The morning of Mr. Charles Dubois' telegram was, to put it lightly, rather chaotic behind the door of 221B Baker Street. Up until then, Holmes and I had done a fair job of keeping our private affairs private. We were cautious—perhaps overly so—about being seen in public. To keep up appearances, I had even courted a few eligible ladies with no real intention or followthru. Our nights out consisted of pubs and evening walks, where we would sbe seen as nothing more than two close friends enjoying each other’s company. We limited our contact in front of prying eyes, only daring to walk close together when the urge was too strong to ignore. It was a dance, and Holmes and I had established the choreography, learned the steps, and mastered the timing. And it was that over-confidence, I believe, that led to the drama of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, finding us in quite a state on the sofa that morning of March the 3rd.
“Goodness!” Her shriek could have raised the dead, and I lifted my gaze past the throw pillows. I saw her, red as a ripe beet, turn away out of instinct. A thrill of panic washed over me as I rushed to dress.
“Mrs. Hud—Mrs. Hudson!” My words tumbled out inelegantly. Horribly embarrassed, she left the apartment and scuttled down the stairs to her own home beneth ours. I stuffed my shirt into my trousers and raced after her, with only one sock, might I add, and left my companion where he was, sprawled out on the sofa. “Mrs. Hudson, wait!” I managed to catch up with her in the kitchen. Her eyes were wide as tea-cup saucers, and she clutched at the cameo above her breast.
“To think! Such things under my roof—!”
“Please, calm yourself,” I begged.
Mrs. Hudson snapped her eyes to mine. “Was that perhaps a new method of therapy, Dr. Watson? What on Earth—?!”
“I ask that you regain your senses.”
“My senses? My senses!? I am the first to admit that I have seen a score of things in my time as a married woman, but that—”
“Yes. I know. I understand, it may be a shock to you, but if you would allow me to explain—”
“I mean the pillows! Do you understand the cost of laundering that fabric, doctor? And from what I can gather it will take a firm hand to undo the mess you two have left on the brocade! Why they don’t even make that style anymore!”
“I…” Something about her scolding caught my attention. “Wait. Are you upset about the sofa?”
“Of course I’m upset about the sofa!” Mrs. Hudson squawked. “You men, no sense of what things cost, none of you! Is the bed not good enough for you and Mr. Holmes? I tell you, I will send you both a bill for the washing, mark my words. What other horrible things have you done to my upholstery? Must I send the whole set of furniture away to be laundered!?”
Despite her shrill, I could not help the smile that had twisted its way under my mustache. “Just the pillows,” I said. “You needn’t send us a bill. We’ll have the sofa cushions washed ourselves.”
“I should say.” Mrs. Hudson, coming down from her tirade, primped her hair out of habit. “The indecency of it all. In the parlor. I must ask that you and Mr. Holmes keep your bedroom activities to the bedroom from now on.”
“I… Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson.” I lingered in her kitchen, light-headed from the whole affair. “Is that… all you have to say on the matter?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well I… Holmes and I, together, we… I don’t think I must illustrate the concerns we have around our relationship. Can we…? I mean to say, will our arrangement be a bother to you?”
“A bother?” It took a moment, and Mrs. Hudson's expression changed. She laughed. “Oh my dear boy! Is that what you are worried about? Of course not.”
“No?”
“No! Truth be told, I had half a suspicion on the day you both moved in. Further… Well, when you get to be my age, there’s very little that startles about these things.” She frowned. “Except when such nonsense finds its way to my cushions.”
Weight lifted from my chest, and I laughed. “Of course, of course. We shall be more respectful to your sitting room furniture from now on. You have my word.”
“Very good. Oh.” Mrs. Hudson pulled a message from her pocket and held it to me. “The reason I’d come to interrupt you in the first place. A telegram.”
“Thank you.” I took it, and glanced at the sender. The name CHARLES DUBOIS caught my eye, but little else. “I’ll take this upstairs. Again, apologies about the cushions, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
I wandered back up to 221B, half expecting Holmes to be as worried as I had been, being interrupted by our landlady. Instead, I found him wearing only his socks and a blanket, enjoying his favorite smoking pipe. He stretched across the cushions like a cat, one hand propped beneath his narrow head.
I put my hands on my hips. “Well?”
“Well,” he replied, his drawl deep and unbothered.
“Aren’t you going to ask how that went?”
Holmes tilted his eyes to mine. “How did it go?”
“Do you care?”
“I can be persuaded.”
I scoffed, and went to don my other sock and fix my shirt buttons. I sat on the sofa by his feet. “Considering what is at stake should anyone be privy to the intimate nature of our relationship, you would think that you would be a little bit worried that the secret is out.”
