Remember, Remember: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery Page 5

  I smile to lessen the bluntness of the words.

  “Quite so, quite so. Well, as to that, there are several possible causes for the condition the French psychologist Théodule-Armand Ribot has termed amnesia. However, in order to establish what lies at the root of your—”

  He breaks off at a tap on the door. “Excuse me, please.”

  Rising, he crosses to the door—revealing Mrs. Bartholomew. She’s carrying a tray on which rests a large pot of tea and a plate of buttered muffins.

  “I beg pardon, doctor. But I thought the young lady looked as though she could do with a bit of refreshment.” Mrs. Bartholomew nods at me. “Also, I came to tell you, sir, that that telegram you’ve been expecting has just arrived. I told the messenger boy to wait so that you could give him your answer.”

  “Certainly, certainly.”

  It crosses my mind to wonder whether anyone has ever compared his speaking habits to the animals on the ark. His statements seem to frequently march two-by-two.

  He turns back to me. “I beg your pardon, this will take but a moment. Please, do help yourself to the refreshments that our resident domestic angel has so kindly provided, and I shall return to you directly.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew deposits the tray on the table beside my chair.

  “There, dear. Shall I pour you out a cup, or can you manage?” She gives me a kindly smile.

  “Thank you.” I let her pour the tea and accept the cup she offers.

  “You drink up now. You look half frozen.” The older woman pats me on the shoulder, and with a click of her tongue, follows the doctor out of the room.

  I sit staring at the cup of tea in my hands for several moments after the door closes behind them. Then I look down at the plate of buttered muffins.

  I am more hungry than thirsty. Actually, now that I am in sight of food, my stomach feels positively hollow.

  I’ve eaten three of the muffins by the time the door opens and Dr. Everett returns. He’s smiling—a different smile than his earlier wry, self-deprecating one. Now he is beaming and looks positively jovial.

  “Well, well.”

  Apparently, his wells also march in pairs.

  The doctor rubs his hands together briskly. “There has been a most extraordinary—but I am sure you will agree—most welcome discovery.”

  I feel my eyebrows climbing towards my hairline. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, indeed.” The doctor drops into the chair opposite mine once more and takes a breath—then goes on, making an obvious effort to keep his words slow, his voice as gentle as he can. “Now, this may come as quite a shock to you. But I hope and trust that it will be a pleasant one. A young man has just arrived at my doorstep. A young man I believe to be your husband.”

  If my eyebrows climb any higher, they will actually disappear into my hair. “My husband,” I repeat.

  “You are surprised,” Doctor Everett says. He nods. “Quite understandable, I am sure. So was I surprised, when the young gentleman appeared, in search of his wife—who, he informed me, was prone to fits of amnesia in which she had no idea of who she was or where she had come from. He has been quite distracted, scouring London for the young lady in question—you in fact.”

  Dr. Everett beams at me again. “For I believe that we may safely assume that this man’s wife and yourself are one and the same. Your appearance matches his description exactly—and I am sure you will agree that there cannot very likely be two young women with amnesia wandering this great city of ours.”

  He chuckles, and I smile obediently.

  “It would certainly seem most unlikely,” I agree.

  “Quite so.”

  Dr. Everett rubs his hands together. By sheer power of will, I manage to refrain from adding another quite so.

  “Now, I understand that this is a good deal for you to take in,” the doctor goes on. “That is why I insisted on coming to speak with you first, to prepare the way, so to speak. But with your permission, might I bring your husband in now? He is naturally quite anxious to see you.”

  “Naturally.” My lips feel slightly stiff and disconnected from the rest of me.

  Doctor Everett gives me a worried look, followed by an encouraging smile. “I have your permission, then? All other considerations aside, in my professional opinion, the sight of a familiar and much-beloved face might do much to restore your memories.”

  He trails off questioningly.

  I nod. “Certainly. Bring my—bring the gentleman in.”

  “Good, good.”

  He crosses to open the door and leans out, saying to someone in the exterior waiting room. “You may come in now.”

  I watch as a second figure appears in the doorway—then I straighten up with a jolt, staring at the new arrival.

  The young man who comes into the room on Doctor Everett’s summons is fair-haired, about my age—and he looks like he could have stepped straight off the page of a child’s illustrated book of fairy tales.

  My nameless police constable was handsome. This man’s face is beautiful. Really, that is the only word to describe him.

  His eyes are large and blue, his brow noble, his features finely drawn. His golden hair tumbles artistically over his forehead.

  His face lights up at the sight of me. “Darling!”

  He crosses the room in a few quick strides and comes to take my hands in both of his. “I have found you! Thanks be to a benevolent Providence. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”

  He bends his head, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. The warmth of his lips against my skin almost makes me jump.

  “How … how did you find me?” My lips still feel stiff.

  The young man raises his head. “It was not entirely by chance. We had intended to consult Doctor Everett here about your condition. So when upon waking this morning, I found you missing, I hoped that sooner or later you might find your own way here.”

  “I see.” I swallow. “Can you tell me … that is, what is your name?”

  The young man’s expression turns sorrowful as he searches my face. Up close, I can see that his eyes are slightly red-rimmed.

