The Case of the Left-Handed Lady: An Enola Holmes Mystery Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER THE FIRST

  CHAPTER THE SECOND

  CHAPTER THE THIRD

  CHAPTER THE FOURTH

  CHAPTER THE FIFTH

  CHAPTER THE SIXTH

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

  CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

  CHAPTER THE NINTH

  CHAPTER THE TENTH

  CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

  CHAPTER THE TWELFTH

  CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH

  CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

  CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH

  CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

  STILL IN THE CHILL OF WINTER, FEBRUARY, 1889

  Teaser chapter

  I KNEW I WAS GOING TO DIE. . . .

  Striding on my way, I myself shivered with cold. And with fear. Listening.

  My attention diverted, too late I sensed a presence behind me.

  Some small sound, perhaps the chuff of shoe leather against the frozen mud and crushed stone of the street, perhaps the hiss of an evil breath – but even as I opened my startled mouth to gasp, even as I leapt to turn, something seized me around the neck.

  Something unseen, behind me.

  Fearsomely strong.

  Gripping tight, tighter.

  Not a human grasp. Some – some narrow doom, serpentine, constricting, biting into my throat – I could not think, and never even reached for my dagger; I only reacted, dropping my lantern as both my hands flew up to claw at the – thing, whatever it was, tormenting my neck – but already I felt my breathing cut off, my body thrashing in pain, my mouth stretching in a voiceless scream, my vision dimming to darkness, and I knew I was going to die.

  ALSO BY NANCY SPRINGER

  THE ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERIES

  The Case of the Missing Marquess

  The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets

  The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan

  The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline

  The Case of the Gypsy Good-bye

  THE TALES OF ROWAN HOOD

  Rowan Hood, Outlaw Girl of Sherwood Forest

  Lionclaw

  Outlaw Princess of Sherwood

  Wild Boy

  Rowan Hood Returns, the Final Chapter

  THE TALES FROM CAMELOT

  I am Mordred

  I am Morgan Le Fay

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008

  Reissued in this Puffin edition, 2011

  Copyright © Nancy Springer, 2007

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Springer, Nancy.

  The case of the left-handed lady : an Enola Holmes mystery / by Nancy Springer.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Pursued by her much older brother, famed detective Sherlock Holmes, fourteen-year-old

  Enola, disguised and using false names, attempts to solve the kidnapping of a baronet’s sixteen-year-

  old daughter in nineteenth-century London.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-53325-3

  [1. Kidnapping – Fiction. 2. Hypnotism – Fiction. 3. Characters in literature – Fiction.

  4. London (England) – History – 19th century – Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories.]

  I. Title

  PZ7.S76846Carl 2007

  [Fic] – dc22 2006008261

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my mother

  LONDON,

  JANUARY, 1889

  “WE WOULD NOT BE IN THIS DEPLORABLE situation,” declares the younger and taller of the two men in the small club-room, “if you had not tried to bully her into boarding school!” Sharp-featured, and thin to the point of gauntness, pacing the floor in his shining black boots, black trousers, and black cutaway evening jacket with tails, he resembles a black egret.

  “My dear brother.” Comfortably seated in a deep armchair upholstered in morocco leather, the older, stouter man raises eyebrows like winter hedgerows. “Such bitterness of spirit is not at all in your usual character.” He speaks placidly, for this is his club, specifically its very secure private chamber for conversation, and he looks forward to an excellent roast beef dinner as he tells his younger sibling in kindly tones, “While it is undeniable that the foolish girl is on her own in this great cauldron of a city and might already have been robbed and left destitute, or worse, plundered of her virtue – still, you must not allow yourself to become emotionally entangled in the problem.”

  “How not?” The stalking man swivels to give him a hawklike glare. “She is our sister!”

  “And the other missing female is our mother; what of it? Will fretting like a foxhound in a kennel help to find her? If you must blame someone,” adds the seated man, folding his hands across the pillowy expanse of his silken waistcoat, “Mother is the person at whom you should direct your ire.” Logician that he is, he recites reasons. “It is our mother who let the girl run wild, in knickerbockers, on a bicycle, rather than providing her with instruction in the drawing-room graces. It is our mother who spent her days painting posies while our sister climbed trees, and it is our mother who embezzled the funds that should have gone for governess, dancingmaster, decorous feminine dresses, et cetera for the youngster, and it is our mother who ultimately abandoned the girl.”

  “On the child’s fourteenth birthday,” mutters the pacing man.

