Page 1 of The Locked Room

1

There were several occurrences during Harry White’s tenure as Secretary to Sherlock Holmes that she looked back on with sadness and regret, but perhaps none quite so much as the dark and twisted events that unfolded in Mayfair at the start of January 1933. As ever, the matter began with a letter addressed to the great detective. What differed was that this letter was not delivered to the Abbey Road Building Society, whose head offices incorporated number 221b Baker Street, London. Instead, it was printed among the agony columns of The Times newspaper on New Year’s Day, and it did not beg for help. In evident homage to the works of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, it threw down an intriguing gauntlet.

My dear Sherlock Holmes,

You are invited to prove your status as the world’s greatest detective by solving an impossible crime. You have seven days.

Yours sincerely,

Professor James Moriarty

Harry had to concede it was nicely done as she studied the appeal by the soft glow of the table lamps in the library of her family home. In the world of Holmes and Watson, the personal columns of the daily newspapers were a frequent fascination to the great detective; had this been the start of one of their adventures, Harry had no doubt the pair would be roused to immediate action by such a challenge from their arch-nemesis, the shadowy Moriarty. But in reality, there was no such person as Sherlock Holmes, nor a Professor Moriarty, leading Harry to surmise the letter was a prank, or a private game amongst friends, as many messages placed in the agony columns were. It certainly could not be intended for her. Admittedly, she had been tempted to investigate one or two cases that had stood out from the vast correspondence Holmes received at the bank each day, but she had done so secretly, maintaining the pretence that the detective was real, and using an assumed name. It had been a terrible risk to deviate from the standard response she was supposed to send – discovery would cost both her job and the small independence she had carved out from her loving, if traditionally minded family – but the thrill of cracking each case had been worth it. Only a handful of people had met R. K. Moss, dauntless assistant to the now elderly Sherlock Holmes, and they were sworn never to reveal who had resolved their difficulties, or how it had been done. No, Harry thought as she studied Moriarty’s message again, it was not aimed at her. How could it be?

‘Good lord, you’re not still taking in the news, are you?’ Harry looked up to see her brother Sebastian framed in the doorway, arched eyebrows underscoring his amusement as he regarded her. ‘I had no idea the deplorable state of the world gripped you so feverishly. Or is the crossword giving you trouble?’

Harry hid a smile. She’d had to wait for her father, her uncle and her eldest brother, Lawrence, to finish with the newspaper before she had been able to surreptitiously squirrel it away in the library, and they had all read it from the front page to the last. Her father would be Baron Abinger one day and Lawrence would eventually inherit the title from him; both took the responsibility seriously and kept abreast of the news. Seb, on the other hand, embraced his status as a second son with the happy understanding that responsibility was something for other people to worry about. He was not wild or wayward, like their youngest brother, Rufus, who was constantly teetering on the brink of scandal or disaster, but he was very rarely serious about anything. Seb’s preferred reading matter was the society pages and gossip columns of less salubrious publications than the lofty Times and he was perfectly content to admit it. ‘Three across,’ Harry said, gazing down thoughtfully as though the page before her did indeed contain the fabled cryptic crossword. ‘Sounds like the best day of the week to drink. Seven letters, starts with a T.’

Seb laughed. ‘Very clever. And you’re sort of in luck. Mama sent me to find you – she’s organising charades in the drawing room. Thirsty or not, we’ll all need a stiff drink to get through that.’

Harry groaned. Their mother was relentlessly sociable and loved nothing better than playing hostess to the many guests she invited to Abinger Hall. Thankfully, it had been a select group for New Year’s Eve and most of them had shown the good manners to depart immediately after lunch, even if they had looked slightly the worse for wear. ‘Are the Honeywells still here?’ she asked Seb.

‘Not so lucky there, I’m afraid. Mama hasn’t given up hope of you and Philip hitting it off, although I don’t think she’s really thought it through. His mother would love to claim a close familial connection to the Abinger name.’ He shuddered. ‘Can you imagine? She’d cling on like a limpet.’

