self-reassurance. Such was the rapport we established he invited me to accompany him to Drury Lane one evening where an artist he greatly admires is presently performing.
“The subject of whist somehow crept into the conversation. When I said I played he immediately invited me for tomorrow afternoon. Did I have a friend? he asked. Indeed I did, said I. Then his sister Miss Sabina Abernetty would make a fourth.”
“Well, you’ve got us over the doorstep. Well done, Holmes.”
My companion shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I wonder if I have done well.” He turned the conversation abruptly. “How did you fare with Dr Royce Miles?”
“I had feared he might be rather reticent about a former patient, but he was quite loquacious on the subject of Lady Abernetty. Glad to have her off his hands and wished me all the luck in the world. She is apparently one of those irascible patients all doctors dread to treat.”
“And her ailment?”
“Congestion of the lungs which is placing quite a strain on the heart. Embarrassed left ventricle. Can’t survive much longer, which will be a blessing for the children. She is, according to Miles, a cold woman who treats and has always treated her son and daughter like servants rather than loved children. Miles was full of praise for the care and attention they lavish on her.”
“When neglect might carry her off sooner?”
“That’s a harsh observation, Holmes.”
“It’s what Mrs Bertram says she fears.”
“Miles was surprised at her apparent concern. She has made only one enquiry about her stepmother’s health which was when she discovered the doctor had been dismissed. In his many visits to Grosvenor Square he never once saw her at the house.”
“It’s possible her visits didn’t coincide with his. And what is the appearance of this Dr Royce Miles?”
“A bluff, somewhat florid man. Though I shouldn’t venture such a remark about a fellow medico I fancy he likes his port.”
“Which could be the reason for his dismissal.”
“I’m sure he’s competent enough.” I hastened to the defence of my colleague.
My friend’s only reply was a grunt.
“I must confess I’m baffled, Holmes. Do you believe Mrs Bertram’s anxiety is genuine?”
“I believe Lady Abernetty’s health is a subject of immense concern to quite a few people. The question is why.”
“You surely give no credence to Mrs Bertram’s suspicion that she’s met with foul play. Having met Charles Abernetty …”
“Did I envisage him as capable of matricide, that vilest of crimes? Did Alice Abernetty, like Clytemnaestra, dream she had given birth to a serpent who suckled blood from her breast?” He threw away his mood with his cigar.
“Come, Watson, deal the cards.”
The house in Mayfair, that most discreetly elegant of London districts was Georgian with a protective railing of iron spikes, double doors with flanking Doric pillars, large bay windows, a set of steps on the left leading down to the servants’ entrance and mews leading to stable and coach-house.
“How much do you think this would fetch in realty?” murmured Sherlock Holmes. He had resumed his disguise of the previous day with luxuriant locks and moustache. “Sebastian Flood and John Watson,” he announced to the elderly butler who answered the door. “I believe Mr Charles Abernetty is expecting us.”
The small salon to which we were conducted had the furnishings of an earlier era with its marble Adam fireplace, its Chinese wallpaper and carpet and Chippendale furniture. Charles Abernetty greeted us enthusiastically. His sister, dressed in a dark cashmere gown, rose from a wing chair and glided across the floor to meet us. Her manner was more restrained, but no less welcoming. They were a singularly colourless pair, when one recalled the vivacity of their half-sister, both slight of build and with scarcely a year between them in age. They were so alike that the only differences between them were those
“The subject of whist somehow crept into the conversation. When I said I played he immediately invited me for tomorrow afternoon. Did I have a friend? he asked. Indeed I did, said I. Then his sister Miss Sabina Abernetty would make a fourth.”
“Well, you’ve got us over the doorstep. Well done, Holmes.”
My companion shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I wonder if I have done well.” He turned the conversation abruptly. “How did you fare with Dr Royce Miles?”
“I had feared he might be rather reticent about a former patient, but he was quite loquacious on the subject of Lady Abernetty. Glad to have her off his hands and wished me all the luck in the world. She is apparently one of those irascible patients all doctors dread to treat.”
“And her ailment?”
“Congestion of the lungs which is placing quite a strain on the heart. Embarrassed left ventricle. Can’t survive much longer, which will be a blessing for the children. She is, according to Miles, a cold woman who treats and has always treated her son and daughter like servants rather than loved children. Miles was full of praise for the care and attention they lavish on her.”
“When neglect might carry her off sooner?”
“That’s a harsh observation, Holmes.”
“It’s what Mrs Bertram says she fears.”
“Miles was surprised at her apparent concern. She has made only one enquiry about her stepmother’s health which was when she discovered the doctor had been dismissed. In his many visits to Grosvenor Square he never once saw her at the house.”
“It’s possible her visits didn’t coincide with his. And what is the appearance of this Dr Royce Miles?”
“A bluff, somewhat florid man. Though I shouldn’t venture such a remark about a fellow medico I fancy he likes his port.”
“Which could be the reason for his dismissal.”
“I’m sure he’s competent enough.” I hastened to the defence of my colleague.
My friend’s only reply was a grunt.
“I must confess I’m baffled, Holmes. Do you believe Mrs Bertram’s anxiety is genuine?”
“I believe Lady Abernetty’s health is a subject of immense concern to quite a few people. The question is why.”
“You surely give no credence to Mrs Bertram’s suspicion that she’s met with foul play. Having met Charles Abernetty …”
“Did I envisage him as capable of matricide, that vilest of crimes? Did Alice Abernetty, like Clytemnaestra, dream she had given birth to a serpent who suckled blood from her breast?” He threw away his mood with his cigar.
“Come, Watson, deal the cards.”
The house in Mayfair, that most discreetly elegant of London districts was Georgian with a protective railing of iron spikes, double doors with flanking Doric pillars, large bay windows, a set of steps on the left leading down to the servants’ entrance and mews leading to stable and coach-house.
“How much do you think this would fetch in realty?” murmured Sherlock Holmes. He had resumed his disguise of the previous day with luxuriant locks and moustache. “Sebastian Flood and John Watson,” he announced to the elderly butler who answered the door. “I believe Mr Charles Abernetty is expecting us.”
The small salon to which we were conducted had the furnishings of an earlier era with its marble Adam fireplace, its Chinese wallpaper and carpet and Chippendale furniture. Charles Abernetty greeted us enthusiastically. His sister, dressed in a dark cashmere gown, rose from a wing chair and glided across the floor to meet us. Her manner was more restrained, but no less welcoming. They were a singularly colourless pair, when one recalled the vivacity of their half-sister, both slight of build and with scarcely a year between them in age. They were so alike that the only differences between them were those
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