Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery

by Anna Elliott

  Sarah smiles in return, the worry leaving her expression. “Oh, miss. You’re ever so brave.”

  “That’s very—”

  Inaccurate, considering the sick, hollow feeling I have right now. “Kind of you,” I finish. “Now, should I try to get out the front or the back door?”

  “Oh, the front door, miss. There won’t be anyone about. Jenkins’ll be in the pantry polishing the silverware at this time of day. Come on, I’ll show you down.”

  I stare into the mirror for one moment more. My own green eyes look back at me, the color heightened, if anything, by the cosmetics.

  Who are you?

  My reflection doesn’t answer.

  Sarah and I tiptoe down the long upstairs hallway and then down a wide flight of stairs.

  Sarah stops at the front door. “Well, goodbye, miss, and good luck to you.” She looks slightly wistful, now, at having to see me go. “It’s been ever so exciting meeting you. Just like something on the stage.”

  Another of those gossamer, soap-bubble memories seems to float up—but it’s gone before I can even identify what part of Sarah’s speech triggered the feeling of familiarity.

  “Are you fond of the theater?”

  “Oh, I love it, miss!” Sarah’s whole face brightens, her blue eyes turning eager. “Not that I’ve been to a proper show, but I go to Covent Garden every chance I get on my half day and buy a ticket for one of the revues. I’d try for the part of a chorus girl—except my parents would die of horror to see me acting on the stage. Well, that and even my own mother would tell you I sound like a crow when I sing and have two left feet when it comes to a dance.”

  Sarah breaks off with a laugh—then claps her hand over her mouth, remembering that we’re not supposed to be making any noise.

  Impulsively, I squeeze her hand. “Thank you so much. I’ll find a way to pay you back if I possibly can.”

  Sarah looks slightly taken aback by my effusion—but pleased, all the same. “It wasn’t nothing, miss.”

  “Yes it was, it was a great, great deal more than nothing. I shall remember your kindness always.”

  I turn to the door—and rub my forehead, suddenly hearing the irony in my words. I can only hope that I shall continue to remember Sarah.

  5. STRANGE ENCOUNTERS

  I find myself at more than a little of a loose end as I leave both the brick house and Montague Street behind.

  Up until now, the necessity of confronting each immediate problem as it comes has sustained me. But now—like running headlong into a brick wall—I realize that I have no idea whatsoever as to what I ought to do next.

  “Watcherself, miss!”

  The voice behind me makes me jump and turn to see a couple of workmen in checkered caps and suspenders, carrying a heavy-looking crate between them.

  “I’m sorry.” I move over to the side of the pavement—realizing for the first time that my feet of their own accord seem to have carried me back to where I began this morning. Or nearly so.

  I have circled around to the rear of the museum, to a narrow entrance that looks like it must be reserved for deliveries and cleaning crews and such.

  The two workmen are trying to wrestle the massive wooden crate in through the door—but it’s a tight fit, and they’re struggling to keep a hold on the awkward burden.

  As I watch, the lead workman—the one moving through the doorway backwards—trips over the stoop of the entrance and lets go of his share of the load.

  The crate slips, smashing to the ground, the top breaks open, and a number of small articles packed in straw spill out onto the cobblestones.

  “Bloody hell, now see what you’ve gone and done, Jack,” the older of the two workmen growls.

  The younger one ducks his head. “Sorry, dad.”

  “Bloody butterfingers,” his father growls. Then he appears to realize that I’m still watching them. He tips his hat in my direction. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

  I barely hear him. As though the crash of the wooden crate against the cobblestones were some sort of signal, a realization has struck me.

  “This is The British Museum!” I can feel myself practically beaming, I’m so delighted to have recollected something so specific.

  The older man gives me a curious look. He has a round, jolly-looking face, fringed by thick brown side-whiskers.

  “That’s right, miss. This here’s The British Museum. Leastaways, I hope it is, otherwise we’re making this delivery to the wrong place.” He grins. “We were hired to bring this crate on up here from the docks. Antiques”—he pronounces it carefully as an-ti-cues—“or some such.”

