Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author's note: Wow! I didn't expect to get so many reviews on just the prologue! Keep em coming, pleeze!
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
I set aside the letter from Emily to be addressed later, for I noticed that the letter from Lestrade bore no postmark.
"He delivered it by hand, Mr. Holmes," Mrs Hudson replied when I pointed out this detail, "He's waiting downstairs to see if you'll see him about it."
"I wonder what could be so important," Watson announced, rather unnecessarily I thought, in an effort to hurry me towards opening the letter.
"Either it will be of some actual importance, in which case it will occupy quite some time," I replied as I slit the flap with a letter-opener, "or it will be some trite manner that I can solve from the top of the stairs."
The note within read as follows:
"To Mr. Holmes:
It has come to the attention of Scotland Yard that there appears to be something amiss at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast located in the countryside of Sussex, commonly frequented by newly-married couples. The report sent to us by their local constabulary indicated that an unknown intruder has sporadically, for the past several weeks, been gaining entrance to the guest-room at night and molesting or attempting to molest the young ladies. As you can well imagine this causes no end of distress to the guests, and the owners of the inn, as well as various officers from London, have tried without success to thwart these nocturnal visits or even find out how the intruder is gaining access, as the attacks occur regardless of how secure the doors and windows are. It has become something of a local legend, and the inhabitants of the town nearby have dubbed the phenomenon the Grasping Ghost. Please advise.
Lestrade"
"Grasping Ghost, indeed," I murmured sourly, "Next thing you know they'll open a formal investigation on the existence of sea serpents!" I sighed. "Send him up," I said to Mrs Hudson, "This may at least be a casual diversion."
Chief Inspector Lestrade, who looked understandably flushed from standing practically in the grasp of the bitter November chill while awaiting my answer (the front door had become slightly warped and did not shut properly), was shown into the sitting room, where he divested himself of greatcoat and muffler (both glittered with the icy drizzle that had collected upon them) and huddled in the chair beside the fire to warm himself.
"It's difficult to hail a cab in such weather, isn't it?" I observed quietly from my favourite wicker-basket chair opposite him, "I regret that you had to walk halfway here before you managed to get one."
Lestrade really ought to be used to my deductions by now. "What makes you think I even found a cab?" he demanded.
"There is, of course the fact that the sleet upon your clothing has melted completely - I know it is draughty in the front hall, and that would have preserved any ice that had remained upon your clothing when you arrived. Then there is the pattern of dampness upon the back of your greatcoat where you sat upon it - quite distinctive, even to an inexpert eye. Thirdly, there is the fact that I saw it pull up shortly after the mail arrived."
"All right, fine," he conceded, "But you're right that I had to walk partway here, and I'm bloody frozen as it is." He glanced over at Watson, who was busily taking notes. "Meanwhile you two have been in here in front of a warm fire..."
"Which we shall happily abandon if your case proves worthy," I interjected. That got Watson's attention (his old war wound had been bothering him in the chill weather), but I continued as he opened his mouth to protest: "Now, Inspector, while you are warming up, perhaps if you would tell us more about this supposed ghost." I steepled my fingers and settled into a more comfortable position to listen, my eyes half-closed.
"Well, I don't know how much there is to tell. The details are pretty sketchy."
"Simply start at the beginning," I replied coolly, "and continue through to the end. Then stop."
I had the private satisfaction of seeing Lestrade look nettled. "Well, it starts about a month ago," he said, "With the first attack, of which there have been four so far. The couple who owns the place" - he checked his notes - "Mr and Mrs Hammond - they didn't want to release any names, to spare the young brides, you understand. But anyway, each time it happens pretty much the same - she wakes up and can't move or scream, and she feels this hand, uh, on her." He looked so uncomfortable that I suspected that this was a severely edited version of the truth.
"Explain," I prompted, though in the back of my mind there was a small pang of something I couldn't quite identify.
Lestrade looked as though he had just swallowed a toad. "You know... touching her. In a lewd way. And all the accounts say the hand is icy cold, not like a human hand should be at all. The first time it happened they thought it was a nightmare, but after the second time..."
I nodded. "I trust you had someone search the place, check out all possible entrances?"
He nodded, still apparently queasy from the description of the 'ghost's' activities. "Locked door, locked window, no signs of tampering. And in the most recent case, there was the strangest clue..."
