Disclaimer: I do not live in Yorkshire. I have never been to Yorkshire, I do not know anyone in Yorkshire, and hours of googling and listening to videos can only impart so much of the local accent. I've done the best I could to portray everyone accurately (especially considering I did not plan to deal with an accent I've read but never heard!), but if you see a misused slang word (by early Edwardian standards, of course) kindly point it out. Here's hoping I managed to avoid anything too outlandish, lol.
"Come on, Holmes. We both know you did not hate it that much."
Glass clinked his disagreement just before a harrumph answered me. "I am not going. Stop asking."
No. "But then how will you spend the evening grousing about every 'ridiculous' thing they did?"
Partially feigned irritation tried to dissolve behind a twitched grin, and he quickly put his back to me. Holmes and I had spent a decent portion of the afternoon "arguing" about whether he should try another opera with me. I held that both the show and Holmes' reactions created an entertaining evening, but he repeatedly refused, citing the puerile comedy and the "unnecessary" singing. I doubted I would ever talk him into going.
His reactions still proved endlessly entertaining.
"Come with me," I tried again when he made no reply. "We can choose one of the other productions, and the right seats would let you watch the orchestra for the entire show."
The suggestion nearly received huffed amusement. He halted the noise just in time.
"Holmes?"
No reaction. A stirring rod started mixing chemicals to declare the conversation closed, and I resisted the urge to laugh. Any further attempts would receive only silence.
Not that it mattered. While he would never admit just how much he had enjoyed that evening, he had appreciated the company and the bickering afterwards more than the show itself. If he had decided the conversation did not make up for a couple of hours of concealing his disinterest, nothing I said would make him attend another show.
Hence why I would simply have to trick him. Lifting the paper slightly higher prevented him from noticing the grin escaping at the newspaper's drama section.
"Mystery Comes to the Opera! The Strand Opera House revealed yesterday that they are considering debuting a variety of mysteries to 'liven up' the typical range of romances and foreign stories. With Mystery in a Traincar, The Missing Child, The Adventure of the Invisible Tart, and Picture Winnings on the list of possible playbills, check back frequently to learn when our favorite opera house will add a new element to the shows that leave us wishing for more."
Perhaps a mystery would accomplish what a traditional opera would not. Especially if he did not know about the operatic element until we arrived. Not only might he actually enjoy the mystery, but he would spend all night acting the grouch for me dragging him out under false pretenses. This could be fun.
It would also have to wait, however. I knew better than to raise the topic until Holmes lost the irritation of the last hour's discussion—and until the Opera House decided which storyline to produce. Crackling paper protested me turning the page.
"Did you hear that another member of Parliament has gone missing?"
"I did." A bottle thumped the shelf before a small flask dripped into his beaker. "Mycroft is following the case, but he does not want me involving myself yet."
Naturally. While they occasionally requested help with initial leads, Mycroft usually preferred Holmes avoid governmental cases until the normal investigators finished what they could, mostly to prevent my friend from becoming the go-to instead of the last resort.
"Have you—" A glimpse of his beaker cut off the forming question. "Neutralize that before it explodes."
Nearly an inch of thick foam formed in less than a second to halt the forming protest. Four rapid drops from two different bottles stopped the foam but changed its tint, then a splash of water either diluted the solution or cooled it enough to halt the reaction. Only after the mixture had stabilized did he glance a silent query at me.
"Something about the color," I replied with a half shrug. "My chemistry professor's experiment did that in the middle of class once, years ago. He did not react in time, and the explosion rattled the windows."
Two students had sustained injuries from the flying glass, as well, but I saw no reason to mention that. Question forgotten, I resumed reading as he cleaned, though I finished less than a paragraph before footsteps on the stairs interrupted us again.
"Letter for you, Mr. Holmes. From Yorkshire. Looks like it got lost a time or two on the way here."
Yorkshire? I glanced up in time to catch confusion flicker across Holmes' face. That gesture requested she drop the missive to one side, however, where it stayed until he had disposed of the solution and cleaned the beaker. A long moment carefully inspected the battered envelope, but skimming the contents sent him toward the landing without a word. I faintly heard Mrs. Hudson acknowledge a request for tea before he returned to the sitting room.
"We have a client arriving on the next train." The letter landed in my lap on his way back to the chemistry table. "Seems his neighbor has disappeared, and the local constabulary cannot find anything."
Interesting. We did not often have a missing person case provided by a non-family member. I retrieved an empty journal from my desk as he finished tidying his chemistry table, and he claimed part of the paper to pass the time. A knock sounded below less than five minutes later.
"…madam," I faintly heard. "Mr. Holmes should be expecting me."
"This way." Two pairs of footsteps echoed in the stairwell, then Mrs. Hudson waved a tweed-clad man into the sitting room. "Sir Walter," she announced.
Shorter than me and positively dwarfed by Holmes, Sir Walter appeared the kind of man that would much rather enjoy a pint in the nearest pub than travel several hours south to a large city. His country suit and flat cap held only the wear of many uses, and laugh lines around his eyes betrayed a relatively easy life. Worried sorrow had smoothed those laugh lines, however, mostly on his forehead and around his mouth. He appeared torn between twisting his hat in his hands and self-consciously shoving one hand into a pocket. Holmes' nod of greeting produced an attempted smile.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Pleased to meet you." A gesture offered our visitor a spot on the settee. "I understand your neighbor has disappeared."
"Aye. I mean, yes." Sir Walter's shorter stride still crossed the sitting room in only a few steps. "Lord Greyson Thrombak of Thrombak Manor. We were supposed to meet for an afternoon last week, but 'e never showed. His son said he hadn't come 'ome the night before an' that t'police were doin' nowt about it. I 'oped ye would agree t'look."
