Chapter Text
It had been one month since the events recorded in my private diaries under the fanciful title of ‘A Trifling Matter’. Those events which I would consider to be quite the most transformative of my life thus far, germinating from my own unwitting blindness in matters of the heart, consistently misconstruing the singular behaviour of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. If it had not been for our Surrey adventure at the derelict home of the nebulous Augusta Burroughs, then I wonder if fate would still have deigned to push Holmes and I together? Perhaps. Catalysts have a tendency to thrust even the most unprepared cogs and gears into forward motion.
The middle of April 1886, therefore, was propitious on all fronts. My relationship with Holmes, although still in its early stages, was blissful indeed. Having lived together for five years I understood my friend well enough not to overcrowd him with my company or to press attention unless he was of the inclination to reciprocate. I gave him the space he required as well as my shoulder of friendship, and he in return extended his gratitude, shy affection, and quiet commitment. It was not in his way to make the first move; so engrained was his restraint that I believed it might yet take a while before he felt fully relaxed within his new skin. We retained our own bedrooms for reasons of safety, but most nights would find either one of us at the other’s chamber once the house was quiet; if not to love, then simply to sleep, enfolded together. We were discreet by necessity; still I think that Mycroft’s words echoed around us, disapproving, portentous.
Our day-to-day routine continued with little deviation.
One noon-time, Holmes and I were going about our usual business: he by re-sorting and re-labelling his stocks of chemicals - which numbered a great many, in various jars, bottles and vials - and I at my desk with my writing and research. When Mrs. Hudson delivered a telegram envelope, therefore, we barely took notice until some considerable time later upon pause for refreshment.
Holmes tore open the envelope. “I say, Watson, who do you imagine it is from?” he asked, chuckling, as he scanned the contents. “It is from brother Mycroft! And with a mystery of his own, no less. Well, rather, an acquaintance of his.”
“Is that so?” I said, dubiously. My previous and so far only encounter with Mycroft Holmes had been of a somewhat mixed confliction. I did not doubt his massive intellect, or the many characteristic similarities - some good and some not so - which he shared with his younger brother. But I was wary of his power and suspicious of his motives, and I could not say that I wholeheartedly trusted the man, no matter his relation to my companion.
“It is indeed so,” answered Holmes, “and he will be visiting us at 3 o’clock today, along with the aforementioned acquaintance.” He glanced at his watch. “Hmm, that leaves us barely an hour. I may say ‘acquaintance’ rather than ‘friend’, for I am doubtful that Mycroft retains many of the latter, but would presume an unhealthy glut of the former.”
“We perhaps should tidy the place a little, then?” I wondered, looking around in some consternation at the stacks of paper and ephemera which lay across every available surface. We were not of the inclination to entertain very frequently, so despite Mrs. Hudson’s best housekeeping efforts our possessions had a remarkable tendency to creep unchecked into armchairs, across tables, and eventually onto the carpet itself. The occasion of a client’s visit or a friend’s impromptu call would thus usually result in a frenetic moment of shuffling, sorting and concealing.
“Well, we might, I suppose,” said Holmes, sounding weary at the very idea. He picked up a stack of books from his chair by the fireplace and deposited them into a corner by the window. “There. Will that do, Watson?”
“I was thinking of something perhaps a little more vigorous than that, but you are on the right track, Holmes,” I replied.
By half-past two we had regained most of our stolen floor space, and threw ourselves side by side onto the sofa.
“That was too much effort indeed for the sake of my brother and his crony,” declared Holmes, smiling all the same.
I wound an arm around him. “You did rather well for a man who abhors to tidy. Picking up a dust cloth from time to time might be the making of you,” I teased.
“The making or the breaking, I wonder,” he mused, his lips tickling my ear.
“So what did Mycroft have to say in his telegram?” I asked, as much to deflect my ardour as to uncover the reason behind the message.
“He said very little - as is typical of him. We shall find out more when he arrives. Is that a hansom outside already, Watson? He is appallingly early, if that is the case.”
It was indeed Mycroft Holmes, and from the window I observed that he was accompanied by a short, stocky gentleman dressed in black. They disappeared through the front door of 221B, and we heard Mrs. Hudson’s welcome as she showed them the way up to our rooms.
“Sherlock, Doctor Watson, good afternoon to you both,” said Mycroft briskly, as he entered our sitting-room for only the second time. “I am glad to find you here - I received no reply to my telegram. I do hope that you don’t treat all of your clients in such a fashion. We are regrettably early, as I find I have a pressing engagement elsewhere later today. May I introduce Mr. Thomas Dunphy, the gentleman who is in the greatest need of your help on this day?”
