I confess he gave me rather a start. I had said nothing about my somewhat wistful ambition to pamper my indifferent health at the famous resort in the Black Forest.
Shortly before I met and took up residence with Holmes at Baker Street, I had returned from service in Afghanistan with the legacy of a jezail bullet and there were times, especially when I felt the London fog on my bones, that it throbbed remorselessly. I could more easily or cheaply take the cure at Bath, but I had a fancy for Baden-Baden, not for its casino and race-course, but to stroll along the banks of the Oos where Brahms composed his Lichtenthal Symphony and Dostoevksy strolled under the ancient trees.
"My dear Watson," Holmes replied to my start of surprise, "you've been haunting travel agencies on your days off, your desk is littered with brochures and time-tables. I observed you studying the balance in your pass-book with a morose expression and you've been poor company ever since."
"I beg your pardon if I appear so. It's this dismal weather. Don't you find the fog depressing, Holmes?"
"Not I!" My companion's grey eyes sparkled. "I find it stimulating. I conjure up all manner of fiendish doings under its cover. By the way," he added, casually, "you will let me know when the carriage pulls up at our front door."
"Are we expecting someone?" My spirits lifted. Since I had resided with Holmes many interesting people had crossed the threshold of 221b Baker Street, some of whom had invited us into the most intriguing and dangerous adventures it had ever been my privilege to share and chronicle.
"A prospective client." Holmes took a note from inside his pocket and spread it open on his knee. "The hour mentioned is three. Ah, there strikes the clock."
"Anything of interest?" I enquired, eagerly.
"I fear not," sighed Holmes. "A domestic dispute, I fancy. Cases worthy of engaging my complete attention have been sparse in recent weeks."
I echoed his sigh. I had learned to dread these periods of inactivity when my friend lapsed into boredom and melancholy. I had discovered only recently his injudicious use of cocaine in such lapses, a regrettable weakness from which I seemed powerless to dissuade him.
"A carriage has just stopped at the kerb." I observed a rather large lady in furs and a rather small man in greatcoat and Homburg alight. "Could these be our visitors?"
"Ah, since you speak in the plural the lady must be accompanied. A Mrs Mabel Bertram, Watson, a widow she writes, so the gentleman is not her husband." He rose, gave his shoulders a twitch and stood with his back to the fire.
The knock on our door could almost be described as deferential. At my friend's nod, I admitted our visitors.
"Have I the honour to address Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?" enquired the gentleman, in a pleasant yet suave manner.
"I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Won't you come in?"
The woman who advanced into the room was indeed Junoesque and stylishly dressed in a fur-trimmed coat of the colour that, I believe, was called cobalt blue, and a feathered hat perched somewhat coquettishly on Titian hair that owed more to the cosmetician than to nature. I perceived her to be a woman of fifty, whose features bore the remnants of a once-proud beauty.
Her companion was slim and dapper with dark lively eyes and a waxed moustache. He removed his Homburg to reveal a sleek, dark head.
"Mr Holmes, how kind of you to see me," greeted the lady, warmly. "I am Mabel Bertram. May I present Mr Aston Plush?"
Bows were exchanged and, standing well back, Holmes invited his visitors to take seats before the fire. Mr Plush preferred to stand with his back to the window so that he was almost in silhouette.
"Draw your chair closer to the fire, Mrs Bertram," coaxed my friend. "I observe you are shivering from the inclement weather."
"It is not the chill that makes me shiver, but the anxiety caused by my dilemma." She fixed her gaze imploringly on his face. "You are my last hope, Mr Holmes."
"Dear me!" After one swift scanning glance over her entire person, he leaned back in his armchair steepling his fingers against the shabby velvet front of his smoking-jacket and examining her face from eyes that were mere slits under his drowsy lids.
"You mentioned in your note you were concerned about the welfare of a relative. Pray go on."
"To be precise, my stepmother. I am the eldest daughter of Sir William Abernetty by his first marriage. Upon the death of my mother he married Miss Alice Pemberton, a lady some ten years older than myself. There was a daughter from this second marriage, Sabina, and a son born posthumously, Charles. You may be amazed at my concern for my stepmother when she has two children of her own, but being so close in age we have always been on the best of terms. Until recently."
"And what has happened to cause this rift?"
"Nothing!" burst out the lady. Restraining herself quickly, she went on. "Nothing that I can account for. There's been no quarrel, no exchange of harsh words, yet Charles and Sabina have informed me in the plainest of terms that she refuses to see me. I should add here that Lady Abernetty is an invalid. Neither my half-brother nor sister are married and both reside with their mother in Grosvenor Square."
Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He had begun to look rather bored, but at the mention of the èlite address he perked up a little. Nevertheless, he murmured, "I fail to see what assistance I can be. As you say, you are not the lady's daughter and can lay no claim to her affections. She may see you or not as she pleases. Her children are no doubt following her instructions."
"Hear me out, I implore you." Mabel Bertram laid aside her muff and clasped agitated hands. "I am not alone in being excluded from her door. My stepmother has suffered from an affliction of the lungs for many years and a doctor has been in constant attendance. Imagine my horror when I was informed by Dr Royce Miles that he no longer calls upon Lady Abernetty – at the request of her son Charles, and this after a professional attendance of many years." Her lower lip trembled. "Mr Holmes, I fear for my stepmother's life."
My friend frowned. "Have you reason to believe your brother and sister have anything but the most loving regard for their mother?"
Mabel Bertram coughed discreetly behind a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "My stepmother has many admirable qualities, Mr Holmes, but I think it fair to say that with her children she was something of a Tartar. There was never any question of either Charles or Sabina marrying. Her formidable manner drove away any suitors or lady friends. Alice much preferred to have them at her own beck and call. Son and daughter have always been expected to stay close to home and Alice has always kept a tight grip on the purse-strings. Now I hear Sabina's been seen gadding about in new gowns and Charles has joined the Footlights Amateur Dramatic Society."
"Dear me!" Holmes smiled in amusement.
"Mr Holmes, I fear my stepmother no longer has the power to influence her children."
"Would that be such a bad thing?" asked my friend, quietly. "Their indulgences seem innocent enough." He suddenly lifted a piercing gaze to her companion. "In what capacity do you accompany Mrs Bertram, Mr Aston Plush?"
The gentleman hesitated. "As Mrs Bertram's legal adviser and friend."
"You are a solicitor then?"
"Mr Plush handled my late husband's estate and before that his business affairs," intervened Mrs Bertram. "He has been kind enough to act for me in this matter."
"I have written several letters expressing Mrs Bertram's concern and requesting access to her stepmother. Beyond
that my hands are tied. There is no legal way we can obtain admittance to the house on Grosvenor Square. Were we to force entry the Abernettys would be quite within their rights to summon the police."
"I did enter the house through the servants' entrance on the first day I was refused admittance," confessed Mrs Bertram, with a slight blush.