Secret Letters (2 page)

Turning before the mirror now, I felt as if I were seeing myself for the first time, through the critical eyes of a distant stranger. I practiced different expressions to decide which one to wear. I rehearsed my smile and offered ten different greetings to the pillow on my bed. I tried out confidence and meekness and decided he would dislike them both. I pretended fear and stuttered, and felt his irritation. I gave brilliant examples of my criminal knowledge, and saw him yawn discreetly. I composed a heartfelt speech about my family, and then shuddered at his reaction to my mother’s name.

Finally, I told my secret to the mirror and was met with icy silence. And as the morning dawned, I still sat terrified and undecided on my bed, clutching my little purse until my hands were numb.

I might have stayed that way forever had not a distant sound from my cousin’s room motivated me to break the spell. There was no going back now, I told myself. I had traveled to London for this purpose, and willingly or not, I would meet him before the day was through. If I waited any longer, Adelaide would wake; and I would lose my chance to speak to him alone.

I went to my desk, drew out a sheet of stationery, and scribbled a brief note to my cousin.
Will be back by noon. Went for a walk around town
. By the time she found my message, I would already be there. I knew that she would fuss at me when I returned. Young unmarried women were not supposed to walk about alone. There was no way around it, though, and I wasn’t really thinking about etiquette at that moment, anyway. I threw one last look at the mirror and then left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. The hallway was empty and, holding my skirts to still the rustling cloth, I stole down the stairs and into the street.

A yellowish gloom had descended over the city and obscured the morning sun. Beyond the haze, I could just make out the shapes of hansoms and broughams, and the hordes of street vendors and shop-men who were rushing past. A cab clattered toward me, and I stepped off the pavement and put out my hand. The driver asked my destination, and I hesitated briefly and cleared my throat before replying, “Baker Street, please.”

That cab ride felt like the longest trip I had ever taken. The morning rush brought us into a thick knot of carriages, and the hansom swayed and pitched to avoid the swelling traffic. Above me, the driver cursed God, the city, and his horse, as if he had never seen a London jam before. I peered into the crowd and counted cabs to distract myself. And yet, when we finally arrived at his door, I wondered how the most important drive of my life could have been so short.

As I wavered undecided upon the step, the door swung open, and a man rushed past me; I saw that he was wearing a black mourning band around his arm, that his cheeks were gray and hollow, and his eyes bloodshot. Standing behind him in the doorway was an older lady who was gazing into the street and sobbing, clutching the railing in her grief as her tears fell unheeded upon the stairs But still I did not see the truth; I did not dare to guess. And I could not move, not until the weeping landlady had closed the door, the unhappy gentleman had vanished around the corner, and a little newsboy had sauntered past me, hauling his stack of papers. Not until I heard the child’s cracking voice, shouting out the latest headline, did I realize why I was shaking.

Not until I saw the words that he waved before me did I understand what I had lost.

Sherlock Holmes Killed in Switzerland

I
SANK TO MY KNEES
before the startled child and grabbed the paper from him. I was afraid to read it; I did not want to know the details, for it would make it real to me and final. The boy was calling out to me, screeching, “A’right miss? A’right miss? Are you a’right?” in a dizzying loop, and the stream of passing carriages roared like gunfire in my ears. I could not breathe, my stays were like bands of iron across my chest, and the heavy stench of horse and greasy fog stifled me and made me gag.
We
regret to report that the famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has been confirmed dead by the Swiss police
. I closed my eyes and crushed the page between my fingers. “It can’t be, it isn’t possible,” I moaned into the cracking paper in my hands. My skin was slippery with inky sweat, and the sharp, black odor of the newsprint stung my throat. “But I’ve waited years for you—” I murmured weakly into the spinning gray; and then the street went silent, and I dropped into the swirling shades and dust.

When I awoke my cheek was resting on something lean and rough, against someone who smelled of warm wool and cinnamon. There were two people calling to me now; the child’s voice had faded slightly, and another, lower tone was whispering my name.

“Miss Dora, Miss Dora, please.” I did not know the man’s voice and I could not see his face; there was an arc of violet lights dancing before my eyes. I stumbled forward and heard him call to me once more.

“Miss Dora, please stay still a moment, or you’ll fall on me again.”

I felt him shift beneath me and raised my head; as my vision cleared, I saw that I was leaning on someone’s arm, someone who was murmuring my name and patting me gently on the cheek. I jerked my chin away and pushed him back, my skin going dark with shame. Once more the sinking tug of nausea hit, and a veil of shifting colors blinded me; again the steady arm wrapped around my waist.

“Do you know this lady?” I heard the newsboy ask.

“A little,” the voice responded. “I know that Miss Dora is in trouble, and that she has come to London to seek a detective’s help. I know that she had something very important to tell him, and that no one knows that she is here.” He plucked the newspaper from my fingers as he spoke and smoothed it out. “And I know that I am truly sorry for her sad discovery,” he concluded softly.