He moved aside to let his companion move further into the room. Thomas Dunphy was a man of middle age, and although diminutive carried with him a well worn air of authority. His eyes were dark and sharp, his chin was determinedly square; he held himself proudly as he nodded first to Holmes and then myself. I discerned, however, an acute anguish in the twist of his mouth, and speculated as to the nature of his trouble. An affaire de coeur, or a blackmail, I decided. My friend ushered Mycroft Holmes and our new client to the sofa, whereupon he sat in his customary chair by the fireplace, and I hastened to my spot at the table for note-taking.
“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice,” said Mr. Dunphy, now all of a fidget as he nervously smoothed his moustache and scratched at his whiskers. “I trust we have not put either of you to any inconvenience?”
“None whatsoever,” said Holmes, eyeing the agitated gentleman with some interest. “I am grateful to my brother Mycroft for bringing you here. Please tell us what your trouble might be, and I assure you that we will do our best to assist you.”
Mr. Dunphy sat forward, took a deep breath, and set forth upon his tale.
“Mr. Holmes, I am a fairly well-to-do man, I hold a senior position at the Capital and Counties Bank here in town. I am married, and my wife-” here he paused for a second, “my wife and I live in a very nicely appointed house in Norgrave Gardens. We have been married not quite a year - but very happily, I should like to add. And now it has come to this, when my wife has vanished - vanished, Mr. Holmes - without leaving any note or word as to where she has gone.” The gentleman took breath and stared at my friend, who was reclining in his chair with his eyes half-closed, listening intently.
“Do continue, Mr. Dunphy,” said Holmes. “More detail, I beg of you. Exactly when, and what time of day did your wife depart, what did she take with her, had she been acting strangely in the days prior to her leaving, etcetera?”
“It is the 16th today - Catherine left on the 14th, in the middle of the night, Mr. Holmes. We sleep in separate rooms, so I did not hear her leave, and I sleep very soundly as a rule in any case. When I went to her room at 7 o’clock the next morning I found her bed unmade, but she appeared to have dressed, and her small suitcase was missing. I do not know what she might have packed, I am not familiar with her wardrobe or her personal items.”
“Which floor is your wife’s bedroom on?” Holmes enquired.
“It is on the first floor, as is mine. Our rooms do not adjoin, but they are quite close. We had not argued, and Catherine had not been behaving out of the ordinary, so I cannot explain the situation, Mr. Holmes.”
“Did you see anything unusual in the room, an item or a piece of furniture out of place, for example?”
“No, there was nothing of that nature, everything was how it should normally be. Except for one small thing, Mr. Holmes. I doubt that it is of any significance.”
“Oh? And what might that be?” asked Holmes, leaning forward slightly in attention.
“On the carpet, by the side of the bed, Mr. Holmes. I found a long black feather.”
“A feather! From one of your wife’s hats, no doubt?”
“I have never seen my wife in such a hat, Mr. Holmes. All her hats are quite plain, as far I can recall.”
“From a gown, then, or a room decoration?”
“There is nothing of that nature in her room.”
“Then that is curious indeed, Mr. Dunphy,” said my friend. “I suppose that you have contacted all her relatives and friends, as well as your own, in the event that she may have ended up with one of them?”
“I have followed every trail that I can think of, but with no luck. It is as though she has simply vanished into thin air. We have few surviving relatives, and fewer still that live in this country.”
“In that case, I should like to visit your house and examine the room for myself, if I may. Will you be at home tomorrow?”
“Yes, I will be there. Could I expect you at 9am?”
“That will be fine. Thank you, yes, I will have one of your cards.” Holmes tucked our visitor’s calling card into his pocket, and moved to the door. “Mycroft, are you leaving too, or would you care to stay?”
The elder Holmes had risen and was reaching for his cane. “I have an appointment, Sherlock, alas I cannot stay. I am grateful nonetheless for having made it through fifteen minutes in your home without being catapulted out of my seat by someone barging in through the door as though all the hounds of hell were on his tail. I will speak to you later, dear brother, good afternoon. And to you, Doctor.”
The two men took their leave, and we watched from the window as the hansom turned and rattled its way back down the street. Holmes took the card from his pocket and examined it once again.
“This might be an interesting case, Watson, will you come?”
“Of course I will, Holmes, you can rely on it.”
“Tomorrow, then, at 9am,” said he, with a wink.