Hello my dears, I am so sorry for the delay. It seems that every time I think things are getting better, they are, in fact, turning worse. Two weeks ago my grandmother suddenly and unexpectedly died and just when everything was half-way back to normal, my father needed to get an emergency operation on his eyes, and as yet we don't know whether he will keep his eyesight or turn blind. And as if that was not enough, my husband has been feeling rather poorly the last couple of weeks and has me greatly worried as well, so I hope you forgive me for not posting anything for almost three weeks. - My mind was too occupied to sit down and produce anything decent. I don't dare make predictions on when I will post again, for Murphy's law seems to have a firm grip on us, but I try to not have you wait for too long.

So, I hope you will enjoy this new instalment, and please leave me a review.

Love

Nic

Methinks the lady absent - Part 4

Harriet:

Sherlock read the letter, his expression growing ever so much severer. Eventually, he took out the other ransom note, shortly compared both of them under the watchful eyes of our visitors, his frown deepening and at last folded the letters, tucked them back into their respective envelopes and handed both of them over to me. I had just finished examining the paper, while Sherlock had carried on questioning the two men, but neither of us had much success, if I may say so. Aside from the name of the young man, which was Peter Debenham, and that he studied in Cambridge, there was little to find out, other than that he came from a noble background but with no fortune and that thus, Lord Bentham did not approve of the match, while I, for the sake of it, could see nothing special in regards to the note, aside from the fact that the quality of the paper was vastly different as was the handwriting. The first note had been written on decent quality paper, though it bore no watermark, the writing, though in print, was firm and even, there was not a single stain or smear, while the other note was written on a scrap of paper, which seemed to have been torn from a book, was written in pencil, a very blunt one at that, and still had been smeared as if it had been scribbled in a great hurry. The handwriting was scrawny as if the writer hardly ever put pen to paper and a few of the words were misspelt, as I saw later, for at the time I did not get to read the note. With a fierceness that broke our bell wire, the doorbell rang, and had us all start and not a minute later a young man stormed into our sitting room, clearly agitated and panting as if he had been running a marathon, and truth be told, I would not have been surprised had he passed out from hyperventilation.

What followed, in retrospective seems much like a Shakespearian comedy, for Lord Bentham sprung from his seat and pointing a stern finger at the newcomer cried out an ominously sounding: "You!" as if that was the answer to all his and subsequently our troubles. The young man looked confused, stammering but half-words, before, after many an unsuccessful try to find his voice, he managed to say, with a look at defiance at the livid father: "The suitcases got mixed up... - She is gone. My Penny is gone missing."

"Your Penny? I beg to differ, but she most certainly is not yours, Mr Debenham. And as long as I have a say in it, my daughter never will be yours!"

"Please..." young Peter Debenham pleaded but was interrupted by my husband.

"Come now, this is hardly helpful, is it?" And turning towards Bentham he added: "The fact alone, that Mr Debenham has come here shows that he has nothing to do with the second note and that this is a hoax no longer. That it was a stupid idea in the first place, I hardly need to add, but what was to be a mock kidnapping, now has turned into a real one and while we had all the time in the world before, now the matter is a pressing one. But at least with Mr Debenham here, we have a lead as to how the real abduction happened and who might be behind it."

All of us fell silent after this speech, and at last Lord Bentham sat back down in his chair and with a gruff expression nodded towards the newcomer, who likewise sat down.

"Good," Sherlock said quietly into the silence, "I tell you what I know, Mr Debenham and you go from where I stop. You and Miss Bentham met last summer in Cambridge and formed an attachment, which her father was opposed to, as he made very clear. So much so, that he sent his daughter back to school in order to separate you from her and vice versa. This, however, did not work, as I take it, for you still managed to communicate, I presume with the help of a bribed maid at school, who would smuggle letters in and out without them passing through any of the teachers' hands, as is customary."

The young man nodded repeatedly and Sherlock Holmes carried on: "Lord Bentham was to get married and, though nothing in the kine has been mentioned as yet, I presume she was to meet a young titled and rich man, whom she was to fall in love with or got engaged to anyway, for what is more natural than to make a match at a wedding?"

The irony in his voice was unmistakable, but by the expression of his Lordship, it was clear that his conclusion was correct.

"Now to this, Lady Penelope greatly objected and since you had threatened to disinherit her should she marry Mr Debenham, they came up..." there Sherlock stopped, looking closely at Peter Debenham, "No actually, she came up with it. Lady Penelope came up with the plan to stage her own abduction in order to get, at least at her dowry, despite her father's threat. On her way to London, she sent her teacher to fetch her a cup of tea, left a well-written ransom note and chloroform drenched handkerchief behind, slipped into the compartment next door in which sat her lover and climbed quickly climbed into the large empty trunk he had brought specifically for this purpose. - And voilà, the lady disappears without a trace. The train is searched, but of course, no-one gets the idea that Lady Penelope might be hiding in a piece of luggage, and so, when the train arrives in London, the teacher quickly hastens to my while Mr Debenham can bring home his bride – had not something gone horribly wrong, that is."