  “You do not remember me, dearest? Not at all?”

  “I—” I press a hand to my forehead. “I cannot—that is—”

  The young man’s expression turns penitent. “It’s all right, darling. Do not distress yourself. We have overcome these spells of yours before—and will again, I am sure.”

  He presses my hands more tightly. “My name is Frances. Frances Ferrars. And you are my wife, Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor,” I repeat. Not so much as a flicker of recognition stirs in me at the name. I moisten my lips. “And how long have we been married?”

  “Just over three years.”

  I look down at our joined hands. His fingers are slightly calloused, but warm and firm around mine.

  “Where do we live?”

  “We have a home in Arlington Street. My family’s ancestral home.” He squeezes my hands again. “I will take you back there directly—if the doctor thinks it advisable?”

  He gives Dr. Everett a questioning glance.

  Dr. Everett beams paternally at us both. “I believe that is the best treatment that I can provide. The therapeutic effect of being in familiar surroundings will, I am certain, restore the memories you have temporarily lost. Although if you should suffer from any lingering ill-effects, I beg you to come and visit me again, and I will prescribe a tonic for the nerves.”

  “A tonic,” I repeat. I raise my hand, pressing it again to my eyes. “Yes. Thank you. I—I beg your pardon. I seem to be feeling quite dizzy and faint.”

  “Perfectly natural, perfectly natural,” the doctor says. His voice is reassuring. “You are exhausted, and your nerves have sustained quite a shock. However, I am sure that with rest and sleep, you will feel entirely restored.”

  He transfers the genial smile. “Mr. Ferrars, I leave her in your capable and caring hands. I am sure you will see to it that she gets all the
tender concern and loving kindness required to effect a full recovery.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Ferrars puts a solicitous arm around my shoulders. “Come along, darling. I have the carriage waiting just outside. We will be safely home before you know it.”

  I tilt my head to look up at him. “Thank you.” I turn to Doctor Everett. “And thank you, doctor.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Doctor Everett moves to open the door for us. “I am only thankful to have been able to facilitate such a happy ending to your most distressing trials.”

  7. DEDUCTIONS AND REVELATIONS

  I stumble twice on the way down Dr. Everett’s front steps. Ferrars keeps his arm solicitously around my waist until we reach the pavement.

  “Nearly there, darling.”

  He stops, gesturing to a Landau carriage waiting for us at the curb. It’s a big, black affair, drawn by a team of four beautifully matched gray horses. The door is open, and I can see that the interior is upholstered in tufted blue satin.

  “Just climb in, dearest,” Ferrars tells me, “and we shall soon have you home.”

  I stop, stepping out of his grasp.

  “Do you know, I believe anyone who would prefer to do that would be much stupider than I am.”

  The expression on Ferrars’s face is almost comical. His jaw drops open, and he stares as though he cannot believe what he has just heard me say.

  Then he clears his throat, trying again for a soothing, jocular tone, “Now, darling, I know this is all quite overwhelming for you. But if you will just get into the carriage—”

  I cut him off. “I am afraid that I shall have to decline your kind offer.”

  Ferrars is not nearly so pleasing to look at when he is stunned speechless. His blue eyes take on a glassy, vacuous expression, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish on the end of a fisherman’s line.

  “You and Dr. Everett seem to believe that just because I have lost my memory, I have also lost all powers of rational thought.”

  Anger warms me—as much at the insult to my intelligence as at the thought of what they were planning to do to me once they got me into the waiting carriage.

  “In the first place, there was no knock or sound of a bell before the supposed telegram arrived for the good doctor. Therefore, there was none. Therefore, Doctor Everett merely wished to consult with someone out of my sight.”

  Ferrars’s mouth opens and closes again, but no words emerge.

  I cross my arms. “I am sure that if I had actually drunk the tea that Mrs. Bartholomew so kindly provided, I would be a very great deal more credulous and easier to manipulate. It was drugged, was it not?”

  “I—” Ferrars’s voice has a strangled quality. His eyes continue to goggle.

  “Not that it really matters,” I interrupt. “Though you can tell Mrs. Bartholomew from me that for a supposed angel of the home and hearth, her muffins are a day or two past their prime. Also, you may inform Dr. Everett that the next time he tries to persuade a lady that she is married, he would be better advised to check whether the lady is actually wearing a wedding ring.”

  I extend my bare hands. “As I am not.”

  Ferrars tugs at his collar as though he suddenly finds it too tight—but at last manages to regain his voice. “I should have mentioned before. That is … you…er…misplaced the ring. That is, it was lost—”

  “Good heavens.” I look at him. “If that was the best effort I could make at lying, I would give up telling lies altogether, I really would. Which brings me to you.”

  I fix Ferrars with my hardest stare. “There wasn’t time to go searching for someone to deceive me. You must be some sort of associate of Doctor Everett. But your hands are that of a man who works for his living. Definitely not those of the man who owns this very handsome carriage. Also, you seem to have overlooked the fact that the owner of such a carriage as this would also be equipped with a coachman.”