  “Birthday or any other day, what does it matter?” complains the older brother, who is beginning to tire of the subject. “Mother is the one who abdicated her responsibility, finally to the point of desertion, and – ”

  “And then you impose your will upon a brokenhearted young girl, ordering her to leave the only world she has ever known, now trembling beneath her feet – ”

  “The only rational way to reform her into some semblance of decent young womanhood!” interrupts the older brother with asperity. “You, of all people, should see the logic – ”

  “Logic is not everything.”

  “Certainly this is the first time I have ever heard you say so!” No longer placid or comfortable, the stout man sits forward in his armchair, his boots (sheathed
by impeccable spats) planted on the parquet floor. He demands, “Why are you so – so overridden by emotion, so affected? Why is locating our rebellious runaway sister different than any other little problem – ”

  “Because she is our sister!”

  “So much younger that you have met her exactly twice in your life.”

  The tall, hawk-faced, restless one actually stands still. “Once would have been enough.” His quick, sharp voice has slowed and softened, but he does not look at his brother; rather, he appears to stare through the oak-panelled walls of the club-room to some distant place – or time. He says, “She reminds me of myself when I was that age, all nose and chin, gawky, awkward, simply not fitting in with any – ”

  “Nonsense!” At once the older brother puts a stop to such balderdash. “Preposterous! She is a female . Her intellect is inferior, she requires protection . . . there can be no comparison.” Frowning, nevertheless like a statesman he calms his tone in order to take charge. “Such questioning of past events serves no useful purpose; the only rational query now is, how do you propose to find her?”

  By an apparent effort of will the tall man reins in his faraway gaze, focusing his keen grey eyes upon his brother. After a pause he says merely, “I have a plan.”

  “I expect nothing less. Might you share your plan with me?”

  Silence.

  Settling back into his armchair, the older brother smiles a thin smile. “You needs must have your cloak of mystery, eh, Sherlock?”

  The younger brother, also known as the great detective, shrugs his shoulders, his manner now as cold as that of the elder. “There is no useful purpose to be served by telling you anything at this time, my dear Mycroft. If I am in need of your assistance, rest assured I shall call upon you.”

  “For what purpose have you come here tonight, then?”

  “For once, to speak my mind.”

  “Is it indeed your mind speaking, my dear Sherlock ? It seems to me that your mental processes lack discipline. You have allowed your nerves to get the better of you. You seem overwrought.”

  “A condition preferable, I think, to being not wrought at all.” With an air of finality, Sherlock Holmes collects his hat, gloves, and walking stick, then turns towards the door. “Good night, Mycroft.”

  “My best wishes for the success of your scheme, my dear Sherlock. Good night.”

  CHAPTER THE FIRST

  WITH A SHOCK OF ASTONISHMENT I READ the card brought in to me on a silver tray by the page-boy.

  “Dr. John Watson, M.D.” I spoke the name aloud to assure myself I was seeing it rightly, for I could not believe that this, of all persons, should be the very first client to enter the newly opened – January, 1889 – office of London’s – and, indeed, the world’s – only Scientific Perditorian.

  Dr. John Watson? John was a common enough name, but Watson? And a medical doctor? It had to be, but still I did not wish to believe it. “Is it who I think it is, Joddy?”

  “ ’Ow wud I know, m’lady?”

  “Joddy, I have told you before, you are to address me as Miss Meshle. Miss Meshle.” I rolled my eyes, but what could one expect of a boy whose mother had named him Jodhpur (misspelled Jodper in the parish registry) because riding breeches sounded genteel to her? It was Joddy’s awe of my ruffles and puffed sleeves that made him call me “lady,” but he mustn’t, or people would start asking questions. I wanted the page-boy to retain his awe, which kept him from realising I was actually a mere girl not much older than he, but I wanted him to cease and desist the “m’lady.”

  More calmly, remembering to guard against any aristocratic edge upon my accent, I asked him, “You have already told the gentleman that Dr. Ragostin is not in?”

  “Yes, m’lady. I mean, yes, Miss Meshle.”

  The Scientific Perditorian’s office bore the name of one Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin, because a scientist must needs be a man. But “Dr. Ragostin” would never be in, because he – the Ph.D. kind of doctor – did not exist except in my mind and upon the placards and business cards I placed in shops, kiosks, fruit stalls, and lecture-halls, wherever I could.

  “If you would invite Dr. Watson into my office, then, I will see whether I can be of any help.”

  Joddy ran out, his appearance if not his intellect smart: all “boy-in-buttons” with braid on his cuffs and down the sides of his trousers, white gloves, striped hat looking rather like a miniature layer cake atop his head – but why not? Most uniforms are absurd.

  The moment his back disappeared, I sank into the wooden chair behind my desk, my knees trembling so badly that my silk petticoats rustled. This wouldn’t do. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes a moment and called to mind my mother’s face. Along with that image I could almost hear her voice: “Enola, you will manage very well on your own.”