Holmes tilted his head and took a puff of his pipe. “I have no reason to suspect that Mrs. Hudson is going to the newspaper with the salacious details, doctor.”
“Oh you don’t, do you?”
“No.”
“And why is that?” I held up my hand. “Don’t tell me. Was it something in her gait, perhaps? The way she painted her lips this morning?”
Holmes, with a smile, nudged my hip with his toe. “Because before you and I took up residence here on Baker Street, this apartment was empty for months. Considering we pay our rent easily and she seems to have no problem with my other eccentricities, I can’t imagine she’d be eager to be rid of us.”
I grunted, but conceded the point, especially considering the conversation she and I had downstairs. “Well you’re right, of course. Aggravating as that fact is.”
Holmes’ smile widened. “It cannot be helped, I’m afraid.” He sighed out a cloud of smoke and lolled his head dramatically against the pillow. “Brilliance is a burden, and I am Cassandra, doomed to speak the truth, ignored by the masses.” I threw a cushion at his face, and he swatted it away with a chuckle. “Now what is that?” He gestured at the telegram with the end of his pipe. I held it up and read it in the light.
“An urgent matter,” I said. “From a Mr. Charles Dubois.”
Holmes took the telegram from me. I could see his eyes take in every minute detail of the script as he gnawed on his pipe. “So urgent that he cannot be bothered to come to Baker Street himself?”
“Perhaps he is bed bound?”
“No.”
“No?”
Holmes flipped the telegram around. “This is a man who comes from substantial wealth. Kensington is barely two miles from our front door, yet he cannot be bothered to visit.”
“No reason why he cannot be sick.”
“Then his doctor might have called on us.”
“Could have been away when he sent this.”
“Again, it stands to reason that he would still make the time to knock, given the apparent urgency.”
“There are a thousand explanations why one might send a telegram in lieu of a proper visit. Perhaps he is being stalked?”
“Then he would find comfort in our company.”
“He does not know us. Perhaps leaving his home could put him in danger.”
“In broad daylight?”
“Fear is a debilitating narcotic, my friend. Come, you’re stalling. We’ve not had a case in an age. What’s the harm?”
Holmes groaned and ashed his pipe on a nearby tray. “I can only imagine the case is something mundane like missing jewelry or an unfaithful wife. It shall be over in an afternoon.”
“Then there is no harm entertaining ourselves for the day.” I patted his leg through the blanket. “Come now, up, man, up! The game is afoot!”
“Hardly, doctor.”
With that, Holmes and I dressed, shaved, and prepared for our case. Rather than walking, I called on a hansom to deliver us to Kensington. In the air was a pleasant nip, which bit at the large nose of my companion, leaving behind a red kiss. Such a loving dollop of color left me with a flutter the likes of which I had not known since I was a boy. I should like to one day take the time to illustrate all manner of ways in which I was drawn to Holmes aesthetically. Even well after the haze of new love faded into commonplace, I can say without qualification that I admired my dear Sherlock in all ways, both for his brilliance and for his beauty. Though to tell him this often left him terribly excited, which only sought to intensify my feelings of adoration.
Ah, but I have gotten away from myself. Let us return to the case at hand.
We arrived at 23 Kensington sometime after noon. Not knowing how long we would be, I paid and excused the driver, and Holmes led us up to the front door. We rang, and were let in by the maid of the house. She sat us in the parlor, and then excused herself while she called upon the master of the house.
It was a townhouse, lovely and elegant, with walls papered of the latest fashion. A large clock sat upon the mantle, ticking away the hours. Above the fireplace, a family portrait stared at Holmes and I. A father, mother, and young girl against a deep red curtain. I could only assume that this was a portrait of the Dubois family. My assumption was vindicated when Mr. Charles Dubois stepped into the parlor.
“Mr. Holmes.” He shook my companion’s hand, and then my own. “Dr. Watson. Thank you both for coming.” Mr. Charles Dubois was a man of about middle age, with graying chops and a thin smile. His top buttons were undone, and I detected evidence of a poor night’s sleep from the bags beneath his dark eyes. On his right hand was a simple gold ring, and from his hob was an old pocketwatch.
“We received your telegram this morning. I can only assume this is about your daughter?”
Mr. Debois halted in shock, and I struggled to withhold a grin. “Sir?” he said.
“There are only a few reasons why a man of your stature might seek me out. A missing item, or missing family. The fact that you are Charles Dubois of the Dubois Paper Company, I doubt you would not have the means to replace anything stolen, provided that it was not sentimental.”