I rose unsteadily to my feet and turned to face him; the haze was clearing, and it no longer hurt to breathe. He had released my waist, and I watched him as he stepped away from me.

He was quite young, no more than seventeen, but with the lanky height of a full-grown man. His skin was fair, the outline of his jaw was smooth, with only the faintest shadow of a beard. His eyes would have been very handsome ones if they had not been narrowed in a piercing stare, for they were green like sea foam, and flecked with hazel shadows. As he leaned back against the railing and readjusted his gray felt cap, a shock of straight, copper-colored hair tumbled out across his forehead.

I cleared my throat, shook the remaining shadows from my head and glanced over his figure once again.

“I appreciate your help, Mr.—”

“Cartwright. Peter Cartwright.”

“Well, Mr. Cartwright, I see that you were running to complete an urgent task for your employer.” I squinted at the leather pouch peeping from his pocket. “I do not wish to keep you. The first few months at a new post are the most important ones, after all.”

I saw him start; his lips fell open, and his eyes flashed with silent pleasure. It was quite amusing to watch the play of admiration and disbelief flicker across his features, and for a moment, it distracted me from my grief. I turned back to the newsboy and dropped a coin into his hand. “You may run along, please. I am feeling better now.”

As the child shuffled down the street, my companion shifted uneasily in front of me and cleared his throat. “You are still very pale,” he muttered, and handed me my crumpled paper. “It was quite a shock to you, this news.”

I did not want to answer him. There was no way to explain my unhappiness to anyone, for why would I be mourning a gentleman whom I had never known? But the true facts were too shameful to reveal, and, more importantly, my story was dead now, and it no longer mattered what I said. A lie would do as well as any truth, for I did not expect to meet this boy again.

“Honestly, sir, I do not know what came over me just now,” I told him, wearily. “I had a long journey yesterday, and I am still tired, I suppose.”

He could have pretended to believe me and let me go. A well-bred gentleman would have bowed politely and murmured something dull and understanding. Mr. Peter Cartwright crossed his arms, puffed his cheeks out, and whistled through his teeth. “Whew. That two-hour train ride from Eastbourne must have been
very
trying indeed.”

He was grinning at me now, and his head was thrown back a little, like an artist expecting his applause. Clearly he was waiting for my surprise, for the inevitable “Dear me!” and the plea for an explanation. But I would not take the bait, of course. There was no mystery, after all, and besides, he had now stepped into
my
arena.

“Well, sir, I am sorry if your deductive powers have not left me speechless with amazement,” I responded. “You see, I realize that my name is embroidered on my handbag, that there is a charm from Eastbourne dangling from my bracelet, and that you observed me reading about Mr. Holmes’s death upon his doorstep. And, besides, you were wrong earlier about my traveling alone. I did not come up from Newheath on my own.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I did not say you did. But your little trip to Baker Street this morning was a secret, wasn’t it?” I opened my mouth to answer him and stopped, alarmed.

He chuckled at my confusion and stepped closer to me, and I had to lean my head back to meet his gaze. I slowly ran my eyes over him again, more from fear than curiosity, for I was not used to strangers who could best me in observation.

He was neatly dressed, I saw, but his shoes were scuffed with years of wear, and his trousers appeared to have been recently rehemmed. A cravat had been tied very tightly around his collar, but it had slipped down when he’d caught me. Behind the shadow of the knot, I could see the edge of an angry, cross-shaped scar. He noticed me studying it, and his hand went quickly to his neckline; his eyes narrowed, and with a rough motion he pulled his collar shut and readjusted the tie to cover the mark.

We stared at each other for a little while without speaking, like two ragged knights over pointed lances. He finally broke the uneasy stillness with a laugh and backed away from me. “Well, do you give up?” he demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you finished analyzing me? You’ve been scanning me from head to toe like a suspicious copper. Not very ladylike at all, for it makes a gentleman feel very vulnerable to be examined so.” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I daresay you are preparing a witty little speech to put me in my place. I’m all ears.”

I suppressed a smile. No one had ever encouraged me like that before. “I promised my aunt that I would not do that anymore.”

“Nonsense, that isn’t it at all. You simply haven’t found out anything interesting, and you aren’t ready to admit it. There, now, I’ll give you another chance.” He took a step toward me, turned about slowly, and extended both his palms before my face. “How about now?”

I did not understand what this brazen person wanted from me. Did he go about taunting every strange girl he met upon the street, or was I the first unfortunate? At some other time I might have liked to meet his challenge; but today I could see nothing but a teasing boy, and for once, I did not care to look much further. These games felt trite and meaningless now, and my skill seemed rather silly. “I am sorry, Mr. Cartwright, but I cannot care today—” I began and stopped, exhausted.

