The Case of Gloria Lewis

Miranda Holmes, a London detective in the 1920's, is hired to find out who has been sending letters to a young woman, but things seem to take a turn for the worse before Holmes even arrives. (Beta-read by the wonderful Katy of GAFF.)

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Miss Holmes was, in many respects, the perfect employer. She woke every morning at nearly the same hour, six o'clock, and required only a cup of tea. She took it without milk or sugar. She would require a bath drawn at eight, and she would take breakfast in her dining room at nine. No matter what I made to tempt her, she never ate more than half of what I placed out for her, and she often would have only the toast, lightly coated with jam, an egg, hardboiled, and two slices of bacon. I learned quickly that it was often futile to provide her more than that. She made few demands beyond what her routine required her to make, a drastic change from the last young person that I had served. He was a needy creature, yet stubborn. He had also been exceptionally dull, while Miss Holmes always struck me as having an intelligence above that of a normal man of her age, let alone a woman.

It was half past one on a particularly chilly day in October, and Miss Holmes had just retired her study after taking lunch in. She rarely dined out, and her luncheons at home were nearly always the same: a cucumber sandwich with a cup of unaltered tea. I often worried that she was not eating enough, but her diet was one area on which Miss Holmes was absolutely set. She was not ever ill in the year and a half that I had been in her employment, so I was not in a position to argue that it was bad for her health to eat so little.

The bell rang, as Miss Holmes had said it would. She was expecting a client, whom I was to show into the study. I approached the door and opened it.

A young woman stood on the stoop. She was perhaps twenty, and her blonde hair was in moderate disarray. Her eyes were wide, and she wrung her hands as she swayed slightly where she stood. She looked at me as if I were an angel of God.

"I," she hesitated, staring at me with those green eyes of hers, "am here to see Mr. Holmes."

"Come with me, Miss," I replied, taking her gently by the arm. Clients often assumed that Miss Holmes was a man, as few respectable women went into business for themselves and fewer still were as successful as my employer. I did not feel it was my place to correct this young woman.

She was a small girl and gave easily to my lead. She was still crying quietly when I led her into the study and ushered her into the chair that Miss Holmes preferred her clients seated in. My employer looked on the poor child without pity in her eyes, despite the girl's obvious distress.

"Miss Cardew, I presume." Miss Holmes was perfectly refined, and her head canted to the side ever so slightly. She did not ask the girl her name, no. She said it and waited for confirmation. The child nodded slightly and gave another sniffle, attempting to steel herself when she saw that her emotion did nothing to warm Miss Holmes to her.

"Y-yes. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Holmes." It was a moment later that I saw the child's eyes widen as she came to realise what was almost always the last thing that a client noticed about her. "I," she hesitated, almost as if she no longer knew what she was supposed to say, "I apologise..." She had realised that the private detective in front of her was not a man, as she had believed, but a woman.

I could not help but sympathise with the girl. I too, when sent by the Sanderson Employment Agency to answer a request for a valet for M. Holmes, had assumed that I would be working for a young gentleman. Instead I had met my employer, only a few years past twenty as was expected but a woman. It was one of those things that one does not ever expect, and then one is confronted with an instance that makes no apology and refuses to recognise the absurdity of the situation. Miss Holmes was nothing less than cold when I suggested that perhaps the agency had meant to send her a female companion instead of a male valet.

"Miss Cardew," Miss Holmes said once the young woman had settled herself a little more. "Please tell me why you requested this meeting."

"Oh! It's about my niece, Gloria Lewis. A lovely young woman, the very picture of innocence. Yet," she faltered, "she seems to be in some trouble."

"How old is she?"

"She's nineteen," Miss Cardew replied. "My father married twice, and Laura, my sister, is quite a bit older than myself, as her mother was his first wife and mine was his second." Miss Holmes, when Miss Cardew did not continue, finally nodded. It had not occurred to her, I guessed, to assume that she would be expected to care about this family trivia. "A very pretty girl."

