A Study in Sable Read online

  . . . and now . . . now it was too late.

  All she could do was sob.

  Mary let her weep hysterically until she ran out of breath from sobbing and began to cough. Only then did she push her way through the heavy grass and make her way to where Sarah was half-collapsed and offer a hand. “Come on,” she said. “Get up. Crying won’t change anything.”

  The sure and certain knowledge that this was true only made her cry harder, until at last Mary grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her to her feet, then gave her a little shake. “That’s enough. Come with me,” she said, and turned on her heel and strode along the tree line.

  Sobbing and shaking, Sarah stumbled after her, cradling the precious feather in her injured hand. Every throb of pain was welcome to her, a reminder of how much she deserved to be hurt for being so stupid. Now, now that she wasn’t blinded by pride, blinded by thinking she was somehow superior to Nan, she could see it. Magdalena had shamelessly manipulated her. And now everything was lost. Nan would never forgive her for what she had done to Grey. She would never forgive herself.

  Her thoughts circled endlessly in the same heartbroken circle as Mary led her around the front of Tottenham House to another hard-packed gravel lane that formed the top of the circular drive at the entrance. They followed that lane to the northeast, then it curved to the northwest, passing through a shorter avenue lined with trees, until they reached a huge, square building, two stories tall, made of the same pale yellow material as the main house. It was built in the same style, with a tall arching entrance into a central courtyard and a clock tower over the entrance. Grooms leading saddled horses into it showed what it was: a stable. There must have been room for fifty horses here. Mary took her elbow and led her through the arched doorway, beneath the clock tower and into the square courtyard. Open doors onto the courtyard showed various sorts of carriages and wagons all along the rear and the stable doors to the right and left. Grooms took horses in and out through the stable doors, casting curious, but averted, glances at the two women.

  Mary, however, continued to lead Sarah on to one human-sized door in the middle of the left-hand side of the block. There was a staircase immediately inside; Mary pushed Sarah at it, and Sarah climbed it, half-blinded now with tears and her swollen eyes. At the top of the stairs, Mary took her elbow again and dragged her through an open room with beds lined up on either side beneath the windows—this was where the grooms and stable hands must live, at least the lowest and youngest ones on the staff. At the end of the room was a door, which Mary opened, pushed Sarah inside, then entered herself, closing it behind her.

  “I hope you’re properly ashamed of yourself,” said Nan, with Neville on her shoulder, cradling Grey in her lap.

  Sarah burst into tears all over again.

  Mary Watson pushed her down onto a narrow iron-framed bed, and Grey leapt into her lap with two awkward flaps of her wings. Nan handed her a handkerchief, then Mary handed her another, then John Watson handed her his when she’d turned the first two into soggy messes, and she cried until her throat was so hoarse she could scarcely speak.

  Then she croaked out apology after apology: to Grey, to Nan, to Grey again, to the Watsons, to Grey, to Nan. She thought she would never be able to apologize enough, until Nan finally told her, in the kindliest voice possible, to “Shut up, you’re starting to babble.”

  Then Mary Watson handed her a glass of water, and she realized that she had cried herself literally dry. She drank three glasses in quick succession while John Watson bandaged her bitten finger. It hurt abominably, and she welcomed the pain.

  All the time she kept Grey cuddled in her lap, until at last, the parrot looked up at her and said, “I forgive you. Don’t do this again.”

  Which only made her burst into tears again.

  • • •

  “I don’t understand this,” Sarah croaked, Grey still held against her chest with her bandaged hand; from time to time Grey rubbed her head gently against Sarah’s thumb. “Why are you here? How did you get here?”

  The room they were in was about the size of the sitting room in the London flat; it held two beds, a chair, a washstand, and two chests. There was a second door opposite the one they had come in; it was open, and Sarah guessed it led to another bedroom like this one; both were probably for “superior” stable staff. From the tweed coat draped over the foot of one bed and the skirt draped over the other, Sarah guessed the room was being used by John and Mary.

  “How is simple enough,” John Watson said with a shrug. “Lord Alderscroft. The Stable Master here is an Earth Magician, and shortly after you told Nan that Magdalena was going to bring you here, Alderscroft began making arrangements. Alderscroft sent us by carriage with very fast horses the same day you left; we arrived not more than an hour or two after you did; we came in by another road, straight to the stable. No one knows we’re here but the stable staff, and they are under strict orders to say nothing.”

  “That was a hawk you saw chasing Grey when she flew away,” Nan added. “What you didn’t see was Neville showing the hawk that his friend was not to going to become her dinner.”

  “As for why we are here, it was abundantly clear to all of us that you were not yourself,” said Mary. “We certainly weren’t going to leave you alone with her, every day, and give her the opportunity to separate you from your friends permanently. What we couldn’t figure out was how Magdalena was manipulating not only you but anyone else she cared to use. When we spoke to Alderscroft about it, he became alarmed.”

  “Why?” croaked Sarah, blinking her sore eyes in surprise.

  “Because, although she had not done so yet, it was entirely possible she could use her power, whatever it is, to meddle in the business of Her Majesty’s government in the future,” replied John. “At that point, she became a risk to our national interests.”

