Note: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Professor Moriarty, Colonel Moran, and Herr Steiler are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Mrs. Moriarty, Bella, and Maria are the property of Leslie Bricusse. In other words, if you recognize it, I probably don't own it. I have taken the liberty of expanding Bella's character a bit, but she's still not mine, unfortunately.
The small carriage pulled into Meiringen just as the sun was setting. At the Englischerhof, Herr Steiler was looking over his accounts. The newfound love for skiing that the English seemed to have acquired would do wonders for Swiss innkeepers such as himself. It wasn't even December yet, and rooms were already filling up; mostly young men on holiday from university seeking adventure and exercise, but a few wealthy families as well. A boring lot they were, Steiler thought, boring but profitable.
Steiler tried not to think about the other reason tourists came to his hotel. Certainly, that business about the Reichenbach Falls and Professor Moriarty invited many of Dr. Watson's more curious (and well-paying) readers to the area, but Steiler cared little for the thrill of detection and international intrigue that kept the rest of Europe on the edge of its collective seat. He liked managing his inn, he liked talking to people, and he liked the money that his successful business brought in. That, as far as he was concerned, was the only really important thing about the Englischerhof.
The woman who stepped into the small lobby of the inn instantly attracted Herr Steiler's attention for numerous reasons. She was tall and thin, with sharply-defined facial features and bright gray eyes. Fortune had apparently gifted this young lady in more than just beauty, Herr Steiler observed. It was plain from her dress and carriage that she was also wealthy and well-bred. There was only one thing wrong. She was traveling alone. No friends, no family, no clinging sweethearts with their bold declarations and pathetic attempts at poetry. Just her.
"I will require a room, please, Herr Steiler," the new arrival announced calmly in German.
The innkeeper had been so busy staring at his newest guest that he had completely forgotten why she might have come in the first place.
"Y--you are aware," he floundered, "that it is extremely rare for us to let a room to an unaccompanied woman, Miss…uh, Miss--"
"Spellgrove," she replied matter-of-factly, "Miss Bella Spellgrove. My family would join me, however, they are…indisposed at present. I myself am taking a short leave from my life as a portraitist in London in order to reassess my priorities."
Steiler was shocked by her speech . She sounded like a businessman or a politician…something grand and official like that; certainly not like any lady he had ever encountered. Just as he was about to refuse her, however, Bella Spellgrove reached into a large bag she was carrying and placed a small piece of paper on his desk. Steiler's eyes lit up. It was a bank order for a rather large sum of money, payable to Herr Henry Steiler of the Meiringen Englischerhof!
"Miss Spellgrove, are you certain of this?" the incredulous innkeeper asked, mystified as to how even a highly successful London artist could obtain sufficient funds as to pay for three months at a Swiss hotel.
"I will require the room for some time, Herr Steiler," the bewitching lady said with a slight smile. "I am quite certain you understand."
As the porter was bringing in Miss Spellgrove's possessions, Steiler tried to figure out her situation. If her family was ill, as she suggested, why was she not caring for them? If they were dead, why was there no kind friend accompanying her? And the money--where did it come from? If she was really so successful at her art, why had he not heard of her? And there was no question in his mind that the lady was no heiress. In his limited experience, Steiler knew that wealthy young heiresses always had would-be suitors fawning over them. And a beauty like Bella Spellgrove--why, between her looks and wealth, she must have broken the hearts of all of the eligible bachelors in London!
Bella herself was busily helping the porter with her possessions. As the last of her small trunks was brought up to her room, she hurried into the lobby with a large stack of sketchbooks. She was so engaged in conversation--apparently Steiler was not the only one to notice this enigmatic new guest!--that she did not notice the folded piece of paper slip out from a book near the bottom of the pile.
In many cases, Steiler did not believe in prying into his guests' lives. In order to run a successful business, one needed trust and reliance. Now, however, was different in his mind. What if the lady had gained her wealth illegally? What if she picked the pockets of those who sat for her? It was for the good of the honest people of Meiringen, Steiler told himself, that he was examining what must be some private correspondence. He carefully unfolded the paper. Indeed, it was a letter. Dear Miss Belladonna Moriarty, it read, I regret to inform you that your father passed away in a tragic accident at the falls on May 4, 1891. It was signed "Sebastian Moran."
Herr Steiler very nearly fainted.