Bonnie Macbird - The Devil’s Due

‘Mr Holmes, I am sure you can help me. I have read so much of you and your remarkable achievements, both by Doctor Watson here, as well as in the newspapers.’

Holmes shot me a sudden glance, indicating the table where the damning tabloid articles were still arrayed. I had forgotten about them. I got up to stack them discreetly before our visitor could catch a glimpse, although I could not imagine a lady of her class taking interest in The Illustrated Police Gazette .

‘This is, of course, despite recent slander,’ she continued, dashing this thought to pieces and eyeing me with amusement. ‘My maid brings the Gazette into the house from time to time, Doctor. They are hard to resist.’ I finished stacking and sat back down.

She leaned forward as if to impart a secret. ‘Likening you to the Devil, indeed! For shame! In my view, you are an angel of justice. Your capturing the Covent Garden Garrotter last summer – what a triumph, Mr Holmes! I have followed your adventures for some time. My late husband was an admirer as well.’

Holmes, more susceptible to flattery than he would care to admit, softened slightly, but turned the conversation to business. ‘Madam, I can see that you are troubled. How may we be of service to you? It must be a matter of great importance for you to have travelled though this weather, rather than for you to summon us to your school. I read that you have visited this worthy institution before coming here.’

She started at this. ‘You read me … like a book?’

‘It is a figure of speech, madam. Watson, Lady Eleanor is the co-founder and funder of the remarkable Gainsborough School for Young Ladies, a private, charitable enterprise which rescues destitute young women from a life on the streets.’

‘Well, my goodness, yes. You are remarkably well-informed. Of course, my girls are not only poor, but have been plucked from very specific life on the streets,’ said the lady. ‘One in which the sad young things have found nothing to sell but themselves.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘I am surprised you know of us,’ said the lady to Holmes.

‘Your school is quite renowned, Lady Eleanor.’ He turned to me. ‘This laudable institution provides education and training which transforms these waifs into employable young ladies – suitable for work in service, is that not correct?’ He turned back to Lady Eleanor.

‘Indeed, it is, Mr Holmes,’ said the lady, pleased at the recognition. ‘But we are hidden away in an unfashionable part of town and have had little notice by the larger community. How do you know this?’

‘I make it my business to follow everything of importance in London, Lady Eleanor.’

‘You must not sleep, then. But returning to my question, how could you have read that I had just now been to visit the school?’ she asked. ‘The papers do sometimes follow me – as they do you – but not by the minute.’

‘It was written on your gloves.’

‘My gloves?’ She held an exquisite pair of pale lavender leather gloves in her left hand.

‘The ink stain on your glove, there,’ said Holmes.

Barely discernible was a small stain on one of the index fingers.

‘You are far too meticulous in your habillement to have left the house with a stained glove, therefore you did some writing elsewhere,’ said Holmes. ‘Normally, one removes gloves to write, but you left yours on, presumably because you were in an environment where you did not wish to sully your hands. I cannot imagine you engaging the type of barrister or accountant where you would feel the need, but paperwork at the school might have required your attention, and in that undoubtedly less pristine atmosphere you chose to leave them on.’

‘I could have done so while shopping. Written a cheque, perchance,’ said the lady, who seemed amused rather than offended by Holmes’s showy display.

‘I warrant you do not do your own shopping, save for very particular establishments, a dressmaker perhaps. And there not only would you have an account, but you would have removed your gloves.’

She laughed. It was a beautiful, silvery sound. ‘Well, you are entirely correct, Mr Holmes, and I am even more convinced that it is the right thing to consult you!’

Holmes smiled at the lady.

‘It is fascinating,’ she continued, ‘that Mr Zanders of the Gazette seems to attribute your powers, which he declares are waning, to nefarious means. I personally think your past results tell quite a different story. Is it jealousy, perhaps, or does the man hold something against you?’

Holmes’s smile faded.

‘That is an astute observation indeed, madam. I once took this journalist to task for a gross indiscretion. But please, let us turn to the reason for your visit. How can we help you?’

‘An incident occurred at my school and I require your advice, as well as your assistance.’

‘Please lay your problem before us.’

‘There has been an attack on one of my star pupils, a young woman named Judith. She was rescued from the streets three years ago and in that short time has proven herself highly intelligent, having quickly acquired remarkable fluency in reading, figures, and household organization. I did not know it at the time, but she speaks French, as her mother was French. Although it is French of the streets, she has sought to remedy that, and her colloquial English, with success.’

‘Good. This attack, Lady Eleanor? What happened?’

‘Judith was attacked in her bed last night as she slept.’

‘Attacked!’ I cried.

Holmes frowned. ‘Details, if you please?’

‘Judith, as one of our senior and most accomplished students, has earned a room to herself. It was about two in the morning … early this morning … when an intruder entered this room, pulled back the covers, grasped her hand, and attempted to sever one of her fingers with a knife.’

‘My God!’ I exclaimed.

‘Which finger?’ asked Holmes.

‘Er … I am not sure. The middle? The ring?’

‘It matters. And madam, you are sure? Which hand and which finger?’

‘The left, I think. Ring finger. But those are not the salient points.’

‘I will determine that. What else?’

‘The assailant was masked, hooded. She did not see the man.’

‘Is she sure it was a man?’

‘Yes. She struck him and he cried out.’

‘I see. You said “attempted”. I trust he was not successful?’ asked Holmes, leaning forward in his chair with that keen expression of a hound on a scent.

‘She screamed. Her attacker fled, dropping the knife as he ran.’

‘The wound. Deep? Superficial?’

‘Just a shallow cut. Almost a scratch. But very upsetting.’

‘May I see the knife?’ Holmes held out his hand.

She started again. ‘How did you know I brought it to you?’

‘Lady Eleanor, please. No games. I can see the outline of it in your silk reticule. You are clearly not used to subterfuge, nor violence. Is it bloody, have you wrapped it? If so, you will have removed evidence.’

She paused, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ said she. ‘This is a most trying experience.’ She then withdrew the knife, holding it with distaste with only one finger and her thumb. It was wrapped in a cloth napkin.

‘Ah,’ said Holmes, examining it. ‘It has been wiped clean. That is unfortunate.’

Holmes held it to a light on the table next to him, picked up a lens and examined the plain, flat handle and then the blade. It was an ordinary kitchen knife. Not distinguishable in any way except for small bloodstains on the blade. He ran his finger along the edge.

‘Dull. No fingerprints are left. This tells us nothing,’ said Holmes. ‘Might it have come from the kitchen at the school?’