Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) (17 page)

And then Reginald solidly hit the pavement.

He awoke to find himself staring into a face much more comely that Tenny’s. It was oval, surmounted by luscious locks of shimmering blonde hair, and had a nose that was quite pert rather than potatolike; the eyes above that pert nose were large and limpid blue, and the mouth below was exquisitely curved and shaded a brilliant carmine.

“If I’m dead and you’re an angel sent to collect my soul,” Reginald murmured, “would you mind moving my body to a less seedy location?”

“My God,” the woman gasped. “You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

“If enough people keep telling me that, I might start believing it,” Reginald said.

“I mean, you’re Reginald Sinclair, the actor!”

“I am he,” Reginald confirmed. “Or, at least, I was.”

“Oh, you’re not dead,” she assured him, with a tilt of her head and an encouraging smile. “You’re very much alive.”

“I don’t suppose you got that memo, did you?” he moaned, putting a hand to his head, which was finally beginning to throb. “You don’t know a pillock named Craven, do you?”

“You’ll live, but obviously you’re still a bit stunned,” she decided. “I’m terribly sorry about running you down, but you did come out of nowhere; despite my best efforts not to hit you, you seemed bound and determined to do whatever necessary to attack my motorcar’s wing. I’m missing a wing mirror now, you know.”

“How thoughtless of me,” Reginald remarked.

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said. “I’ve already picked up and tossed it in the rear seat. Not even broken.”

“I wish I could say the same thing.”

“Is there anything broken?”

“Other than my pride?”

She smiled. “Yes, other than that?”

He sat up, not without pain, but not with too much of it. His knees still bent forward, and feet were still turned the right way, and all his other body parts still seemed attached. No bones stuck out his skin. He winced when he breathed, which meant some cracked ribs, but there was nothing to do about that but not breathe too deeply. He felt about his head and did not discover any areas that were overly soft. There would be some serious bruising, but not anyplace, he decided, commonly seen by his viewing public. He sighed. What viewing public?

“Nothing grievous, I suppose.”

“Well, you can be too seriously hurt if you managed to keep that ridiculous pipe between your teeth,” she quipped.

He held the pipe by the bowl and lifted it up into what little light there was from her motorcar’s headlamps back in the fog. “It’s not ridiculous at all,” Reginald protested. “What would Sherlock Holmes be without his pipe?”

“He wouldn’t be you,” the girl replied. She looked back at her idling motorcar, then back to the wounded actor. “I’m ever so glad that you’re not seriously injured, Mr Sinclair, but I must go now; I am in a terrible rush.”

“Wait a moment, you can’t just leave me here.”

“I can give you fare for a taxi.”

“Do you see any taxis about?”

“I could take you round to hospital, but…” She paused. “I wonder if I could impose upon you, Mr Sinclair?”

“I don’t see why not, you’ve already made quite an impression on me,” he quipped. “And do call me Reginald, Miss…”

“Cynthia,” she replied, helping him to his feet and steadying him when he started to wooze a bit. “Lady Cynthia Smythe-Lambert.”

“Good evening, Lady Cynthia,” he greeted, tipping his hat. “It’s a pleasure to have run into you.”

“I have to meet a man, that was why I was in such a rush.”

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing like that, Reginald,” she explained. “He is blackmailing me, and I must pay him off to have certain letters returned to me.”

Reginald leered.

“Will you please try to sober up,” Lady Cynthia snapped.

“Unfortunately, I am much more sober than I care to be,” Reginald replied, “but, pray, continue.”

“The letters are not mine but my father’s, the Earl of Danforth,” she said. “Should they be released to the newspapers, as has been threatened, it would mean ruin and disgrace, resignation from his cabinet post, the loss of…”

Reginald lifted a silencing hand and gave her the smile he usually reserved for auditions. “I am at your service, Lady Cynthia; how may I help you?”

“I know it is a great imposition, but would you accompany me to see this…this creature?” she stammered. “He said to come alone, but if he gets his £5,000 I do not see that he has any room to complain about my actions.”

“I should be delighted,” he said quickly, and as brightly as he could manage.

“Please come along then,” she urged. “I was already very late when we…met.”

“After you, my dear,” he said, smiling though his pain. “The game is afoot.”

Reginald climbed gingerly into the Austin Princess 135 and settled himself into the passenger seat. He was a little chagrined to see that the wing of the motorcar had made more of an impression on him than he had on it, so he was perversely pleased to note the absence of the wing mirror. When the large automobile again shot into the fog-bound night, once more at a decidedly unsafe velocity, Reginald was pressed solidly back into the seat, and he suppressed the mild groan that almost came to his lips.

Before long, they found themselves in Soho, crawling down a residential street as Lady Cynthia peered intently through the dewed windscreen. During the drive she had remained silent, the only indication of her tenseness being the whitening of her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel; and the closer they came to their destination the whiter those knuckles got. Finally, she stopped the vehicle, engaged the parking brake, and switched off the engine.

“Is this the place?” Reginald asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes,” she replied with a start. “Yes. Sorry. I’m afraid I’m rather more nervous about this than I realised. Now, I find myself wishing I were anywhere but here.”

“Well, let’s get this over with – pay the cad his flash and get your father’s letters from him,” Reginald said, patting her hand comfortingly. “After all, as the saying goes, there are only two ways to take care of a blackmailer, pay him off or kill him. And, my dear, you are much too lovely to find yourself standing in the dock. Let us face this squarely, knowing we are on the side of right.”

She looked to him and flashed a dazzling smile. “Please forgive me, I’m just being silly. You’re right, of course.”

