fool.”
Holmes stood up and moved to the mantelshelf. “And her name?”
“Miss Elizabeth Sigerson.” I felt a little bewildered by his reaction. “You don’t think it was your redhead, surely?”
“Why not? It makes a certain kind of sense. Quite apart from an inner certainty I have had that we would one day meet.”
“But it is stretching coincidence a tad, isn’t it?”
Holmes rubbed his brow. “I wish you had told me earlier. As it is, I’ll have to hurry the arrangements. Would you be able to arrange for her to meet you at your consulting rooms on a professional basis?”
“Well, yes, certainly, if you require it. But why, Holmes?”
“For some reason she is afraid of me. She wants her clothes back, Watson, and she is making an indirect approach through you. She fears that if I see or speak to her I will deduct some truth she is keeping secret. So, we must woo her cautiously and time is limited. I’m due back in Paris tomorrow, so it will have to wait until I return. I will send you a cable when I know the date and you can arrange for the appointment.”
I felt a bit winded. I had related my trivial story only to amuse Holmes. “Yes, of course,” I agreed slowly.
“Good. Now, tell me all about her,
Watson. Every detail…every nuance.”
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
On April the 20th, a Monday as I recall, I received a cable from Holmes informing me he would be arriving back in London on the Thursday. That was all the cable stated, but I had not forgotten his instructions and set about arranging the interview with Miss Sigerson. I sent her a note stating I wished to review the effectiveness of the treatment I had prescribed for her and requesting her presence on Thursday afternoon.
I received a prettily worded letter back asking to change the time to seven o’clock in the evening for she was working as a typewriter and could not leave earlier. On Holmes’ arrival I informed him of the interview and invited him to share our supper before Miss Sigerson arrived.
Accordingly, he appeared on my doorstep in the late afternoon, looking tired and much used, yet with the same keen look in his eyes that I remembered from whenever he was on the scent of another mystery. I questioned him at the time concerning his health and confessed my curiosity over his doings in Europe, but apart from hinting heavily about the gravity of his deeds, he would say nothing more.
“It is all settled now, Watson. In four days it will be over. I wish to forget it for now and enjoy myself with this lighter, more unusual mystery.”
At seven o’clock we descended the stairs to my consulting room and I pushed the door open to enter, only to fall back in confusion. I held onto the doorknob, preventing Holmes from following me into the room. ``Miss Sigerson,” I said, both in greeting to her and a warning to Holmes.
“Doctor.” She stood. “I suppose I must apologize for waiting in your room, but it is late and I preferred not to wait in the street.”
“Yes, of course. That is quite all right.” I was unsure of whether to enter and close the door, thus risk exposing Holmes, or to back out on some pretense. I had been caught completely by surprise. All the investigative tasks Holmes had coached me to complete during the interview fled my mind.
Miss Sigerson studied me carefully with her candid green eyes and I saw her glance thoughtfully at the door. Then she put her head to one side. “Doctor Watson, you have asked me here under a falsehood.”
I stared at her blankly.
She shook her head. “Never mind. I will see to it myself.” She moved to the door, stepped around me and into the corridor. I saw Holmes straighten from his resting place against the wall. “Mr. Holmes, why don’t you come inside?” she asked him. “It is cold out here.”
“Miss Sigerson.” He walked into the room and patted my shoulder. “Never mind, Watson.”
Elizabeth looked at me kindly. “Your face gave you away, Doctor Watson. Do you ever play whist?”
Holmes sat against the edge of my desk. “Yes, and he loses—quite badly.” He studied Elizabeth. “Red hair, trim, neat….”
Elizabeth allowed him time to scrutinize her properly. She held out her hands. “My sleeves, Mr. Holmes. You find a woman’s sleeves most revealing, I believe.”
He leaned forward to examine them. “Thank you,” he said gravely. “Why did you not want me to see you?”
“I believed you to be in Europe.”
Holmes examined her face closely. “You are not denying you consulted Watson as a means of regaining your clothes?”
“I had genuine reason for seeking a doctor. I merely combined the two. Are you prepared to return my clothes to me? They are very difficult to replace. Understanding seamstresses are hard to find.”
Holmes smiled. “Yes, I sympathize. You may have them back. They are in my rooms at Baker Street.”
“Thank you.” She turned to pick up her gloves.
“Where is the knife that cut them, now?” Holmes asked, addressing her back.
Elizabeth slowly turned back to face him. Her face was quite still. “I beg your pardon?”
“The knife. It was a knife that caused that very neat tear. Through so many layers, too. Aimed right here—” and he touched his breast pocket. “Whoever was wielding it was in deadly earnest. I was wondering what became of the knife. It wasn’t with the clothes.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. The clothes were not torn when I left them.”
Holmes straightened from his slouch. “Of all the very small mistakes you have made, that is the most telling. To me, a man trained in the observation of minutiae, the complete absence of such details about your person shouts of secret purpose.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. “This is what I feared,” she confessed. “That if we ever met face to face you would detect my covert motivations.”
