The gypsy laughed, hard and sharp. “All of the
Holmes picked up a small brass vase and knocked his cigar ash into it. “My thoughts exactly. And I suppose an old gypsy woman would not have written this?” Holmes took the parchment note from his pocket and unfolded it.
The king glanced at the note, then laughed in earnest, a roaring sound. “You joke with me, Mr. Holmes. I do not know of any old gypsy women who can write English.”
Holmes gave a nod. “I thought not.”
“Read me the note, my friend.”
The gypsy listened, cigar between his lips. The smile faded from his mouth, his eyes growing cold. “Truly a bad business. It has the stench of evil—probably a witch or sorceress, but not one of my people. Wishing barrenness upon a woman is very bad. A gypsy would hesitate before unleashing such a curse, and we do not drag our women into our quarrels.”
“It is signed only with the letter A. Do you know what that letter might stand for?”
The gypsy shook his head.
“What you have told me only confirms my conclusions, but I wished to be certain. I knew that you must know if any gypsy had truly been involved.”
“I ask of you one favor, my friend. Should you find this person, and she is not a gypsy—as we both suspect —will you make this known? Every time there is such a story, your proper Englishman and your police feel they must go out and kick the nearest gypsy.”
Sherlock knocked off more ash into the vase. “If it is at all possible, I shall make certain the newspapers print the true facts.”
We chatted for a while, the conversation turning to less serious matters, while Mrs. Hudson served tea. Finally, the king rose and said it was time to leave. Glancing at me, he asked if I were an equestrian, and he was clearly disappointed when I told him I was not.
“Should you ever wish to buy a horse, see me first.” He made it sound more a command than a request, and I assured him I would do so.
From the bow window, we watched the aged carriage and its magnificent horses depart. “He seems a pleasant enough man,” I said.
Sherlock gave a sharp laugh. “So long as you number him among your friends. He makes a most fearsome enemy. Little happens anywhere in the London underworld that he does not know about.”
“His eyes had... an unusual glint.”
“How old would you take him to be?” Sherlock asked.
“His late fifties.”
“He is nearly eighty, but woe to any youthful fool who should wish to fight him! His first wife bore him several sons before expiring, one of whom was driving the carriage, and his new wife is expecting a child, no doubt another son.” Holmes took his top hat and stick. “The weather is exceptional. Let us walk for a while.”
“Where are we going? High society, I presume.”
He smiled. “Oh yes.”
We started down the street. The gloomy weather of the past few days had lifted, winter retreating before a returning autumn. Great coats and mackintoshes had been left at home. The golden sun was low in the sky and lit up the bronze leaves of an oak tree across the way.
“Do you recall Lord Harrington visiting me on Monday? Yesterday, I went to the home of his deceased brother, the former Lord Harrington, and spoke with his coachman and an elderly butler. I convinced them at last to give me the name and address of the woman he was seeing. I assured them I would not involve the police or allow their master’s good name to be impugned. They seemed genuinely fond of him. The coachman had often seen the woman greet his master at her door, and that particular day, the butler admitted her into the house. An hour later, he found Lord Harrington in a pool of blood, and the lady had fled. He was not surprised, because his master had been acting oddly and had even bid him farewell earlier that day. Harrington was a big strong man, and neither the coachman nor the butler thought the small woman could have possibly murdered him in such a violent way. Hence their silence with the police.”
“So we go to question the lady. And her address? She must dwell in one of the more respectable houses of accommodation.” Sherlock took a piece of paper from his pocket. I stared at the writing for a few seconds. “Good Lord—there must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake.”
“But one must be well-off and above reproach to live on that street.”
Holmes smiled again. “Obviously only the first is true.”
We soon hailed a hansom and took a brief ride through the sunny streets. There were wealthier neighborhoods than our destination, but none more respectable; it was a favorite of retired officers, rising young bankers, and solicitors. We went to the main entrance of the house in question, and Holmes rapped with the door knocker.
“Contradict nothing I say,” he said. “I want our quarry to believe we are prospective clients.”
I gave him a suitably dumbfounded look. The door swung open. In the musty shadow stood an enormous woman dressed in gray. Her colorless, soiled hair was parted exactly down the middle, and she had a greasy curl before each ear. Her chin and mouth floated upon a great moon of flesh, which bloated forth from a lace collar. Two grayish-brown eyes, like flecks of mud, stared from under half-closed lids, and two rosy spots on either cheek, obviously rouge, clashed with the rest of her complexion. The pink of her tongue flickered across her lower lip, and she smiled at us, an expression which made me want to turn and run.
“Good day, gentlemen. What might I do for you?”
Holmes held his hat in his hands, long fingers clutching at the brim. “We wish to see Miss Flora Morris.”
The woman’s chin bobbed in its sea of flesh. “Ah, yes—my niece, Flora. And what business would you gentlemen have with her?”
“A friend recommended her to us, madam. He said her acquaintance might prove a fruitful one.” Holmes winked at her and attempted to leer.
The woman gave a great
“I can assure you that it will be a very profitable meeting, if you take my meaning.” He gave his pocket a pat.
The woman laughed again. “I’m sure!” She glanced about somewhat warily. “Do come in, gentlemen. No use standing about in the street.”
We stepped inside, and she closed the heavy oak door behind us, shutting out the warm sun and the autumnal breeze. The parlor had an odd odor; dark maroon curtains hung on either side of the tall windows, the blinds pulled almost to the sills, leaving it dim and chill. I shuddered as I glanced about. The furniture was massive and solid; ornate lace doilies were pinned to the arms of the overstuffed chairs and sofa. The carpet was thick and appeared new, a pattern of somber reds and purples.
“I am Mrs. Morris. I can take you to Flora. However...” She glanced at me, her eyes briefly conducting an appraisal. “I have another niece, Louise, who will be back shortly.”
“We both wish to meet Flora,” Sherlock said.
Mrs. Morris scratched at her chin. “It will cost you extra.”
“The expense is not a problem.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes dug his fingers into my arm and smiled grotesquely. “My friend is very shy.”
Mrs. Morris smiled again. “We shall remedy that.”
She turned and started for the stairs. She must have weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, but she wore a bustle, the worst possible fashion for such a figure. The gray dress was fully cut, not tight, an expensive- looking fabric—and there were yards of it. Her upper arms were as big around as a stevedore’s, though not so hard, and the girth at her waist reminded me of a young oak growing before the house. We followed her up the stairs. My cheeks felt warm as I reflected upon the few brief words between her and my cousin.