  He scratches his head, looking at the mess on the ground, which appears to me to consist mainly of broken shards of some dark brown pottery. “Can’t think why anyone’d pay good money for a lot of smashed crockery. But at least one good thing—they’re already all broken, so no one’s likely to notice if a few of them have some extra cracks.”

  He turns back to his son. “Come on, Jack. Don’t just stand there, get them bits picked up and lets get on with it. We’ve got another four crates still in the cart.”

  He jerks his head towards the street, where I can see a fully laden cart hitched up to a small, depressed-looking donkey.

  “Yes, Dad.” Jack ducks his head again and bends to start scooping the straw and pottery somewhat haphazardly back in.

  I keep walking, almost without being aware of what I’m doing, and finally wind up at a patch of grass and a few trees that have been planted to face the museum.

  There’s a bench between the trees, and I sink down onto it, staring up at the stately, classical edifice.

  The British Museum.

  The memories buzz like flies in my ears—annoying, but just out of my reach.

  For some reason I was here. But why?

  A rheumy cough makes me look up to see the hunched figure of an old man standing beside my bench and peering down at me through a pair of round spectacles.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  His voice is thin and cracked with age. A straggling white beard traces the length of his chin, and yellowed skin clings to his cadaverous cheeks. Beneath an ancient-looking brown bowler hat, his hair is also white—and quite long for a man, reaching well below his ears.

  “Might I share your bench for a few moments, young miss?”

  “Yes, of course.” He doesn’t look as though he could possibly do anyone harm—and anyway, I’m a little afraid to say no. He looks so fragile and decrepit that the first strong gust of wind might knock him to the ground.

  “Thank you.” He limps arthritically forward and settles on the bench with a huge, gusty sigh that seems to come all the way up from his toes. “Perishing cold today, miss, isn’t it?”

  On my list of things that I would prefer to avoid right now, inane talk about the weather ranks nearly as high as face whoever assaulted me again.

  But I nod, and offer him a smile. “Yes, indeed.”

  As replies go, it doesn’t strike me as remotely controversial. But a look of surprise, almost instantly concealed, flashes across the old man’s bearded face.

  “I said, perishing cold, isn’t it, miss?”

  Perhaps he’s slightly touched in his wits. “Yes, I know,” I say patiently. “And I agreed with you. It is certainly quite cold today.”

  A look of consternation spreads across the old man’s face. “Do you think, miss, that there might be any chance of snow falling?”

  I rub my forehead. I don’t wish to be unkind to him—especially if he is going slightly soft in his wits. But all I really want is to be allowed to sit here and think in peace, try to remember what I was doing here.

  There’s something nagging at me. Something about the museum—the broken pottery shards?

  No, whatever the memory was, it’s now gone again.

  The old man leans closer, raising his voice. “I said, do you think there might be any chance of—”

  “Snow.” My patience s
lips slightly. “I know. I heard you. I have no idea.”

  I glance up at the sky, striving to gentle my tone. None of this morning’s catastrophes are the old man’s fault, after all. “It’s cloudy enough, certainly.”

  There’s a short silence, and then the old man clears his throat.

  I shut my eyes, praying to any deity who might be listening that he doesn’t ask me about the chances of rain.

  But he only heaves himself up off the bench with another rheumy cough. “Well, I’ll be saying good-day to you, young miss.”

  Raising his bowler hat, he turns and limps away. Only when he’s nearly reached the corner of the museum do I realize that there’s a small rectangular bit of paper lying on the bench where he sat down. It must have dropped out of one of his pockets.

  “Sir!” I stand up, calling after him. “Sir, you dropped this. Sir!”

  But it appears that the old man also numbers deafness among his afflictions, because he doesn’t even glance behind him.

  Putting on a surprising burst of speed, he vanishes around the side of the museum—back towards the wing that faces onto Montague Street.