“There is no need to fear me if your intentions are good,” Holmes replied. “Covert or overt. But you must explain, now, these discrepancies.”
Elizabeth visibly wavered.
“Come, Miss Sigerson, explain. I have about me at this very moment some of the most dangerous, desperate criminals of the century. I cannot afford to play loosely with even the slightest of suspicions. Tell me.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I cannot. Please believe me when I say I wish I could. I have nothing to do with these criminals you fear and would clear myself if I could. My intentions were benign. I have nothing but deep admiration and respect for your abilities, as reported by Doctor Watson.”
“Yes, that is clear by the length you went to avoid my scrutiny.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I want my clothes back. That is my chief aim. I believed you to be in Europe and thought it would be an ideal time to approach Doctor Watson, establish contact and eventually ask his help in reclaiming them, thus staying out of your way and creating the minimum of disturbance.”
“That was most considerate of you,” Holmes replied dryly. “It must have dismayed you to learn the police had asked me to examine the clothes when they found them.”
“Considerably, at first, but then I realized that they would have appealed to you sooner or later. It was inevitable. I knew they would find no answers.”
“Yes, you made quite certain of that. However, you fear I might and that is why you want them back.”
“I blame myself entirely for this mess. At the time I was dazed and sick and not thinking clearly. I should have destroyed them utterly.” She finished quietly, almost to herself, “It is a mistake I won’t make again.”
Holmes frowned. “The person whom you were hiding from, they are no longer a threat?”
“I have solved that problem,” she replied.
Holmes walked up and down the room once, thinking. “If you would care to accompany us, Miss Sigerson, you can collect your clothes now.”
“And then?”
“And then you are free to go.”
“I would believe that only when you replace the safety catch on the revolver you are holding in your pocket,” Elizabeth replied.
Holmes glanced at her sharply, then with a short amused laugh he pulled out the revolver and ostentatiously replaced the safety catch before dropping it back in his pocket. “Come Watson, let us collect Miss Sigerson’s cherished possessions.”
Holmes called up a hansom and handed Elizabeth in. He gave his address, then settled back into the seat and closed his eyes. Elizabeth kept her gaze on the passing scenery. The entire trip was silent. On our arrival, Holmes opened the door, hurried up the stairs and threw open the door of his sitting room while I paid off the cabby. I climbed upstairs and found him removing the cloth bag from the top drawer of a bureau. Elizabeth stood just inside the door.
He tossed the bag on the sofa.
Elizabeth picked it up. “Thank you,” she replied.
“I’ve not solved your mystery, Miss Sigerson,” Holmes said suddenly. “I have other more pressing matters on hand that prevent me from following up your puzzle. You should consider yourself fortunate, for it is clear you fear my discovering the truth.”
“No, I do not fear you, Mr. Holmes,” Elizabeth replied, her voice mellow and I detected a hint of amusement. Evidently Holmes did, too, for he fixed her with his keen
gaze, but a sudden shout out on the street made him whirl toward the window. His gun was withdrawn from the pocket and he carefully pulled the curtain aside by a small fraction to peer out.
“I suggest you leave, Miss Sigerson,” he said shortly.
Elizabeth studied his tall motionless figure and the gun in his hand. Wordlessly she turned and left.
I moved to the other window and peered out, too, but there was nothing remarkable to be seen. Holmes dropped the curtain and looked about the room. With a shrug he pocketed his revolver and looked at me. “I shouldn’t have returned here. This place is not safe for me at the moment.”
“Then come home with me,” I insisted.
“I will remain here for the night, now. I need to think and I prefer my own hearth for that.”
“Then I will remain here, too,” I replied.
He was pleased. “Thank you. That would be a great comfort to me.”
“Holmes, won’t you tell me what this is all about?” I burst out. The thing had been pressing on my mind. “You’ve dealt with Miss Sigerson now and had your leisure. It is clear you consider yourself in danger. I would be of more assistance to you if I knew what was happening.”
It was then he told me of Moriarty and his gang and the plans Holmes had been painstakingly following for nearly twelve months in an effort to outwit the most dangerous criminal in England. He explained to me the details of his expected coup in four days’ time and the waiting game he was playing now.
I spent an uneasy night in front of the fire after that and it was with some relief I watched the sun rise outside the windows. Holmes read my thoughts easily.
“It is not a sign to relax our vigilance,” he warned me. “Moriarty is a clever man and he understands that night fears disappear in daylight and will use it to his advantage. But there is no need to starve while we wait. I will scare up Mrs. Hudson and request a large breakfast.”
We were almost through the excellent meal when there was a knock on the door and Moriarty himself entered. I have written elsewhere about this extraordinary interview and the repugnance the man created in one. In my public account of the event, I omitted the fact that I was there. In this account I am free to describe the conversation as I saw and felt it.
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 2