  This mental exercise had the desired effect. Calmed, I opened my eyes in time to see Joddy showing Dr. Watson in from the parlour that served as waiting-room.

  “Dr. Watson. I am Dr. Ragostin’s secretary, Miss Ivy Meshle.” Rising and extending my hand to the visitor, I saw exactly what I would expect to see from his writings: a sturdy English gentleman, not well-to-do but definitely of the educated class, with a ruddy face, kind eyes, and a slight inclination towards stoutness.

  And I hoped he saw me as I was pretending to be: an utterly conventional young working woman with a bulbous brooch centered upon her dress-front, wearing equally hideous earrings, in general much bedecked in finery of inexpensive materials mimicking the very latest (just as absurd as a uniform) fashion. A girl some of whose fair curls were not her own but had formerly belonged, most likely, to a Bavarian peasant. While respectable, a young female who was not well-bred. One whose father might have been a saddle-maker or a tavern-keeper. A girl most likely preoccupied with pursuit of a husband. If, by means of the aforementioned “brooch” plus a dog-collar necklace, too many ribbons, and the too-obvious hair additions, I had created this impression, then my disguise was successful.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Meshle.” Dr. Watson had already removed his hat, of course, but quite properly had waited to shake my hand before removing his gloves and entrusting them, along with his walking stick, to the boy.

  “Please, sit down.” I indicated an armchair. “Do draw close to the hearth. Dreadfully cold out, is it not?”

  “Appalling. Never before have I seen the Thames frozen thick enough to skate across.” As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together and extended them to the fire. Despite its best efforts, the room was none too warm, and I envied the visitor his cozy upholstered chair. Somehow cold and damp had not troubled me so much before I had come to London, where already I had seen a beggar – or the bodily remains of that person – frozen to the pavement.

  Reseating myself on the comfortless wooden chair behind my desk, I hunched my shawl closer around my shoulders, rubbed my own hands (stiff despite the knitted mittens out of which my fingers poked), then picked up my pencil and notepad. “I am so sorry, Dr. Watson, that Dr. Ragostin has gone out. I am sure he would be delighted to meet you. You are the same Dr. Watson who is an associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are you not?”

  “I am.” Polite, indeed humble, he turned to face me as he spoke. “And it is on Mr. Holmes’s behalf that I am here.”

  My heart began pounding so hard, I almost feared my visitor would hear it. No longer could I tell myself some lucky – or unlucky – accident had brought this particular man here.

  Here, to consult the world’s only professional finder of things, and persons, lost.

  But I tried to sound merely polite, with the right middle-class accent, the right clerical blend of efficiency and servility. “Indeed?” Poised as if to take notes, I asked, “What is the nature of Mr. Holmes’s difficulty?”

  “I’m sure you will understand, Miss Meshle, that I would prefer to wait and speak privately to Dr. Ragostin.”

  I smiled. “And I am sure you will understand, Dr. Watson, that I am entruste
d to take down the preliminaries, so as to conserve Dr. Ragostin’s valuable time. I am Dr. Leslie Ragostin’s authorised agent – not to take action, of course,” I amended in order to soothe his natural distrust of any female, “but I often serve as his eyes and ears. Just as you do for Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I added, coaxing but trying not to sound as if I were.

  Trying not to show how inwardly I begged, Please. Please, I must know whether I have guessed rightly what brings you here.

  “Um, yes,” said Dr. Watson uncertainly. “Quite.” He really did have gentle eyes, all the more so when he was worried. “But I am not sure – the matter is delicate – you see, Holmes does not know about this visit.”

  But – my brother has not sent him?

  My heart settled down somewhat, yet began to ache.

  Rather dully I told Dr. Watson, “You can rely on my complete discretion.”

  “Quite. Of course.” And as if somehow my diminishing interest had cajoled him, a troubled soul, into unburdening himself to me, he grasped the arms of his chair and began his narration.

  “Doubtless you know that I boarded for several years with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at the beginning of his astounding career, but as I am now married and in general practice as a medical doctor, I see far less of him than I did formerly. It has not escaped my notice, however, that since this past summer he has seemed uneasy in his mind, and over the past few months positively distraught, to the extent that he is not eating properly, nor sleeping, and I have become concerned for him not only as a friend but as a physician. He has lost weight, his colour is unhealthy, and he has grown quite melancholy and irritable.”

  Busily noting down all this for “Dr. Ragostin,” I was able to keep my head lowered over my desk so that Dr. Watson would not see my face. A good thing, for I am sure dismay showed; tears formed in my eyes. My brother, paragon of the coldly logical mind, distraught? Unable to eat or sleep? I had no idea that he was capable of such depth of feeling. Least of all about me.