I'm afraid I gave them rather short shrift, as Mama was waiting for her bath. I hope they didn't think me rude, and I hope they give you lots of money, which they obviously have, as they drove off in an enormous shiny black saloon car, complete with uniformed driver.
Please write to tell me what the Holmeses were like. I imagine an extraordinary couple. But then, we may see you on Saturday, with any luck.
Your loving sister,
Erica
'Oh God, Holmes, I can't bear the thought of telling that woman that her sister was— that her sister is dead. Isn't it time to turn this over to the police?'
However, Holmes was not listening. He frowned over the pages in his hand, then thrust them at his brother.
'What do you make of the writing, Mycroft?'
'I admit that you are my superior in graphological analysis, Sherlock, but this is not exactly what I might have expected, either from the contents of the letter or from a sister of the woman you described. The lack of education in words and writing indicates only that Miss Ruskin achieved what she did through the sheer force of her mind, but still, I should have expected a greater degree of intelligence and independence here.'
'But she's clever— look at those overstrokes!'
'Clever, yes, but with an undercurrent of anger that wells up in the full stops.'
'And the hooks on the t-bars, why, I don't believe I've seen such tenacity since the time—'
'Holmes!'
'Yes, Russell?'
'We have to give this to the police. To Scotland Yard.'
'She's quite right, Sherlock,' said Mycroft. 'Much as it goes against your grain, it is their job, and they might take it amiss were you to withhold it from them. They have become quite competent at legwork, you know. I can also make enquiries over the weekend. Fellow at the club knows everything and everyone in the Middle East. He may have some idea of what's going on.'
I was tempted to ask how a fellow member of a club dedicated to noncommunication and misanthropy had managed to make known his peculiar talents, but I was distracted by Holmes, who had risen and was pawing vigorously through a desk drawer, finally to emerge with paper, pen, and a pot of glue. He shrugged as he bent to daub the flap of the envelope.
'Very well, if two minds greater than mine own agree, I can only plead force majeure. Russell, would you be so good as to write a note to Lestrade to accompany this virtuously unopened letter?' He paused to examine his handiwork, then bent to reapply a microscopic quantity of glue to a recalcitrant bubble, and continued. 'You will tell him that we happened to come across it and thought it might have come from the sister whom Miss Ruskin mentioned during her visit to us. Also stress that he is to do nothing about contacting the lady until he has seen us, and invite him to join us in Sussex at his earliest convenience. Throw in whatever threats or entreaties you consider appropriate, and tell him I said it would do him good to get out of London.' He ran a nail along the edge and angled the envelope to the light critically. 'You should also mention that a Yard photographer might prove a useful companion. I can do any necessary fingerprints myself.'
I looked up from my paper.
'Sorry?'
He lifted his eyes, and his face went carefully, dreadfully blank. He glanced at Mycroft, then looked down at the somewhat overworked envelope in his hands.
'What a noble mind is here o'erthrown,' he remarked conversationally, and keeping his voice light, added, 'Russell, that theology of yours is rotting your brain even more rapidly than I had anticipated. You did read the sister's letter.'
'But you don't think ...' I trailed off as he raised his face to mine, a face awful in judgement and disappointment.
'What else am I to think, Russell? She visits us, she dies violently, her papers are searched, and her briefcase is stolen. Someone has asked after us and been given our address. It is possible they found what they sought, but if not, can we be anything but their next goal? I only hope that when they didn't find what they were looking for, they didn't vent their irritation on the furniture.'
I felt my brain begin sluggishly to move, and my heart sank.
'The box. Oh, Holmes, I left it on the dining room table.'
'You left it there, Russell. I did not.'
'You moved it? Why?'
'No particular reason. Call it tidiness.'
'You? Tidy?'
'Don't be rude, Russell. I put it away.'
'Where? No, let me guess.' He winced. 'Sorry, poor choice of words. Let me deduce. When I went to get the car, you went out the back and came around the house. The toolshed?'
'How utterly unimaginative,' Holmes said, offended.
