Epilogue

EPILOGUE

It was Christmas at Abinger Hall. Harry had finished work on 23rd December and gladly taken the train to Surrey, where she had been met by Seb in his speedy red MG. The drive to Abinger Hall had been a little hair-raising, since Seb seemed to have forgotten what the brake was for, but they arrived without incident. Harry had watched the house from the moment they had passed through the gate and its never-changing solidity warmed her heart. Once inside the magnificent entrance hall, decorated with an enormous, shimmering fir tree cut from the estate, she had been enthusiastically greeted by both family Labradors, Tiggy and Winston, her older brother, Lawrence, and her mother.

‘Darling, you look so pale,' Evelyn White had chided, holding her at arm's length to study her properly. ‘I'm not sure the London air agrees with you.'

Behind her mother's head, Harry saw Seb pull a sympathetic expression. ‘I'm fine, Mama,' she said. ‘Just a little tired. You know what a whirlwind the run-up to Christmas is.'

Her mother nodded. ‘Of course. But you're here now and needn't do a thing until New Year's Day. Won't that be lovely?'

It would, Harry thought, but she knew her mother better than that. ‘No parties?' she said, raising both eyebrows. ‘No guests to entertain?'

Evelyn sighed. ‘Of course there will be parties, Harry. We are not bears, hibernating for the winter, after all.'

Now Seb was grimacing and even Lawrence looked pained. ‘I wouldn't mind hibernating so much,' Harry said. ‘I feel as though I could sleep for a month.'

‘Don't be so dramatic,' her mother said briskly. ‘We have our usual Christmas Eve drinks tomorrow, and then the Gladstones are coming for Boxing Day.'

‘So much for not doing a thing,' Seb said dryly. Their mother had made no secret of her hope he might marry one of the Gladstone girls.

Evelyn pretended not to hear him. ‘But before I forget, your grandmother asked to see you, Harry. She's in her study, when you're ready.'

Dutifully, Harry went upstairs to freshen up and change, then made her way to her grandmother's study. As usual, it was in a state of disarray. Baroness Abinger sat at the cluttered writing desk, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose as she bent over a letter. She looked up when Harry knocked on the open door. ‘Ah, there you are,' her grandmother exclaimed, rising to kiss her on the cheek. ‘How glad I am to see you.'

‘Hello, Grandmama,' Harry said, breathing in the familiar scent of gardenia and roses. ‘How are you?'

‘Simply splendid, my dear, although there is always so much work to be done.'

Harry smiled, because she had never known her grandmother to be idle, even for a moment. ‘I hope you'll find time for your family at Christmas,' she said. ‘I know Mama has several parties planned.'

‘I'm sure she has,' her grandmother said, her eyes twinkling. ‘But one of the benefits of being old is that one can safely leave partying to the young.'

‘I'm almost jealous,' Harry said, and it wasn't altogether a lie.

Her grandmother held out a letter. ‘This came on Wednesday. I thought you might like to read it.'

Curiously, Harry took the sheet of writing paper.

3, Salt Cottages

Arundel

Sussex

19th December 1932

Dear Baroness Abinger,

I am writing to express my sincerest thanks for the help given by you and the Abinger Foundation in finding my new home. I am now settling into the cottage recommended by the charity, and feel hopeful for the first time in many months that my future, and that of my child, may be a happy one.

I would appreciate it if you could also pass on my thanks to Miss Harry White, with whom I believe you are acquainted. She has been kindness personified and I am further indebted to her for the money deposited in my bank account this week. I would be most glad to see her again, if she ever finds herself in Arundel.

Yours sincerely,

Cecily White (Mrs)

Harry was not sure what pleased her the most – the knowledge that Cecily was safe and well and settling into her new life, or the signature at the end that showed she had taken Beth's suggestion and decided to invent a husband to fend off unwanted questions. The whole matter had turned out most satisfactorily, Harry thought as she read the letter again, and she owed some of that to her grandmother. ‘This is excellent news. Thank you for your help in finding her a home.'

