“Is anybody there?” We heard a frantic shout. The voice belonged to none other
than a female, and her strangled cry was quite disarming, yet Holmes paused for a long
minute and waited for her next words. “Please, sir, let me in!” The distinct ‘thud’ of her
fists against the door, followed her choked yell.
At that, Holmes swung the door open to catch a pale slim hand in mid-knock in
his powerful grip. I watched as he shook her hand and smiled, “Hello, hello, my lady,” he
said amiably, “what can I do for you?”
The stunned look upon her face showed her surprise, she ran a shaky hand
through her lustrous hair; but she composed herself quickly, and pushed right pass the
man who stood before her. I could tell she did not see me, for she too, breezed by my
desk and sat stiffly upon the chair facing the seat that Holmes had before occupied.
From what I can tell the lady had an astounding beauty. Her aristocratic nose was held
high—not with superiority but with pride—and from that I could easily see that she was of
noble lineage. Her eyes were a dazzling green, and her hair burned a unique red; her
skin was fair and her form was thin.
Holmes took his seat across from her and smiled reassuringly at the disturbed
female, “You are in a hurry.” He stated matter-of-factly.
She nodded, “You can tell?”
Holmes smiled at her answer, “You have made your way in by force and took a
seat within my office, setting aside propriety and decorum, which would delay you at the
door for a few minutes or so as you would introduce yourself.”
“I don’t wish for my father to find me missing from the estate,” she said quickly,
clasping her hands together. Her eyes darted left to right before settling upon the window,
and I admit her timidity was a bit alarming. There was a sorrowful expression that marred
her elegant features and a fright that crept behind her wide emerald eyes.
“Ah,” said Holmes, as though he had pieced the world’s toughest puzzle together,
“So is that the reason why a daughter of nobility—who seems to be in mourning—has walked
all the way here to 221B Baker Street to speak with me?”
Once again the girl gaped at him; she nodded, “How is it that you know all of that?”
“Why, my lady,” Holmes said, “You are dressed, by what I can tell, in a most
unappealing black gown. Besides your damp hair and skirts, when I had shaken your
hand, it was wet and cold. This surely indicates that you have been walking—or rather,
shall I say running—through the rain to reach my office.”
“And you knew my status how?” She questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Lucky guess,” Holmes replied sheepishly, giving the lady a lopsided grin, “I
based my assumption upon your grace and posture; and the diamonds around your
neck and hanging below your ears are also a sure sign of your wealth, my lady. I hardly
doubt that you are just a mere commoner or a street rift-raft.”
“My name is Whitney Lawrence, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; the only child to the Earl of
Langford. And I’m here to discuss with you a very important matter.”
“Please explain the death,” Holmes said, moving his hand in a gesture for her to
continue.
Lady Lawrence’s eyes widened, “How did you know?”
“Your eyes, my lady, are swollen and red—a sure sign that you have been
weeping—and your gown suggests you are in mourning. The question is, who are you
mourning, and how did that person meet their end?”
Part Three