Chapter 1

1

It began, as so many adventures did, with the arrival of a telegram for Sherlock Holmes.

That the message was for Holmes was not unusual – Harry White opened and read hundreds of similarly addressed letters each week and she had, by and large, grown used to the idea that so many otherwise sensible and intelligent people believed the celebrated master detective was a real person. They came from all walks of life, as far as she could tell, earnestly writing to seek assistance with all manner of mysteries and suspected crimes. And since the newly built head offices of the Abbey Road Building Society spanned the detective's famous Baker Street address, that was where the letters were delivered. They had accumulated in the post room of the bank for months, growing in volume every day, until it became clear something needed to be done about them.

By dint of an unpleasant but well-timed collision between Harry's knee and her lascivious manager's groin, she found herself unceremoniously demoted from the plush upper floors of the bank to the basement, and what she supposed was the most menial role an enraged Simeon Pemberton had been able to find. For the best part of two months, Harry had worked her way through the backlog of letters, responding to each in the same brief but sympathetic manner: Mr Holmes has retired to Sussex to keep bees and is regretfully unable to help. At least her reply to almost each letter had been the same, and a glance at that morning's newspaper headlines reminded her she did not regret a single moment that had followed from her one deviation, even if her true role in the events that followed would never be publicly known.

But the arrival of a telegram for Holmes stood out from the other correspondence, by virtue of its novelty as well as its urgency, and it caused Harry to sit up straight at her desk to open it.

SHERLOCK HOLMES. PHILIP ST JOHN AT DEATH'S DOOR. TIME OF THE ESSENCE. REPLY IMMEDIATELY.

It came from a John Archer, Esq, of Thrumwell Manor in Cambridgeshire, and although Harry read it four times she still felt herself none the wiser. The telegram was reserved for news and information of vital importance and, at face value, a mortal illness certainly qualified. Moreover, Philip St John was a man of considerable literary repute – both her father and grandfather had waxed lyrical about his novels and her mother had complained on more than one occasion that he had snubbed all her invitations to the illustrious dinner parties she threw at their family home, Abinger Hall.

The revelation of his apparent indisposition was both unexpected and alarming. But Harry could not fathom why this Mr Archer had felt the need to advise Sherlock Holmes of the unhappy situation, and to spend a not insignificant amount in doing so. Even if she overlooked the fact that Holmes did not exist, surely Dr Watson was the more qualified resident of 221B Baker Street in matters of health. Perhaps Archer suspected foul play and wanted Holmes to investigate, but if that were the case, why not say so?

Shaking her head in bewilderment, Harry read the terse message again. It made little sense, which she supposed at least put it in the same category as much of the other correspondence she dealt with on a daily basis. What she ought to do was place it at the bottom of the date-ordered pile and respond in the usual way when it reached the top, without being swayed by the urgency of the message. But even as she forced herself back to the task of opening yet more envelopes, she knew she could not ignore the telegram that long. It smouldered like a sullen coal beneath a blanket of tinder. Sooner or later, it would catch light and she would need to attend to it.

Despite the burning presence, it took Harry until three o'clock that afternoon to finally give in. The latest batch of correspondence was typical of that received by Holmes, veering between the scandalous, the libellous and the merely dull, but it did succeed in distracting her. A woman in Margate was unsure whether the man she was set to marry was who he claimed to be. A gentleman in Dulwich alleged his neighbour had poisoned his honeysuckle. Another asked for help in retrieving his late father's missing Last Will and Testament, promising a handsome reward if Holmes was able to restore his rightful inheritance.

Harry allowed herself a moment to imagine how the detective might approach the case; undoubtedly, he would deduce within seconds that there was more to the matter than vanished paperwork. At first glance, it appeared Mr Stubbs might be the victim of an unscrupulous relative who had stolen his father's fortune, but the jagged zigzag of his signature would tell Holmes the man was hiding a dark personality and could not be relied upon for the truth. And then Harry felt a faint sting of guilt, because Mr Stubbs was not a character in a Sherlock Holmes story but a real person in some distress – she had no right to second-guess the circumstances that had brought him to write to Holmes.

Reining her imagination in, she filed it at the bottom of the pile and settled herself into typing up standard responses. But her fingers, usually speedy and nimble, felt slow and fat. All too often, the keys jammed, creating letters that were smudged and littered with mistakes, forcing her to start again. The constant clack-clack-clack sounded like pistol shots and, to make matters worse, she had the start of a headache that she suspected was due to a lack of sleep and an overabundance of excitement. And every time she closed her eyes, John Archer's words swam before her eyes: time is of the essence… reply immediately…

At length, she sat back and was instantly overtaken by a yawn so vast and unladylike that she was grateful she had no colleagues to witness it. Giving up on her infernally possessed typewriter, Harry reached for her notepad. Surely it wouldn't hurt to ask Mr Archer for more information, if only to set her own mind at rest. After several attempts, she managed to draft a reply that was probing yet succinct. Conscious of the need for brevity, she decided against mentioning Holmes' retirement and focused instead on the question of why Mr Archer had sought his help at all.

