Sussex

„One of the banished crew/ I fear, hath ventured from the deep, to raise/New troubles"

Paradise Lost

The train sped swiftly through the lush landscape. Holmes inhaled deeply. England was, at any rate, a place where things at least seemed to be as they should - all though he knew better than most people that they were not. But the illusion created by scenic views, correct timetables and regular railroad service was nothing less than pleasant.

He was glad to have turned his back on France. It was not easy to accept the rough social conditions at Paris with one's personal childhood memories, soft-tinted and idealized, hazily looming in the background. Also, he realized missing certain things from his rural day-to-day life: The smell of fresh hay stacks when he opened his window first thing in the morning, the absence of traffic noise - London had become unbearable over the past years! - and the taste of his own honey on warm muffins. He might be an elderly imbecile, but home was home after all.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting by the door. She looked frail, her robust frame dwindled fast. He ought to dismiss her into her well deserved retirement, Holmes thought reluctantly. A substitute could be found without doubt. But Mrs. Hudson had seen and, to some degree, shared so much of his life and career - the beginning of his friendship with Watson, the many cases they had solved together. His triumphs and failures. His ill-fated marriage. His son, eagerly expected and disappointedly abandoned. Mrs. Hudson had witnessed it all, not always silently, not always with approval, but she had been there, her presence a constant steadier than even Watson's. An absolute value.

He greeted her briefly, his voice restrained. There was no need to discuss particulars of his journey. Mrs. Hudson knew she would not be told anything much, which did not keep her from complaining volubly about his sudden disappearance and his reappearance on short notice. Couldn't he let her know if he intended to be absent? How was she to tell whether he was away traveling, or had been abducted? And when should she inform the police in such a case? And would it really, really be so hard to send word that he would not be home for dinner? A good partridge had gone to waste over his caprice.

He listened to her stream of talk, using it as a meditative backdrop to his musings. Where would he find a man with sufficient personal grudge against England to rob it of a symbol of national pride? Ah, once the list of likely candidates would have been long in his mind. But today, he was out of touch, too far removed from where affairs of national interest were negotiated. The great criminals of his time mostly were no longer active - they were dead, retired or rotting away behind the bars. Maybe he could get an audience with Queen Victoria, who after all owned the missing piece? But the rumor was that the old lady did not receive many people these days, and if she did, it was with only partial presence of mind. So why bother?

Another possible partner was Scotland Yard. The new men there were from a different mould than the ones in his day: Young active men, working with modern methods and trying new scientific approaches. However, he no longer had any contacts there….and if he tried to establish them, most likely he would be stamped a funny old man, a relict from the past, curious in himself, but hardly to be taken seriously. An oddity.

He briefly listened in to Mrs. Hudson's volubility. Something had caught his attention, some detail in the stream of her speech suddenly struck him as being out of the ordinary. It was necessary to trace it in a backward jog through her utterances; and to dig deeper and unearth it.

„Pray excuse me, Mrs. Hudson, I had been distracted. You were saying?"

His landlady gave him an incredulous look. She was not accustomed to him actually listening, much less posing questions. It was just a routine they had - she was rummaging in her kitchen with him sitting at the old, rustic table in deep thought, and she did the talking to fill the expanding silence. It was never meant as a dialogue, but as a soliloquy.

However, since he had shown interest, she did him the courtesy to interrupt her chit-chat or rather, and to skip backwards.

„The old farmhouse across the field, Mr. Holmes. No, I don't mean Miss Mildred's farm. We're talking about the old homestead amongst the elderbushes. Now you don't mean to tell me you never saw it? Heaven's, you have lived here for years!"

Holmes racked his brain for more information. It was a fact that he was not given to take strolls in the neighboring countryside, and yet, he had mapped it neatly in his mind, with all relevant landmarks dotted onto the softly undulating landscape. How was it possible he should have missed this point?

„Remind me, Mrs. Hudson. Who lives there? The Eliots? The Parsons?"