  I hesitate, trying to decide just how far good Samaritan-ship prompts me to go.

  The paper scrap at first glance doesn’t look important. It’s a calling card, with a name and address embossed on one side.

  But one never knows. What if the old man is expected at this address and can’t find his way because he’s lost the card telling him where he ought to go?

  With a sigh, I dart after him.

  I’m nearly run over by a passing hansom cab as I chase after him—but I reach the corner of the museum intact.

  The old man has disappeared.

  Montague Street looks just as it did earlier. Staid and respectable, with traffic rolling by in the road and pedestrians strolling along the pavement. But absolutely no sign of a white-haired old man.

  I put a hand up to rub my forehead again. The exertion of running—in addition to making me breathless—has also brought the throbbing headache back. Dark flecks dance in front of my eyes.

  Then as I debate what I ought to do now, my gaze lights on the name printed on the calling card, and I read it properly for the first time.

  Dr. William Everett, MD

  Specialist in Disorders of the Nerves

  I stare at the words for a long moment, while the traffic noises and the hum of the city street all around me seem to fade away.

  You should see the doctor, miss.

  That’s what the street urchin told me. Maybe through the old man’s accidentally dropping this card, fate is intervening, pointing me in the direction I ought to go.

  Specialist in Disorders of the Nerves

  Having no recollection of who I am, save that I may—rightly or wrongly—believe myself to be a murderer? Surely that ought to qualify me for the good doctor’s attention.

  6. THE DOCTOR IS IN

  My heart beats rapidly as I approach the first uniformed police constable I see. But he’s a lank, tow-haired man in his thirties with a handlebar mustache across his upper lip. Not the handsome young detective constable I met with earlier.

  Thank heavens.

  The constable gives me a brief, disinterested glance and then points me in the direction of Harley Street.

  “You want to go up Gower Street. Then turn left into Chenies Street. You’ll reach Harley Street in just over a mile.”

  It’s a long walk, according to the constable. But I’m occupied with scanning everything—the streets, the bakeries and boot shops and milliners’ establishments … even the knife-grinder’s stalls on the street corners—for any hint that any of this is familiar territory for me.

  When at last I reach Harley Street, I draw out the calling card again, consulting the address.

  According to his card, Dr. Everett operates his practice at number twenty-nine—which proves to be a handsome dwelling of white stone, with a door painted deep forest green.

  A brass plaque beside the door reads, Patients and Visitors, ring here—and beneath is a push-button bell.

  Nerves flutter through my stomach as I raise my finger. What if Dr. Everett believes me guilty of some crime and calls at once for the police?

  Worse, what if he thinks me truly insane and has me locked up in an asylum?

  I’m on the point of turning around and retreating, when suddenly the door pops open.

  A man’s face—very long and thin with a ginger goatee and a pair of very pale blue eyes—peers out at me.

  “C-c-can I help you?”

  I swallow down my squeak of alarm at his sudden appearance. “Doctor Everett?”

  “Yes.” The man bobs his head. “Th-th-that is my name.”

  He’s thin and stoop-shouldered and appears to be somewhere in his middle forties. His ginger-red hair is beginning to turn gray at the temples.

  His voice is mild to the point of timid, with a slight stutter—and his inflection seems to rise naturally at the end of each statement, so that the words become, Yes? That is my name?

  I can understand why he would specialize in nervous disorders. Even the most hysterical patient would have difficulty in working up any terrors of him.

  “I’ve lost my memory.” The words slip out before I’ve consciously made up my mind whether or not to consult the doctor at all.

  He blinks at me, pale blue eyes widening with slight surprise. Then he clicks his tongue. “Dear, dear. Won’t you step in, Miss—” he pauses questioningly.

  I suppose that I am committed now. “I can’t remember. I can’t even remember my name.”

  Again Dr. Everett’s eyes widen in fractional surprise. “I see. Dear me.” He steps backwards, extending a hand to usher me inside. “Pray, accompany me into my offices and we shall see what can be done for you.”

