Page 97 of The Art of Theft

Of Moriarty’s son, forced to return to the fold.

How quickly things changed. One moment Andalusia was within sight; the next it was completely out of reach.

He hadn’t planned to stop in London, except to change trains. But now he would break his journey and call on Holmes. He would not wait any longer. She had asked him what he’d thought when Mr. Marbleton brought up Andalusia. And he had given her an answer that was convenient, rather than true.

But this time, when he saw her, he would tell her the truth. Which was that he thought often of Andalusia. That he longed for it. That he would give his eyeteeth for it, if only he had the courage.

Could they still go together this spring, or perhaps sooner?

He settled Lucinda and Carlisle at his town house and started for Mrs. Watson’s. He was nervous, far more nervous than he had been before he proposed to or married Lady Ingram. And as his hansom cab approached Mrs. Watson’s house, he felt light-headed with both dread and anticipation.

Was this the right choice, after all? He could no longer judge. He never could.

All he knew was that it was the only choice and he would simply have to accept any and all consequences.

He alit before her house, gripping tightly onto his walking stick. Perhaps he should have brought her something. Flowers. Or cake, if she had managed to reverse Maximum Tolerable Chins. But he was empty-handed, with only a burning desire to see her.

Mr. Mears settled him in the afternoon parlor and went off to announce his arrival. His heart thudded. His mouth turned dry.

“Miss Holmes will be here momentarily,” Mr. Mears returned to inform him.

The doorbell rang. Had he come on Mrs. Watson’s at-home day when she received her friends? Would he be awkwardly justifying his presence to curious strangers? Mr. Mears excused himself to answer the door.

He caught a woman’s voice, speaking low and urgently, and then—

Exactly the outcome he didn’t want, two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.

The new caller was shown into the afternoon parlor. At the sight of her, his dismay turned into a surprised and bemused pleasure. “Mrs. Treadles!”

Alice Treadles was Inspector Treadles’s wife. And Inspector Robert Treadles, Lord Ingram’s friend, had been heavily involved in some of Holmes’s cases. He hadn’t known, however, that Mrs. Treadles knew Holmes well enough to visit her not at her office, but on a social call at home.

Mrs. Treadles was equally flabbergasted to see him. “My lord! I hope I’m not imposing dreadfully. Robert told me, confidentially of course, that in a hurry I would more easily find Miss Holmes here, rather than at 18 Upper Baker Street. I did knock on 18 Upper Baker Street as well, but there was no one home and—”

Holmes came in then, lovely, unflappable Holmes, in a dress that was a near literal representation of a Christmas tree. Mrs. Treadles stared at her, agape.

“Mrs. Treadles to see you, too, Miss,” said Mr. Mears, and left.

“Mrs. Treadles, very good to meet you at last,” said Holmes. Her gaze turned to him, and lingered for a moment. “My lord, excellent to see you, as always. Do please sit down, everyone.”

But Mrs. Treadles did not sit. She rushed over to Holmes, took her by the hands, and said, “Miss Holmes—please, Miss Holmes, you and your brother must help us. Robert—Inspector Treadles—he’s been arrested on suspicion of murder!”