“You… know who I am?”
“Not in the slightest. But your telegram was sent with your watermark.” Holmes revealed the telegram. Indeed, Mr. Dubois' name sat front and center near the top of the paper. “Ergo this was not a simple missive printed by the post. You have the ability to send your own telegrams with your own paper. Only a man of wealth has such trivial luxury. But let us return to sentimentality.” Holmes stuffed the message in his pocket and looked around. “I see wealth in your home, Mr. Dubois, but not clutter. You are a man of little decoration, so I cannot imagine you have too many sentimental objects to which you are so attached that their disappearance would warrant my presence. Except, of course, for that.” Holmes gestured behind Mr. Dubois, and both he and I looked at the family portrait.
Holmes continued. “Considering that you wear your wedding band on your right hand, I can only imagine you are a widowed man. There are no other children present in the portrait, which you have hung with immense pride, considering its position at the forefront of your home. Ruling out all other possibilities, there is something amiss with your daughter. And seeing as it is the middle of the day and I hear no one in the house besides your maid, I can plausibly assume that she is missing. Am I correct, sir?”
Mr. Dubois swallowed, his face pale from Sherlock’s methods. “My word… Yes.”
“Very good, then. Let us begin with the details.” Holmes gestured to the chairs. “Shall we sit?” Clearing his head, Mr. Dubois took a seat in an armchair, and Holmes and I sat across from him. The maid returned not long after with tea, and Mr. Dubois began his tale.
“My daughter Maxine has always been rather spirited, you see. Her mother, God rest her, passed that on to her I think. She died when Maxine was barely ten. Changed her, it did. Often found her hidden away in her books, sometimes writing her own. She was always so intelligent.”
“How old is Maxine now?”
“Nearly twenty. About the time for her to start her own life, her own family.”
“Suitors?”
“None that she would have. I’ve tried desperately to match her with a good husband, but there is always a reason for refusal. Too boorish, too stupid, too demanding, etcetera.”
“Could you not reason with her?” I asked.
Mr. Dubois turned to me. “Do you have children, Dr. Watson?”
“Me? Oh, no, sir, I’m afraid I’m a bachelor.”
“Then forgive me for saying so, but you cannot begin to fathom the strength it takes to reason with a daughter. Especially one such as my own.”
Holmes spoke again. “Other than her force of will,” he said, “can you tell us about her temperament?”
“I would say she’s much like you, Mr. Holmes. Sharp. Straight to the point. Intelligent and wise far beyond her years. She’d always had a particular interest in the sciences.”
“How so?”
“Medical sciences. As a child, she’d tend to wounded animals she’d found laying around on the street. Fixed bird wings, nursed dogs, that sort. For Christmas, she’d request publications. Medical journals, encyclopedias, what have you. Had she been born a son I have no doubt she’d make a fine surgeon.”
I scribbled down a few notes in my pad and looked up to continue the questioning. “In the months leading to her disappearance, had there been a change in her mood? Had she acted out at all? Seemed peculiar in any way?”
“My Maxine, peculiar? Almost every day of her life, doctor.”
“Perhaps more peculiar then?”
Mr. Dubois furrowed his brow. “I suppose… Yes. There were some nights she was quiet.”
“Quiet?”
“In her own head. Often, I would have no issue speaking to my daughter at length.”
“What about?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. Current affairs, the latest science, and whatever else interested her. She is a curious girl, you see. But these last few months she has been distant, from time to time. Usually when we speak about her future.”
“Her future as a wife and mother, you mean,” I clarified.
“Yes.”
“Beyond her rejection of your choice of suitor,” said Holmes, “was there perhaps anyone else in her life? A friend? Someone who might have overindulged himself in her time?”
Mr. Dubois sneered and nodded. “Green. Dillard Green. A pauper of a boy with dreams of studying medicine abroad. I’d noticed that he and Maxine had been spending far too much time together. He would call at her invitation without my knowing, and help himself to my dinner table. In fact,” Mr. Dubois turned to Holmes with pointed eyes. “It’s he who I think might have had a hand in Maxine’s disappearance.”
“What do the police say?” asked Holmes.
“That there is no evidence. Pah! I know he had something to do with this whole debacle, but the police have made no headway, and even now, that cur enjoys his freedom while my little girl has vanished off the face of the Earth!”
“And when was that?” Holmes pressed.
“Near a month ago now. I have spent a small fortune trying to find my Maxine, to bring her home, but I have come up with nothing.” I could hear the tremor in his voice as he leaned forward in a plea of desperation. “The authorities are useless to me. I must have your help in finding my daughter, Mr. Holmes.”
