The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye 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

  CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

  CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

  CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

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  Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Springer. All rights reserved.

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  in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group,

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  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Text set in Cochin.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Springer, Nancy.

  The case of the Gypsy good-bye / Nancy Springer.

  p. cm.—(An Enola Holmes mystery)

  Summary: After fourteen-year-old Enola Holmes seeks the missing Duquessa del

  Campo in the seedy underbelly of nineteenth-century London, she finally

  reaches an understanding with her brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft.

  [1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Self-realization—Fiction.

  4. Characters in literature—Fiction. 5. London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction.

  6. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. 7. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S76846Cari 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2009027141

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18765-4

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my mother

  ALSO BY NANCY SPRINGER

  THE ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERIESThe Case of the Missing Marquess

  The Case of the Left-Handed Lady

  The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets

  The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan

  The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline

  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

  Ribbiting Tales

  JULY, 1889

  “MISTER SHERLOCK, I’M THAT GLAD TO SEE YOU, I am, and that obliged . . .” Mrs. Lane, faithful Holmes family servant, who has known the great detective since he was a boy in short pants, cannot keep the quaver out of her voice or the tears out of her dim old eyes. “. . . that obliged to you for coming . . .”

  “Nonsense.” Shrinking, as usual, from any display of emotion, Sherlock Holmes studies the dark woodwork of Ferndell Hall. “I welcome the opportunity to visit my ancestral home.” Dressed in summertime country attire—beige linen suit, lightweight tan kidskin boots and gloves, deer-stalker cap—he lays the gloves and hat on the parlour table, as well as his stick, and proceeds at once to business. “Mr. Lane’s telegram was rather enigmatic. Pray, what is so odd about this package you hesitate to open?”

  Before she can answer, into the parlour hurries her husband, the white-haired butler, with considerably less than his usual dignity. “Mister Sherlock! How good of you!” And much the same prattle must be gone through all over again. “. . . delight to my old eyes . . . so very kind of you . . . very warm day; might I presume, sir, to offer you a seat outside?”

  So Sherlock Holmes is hospitably settled on the shady porch, where breezes mitigate the heat, and Mrs. Lane is offering iced lemonade and macaroons, before Holmes succeeds in addressing business once more.

  “Lane,” he asks the venerable butler, “what exactly alarms you and Mrs. Lane about this package you recently received?”

  Well trained by decades of sorting out household disorder, Lane answers methodically. “First and foremost, Mister Sherlock, the way it came in the middle of the night and we don’t know who left it there.”

  For the first time looking less than bored, the great detective leans forward in his cushioned wicker chair. “Left it where?”

  “At the kitchen door. We wouldn’t have found it till morning if it were not for Reginald.”

  The shaggy collie dog, who is lying flat on his side nearby, raises his blunt head when he hears his name.

  “We’ve been letting him sleep indoors,” explains Mrs. Lane as she settles her amplitude in another chair, “being that he’s getting along in years, like us.”

  Reginald lays his head down again and thumps his furry tail against the floor-boards of the porch.

  “He barked, I suppose?” Sherlock Holmes is growing impatient.

  “Oh, he barked like a tiger, he did!” Mrs. Lane nods emphatically. “But even so, I don’t suppose we would have heard him if it were not that I’ve been sleeping in the library on the davenport, begging your pardon, Mister Sherlock, because the stairs plague my knees so.”

  “But I was in our proper quarters,” says Lane with emphasis, “and knew nothing of the matter until Mrs. Lane summoned me with the bell.”

  “Leaping at the kitchen door and barking like a lion, he was!” Presumably Mrs. Lane refers to the dog. Her excited comments quite contrast with her husband’s careful report, especially given that neither tigers nor lions bark. “I was afraid to do a thing until Mr. Lane came down.”

  Sherlock Holmes leans back in his chair with his aquiline f
eatures resuming their usual expression of disappointment with the folly of humankind. “So when you eventually investigated, you found a parcel, but no sign of the mysterious person or persons who had left it there at—what time was it?”

  Lane answers, “Three-twenty of Thursday morning, or thereabouts, Mister Sherlock. I went and hunted a bit outside, but it was a dark night, cloudy like, and nothing to be seen.”

  “Of course. So you brought the package inside but you did not open it. Why not?”

  “Not for us to presume, Mister Sherlock. Also the parcel itself is peculiar in several ways rather difficult to explain.”