She gazed at him as though he had lost his reason. „Why no, Mr. Holmes, it has been empty most of the time! Usually, there is nobody staying there!"

„Ah!" He exhaled with relief, glad for an explanation. The place was uninhabited, and therefore irrelevant. It had not been graced with a reference on his mental map, though presently, he dimly remembered having seen the gables now and again from the road, as he passed by. Good, that was settled.

„So, why should this abandoned grange arouse your interest?"

„It is not abandoned, Mr. Holmes!" She corrected him strictly. „It is somebody's holiday home, some London party I think I have heard. Only they have not been here since - „

She choked on her words and faltered, helpless. He watched her without mercy, until she had recovered.

„ - for seven years or so."

„I see." He still eyed her stonily. „And suddenly, they returned? A sensation indeed in this part of the world, I must confess. But pray, do not overexcite yourself. You might forget to attend to the oven."

„Oh, my!" She rushed to save her crumpets with a tad more than the hurry the occasion called for; too glad to escape his eyes. Holmes watched her bustle here and there, and wondered.

oooOOOooo

I learned of Holmes' departure only on Tuesday, when I called at the Le Meurice. It was my desire to know whether his search for the orb had advanced a little - and was politely, but determinedly turned away by the porter. No, he could not divulge any information about a guest. Mr. Holmes' whereabouts were a matter of the utmost discretion on the part of the hotel. Had I not been well-spoken and dressed in the best of taste, he would probably have called security to escort me into the street - I clearly did not belong here, in this marbled mausoleum.

The next obvious place to go was the Sûreté, and thus, I directed my steps there. I asked for M. Dulage, who at least knew who I was, and was admitted soon.

„Ah, Mademoiselle Morris. What a pleasant surprise!" He looked surprised indeed. After my rebellion against him pestering me at the boutique, it must needs strike him as exceptional that I should make a voluntary visit. Suddenly, I hoped he would not misinterpret it as me making a pass at him - he was young, and handsome enough, if you disregarded the pronounced malposition of his inward-pointing feet.

„You have remembered something you wish to communicate?" He asked politely, but with a pleasant smile I hurried to discourage.

„No, no, Superintendent. It is jus' that I am trying ter find Mr. `olmes - he wan't at his hotel when I called s little while ago, and they wouldna tell me where to look fer `im. Maybe you have been in touch…?"

„Ah…yes." He turned serious in a wink. „Very sorry, Mademoiselle, but Mr. Holmes has returned to England and left a note which did not make it clear when we should expect him back. However, you need not worry. The Sûreté has not given up on the search for Madame Zhao. Pray rest assured we are doing everything that it is in our power to do."

„Thank you, Superintendent. That's very reassuring", I murmured mechanically, indifferent whether he realized that I was not reassured at all. What was Holmes all about? Had he given up the case? All at once, I panicked. He could not just leave in the midst of an investigation! Why had he not informed me about his steps? Surely, the police were no good. Madame Zhao had told me so in her very own words. Suddenly, in spite of all my resentments, it dawned upon me that he was not my best, but my only chance to see her again!

There was no sense, no sense in anything he was doing. The crime had been perpetrated here, in Paris. There was no reason to assume either the treasure or Madame were in England, or had left the country at all. He had left again! He had left me in the lurch!

Suddenly, I could not breathe. My clasped hands seemed very small, stifling the sounds of my struggle for air. I whimpered. I was alone, alone at sea, on a ship that was carrying me back to my harsh, obtuse, loveless mother! The foam was flying high. I could not breathe. Ginger Jack, crouching by my calves, meowed pitifully. Shy, clouds, waves, all painted a dark swirl, a vortex that sucked me in without mercy.

I was drowning! The ship was sailing above the sea, but I felt the heavy pressure of water on my lungs, as I tried to inhale with increasing difficulty. The world above water disappeared beyond the waves closing over my head. Aunt Cathy! Sweet aunt Cathy! Help me! My arms flailed helplessly in the sombre shadows of the deep sea. I could not breathe. I could not breathe. Mr. Holmes, Aunt Cathy! To help! Mr. Holmes! Father…..!