  If she’d been able to do so, Sarah would have widened her eyes in alarm. “But—all she ever did was—get men to give her presents—” she said, feebly.

  Nan snapped her fingers in front of Sarah’s nose, and she started. “Wake up!” Nan said sharply. “She’s far more dangerous and ruthless than you think!”

  “I think,” drawled Sherlock Holmes, as he opened the door and entered the tiny room, “This is where I should join the conversation.” He sat down on the bed beside John Watson, who moved over for him. He leaned over and looked sternly into Sarah’s eyes. “As you know, I was originally intrigued by Fraulein von Dietersdorf because of the absurd story about her missing sister.” He held up a hand, forestalling any protest on Sarah’s part, but she actually hadn’t intended to protest. “I’ve never heard a more feeble story in my life. And when, after sending me frantic letters begging me to look for her, her parents and her fiancé suddenly decided to accept that story, I became very suspicious, although I was not sure what to be suspicious of. Nevertheless, you and Sarah had just proven to me that psychical gifts are a reality, and I wondered if something like that might be at work.”

  “You thought Magdalena might be—changing peoples’ memories and thoughts?” Nan asked, as if all this was new to her. From the looks on John and Mary Watsons’ faces, it was new to them, too.

  “It seemed to me to be a possibility,” Holmes replied. “So I went to Germany to speak to Johanna’s friends, where I learned several very interesting facts. It was Johanna, not Magdalena, who first began an operatic career, although both girls were given singing lessons by the most able of teachers. Magdalena only became interested when Johanna succeeded in eventually singing a leading role; once Magdalena applied to the opera, she quickly shunted Johanna aside. Then Johanna stepped back and devoted herself to the more conventional roles of a girl of her class and station. Magdalena confined herself to lording over her sister with new accomplishments . . . until Johanna became engaged at about the same time that Magdalena accepted the engagement to debut at the Royal Opera. The en
gagement was a complete surprise to everyone except their parents, and young Helmut was considered a fine catch. Johanna’s friends say Magdalena was livid.”

  “And what did Magdalena’s friends say?” Sarah managed.

  “Ah! Now that is fascinating indeed!” Holmes said, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers together. “Because although Magdalena left behind a plethora of friends and admirers when she traveled to London, by the time I had arrived . . . there were none who would admit to being a friend or an admirer. And every person I queried about her would respond in the tones of acute bitterness that only a baffled German can produce, indicating that he could not imagine what he—or she!—was thinking when he allowed her to lead him about like a monkey on a leash. I must say it was mostly males, however. Magdalena does not often exert herself to charm females. You, Sarah, are an exception to that rule.”

  “So it wears off!” Nan exclaimed. “The—charm, or fascination, or call it by the ancient name, enchantment—I mean.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes nodded. “So, at that moment, Magdalena is going to London. Johanna has no reason to go, and indeed, one would think she would embark on a round of engagement parties and outings where she and her fiancé are displayed together. And yet, she does go. Why, she agreed to, we will never know. But I believe I know why Magdalena asked her.” He raised an eyebrow. “I believe she intended to eliminate her. Possibly because she knew that Johanna was her only real rival, as they share the same talents. The difference between them was that the only talent Johanna used was the gift of song.”

  “Johanna was going to get her old position in her old opera company when Magdalena left!” exclaimed Mary, looking to Holmes. “Because whatever else Magdalena had done to get it would wear off eventually!”

  Holmes smiled thinly. “And Johanna had something else that she would never allow Magdalena to take from her. Herr Helmut. While on Magdalena’s part . . . well, you, Miss Nan, put your finger on why Magdalena would want the young man.”

  “When I said that Magdalena wanted anything that someone else had . . .” Nan replied, slowly.

  Holmes nodded. “Perhaps Johanna thought this trip was a sort of chance for reconciliation with her sister. Perhaps she only wished to keep an eye on her, to keep her from piling up dupe after dupe. In either case she was sadly mistaken when she thought she was safe from Magdalena. I am convinced that Magdalena murdered her.”

  Shocked, Sarah protested—much as she now felt sick about how much Magdalena had been using her and anyone else that crossed her path, she could not believe that. “No body was ever found!”

  “Not . . . quite . . . true,” Holmes told her. “No body was found at the time Johanna supposedly went missing.”

  “Ah!” Watson cried. “I see where your logic is leading you! You think Johanna was murdered earlier!”

  “Precisely. In fact, I believe Magdalena murdered her sister by throwing her off the boat as it approached London.” Again, he held up his hand. “And you will tell me that letters came from Johanna in London, and Johanna was seen in the hotel. But I point out to you that siblings can often forge one another’s handwriting, that the letters in question sounded suspiciously as if they had been copied from a guidebook, that the ladies were known to wear each other’s gowns, and that the specious ‘Johanna’ was never seen without a veil.”

  Sarah felt . . . stunned. Too many shocks in too short a time.

  “Now, countering this was the testimony of the hotel porter that he had helped Johanna with her luggage and sent her off in a cab to the King’s Cross railway station, at an hour when Magdalena was normally asleep. Surely the maid Alicia would have noticed! But! The maid Alicia was not engaged until after Johanna had ‘eloped.’ I established this at once.”

