Author's Note: Hope you enjoy Chapter 2! Please R & R!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
******************************************************************************
The Doctor's Patient
By Mavelle
Chapter 2 – A Case of Nobility
As the cab drove away, I found I could not stop thinking about the young lady. All my instincts told me something was wrong in that house. I glanced at my watch and though it was nearly eleven, I was suddenly seized with a desire to call upon Sherlock Holmes. I called up to the driver to take me to Baker Street.
The cab pulled up to 221B, and a glance at the upper windows showed me that Holmes was keeping his usual irregular hours. Although I attempted to knock as softly as possible, a reproachful Mrs. Hudson, who was quite indignant at being woken, admitted me to the house. Assuring her that I would not call this late for any reason other than one of great importance, I made my way up the stairs to the rooms I had once shared.
I found Holmes bent over his chemicals, quite oblivious to the lateness of the hour.
"Watson, my dear fellow," he cried when he saw me. "What an unexpected surprise! I do hope Mrs. Watson has been enjoying her trip?"
"Yes, her last letter was filled with descriptions of the delightful times she was having," I said, "but I have not seen you since before she left, so how did you know. . . ?"
"Watson," he chuckled, "I have the advantage of knowing you very well. That tie you are wearing is one you particularly like; however, I recall you saying that Mrs. Watson does not admire it at all. You are too much the gentleman to offend her sensibilities by wearing it when she is likely to see it, therefore I can deduce that she is away at the present time."
I laughed. "You have found me out, Holmes," I said. "I can only implore you not to turn me in when Mary returns."
"No fear of that, my old friend," said Holmes. "Now, do sit down and try one of these excellent cigars and a glass of brandy, while you tell me what has brought you here at this hour."
I did as he said, and proceeded to tell him the whole story of Mr. Jonas Hamilton, and the mysterious Miss Elizabeth Carlisle. As I spoke, I saw Holmes move from his languid pose to one of intense interest.
"Holmes, I feel certain that something is not right," I finished. "She was delirious, of that I have no doubt, but I believe there is more to it than that. She was afraid of something."
Holmes looked thoughtful.
"And there is the very singular behaviour of Mr. Jonas Hamilton," he said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "Now Watson, tell me everything you can remember about the girl herself."
"She had long, dark hair, and a pale complexion in spite of the fever. She spoke in very cultured tones, so I would venture to say she is from the upper classes. Her hands would confirm this, for I noticed they were white and smooth, and bore no signs of labour. I would place her age at around twenty."
"Excellent, Watson! Like a fine wine, you improve with time. Now, have you heard the name Carlisle before?"
"It does seem familiar, Holmes," I replied, "but why, I do not know."
"Kindly hand me my C volume, Watson," he said languidly. If I had not known Holmes better I would have thought he was bored by my problem. I knew, however, that his quiescent attitude disguised a keen interest. I took the familiar volume down from its place on the shelf, and handed it to Holmes.
"Let us see. Ah, here we are! Read this, Watson," he said, handing the book to me.
I took the book and read:
Carlisle, Edmund – 8th Earl of Carringford, K.G. Ambassador to France, 1870-
1875, Ambassador to Italy, 1875-1880, Ambassador to Germany, 1880-1885.
Married Anne, daughter of Viscount Hartford, 1868, died 1885. Son and heir,
Lord Edward Carlisle, born 1873. Daughter, Lady Elizabeth Carlisle, born 1869.
Invested into the Order of the Garter, 1887 for services to the Crown.
Address: Ridley House, Knightsbridge, London; Carringford Manor, Oxbridge.
"Good heavens, Holmes," I exclaimed. "This could be she!"
"It is a strong possibility, Watson," replied Holmes, "however, I shall not form any conclusions until I have visited the Earl, which I shall do tomorrow morning. Or rather, this morning," he added, glancing at the clock which showed a time well past midnight. "Shall you be available to join me, Watson?"
"For a few hours in the morning, Holmes," I replied. "But I shall have to leave you for the afternoon. I have a very long list at present and cannot spend much time away."