When I woke up to the leathery smell of a couch, I felt tears streaming down on both sides of my face.

oooOOOooo

His first impression was that Mrs. Hudson must have been mistaken. The house among the elder bushes was clearly vacant. Also, there was no sign anywhere to be found, no indication of a tenant. It was only on closer inspection that he found evidence of recent occupation - fading wheel marks in the ground, occasional traces of horse manure, the driver's cigarette studs close to the house.

It was in no good condition. Missing roof tiles and a shutter hanging loosely from the hinges enhanced the impression of decay, especially from the distance. But as he approached, Holmes detected further signs of tenancy. A peep behind the loose shutter presented to view a room fully furnished - the only unusual thing being the white linen which covered everything, as if the denizens did not intend to return for a long time to come.

For a while, he hesitated whether to force his way into the building, but finally decided against it. It did not seem as if any personal belongings had been left behind, so ransacking the place would not tell him much. He could save himself the trouble of crossing the blurred line between legality and illegality, and seek out the land registry office for information.

He was just turning away to take his leave when something by the door arrested his attention. Indeed, there it was, if only very small: The name plate he had in vain looked for at the gate. On stepping closer, it read: T. Rhys-Folmec. He scribbled it down as a precaution, his brows drawn. A curious name. Irish, wasn't it? He was sure never to have heard it pronounced in these parts.

Pensively, he struck the path he had come, back down to the road.

oooOOOooo

My dear uncle Jonathan,

How are you out there at the Great Reef? You describe such delightful scenes that I would fain like to join you in this adventure. But alas! Your profession is not for one of my sex. However, I am confident brother Nicholas will one day followed its call, so that you will have at least one worthy successor in the family.

In your last, you wrote a lot about the line they are establishing between Darwin and Port Moresby on the island of Papua. I entreat you, do not volunteer to serve on this line! The most frightful tales are being told about this strange island and the gruesome folk that peoples it. If you land there, you might be captured by a cannibal tribe, and serve as a Sunday roast! If you will listen to a warning voice, shipping frozen mutton is much safer for you.

My own life is very much the same as ever. Work, of course, there is to be sure, but I enjoy Parisian nightlife a lot and explore the city with my friends every day after hours. We meet a lot of interesting people and the varietés and cabarets are ever so amusing! It is just the best place on earth to have a jolly good time. Honestly, I trust I am playing more than I am working, and yet I make a good salary!

But in any event, I can give that up any time, for there are enough eligible young men offering me marriage! If I wanted to, I could lead the life of a fancy lady - but I enjoy myself far too much for that! I can scarcely find the time to write this letter.

You asked whether the Chinese lady that is missing is my Chinese lady. It is amazing how fast news are traveling these days! I suppose it must be this new telegraphy network which seems to span the entire globe. Imagine you, at the brims of civilization, reading the latest French newspapers! It is very impressive.

Unfortunately, you are right, it is "my" chinese lady. However, I am sorry if I should have exaggerated my relationship with her in my previous letters. Actually, she was not much more than a regular client I did some fittings with. I hardly knew her at all.

By the way, I have met an old acquaintance from England, Aunt Cathy's widower. I don't suppose you will remember him much, and neither do I. He has some little part in the investigation of this affair concerning the King's Orb, being a detective, as you may recall. We exchanged courtesy calls.

What else is new? Ah yes, my birthday the other week. It was nothing much: The girls at work baked a cake for me, and in the evening, my friends gave a little party in my honour. André Dulage, who wants to be my suitor, was there and he got so drunk that it was quite shocking, but so funny we forgave him! I have not accepted him as a suitor, of course, but we can be friends, can't we?

Please tell me more about the corals, and the starfish, and all the dazzling colors of the reef! And remember what I said about Papua.

Many Kisses, Your loving niece

Fanny

Dear readers!

What think you of this letter? I would die to know it. I know some girls like Frances, but maybe I did not quite hit the tone.

Anyway! I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up soon.

Love, Mrs. F