A Letter of Mary

crumbs; the distorted face of an immensely pale blond woman in spectacles from the bowl of a spoon. I closed my eyes.

The gentle iron fingers returned, on my shoulder; a rattle of china came from in front of me. 'Drink this.' A hot cup was between my inexplicably cold fingers; scalding rich coffee and the fumes of brandy hit my throat and head in a rush of life. I sat for some minutes, eyes closed and two strong fingers steady on the back of my wrist. The urge to tremble lessened, then passed. I took a deep breath, glanced over at my companion, and reached for the coffee spoon to give my hands something to do.

'Did you have any of your breakfast this morning, Russell?' I shook my head briefly. 'I thought not. Here, eat. Then we can talk.'

Plates began to appear, and I forced some warm bread and oniony soup into my throat, and after a few swallows it was easier. Over the cheese, I looked up with a crooked smile.

'I'm sorry, Holmes. I saw ... there was blood on the kerbstone.'

'Yes, I noticed. There is no need to apologise.'

'I feel extremely foolish.'

'The violent death of a good person is a severely disturbing thing, Russell,' he said calmly. 'Now, what did you find?'

In a moment, with an effort, I matched his tone.

'Her room. A maid, who told me without telling me that the room had been searched, carefully, between Wednesday evening and Thursday morning. Papers disturbed, bed undone and remade, that kind of thing. And, a letter.' I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him. 'I couldn't decide whether or not to open it. You decide.'

He did not answer, only put it carefully in an inside pocket. He put his hand in the air and asked the waiter for a bill and a cab.

'Where are we going now, Holmes?' I felt weak but was not about to let him know.

'A visit to Mycroft's rooms is, I believe, in order.'

I was surprised. I had expected him to answer by saying Scotland Yard, or one of the half-dozen bolt-holes he kept throughout the city— but Mycroft? His corpulent, indolent older brother might indeed throw some light on the matter at hand, were it to be connected with the arcana of international politics rather than mere civil crime. However, we had as yet no indication that this might be the case, and until we did, I could see no point in consulting him.

I voiced my objections, and when I had finished, I added, 'And aside from that, Mycroft will not be at home for some hours yet.'

Unruffled, Holmes laid a generous tip on the white cloth and escorted me to the door with that formality that masks an iron command.

He was silent in the taxi. I watched him covertly while the food and the purposeful movement of the taxi did their work and everyday reality took root, and by the time the housekeeper had let us into Mycroft's unoccupied rooms, I had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about the effect this episode would have on Holmes. I sank into a soft chair and let Holmes pull up his chair and take out his tobacco. I cleared my throat.

'I really am most sorry for that lapse, Holmes,' I said quietly. 'As you know, it is difficult for me to be indifferent when it comes to an automobile accident. I'm afraid that my imagination got the better of me for a moment.'

'Enough, Russell. Everyone is allowed a weakness, even a woman of the twentieth century. You have no need to convince me that you are no squeamish and fainting female. Now, if you are quite finished laying your abject humility at my feet, perhaps you would be so good as to give me the details of your investigation. Then I think you may be interested in mine.'

A thin haze of blue smoke filled the room by the time I finished. We sat for a few minutes, and then he stirred.

'That her papers were rifled is, of course, suggestive. I thought that might be the case. And I agree: It is most likely that the room was searched after she died. Had there been a chance of her returning to the room, they would have been more careful about returning the papers to their proper order. I think you might at some point have another look at her bag, to see if your memory of its contents on Wednesday differs from what remains in the hotel. Not immediately. Would you like a glass of wine, or some tea? No?' He rose and went over to the cabinet, rattled bottles, and added a swoosh from the old-fashioned gasogene to his glass, then came back and stretched his long legs out to the cold fireplace. 'I, too, was not entirely unsuccessful. It did take me some time to uncover the restaurant, which was in an alleyway eight streets down. I walked past it twice. Fortunately, the maitre d' had been on duty Wednesday night as well, and he remembered our lady. And the gentleman she dined with was a regular. Fellow by the name of Colonel Edwards, and the man even gave me the address, for a small consideration. The colonel and Miss Ruskin were at the restaurant for nearly three hours, and it was the waiter's impression that they were having a rather intense discussion that seemed to focus on some papers she had brought. He said that the colonel appeared to be very upset and even had to leave the room for a while, ostensibly to make a telephone call, but more, the waiter thought, to have a drink by himself and get back under control. Miss Ruskin, he said, was, if anything, amused rather than angry. Also, he told me that the colonel seemed unaware that his guest was to be a woman and that he was very taken aback when they first met. Incidentally, the man remembers that she had a large brown leather briefcase, which she took with her when she left. He even noted the brass letters DR on the top, because they were his initials, as well.'

'So, whoever ran her down paused long enough to take her papers with them. Or rather, the beggar did, I suppose, rather than the driver. Those two witnesses must have been very drunk indeed.' My own brain seemed sluggish, and my eyes felt hot and tired.

'Russell, I have a proposal to make.' I eyed him through the smoke and the failing light. 'I propose that you allow me to interview the colonel and whichever of our young couple I can lay my hands on, while you stay here, take a rest, and talk to Mycroft about it all when he comes in.'

I began automatically to object, then reconsidered. Action for the sake of proving myself capable was at least as ridiculous as abject humility. It was a measure of my state of mind that I agreed to his proposal without much argument.

SEVEN