Introduction
"Now really Holmes!"
Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes as he climbed into the cab, Dr, Watson following close behind.
They had just finished another menacing case in glorious triumph, and Holmes hardly heard the finalities before relapsing into the depression he associated with normal life.
It was the subsequent change of his manner and demeanour that his friend was referring to.
"The case was a complete success! You've put a dangerous murderer in prison and saved a man and his family from an evil fate. You've accomplished so much and yet you mope about like it's the end of the world."
"It is the end of the world for me," Sherlock replied, "the mystery is solved and I have nothing more to work on. Give me another problem Watson, and I shall be myself again."
Watson frowned. This had been the first case they'd had in six months and during the time Holmes had shown such despair he had fallen seriously ill. Watson had hoped the opportunity to work his incredible mind would keep the great detective satisfied until another case presented itself. This apparently would not be the case.
"So I suppose you intend to go home and revert back to indulging in your 'artificial stimulants'?" he asked aggressively.
"You could not be further from the truth, Watson," Holmes replied, "I was intending to continue practicing that piece we heard from the concert the other night, though I do thank you for your unshakeable confidence."
The meaning behind the last few words was not lost on Watson, who turned his head to the window, silently ashamed.
Another few minutes of tense silence went by before Sherlock signalled to the driver to stop and jumped out the cab.
"Where are you going?" Watson asked, surprised by this sudden spurt of action.
"I need some air. I'll see you back at Baker Street."
He was gone before the doctor could reply, walking quickly down the street and disappearing into the thick London fog.
Chapter 1 – The Lady in the Graveyard
Sherlock paid little attention to where he was going at first; all he knew was that he wanted to be alone.
The truth was he had intended to take cocaine when he returned home, and he was furious with himself for having deceived Watson and causing him to be unnecessarily guilty. But in truth, the drug was the one thing that kept him stimulated when he didn't work and was thus essential to curing him of his boredom and subsequent frustration. It was something Watson never understood.
But he knew his indulgences were poisoning him; that it would cause him to lose the unique powers he had been bestowed with; but above all: he knew it greatly disturbed his medical friend.
Initially, during these times Watson would try to get him out of Baker Street: taking him to concerts, theatres restaurants; anywhere to snap him out of his depression. But these outings quickly ceased as in every case, Sherlock either refused to go out, or, when he did go out, he was heavily drugged; causing Watson very acute embarrassment.
No, Sherlock would not seek solace in social outings, for there was no one in London with whom Sherlock could socialise with; who shared in his unique interests and understood his way of thinking. It would often be this depressing thought that often made him even worse.
This was the state Sherlock Holmes found himself, wandering the streets of London on a bitter, night. He hardly paid attention to where he was going until he found himself walking through a graveyard.
He stopped on the path, and was about to turn back when he became aware of being observed. He continued walking slowly until reaching a small pond at the bottom of a hill.
There he stood, looking over the water while listening to the follower. A woman he could tell, by her footsteps.
He listened as she made her way, until he could sense her standing directly behind him and he turned round.
Before him stood the apparition of a woman: young, meagre with high cheek bones and a sharp chin; large, grave wistful eyes; nervous, uncertain lips; and chestnut brown hair.
"Am I in London?" she said.
Her manner was quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by suspicion.
Sherlock, became intrigued for he could tell she wasn't an ordinary beggar.
Her voice had something curiously still and mechanical in its tones, and the way she uttered her words was remarkably rapid. She held a small bag in her hand, and wore a dress and bonnet of simple and inexpensive material.
Her figure was slight and rather above average height and her actions free from any extravagance.
All these things Sherlock observed in an instant.
"Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly and rapidly, and without the least fretfulness or impatience. "I asked if I am in London."
"Yes," Sherlock replied, "you must excuse my not answering you before. I was rather startled by your appearance here."
"You don't suspect me of doing any wrong, do you? I have done nothing wrong. I am very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do you suspect me of doing something wrong?"
She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and shrank back from him several steps.