Sincere condolences. Request more details to assist. S.H.

Once the message was crafted to Harry's satisfaction, she checked the return address on the telegram from John Archer and added it to her notebook, below the message she had composed. As another yawn overtook her, she decided enough was enough – she had not taken her lunch break after all. Gathering up her belongings, she locked the door of her tiny office and made for the fresh air of Baker Street.

Newspaper sellers called out the headlines of the evening edition. ‘ American Drug Lord Arrested at Southampton! Read all about it!'

‘ Suspect Released in Lord Robertson Robbery – read all about it!'

Harry couldn't help glancing at the newspapers as she passed. Her own role in exposing the criminal gang behind Lord Robertson's burglary was a closely guarded secret, and the whole sequence of events that had led to her chasing the true culprit around the alleys of south London felt like a bad dream, although she still had the bruises to remind her it had been real. All that mattered was that justice had been done, and the innocent maid accused of the crime had been set free.

At the post office, Harry transferred her message to a telegram form and slid it beneath the grille to the clerk. ‘Standard or greeting?' he asked, without looking up.

Greetings telegrams were reproduced on decorative paper by the receiving post office, and were commonly used for birthday messages, congratulations and other good wishes. Harry could only imagine what Holmes, or even John Archer, might make of such frivolity. ‘Standard, please.'

The clerk nodded. ‘Two shillings and sixpence, if you please.'

Harry paid the fee without complaint, glad she had chosen not to use the telephone in her office to reply to Mr Archer. The cost would have been added to the bank's bill, and while she felt reasonably confident it would have gone unnoticed among all the other correspondence sent on official Abbey Road Building Society business, it was much better not to leave any trace of her actions. Harry's immediate manager, Mr Babbage who ran the post room, had once warned her she had a powerful enemy within the bank and she had no wish to draw attention to herself, and if she was caught in such a flagrant breach of bank procedure, it would mean instant dismissal.

The faint flutter of anxiety that thought caused stayed with her all the way home to her small but elegant apartment in Hamilton Square. For the second time in her official capacity as secretary to Sherlock Holmes, she had deviated from her duties as required by the bank. For the second time, her curiosity had been roused, leading her to indulge a most un-Holmes-like whisper of intuition that nagged at her in much the same way as Esme Longstaff's letter about her missing sister had some months earlier, prompting her to launch her first investigation into the case of the missing maid. And for the second time, in spite of her anxiety, Harry felt certain she had done the right thing.

Harry was intrigued but not surprised by the speed of John Archer's response. It came by telegram the next afternoon, much to the interest of Bobby the post boy, who presented it to her with an expression of unbridled curiosity. ‘Another urgent message for Sherlock Holmes,' he said, wide-eyed beneath his red velvet cap. ‘It must be something serious.'

‘Thank you, Bobby,' Harry said mildly, taking care to ensure her expression revealed nothing of her own interest in the contents.

He waited, an expectant look on his face, until it became clear she wasn't going to open it. ‘Have an 'eart, Miss White,' he begged. ‘The lads in the post room gave me hell yesterday when I said I didn't know what the big mystery was.'

Harry placed the telegram on the desk in front of her. ‘We receive hundreds of letters to Sherlock Holmes every week. Do they ask you about those?'

Bobby scratched his chin. ‘No. But a telegram – two telegrams, even. That's different.' He paused. ‘My money's on murder.'

‘You've been reading too many detective stories,' Harry said, mildly amused by his ghoulish certainty. ‘Assuming this telegram is from the same person as yesterday then I can assure you it is nothing so sensational. And it is quite common for those who seek the help of Mr Holmes to write more than once.'

Bobby shrugged, apparently unconvinced. ‘Letters are cheaper than telegrams. Whoever sent it really wants your attention.'

‘Not my attention,' she corrected gently. ‘The attention of Sherlock Holmes, who is unable to help, for obvious reasons.'

‘But what if it really is murder?' the boy persisted. ‘Shouldn't you tell the peelers?'

Harry thought about the hundreds of letters she had read, alleging everything from embezzlement to grave robbing, and it was true that several had claimed to have uncovered the darkest crime. But in those cases, they had only turned to Holmes after the police had refused to entertain them and Harry felt certain their accusations must have already been investigated. Besides, she did not want to encourage the idea in Bobby's head that she might do anything other than answer the letters in the way Mr Babbage had instructed her. She liked the post boy, but she had no idea whether she could trust him, or anyone else at the bank.

‘The people who write to Mr Holmes are not – well, let us say they are confused about what is real and what isn't.' She held up a hand as Bobby opened his mouth to object. ‘But it isn't my job to pass judgement on them, nor to consider the truth of what they say. I open their letters, I read them and I send a standard reply.' She crossed her fingers under the desk. ‘Without exception. Not even telegrams.'

