The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures by Mike Ashley Page B

Sabina started violently, seized the tongs and threw it back on the grate. She spent some little time examining the rug for signs of damage while my friend sat observing her.
    Charles returned presently with a bottle under each arm. His demeanour had markedly changed. His face had a pale clammy look and his hands shook as he placed the bottles on the table.
    “Why, Abernetty, you are ill!” exclaimed Holmes.
    “Charles, come and sit down.” His sister led him to the wing chair, turning a grave face to us over her shoulder. “My brother suffers from a morbid fear of confined spaces. You should have sent Minter, Charles.”
    “You’re right, of course,” Charles mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “but he does so hate to go there himself.”
    “Stuffy places, cellars,” agreed Holmes. “I’m distressed that your kindness has caused you such discomfort.”
    “My dear fellow, think nothing of it. It’s a foolish whimsy of mine and will soon pass.”
    After tea we took our departure with the promise to return the following Sunday afternoon for another hand. Once outside, the air of bonhomie Holmes had exhibited before the Abernettys fell away and his mood became thoughtful.
    “Well, Holmes,” said I, “we’re no closer to solving the mystery, if there is one. It all seemed perfectly straightforward to me. Devoted children, really rather a sad pair. At least we know the mother exists.”
    “How do we know that, Watson?”
    “Why, you heard it yourself. She rang for attention.”
    “A bell was rung from somewhere in the house, nothing more. But you are right, they are a sad pair. But there are undercurrents, Watson, that could be sinister. There were several incidents that pointed to this which you completely overlooked.”
    “I wish you’d explain them to me.”
    “By this time next week I will have uncovered their secret and I think it will be more evil than you can comprehend.”
    “If you say so. But I wish you weren’t so jealous with your deductions.”
    I feel that Holmes’s overweening vanity caused him to be mysterious in case he was proven wrong, or, in the instance of proving himself right, so that he could produce his solution with a flourish like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat.
    “There’s far more to be unearthed before I can confide in you. But I do value your assistance.”
    “I don’t seem to have contributed much,” I replied somewhat ruefully.
    “More than you know. Are you acquainted with Dr Halliwell?”
    “No, but I can look him up in the Medical Register.”
    “Good man. There’s a cab. Hail it, Watson. An early night for us, I think. There’s work to be done tomorrow.”
    Holmes was up and about before I had stirred from my bed. When he returned at noon he made an even more astonishing figure in the rough clothes and hobnail boots of the British workman. His hat was worn on the back of his head, he wore a rakish scarf and had not shaved that morning.
    “I’ve been out looking for work, Watson,” he chuckled.
    “Were you successful?”
    “Not in Grosvenor Square.”
    “You tried the Abernettys’ address?”
    “I thought they might be in need of a coachman or groom. I went in through the mews. Quite deserted, Watson. No carriage, no horses, the coachman’s house stood empty. Minter must have glimpsed me from the servants’ quarters and came out. Sent me off with a flea in my ear. Curious, isn’t it, that the only servant we’ve seen is the old butler? No maid, no footman, for all we know no boots.”
    “Mrs Bertram did mention the servants had been dismissed.”
    “Yes, I find that useful information.”
    “It simply means the Abernettys could no longer afford to keep them.”
    Holmes chuckled. “A great deal escapes your attention, Watson.”
    “One thing hasn’t.” I was standing at the window as I spoke. “The urchin who stands across the street watching our premises. He answers the description of the lad who came to our rooms earlier