  “So there is no alibi for the time in question,” John observed. “And Magdalena has been known to exert herself when necessary. She only needed to get up very early, ring for the porter, and get as far as King’s Cross and back. Porters and elevator operators are not known for noticing what a lady is wearing, only her face. Without her veil, she could feign to be returning from a festive night.”

  Holmes nodded. “So I went to King’s Cross and looked for the most remote destination possible from there, which was Thurso, in the Highlands. Then I took the journey myself and made enquiries at the left-baggage office. And there, as I had expected, was ‘Johanna’s’ luggage. It was without an owner’s label and contained a few outmoded gowns with German seamstress labels, cheap jewelry, a picture of the Von Dietersdorf family, some toilette articles, letters, and quantities of dead flowers. Now that I knew I must look for a dead woman found much earlier than I had thought, I returned to London, and that was when I had my great piece of luck.”

  He paused.

  Watson shook his head. “You never admit to mere luck, Sherlock.”

  “I shall this time. The morgue attendant told me of a young man, with a photographic hobby, who was attempting to get himself hired by Scotland Yard. To that end, he had been photographing the faces of victims that were unidentified in morgues all over London, so that even after the bodies were interred, the victims might be identified. I already knew the date at which Magdalena had arrived. I suspected she would not have murdered her sister until the ship was near to port—otherwise Johanna would have been missed. She probably threw Johanna over the side at the stern, when all the other passengers who cared to watch the arrival were clustered at the prow. I knew the ship, its course, and the currents, and I asked him for the photographs of unidentified blond women within the correct date range.”

  Holmes reached into his tweed jacket and emerged with two photographs. The first was the one that he had shown the girls when they first discussed the case with him, the photograph of Johanna that her parents had given him. The second—

  Well, the features were bloated and softened—but it was still unmistakable as being Johanna.

  Sarah gasped.

  “I will not say that you have had a near miss, my dear lady,” Holmes said. “You are exceedingly useful to Magdalena. But if you had cut yourself off from your friends and followed her into the world, on the day that you ceased to be useful to her. . . .” He let the sentence trail off. “Perhaps nothing would have happened, and you would have been left like all those others she used and discarded, wondering how you had come to let yourself be manipulated. But . . . perhaps not. And if she had, indeed, succumbed to the temptation to meddle in the affairs of government, she might have found a way to cast all blame on you if she was caught.”

  Sarah swallowed, and Grey reached up and took one of her uninjured fingers gently in her beak.

  “At any rate, that was when I spoke with Miss Nan about Magdalena, and became . . . alarmed at the prospect of what she might do. I turned to my good friend John for an explanation of how she might be doing these things.” He bowed his head at Watson, who picked up the tale.

  “I went to Alderscroft, who also became alarmed. He in turn took my information about Magdalena and her summer plans—and you and your part in them—and did what Alderscroft does best. He found allies, some in unexpected places, we formulated an interim plan of action, and here we are.”

  Holmes laughed dryly. “Yes. About those unexpected allies—”

  “Señors, señora, and señoritas, I trust I have arrived at the correct time for our meeting?” A new voice spoke gently from the door, and Sarah gaped as she recognized the newcomer.

  It was Pablo, the famous violinist.

  15

  NAN, John, and Mary had been expecting this. Nan had been waiting for this moment. Holmes had not spoken to Alderscroft, as they had, but Holmes had his sources, too.

  Holmes leapt to his feet. “Maestro Sarasate—” he said, with a bow. The elegantly clad violinist raised his hand.

  “Un momento. First of all,” Pablo Sarasate said, with a little bow toward Sara
h, “I must apologize to you, Señorita Sarah, for I have been the cause of much work, perhaps even distress, to you.”

  She blinked at him. Or at least as much as her tear-swollen eyes would allow. “I don’t see how that is possible,” she said dubiously. “We only met last night.”

  “Ah, but I fear that you have been battling the fruits of my labors for some time,” he replied.

  She stared at him blankly.

  He smiled and elaborated. “I am the one responsible for invoking the spirits that you have been sending to their rests. Or at least, to their just rewards or punishments, as the case may be.”

  Now Sarah gaped at him. Nan was enjoying this. She and John and Mary had had the pleasure of meeting Pablo Sarasate three days ago, so they had heard all this before. Sarah, however, was completely in the dark.

  “How?” Sarah demanded. “That’s not possible! Spirits can come of their own accord, but no one can actually call them!”

  “Actually, señorita, it is possible,” the violinist said apologetically. “I am an Elemental Master. And what you have been told, that there are four sorts of Elemental Masters, is not precisely true. There are five; I am one of the fifth kind, a Spirit Master, Spirit being the fifth element.” He looked around for a place to sit and settled on the windowsill, after dusting it off with his handkerchief. “We are rare, which is just as well. The gift is not . . . terribly useful.” He shrugged. “It is not unlike your ability as a medium, save that I cannot open a door to the next world. All I can do is answer the call of a spirit in distress, summon spirits who remain in this world, and strengthen them. This is how I became involved with Magdalena von Dietersdorf in the first place.”