"Why do you think she is in trouble?" Miss Holmes replied.

"Oh...” Miss Cardew seemed unsure about going on without being able to further praise her niece’s beauty. Finally, she did. "She has been receiving letters recently, her mother says. I cannot imagine what they could say, but Laura insists that she's horribly frightened about them. She waits every day as the post is brought in and nearly faints when she receives a letter."

"Are they postmarked?"

"No. That's what is so worrying. And she won't let anyone see what they contain. She hides them somewhere in her room, and she won't let anyone read them, even though she almost wept at the last one."

Miss Holmes was silent for a moment, and Miss Cardew seemed increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze.

"There are other houses within walking distance of your sister's?"

"Three large ones, and there is a small town not far from the residence too. A lot of small houses there."

"Are you acquainted with the families that keep the other houses?"

"Well, the four estates in that area are Whitney, Thrumacher, Pembrook, and Condor. Pembrook is our own," she explained. "Thrumacher is kept by an elderly couple, the Lander family. Their son used to take his wife to the estate, but they have been in America for some time. I," she hesitated, "I don't know who keeps Condor. Whoever it is keeps to themselves."

"And Whitney?"

"Whitney," the girl's voice was colder now, "is kept by the Wells family. We have nothing to do with them."

Miss Holmes seemed to perk up at this news. "Why not?"

"The elder Mr. Wells was a business competitor of my father's. They were rather ruthless in regards to one another. Our families don't speak to one another."

My employer stood. She regarded Miss Cardew carefully and then nodded. "I will pay your sister, her husband, and your niece a visit."

"Thank you, Mr., er, Miss Holmes," Miss Cardew said as she rose. Miss Holmes drew herself up as well and offered her hand to Miss Cardew. The two shook hands, and I escorted Miss Cardew out of the study and to the street, where I hailed a cab for her. She said nothing to me but did give me a polite nod as I helped her into the cab.

When I returned to the study, Miss Holmes was leaning forward at her desk, her fingers rested on her temples.

"Are you well, sir?"

"I have a headache, Lane, nothing more. I must remember to visit Jameson later," she responded.

"Of course, sir," I replied. "Would you like a drink, sir?"

"You are a saint, Lane," Miss Holmes said, heaving a sigh of relief. "Whisky and soda, equal in proportion."

"Yes, sir."

I returned a few moments later with the drink, and Miss Holmes finished it in about three mouthfuls. She set the glass down and tilted her head back. Her eyes shut and was silent for several moments. Just as I reached the door of the study with the glass in hand, meaning to clean it, she spoke.

"Lane, we will be going out to Pembrook Estate in three days."

"We, sir?"

"Yes, Lane."

"How much should I pack?"

"Nothing. I don't intend to be down there for more than a day."

"Yes, sir."

At the appointed time, Miss Holmes and I sat in a train compartment, on our way to Pembrook. Miss Holmes had eyes were shut, and she was bent forward. She drew slow, uneasy breaths, one hand curled around her other arm. The train jolted, a bump in the tracks, and she gave a quiet gasp and immediately looked thoroughly disgusted with herself. She preferred to present herself as a creature that was never rattled, and yet she was apt to look so ill on any train. A good valet, however, knows better than to inquire about such things, even out of concern. It was a matter of an employer’s pride, after all.

It was another hour before the train stopped, and I would be willing to make the guess that Miss Holmes was the first person off the train. She had risen before I even realised that we had stopped, and, when I finally left the train, I saw Miss Holmes standing on the platform, looking far less ill than she had on the train.

"Come along, Lane," she called, and I approached.

Miss Holmes hailed a cab, and I nearly laughed at the look she gave to the driver when he stepped out to help her into the cab before she entered without his assistance. I sat myself in the front passenger seat.

It took a little over a half hour before the cab stopped. I was out of the cab quickly, and I opened the door for Miss Holmes. She stepped out and brushed herself off. Without a word, she walked toward the grand house, and I followed.

