Chapter 16

Author's Notes: Thanks you Shannon Holmes, Haley Macrae and Lindsay; the brave few who were not overwhelmed by the last chapter. I wen to see the local theatre production of William Gillette's Sherlock Holmes today, and was thrilled to find that even my writing is better than that script (and humble, too!). I still don't own Sherlock, although I think he's getting used to me. More apologies for the ethnocentrism in this and upcoming chapters. I hope it's historical. Unfortunately, I have never had the pleasure of visiting the locales I will go on to describe, so if you have, feel free to point out my inaccuracies. The Kodak box camera ("you push the button, we do the rest") was introduced in 1888. It was so popular, even the Dalai Lama had one with him when he fled Tibet.

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The Captain watched the passengers on the deck of the steamer as the ship approached shore. There were fewer Britons than usual on this journey, and most had stayed in the privacy of their staterooms. Quite apart from the quarrelsome Egyptians and Indians on board, these passengers had a quiet grace and dignity about them. Mrs Martha Altamont had emerged out of her cabin that morning resplendent in a frothy confection of white cotton. Her dress rippled and billowed in the warm humid breeze. The white sparkled in contrast with black hair. She joined her husband at the railing and they whispered to one another. Mr George Altamont, for his part, was a tall and thin man with dignified sideburns framing a strong jaw. He was smoking a cigarette and gesturing at the shore with his hand. Suddenly, he turned his head and fixed the Captain with his piercing grey eyes. Flushing with embarrassment, the Captain turned away. When he looked back, the couple was gone.

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The heat was stifling for an Englishman accustomed to rain and fog. If Florence had been unaccountably warm, then Bombay was uncomfortably hot. Passengers, traders, porters, and officials bustled around them as they stepped onto the docks. They were directed into a large hall, where officers were checking documents. Holmes fanned himself with his papers. His companion looked up at him and said,

"I bought some things for you, too." She nodded towards a sweating porter behind them, who was wheeling in a mountain of luggage. "I rather thought it would be hot, so I invested in suits of linen and cotton."

Holmes did not have a chance to reply, for they had reached the head of the line, where an officer held out his hand for papers. Glancing at them quickly, he raised his head to look at the pair standing before him.

"Mr and Mrs Altamont? We have been expecting you." He motioned over to a waiting man in uniform while the couple exchanged surprised glances. "This is Lieutenant Bland. He will escort you to your train."

Lt. Bland was anything but what his name implied. A man of considerable height, and not inconsiderable weight, his complexion was reddened by many days spent in the sunlight. He had heavy eyebrows which hung over his eyes and gave him a stern expression. His smile was friendly, however, as he greeted the couple.

"We received a telegram from Calcutta a few days ago. It seems His Excellency wants to see you as soon as he possibly can."

"You are referring to Lord Lansdowne?" Holmes inquired.

"The very same. You must be pretty important people to warrant the attention of the Viceroy."

Miss Bassano ignored the implied question and asked one of her own. "How long will it take for us to get to Calcutta?"

"Oh, it shouldn't take more than a week, I should imagine," the Lieutenant answered affably.

"I see," she said, although she did not see at all. Holmes, remembering the always reliable Bradshaw, looked positively confused.

"Are the trains not punctual?" he asked.

Lt. Bland smiled. "You might say that, Mr Altamont."

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"Still," Miss Bassano said as the train ground to a halt for the third time that day, "It is better than being pursued by the Temperance League." She leaned her elbow on the windowsill, her head against the glass, peering out along the length of the train. A pair of long dark legs swung past the window, and she jumped back, startled. Children with dark skin and rumpled hair ran past the tracks, laughing.

For his part, Holmes looked murderous. "I'm exhausted," he growled.

She raised her eyebrow. "How can you be exhausted? You haven't exactly been shoveling coal into the engine all day."

"Inactivity exhausts me."

"You could go up on the roof with all those charming little Indians and hold on for dear life. Perhaps that would be just the activity you need." She spread her lips in a grotesque imitation of a smile. "And while you're at it, send one of them down here. They're bound to be more grateful than you are."

Holmes mimicked her smile. "My patience is wearing thin."

"Your patience is wearing thin? Well, I never!" she exclaimed.

"Never, what?" Holmes prodded.

"---Never heard such balderdash! Pardon my language." She stood up and put her hand to her temple, looking around the compartment. "If you will excuse me, George," she placed acid emphasis on the last syllable as she swept past the detective. Holmes crossed his arms and looked petulantly out of the window.

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He found her on the porch of the last carriage, holding her camera. She pointed it at the receding train tracks extending behind them into the distance. Pressing the button, she wound the handle to advance the film inside. Standing back, she brushed her hand across her brow and sighed. Holmes coughed slightly to catch her attention.

"I wish to apologize for my abominable behavior," he began. "I hope you can forgive me. I am unused to such circumstances, and I took certain liberties which I would not have allowed myself even when in the company of my closest friends. To behave thus with a lady in your position was... inexcusable." He paused. "I am not referring only to our last exchange. May we start over?"

Miss Bassano looked up at him from underneath the brim of her sun bonnet. Her face showed surprise, sorrow, and forgiveness all in one. Holmes was reminded of the enigmatic expressions he had seen in certain religious paintings in his youth. With a final look of resolve, she held out her hand to him.

"My name is Martha Altamont. I am pleased to meet you."

Holmes solemnly took her hand and shook it twice. "My name is George Altamont, and the pleasure is all mine," he said, and almost meant it.

Next time: George and Martha go to Calcutta to meet their fate. Now, review!