That the sole purview of Mr. Sherlock Holmes was logic, and at no time did he venture personally into the mysterious and shadowy realm of the heart, by no means rendered void of irony--even, if one may say it, tragedy--the myriad adventures which I shared with him. Indeed, the human element was ever present in his cases. But at times his intellect, with its scientific bent, was, however expert in the art of deduction, capable of unraveling only actions, and not the tortuous trail of passions precipitating them.
One incident illustrative of this crept upon us in increments; its first indications dawning at breakfast one winter's morning, as snow drifted down to blanket the great city enfolding Baker Street. Holmes, lounging in purple dressing-gown and worn slippers, exclaimed over the Daily Telegraph, "Hullo, here it is again. A queer thing, this."
I roused myself from my immersion in the rival Morning Post, knowing well my friend's ability to ferret out the more interesting articles, his collection of which might almost be classified as obsessive.
Holmes creased the paper into several folds and handed it to me, denoting with a finger a notice in the agony column thus displayed.
THE PAST IS BUT AN HISTORIATED INITIAL (it said). SEEK OUT THE HANGED MAN. GILT WILL OUT, AND THE BOOK OF HOURS HAS SCANT PAGES LEFT.
"Cryptic, to be sure, but that is not in itself unusual," I ventured, mystified as to his interest. "I take it this has appeared before?"
"Each morning for a month now."
"Obviously the person who took the ad wishes to contact someone else without furnishing information to the casual peruser," I said, and then added a further thought: "And has perhaps only a vague idea of when the other will arrive in London."
Holmes took up his after-breakfast pipe. "Obviously. But why? It perks my interest, Watson. Something tells me we shall be involved in this before the day is out--though whether the case comes to me or I go to it, I would not hazard to guess."
A delicate knock on the outer door, an exchange of words in feminine tones, and quick, light steps ascending the stair caused us both to look up.
"Perhaps speculation will prove unnecessary," Holmes said with wry anticipation, echoing my own thoughts as he set his pipe down unlit.
A woman swept into the sitting-room on a current of chill air, her cheeks as red as the froth of hair that her hat could not restrain, her eyes all emerald sparkle. She wore a creamy lambswool coat over an ivory dress, a wintry vision that one suspected would be lost in the snowscape outside.
"Mr. Holmes?" she began. As we rose to our feet, she took a moment to dab daintily at her nose with a monogrammed lavender handkerchief; the motion caused a locket at her throat to gleam in the gaslight. "I'd never be bothering you at such an hour, sir, if it weren't something of great importance. My name's Anne Gibney..."
"From County Westmeath, if my ears do not deceive me. I see from your locket that your maiden name began with a K, and you are staying at the St. Pancras, which furnishes the most delightful shade of scented handkerchief."
Although unquestionably anxious about the matter that had brought her here, Mrs. Gibney seemed not at all nonplussed by Holmes's evidently accurate appraisal of her origins and situation; rather, she favored the gloves she was now removing with a slight smile--a quirk of the mouth, really--as if she had expected this keen acumen and was not disappointed. We saw her seated and offered her tea, of which she took but a small sip before launching into a description of her dilemma: a husband missing overnight, suspicious behavior preceding the unexplained absence, love letters sent from England--written in her husband's hand, which she intercepted but maintained he could not have written--never followed by the expected threat of blackmail.
Holmes listened attentively at first, but a few sentences into her speech his interest flagged, and before she had finished he got up abruptly and halted her delivery with a wave of his hand. "Forgive me, madame, but I will be of no help to you. Pray waste no more breath."
Her slim eyebrows arched in surprise over what I myself perceived with some discomfort to be uncalled-for rudeness.
"Really, sir?" she said, her tone icier than the cobblestoned street below. "Even where I come from we've heard of your considerable skills. Maybe you think the task too difficult, or your price too dear?"
"Tracking an errant spouse is, I'm afraid, not my bailiwick," Holmes said--taking, this time, more care in his speech, I was relieved to note.
"But you make it sound like he's after having an affair, and he's not, I'm dead sure of it, sir; I'd stake my life on it. Harry would never stray from me. I know it in my bones. I don't know who wrote those letters, but it was never him, and I can't imagine what they're after if it isn't money. Something else is amiss, something terrible will happen--oh, God, that it hasn't happened already! I must find him before trouble does!"
"You say you have followed him unobserved," Holmes said. "You say he merely stops at auction houses, art galleries, his customary places of business. I am not persuaded that there is anything amiss. No doubt he met up with associates and spent a dreary night haggling over contractual matters."
"But he won't tell me why he wanted to come here!" she cried--as if she had had this very conversation with herself, in the confines of her own thoughts, and had been unable to assuage her own fears. "I needn't worry myself about it, says he. Always in the past he has been open with me on business matters, answering any question I put to him! But from the outset he didn't want me along on this trip. And the letters.... Oh, it is all so confusing."
Holmes proved immune to her entreaties. "My dear Mrs. Gibney, there is simply nothing I can do for you, save urge you to confront Mr. Gibney with the letters and have out with it. I have pressing matters to attend to. I wish you luck and a pleasant visit here in London. Now, good day."
It seemed to me that frustration, even desperation, were the source of the tears that now glistened in her eyes, rather than offense at his abrupt tone. But she blinked three times, composed herself admirably, and took her leave of us. If Holmes heard her small, pathetic murmurs as exited--"What shall I do now? What can I do?"--he gave no sign, merely picking up the paper again and resuming his examination of the cryptic advertisement; it being the only pressing matter of his of which I was aware.
"You might have been more sympathetic," I said, still moved by the young woman's distrait condition, and surprised at Holmes, who was, I knew, a kind man, ever ready to lend aid where he could.
"Sympathy would have served no purpose. The letters are no doubt his, sent by the mistress's husband in an attempt to put a stop to the affair, or by the mistress to ruin the marriage; there is nothing so complex at work here as a Charles Augustus Milverton. The truth is right under her nose. There is no mystery to solve."
Before I could speak further--to me the case's lack of challenge was far outweighed by the lady's personal distress--he leapt from the chair in a characteristic but nonetheless startling burst of energy. "I must dress and go down to the Telegraph's offices. Would you be so good as to remain here, Watson, in the event that someone calls with a problem more germane?"
It came to me then that this was wishful thinking on his part; that he was afflicted with one of his periodical dearths of activity, and only the thorniest tangle would suffice. Loath to dissuade him from even a manufactured puzzle, lest he seek less savory mental occupation, I acquiesced.
When he had gone, I took up the Post again and resumed the article therein about the ongoing sale at Sotheby's of Sir Thomas Phillips' lifetime collection of manuscripts--sixty thousand in all, the disposition of which would presumably take years. The art world is an odd place, I mused, thinking of this art dealer Harry Gibney, whose affairs we had so narrowly avoided being embroiled in; but my reverie was cut short by a second caller.
Holmes's intuition of an oncoming case turned out to have merit. He returned from his news-office foray to find me entertaining Inspector Leland Barney, who, owing to the weather and his own consternation, had accepted a small brandy and was warming his robust frame at the hearth.
"Ah-hah!" Holmes cried. "Inspector, you are welcome here, although your news of a murder at No. 5 Aylsley Street is unfortunate indeed."
)