The land was expansive, and a lake could be seen just beyond the back of the four-story, white-painted building. Pillars supported a terrace on the second floor, and bushes lined the first floor's foundation, parting only at the steps that led up to the double doors. Miss Holmes paused only for a moment at the base of the porch and looked up at the house. She said nothing, though, and mounted the few stairs.

I came up behind her and rang the bell.

A few moments later, a small woman opened the door a touch. She looked at Miss Holmes for a moment then at myself. Miss Holmes was silent, and, eventually, the girl opened the door a little wider. She was a plain creature, clothed in a maid's uniform, and her brown hair was pulled away from her face.

"May I help you?" she asked, swaying slightly where she stood.

"I am here to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Lewis and their daughter," Miss Holmes replied as she handed the servant her card.

"Oh," the maid whispered, and her face paled. "Please, come in. Mrs. Lewis has been waiting for you." She bit her lip slightly, and Miss Holmes and I allowed ourselves to be ushered in.

After the young maid took our traveling coats, we were shown into the drawing room. Miss Holmes was, to put it gently, reluctant about surrendering her coat to anyone except myself, but she did not complain, so I did not interfere. The drawing room was as elaborate as one might have expected, and I saw Miss Holmes's brow quirk. She might have kept things that were decades old, but she was not particularly fond of splendor. The ornately carved tables and chairs, the gold framed portraits, and the priceless vases that held all kinds of flowers were, very obviously, not to her liking.

The woman sitting on the divan in the room held a marked resemblance to Miss Cardew. Her eyes were the same shade of green, though her hair was darker, and it was longer than her sister's. She sat up when we entered, and her eyes were bloodshot, her face bearing definite signs of tear trails. She clutched a dainty handkerchief as she stared at Miss Holmes.

"Are you..." she whispered. "Are you the woman that Vivian said would come? Are you going to help us? Please?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lewis," Miss Holmes said.

"She's gone!"

"What?" Miss Holmes looked a touch surprised.

Mrs. Lewis gave a sob. "I saw her to bed myself last night. She was so... nervous... so..."

"I understand," Miss Holmes murmured. She approached the divan and sat beside the woman. "Please, go on."

"I saw her to bed. She was sitting up when I left her, so nervous. I told Maggie to keep an eye on her, to make sure that she was well throughout the night." She sobbed, covering her mouth with her handkerchief. "I am going to sack that foolish girl! She fell asleep outside of the room, and when we roused her the next morning, my Gloria was gone!" She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Miss Holmes. "You must help!"

My employer stiffened and sat perfectly still. She regarded the sobbing woman with a mixture of annoyance and distaste. An unemotional woman, Miss Holmes was not a sympathetic ear to turn to in a time of need. She would get a job done, she always would, but she had little sympathy for those affected. When Mrs. Lewis composed herself again, Miss Holmes straightened her tie and jacket and coughed a bit.

"Do I have your permission to come and go as I please and ask what I must?"

"Of course!" Mrs. Lewis insisted.

"You have not yet dismissed the young lady, I trust?"

"No. I thought it best she be here to answer to you about what happened to Gloria."

"Good."

Miss Holmes rose, once more adjusting her jacket. She looked at me for a moment then turned toward Mrs. Lewis again. Her eyes then swept around the room at the various picture frames that decorated the mantle and small tables.

"Is there something you are looking for?" Mrs. Lewis asked.

"A picture of your daughter."

"Here," Mrs. Lewis said quietly, rising from the divan. She picked up a silver frame with a portrait of a light haired girl with dark eyes and handed it to Miss Holmes.

"Lane, come with me," Miss Holmes commanded, and she breezed from the drawing room, leaving Mrs. Lewis staring after her. I followed without hesitation.

She led me out into the hall and then outside, onto the porch. Her left hand twitched, and I knew that she wanted one of her cigarettes. She always carried her silver cigarette case in her breast pocket, but she would never smoke while on a case.

"Yes, sir?"

"I have a few calls to make in the village and the other estates."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to stay here."

"Sir?"