He frowned. ‘You must get some real nutters writing to him.'

‘Some of them are a little strange,' Harry conceded. ‘But I suppose it's simply a testament to the excellence of the stories. They draw the reader in, make them want to believe someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes could be real.'

‘Maybe,' Bobby said. ‘Do you reckon other detectives get letters, then? Miss Marbles and that?'

Harry smiled. ‘Possibly. But not all of them have such a famously recognisable address.'

‘Lucky for you that he does,' Bobby observed, then blinked nervously as Harry stared at him. ‘After… well, after what happened and all. With your last position, I mean.'

Harry knew her expression must be glacial but she couldn't seem to unfreeze it. She hadn't realised the reason for her move to the post room was common knowledge. ‘What exactly do you mean?'

He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I don't mean nothing, Miss White. Except that it's a good thing there's all these letters to answer and this little room, so you can keep out of his way. I don't doubt that he didn't dare give you the sack, not after what happened the last time.'

He trailed off, staring at the floor as Harry's thoughts jumbled together and cleared. ‘The last time,' she repeated slowly. ‘You're telling me there was someone Mr Pemberton harassed before me?'

But even as she said it, she knew it must be true. A man like Simeon Pemberton had a lecherous eye and a great opinion of his own worth; he would undoubtedly have used his position of power to bestow his attentions on other young women at the bank.

Bobby cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder into the corridor as though checking he could not be overheard. ‘A secretary in the typing pool. She didn't – what I mean to say is, she left of her own accord. But the other women all knew what had happened.'

He eyed Harry expectantly. She drew in a breath and forced herself to be patient. ‘Which was what?'

‘That she didn't say no like you did,' Bobby said in a low voice. ‘People started to talk. She couldn't keep working at the bank then. Not with him being married.'

She shook her head. ‘How long ago was this?'

Bobby pursed his lips. ‘Must have been six or seven months ago now. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it.'

But Harry was not surprised. As Mr Pemberton's personal assistant, she had kept herself to herself on the bank's upper floors, preferring not to indulge in gossip. She'd known some of the women in the secretarial pool by name, recognised more to nod to in the corridors, but she wouldn't have known if one had left, even under such a cloud. And then Harry herself had fallen victim to Mr Pemberton, although her own experience hadn't been anything like as terrible. Even so, it appeared she had been the subject of gossip too. ‘But what happened to her?' Harry asked.

‘No one knows,' Bobby said, shaking his head. ‘One of the secretaries who'd been friends with her called at her lodgings and discovered she'd left. Maybe she went back to her parents.'

Which would probably have meant admitting she had lost her job, Harry thought. ‘Poor girl,' she murmured. ‘And Pemberton forced her out?'

Bobby gave a short laugh. ‘Not directly – he made it seem like it was her choice to leave. But that's why he couldn't risk sacking you, see? If you'd started blabbing – well, the gossip would have been even worse. The higher-ups might have heard about it and questions might have been asked.'

Harry nodded to herself. Hadn't Pemberton said as much when he'd despatched her to the basement? I would remind you that everything occurring within these walls remains highly confidential… And she had kept quiet, determined not to let him force her out even though the repetitiveness of typing the same letter almost drove her mad. Until she'd opened the letter from Mildred Longstaff's sister and everything had changed.

‘I reckon he thought you wouldn't last a week down in the post room,' Bobby went on. ‘But Mr Babbage was too sharp for him – he found you this place instead. That's what I mean by lucky, see?'

Harry stared at him, then gave herself a mental shake. It wasn't his fault – compared to the other secretary, she had got off lightly. And she still had a job, albeit considerably less well paid, as she'd discovered when she received her first wage slip after her altercation with Mr Pemberton, but that didn't matter so much. Bobby couldn't know Harry worked because she wanted to, not because she needed to; the granddaughter of a baron was not expected to earn a living. But the alternative was submitting to her mother's well-meaning efforts to find her a suitable husband and the very thought of that made Harry shudder. Married women were expected to give up their jobs to devote themselves to their husband, and the kind of match Harry was expected to make also came with the distinct requirement of providing an heir. It wasn't that she was against marriage, if she met the right person, but she was not ready to give up her freedom yet. Working at the bank allowed her to live in London and enjoy some independence, away from the watchful eye of her mother. It had also enabled her to reunite Mildred with her family and reveal the criminal gang who had set her up. Perhaps Bobby was wiser than he knew, Harry thought ruefully. She had enjoyed an awful lot of luck in her life so far.

‘Yes, I do see,' she said quietly. ‘I am very grateful to Mr Babbage, and to you too, for helping me to settle in so well.'

He nodded, although she thought his chest puffed up a little under the smart burgundy jacket. ‘You sure you can't give me a hint about what's in that telegram?'

Harry smiled at his persistence. ‘Quite sure. See you later, Bobby.'

‘Maybe,' he said, and turned towards the door with a melodramatic sigh. ‘If the lads in the post room don't kill me first.'