I leaned forward. "Yes?"
"This one was last week, and it had been raining something awful in the area, but there were no prints in the soggy turf, nor any mud tracked in, not by the door or by the window."
"So, the logical conclusion, of course, is that of a supernatural entity."
"Supernatural or not," he huffed, "He's attacking young ladies, and that is something for which I will not stand. I just need you to find out if we need the police or an exorcist."
"Fine," I conceded, though I believed in ghosts about as much as I believed in faeries, "I will investigate the matter promptly. I think you will find that, in the end, it will be a matter for the police."
"I appreciate it," Lestrade said, standing and taking up his foul-weather gear, "As, I'm sure, do the Hammonds."
I saw him to the door and then re-established myself in the wicker-basket chair to collect my thoughts. The surest way to observe this prowler's methods would be to give him a target, under controlled conditions of course. But there was no-one I would...
"You might ask Miss Cartwright for help in this," Watson suggested, derailing my train of thought, "This sounds like it would be right up her alley, and she seemed to be a help before."
I glared at him. "Are you suggesting," I asked, "deliberately putting her in harm's way?"
Watson, ever the diplomat, immediately back-pedalled. "Well, we both heard what she did to that young man--"
"No."
"I mean, I know those hatpins can be used as weapons--"
"Absolutely not."
"And you really have to wonder how she managed to dislocate--"
"I refuse," I snarled, "What you are suggesting is a reprehensible abuse of a perfectly respectable young lady, putting her into a situation where some pervert can paw at her!"
I didn't realise I had risen to my feet until several seconds later, when I saw the surprise on Watson's face.
"Perhaps I ought to clarify," Watson ventured after a discreet pause; "By 'help" I meant 'advice.' It's entirely up to you and her whether she goes with you."
Thoroughly chastened (and likely rather red in the face at my own unaccountable overreaction), I sat down again.
"She's a brave young lady," he continued, "The worst thing she could do is to say no."
I considered the inaccuracy of this statement. As far as I was concerned, the worst thing she could do is to say yes. But it appeared that my options were extremely limited, and if this went awry I would rather it remain unrecorded.
I went to my desk and prepared to compose a letter to her, bristling at the unavoidable realisation that Emily was probably the only woman in London who would willingly put herself in the role I would require to unmask the culprit.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
"Miss Cartwright," said my recently acquired landlady through my door, "There is a young man downstairs to see you - a rather grubby looking creature, in my opinion. I told him to go away but he said that he had a message for you. Now, you know the rules about having male visitors--"
I opened the door. "Yes, Mrs Croft, I know the rules about male visitors. Now, did you get his name?"
Mrs Croft wrinkled her nose as though the very idea of formal introductions had somehow become distasteful. "No."
"Well, what does he look like?"
"He's about so tall, with a curly mop of hair - might be red, if you gave it a good washing - and a bit of a gap between his front teeth, and he's wearing clothes that probably haven't seen a good scrubbing in over a year - coat, gloves, muffler, cap, that sort of thing. A regular street urchin. Why?"
"Okay - tell him I'll be right down."
"You *know* him?"
"I expect that's an employee of a friend of mine. Tell him I'll be right down - and don't worry, we'll talk on the porch."
"Who's this friend - the King of Beggars?"
I smiled sweetly. "Not quite." I hadn't told Mrs Croft about my acquaintanceship with the famous detective, not that I thought she would care. She didn't read the Strand.
The messenger in question turned out to be Wiggins, standing there on the porch holding his cap (his gloves were old, and the right-hand one was missing the tip of its index finger) like he was five years older and more formally educated, awaiting permission to court a young lady. He was fidgeting to keep warm, but I remembered my assurance to Mrs Croft and just wrapped an overcoat around myself to ward off the chill. He tugged his forelock (dislodging a bit of frost with the gesture) at me as I approached, and I nodded a greeting to him.
"'Ullo, Miz Emily," he said in the thick cockney dialect that requires a patient ear (or a well-trained one) to decipher.
"Well met, Wiggins," I replied, "What business brings you here today?"