The last half trailed into much broader Yorkshire than I had heard in a while, and I fought to kill my amusement when my friend made no reply.
"Holmes?" Confusion became relief with a glance at me. "'Nowt' is 'nothing,'" I informed him, "and you know the northern dialects drop sounds off the front and back of words."
"Aye," Sir Walter agreed, slowing his speech to soften his accent, though he evidently could not completely abolish the local words from his vocabulary. "I 'ave not always lived at Rossenthwaite Manor, but ten years is plenty of time t'acquire the local dialect. Please do not 'esitate to ask me to repeat something tha did not understand."
A flick of Holmes' hand disregarded the apology. "Pray continue."
"I went to town that same night, but while young Gideon spoke truth about them doin' nowt—nothin', 'twas because they did not have anywhere to start. Three days of my own search found nothin', an' I finally decided to come 'ere. It's not like 'im to leave wi'out word. Not like 'is son to lock hissen in the house instead of 'elp, either. Two of them 'ave always been close."
"Do you know of any place he might have gone?"
"Not a one." He shook his head. "'Tis the life of a lord of a manor to have duties pullin' this way an' that, but Greyson usually drags me with 'im, and 'e would ha' sent word if owt—if somethin' had made 'im cancel our supper."
"Does he have any other friends? Acquaintances?"
"None I know," was the short reply. "We're well away from town, an' 'e an' Gideon 'ave been t'only ones in that place since 'is wife's death. Far too big for two, but I canna say much when I live in the larger estate."
"What about family?"
"Greyson has an uncle. Old. 'E lives south of 'ere—near Brighton, I believe. Mentioned a brother servin' in Australia, another on the continent, an' some distant relatives scattered 'ere an' there. 'E never talks about them. I doubt Gideon 'as ever met them. I've never known 'im to 'ave company."
"What about enemies?" Holmes watched Sir Walter closely, looking for anything the man might hide. I saw only honest ignorance.
"Same as friends," he said with an easy shrug, obviously fighting to abolish his accent. "Town is an easy enough distance for a day's trip, but neither o' us need much socialization. Greyson usually joins me for supper a night or two a week, and I sometimes 'elp 'im in the gardens and greenhouse. 'E grows a variety of flowers. Gives them t' Nara—my cook—t'sell in town. Th' money will put Gideon through school."
"How old is Gideon?"
"Sixteen or seventeen, an' studyin' for university."
Holmes leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as I would have expected him to do several questions ago. Something about Sir Walter's reply had intrigued him.
"Gideon did not attend boarding school?"
That silent negative provided some clue I did not catch. "Greyson could not bear to send the boy away. Not that I blame 'im. After losin' his mother and brother so many years ago, they only 'ave each other. Greyson taught the boy himself. Everythin' from Latin and mathematics to history, the classics, and a bit of nursin' left over from 'is wife's illness. Gideon's a smart lad. He will do well."
"What happened to them?"
"A ridin' accident. She was ridin' around the grounds, an' the boy spooked t'horse. Threw her and trampled him. He lasted less than a day. She passed t'next week. Gideon was 'round five at t'time. I'd not yet inherited the estate."
"Hmm." The noise served as Holmes' only reply, and I glanced up from my note taking, wondering what he saw. "What do you know of the brother?"
"Just that," Sir Walter answered frankly. "By the time I arrived, the funerals were a year gone and both 'ad just come out of mournin'. Greyson does not discuss 'is wife an' other son, an' so the topic never arose later. Why?" he added. "Do you think the accident 'as somethin' to do with their disappearance?"
"Perhaps." The short reply emerged amidst another long second of study, then one hand retrieved my Bradshaw from the closest table. Crackling paper silenced about a quarter of the way through the thin book. "The next train north leaves in just over an hour. I imagine the closest inn is in town?"
Clear relief flashed across Sir Walter's face. "You could stay in my 'ome, of course. I 'ave plenty of room, and Rossenthwaite is much closer to Thrombak Manor."
A sharp nod both accepted that and conveyed a thanks. Holmes' glance ensured I did not have any questions, then he scribbled a quick note on a slip of paper retrieved from a nearby book and gained his feet.
"Then if you will give us a moment to pack a bag, we will come with you now."
Holmes waved me out the door with him, for once willing to leave a client alone in our sitting room, but Sir Walter merely leaned back in wordless promise to wait quietly. Holmes' manner said we would not be long.
It did not tell me why he trusted a stranger, however. Not only would he normally worry that the visitor would touch his chemistry equipment, but we had also dealt with thieves many times over the years. When I raised an eyebrow in wordless question, he merely smirked and shoved the paper into my hand before ducking into his room.
Newspaper clipping. I held a faded newspaper clipping old enough I would have expected it either long trashed or hidden in some buried index. The headline caught my attention immediately.
"Sir Walter Moves to Yorkshire," the bold text announced. "The death of his uncle brought Sir Walter Crompton, last relative of the long-declined House of Stuart, back to England this week after many years abroad. Sources indicate he intends to claim the family manor, but he was unavailable for comment at the time of printing."
House of Stuart. The royal line had died off decades ago, but with every royal bearing as many children as possible, the old estates had not lacked for younger generations to inherit the land and wealth. The last of any well-managed estate usually found himself with far more money than he could hope to spend. No wonder Holmes did not see a chance of theft.
Though the "bring your revolver" scribbled in the margin announced some element of danger. I climbed the stairs to retrieve my bag. This should be an interesting case.
What do you think happened to Lord Thrombak? Hope you enjoyed this first chapter, and don't forget to drop your thoughts below :)
And thank you to SlowisSmooth for your reviews