Again, sorry for the delay. As said, at the moment I have trouble concentrating, so I am struggling slightly with writing this story, for while I normally have all the facts in my head, I now have to look them up again and again which is slightly hampering. Also, is there any particular crime you want me to deal with next? Not that this case is at an end yet...

So, robbery, murder, abduction? Or how about arson or treason? I can't quite decide, truth be told. So many possibilities...

Anyway, once again I haven't yet edited this chapter, so in all likeliness, there will be mistakes, but eventually, I will work this over as I have done with the other chapters.

And last but not least, before you grab a cup of tea and start reading: Thank you all so much for your feedback, I really appreciate it and am glad that you still seem to like these stories.

Love

Nic

Methinks the lady absent – Part 8

Sherlock:

There was some urgency finding the remaining forgers, and yet, I have to admit that I was not quite in the mood to stay up another night. I was tired, if I was honest and a tired brain, though to some extent could come up with surprising results, usually needed about five times as long to draw the obvious conclusions as opposed to an awake one. As it was, at this point it was more sensible to rest and think about how to proceed. Seriously, I had no idea at this point. It happened more often than one might assume reading Watson's publications.

By the time my father arrived back home from the museum, Harriet had settled down to see how she could alter her skirts yet again to make them a little wider, though judging by her exasperated expression with little success, and I had smoked half a bag of shag, sitting by the open bay-window as to not bother my wife too much with the smoke from my old trusted pipe.

"You two look cosy," Aldwin smiled, hanging his hat on the stand next to the door before pouring himself a cup of tea.

"We are, father," Harriet smiled, getting up to tell Mrs Hudson that we were ready for dinner whenever she chose to serve it.

"Ah, fantastic, for I have to admit, that I am quite ravenous for it has been an exciting day, and as it is, I will go down to Sussex tomorrow and have a look at a nice little cottage with a garden attached to it, nice large orchard, a little stream at the back – just the thing I have been looking for."

"But you do know that you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish, don't you?" Harriet inquired, sounding actually quite sad at the prospect of him leaving.

Well, admittedly, this news came as a slight shock for me as well. Not that my father hadn't always said that he was intending to retire to the country eventually, but as yet I had been under the impression that he felt quite comfortable here, with being able to go to the museum on a daily basis to continue his studies, but apparently I had been wrong.

"Ah, I can see what the two of you are thinking, and I can assure you, it has nothing to do with me not loving to stay with you. If I could, I would persuade the two – well, three – of you to come with me I would, but just as you belong here, I belong to the country. - But rest assured, I will visit you often enough. Don't think just because I move a little distance away, you will be rid of me," his eyes twinkled in his usual manner as he smiled at us. "But as it is, I have met with a colleague who is sure to have discovered a couple of Saxon graves close by the little village where I am going tomorrow, and I have quite a mind to snoop around a bit. He would do so himself if it weren't for the fact that he is engaged elsewhere."

Hm, dare one wonder why my father evaded mentioning the name of said village? Presumably not. I had my suspicions. So that was what the old rascal had been about. He was moving back to Langfield – more precisely into our old home. The home I had grown up in and where I had spent some of the happiest years of my life. A wave of sentimentality washed over me. My children would not be able to roam around as freely as I had done as a lad. How was it anyway, to be a child in town? Seriously, I had no idea. For me, childhood meant climbing trees, grass tickling one's bare feet, drinking water out of a brook, getting up to all kinds of scrapes and adventures... Thinking about it in this light, knowing that Aldwin moved back to where we had lived so happily together, was becoming increasingly re-assuring. At least during the holidays, my children would have a chance of experiencing all this. And besides, my father looked perfectly content and happy. Still, he would live there on his own. No Emma, no two boys that kept him busy... But he had his profession to keep him occupied and interested, and perhaps, just as it had been with me for the better part of my adult life, that was enough for him? Oh dear, on occasion my father was a hard nut to crack even for me.

"You seem deep in thought, my boy. What is it?"

"Has it been always your intention to move back to Langfield?"

His smile broadened as he answered: "Ah, and there I thought I could surprise you with it... - But apparently I was wrong. No, it has not been my intention, but when I inquired after suitable houses around Lewes, for I have to admit to that, I wanted to at least move to the same area, I found The Meadows was up for sale. Well, it has been for a couple of years apparently, and the agent warned me that it needs some work to be brought back to its former glory, but that will give me just another thing to do, won't it?"

"Definitely," Harriet laughed, pecking him on the cheek as she walked back to her chair and a moment later, Mrs Hudson, Tom and Jane appeared in the doorway with our dinner.

"So, Sherlock, have you solved your case? Hattie and I have been wondering where you were this morning," my father carried on and once more I relayed the details of the case.

It was just as well, for that way I could reiterate the facts once again and perhaps that would help me find a start of where to search. Well, the obvious starting point, as far as I could see it, was inquiring at the mint for any untrustworthy employees, but how far would that get me in finding their current whereabouts? Presumably not very far, but it would be worth a try. And indeed, the more I thought about it, the more I was certain, that I would find my men not in London's big criminal underbelly, but presumably in a respectable neighbourhood, and the most obvious points to start were the various print shops scattered around town. It would be thoroughly inconspicuous and seriously, who would suspect anything untoward going on in an established company? It would be the perfect guise. And then there was the empty house...

