Page 45 of The Missing Maid
True to his word, Oliver rang Harry just after midday to confirm Mildred had been released without charge. ‘Scotland Yard were very apologetic,’ he told her. ‘They arranged for an ambulance to drive her to a hospital near her parents’ home. I daresay we could visit once she’s on the mend, if you’d like?’
‘I would like,’ Harry said firmly. ‘I’d like that very much indeed.’
‘I also passed on your suspicions about Rose Blackburn to Bridget Short,’ he said. ‘She took the matter very seriously and promised an immediate investigation.’
‘Good,’ Harry said, frowning. ‘I want Rose to pay for what she did to Mildred.’ Her gaze came to rest on the newspaper on her desk. ‘But tell me, how did you persuade Scotland Yard to take the glory?’
On the other end of the phone, she heard him snort. ‘Have you seen the papers today? That was the easy part. Covering our tracks was much harder. I’m afraid I’ve had to tell an awful lot of not-so-little white lies to the authorities, and in particular to my friends at Scotland Yard.’
It had all been necessary, of course, but his words still caused Harry no small measure of discomfort. ‘Ah. I’m sorry about that. I know you pride yourself on your honesty.’
There was a brief silence. ‘I do, in normal circumstances but this case was anything but normal.’ He paused. ‘Besides, being a lawyer is all about knowing which inconvenient facts to leave out. And all’s well that ends well – Mildred is safe and neither of us got seriously hurt. I’d say we acquitted ourselves pretty well, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not too badly,’ Harry said, smiling into the phone.
Oliver coughed. ‘In fact, now that the dust is beginning to settle, there is something I wanted to ask.’ He hesitated, as though steeling himself and Harry thought that she’d never heard him so unsure. ‘I wondered whether you might like – if you have time, that is – whether you would like to?—’
But what Harry might like to do was interrupted by a frenzied knocking at her office door. Frowning, she placed her hand over the receiver. ‘Come in.’
Bobby peered in at her, an odd expression on his face. ‘Telegram,’ he said, holding out a thin white oblong.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ Harry said hastily to Oliver. ‘Catch up later.’
‘Of course,’ Oliver said, although he sounded oddly deflated. ‘I owe you a pint of mild, if nothing else.’
Smiling, Harry rang off and turned her attention to the telegram. It wasn’t unheard of for the fastest method of written communication to make an appearance at the bank but it was the last thing Harry expected to land on her own, inconsequential desk. Telegrams were notoriously expensive too – who on earth needed to contact her that badly? ‘Are you sure it’s for me?’
Bobby shook his head. ‘That’s the thing – it ain’t. It’s for Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Oh!’ Harry exclaimed, although she really ought to have known. She gathered her wits. ‘Thank you, Bobby. Leave it on the desk, if you don’t mind.’
He stared at her. ‘Ain’t you going to open it? The boys in the post room are desperate to know what it says.’
Harry smiled. ‘All in good time, Bobby. I expect it’s just another misguided invitation to investigate a murder. The usual thing.’
‘Ah, got you,’ the post boy said, winking. ‘Say no more.’ He stepped back, about to leave, when he noticed her bruised face. ‘Blimey, look at that shiner. You been in the wars, Miss White?’
She shook her head. ‘Just a fight with a cupboard door,’ she said, cheerfully repeating the lie she’d used earlier that morning. ‘You should see the state of the door.’
He grinned. ‘Gave it hell, did you? Good for you.’
It took several more minutes for the post boy to give up hope that Harry would open the telegram in front of him. Even so, she gave it a further five minutes once the door had closed before she slit the thin paper open, despite the fact that it was practically burning a hole in the surface of her desk. She expected it to be from the Longstaffs, thanking Mr Holmes for his sterling work. But it was not from Esme Longstaff, nor had it been sent by her parents. It was from Mr John Archer, of Thrumwell Manor and it read simply:
Sherlock Holmes. PHILIP ST JOHN at death’s door. Time of the essence. Reply immediately.
Harry stared at it for a moment. The sender was unfamiliar but she knew the name Philip St John – he was a celebrated author, one of her father’s favourites, and a darling of the English literary scene, even though it had been some years since he had been seen in public. What did it mean,at death’s door? More importantly, what did that have to do with Sherlock Holmes? Frowning a little, she set the telegram to one side. Emergency or no emergency, John Archer would have to wait his turn. She had other work to do before she could reply.
Rolling a sheet of paper into her typewriter, Harry took a moment to compose her thoughts and tipped her head at an imaginary Sherlock. ‘A new addition to your casebook, Mr Holmes,’ she murmured, recalling Bobby’s observation that shewould make a better assistant than Dr Watson. ‘I’ll try to do it justice.’