It was, my father had once said in a rare moment of candidness, a way to keep the riffraff segregated from the privileged.
Vaguely uncomfortable by this pronouncement, I nevertheless couldn’t deny its truth. Every time I was forced to pay to rise above the ground level, I couldn’t help think of his words. I wondered what it would be like to have no choice but to have my skirts constantly dragging through the muck and water—among other disadvantages.
“Here you are, Mina.” Dylan offered me one of the small, warm bundles.
The plum-sized orange looked delicious, its peelings folded back halfway like a lotus flower, revealing plump segments glistening with a glaze of honey-creme.
“How do you eat it?” he asked in a low voice as we left the vendor. I couldn’t help but notice he had three more of the treats in his hand, and I hid a smile.
“The best way is to peel off one petal at a time and eat a segment. But some people just bite in. Once it starts to cool, the honey-creme flakes off more easily, so it’s best to eat it right away.”
We strolled back across the fly-bridge, enjoying the sweets, doing what Dylan charmingly called “people-watching.” He offered me a second mandarin, and I declined, then pointed out that he had a tiny flake of glaze on his chin. He suggested I use a napkin to dab at the corner of my mouth, and I didn’t even flush.
We noticed a young beagle hound with ears much too long for his puppy body bounding around on the streetwalk below and stopped to watch him for a moment. Although I don’t particularly care for canine creatures, I found him to be quite adorable. He was brown-and-black-spotted over a white coat and he kept tripping over his ears.
Spending such a pleasant time with a handsome, attentive young man, I was almost able to forget that I was a Holmes—a young woman destined to remain unmarried and unattached. We Holmeses, as Uncle Sherlock had pontificated many times, were above the base emotions that affected (and, he claimed, weakened) other people, for our lives and minds were dedicated to cold, factual observation and clean, logical deduction. Emotions such as love or anger or fear simply clouded the brain and were a waste of energy.
And according to my uncle and father, as a female I was even more at risk of such weakness.
At last, the idyll ended as we reached 79-K. As Dylan went to throw the glaze-filled papers away, I pushed the call button on the door. A bell chimed, then there was a soft humming sound. A peephole door rolled open on invisible gears, revealing a brown eye set beneath a thick brow.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Ellner?” I asked. “I’m here to visit Mrs. Yingling.”
“Oh, well, then, one moment, please.”
“Do you mind if I wait outside?” Dylan asked. “I want to watch that airship come through here. And that vendor with the meat-pies is calling my name.”
I hadn’t heard anyone shouting Dylan, but I shook my head. “Not at all.” Watching one of the oblong airships make its way between the buildings to a mooring station was always a sight to behold.
I turned back to 79-K. The peephole had eased closed and I heard it latch into place, then the door swung open. Now I was able to see that the brown eye belonged to a homely woman who stood no taller than my shoulder.
Calluses on her fingers—a hand-knitter.
Well-mended, relatively new clothing, clean shoes, ivory comb in hair—pride in her appearance, has an income that keeps food on the table and clothing in the trunks.
No wedding ring, no other jewelry, no sign of male presence—the Mrs. was widowed.
And, from all appearances, comfortably prosperous on her own.
“You’re here to visit Yrmintrude, then. I haven’t seen her yet today, but come in, come in. She come back in after tea yesterday from visitin’ ’er newest, most luc’ative client. Would be a good thing, I ’ave t’say, because Yrmy—well, now I should stop rambling. Her room’s down this way.” She beckoned for me to follow her slow progress down a narrow hallway. Mrs. Ellner had a pronounced limp, due to a misaligned ankle that needed to be adjusted, and her pace was maddeningly slow.
We passed three doors before my guide stopped, and she rapped on the door. “Yrmy, you have a visitor.” Then she turned to me and explained, “If you was a man, I’d have you be waiting in the public parlor for her. But her female clients, well, what ’arm can it be to allow them to wait in the hall? I know why you’re here, and it’s of a personal matter, of course, so it’s best not to be seen.” She smiled knowingly.
When we heard no sounds beyond the door, Mrs. Ellner knocked again, more loudly this time. “Yrmintrude! You’ve got yourself a visitor!”
“Perhaps she’s in a back room and can’t hear you.” I’d felt a prickling certainty that something was wrong.
“It’s only one room. She cain’t help but hear me.” My concern was reflected in the landlady’s eyes, and she produced a key.
A sharp clink, the clunk of a bolt being thrown open, and then the door swung wide.
“Yrmy!” Mrs. Ellner lumbered past me with newfound speed.
I followed more slowly, already sniffing the air and scanning the chamber.
There was no need to rush, for it was obvious Mrs. Yingling wasn’t going to be awakening ever again.
Miss Holmes
Miss Holmes Investigates
Mrs. Yingling lay beneath a thin blanket, her head on a pillow. She could have been sleeping, except that the rousing cries emitting from her landlady’s mouth hadn’t caused even a twitch.
Mrs. Ellner had repeated her shrieks of “Oh my gad” countless times before she accepted the fact that her friend was deceased. Fortunately, I was able to intercept her before she disrupted the crime scene too much. There was no blood, no obvious sign of injury, but it was immediately clear to me Mrs. Yingling had not died a natural death.
“Perhaps you might want to notify the police,” I suggested.
“The police?”
“Indeed. Your friend has been murdered and the Met generally like to investigate such events.” I was proud of myself for leaving out the phrase “attempt to,” for my uncle would not have been so circumspect.
“But how could she be murdered? She . . . there’s no blood. No one was here—”
“Mrs. Yingling was left-handed, was she not?”
“Why, yes, I do recall she was, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“It means she was murdered. I’ll remain here and make certain the scene isn’t contaminated—”