  It appears that Lane is going to attempt to explain anyway, but Sherlock Holmes raises a commanding hand to stop him. “I will rely upon my own impressions. Kindly bring me this mysterious parcel.”

  Not so much a parcel as a flat, oversized envelope made of heavy brown paper glued together, it is so lightweight that there seems to be nothing inside it. The inscriptions upon it, however, cause even Sherlock Holmes to stare. Every inch of the envelope’s face is covered with crude ornamentation done in black. All four sides of the rectangle are heavily bordered with lines that include zigzags, spirals, and serpentines, whilst diagonally across the corners, almond-and-circle designs peer like primitive eyes, heavily outlined.

  “Give me the willies, they do,” says Mrs. Lane of these, crossing herself.

  “Very likely they are meant to do so. But who . . .” Sherlock Holmes lets the question die on his lips as he studies the other markings on the envelope: crude drawings of birds, snakes, arrows, the signs of the zodiac, stars, crescent-moons, and sunbursts fill every inch of the paper as if afraid to let anything else in—except a large circle centred upon the envelope. Forbiddingly bordered by rows of criss-cross lines, this space at first appears to be blank. But Sherlock Holmes, who has taken out his magnifying lens to study the envelope inch by inch, focusses upon this central area with an intensity remarkable even for him.

  After several moments, he lays the magnifying lens down, apparently unaware that he has placed it upon the plate of macaroons, and sits with the envelope in his lap, staring at the oak woods of Ferndell in the distance.

  Lane and Mrs. Lane glance at each other. Neither says a word. In the silence, Reginald Collie can be heard snoring.

  Sherlock Holmes blinks, looks at the sleeping dog, and then turns to the butler and his wife. “Did either of you,” he asks, “observe the pencil drawing?”

  Oddly formal, even cautious, Lane responds, “Yes, sir, we did.”

  “My old eyes missed it entirely,” says Mrs. Lane as if confessing to a sin, “until Mr. Lane showed it to me in the morning light. It’s hard to see on the brown paper.”

  “I imagine it was much easier to see before someone put all this crude charcoal elaboration around it.”

  “Charcoal?” exclaim both butler and cook.

  “Unmistakably. Upon close inspection one can see the granulation and the smears. Charcoal powder has almost obliterated the drawing, which was, I am sure, done first. And as for the drawing, what do you make of it?”

  Lane and Mrs. Lane exchange an uneasy look before Lane answers, “A very lovely, delicate drawing of a flower—”

  “A chrysanthemum,” interjects Sherlock rather harshly.

  “—amidst a wreath of greenery.”

  “Ivy,” says Sherlock even more curtly. “Would either of you happen to recognise the style of the artist?”

  Silence. Both Lanes look distinctly unhappy.

  “Well,” says Mrs. Lane finally, “it does remind me of . . .” But of what, she seems unable to utter.

  “It’s hardly our place to say, Mister Sherlock,” pleads Lane.

  “Oh, come.” Sherlock’s tone exhibits a highly volatile frame of mind. “Both of you know as well as I do that picture was pencilled by my mother.”

  He is speaking of Lady Eudoria Vernet Holmes, who has been missing now for nearly a year, although no foul play is suspected; it appears that the elderly eccentric has simply run away.

  And shortly after she ran away, so did her daughter, Sherlock’s much younger sister, Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes, fourteen years of age.

  A considerable pause ensues before Mrs. Lane asks timidly, “Mister Sherlock, do you ever hear anything of Lady Holmes or Miss Enola?”

  “Ah.” If the great detective feels an odd constellation of emotions upon hearing his sister’s name, none of them show on his hawk-featured face. “Yes, I have encountered Enola several times in London, although never to my satisfaction.”

  “But she is well?”

  “She is outrageously well. And at first, she appeared to be in cahoots with her mother, communicating via coded messages in the personal columns of the Pall Mall Gazette.”

  Mrs. Lane looks at Lane, who clears his throat before venturing, “You broke the code?”

  “Several codes. Of course I broke them. That is, all except one, of which I can make nothing.” This admission sharpens the great detective’s tone. “I can, however, assert unequivocally that my mother’s code name is Chrysanthemum, and my sister’s code name is Ivy.” With a pointing fingertip he taps the faint pencil drawing on the envelope in his lap.

  Both Lane and Mrs. Lane gasp so sharply that Reginald Collie forsakes sleep, rising to stand on four white paws with his intelligent head on the alert, furry ears up and nose working.