Despite the girl's obvious agitation, Sherlock felt the peculiar bubble of delight that only occurred in him when there was a mystery to solve. His depression was rapidly disappearing.
"I suspect you of nothing," he reassured her, hoping to gain her trust. "I merely wondered at how I could not have noticed you before now."
She turned and pointed to a sheltered spot behind a giant oak tree.
"I heard you coming," she said, "and hid there to see what sort of a man you were, before I risked speaking. I doubted and feared about it till you passed; and then I was obliged to follow you and speak to you."
"Can I trust you?" she asked. She stopped in confusion; shifted her bag from one hand to the other and sighed bitterly.
Sherlock was not renowned for his emotions, yet the loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched him.
"You may trust me to assist you if you are in trouble. If you are too upset to explain your situation then we can leave that matter to rest for the moment. Tell me how I can help you and if I can, I will."
"You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you. I have only been in London once before," she went on, more and more rapidly, "and I know nothing about this area. Can I get a cab? Is it too late? I don't know. If you could show me where to get a cab, and let me leave you, when and how I please – I have a friend in London who will be glad to receive me – I want nothing else – will you promise?"
She looked anxiously up the hill and across the lake, continuously switching her bag from one hand to the other.
"Will you promise?" she repeated, looking hard in his face, with a pleading fear and confusion that troubled Sherlock exceedingly.
The last thing he wanted to do was let this lady go without if she was in danger.
"Are you sure that your friend will receive you at such a late hour?" he asked, trying to gain time.
"Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I please – only say you won't interfere with me. Will you promise?"
As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to him, and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on his arm; a gesture that caused Sherlock, such intimate gestures being against his character, to instantly shrug off.
"Will you promise?"
Sherlock sighed.
"Very well. I promise."
They walked together out the graveyard, and made their way to central London. They walked in silence initially, and Sherlock tried to think of a way to inadvertently get her to talk more about herself when, of her own accord, she said: "I want to ask you something. Do you know many people in London?"
Sherlock kept up the appearance of being uninterested.
"Yes, a great many," he replied dismissively.
"Many men of rank and title?"
There was an unmistakeable tone of suspicion in the strange question and Sherlock breath shortened, knowing that there was a clue hidden somewhere in this conversation.
"Some," he answered, again trying to sound uninterested.
"Many"- she came to a full stop, and looked at him searchingly in the face – "many men of the rank of Baronet?"
At this point, Sherlock gave up all pretences.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet that you don't know."
"Will you tell me his name?" Sherlock asked.
"I can't – I daren't – I forget myself, when I mention it." She spoke loudly, almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand in the air and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled herself again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper: "Tell me which of them you know."
Sherlock mentioned three names, all of them old clients.
"Ah! You don't know him," she sighed with relief, "are you a man of rank and title yourself?"
Sherlock smirked.
"I am thankful to say that I am far from that class. I am a detective."
No sooner had the words passed his lips, than she took his arm with the abruptness which characterised all her actions.
"Not a man of rank and title," she repeated to herself, "thank God I can trust you."
Her gesture once again startled him, but this time he made no attempt to push her away.
"I fear that it is this nameless Baronet which has stricken in you such fear, is the reason why you were in a graveyard at such a strange time of night?"
"Don't ask me, don't make me speak of it," she answered. "I'm not fit now. I've been cruelly used and cruelly wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk fast and not speak to me."
"But if that is the case, surely you can let me help you? I am an unofficial detective. Your secrets will be safe, as would you be, if you put yourself in my care."
"I cannot!" she cried, "Please do not say such things to me, I cannot afford the luxury of trusting strangers. Do what you have agreed sir, and you will have done me a great service."
They moved forward again at a quick pace, and for half an hour, not a word was past from either of them.
It wasn't until they reached the heart of the city that she spoke again.
"Do you live in London?" she asked.
"Yes," Sherlock answered. "221b Baker Street. It isn't far from here. I've just returned from a case in the country."