"Speak to the help, especially the maid who was supposed to check on Miss Lewis. I am sure that she knows something that she has not told Mr. or Mrs. Lewis."

"Is there anything in particular that you want me to ask her, sir?"

"Ask her nothing," Miss Holmes advised. "She will talk to you, Lane. Women always do. All you need to do is speak with her and listen when she speaks. She will tell you everything, very possibly without knowing that she is. You may not even know it when you hear it." She spoke quietly, staring out across the yard. I said nothing against her, and she merely gave a nod before heading out toward the pathway up to the house. "Lane," she said, glancing over her shoulder, "go inside and call a cab to take me to town. I will wait for it alone."

I did as she instructed and, once the call had been made, I did not go back outside. When Miss Holmes made a point about wanting to be alone, it was always best to leave her alone.

While I was in the hall, I heard the sound of a man's voice, rather loud. The sound came from an upstairs hall, and I mounted the steps. I followed the sound to an upstairs room, the library I found. In it, the young woman Vivian was standing, sobbing a little. A man, tall and lean, stormed from the room. I saw a few gray hairs on his head as he passed me by, but he said nothing. The pleasure of a servant, especially a gentleman's gentleman, is that one's presence is rarely noticed. I entered the room and cleared my throat.

Vivian jumped, and she drew back. She sniffed a bit, and I approached her, touching her arm gently.

"Why the tears... Vivian, isn't it?"

"Vivian Morris," she said quietly, nodding her head. She allowed me to lead her to an armchair in the room. "I'm sorry to carry on like this, sir."

"Algernon Lane," I told her. After all, she had given me her name, and it was only fair to the girl that I should give her my name. "What is wrong, Miss Vivian?"

"That was Mr. Lewis, Mr. Lane. He thinks I did something to Miss Gloria. Oh, but I wouldn't!"

"I'm sure you wouldn't," I responded, patting the poor thing’s shoulder, and she gave another sniff but attempted to steel herself. "My girl, what happened?"

Whatever it was, I had said something wrong. Her eyes welled up again, and she shook a little. "I wouldn't know a thing about what has happened to Miss Gloria!" She sobbed, and I took a step back. "Miss Gloria was just gone! I fell asleep! When I was woken up, she was gone!"

"Of course, of course," I murmured, trying to soothe the damage that I had done. "My young master--"

"Mistress, you mean. That was a woman, don't you mean?"

"Mistress, of course." It was not my place to correct the young woman, and not many were familiar with the sort of woman that Miss Holmes was. "My young mas-- mistress is a detective, and she is looking for Miss Gloria." The girl paled terribly, and I saw another error had been made. "Would you be so kind as to assist me? I would like very much to see Miss Gloria's bedroom. Could you do that for me?"

This seemed to give the girl a bit of heart, and she sat up straighter. "Yes," she said, giving a little nod. "I could, Mr. Lane." She smiled just a little. "That'd prove that I want to help, wouldn't it?"

"It would, and I would make sure that Mr. and Mrs. Lewis knew that you were being so kind and so helpful."

"Then they wouldn't sack me!"

"I should doubt it."

The girl drew herself up and nodded a few times, soon hurrying from the room, and I followed. She entered a room three doors down and across the hall from the library, and I made a note that it was the room directly beside the door that led onto the balcony. I entered the room and looked around. Nothing should be touched, working with Miss Holmes had taught me that, but a good looking-at never hurt. There was no door to the balcony inside the room. One would have to leave it to go out. An intruder could not have come that way. Of course, that should not have even crossed my mind.

'Even if an intruder could have come in by the balcony door,' I could almost hear Miss Holmes asking me, 'how could they have carried a young lady, either unconscious or conscious and fighting, back out without making noise?' Really, she might have even laughed at me for such an idea.

"Miss Gloria's aunt mentioned that she had been getting letters," I said to Vivian, who stood near the door, once again swaying slightly. "Are they still here?"

"No, Mr. Lane. I watched her burn them every night after she got them."

"You never read any?"