It was possibly a little unkind, Harry thought, but she couldn’t deny he had a point. Eugenia Honeywell had a reputation as a social climber, intent on being associated with all the best families, and she made no secret of her desire to orchestrate a wedding between Harry and her son. But while Harry had nothing against Philip, who was generally inoffensive if occasionally patronising, she had no intention of marrying him or anyone else. At least not yet. She liked her job, she loved her little apartment in Mayfair and she cherished her freedom – all things she would have to give up if she married. And there was the small matter of not having met the right man. Her mother wouldn’t begrudge Harry marrying for love, as long as the man she fell in love with had prospects and came from the right sort of family. ‘I don’t think Mama is serious about Philip. She wants to stir up the competition, that’s all.’

Seb winked. ‘Those charming Finchem boys, you mean? I’m not sure she needs to do much stirring there – I saw the way they looked at you the last time they were here. Like a pair of wolves who’d happened upon a defenceless lamb.’

The description irked Harry. All three of her brothers seemed to be of the wearying opinion that she needed protection, despite the fact that she had most certainly given as good as she’d got when they were growing up. What would they say if they’d seen her dashing through the murky, frozen waters of Morden Fen to launch herself at a would-be murderer? How would they react if they knew she had pursued a violent criminal through the grimy back streets of Elephant and Castle, with no thought for her own safety? Lawrence would be horrified, Seb would take her to task over the unfashionable clothing she’d worn, and Rufus would probably ask to join her. But she could never confide in any of them; her exploits as R. K. Moss had to remain a secret. The only person who knew the truth was Oliver Fortescue, successful city lawyer and her reluctant accomplice in the two cases she had investigated so far. He’d underestimated her abilities at first but she hoped he had more respect for her now. He’d stopped telling her off, at least. Mostly.

Even so, Harry knew what Seb meant about Percy and James Finchem. Separated in age by a few years, they were devilishly good looking, with dark hair, strong jawlines and an easy charm that she suspected hid a ruthless determination to get what they wanted. Percy used humour to his advantage, while James relied on gentlemanly admiration and flattery, which led his brother to accuse him of fancying himself a Mr Darcy. They had both demonstrated an admirable ability to flirt, vying for Harry’s attention with an intensity that made her head spin, but Percy had seemed the more daring and she had to admit she’d enjoyed the attention. She had no intention of revealing that to Seb, however. ‘I can handle them.’

‘I have no doubt,’ he said mildly. ‘You play chess with Grandfather, which means you can run rings round the rest of us mere mortals.’

She smiled. Chess matches with their grandfather had been known to last for weeks and continue by letter when she was back in London, each detailing their move using the widely recognised chess notation system. Unfortunately, she rarely won. ‘I’m not sure chess helps much in matters of the heart.’

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘No, I suppose not. Which reminds me, you haven’t asked to borrow my car for ages. Did things peter out with your man in the village?’

Trying not to blush, Harry did her best to look like the kind of woman who might indulge in a passionate affair with the local blacksmith. She could hardly correct his bawdy assumption and admit the truth, which was that she had borrowed the MG to track down clues in the case of the missing maid. ‘Oh. Well, it came to a natural conclusion,’ she said, as airily as she could manage. ‘No hard feelings on either side.’

‘Good for you,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I won’t pry any more. Everyone deserves to have secrets, even my little sister.’ His smile dimmed. ‘And speaking of secrets, there is something unfortunate we need to address once we’re back in London.’

Instantly, Harry’s scalp prickled. He couldn’t suspect what she’d really been up to. He couldn’t. ‘Oh? What is it?’

But Seb shook his head. ‘Not here. We’ll have dinner one evening when we can talk properly.’ He eyed her with undisguised regret. ‘Some hard choices may need to be made, for the good of everyone.’

Heart thudding, Harry raised her chin in defiance. ‘You can’t make me choose anything.’

