Chapter 21
Author's notes: First off, Amy: Thank you for such a lovely compliment. As I do the same thing for other stories, I know exactly what you mean! I'm sorry for the delay. It's end of term, my mother watered my computer (I am waiting for it to sprout leaves!) and ffnet has been read-only, as you know. Thanks also to my faithful reviewers Haley Macrae and mierin-lanfear. Lindsay, this chapter is for you (guess why?).
Sherlock Holmes sat on Miss Bassano's chesterfield, sulking. At least, his pose suggested that he was sulking: his knees were drawn up to his chin, and he wrapped his long, sinewy arms around his legs. His eyes were cloudy and unfocused, and his general attitude was that of dismay. Miss Bassano, for her part, swept past him and brushed her hand against his legs, saying, "Feet off the furniture, Mr. Holmes. It really is basic etiquette."
With an unfriendly look in her direction, Holmes slowly unfurled himself, stretching his legs out in front, and crossing his arms across his chest.
"He is dead," he muttered.
Miss Bassano, who had listened to this refrain for hours, could take it no longer. "Well, of course he's dead!" she snapped. "We all die sooner or later."
"He died too soon," Holmes answered darkly.
"Before you could apprehend him to the general acclaim of the public at large?" Miss Bassano taunted.
"The culprits must be caught," Holmes said firmly, as though his life's philosophy rested on the inherent justice of crime and punishment.
"Sir Augustus, you may recall," she said slowly, as though speaking to a child, "was minister for Persia. And that, my dear Mr Holmes, granted him diplomatic immunity. There is nothing you could have done that would have brought him to justice, even if he was a traitor."
The fog disappeared instantly from Holmes' eyes, and he turned to look at Miss Bassano. She didn't notice the change in his demeanor and continued talking.
"I expect the service will be flooded with foreign dignitaries, paying their last respects," she mused, and then smirked at the irony of it. "Paying their respects to a criminal..."
Holmes sprang up and ran into his bedroom. Over the noises of the wardrobe doors, he called out to Miss Bassano, "And so shall we!"
Emerging moments later, dressed in a formal black frock coat, he looked at her in amazement. "Haven't you changed yet? We are going to attend the funeral!"
Miss Bassano, whose shock had deprived her of the ability to argue, obediently entered her own dressing-room and shut the door. When she had emerged, wearing black crepe and a wide-brimmed hat draped with an imposing black veil, Holmes had already put on his coat, hat, and gloves, tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. He helped Miss Bassano into a heavy overcoat that was entirely inappropriate for the desert summer, and offered her his arm. They were going to the funeral of Sir Augustus Moran.
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Sequestered as they were in the dark shadows of an accommodating alcove, Sherlock Holmes and Miss Bassano were in a perfect position to observe the guests without being seen themselves. The hall was filling slowly, as the pungent smell of lilies floated on the air. The guests were a strange mix of European and Eastern personages. British diplomats, stiff in their frock coats, were homogeneously black, and it was difficult to distinguish one side-burned male from another. Sheikhs, emirs, and other persons of questionable nationality dressed in flowing robes and colourful head-scarves, cast suspicious glances at their surroundings. In the middle of it all, stood the coffin of Sir Augustus Moran, presided over by a deferential priest. Moran's son, much to Holmes' chagrin, was absent. The din of many muffled voices echoed slightly.
Holmes touched Miss Bassano's hand slightly to get her attention, and gestured for her to follow him. To her surprise, the alcove that had sheltered them contained a door, through which they slipped quietly into the abandoned hallways of Moran's sprawling residence.
"What are we doing here?" she whispered, although a terrible suspicion had begun to form at the pit of her stomach.
"We are going to find evidence," Holmes stated matter-of-factly, striding confidently along strange hallways in pursuit of something only he could recognize.
"This is burglary, Holmes, nothing less than burglary!" Miss Bassano hissed, struggling to keep up with Holmes' pace. "You are sinking to crime!"
Holmes said nothing in response as he ducked in and out of rooms, his senses alert. Something grabbed his attention, and grasping Miss Bassano's hand, he pulled her into one of the rooms, closing the door behind them. The curtains were drawn, and a soft crepuscular light filtered through them, illuminating the room's contents. It was a study, with book cases and a writing desk strewn with paper. Holmes shuffled through the papers, his mouth set in determined concentration. Every drawer and pigeon-hole was emptied of its contents, followed by grunts of satisfaction or growls of frustration from the intent detective. Stuffed into the very back of one of the compartments was a manila envelope, sealed with a dark red ribbon tie. As Holmes eviscerated its contents, he snarled in anger. The papers were filed with illegible scrawls, the origin of which he could not recognize.
Miss Bassano, who had slowly inched toward the desk until she stood looking over Holmes' shoulder, reached over and snatched them from his grasp.
"This will be the evidence you seek," she said, skimming the papers with a casual glance.
"How do you know?" Holmes asked, swiftly turning around, and finding Miss Bassano standing rather closer than he had calculated in his mind.
"It's in Arabic, and is addressed to some rather mysterious personages," she answered, still reading the documents. Holmes' stunned silence made her look up, and in response to his mystified face, she said impatiently, "You didn't expect me to have lived in a diplomat's household during the Afghan campaign and not have learned Arabic, did you?"
The word "Afghan" had an unexpected (for Miss Bassano) effect on Holmes, who for a passing moment, appeared almost wistful. Yet he recovered, and turning back to the desk, began passing stray sheets of paper over his shoulder to her. The rest he carefully replaced where he had found them, and artfully shuffled the papers on top of the desk to appear as disorganized as they had initially been.
"Now then," he said to no one in particular when he had finished, "How will we secret all this paper out of here?"
Miss Bassano, without a word, passed the stack of paper to Holmes and reached to the desk, where she grasped a paper knife. Swiftly and silently, she opened her overcoat and cut the lining inside. Taking back the stack of paper, she distributed it evenly along the bottom of the heavy woollen garment. Straightening back up, she replaced the paper knife and buttoned her coat. "The real question is, how will we extricate ourselves if we are discovered?" she inquired, rearranging the black veil over her face.
With his right hand, Holmes slid the shining handle of a small handgun out of his left sleeve.
"A revolver? How vulgar," she parroted his earlier expression, but did not protest further, as she followed him back out into the hall.
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Back in their tiny shared flat, Miss Bassano handed the stolen documents to Holmes, who deposited them on the table. "You will send them to your uncle," he commanded, and turned to his room once again. Miss Bassano sat down by the window, repairing the damage to the lining of her overcoat with a needle and thread. Some minutes later, Holmes re-emerged, carrying a travelling case in one hand, and his hat in the other.
"Going somewhere?" Miss Bassano inquired acidly.
"If I cannot apprehend the criminal," he sighed, "then I must work to undo the damage the crime has wrought."
"And you intend to do this by..." she prompted, still working her sewing.
"By going to Mecca," he stated flatly.
Miss Bassano looked up, tilted her head and raised her eyebrow, the combined angle of which were meant to inform Holmes that she felt his decision to be one of surpassing idiocy. "Mecca," she began, "is a sacred city. Heathens who enter will be killed on site."
"You may recall," Holmes said with some impatience, "that I have been hired by the British government as a spy, and is it not a spy's business to go into forbidden locations?" Miss Bassano had no answer for this logical argument, and Holmes went on. "You may also recall that I spent two years in Lhassa, another feat supposed by many to be impossible." He placed his hat on his head, and touched the brim, bowing his head slightly. "Good day, madam." As the door closed behind him, Miss Bassano threw her sewing down with a little scream of frustration.
Next week: Miss Bassano tells Holmes what she really thinks. Review!!!