"It was mixed up with another trunk. An elderly lady had taken a fall and as she was a heavy set woman, the two porters present hastened to help her. Many people were standing around and I lost sight of my suitcase for a couple of minutes. I was worried about Penny, for I think it must have been very uncomfortable in the suitcase, but she is such a daring young lady... - But at last, the porter returned to my side, pushing his cart and I thought all was well. It was only when I had brought the trunk into my room, that I saw that it wasn't mine at all, but only one that looked very similar. The fastenings were not brass, but rusty iron, the handles were made from wood, not leather straps like with mine, but aside from that, both suitcases looked basically identical. The porter must have taken the wrong cart in all the chaos that ensued after the woman had had her accident and under crying and screeching had been lifted back onto her feet."

"Have you opened the suitcase?"

"No, it is locked."

With a raised eyebrow Sherlock glanced at me, and I could hardly keep myself from rolling my eyes.

"What help can it be to know what is in that suitcase?" Lord Bentham inquired impatiently.

"It could lead us to the person who holds your daughter captive," Stanley Hopkins replied, rising from his chair.

xxx

We made our way over to Mr Debenham's humble abode, which was little more than an attic chamber south of the river, in a dingy area which clearly shocked Lord Bentham with all its poverty and grime. It always struck me as odd, that with such places scattered all over town and often close to the richest of living quarters, that so many rich people were oblivious to this side of the social scale. It certainly was not a place where a young lady such as Miss Bentham should stay, and yet, the street in which Mr Debenham had rented his rooms was still a cut above what I was accustomed to from Lisson Grove.

The room itself was astonishingly neat and tidy with clean windows and a polished, though well-worn floor and faded wallpaper. In the middle of it, on the only rug stood the suitcase, looking much like Sherlock had described it to the porter in Northampton.

"So, Hattie, it is your turn, I dare say," my husband smirked and for the second time that very day I began prying open a lock with the aid of one of my hairpins.

It was a bit more tricky than opening the well oiled and clean lock of Lady Penelope's little portmanteau for the lock was rusty and grimy from many years of use and neglect and it took me quite a while and several pins to achieve the task at hand. But finally, the lid swung open to reveal several bundles of bank notes as well as a couple of bags filled with gleaming coins. Whatever we had expected, it was certainly not this, for all of us stared at the contents of the trunk open-mouthed with astonishment.

Sherlock Holmes recovered first from the surprise and kneeling down, swiftly began examining every detail of the trunk as well as the money which lay within so plentiful. Whipping out his trusted magnifying glass he scrutinised every inch of the suitcase, taking out every single stack of money till he had reached the bottom. Prying loose part of the inner cladding he found that it was not used to hide anything, and neither was anything behind the cladding of the lid. There were some faded initials stamped on the front, but my husband paid them little heed. Flipping through every single stack of money, his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline and he carefully glanced at the coins, weighing them against one of his own Shillings contemplatively. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he stuffed everything back into the portmanteau and stood up again.

"Do you think this has been stolen?" Hopkins, at last, asked, joining in by picking up a bundle of notes which Sherlock had just thrown back in.

My husband shook his head thoughtfully: "No."

"Do you think there has been another abduction then?"

"No."

"But..."

"Hopkins, it doesn't help to speculate without facts. I told you so repeatedly. Yes, all of what you have suggested is a possibility, where it not for the fact that the money is counterfeit."

"What?"

"Look at it closely, Hopkins. It is well made, I have to say, but the serial number is the same on each of the notes and considering the print date they give as 1887, the picture of Britannia is incorrect. I would estimate that it belongs firmly in the first half of this century not the second, possibly even into the Georgian era."

"I would not have known, I admit," Hopkins replied, turning the five-pound note over and over in his hands.

"However," Sherlock carried on, "The paper is original, look at the watermark."

"Meaning?" Bentham inquired impatiently and from his expression, it was clear that he thought it of little importance.

"First, and most importantly, we now know that we are dealing with habitual criminals, secondly, that they are forgers – which in turn is important for me, to know where to start with my inquiries and thirdly, that, one of them must have connections to one of the official money prints."

"How do you know there are two?"

"At least two, Hopkins, I would rather say there are three or even more. To counterfeit money takes skill, which the forger obviously possesses, for many people would not have seen the differences to real money. However, the writer of the ransom note was obviously an uneducated person with little dexterity, meaning he hardly ever wrote anything. Now what? There must at least be two men – one highly skilled one, the other a handyman distributing the money the other so tirelessly prints and mints. Unless, as said, there is a third person in this, who takes care of the coins, which I would say is quite likely."

"But why bother with notes and coins?" Hopkins piped up again.

"Coins are easier to spread, for they are more common, while notes are easier to produce, I would assume," Sherlock answered, putting the money back into the trunk, safe for one coin and one note, which he pocketed for further examination.

"But why did they not simply ask to have their trunk back?" Hopkins carried on, speaking the very words I had been about to ask.

"I think I may know the answer to that question," Debenham replied, looking slightly sheepish and decidedly crestfallen. "Penny doesn't know my new address as yet, she has no possible way to reach me. For obvious reasons I took great care that we would not be found out easily, so I did not leave an address at my old lodgings either, nor did I write it to her, in case the latter was intercepted."

"You covered your tracks admirably then," Sherlock remarked dryly. "And had it not been for the very fact that you have come to me, we still would be oblivious to all of this."

"But I did come to you," the young man remarked in defiance.

"Yes, but don't be too proud of it," Hopkins muttered under his breath, though still audible enough for all of us to hear. "If it were not for you, there would not have been any need to find the lady in the first place."