"Oi've got a message from Mr 'Olmes, an' he said I 'uz s'posta wait for y'r reply." He thrust a hand into the pocket of a coat maybe two sizes too big for him, fumbled around for a few moments, and surfaced with a piece of paper that had originally been folded tidily into quarters but which was now slightly rumpled from riding in Wiggins' pocket for some time - probably at least a day. I took it from him and unfolded it. It read:
"To Miss Emily Cartwright: [How very businesslike! thought I with a smile.]
"A new case has come to my attention, of a sort in which I have reason to believe that your attendance would be most helpful. If you wish to participate, please see me for details. The bearer of this note can escort you, if you prefer.
"Sherlock Holmes"
"At least he said 'please'," I mused. I glanced up from the note at Wiggins.
"D'you 'ave a reply, ma'am?" he asked. I wondered when I had become a ma'am, but that was of course immaterial to someone like Wiggins who probably assigned the title to every female over the age of sixteen.
"Indeed I do," I replied, "You tell Holmes that if he wants my help..."
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
"--you're to stop bein' a silly goose and go see her yourself," Wiggins recited, then added, to remove any blame from himself, "That's exackly what she said, Mr. 'Olmes, I swear."
I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. "A silly goose, am I?" I asked of no-one in particular, "I wrote her at the Cartwright estate and her father wrote back saying she'd moved out and he didn't know where to, and I can't be expected to divine her new address by reading tea leaves. I'm a detective, not a mystic."
"Well, Oi told 'er that uz the reason I was there, and *she* said she told you where she was living now."
"When?" I demanded. He knew as well as anyone that I hadn't seen her since the soiree (though Watson had told me she attempted once to visit while I was away on another case).
"In 'er letters," Wiggins said, with the unbiased simplicity of the young.
I was glad that Watson was out attending a patient at the time.
"She said she wrote you--" Wiggins started to continue, but I held up a hand to silence him.
"*Thank* you, Wiggins, that will be all." I gave him a shilling for delivering the message and sent him on his way. When I returned to the sitting room, I glared at the pile of unopened letters, trying to pretend that this was somehow their fault. When they made no move to accept the blame I sighed and picked them up, noticing that the last two had no return address on the envelope. Apparently she was trying to be clever.
Apparently it had worked.
I slit the flap and opened the letter.
*****
End of Part 2.
Author's note: Wow! I didn't expect to get so many reviews on just the prologue! Keep em coming, pleeze!
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
I set aside the letter from Emily to be addressed later, for I noticed that the letter from Lestrade bore no postmark.
"He delivered it by hand, Mr. Holmes," Mrs Hudson replied when I pointed out this detail, "He's waiting downstairs to see if you'll see him about it."
"I wonder what could be so important," Watson announced, rather unnecessarily I thought, in an effort to hurry me towards opening the letter.
"Either it will be of some actual importance, in which case it will occupy quite some time," I replied as I slit the flap with a letter-opener, "or it will be some trite manner that I can solve from the top of the stairs."
The note within read as follows:
"To Mr. Holmes:
It has come to the attention of Scotland Yard that there appears to be something amiss at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast located in the countryside of Sussex, commonly frequented by newly-married couples. The report sent to us by their local constabulary indicated that an unknown intruder has sporadically, for the past several weeks, been gaining entrance to the guest-room at night and molesting or attempting to molest the young ladies. As you can well imagine this causes no end of distress to the guests, and the owners of the inn, as well as various officers from London, have tried without success to thwart these nocturnal visits or even find out how the intruder is gaining access, as the attacks occur regardless of how secure the doors and windows are. It has become something of a local legend, and the inhabitants of the town nearby have dubbed the phenomenon the Grasping Ghost. Please advise.
Lestrade"
"Grasping Ghost, indeed," I murmured sourly, "Next thing you know they'll open a formal investigation on the existence of sea serpents!" I sighed. "Send him up," I said to Mrs Hudson, "This may at least be a casual diversion."
Chief Inspector Lestrade, who looked understandably flushed from standing practically in the grasp of the bitter November chill while awaiting my answer (the front door had become slightly warped and did not shut properly), was shown into the sitting room, where he divested himself of greatcoat and muffler (both glittered with the icy drizzle that had collected upon them) and huddled in the chair beside the fire to warm himself.
"It's difficult to hail a cab in such weather, isn't it?" I observed quietly from my favourite wicker-basket chair opposite him, "I regret that you had to walk halfway here before you managed to get one."
