The Case of the Left-Handed Lady: An Enola Holmes Mystery by Nancy Springer

Author:Nancy Springer [Springer, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Puffin
Published: 2008-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THE TENTH

AN OLDER WOMAN IN A SIMPLE, RESPECTABLE blouse and skirt answered my knock, looking startled but not appalled to find me weeping on the doorstep.

“Is – Mr. Sherlock Holmes – in?” I inquired between sobs. I had forgotten to speak in an accent (“Mister ’Olmes”) befitting my appearance, but because of my tears perhaps she did not notice.

“Bless you, dear, he just went out.” Wrapping a shawl around herself to speak with me, silver-haired Mrs. Hudson showed herself to be a kindly soul. I knew the landlady, of course, from Dr. Watson’s writings, but remembered not to call her by name.

I lamented, “But – but I – must see him this evening.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back, miss.”

“I – don’t care. I am in – such trouble. I’ll wait.”

“But it might be hours.” Shivering despite her shawl, she retreated a few steps into the house, preparing to shut the door. “Why don’t you come back later?”

“I’ll wait.” Whimpering, I plopped myself down on the icy doorstep.

“Bless you, dear, you can’t wait there. You’ll freeze. Come in, come in.”

As I had hoped, she led me upstairs and showed me into my brother’s sitting-room.

“Goodness,” I murmured, forgetting myself in my surprise at the mess; I had never ventured into a bachelor’s lodgings before. I knew, of course, from Dr. Watson’s writings, that there would be tobacco (in the toe of a Persian slipper, no less!) and a violin (instrument and bow laid carelessly across a chair), letters skewered by a jackknife to the mantelpiece, bullet-holes in the walls, and so forth. But I found myself ill prepared for what there was not. No flowers. No lace pillows. No ruffled skirts on the chairs.

To be a man, apparently, was to lack the ability to be a woman.

Mrs. Hudson tsked over the books and papers strewn everywhere. “Mr. Holmes is tidy in his dress and in his personal habits if not in his housekeeping,” she excused him. “He’s a real gentleman. Whatever your difficulty may be, he’ll do his best to help you with it, miss, and never mind whether you can pay him or not.”

Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes, for despite his trickery, I wanted to believe all goodness of my brother.

“Shall I take your wrap, miss?” She started to lift it from my shoulders.

“No!” I clutched the waterproof around me, for it concealed Ivy Meshle’s too-fashionable dress. “No,” I amended, “thank you. I’m cold.”

“Well, miss, just have a seat, then.” The sweet old soul cleared newspapers off an armchair near the hearth for me. “I’ll bring you some tea.” She bustled out.

No sooner had she closed the door behind me than I sprang up, crossing as noiselessly as I could to my brother’s desk, impatiently blinking tears from my eyes. Through the blur I scanned a pile of papers, failing to find what I was looking for as I tossed them aside.

On the now-cleared desk top I saw only the usual lamp and writing implements.

The object

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