Lady Cynthia climbed out and walked around. Moving a bit slower than he wanted to show, Reginald was out of the motorcar and closed the door by the time she joined him on the walkway. As they passed through a gateway toward a large detached house set back in the mist, she took his arm, an action that pleased him greatly and seemed to cause his pain to recede slightly from his consciousness.

The house was not brightly lit, but they could see lamps burning through the ground glass set into the door. There was no bell. As Reginald used the knocker, the door swung open on silent hinges. The house was very quiet.

As quiet as the grave
, Reginald thought, then wished he hadn’t.

Reginald stepped through, but Lady Cynthia held back. He looked to her.

“We must see this through” he said. “Your father’s letters.”

Squeezing her eyes to mere slits and holding her breath, she joined Reginald within. He closed the door. She relaxed somewhat, letting her held breath escape, but it came out more shivery and ragged than she intended.

“Whom are we here to see?”

“His name is Kasavian,” she replied. “Gregor Kasavian.”

He shook his head. “I would not trust him, just from the sound of his name. Foreigners!”

She looked about. “But where is he? I know I am very late, but he…the door…I…” She grabbed his arm. “Oh, Reginald, I am afraid.”

“Let’s look around,” he suggested. “If this Kasavian is not here, we’ll find those letters of yours and be on our way.”

But Gregor Kasavian
was
there, as they discovered when they entered a parlor off the entry hallway, sprawled on the floor before a low-burning fire in the hearth. The pale carpet was discoloured darkly by a wide pool surrounding his caved-in head. Nearby was a fireplace poker, the end of which glistened wetly in the fire light.

Lady Cynthia uttered a sharp cry, then turned and clung to Reginald.

He disengaged himself from her tight, frantic embrace and guided her to a large wing-chair far from the fire. From a crystal decanter on a silver tray he poured a large brandy, downed it in a gulp, then poured one for the girl and pressed it into her cold, trembling hands. He returned to the body.

Kneeling carefully, he checked that Kasavian was indeed as dead as he appeared. He was quite dead, but had not been so for long. The flesh was still quite warm. He stood and glanced about the room, noting every aspect of it. He returned to Lady Cynthia.

“Is he...”

“Yes, dead.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We must summon the police, it is our duty to do so.” Then he added: “But you are leaving now; you must not be found here.”

“But…”

“I’ll stay and look for the letters,” he assured her. “And I shall wait for the police to arrive, answer their questions without involving you in any way.”

“But the murderer…”

That was another reason why he wanted her out of this drear house of death. Kasavian had not just been dead for a short time, he had been dead for mere moments. They had not seen anyone on their way in, and they had not observed anyone either on the street or leaving the house. As if to punctuate his fears, a sudden and furtive sound came down to them from the first floor, the noise of someone moving about, as if searching.

Quickly, Reginald took Lady Cynthia’s arm, upraised her, and guided her toward the entrance. As they neared the doorway, the stillness was shattered by a series of sharp knocks on the door. Reginald and Lady Cynthia stopped suddenly, looked to each other in alarm, then returned their gazes to the door. Before they could either answer the summons or retreat into the darkness of the structure, the door was opened from without.

Two men stood in the doorway regarding Reginald and Lady Cynthia with narrowed gazes. One was short and gave a rather rumpled appearance, looking something like a soft-shelled turtle wearing a battered hat and wire-rimmed spectacles; the other was much taller, very lean, and wore a bespoke suit that would have made any tailor in Savile Row weep that he had not crafted it. So startled by their sudden intrusion was Reginald that only after they identified themselves – though he did not catch their names – did he realise they were detectives from some specialist unit within New Scotland Yard.

“Where is Mr Kasavian?” the taller detective demanded.

“He’s in the parlor,” Reginald replied. “We’ve touched nothing in there but the brandy decanter and one glass.”

“Wait here.” The taller one looked to his partner. “Make sure they do not leave.”

“What shall I do?” the shorter man asked. “Trip ‘em?”

“It’s quite all right,” Reginald assured them. “We’ve nothing to hide.”

“Hmm.”

“What about you, miss?” the spectacled detective asked when the other had entered the parlor. “Are you mute?”

“No…no, of course not,” Lady Cynthia stammered. “I was just…I was surprised to find Mr Kasavian…”

“Dead,” the taller detective announced upon his return. “Very much dead, his head caved in with a poker.”

“How unfortunate,” the smaller detective remarked.

“Very unfortunate.”

“And inconvenient.”

“Certainly for us,” his partner admitted, “but more so for Mr Kasavian, wouldn’t you agree, old fruit?”

“The girl’s not a mute, apparently.”

“Who are you two?”

Lady Cynthia looked to Reginald.

“This is Lady Cynthia Smythe-Lambert,” he said, “and I –“

“I thought I recognized you,” the tall detective interrupted. He looked to his partner. “It’s Reginald Sinclair, the johnnie who plays Sherlock Holmes on the telly, in
Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street
.”

“Wouldn’t know,” the other man sniffed. “Don’t own a goggle-box.”

“What are you two doing here?”

“Miss Smythe-Lambert had an appointment with Mr Kasavian, but because of the weather, and other factors, was very late,” Reginald explained. “She happened to run into me down near Fleet Street, and because of the lateness of the hour I suggested that perhaps I should accompany her to the appointment. In fact, we only just arrived when –“

“I thought my partner said you were not a mute, miss.”

“I’m…I’m not, Detective,” Lady Cynthia said. “As Mr Sinclair explained, I had an appointment with Mr Kasavian much earlier, but because of one thing or another I was quite late; when I…uh…ran into Reginald he suggested –“

“Yes, I believe we’ve already heard that story,” the natty detective snapped.

“What was your business with Kasavian?”

After a moment, Lady Cynthia replied: “A transaction.”