By
Sunny
Chapter One
As we sat down to breakfast on the morning after the conclusion of the affair of the Stockbroker's Clerk - after which (the hour of our return to Town being late) I had spent the night once more in my bachelor quarters at Baker Street - Holmes picked up a letter which Mrs. Hudson had left on his plate.
"Adequate paper," he said, holding the envelope to the light, "although not particularly expensive, good ink - a broad-nibbed pen, rather prone to blotting - the pen of a woman and a regular writer. The hand is feminine, but lacks character: the standard copperplate taught at Board Schools. The writer is thus not extensively educated; and she does not write often, otherwise her hand would have more individuality. The pen is therefore the property of another. And yet she cannot be as untutored as most of her class, for both name and address are spelt correctly and properly positioned on the envelope. Her letters, too, are distinct and well-formed: a young woman of character, whatever her origins. Quite a pretty little problem, my boy."
I leaned closer to see the perplexing missive, taking it from his hand to inspect. Felt his warmth against my skin.
"Could not your curiosity be satisfied by reading the letter, Holmes?"
"Watson, have you not yet learned that more data can be obtained from a single word than from the longest epistle? The latter tells one only what the writer wished one to know; the former allows the inference of character." He took back and opened the letter anyway. Perhaps I had convinced him; probably I flattered myself. Pushing my chair back, I stood behind him to read it over his shoulder.
'Dear Mr. Holmes,
'I write in the hope that you can advise me regarding a problem. Briefly, the situation is this. My husband shared rooms before our marriage with his great friend, a man rather older than my husband. Since we were married, this attachment has persisted and has even increased: this, his closest, perhaps indeed only, friend, sees more of my husband than do I! At his call, my husband abandons both his work (which otherwise takes up a great proportion of his time, and which he much enjoys) and me to step forth: always into uncertainty, often into danger - for this friend is usually embroiled in both - but that matters nothing to him. Sometimes he does not return for days or even weeks on end! often not writing even one word to me.
'Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I am not of a jealous or a fanciful disposition. The attachment exists as I have described it. I am convinced moreover that, should it come to a choice, my husband would far sooner give up both me and his profession than this friendship. Were it not for me I know that their attachment would become more than friendship - despite my husband's being bound, more even than most of his class, by strict morality. Can you advise me, Mr. Holmes, and my husband also? I do desire my husband's happiness, or do not, at least, wish to see him made miserable by keeping to me against his wishes and inclinations. I would much prefer even divorce to such misery, on both our sides, as that would create.
'This is not my writing. My maid - an intelligent girl, sympathetic and sworn to secrecy, writes at my direction. Why? This is the greatest hint you will receive as to the identities involved: My husband knows my hand.
'Should you choose to reply, a messenger will be sent at seven o'clock to-morrow-night to take any message or letter you wish to send me.
'I remain, Mr. Holmes,
'very sincerely yours,
'M. --------------- (Mrs.)'
Holmes looked at me and I pretended to study the letter, feeling a blush travel up my cheek.
"Well, Watson," he said, "the protagonists are pretty clear, are they not?"
Could it be? "There are thousands of names beginning with 'M'," I temporised, "M... Martha, Margaret... Maisie, May... Mabel... Marguerite... M..."
"Mary," he said. He knew.
So did I.
Chapter 2