The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland

him to a chair. “I shall do my best. How can I assist you?”

      He collapsed onto the chair like a man at the end of his strength. Holmes and I resumed our seats. Denbeigh buried his face in his hands for a moment, then raised his head and inhaled loudly.

      “This is very difficult for me to speak of, gentlemen. It has to do with my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield.”

      “I see.” With a glance at me, Holmes crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Pray continue.”

      “To put the problem in a nutshell, my brother, the present duke, is with his regiment in India. During his absence, all the responsibilities of the family have fallen upon my unhappy shoulders. For a year now, I’ve been driven nearly insane by my nephew, Hilary, Viscount Sheppington. The boy is eighteen, and his escapades have caused me many a sleepless night. But now comes the crowning blow: My mother, my own mother, has turned thief.”

      “Her Grace a thief?” I could not conceal my outrage. “Oh come, sir, you must be mistaken!”

      He stiffened. “Would I make such a shocking statement, Doctor, unless I was certain? I repeat, she is a thief, and a disgrace to our family.”

      Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I take it that monetary considerations are not involved?”

      With a hollow laugh, Denbeigh sprang from his chair and paced the room.

      “My mother has no concerns in that area, gentlemen.” He paused before the fire, his head bowed. “Unlike others of us,” he murmured.

      “Then I can only assume that Her Grace is the victim of that unfortunate affliction known as kleptomania.”

      “Kleptomania?” I darted a glance at Holmes. “But the description of that illness has only recently been published. I take it you have been reading my French medical journals.”

      Holmes nodded once, his attention still upon Denbeigh.

      “She is a kleptomaniac, Mr Holmes.” He sighed, and despite his coat’s fine tailoring, his shoulders bowed. “I spoke with several eminent nerve specialists, and they confirmed the shocking diagnosis. Not only are there the difficulties with shopkeepers to contend with; how can I explain to friends of the family when Mother decides to pocket some valuable memento whilst paying calls?”

      “A vexing problem, indeed,” replied Holmes.

      “And though it is petty thefts today, how can I be certain she won’t lapse into more serious criminality? Mr Holmes, you must help me find some way out of this intolerable situation. For the family’s sake, I am willing to pay—”

      A loud series of knocks came from the front of the house. Denbeigh started nervously and glanced about.

      The rich, husky voice of a woman rose above Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmurs.

      “Mother!” cried Denbeigh.

      At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, we rose and faced the door.

      After a single knock, it opened, revealing Mrs Hudson again. She only had time to say, “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield,” before the lady swept past her into our chambers.

      Beneath an elegant feathered hat, her chestnut hair was now streaked with silver, yet she looked every inch the magnificent woman I remembered. She dismissed Mrs Hudson, then glanced from me to Holmes.

      “Which of you gentlemen is Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

      Holmes stepped forward. “I am.”

      She held out her hand, and he took it, bowing low.

      Straightening, Holmes released her hand. “And this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. I believe you have met before.”

      “Oh?” She fixed me with sparkling, dark eyes. “Where was that, Doctor?”

      “Several years ago, at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”

      “Charming people,” she said with a small smile and a gracious nod. “They always host the most amusing parties.”

      “Yes, indeed, Your Grace.” I was a trifle disappointed that she did not appear to remember me, but why should a duchess remember a simple military doctor?

      “Maurice,” she said, transferring her gaze to her son. He flinched, and she let out a little sigh. “I thought I had made my wishes clear.”

      His waxen cheeks took on a rosy tinge, and he shifted in place as if he were a schoolboy.

      “You had, Mother. However, I thought—”

      “I’m certain you did.” She walked to the door and opened it. “We shall discuss this further in private, Maurice. You may kiss me before you go.”

      She tilted her head, presenting her cheek. Denbeigh glanced at Holmes, who bowed.

      “Your Lordship.”

      “Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor.”

      Denbeigh crossed to the duchess, obediently kissed her cheek, and left. I closed the door behind him and turned, my attention captured by Her Grace’s elegant form.

      “Gentlemen, I fear my son has placed me in an invidious position.” She crossed to the fireplace and examined the assortment of items displayed on the mantelpiece. When her gaze lit upon the tobacco-filled slipper, she smiled.

      “How so?” Holmes enquired, standing beside the settee.

      “He has been spreading dreadful rumours about me.” She moved around the room, casting a cool glance over the well-worn furnishings. At least Mrs Hudson had tidied yesterday, although Her Grace didn’t appear distressed by our usual clutter. I was grateful that Holmes had not conducted any chemical experiments recently, for they often filled the room with smoke and an appalling stench: an altogether unsuitable atmosphere in which to receive a dowager duchess.

      Holmes’s intelligent gaze followed her perambulations.

      “What sort of rumours?” he asked.

      Her Grace turned to Holmes with a frown.

      “Pray, do not play coy with me, Mr Holmes. Maurice believes I am suffering from some sort of nervous disorder and is, I am certain, preparing to have me declared incompetent.” She raised a gloved hand to her bosom.

      “Gracious me,” I said, appalled. I hurried over to her. “What a shocking—”

      “Thank you, Doctor, but I do not require sympathy.” She lifted her chin and gazed solemnly at Holmes.

      “These are indeed serious charges,” said Holmes.

      “They are.” She hesitated for a moment, indecision briefly written upon her face. Then she stepped to my side and rested her hand on my arm. Her fingers trembled.

      “As much as I find discussing my personal circumstances distasteful, it appears to be necessary,” she said, her voice low. “Gentlemen, I control my personal fortune outright. My son’s expenses have far exceeded his income, and although I have settled some of his debts, he continues to ask for more money.” She glanced from me to Holmes. “You understand the advantages to him were my finances to be under his control.”

      Holmes nodded.

      “Yes, of course,” I replied, and ventured to rest my hand upon hers for a moment.

      “Thank you.” She smiled and gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Anything you can do to dispel the rumours would be a great service to me. Otherwise, we shall speak no more of this matter.” She swept to the door.

      “I will see you out,” I said, hurrying to open it.

      She paused in the entrance hall, drawing on her gloves, and gazed at me for a moment.

      “The Smythe-Parkinsons, you say?”

      I smoothed my rumpled jacket. “Yes, Your Grace.