“And should your daughter not want to be found?”
Mr. Dubois' face fell dramatically. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said yourself that Miss Maxine is a rather hard-headed individual. Perhaps she left.”
“No!” Mr. Dubois argued.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because she took nothing with her! Her clothes, her effects, they’re all here.” Mr. Dubois stood. “Come, I’ll show you.” Holmes and I followed Mr. Dubois up the stairs to his daughter’s bedroom. It was a wide space, perfect for a young lady in need of her own domain. A window sat over a night stand, which was perfectly arranged. The bed was made and untouched. Over it was a small grate for steam to be pumped from a lower boiler room, in preparation for colder days. It was the picture environment for a young lady in London.
Mr. Dubois pointed out the full closet, untouched makeup, and undisturbed shoes. His conclusion was unavoidable; it was clear that Miss Dubois hadn’t exactly packed a bag. “You see?” he said. “There is not a blouse out of place. I am telling you, she was taken.”
“That is compelling,” Holmes admitted.
“So you’ll help me?”
“I will.” Holmes began to pace the room, his sharp eyes combing over every inch available to him. “When was the last time you saw her? Explain it to me, and spare no details.”
“It was a Wednesday. Maxine announced that Mr. Green would be once again calling for dinner. I am ashamed to say I grew irritable, and I brought up my disapproval. Our disagreement became heated. I said…” Mr. Dubois' words faded away.
“Please, Mr. Dubois,” I said. “We need everything. Even the smallest truth could tell us where your daughter is.”
Hesitant, Mr. Dubois nodded. “I said things I deeply regret now. I had only grown so frustrated with her, you see. I had done all I could to accommodate her tastes in finding a husband, and yet she insisted on wasting her time with this… this tramp of a man.”
“Was she in love?” I asked.
“My Maxine? In love with…? No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Dr. Watson, I am an old man, not a blind one. I know a woman’s eyes when she fancies a potential husband. And that’s not Maxine.”
“With all due respect, perhaps you are too close to see the truth?”
“With all due respect to you, you do not know Maxine. I am telling you, she did not go willingly, and she certainly wasn’t in love.”
“And you know every secret in your daughter’s heart?” asked Holmes.
Mr. Dubois flared. “Sir, I asked you for help. It was not an invitation to insult me in my own home.” With no care to the pristine quilt on Miss Dubois' bed, Holmes stepped onto the mattress until he was level with the boiler grate. Mr. Dubois guffawed. “Sir—!” His words were cut off when Holmes took a coin from his pocket. Using the edge, he unscrewed the corners and removed the iron grate to look inside.
“Dust,” he said.
“Say again, Holmes?” I asked.
“The dust has been disturbed here. Come, Watson.” With apologies to the bedding, I stepped onto the bed beside him, and he pointed. On the flat of the air duct was an imprint of something perfect and square, outlined by dust.
“A journal, perhaps?” I wagered. “Hidden from potential prying eyes.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “No doubt taken with Miss Dubois that evening.”
“What? What are you saying?” asked Mr. Dubois. “Speak up, both of you!”
Holmes hopped off the bed and began to rifle through Miss Dubois' drawers. “Tell me something. Did you know if your daughter kept a diary?”
Mr. Dubois floundered. “I… well I…”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
“Yes. Of course she kept a diary.”
“And did you know where it was?”
“I can’t say I care for your tone, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes straightened and revealed a leather bound journal from the drawer of the night stand. “And would it be fair to say you have read it?”
Mr. Dubois flushed, backed into a corner by Holmes’ (clearly correct) assessment. “So?” he snapped. “What business is it of yours? I only meant to monitor her from afar. Make sure she stayed out of trouble. And there’s no mention of her wanting to leave this house!”
“Of course there isn’t. Because this is not her journal.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your daughter is a brilliant mind. This—” He shook the diary. “—is a decoy. A recording of more palpable thoughts that she knew would satisfy you in one way or another. Her real diary, her real thoughts, were there.” He gestured to the open vent. “Away from prying eyes. Away from you, Mr. Dubois.”
Our client gaped, and from where I stood, it was unclear if he wanted to scream or weep. “I… but I…”
“Where can we find Mr. Dillard Green, Mr. Dubois?”
“He… was accepted into Barts for the school year.”
I lit up. “Barts? Why that’s my old university, Holmes. I know it well.”
“Very good, doctor. I’m sure that will be useful to our investigation.”
“So you will be investigating Mr. Green then?”
“No stone unturned, Mr. Dubois. No stone unturned.”