The baroness waved her thanks away. ‘It's no more than the Foundation tries to do for every woman in need. The cottage is on a friend's estate. She'll be safe there.'

Harry smiled. ‘I appreciate it.'

Her grandmother smiled. ‘I know you do, dear. And I won't ask how you came by the money to help this girl relocate.' She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘I trust it was all above board.'

‘Of course, Grandmama,' Harry said, relieved she would not have to lie.

‘Good,' the older woman said, and waved her granddaughter away. ‘Now, run along and I'll see you at dinner.'

Christmas came and went in a blur of too much food and drink, of presents and cocktails and small talk, and the occasional well-meaning bout of matchmaking by Harry's mother, which her children bore with good grace. Harry spent a refreshing morning riding one of her aunt's horses, took Tiggy and Winston for several long walks around the estate, and caught up with the family gossip. Even Rufus, her youngest brother, had been allowed permission to return from exile in Great-Uncle Douglas's Scottish estate. Harry was glad to observe that his banishment appeared to have done him no harm, although he had learned some colourful new swear words.

She was surprised to be approached by the family butler, Chesterton, just after breakfast on New Year's Eve. ‘It's the telephone, Miss Harriet. Mr Fortescue is asking for you.'

Seb let out a low whistle as Harry got her feet and left the dining room, making her grateful more family members had not been present to observe his teasing. She hadn't talked to Oliver since leaving London, when they had spoken briefly to wish each other affectionate season's greetings. ‘Oliver?' she said. ‘It's Harry. How are you? Did you have a good Christmas?'

‘Never mind that,' he said, in a tone Harry couldn't quite decipher. ‘Have you seen the Times this morning?'

She frowned. ‘No, we haven't had the papers yet. Why, what's wrong? Is it the Morden case?'

There was a brief silence, during which she heard a rustling noise that she assumed came from Oliver rifling through the paper. ‘No, not that. Ah, here it is – Page 34. There's a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes.'

Whatever Harry had been expecting Oliver to say, it was not that. ‘Oh! What does it say?'

Oliver cleared his throat. ‘ My dear Sherlock Holmes, you are invited to prove your status as the world's greatest detective by solving an impossible crime. You have seven days. Yours sincerely, Professor James Moriarty .'

Harry laughed. ‘It must be a joke of some kind. It doesn't say what the crime is, or when it will be committed.'

‘That's what I thought at first,' Oliver said. ‘But there's another, darker possibility. It could be a gauntlet, designed to draw Holmes out.'

She felt her forehead crinkle, because the suggestion sounded very much like the start of a classic Sherlock Holmes adventure. ‘But who would go to the trouble? And why? There's no such person as Professor Moriarty.'

‘There's no such person as Sherlock Holmes and yet he seems to have developed a knack for solving real-life crimes recently,' Oliver pointed out. ‘Do you think it's a game of some sort?'

‘It certainly sounds like one,' Harry said, shrugging. ‘But it has to be a coincidence. No one knows Holmes had anything to do with the Mildred Longstaff or Morden Fen cases.'

‘True,' Oliver conceded and huffed out a breath. ‘I suppose the safest thing to do is ignore it.'

‘I don't see what else we can do,' Harry replied. ‘Unless a fiendishly difficult crime presents itself in the next seven days.'

Oliver snorted. ‘In which case every amateur detective in England will take up the challenge. Scotland Yard will be delighted.'

When the papers arrived, just before lunchtime, Harry took the copy of the Times up to the library to study the letter for herself. Whoever had written it appeared to have a reasonable passing knowledge of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories; Sherlock Holmes had frequently described his encounters with Professor Moriarty as a terrible game, often with deadly consequences. But Harry found it hard to believe that the letter in the newspaper was anything more than a joke between friends. It couldn't have anything to do with her, and her own activities on Holmes' behalf.

Could it?