nervous, and saw his bed made up.
His big travelling trunk was still at the foot of the iron bedstead.
In the wardrobe there were clothes missing. Charlotte didn’t know whether he had any suitcases. He must have, she thought, as he’d travelled all over the world and she couldn’t see any; therefore, my dear Watson, he had packed and left. That also might explain the tidiness.
Back in the drawing room, she went over to his writing desk.
The blotter had mirror writing on it; not real Leonardo Da Vinci mirror writing, but the writing left from upside–down blottings. She found a shaving mirror amongst his things and examined the messages in the reflection, turning the blotter to read them all.
‘…sincerely, Dr Jeremiah Deering.’
‘…the fifteenth…’
‘…chronostatic charge cannot be deployed to adjust actuality…’
‘…cancel the Times forthwith…’
‘…per’s Ghost and trap…’
She pushed it back into place clumsily: there was nothing here at all.
If she stuck her lips out, she could make herself look like a duck, and even open her mouth wide and show her teeth, so she looked like that stuffed gorilla in the Natural History Museum. She put the shaving mirror down.
There was a book missing from the shelf near the end. After the gap, there was The Wonderful Visit , The Island of Doctor Moreau , The Wheels of Chance , The Invisible Man and The War of the Worlds . There didn’t seem to be any authors for ‘X’, ‘Y’ and ‘Z’, they were forgotten letters.
Letters! The post!
She jumped out of his revolving study chair and raced over to the post.
Oh, but they were sealed.
Three letters: penny blacks, yellow envelope, white envelope, white envelope: all with ‘Doctor J. Deering, Esq.’ and one with ‘FRS’ after his name. The postmarks were Kensington, Battersea and smudged. Oh, Kensington! That was the card from Georgina that she’d sent to inform him of Captain Merryweather’s funeral, which meant that he hadn’t opened his post for weeks.
That was very clever, she thought – positively deductive.
If only she could work out what was in the other two envelopes.
Holmes played the violin to think, but Charlotte hadn’t brought hers and she was only allowed to practise when there was no–one else at home, so she never did.
Perhaps she should sit and smoke a pipe, she thought. Holmes was always doing so. Young ladies, however, did not smoke pipes, so perhaps she should cultivate that as her eccentricity.
There was a spare clay pipe on the mantelpiece, tufts of tobacco in a wooden box and matches. She rammed the tobacco into the pipe and lit it, blowing down the tube until it flared and started to burn, the smoke spiralling upwards much as it had when Uncle Jeremiah sat down to tell them a story.
She sat in his lumpy arm chair feeling very grown up.
Uncle Jeremiah had blown smoke rings from his mouth, so clearly you also had to suck the smoke into–
“Ga’ aarrgh!”
Charlotte was suffocating, the pressure of the smoke inside her causing her eyes to bulge. She coughed loudly, her throat trying to turn inside out and she dropped onto her hands and knees, almost retching like Georgina every morning, with tears gushing down her face. As the proverbial cart before the horse, her weeping brought on a desperate feeling of loneliness. She missed Uncle Jeremiah and she missed Georgina… and she even missed her all High and Mightiness, Earnestine, now that she was away every day, all day.
Once she’d remembered the catch, the sash window came up easily enough. Charlotte stuck her head out and breathed the invigorating, horse manure whiff of fresh air. Clearly, she thought, pipe smoking was not going to be her eccentricity, it would just have to be chocolates and cake.
Down below, there were three men in top hats at the door arguing with the landlady. She blustered and objected as they forced their way in and moments later a heavy tread sounded on the stairs along with
His big travelling trunk was still at the foot of the iron bedstead.
In the wardrobe there were clothes missing. Charlotte didn’t know whether he had any suitcases. He must have, she thought, as he’d travelled all over the world and she couldn’t see any; therefore, my dear Watson, he had packed and left. That also might explain the tidiness.
Back in the drawing room, she went over to his writing desk.
The blotter had mirror writing on it; not real Leonardo Da Vinci mirror writing, but the writing left from upside–down blottings. She found a shaving mirror amongst his things and examined the messages in the reflection, turning the blotter to read them all.
‘…sincerely, Dr Jeremiah Deering.’
‘…the fifteenth…’
‘…chronostatic charge cannot be deployed to adjust actuality…’
‘…cancel the Times forthwith…’
‘…per’s Ghost and trap…’
She pushed it back into place clumsily: there was nothing here at all.
If she stuck her lips out, she could make herself look like a duck, and even open her mouth wide and show her teeth, so she looked like that stuffed gorilla in the Natural History Museum. She put the shaving mirror down.
There was a book missing from the shelf near the end. After the gap, there was The Wonderful Visit , The Island of Doctor Moreau , The Wheels of Chance , The Invisible Man and The War of the Worlds . There didn’t seem to be any authors for ‘X’, ‘Y’ and ‘Z’, they were forgotten letters.
Letters! The post!
She jumped out of his revolving study chair and raced over to the post.
Oh, but they were sealed.
Three letters: penny blacks, yellow envelope, white envelope, white envelope: all with ‘Doctor J. Deering, Esq.’ and one with ‘FRS’ after his name. The postmarks were Kensington, Battersea and smudged. Oh, Kensington! That was the card from Georgina that she’d sent to inform him of Captain Merryweather’s funeral, which meant that he hadn’t opened his post for weeks.
That was very clever, she thought – positively deductive.
If only she could work out what was in the other two envelopes.
Holmes played the violin to think, but Charlotte hadn’t brought hers and she was only allowed to practise when there was no–one else at home, so she never did.
Perhaps she should sit and smoke a pipe, she thought. Holmes was always doing so. Young ladies, however, did not smoke pipes, so perhaps she should cultivate that as her eccentricity.
There was a spare clay pipe on the mantelpiece, tufts of tobacco in a wooden box and matches. She rammed the tobacco into the pipe and lit it, blowing down the tube until it flared and started to burn, the smoke spiralling upwards much as it had when Uncle Jeremiah sat down to tell them a story.
She sat in his lumpy arm chair feeling very grown up.
Uncle Jeremiah had blown smoke rings from his mouth, so clearly you also had to suck the smoke into–
“Ga’ aarrgh!”
Charlotte was suffocating, the pressure of the smoke inside her causing her eyes to bulge. She coughed loudly, her throat trying to turn inside out and she dropped onto her hands and knees, almost retching like Georgina every morning, with tears gushing down her face. As the proverbial cart before the horse, her weeping brought on a desperate feeling of loneliness. She missed Uncle Jeremiah and she missed Georgina… and she even missed her all High and Mightiness, Earnestine, now that she was away every day, all day.
Once she’d remembered the catch, the sash window came up easily enough. Charlotte stuck her head out and breathed the invigorating, horse manure whiff of fresh air. Clearly, she thought, pipe smoking was not going to be her eccentricity, it would just have to be chocolates and cake.
Down below, there were three men in top hats at the door arguing with the landlady. She blustered and objected as they forced their way in and moments later a heavy tread sounded on the stairs along with
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