  Despite the doctor’s mild manner, uneasiness prickles through me as I follow him across the threshold of Number 29.

  My current position is already uncomfortably vulnerable—and I’m aware that the decision to follow a strange man into his place of business renders me even more so.

  I am mildly relieved on entering to see a plump, gray-haired, motherly-looking woman seated behind a desk in the front room.

  Dr. Everett waves a hand in her direction. He has very pale, finely manicured hands, I notice.

  Lily-white hands. The phrase flashes through my mind, though I cannot remember where I heard it before.

  “This is Mrs. Bartholomew,” Dr. Everett says. “She keeps my appointment books in order, cooks my meals, brews my tea, and generally serves as guardian angel to my practice.”

  He smiles. It’s an oddly winning smile, completely transforming his thin, rather solemn face.

  Mrs. Bartholomew gives an almost girlish giggle, her hand on her ample chest. “There, now, doctor, I’m sure you’re too kind.”

  Dr. Everett gestures towards a door at the back of the room. “My private consulting room. If you would care to step this way, you can explain to me more fully the details of your—ahem—condition.”

  The consulting room proves to be a cozy, comfortable space, with walls painted a tranquil shade of blue, an oriental rug on the floor, and a sofa and chairs upholstered in deep red velvet. A cheerful fire crackles in the hearth.

  “Please.” Dr. Everett extends a hand, gesturing me to a chair to the left of the fireplace.

  I sit down. Just sitting is a relief—but the heat from the fire is also welcome, thawing my frozen toes and fingers.

  “Thank you.”

  As I stretch my hands towards the fire, my eye is caught by a lovely sculpture of a human head atop the mantle. It’s done in what looks like white marble, and the style is primitive, but still charming: a girl’s face, with hair cut in a stiff, corded bob that falls to just beneath her chin.

  Beside it rests an alabaster jar with a stoppered lid in the shape of a dog’s head.

  “Ah.” Following my glance, Dr. Everett nods. “You have noticed my weakne
ss for Egyptian antiquities. It is a particular hobby of mine.”

  He smiles. “I confess to a boy’s fascination with all things Egyptological. I daydream sometimes of abandoning my staid practice and joining an archaeological dig. Spending my days in digging for long-buried treasure beneath the windswept sands.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  A sudden tiny fragment of memory—or at least realization—slots into place in my mind. “Do you ever visit The British Museum?”

  Maybe the old man didn’t drop Dr. Everett’s card after all. Maybe it was the doctor himself who accidentally left it behind on the bench.

  “Indeed, I do.” Dr. Everett’s face brightens with enthusiasm. “I am proud to claim myself a patron of that fine establishment, in fact. Since I have yet to realize my own dreams of traveling to Egypt’s buried cities and lost tombs, I have at least offered funds to a team of archaeologists currently exploring the tombs around Thebes.” He glances at me. “You are familiar with Egyptian geography?”

  Am I? It doesn’t sound in the slightest bit familiar. I shake my head.

  “No matter.” Dr. Everett waves a hand.

  His shy but engaging smile flashes out once more. “I am told that the discoveries will be part of an important new exhibit of Old Kingdom artifacts. But I must apologize. I am monopolizing the conversation, prattling on about my own hobbies when what is surely of far more importance is the question of what has brought you to my door.”

  He pauses, his hands clasped around one raised knee and his pale blue eyes mildly alert—interested, but not judgmental, and certainly not at all threatening.

  I rather suspect that his talk of Egyptology was not a digression at all, but rather a practiced routine, designed to put patients at ease.

  “I’ve lost my memory,” I say.

  Dr. Everett’s expression sharpens momentarily, then smooths out into the same mildly curious look of before. “Yes, so you informed me outside. Have you any idea what might have caused this recent memory loss? I am assuming that it is recent, by the way?”

  “Yes. Since I woke up this morning. As to what caused it, I was rather hoping that you could tell me that.”