"No. She was always waiting to get them, and she never let even one out of her sight." She paused, then added quickly, "Not that I would have read them even if she had!"

"Of course not," I assured the girl.

Really, the room was frightfully plain. There was nothing. Not a single item was out of place. The bed was perfectly made, the clothes were in the closet, which was slightly open and required only a slight nudge with the toe of a shoe to open more. There was not even the slightest drop of blood anywhere, and the blotter paper was blank. No letters had been written recently. I looked around the room once more, thoroughly disappointed in how little there was to see.

Miss Holmes returned to the house several hours later and was shown in by Vivian. Miss Holmes wore an expression that I had seen dozens of times before as she allowed the girl to take her coat.

"You know where she is," I said when my employer was near enough.

She looked at me. "Of course I do." She said nothing more as she breezed past me, saying to the wide-eyed maid, "Fetch your employers. I shall be waiting in the drawing room." As the girl hurried up the stairs, Miss Holmes stopped at the drawing room door and looked at me. "Are you coming, Lane?"

"Of course, sir."

We were joined within a few moments by the worried Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, and Miss Holmes was seated serenely on the divan.

"What in God's name is all this?" Mr. Lewis demanded, and he advanced on Miss Holmes. I started to step in front of her, but Mrs. Lewis caught his arm.

"Arnold, darling, this is the Mist-- Miss Holmes that Madeline told us about. The one helping us to find Gloria!"

"But," the man stammered, "a woman?"

"I am not what many would call a prime example of my sex, and I pride myself on that," Miss Holmes replied.

"Have you found Gloria?" Mrs. Lewis asked.

"I have."

"Oh, thank the good Lord! Where is she?"

"How much would you give to have her here?"

"What?" The older woman was stunned, and even I was startled by the words. I stared at Miss Holmes. She was nothing but calm, her head tilted to the left just slightly and watched the couple.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Lewis shouted, but Miss Holmes did not even flinch.

"I asked how much you would give to have your daughter here," my employer repeated.

"Anything," her mother sobbed.

"I have your word on that?" Miss Holmes asked.

"Of course you bloody well do!" Mr. Lewis snapped.

Miss Holmes shrugged her shoulder. "Thirty pounds is my fee, and your daughter will be here in three hours." She regarded each of them before adding, "And remember, sir and madam, you have given your word that you would give anything to have her here."

Three hours is not a remarkably long time. It is not particularly short, no, but in the scheme of things, three hours is not very much time at all, especially for restoring a lost child. Still, three hours can feel like an eternity when one spends that time with the parents of the lost child and a detective that says and does nothing, but instead sits on a divan and waits as though waiting for no reason other than to see the clock hands turn.

When the bell finally rang, all of us except Miss Holmes jumped. It was not long before Vivian, smiling but nervous, came into the drawing room. She looked around before saying, "Miss Gloria." Before any of us could move, she was gone from the room.

Gloria Lewis limped into the room, helped along by a young man that I had never seen before. His dark hair was in sharp contrast to her blonde, but he was a fine looking youth. Her ankle was bandaged up, and she had an arm draped around the young man's shoulder, and he had one of his arms around her waist.

"I think," Miss Holmes said, before the mother or father could say a word, "you may wish to correct the maid."

Gloria seemed hesitant, but she held out her left hand, and a diamond sparkled from the ring. "It's Mrs. now," she said. Her voice was soft and gentle, and she beamed at her parents. "I married Hugo yesterday afternoon."

"Gloria!" Her father turned to her and frowned sharply. "You know that I expressly forbade--"

"I believe, Mr. Lewis," Miss Holmes interjected, her voice still the very sound of serenity, even as Miss Lewis cowered near her husband, "that you gave your word that you would give anything to have your daughter here again." Her voice was commanding as she continued, "You will give your daughter's hand to this gentleman."

"How could you, Gloria?" Mrs. Lewis asked, staring at her daughter.

"The sins of the father are not the sins of the son, and they are especially not the sins of the grandson," Miss Holmes remarked.