"Where in the country?"
"Exeter."
"I wish I was back in the country. I've been there, a long time ago."
"In Exeter?"
"No, Cumbernauld," she replied tenderly. "I was once happy in Cumbernauld."
Sherlock saw the opportunity to unveil the women's background.
"Perhaps you were born in the Lake Country." He said cautiously.
"No," she answered, "I was born in Hampshire, but I once went to school for a while in Cumbernauld. I don't remember there being any lakes. It is dear old Green Gables I should very much like to see again."
"Indeed," said Sherlock, who was listening intently.
"It was many years ago, now," she continued, "old Mr and Mrs Allan will be dead by now – the old couple that lived in Gable Manor and owned the estate. So will Mrs Harrison who lived in Green Gables and teached at the old school where I attended."
"Who lives there now?" Sherlock asked.
"Most likely Mrs and Mrs Allan's son and daughter live in the manor; but I can't say who lives in Green Gables now, but if they are of the same family as Mrs Harrison, then I will love them for her sake."
She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, they came within view of a grand old theatre, outside of which there stood a young gentleman casually smoking a cigarette.
At the sight of him, her hand tightened around Sherlock's arm.
"Is that man looking at us?" she asked anxiously.
Sherlock answered a definite no to her question.
To him, the young man was obviously waiting for his lady friend to appear for their viewing of the theatre.
Despite his answer, however, the sight of the man had made the lady agitated and impatient.
"This is far enough," she said, "Do you see any cab I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away."
Sherlock frowned. A beautifully introduced mystery had landed on his lap and now, in the same instance, it was going to run away from him.
He explained to her they had to walk a little further to get a cabstand, unless an empty carriage happened to pass them on the street.
They walked on again, and he tried to resume the subject of Cumbernauld but it was useless. The idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away, had now got full possession of her mind and she seemed unable to think of anything else.
They had hardly proceeded down the next street when Sherlock noticed a cab draw up at a house a few doors away.
Realising the uselessness of detaining her further, Sherlock hailed the cab as the driver mounted the box again. By this time, the lady's impatience increased to such an extent that she almost forced him into a run.
"Where to sir?" the driver asked as Sherlock helped her in.
"To Tottenham," she answered with breathless eagerness, "yes, that'll do. It's close to where I want to go."
Once she was seated inside, Sherlock tried to persuade her to let him accompany her to her destination.
"No, no, no," she replied vehemently. "I'm quite safe and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on till I stop him."
There was nothing else to be done for the present.
He smiled at her reassuringly and gave her his card.
"I shall keep my promise as agreed; and if you should ever need my assistance again, my card has my address on it."
She took his card and read out his name.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London; consulting detective. Is that your name?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Mr Sherlock Holmes, thank you ever so much!"
His hand was still on the cab door, and she took it in hers and kissed it before pushing it away. At that moment the cab drove off, leaving Sherlock in the middle of the street.
He had a vague thought to follow after it, but quickly decided against this, as there would be no point; by the time he had managed to find another cab at this time of night, she would be long gone. Whereas, if he waited till morning, he was certain he would track her down.
With this in mind, he walked on, making his way to Baker Street with his mind full of the night's events. He was unconscious of anything else until he was roused by the sound of rapidly approaching wheels.
He had just turned the corner and was walking quickly down the street when he noticed a constable on the other side of the road.
The carriage passed him – an open chaise driven by two men.
"Stop!" cried one. "There's a policeman. Let's ask him."
The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the place where Sherlock now stood.
"Policeman!" cried the first speaker. "Have you seen a woman pass this way?"
"What sort of woman sir?"
"A woman in a navy blue dress; simple but inexpensive, with brown hair."
"I haven't seen her, sir."
"If you or any of your men meet with the woman, stop her, and send her in careful keeping to that address. I'll pay all the expenses and a fair reward into the bargain."
The policeman looked at the card that was handed to him.
"Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?"
"Done! She has escaped from my asylum. Don't forget. Drive on!"
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