Lestrade really ought to be used to my deductions by now. "What makes you think I even found a cab?" he demanded.
"There is, of course the fact that the sleet upon your clothing has melted completely - I know it is draughty in the front hall, and that would have preserved any ice that had remained upon your clothing when you arrived. Then there is the pattern of dampness upon the back of your greatcoat where you sat upon it - quite distinctive, even to an inexpert eye. Thirdly, there is the fact that I saw it pull up shortly after the mail arrived."
"All right, fine," he conceded, "But you're right that I had to walk partway here, and I'm bloody frozen as it is." He glanced over at Watson, who was busily taking notes. "Meanwhile you two have been in here in front of a warm fire..."
"Which we shall happily abandon if your case proves worthy," I interjected. That got Watson's attention (his old war wound had been bothering him in the chill weather), but I continued as he opened his mouth to protest: "Now, Inspector, while you are warming up, perhaps if you would tell us more about this supposed ghost." I steepled my fingers and settled into a more comfortable position to listen, my eyes half-closed.
"Well, I don't know how much there is to tell. The details are pretty sketchy."
"Simply start at the beginning," I replied coolly, "and continue through to the end. Then stop."
I had the private satisfaction of seeing Lestrade look nettled. "Well, it starts about a month ago," he said, "With the first attack, of which there have been four so far. The couple who owns the place" - he checked his notes - "Mr and Mrs Hammond - they didn't want to release any names, to spare the young brides, you understand. But anyway, each time it happens pretty much the same - she wakes up and can't move or scream, and she feels this hand, uh, on her." He looked so uncomfortable that I suspected that this was a severely edited version of the truth.
"Explain," I prompted, though in the back of my mind there was a small pang of something I couldn't quite identify.
Lestrade looked as though he had just swallowed a toad. "You know... touching her. In a lewd way. And all the accounts say the hand is icy cold, not like a human hand should be at all. The first time it happened they thought it was a nightmare, but after the second time..."
I nodded. "I trust you had someone search the place, check out all possible entrances?"
He nodded, still apparently queasy from the description of the 'ghost's' activities. "Locked door, locked window, no signs of tampering. And in the most recent case, there was the strangest clue..."
I leaned forward. "Yes?"
"This one was last week, and it had been raining something awful in the area, but there were no prints in the soggy turf, nor any mud tracked in, not by the door or by the window."
"So, the logical conclusion, of course, is that of a supernatural entity."
"Supernatural or not," he huffed, "He's attacking young ladies, and that is something for which I will not stand. I just need you to find out if we need the police or an exorcist."
"Fine," I conceded, though I believed in ghosts about as much as I believed in faeries, "I will investigate the matter promptly. I think you will find that, in the end, it will be a matter for the police."
"I appreciate it," Lestrade said, standing and taking up his foul-weather gear, "As, I'm sure, do the Hammonds."
I saw him to the door and then re-established myself in the wicker-basket chair to collect my thoughts. The surest way to observe this prowler's methods would be to give him a target, under controlled conditions of course. But there was no-one I would...
"You might ask Miss Cartwright for help in this," Watson suggested, derailing my train of thought, "This sounds like it would be right up her alley, and she seemed to be a help before."
I glared at him. "Are you suggesting," I asked, "deliberately putting her in harm's way?"
Watson, ever the diplomat, immediately back-pedalled. "Well, we both heard what she did to that young man--"
"No."
"I mean, I know those hatpins can be used as weapons--"
"Absolutely not."
"And you really have to wonder how she managed to dislocate--"
"I refuse," I snarled, "What you are suggesting is a reprehensible abuse of a perfectly respectable young lady, putting her into a situation where some pervert can paw at her!"
I didn't realise I had risen to my feet until several seconds later, when I saw the surprise on Watson's face.
"Perhaps I ought to clarify," Watson ventured after a discreet pause; "By 'help" I meant 'advice.' It's entirely up to you and her whether she goes with you."
Thoroughly chastened (and likely rather red in the face at my own unaccountable overreaction), I sat down again.
"She's a brave young lady," he continued, "The worst thing she could do is to say no."
I considered the inaccuracy of this statement. As far as I was concerned, the worst thing she could do is to say yes. But it appeared that my options were extremely limited, and if this went awry I would rather it remain unrecorded.