"I love your daughter very much," the young man said. It was the first time that he had spoken. His tone was quiet, but he sounded sincere. A bit nervous of a creature, as he looked between the gathered party and held his wife closer. "I won't ever do wrong by her."

"I--" Mr. Lewis began, but Miss Holmes cut them off.

"They were kind enough to come down here, even though they had planned to leave on a boat bound for America for their honeymoon."

"How in Heaven's name were you going to pay for it?" Mrs. Lewis asked. "There is no money missing."

"Mr. and Mrs. Wells are not quite so rooted in ancient rivalries," Miss Holmes said calmly. "I asked around the town, and it seemed common knowledge that Miss Gloria and Mr. Hugo wanted to marry but Mr. Lewis would not give his permission. When I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Wells and explained the situation, they were more than happy to give me information about where to contact their son and new daughter-in-law."

"Oh, Gloria, I am glad you're safe," Mrs. Lewis said, though her voice trailed off near the end.

"But I will not allow you to bring that ruffian into our house again," Mr. Lewis growled.

Miss Gloria, or, to use her correct address, the young Mrs. Wells, drew herself up. "Then we will not return. Hugo, we must call a cab. A different ship leaves for American tomorrow morning."

"Of course, dear," Mr. Wells replied. He turned to help her out of the room, and Miss Holmes rose.

"Before you go, I have two requests." The young couple looked back at her. "Mr. Wells, will you request a second cab when you call? I must get back to London myself. And Mrs. Wells, where are the love letters that Mr. Wells sent you? I should like to have one."

Mrs. Wells looked at Miss Holmes oddly for a moment, but she smiled. "They are in my jewelry box." The young couple resumed their leave, and Miss Holmes turned toward Mr. Lewis.

"Here is the photograph of your daughter," she replied, offering it forward, and he took it quickly. "I will ask for my cheque, and then I will be on my way." He wrote it out, and, after she had verified that the correct amount was to be paid, Miss Holmes pocketed it.

She left the drawing room and ascended the stairs while I waited in the hallway for her. A few moments later, she had returned and, after our coats were fetched, she led the way out of the house.

"How did the young lady get out of the house? By the front door?"

"No," Miss Holmes replied, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. "There was too great a risk of being heard on the stairs or opening the door. She jumped." She raised a hand and pointed toward the balcony. "It is not a terrible height, and she is a spirited creature. No doubt Mr. Wells was waiting for her, but she may not have wished to have that much faith in him. He is not an athletic gentleman, as you might have noticed. Instead, she leapt into the bushes. She may have stumbled from there, thus hurting her ankle, but it was not a terrible injury."

The cab pulled up not long after this explanation, and I looked at Miss Holmes as I opened the door for her.

"Why did you want me to talk to the maid?"

"I was sure she knew about the young lady's flight, and I was not sure whether or not the elder Mr. and Mrs. Wells would be more or less inclined to such a union as Mr. and Mrs. Lewis might have been. If they had been as against it as the young lady's parents, that maid might have been the only soul to know where the young couple was."

She stepped into the cab, and I shut the door behind her before taking my place in the front of the car. She informed the driver of our destination, the train station, and I turned to look over my shoulder.

"How did you know she had the letters?"

Miss Holmes looked at me and quirked an eyebrow. "You didn't know? I'm surprised, Lane. No proper young lady burns any letter she receives, no matter how damaging it might be."

It was another few hours before we were back at 217A Baker Street. I took Miss Holmes's coat as we entered and hung it in its proper place. I watched as she went into the study and opened a large cabinet. All sorts of odds and ends were in there: an old, ragged top hat, a rusted nail, a pristine scarf, a red-jeweled necklace with a gold chain, and, now, a simple love letter. Miss Holmes closed the cabinet and walked to her desk.

"Lane," she called, "a whisky and soda. Equal proportions." I heard the soft sound of metal on wood, the striking of a match, and a very delicate sort of sweet scent wafted out of the study.

"Of course, sir."