The Return of Sherlock Holmes: A Classic Crime Tale. Philip Harbottle

pocketed the letter and smiled. “My speciality.”

      Cecilia looked at their visitor. “Any trouble with her ex-fiancé?” she asked.

      “The Colonel’s looking after him, all right,” Milverton said confidently. He turned to Shlessinger, adding: “Now, to business. I need five minutes with your patient, that’s what I’m here for.”

      Cecilia spread her hands “Dr. Watson’s with her at the moment.”

      “Damn the man!” Shlessinger snapped.

      “Look, why not leave her a note?” Cecilia suggested. “Say it’s urgent, and that you’ll come back this afternoon.…”

      “Good idea!” Milverton nodded. He went over to the writing desk and, using his fountain pen, began writing on the notepaper he found already on the desk.

      “I’ll see she gets your note,” Cecilia said.

      Wolverton looked up. “What time shall I say I’ll be here?”

      Cecilia thought for a moment. “Say three. I’ll fix it.”

      Milverton finished the letter, placed it into an envelope, and sealed it. He handed it to Cecilia. “I haven’t signed it ‘Milverton’, of course. I’ve called myself Tamworth…George Tamworth.”

      Cecilia nodded. “Of course, ‘Mr. Tamworth’.”

      Unseen by the three in the room, a tall figure momentarily flitted past the French window.

      “If there’s any hitch…,” Milverton said, considering, “…if she can’t see me…telephone me.”

      “I’ll make sure she sees you,” Cecilia assured him.

      “There’s no time to lose,” Shlessinger said.

      “Back at three, then.” Milverton crossed to the door and went out, followed by Cecilia.

      Frowning, Shlessinger looked back and at the French windows and hesitated.

      “Come along,” Cecilia told him sharply. “We’d better see how Dr. Watson is getting on with our patient.”

      Shlessinger continued looking at the French windows for a moment, listening intently, then gave a shrug and turned away. “All right, just coming. Thought I heard someone in the garden, but there’s no one.”

      A few moments after they’d left the room, the fleeting tall figure appeared again outside. Suddenly Shlessinger returned, and stood in doorway, looking again at the French windows.

      But the figure had gone. Shlessinger waited a moment, then with a shake of his head, turned and went out again. As he did so, the figure reappeared outside.

      There came a click of a lock being turned, and Sherlock Holmes entered the room. He was wearing an ordinary suit and hat. Quickly crossing to Lady Frances’s chair, he picked up the crumpled letter she had thrown down. He pocketed it and then going quickly to laboratory door, he opened it and entered. A moment later Holmes came out of laboratory with a phial, which he glanced at before slipping it into his pocket. He shut and relocked the laboratory door.

      He paused as he heard Lady Frances and Dr. Watson speaking in the hall. Turning back into the centre of room, he took off his hat and awaited their arrival.

      Seeing the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes as she entered, Lady Frances gave a violent start.

      “Who are you?” she demanded.

      “Holmes!” Watson exclaimed as he followed her into the room. “But no one said you were here!”

      “That is because I took good care that no one should know.”

      “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Watson introduced hastily, as Lady Frances continued staring at Holmes, who gave her a little bow.

      “How do you do, Lady Frances?” Holmes said, smiling.

      Watson glanced at Lady Frances. “As I explained, your brother had a word with Mr. Holmes after his visit here.”

      “And he seems to think I can be of help to you…over a certain matter,” Holmes told her.

      Lady Frances frowned at him. “I know I agreed to Dr. Watson’s being here, but I didn’t think.…” She broke off as Shlessinger strode into the room, leaving the door ajar.

      “Lady Frances,” he began immediately, “I wonder if.…” He stopped as he saw Holmes. Instinctively, he pretended not to recognise him. “Who’s this? Who are you, sir?”

      “My name is Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Shlessinger,” Holmes said evenly.

      “You have the advantage of me, sir,” Shlessinger lied. “But how did you get in here?”

      “Mr. Holmes is here at Lord Henry’s request,” Dr. Watson interposed quickly.

      Lady Frances sighed. “I know my brother is interfering, but, since he is my brother, with my welfare at heart.…”

      Holmes called out, interrupting her: “Do come in, Miss Shlessinger. You’re causing a slight draught, from which I’m sure you wouldn’t want your patient to suffer.”

      Cecilia, who had indeed been listening behind the door her brother had left open, pushed it further open and came into the room.

      “Like my brother, I thought you were dea—“ She broke off quickly as she saw her brother’s glare. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”

      “I fancied a certain Mr. Milverton brought you news that reports of my demise have been grossly exaggerated?” Holmes told her challengingly.

      “Milverton?” Shlessinger kept up his pretence. “I don’t believe we know anyone of that name.”

      Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Charles Augustus Milverton?”

      Shlessinger looked at his sister. “Can you recall a Mr. Milverton, my dear?”

      “Not really…no. Milverton, did you say?”

      “Almost the greatest scoundrel in London,” Holmes said dryly.

      “Of course, we’ve never heard of such a person,” Shlessinger blustered.

      Cecilia looked defiantly at Holmes. “I really can’t think of anyone.”

      Holmes smiled cynically. “Yet only a few minutes ago, in this very room, the three of you were discussing a matter of supreme importance. Not only to yourselves, but to Lady Frances.”

      A nonplussed expression gusted over Shlessinger’s face. Then he glanced from Holmes to the French windows and realized it had been Holmes he’d heard outside. He continued to try and bluff his way out. “What are you saying?” He turned to Watson. “Really, Dr. Watson, your friend.…”

      Lady Frances looked at Shlessinger fixedly. “Is this true?” she demanded. “That you were discussing me with Mr.—Mr.—?”

      “I assure you that Mr. Holmes is imagining things,” Shlessinger said.

      Lady Frances swung her gaze back to Holmes. “You seem to know something which I don’t! What has my brother been telling you?”

      “He believes you to be in some danger…,” Holmes told her.

      Shlessinger bridled. “Danger? What nonsense! Why—” he stopped as Cecilia tugged at his arm.

      Lady Frances turned to Dr. Watson. “But I’m not really ill, you said.”

      “Dear Lady Frances,” Cecilia said insinuatingly, “I’m so sorry you’re being distressed in this way.”

      Lady Frances wavered. “What should I do, Dr. Watson?” she appealed to him.

      Watson spoke firmly. “Perhaps you should listen to what Mr. Holmes has to say.”

      Lady