But my thoughts remained in the company of the enchanting Alice, so I did not pay much attention to him. I therefore do not have much to relate from the long journey home.
But the detective kept up the topic even after we arrived home.
“An interesting girl, your friend’s daughter,” he said as we sat in the drawing room sipping cognac.
Did I detect the sound of Aphrodite’s angels? As far as I recalled, Holmes, whose priorities had always been elsewhere, had been struck by cupid’s arrow only once before. In my eyes Grace Pankhurst could not compare either in beauty or intelligence to the late Irene Adler[18].
But I could not explain the detective’s interest in the girl as anything other than a growing affection. She was neither a woman suspected of a crime nor a client.
“In what way did she capture your attention?” I asked deliberately, careful not to step into a wasps´ nest.
“As yet I cannot say,” he said thoughtfully. “But I will tell you one thing, my friend. That girl certainly conceals more than her father and everyone else thinks.”
It sounded serious.
While I had been married several times and had more than once experienced the infatuation that a woman’s beauty could cause, Lady Darringford seemed almost like a miracle.
But I would be a poor friend indeed were I to attempt to discourage his burgeoning feelings for a much younger woman. Instead I smiled and drank to his health. Perhaps the sound of the violin had brought two lonely souls together and the reserved way in which Grace had exchanged words with the detective had attracted him.
“And how did Lady Darringford strike you?” I asked.
“Very well, just like you, Watson,” he laughed. “And those words about a trail of broken hearts to her bedroom! Some might take that as a challenge. But she certainly did not behave like a feminist.”
He had brought up what the old officer had said, which I had also been pondering.
“Pankhurst is old fashioned, I am sure that he was exaggerating,” I said. “He considers any woman who wants to drive her own automobile a feminist. He seems to have forgotten that he has served a queen his whole life. God knows what led him to this opinion. Not every accomplished and self-assured woman is a feminist, after all.”
“An impassioned defence! Do make sure that your wife does not find out. She might interpret it the wrong way.”
He was right.
For the first time since laying eyes on Lady Darringford I thought of my wife and was beset by a feeling of guilt. I loved her and my feelings for the beautiful Alice seemed like a betrayal. Never mind that it was purely platonic; I knew that given the chance reason would give way to lust.
“Why must you keep bringing that up?” I said angrily, although the anger was mostly directed at myself.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders and did not test me further. He recognised that I alone needed to resolve my inner demons. We each had our own opinions about these matters, but I was encouraged by the last question that he asked me on the staircase as we went up to our rooms.
“What do you think about love? Can it still afflict those as old as us?”
“It is a natural human reaction, one that we should not discourage,” I said, and we bade each other goodnight.
Alice Darringford certainly made me feel less than sixty, but I kept that to myself.
In the light of day Alice’s garden was even more beautiful than at night, and the same could be said of its owner. But that afternoon I had the opportunity to enjoy the former much more closely, as a spring storm was raging outside and our meeting thus took place in the drawing room. All trace of yesterday evening’s party was gone. The servants had cleaned up everything and returned the polished furniture in the morning.
Lady Darringford was wearing a long, light-coloured dress and her hair was tied in a braid. The way she sat in the armchair across from us, with her knees firmly pressed together, a handkerchief in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, gave her an air of modesty.
Since our conversation the night before Holmes and I had only exchanged a few words, mainly of a practical nature. That morning we both had been burdened by questions for which neither of us had any answer. The detective seemed distracted. And my resolve to resist Alice’s charms was tested every time she looked at me.
But she was in a very fine mood. The garden party evidently had been a great success, thanks in large part to the concert, for which she again thanked Holmes. For about half an hour, while the servant laid out refreshments, we chatted about the unpredictability of May weather and how we were looking forward to the summer. Alice was no fool, however, and after a short while she sensed that we had come for a different purpose.
“Meteorological forecasts are no doubt a classic English topic of conversation over afternoon tea, but something tells me that you are weighed down by other matters,” she said simply.
The detective conceded that she was right and stood up from the table. Whenever he was about to interrogate a witness or launch into a monologue he liked to stand up and pace with his arms folded behind his back.
Today he did the same.
But before he started asking questions, he noticed a series of framed photographs of the lady’s nearest and dearest displayed on a bureau. Among them were several photographs of Rupert Darringford.
“That is my brother,” said our hostess, noticing his inquisitive gaze.
“Brother...” Holmes repeated softly.
Of course he had recognised the man in the photographs, and he examined them with even greater interest. Many were taken in exotic countries: India, Ceylon, Burma and elsewhere. They confirmed what the secret service had told us about his passion for travel. In one of the photographs Lord Darringford posed with a tribe of African natives, a large boa constrictor draped around his neck.
“That must be very dangerous!” said the detective.
“Beautiful things often are,” said Alice, her eyes sparkling.
“Does that mean women as well?”
“It depends what woman you have in mind,” she answered.
This wordplay evidently amused her.
He picked up another silver-framed photograph in which the siblings could be seen together. Alice was sitting on the hood of the Silver Ghost, while Darringford nonchalantly leaned against the open door. He looked more jovial here then when we had met him. In the background was an old castle, probably in Scotland.
“Our last photograph together,” said the lady wistfully.
“The last?”
“Yes, it was taken three years ago. I have not seen my brother since.”
“Oh I see,” said Holmes.
He stared at the photo for a little while longer and then returned it to its place.
“May I inquire as to what happened?”
Alice placed her cup on the table and dabbed the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief. Talking about her brother upset her. No doubt the siblings had had some sort of falling out. I sat closer to her and tried to comfort her.
“I do not know myself exactly,” she sobbed. “He suddenly disappeared and broke off all communication with me.”
“Strange.”
“The only thing that makes me happy is the knowledge that he is still alive. About twice a year he sends me a letter or telegram, always from a different corner of the globe. You see, Rupert is the only person I have in the world.”
“Which makes his behaviour even more curious,” said the detective.
“He has been rather queer since childhood,” said Alice, sighing. “When our parents died it made things worse. I thought that his wandering and adventurous nature would change things for the better, but clearly the opposite has happened. I would give everything for him to just come home.”
18
According to W. S. Baring-Gould, Irene Adler, who almost succeeded in outwitting Holmes in the case known as