His arms dropped to his sides, and his smile faded; with a shamefaced look, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped aside. “It’s more than just disappointment, isn’t it?” he ventured, after an awkward silence. “Did you know Mr. Holmes well?”

I thought about the letter tucked inside my picture frame and shook my head sadly. “No, I didn’t. I never met him.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps you had, for you looked ready to cry a moment ago. I was just trying to distract you a little, as best I could.” There was an earnest sympathy in his smile now, and my grief was reflected in his eyes. “You see, I
have
met Mr. Holmes, and I was very sorry when I heard the news.”

I glanced back at him with renewed interest. “You consulted him on a problem?”

“No, but for a short time I worked as his assistant.”

“His assistant! And what happened?”

“Ah, now suddenly I’m interesting to you. Well, Miss Dora, if you must know, Mr. Holmes solved the case.”

“Well, of course he did,” I retorted. “But that’s not what I was asking. What I meant was—what I wanted to know was—” I paused for a moment and swallowed uncomfortably. Peter Cartwright was staring at me now with a bemused expression on his face and shaking his head. Had I seemed too eager? I wondered. And did it really matter if I had? He certainly thought that I was odd already. Besides, I would never get a chance like this again. “What was Mr. Holmes like?” I ventured after an awkward silence.

He laughed shortly and crossed his arms. “What was he
like
?”

“I’ve read the stories, obviously,” I told him. “But I’ve never spoken to anyone who’s met him, who’s actually worked with him. What was he like?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “He was—smart.”

I nodded patiently. “And—?”

“Masterful.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled absentmindedly, as if recalling an amusing memory. “Sherlock Holmes could silence a hardened criminal with a single look.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. And Mr. Cartwright seemed to be watching me closely, as if waiting for my reaction. I thought it best to distract him for a bit, before he asked me why I cared so much about a man I’d never met.

“You enjoyed working with him, then?” I inquired.

“I did. In fact, I became rather enthusiastic about his line of work. I was only fourteen then, and quite impressionable. Perhaps you will read about the case in Dr. Watson’s chronicles one day. At the end of the investigation, I offered to extend my services and become his apprentice. Needless to say, he declined, and I was—disappointed. I was very unhappy for a time, though I did not swoon in the street, as you just did.” He gave me a wicked grin and rolled his eyes dramatically. I had a sudden, unladylike urge to knock him down.

“Well, I am glad to see that you have recovered, sir,” I responded coolly. “I cannot imagine why anyone would reject you, truly I cannot. Your talent for deducing a lady’s name from her handbag is quite astonishing; I know that I am still all aflutter. I’d best run home before I collapse again.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I did after that case?” he inquired with a wounded air.

I was still smarting from his jibe about my fainting spell, and so I answered him more brutally than I intended. “No, not particularly. I really don’t see why I should care.”

“Because I want to offer my help. Mr. Holmes was not the only private investigator in London, you know.”

“No, but he was the best. And now you want me to bring my problem to you—a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“Seventeen. And I wasn’t recommending myself, though perhaps one day I will be. I was referring to the gentleman for whom I work.”

“And who is that?”

“Mr. Neville Porter. He is an investigator as well as a private agent. Until recently, he handled Mr. Holmes’s ‘overflow’ cases, but it seems that now we may have more business than we bargained for. Oh, and by the way,
don’t
tell Porter that you went to Sherlock Holmes first. He
hates
to hear that. May I give you his card?”

I took the slip of cardboard and dropped it into my handbag without a glance.

“I will have to ask my cousin. It is her case, after all, not mine.”

He gave a short, triumphant laugh, as if I had just confirmed his guess. “Ah, and yet you came here this morning, without consulting her. I find that very curious.”

“Mr. Cartwright, I already told you that I came to London with my cousin. Why do you assume that my visit this morning was a secret? Why would I deceive her? Isn’t it more likely that she sent me here?”

“No, it isn’t more likely, Miss Dora. Not unless your cousin is blind, that is.” He flicked his index finger at the nape of my collar. “The two open buttons on the back of your dress force me to conclude that you made your preparations today before daybreak, and that you were anxious, alone, and in a hurry. As to why you decided to travel across the city without a chaperone—why
that
I have yet to discover. Perhaps I will, in time.
If
you give me a chance.” There was a demure insolence in his voice and a playful gleam in his sober eyes that begged for a reaction, that taunted me to answer him. A proper lady would have frozen this impudent fellow immediately and stalked away. But I was not angry, or even irritated. It was exciting to talk to a man who did not treat me like a porcelain flower, who appeared to relish an intelligent retort as a special treat, and who seemed able to predict my thoughts before I myself was conscious of them. I decided that I would beat him at his little game—and then I would walk away.