Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

Of all the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes I cannot recall one other in which he was quite so ambivalent about its outcome than the dreadful affair of the Abernettys, nor one which he felt so reluctant to pursue, yet was driven to its tragic and macabre denouement.

Because of his peculiar sensitivity regarding the role he played therein I have never chronicled the affair, but a chance remark recently while discussing with Inspector Lestrade the bizarre case of the Six Napoleons, and the fact that the main participants have long since been freed to seek new lives in South Australia, encourage me to believe he will tolerate my jotting down a few remembrances of the case.

The trivial remark of how far a sprig of parsley had sunk into melting butter on a hot day first seized his attention, but it was on a raw day in early January, 1885 when we first became embroiled in the question of Lady Abernetty's possible murder.

I was standing at our bow window gloomily surveying the prospect. Fog had shrouded the city in the earlier hours of the day and would probably return in the late afternoon, but at that hour a pale straggle of sunlight lit a street almost deserted but for the occasional cab and passerby ulstered and mufflered against the chill damp. Despite the warmth of the fire I could not resist a shiver.

"I'm sorry you feel you cannot afford to take the cure at Baden-Baden next spring," drawled my friend from his easy chair beside the hearth.

I confess he gave me rather a start. I had said nothing about my somewhat wistful ambition to pamper my indifferent health at the famous resort in the Black Forest.

Shortly before I met and took up residence with Holmes at Baker Street, I had returned from service in Afghanistan with the legacy of a jezail bullet and there were times, especially when I felt the London fog on my bones, that it throbbed remorselessly. I could more easily or cheaply take the cure at Bath, but I had a fancy for Baden-Baden, not for its casino and race-course, but to stroll along the banks of the Oos where Brahms composed his Lichtenthal Symphony and Dostoevksy strolled under the ancient trees.

"My dear Watson," Holmes replied to my start of surprise, "you've been haunting travel agencies on your days off, your desk is littered with brochures and time-tables. I observed you studying the balance in your pass-book with a morose expression and you've been poor company ever since."

"I beg your pardon if I appear so. It's this dismal weather. Don't you find the fog depressing, Holmes?"

"Not I!" My companion's grey eyes sparkled. "I find it stimulating. I conjure up all manner of fiendish doings under its cover. By the way," he added, casually, "you will let me know when the carriage pulls up at our front door."

"Are we expecting someone?" My spirits lifted. Since I had resided with Holmes many interesting people had crossed the threshold of 221b Baker Street, some of whom had invited us into the most intriguing and dangerous adventures it had ever been my privilege to share and chronicle.

"A prospective client." Holmes took a note from inside his pocket and spread it open on his knee. "The hour mentioned is three. Ah, there strikes the clock."

"Anything of interest?" I enquired, eagerly.

"I fear not," sighed Holmes. "A domestic dispute, I fancy. Cases worthy of engaging my complete attention have been sparse in recent weeks."

I echoed his sigh. I had learned to dread these periods of inactivity when my friend lapsed into boredom and melancholy. I had discovered only recently his injudicious use of cocaine in such lapses, a regrettable weakness from which I seemed powerless to dissuade him.

"A carriage has just stopped at the kerb." I observed a rather large lady in furs and a rather small man in greatcoat and Homburg alight. "Could these be our visitors?"

"Ah, since you speak in the plural the lady must be accompanied. A Mrs Mabel Bertram, Watson, a widow she writes, so the gentleman is not her husband." He rose, gave his shoulders a twitch and stood with his back to the fire.

The knock on our door could almost be described as deferential. At my friend's nod, I admitted our visitors.

"Have I the honour to address Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?" enquired the gentleman, in a pleasant yet suave manner.

"I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Won't you come in?"

The woman who advanced into the room was indeed Junoesque and stylishly dressed in a fur-trimmed coat of the colour that, I believe, was called cobalt blue, and a feathered hat perched somewhat coquettishly on Titian hair that owed more to the cosmetician than to nature. I perceived her to be a woman of fifty, whose features bore the remnants of a once-proud beauty.

Her companion was slim and dapper with dark lively eyes and a waxed moustache. He removed his Homburg to reveal a sleek, dark head.

"Mr Holmes, how kind of you to see me," greeted the lady, warmly. "I am Mabel Bertram. May I present Mr Aston Plush?"

Bows were exchanged and, standing well back, Holmes invited his visitors to take seats before the fire. Mr Plush preferred to stand with his back to the window so that he was almost in silhouette.

"Draw your chair closer to the fire, Mrs Bertram," coaxed my friend. "I observe you are shivering from the inclement weather."

"It is not the chill that makes me shiver, but the anxiety caused by my dilemma." She fixed her gaze imploringly on his face. "You are my last hope, Mr Holmes."

"Dear me!" After one swift scanning glance over her entire person, he leaned back in his armchair steepling his fingers against the shabby velvet front of his smoking-jacket and examining her face from eyes that were mere slits under his drowsy lids.

"You mentioned in your note you were concerned about the welfare of a relative. Pray go on."

"To be precise, my stepmother. I am the eldest daughter of Sir William Abernetty by his first marriage. Upon the death of my mother he married Miss Alice Pemberton, a lady some ten years older than myself. There was a daughter from this second marriage, Sabina, and a son born posthumously, Charles. You may be amazed at my concern for my stepmother when she has two children of her own, but being so close in age we have always been on the best of terms. Until recently."

"And what has happened to cause this rift?"

"Nothing!" burst out the lady. Restraining herself quickly, she went on. "Nothing that I can account for. There's been no quarrel, no exchange of harsh words, yet Charles and Sabina have informed me in the plainest of terms that she refuses to see me. I should add here that Lady Abernetty is an invalid. Neither my half-brother nor sister are married and both reside with their mother in Grosvenor Square."

Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He had begun to look rather bored, but at the mention of the èlite address he perked up a little. Nevertheless, he murmured, "I fail to see what assistance I can be. As you say, you are not the lady's daughter and can lay no claim to her affections. She may see you or not as she pleases. Her children are no doubt following her instructions."

"Hear me out, I implore you." Mabel Bertram laid aside her muff and clasped agitated hands. "I am not alone in being excluded from her door. My stepmother has suffered from an affliction of the lungs for many years and a doctor has been in constant attendance. Imagine my horror when I was informed by Dr Royce Miles that he no longer calls upon Lady Abernetty – at the request of her son Charles, and this after a professional attendance of many years." Her lower lip trembled. "Mr Holmes, I fear for my stepmother's life."

My friend frowned. "Have you reason to believe your brother and sister have anything but the most loving regard for their mother?"