‘Who said anything about you?’ he said, blinking in astonishment. ‘I’m talking about Rufus, you goose. It seems he’s got himself tangled up with a gold digger.’

The Surrey fields were white with frost on Monday morning as Harry made her way back to London. The train was busy, filled with commuters returning to work after the New Year celebrations and Harry thought herself lucky to have bagged a seat beside the window, through which she watched the countryside whizz past. And whizz it did – the electrification of the line some three years earlier had made the journey considerably faster, although Harry found she missed the comforting chug-chug-chug of the steam locomotive. Often, the rumble of the engine had served to soothe away the edges of a chaotic visit at Abinger Hall. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy being with her family, more that the occasional clash of headstrong personalities could produce sparks that ignited otherwise dormant tensions. On Sunday evening, she had overheard a ferocious argument between her mother and Rufus that she guessed must be to do with the bombshell Seb had dropped, and the resulting iciness between them had created a tension that had almost soured the wine at dinner. Harry had tried to lighten the mood by asking Rufus about his trip to Scotland but he had remained monosyllabic and simmering, and eventually she had given up. All of which meant she was more than a little relieved to be returning to London, where no one glowered at her if she asked them to pass the salt.

As the minutes ticked by, Harry turned her attention to her fellow passengers. All were unremarkable at first glance but she amused herself by studying them over the top of the book she was pretending to read, trying to elicit their secrets as Holmes or sharp-eyed Miss Marple would. The man sitting directly opposite was someone important in the City, Harry felt; his black bowler hat, wooden-handled umbrella and neatly folded overcoat were obviously the uniform of a gentleman banker. A leather briefcase rested beside his highly polished shoes. When he turned the page of the newspaper he was reading, she caught a glimpse of weighty jowls and florid cheeks on either side of a slightly crooked nose that suggested it had been broken at some time in the past. Perhaps he’d been a boxer in his youth. He might even enjoy gambling on such matches now.

Her gaze moved on to the next passenger, a young woman in a plain blue day dress and a cloche hat. She too had a coat across her lap and a pair of sensible shoes on her feet. Her brown hair was neatly curled beneath the hat and her face was expertly powdered and rouged. Imitation pearl earrings matched the string she wore around her neck. A Selfridges shop assistant, Harry decided, although she might just as easily be a secretary or even a nanny. Holmes was always so accurate in his observations of the people he encountered while solving his mysteries, plucking truths seemingly from thin air and astonishing all around him. But, as Harry had observed on many occasions in the months since she’d begun to tackle the mountain of letters that had amassed in the Abbey Road Building Society post room, it was easy to be brilliant when you were written that way.

At length, the train pulled into Waterloo station, depositing its tide of passengers onto the platform to disperse throughout the city. Harry took the Underground to Baker Street and made her way to the towering white façade of the bank. Opening in 1932, no expense had been spared in the construction of the building society’s flagship offices; from the tall, intricately carved lighthouse statue inlaid above the grand entrance to the marbled lobby and gilded lift that served the upper floors, every effort had been made to assure potential investors that their money would be in very safe hands. Beyond the public areas, Harry had always enjoyed the ordered predictability of her work. It had never stretched her, not even when she had occupied the coveted position of personal assistant to Mr Simeon Pemberton, but she had enjoyed knowing that every task had been completed in a timely and highly professional way. It was a shame Mr Pemberton had turned out to be significantly less professional. The ensuing connection between her knee and his ardour had seen her demoted to the post room, located in the basement, and it was only through the kindness of her new manager, Mr Babbage, that she was not there still. Declaring immediately that the post room was no place for a young woman, he had found Harry a tiny, forgotten office on the second floor and arranged for Holmes’ letters to be delivered to her there. It was a compromise Harry was still grateful for. Her new office was quiet, ignored by everyone except Bobby the post boy, and it was hers alone.

‘Good morning, Miss White,’ Patrick the doorman said cheerfully as she passed by. ‘Happy New Year.’