The Case of the Disappearing Duchess by Nancy Springer

Author:Nancy Springer [Springer, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2022-05-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter

the

Thirteenth

The idea opened my eyes wide, straightened my spine, and so ardently surged my hope and excitement that they seemed to pass through the reins as if via telegraph lines. Apparently receiving a message, the good Brownie elevated his head, snorted, and plunged forward, forcing the cab through a space I would have thought too small for it! A moment later we detoured into a service-drive that led into a twisting maze of back courts and alleyways, from which we eventually emerged near Marylebone Garden. Invigorated, I sent the noble Brownie past an omnibus and straight down Baker Street, achieving a lovely trot—

“Cab!”

The imperious voice affected my heart so strangely that instantly I halted Brownie, although it would have been far safer to drive on. Senseless, reckless obedience! I dared not look at the man who had spoken, for he must not notice my face. But as I bent to pull the lever that opened the cab doors, I caught a glimpse of his tall, stork-like form, and those of his shorter, stockier companions, as they climbed in.

Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Dr. Watson!

They all squeezed in somehow. I opened the sliding door on the roof of the hansom and said in the deepest, gruffest Cockney voice in my repertoire, “ ’Alf fare more fer the extry weight.”

“Agreed. Take us to Oakley Street,” my brother replied.

Ah. Almost certainly they were going to see Duque Luis Orlando del Campo.

“Sir,” I acknowledged in the same deep voice, sliding shut the opening above his head—but not quite. I hoped to eavesdrop.

But confound the din of the city in general, and in particular the rumble of my own cab’s metal wheels upon the cobblestones, I could overhear nothing, except once when Sherlock raised his voice:

“. . . an experiment, Mycroft, the merest experiment! I thought the old collie might be able to locate our daring and elusive sister. I had to go down to Ferndell anyway, for this.”

“This,” I concluded from their exclamations, was the brown paper embellished with charcoal symbols. Apparently he did not wish to tell them that Reginald Collie had indeed found me, and that he, Sherlock, the great detective, had then lost me again, so he had diverted their attention by producing “this” from his valise. “Can either of you make anything of it?”

Watson’s reply was unintelligible, but Mycroft’s pompous tones struck my ear quite clearly as he excitedly lectured, “Why, my dear fellow, is it not obvious? You have your specialties, but you have not read as broadly in anthropology as I, or you would know: These borders and this encirclement are protective, intended to ward off evil. Something has frightened the sender, causing him to make these designs.”

“And the eyes?”

“Very similar to the Egyptian Eye of Horus, or the Hindu Third Eye—”

“For goodness’ sake, my dear man,” Watson broke in, quite audible this time, “this is England, and the nineteenth century!”

“Yes, and still ladies promenade with the hems of their skirts and sleeves bordered with fol-de-rol that has no

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