Douglas Preston - White Fire

Pendergast looked at her a moment. Then he simply nodded his understanding. “And how did things go while I was gone?”

“Pretty well,” said Corrie, avoiding his direct gaze. “I’m just finishing up my research.”

“Nothing untoward happened, I hope?”

“There was another awful fire, right up on the hill behind town, and a road-rage killing out on Highway 82—but I suppose the chief must’ve told you all about that.”

“I meant untoward, directed at you.”

“Oh, no,” Corrie lied. “I couldn’t make any headway solving the crimes, so I’ve decided to drop that. I did stumble over a few interesting tidbits in my research, but nothing that shed light on the killings.”

“Such as?”

“Well, let’s see…I learned that Mrs. Kermode is related to the Stafford family, which owned the old smelter back during the silver boom and is still the force behind the development of The Heights.”

A brief pause. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yes, something that might intrigue you — given your interest in Doyle and Wilde.”

Pendergast inclined his head, encouraging her to continue.

“While digging through some old files at the Griswell Archive, I came across a funny letter about a codger who buttonholed Wilde after his lecture and, it seems, told him a story that almost made him faint. I would bet you anything it was the man-eating grizzly tale.”

Pendergast went very still for a moment. Then he asked: “Did the letter mention the old fellow’s name?”

Corrie thought back. “Only a surname. Swinton.”

Another silence, and then Pendergast said: “You must be low on funds.”

“No, no, doing fine,” she lied again. Damn it, she was going to have to get a temporary job somewhere. And find another place to live. But no way was she going to take any more money from Pendergast after all he’d done for her already. “Really, there’s no reason for you to worry about me.”

Pendergast didn’t respond, and it was hard to read his expression. Did he believe her? Had he heard anything from the chief about the shot through her windshield or the dead dog? Impossible to tell. Neither had been covered in the local paper — everything was still about the serial arsonist.

“You haven’t told me anything about your trip,” she said, changing the subject.

“I accomplished what I set out to do,” he said, his thin fingers tapping the manila folder. “I found a lost Sherlock Holmes story, the last ever written by Conan Doyle and unpublished to this day. It is most interesting. I recommend it to you.”

“When I have time,” she said, “I’ll be glad to read it.”

Another pause. Pendergast’s long fingers edged the file toward her. “I should read this now, if I were you.”

“Thanks, but the fact is I’ve still got a lot on my plate, finishing things up and all.” Why did Pendergast keep pushing this Doyle business? First The Hound of the Baskervilles , and now this.

The pale hand reached out, took the edge of the folder, and opened it. “There can be no delay, Corrie.”

She looked up and saw his eyes, glittering in that peculiar way she knew so well. She hesitated. And then, with a sigh of acquiescence, she took out the sheaves of paper within and began to read.

Of the many cases of Sherlock Holmes for which I’ve had the privilege to act as his Boswell, there is one I have always hesitated to put to paper. It is not because the adventure itself presented any singularly grim or outré elements — no more so than Holmes’s other investigations. Rather, I believe it due to the ominous, indeed baneful air that clung to every aspect of the case; an air that chilled and almost blighted my soul; and that even today has the power to vex my sleep. There are some experiences in life one might wish never to have had; for me, this was one. However, I will now commit the story to print, and leave it to others to judge whether or not my reluctance has merit.

It took place in March of ’90, at the beginning of a drear and comfortless spring following hard on the heels of one of the coldest winters in living memory. At the time I was resident in Holmes’s Baker Street lodgings. It was a dark evening, made more oppressive by a fog that hung in the narrow streets and turned the gaslights to mere pinpricks of yellow. I was lounging in an armchair before the fire, and Holmes — who had been striding restlessly about the room — had now placed himself before the bow window. He was describing to me a chemical experiment he had undertaken that afternoon: how the application of manganese dioxide as a catalyst accelerated the decomposition of potassium chlorate into potassium chloride and, much more importantly, oxygen.

As he spoke, I silently rejoiced at his enthusiasm. Bad weather had kept us very much shut in for weeks; no “little problems” had arisen to command his attention; and he had begun to exhibit the signs of ennui that all too frequently led him to indulge his habit of cocaine hydrochloride.

Just at that moment, I heard a knock at the front door.

“Are you expecting company, Holmes?” I asked.

His only reply was a curt shake of the head. Moving first to the decanter on the sideboard, then to the gasogene beside it, he mixed himself a brandy and soda, then sprawled into an armchair.

“Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is entertaining,” I said, reaching for the pipe-rack.

But low voices on the stairs, followed by footfalls in the passage, put the lie to this assumption. A moment later there came a light rap on the door.

“Come in,” cried Holmes.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared. “There’s a young lady to see you, sir,” she said. “I told her it was late, and that she should make an appointment for tomorrow, but she said it was most urgent.”

“By all means, show her in,” Holmes replied, rising once again to his feet.

A moment later, a young woman was in our sitting room. She was wearing a long travelling coat of fashionable cut, along with a veiled hat.

“Pray have a seat,” Holmes said, ushering her towards the most comfortable chair with his usual courtesy.

The woman thanked him, undid her coat and removed her hat, and sat down. She was possessed of a pleasing figure and a refined carriage, and a decided air of self-possession. The only blemish of which I was aware was that her features seemed rather severe, but that may have been the result of the anxiety that was present in her face. As was my custom, I tried to apply Holmes’s methods of observation to this stranger, but was unable to notice anything of particular value, aside from the Wellington travelling boots she wore.

I became aware that Holmes was regarding me with some amusement. “Other than the fact that our guest comes from Northumberland,” he told me, “that she is a devoted horsewoman, that she arrived here by hansom cab rather than the Underground — and that she is engaged to be married — I can deduce little myself.”

“I have heard of your famed methods, Mr. Holmes,” said the young woman before I could answer. “And I expected something like this. Allow me, please, to deduce your deductions.”

Holmes gave a slight nod, an expression of surprise registering on his face.

The woman held up her hand. “First, you noted my engagement ring but saw no wedding band.”

An affirmative incline of the head.

She kept her hand raised. “And you perhaps remarked on the half-moon callus along the outer edge of my right wrist, precisely where the reins cross when held by someone of good seat, with riding crop in hand.”

“A most handsome callus,” said Holmes.

“As for the hansom cab, that should be obvious enough. You saw it pull to the kerb. For my part, I saw you standing in the window.”