"Sherlock, did you actually listen to anything we've said?" Harriet asked me, shaking her head in exasperation, though a smile was tucking at the corners of her mouth.

What was there to deny? I had been completely lost in thought once again. Ruefully I shook my head.

"Hm, I thought as much..."

"So, what have you said?" I asked dutifully, only to be met by two people smirking at me.

"Actually nothing if importance. We have just been wondering if there was any deeper connection with the house in Cavendish Square. I mean, why would they choose that particular address? There is, of course, the possibility that the only reason is that the house is currently empty, but so are many others in London. Why this one? And who owns it?"

"Nothing of importance? I disagree, my dear. The questions you have asked might be the key to unravel this mystery."

"But it also might not, Sherlock. I mean, it is not very likely that they would have asked Lord Bentham to come to this place if that is where they actually print the money, is it?"

"But would Bentham have made the connection, Hattie? They didn't know at the time that someone was hard on their heels already, my dear. Just try and think what you would have seen if you were Lord Bentham."

"An empty house with a fairly kept and yet overgrown garden," Harriet answered thoughtfully.

"Anything else?"

"No, probably not. My mind would have been occupied with my daughter and her whereabouts."

"Exactly."

"But would it not still be too risky? They could not count on him to not involve the police, could they? Or you, for that matter."

"True, and still, I never said that No. 13 Cavendish Square was where they forged the money, only that I am certain that there is some connection. Oddly enough that was just what I was thinking about when you interrupted my thoughts. And as you have so rightly pointed out, it is not in a neighbourhood one would expect any crime being committed – though from my experience that is a faulty assumption, to say the least. So, and now, I would say, we all go to bed and have a good night's rest. You, father, will be busy travelling to Langfield and knowing you, will meet a lot of old acquaintances, while you, my dear, will not get around purchasing a couple of new dresses. No, don't deny it, you can just as well do so now, for the sooner or later you will not get around it - and I for my part, have to hunt down a bunch of criminals."

"Seems I got the least enjoyable task then," Harriet laughed her hand on her swollen stomach, caressing it gently. "Seriously, I have never heard of any husband sending his wife to buy new dresses without the least bit of dread in his voice."

"Ah, Hattie, it is because Sherlock knows very well that you are not much enjoying the experience, as far as I can tell, at least, and that consequently there is little danger that you will buy more clothes than is strictly necessary," my father chuckled.

"Exactly," I replied dryly, lighting one last pipe for that night before I would turn in, eager to wrap my arms around my wife and likewise stroke her belly, hoping that someday soon I would feel our child greet my caresses with a small kick.

The thought made me smile. Well, I was but a man, a husband and soon father and hardly the automaton Watson had often thought me to be in the past. Though admittedly, at one point in my life it had been a comfortable façade to hide behind – just that my brain was only one part, a substantial one at that, of my persona but certainly not the whole picture.

XXX

The first thing I did the next morning, was driving over to the Yard to first ask Hopkins, whether he had managed to get anything out of his prisoner and then to speak to him about what I intended to do if there was no other lead, namely finding out who was the proprietor of the house at Cavendish Square. Once I knew that, I would go from there, while at the same time I would send a telegram to the one mint located in London, and if that stayed without a result to the others, though I doubted that that would be necessary.

"I thought you might want to know who owns that house, Mr Holmes, and consequently I have already made inquiries. You won't believe whose abode it is..." Hopkins replied when I had finished with my plight.

"Whose?"

"Lord Metcalf's – well, more accurately it was his house till he died and now it belongs to..."

"His wife," I finished flatly, vividly remembering the beautiful but abrasive lady I had come across a few weeks ago, little surprised to find that she might be involved in such a scheme.

"Of course. I heard you have only recently come across her while working on another case and presumed you might find it interesting."

"I have, and I would not put it past her if she is involved in this. Not at all surprised, actually. But she obviously doesn't live there, does she?"

If I remembered it correctly, she also had a weakness for betting at horse races... Yes, decidedly. Ha!

"No. She prefers to stay in a suite of rooms at the Hanover Square Hotel," Hopkins answered my question, his expression clearly showing that he thought it rather odd that someone would own a house in one of the best parts of London and instead of living there, staying at a hotel.

So did I, until it occurred to me, that even though the Hanover Square Hotel was a very good and reputable one and not exactly cheap, it presumably was still a lot less expensive to live there compared to keeping house. In those elated echelons of society, people had certain expectations and dare the person who refused or even worse, failed to abide by their rules.

Handing me a sheet of notepaper Hopkins continued: "This is the little information we got out of our man. The name is James Miller, thirty- nine years old, lives in a tiny rented room in Hackney. We haven't been there yet, so if you want to join me?"

I agreed, though I highly doubted that he would have given his address if there was anything to find. At least nothing that was obvious, that is. It was hard to leave no hints whatsoever as to what one was on about some way or another. But little information indeed, for that, aside from what train he had taken to Newmarket, was all there was on the slip of paper the young inspector had given me. And consequently, we set off towards Hackney.

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