  “Reginald.” Sherlock addresses the dog as seriously as if he were explaining a case to Watson. “For months there has been no word of any kind from Lady Holmes. Why, now, does it come in this form?” His slender fingers perform a muted drum-roll on the brown paper packet. “And what’s inside of it?”

  Lane offers, “Shall I fetch a letter-knife, sir?”

  “No. I cannot open it.” A gentleman would not dream of prying into someone else’s mail. “It is intended for Enola.” Sherlock Holmes pockets his magnifying lens and arises, on the alert rather like the dog at his side; he is all sleuth-hound catching a scent. “I shall take it back to London with me and deliver it to her.”

  Lane and Mrs. Lane, also on their feet, stare at him. The butler voices their doubt. “But Mister Sherlock, do you know how to find her?”

  “Yes.” With a keen glint in his eyes, the detective nearly smiles. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  CHAPTER THE FIRST

  REPORTING TO WORK THAT FATEFUL MORNING AT my office (that is to say, the office of Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin, Scientific Perditorian, my fictitious employer), I wore a perfectly fitted princess-style dress of mistletoe-green faille, with wide organza collar and matching hat on my tasteful russet coif (wig), and, on the appropriate finger, a wedding band.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Jacobson!” cried the boy-in-buttons as he held the door for me.

  “Good morning, Joddy!” I smiled; indeed, I beamed; at last, after a month, the simple lad had it straight. Quite a contrast to the first morning I had reported for work in a seamstress-made dress (plum-coloured nainsook with filet-crochet trimming) and the ring.

  “From now on you are to address me as Mrs. Jacobson,” I had quite firmly explained to “Dr. Ragostin’s” assembled (and astonished) staff: Mrs. Fitzsimmons, the housekeeper; Mrs. Bailey, the cook; and Joddy. “Mrs. John Jacobson.” I extended my left hand to display my wedding ring, obtained the night before at a pawn-shop.

  “Criminy!” exclaimed Joddy, wide-eyed below the ridiculous hat required of page-boys. “Gold, hain’t it? Real gold?”

  “Um, congratulations,” said Mrs. Fitzsimmons. “Forgive us for our surprise; we are quite taken aback.”

  Not nearly as much so as I was, although of course I could not explain how overnight, because my brother Sherlock had learned too much during the affair of Lord Whimbrel and the cryptic crinoline, I had been obliged to flee the East End, leaving behind all of Ivy Meshle’s ready-made clothing, vulgar blond hair extensions, and cheap baubles, for I knew it would be necessary to change my identity.

  “You have showe
d none of the usual, um, symptoms,” elaborated Mrs. Fitzsimmons.

  “Bosh,” exploded the much more forthcoming cook, Mrs. Bailey. “This ’ere Mr. Jacobson, ’e lives right along wit’ Dr. Ragostin, now, don’t ’e?”

  The other two gasped. This was the first time any of them had dared say such a thing to my face, hinting at the extent of my fictions, the white edifice of lies upon which was built my career. Certainly I ought to have squelched her most firmly, but she delighted and amused me, all puffed up like a hedgehog, so much that I burst into laughter.

  The three of them gawked at me, as well they might. “Truly and bravely put, Mrs. Bailey,” I crowed, still smiling even as I sobered. “Now, tell me, are you well paid here? Well treated? Is this a good place?” I inquired of each of them in turn with a look, brows lifted.

  Each nodded fervidly, perhaps thinking of the exceedingly generous bonuses I had given out at Christmastime.

  “Well, then,” I asked, looking particularly at Mrs. Bailey this time, “what is my name?”

  No doubt grateful in afterthought that her outburst had not seen her sacked, she replied like a co-conspirator, “Sure, and yer name is—is—blimey, I fergit.”

  “Mrs. John Jacobson.” A commonplace name, so that my fictitious husband need not be the same John Jacobson known to anyone whom I might meet.

  She actually bobbed me a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Jacobson.”

  “Very good. Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”

  “My ’eartiest good wishes, Mrs. Jacobson.”

  “Thank you.” Not only my appearance had changed; I was allowing myself a more aristocratic accent. “Joddy?”

  “Um, just as you say, milady.”

  I sighed. Would the knuckle-headed boy never learn? “You must not call me lady! What is my name, now?”

  “Um, Mrs. Jacobs?”

  “Jacobson.”

  “Yes, milady. Mrs. Jacobson.”

  “Very well. Incidentally, I am no longer Dr. Ragostin’s secretary; I am his assistant.”