  We both gaze up at the empty driver’s box. “How exactly were you planning on explaining a man in your position doing his own driving? Or was I supposed to be drugged unconscious by that point, so that no explanations would be needed?”

  I turn to look at Ferrars, but he doesn’t answer.

  “You are used to trading on your good looks and charm. You very likely have older women eating out of your hand—right up until the point when you rob them blind. And, whoever you are, you do not have an ancestral home in Arlington Street. That is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in all of London.”

  I’m not sure how I know that. But as the words leave my mouth, a sudden flicker of memory—real memory—flashes through my mind, like a lighted scene appearing on a stage.

  Myself, standing over a table on which is spread out a map of all of London and its environs.

  A voice, speaking beside me. “If you wish to make your home in the great cesspool known as our fair city, it would be wise to make a study of its neighborhoods and byways. I flatter myself that I am familiar with every street and alleyway—and I assure you, that knowledge has saved my life more than once.”

  For an instant, the memory is so vivid that it is more real than Ferrars and the sights and sounds of Harley Street all around me.

  But I cannot recall who the speaker was. The voice seems momentarily even more familiar than my own. But when I try to concentrate on the memory enough to search out a face to match the voice, the recollection goes dark, the curtain rung down.

  Ferrars—though that is almost certainly not his real name—is leering at me, an ugly, calculating gleam in his blue eyes. His lips are drawn back, baring his teeth.

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” He puts his hands together in mocking applause. “But it’s not going to do you any good. You’re coming with me all the same.”

  He seizes hold of my arm, trying to drag me towards the carriage.

  I plant my feet. “Let go of me! Let go, or I shall scream!”

  There’s not much traffic in the road; it must be approaching the dinner hour. But there are a few passers by on the opposite pavement.

  Ferrars gives a laugh that seems to scrape up the entire length of my spine.

  “Go ahead and scream yerself silly. I’m yer husband—or so the good doctor in there will swear.” He gestures towards Dr. Everett’s door, his cultured accent slipping away, revealing the cockney underneath. “We can also both swear that you’re mad as a ’atter. We could have you locked up in Bedlam before you can say Bob’s yer uncle. So get in the bleedin’ carriage.”

  He puts his arm around me, giving me a shove from behind. “We can do this the ’ard way or the easy way—but either way, it ends with you inside.”

  Ice stabs through me, turning my insides into a hard, freezing knot.

  I may not remember everything about the workings of the world. But I suspect he is all too correct in his assessment of my position.

  Nearly correct.

  “In that case, I believe that I shall have to choose the hard way.”

  On the last word, I bring my foot up and stamp as hard as I can on Ferrars’s instep.

  He gives a surprised yell of pain and lets go of me, doubling over.

  Just as my fingers seemed to remember of their own knowledge how to arrange my hair and make up my face, now my body seems to act of its own accord.

  Joining both of my hands together in a combined fist, I strike sharply at the back of the young man’s neck.

  It’s so easy that it is frightening. Who am I?

  The thought flashes through my mind as, with a grunt, Ferrars collapses onto the ground. He is not unconscious. That would take more strength than I have. But he is momentarily dazed.

  I don’t wait. I can’t let him catch me. And Dr. Everett could come out of the house at any second.

  Whirling, I turn and run as fast as I can, pelting blindly down the street, back the way I came.

  8. THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW

  With my heart pounding hard enough to blur my vision, I
risk a quick glance over my shoulder.

  The street behind me is crowded. I am on a busy thoroughfare, bustling with pedestrians from all walks of life—from flower vendors hawking wilted wares to elegant ladies out for an afternoon’s shopping.

  But I cannot see any sign of either the young man who called himself Frances Ferrars or Dr. Everett. I’m safe—for now.

  I am also completely, entirely lost. My headlong flight from the doctor’s establishment took so many twists and turns that I have absolutely no idea where I am or how far relative to Harley Street I have come.

  I force myself to slow my pace, so as to match better with the other pedestrians. I’m already attracting some odd looks from passers-by—and an indignant snort from a very stout gentleman whose foot I nearly stepped on.

  I should look about for a street sign or some other way of finding out exactly where I am.

  But now that I’m no longer running, the reality of my current predicament suddenly hits me—like a ton of bricks dumped off the back of a cart.

  What kind of evil business am I mixed up in?

  There’s a milliner’s shop on my right. I stop walking and stare blindly into the window filled with ribbons and gloves and hats adorned with improbable combinations of fruits and flowers.

  Do Dr. Everett and his handsome friend try to kidnap every young woman who comes to the doctor’s practice—or have I done something to make them single me out in particular?

  I’m not sure which possibility is more frightening.

  I have blood-soaked memories of gunshots and a woman screaming. I know that someone struck me on the head and left me lying on the street outside The British Museum. I know that either by fate or malicious chance, I happened to find Dr. Everett’s card.

  But try as I may, I can’t arrange those disjointed fragments into any kind of pattern that makes sense.

  Given the fact that he attempted to drug and abduct me, it’s patently ridiculous to wish that Dr. Everett had not been interrupted right in the middle of his diagnosis. But I find myself wishing that he had given me more details about the condition he called amnesia.