I went to my desk and prepared to compose a letter to her, bristling at the unavoidable realisation that Emily was probably the only woman in London who would willingly put herself in the role I would require to unmask the culprit.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
"Miss Cartwright," said my recently acquired landlady through my door, "There is a young man downstairs to see you - a rather grubby looking creature, in my opinion. I told him to go away but he said that he had a message for you. Now, you know the rules about having male visitors--"
I opened the door. "Yes, Mrs Croft, I know the rules about male visitors. Now, did you get his name?"
Mrs Croft wrinkled her nose as though the very idea of formal introductions had somehow become distasteful. "No."
"Well, what does he look like?"
"He's about so tall, with a curly mop of hair - might be red, if you gave it a good washing - and a bit of a gap between his front teeth, and he's wearing clothes that probably haven't seen a good scrubbing in over a year - coat, gloves, muffler, cap, that sort of thing. A regular street urchin. Why?"
"Okay - tell him I'll be right down."
"You *know* him?"
"I expect that's an employee of a friend of mine. Tell him I'll be right down - and don't worry, we'll talk on the porch."
"Who's this friend - the King of Beggars?"
I smiled sweetly. "Not quite." I hadn't told Mrs Croft about my acquaintanceship with the famous detective, not that I thought she would care. She didn't read the Strand.
The messenger in question turned out to be Wiggins, standing there on the porch holding his cap (his gloves were old, and the right-hand one was missing the tip of its index finger) like he was five years older and more formally educated, awaiting permission to court a young lady. He was fidgeting to keep warm, but I remembered my assurance to Mrs Croft and just wrapped an overcoat around myself to ward off the chill. He tugged his forelock (dislodging a bit of frost with the gesture) at me as I approached, and I nodded a greeting to him.
"'Ullo, Miz Emily," he said in the thick cockney dialect that requires a patient ear (or a well-trained one) to decipher.
"Well met, Wiggins," I replied, "What business brings you here today?"
"Oi've got a message from Mr 'Olmes, an' he said I 'uz s'posta wait for y'r reply." He thrust a hand into the pocket of a coat maybe two sizes too big for him, fumbled around for a few moments, and surfaced with a piece of paper that had originally been folded tidily into quarters but which was now slightly rumpled from riding in Wiggins' pocket for some time - probably at least a day. I took it from him and unfolded it. It read:
"To Miss Emily Cartwright: [How very businesslike! thought I with a smile.]
"A new case has come to my attention, of a sort in which I have reason to believe that your attendance would be most helpful. If you wish to participate, please see me for details. The bearer of this note can escort you, if you prefer.
"Sherlock Holmes"
"At least he said 'please'," I mused. I glanced up from the note at Wiggins.
"D'you 'ave a reply, ma'am?" he asked. I wondered when I had become a ma'am, but that was of course immaterial to someone like Wiggins who probably assigned the title to every female over the age of sixteen.
"Indeed I do," I replied, "You tell Holmes that if he wants my help..."
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
"--you're to stop bein' a silly goose and go see her yourself," Wiggins recited, then added, to remove any blame from himself, "That's exackly what she said, Mr. 'Olmes, I swear."
I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. "A silly goose, am I?" I asked of no-one in particular, "I wrote her at the Cartwright estate and her father wrote back saying she'd moved out and he didn't know where to, and I can't be expected to divine her new address by reading tea leaves. I'm a detective, not a mystic."
"Well, Oi told 'er that uz the reason I was there, and *she* said she told you where she was living now."
"When?" I demanded. He knew as well as anyone that I hadn't seen her since the soiree (though Watson had told me she attempted once to visit while I was away on another case).
"In 'er letters," Wiggins said, with the unbiased simplicity of the young.
I was glad that Watson was out attending a patient at the time.
"She said she wrote you--" Wiggins started to continue, but I held up a hand to silence him.
"*Thank* you, Wiggins, that will be all." I gave him a shilling for delivering the message and sent him on his way. When I returned to the sitting room, I glared at the pile of unopened letters, trying to pretend that this was somehow their fault. When they made no move to accept the blame I sighed and picked them up, noticing that the last two had no return address on the envelope. Apparently she was trying to be clever.
Apparently it had worked.
I slit the flap and opened the letter.
*****
End of Part 2.