"In that case," said Holmes, "may I suggest you take advantage of your former chambers so that we may start as early as possible?"
I took his advice and retired for the night, leaving Holmes sitting in his chair, staring at the fire.
The morning found us in a cab bound for Knightsbridge, one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in London. We were not disappointed in Ridley House, either; the imposing edifice spoke of generations of wealth.
We were admitted to the house by a solemn butler, who showed us to a drawing room and left to fetch the Earl. As we waited, I found my gaze wandering until it focused on a large portrait hanging on the wall. It was of a beautiful young lady, wearing a white gown, standing under a weeping willow. Her dark hair was unbound and flowed to her waist, while her eyes were downcast, giving every impression of a demure young lady.
"Holmes," I exclaimed in astonishment, "this is she! This is the lady I treated yesterday."
He came over and examined the painting. "A lovely woman," he said. "And confirmation that we have come to the right place. Do you notice her hands, Watson? I think…."
"May I help you gentlemen?" said a cold voice behind us.
Holmes and I turned quickly, to see a man who could only be the Earl, standing in the doorway, and glaring at us. He was a handsome man, with dark hair, and finely chiseled features. His daughter was a feminine copy of him, except for the eyes. Where she had soft, dark eyes, his were a clear blue, and as cold as ice.
Holmes adopted his "professional" smile: polite, but without any real warmth.
"Good morning, Lord Edmund," he said.
The man looked at Holmes they way one might look at an insect on a flower.
"You appear to have the advantage of me, sir," he said coldly.
"I do beg your pardon," replied Holmes, "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson." The Earl nodded slightly towards me. "Might I enquire, my Lord, who the lovely subject of this portrait is?"
At this question, the Earl's whole manner changed. His coldness melted away, and a slight quaver entered his voice, as he replied,
"The lady is my daughter, sir. That portrait is all I have left of her."
"She is dead?" asked Holmes.
"I do not know," said the Earl, "She disappeared a month ago, and I have not heard from her since. I believe her to have been abducted by one Jonas Hamilton. I fear she may even be dead!"
The Earl sat down heavily on the sofa, his head in his hands, and then looked up, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him.
"Can it be, Mr. Holmes, that you have some word of Elizabeth? If you do, then for God's sake, man, tell me!"
I opened my mouth to tell the Earl what I knew, but felt Holmes' restraining hand on my wrist. I understood that he did not wish me to reveal the location of the Lady Elizabeth yet. Although I did not understand why, I have learned through experience not to question Holmes' methods. I subsided and let him speak.
"I regret to say, that is not the case, Lord Edmund," replied Holmes. "Watson and I called because we had heard you have one of the finest art collections in England, and, being art fanciers ourselves, we had hoped to view it. We had not heard of your troubles, and I apologize if our coming has opened the wound in any way."
At these words, the Earl stood up, and his earlier abrupt manner returned, as if he was ashamed of his former weakness.
"That is quite all right, Mr. Holmes. I am certain that you have much more important demands on your time than locating one man's only daughter. I have heard your name mentioned among the private detectives in London, and I naturally assumed that you could have no other reason for coming here."
"Quite understandable," said Holmes. "Forgive me my lord, but have you asked the police for help in finding your daughter?"
"Mr. Holmes, I believe her to have been abducted, but society would be only too ready to believe that she went willingly. I could not bear to have scandal attached to her name, and so I have kept this quiet, circulating a story that she is traveling on the Continent. In the meantime, I have certain...connections, sir, and they are quietly searching for her. I hope you understand that I do not wish this information to become public?"
"Of course," replied Holmes. "You may depend upon the greatest discretion from Dr. Watson and myself."
"Thank you, gentlemen. You will forgive me if I ask you to leave now." It was not a question. All traces of the grieving father had disappeared, and he was once again the stiff and formal man who had entered the room.
We took our leave of the Earl, and it was not until we were seated in our cab once again, that Holmes finally spoke. He turned to me with a thoughtful look in his eyes.
"That man is lying, Watson," he said, "but why?"