"This is Mother's room," he said with his hand on the knob. "Do speak softly. She dislikes loud noises."
He flung open the door. "Mother, I've brought two gentlemen to see you."
The room was indeed dark, unlit by fire or lamp and with the curtains drawn. In a large old-fashioned fourposter bed lay the shadowy form of an elderly woman whose features could just be made out within the frill of a large nightcap. Her eyes were closed and we could hear her stertorous breathing.
"Oh, bother," said Charles, in vexation. "She's dropped off."
"Charles, what are you doing?" There was a piercing whisper from the passage behind us.
Sabina Abernetty had arrived home. The violence of the weather was evident in her pink cheeks and disordered hair. She had apparently just come in and discarded her coat and hat downstairs.
"Ah, Miss Abernetty, again a pleasure," drawled Holmes.
She ignored him and continued to address her brother indignantly. "You know how perverse Mother can be. She might have had one of her tirades."
"As it turns out, she's asleep," said Charles, sulkily.
"Which is as well. Do forgive my brother," she turned to us, summoning a smile. "He means well."
"No harm done. I'm sorry we missed the pleasure of meeting your mother," replied Holmes, cheerfully. "We must take our leave, but look forward with pleasure to our game on Sunday afternoon. Come, Watson."
Outside in the square we had to hold our hats against the blustering wind. We trudged in silence for several minutes.
"What did you make of that melodrama?" enquired Holmes, presently.
"Decidedly odd. But at least we know Lady Abernetty is alive and can set Mrs Bertram's fears at rest."
My companion snorted. "Did anything strike you about the sickroom?"
"I thought it uncommonly cold."
"It was as chill as a morgue. No fire, no steam kettle, both of
which I'm sure would be recommended for a patient suffering from congestion of the lungs."
"Indeed. Are you suggesting neglect?"
"What else struck you? Come, man, you must have been in dozens of sickrooms. That slight odour common to all…"
"… was missing. You're right, Holmes. Not even a whiff of carbolic. What does that imply?"
"I think we may receive a note from the Abernettys offering apologies for Sunday afternoon," was his only reply.
Holmes was not often confounded, but the next event produced that effect.
We were sitting beside the fire after supper that evening when we heard a light quick step on the stairs followed by a sharp rap on the outer door.
"Who could that be?" I asked, surprised.
"I suggest you open the door, Watson," replied Holmes in that slightly caustic tone he could adopt at times.
A woman stood in the doorway, shrouded in a long woollen cloak with a hood. Pushing past me, she advanced into the room, throwing back her hood to reveal the face of Sabina Abernetty.
Holmes rose from his chair and faced her. For the space of a minute they examined each other.
"So I've tracked you down, Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective," she said, bitterly.
"I congratulate you." Holmes's voice was slightly uneven.
"Why have you donned disguise to make my brother's acquaintance? Why have you flattered and deceived him, and come to our home? I know the answer?You have been employed by that hateful woman, Mabel Bertram to pry into our affairs. What has she been telling you?"
"She's concerned for your mother's health, nothing more." "Oh, there is a great deal more, Mr Holmes."
She checked her passionate outburst and fell silent. I took the opportunity to express a concern of my own.
"I trust you did not come alone through the night, Miss Abernetty."
"Minter is waiting in a hansom downstairs," she replied, curtly. "Where is your brother?"
"At a meeting of his dramatic society." She turned fiercely on Holmes. "What will satisfy you? What will end this persecution?"
I was shocked at the violence of her words, but Holmes answered her promptly.
"Seeing Lady Abernetty is alive and in reasonable health."
"Very well. You shall meet her on Sunday afternoon." She crossed to the door, but turned on the threshold, her lip curling. "I despise you."
She drew up her hood and hurried down the stairs.
"There is a lady who does not bestow her contempt lightly." Holmes tried to laugh, but the tremor was still in his voice.
"A remarkable adversary," I observed.
"She is not my adversary," said Holmes, softly. "She is my enemy. Or rather I am hers." He crossed to the window. "Ah, there they go. Be a good fellow, Watson, and whistle me up a cab while I throw on my cap and Ulster. I have to go out for a short time."
"Would you like me to accompany you?"
"No, it's better that I go alone." Holmes looked shaken by the incident, but at the same time some grim determination had seized him and I knew better than to persist.
The following day he was restless and moody and spent hours scraping on his old violin until I felt compelled to protest.
"How does an evening at the theatre appeal to you?" Holmes became suddenly brisk. "Dan Leno's playing at Drury Lane. We'll dine out first."
I was surprised at his choice of entertainment since he usually preferred a violin recital at the Albert Hall.
As usual he read my thoughts. "Come, Watson, the most celebrated clog-dancer and dame of our time. The man's an' artist, probably in his own field a genius."
Dan Leno was certainly in fine form that evening, performing acts of incredible physical ingenuity, and changing from persona to persona with an inimitable blend of Cockney humour and sentiment and a variety of wigs and gowns.
While the patrons about us rocked in their seats with laughter, Holmes sat silent, his fingers steepled across the front of his evening clothes, watching the performance under slumbrous lids. I had the impression, however, he was watching the little man's antics intently.
The following day, to my surprise, he dressed for his appointment with the Abernettys without his usual disguise.
"The game's up,Watson," he answered my look. "I think both parties are now aware of my identity and interest."
"Do you think we'll be introduced to the mother?"
"I have no doubt of it."
A pall of fog lay over London. The church bells sounded muffled and melancholy. It showed no signs of dissipating by early afternoon and I was amazed when Holmes suggested we stroll to Grosvenor Square.
"In this pea-souper? You must be mad, Holmes! Why on earth…?"
"I want to arrive at Grosvenor Square in a certain frame of mind and that only the fog can achieve. If you don't wish to accompany me by all means stay by your cosy fireside, but if you want to experience one of the strangest adventures you've ever put to paper, and I know how you like to jot down these little cases of ours, then put on your hat and greatcoat, your warmest muffler, take your stoutest stick and oh, yes, your service pistol."
"My pistol, Holmes? Surely you don't expect to encounter any danger from that pair?"
"It would be wise to prepare for any eventuality."
I found the next half-hour or so distinctly unpleasant. I flatter myself that I am not a nervous man or highly imaginative, but I seemed to feel the fog crawling on me like ghostly fingers. Lampposts stood out like beacons eagerly attained and reluctantly abandoned. The snickerings of leaves along the pavements seemed like the pattering of feet running up behind us. I was obliged to restrain myself from constantly glancing over my shoulder. A hansom looming at us suddenly like a phantom coach as we crossed Oxford Street gave me quite a start.
"Nearly there, Watson," chuckled Holmes.
"Mayfair seems almost deserted. Every sensible person in indoors."
Charles Abernetty evinced not the slightest surprise or curiosity at his new acquaintance's shorn hair and moustache. He greeted us with the same cordiality and drew us to the fire in the small salon.
"How damp your clothes are!" he exclaimed.