“Bravo, Mrs Watson!” cried Holmes, clapping his hands together in appreciation of her impassioned plea. “What a first-rate illustration of marital democracy!” he added with a chuckle. “You have, between the two of you, stated the quandary precisely! On the one hand I can hardly intrude myself like a busybody into the household of a stranger simply on a child’s say-so; on the other, I cannot ignore a sincere plea for help from whatever quarter it may come. Therein lies the dilemma. This sort of letter is always the most problematic. With older clients, there is at least some likelihood that they will estimate with reasonable accuracy the urgency of their case. Younger clients have a marked tendency to see as vital what is in reality trivial or unimportant.”

“Do you receive many letters from people so young as this?” queried my wife.

Holmes shook his head. “Thankfully not,” said he in a dry tone, “although there has been something of an increase in their number since your husband’s Study in Scarlet was published. I do receive the occasional request to locate a missing doll, or other highly prized toy, and am sometimes able to make a suggestion or two that proves useful. But let us return to the matter in hand, which promises to be somewhat more serious. I have had little opportunity, so far, to make any very searching enquiries on the matter. All I have been able to learn,” he continued, consulting his notebook, “is that John Hartley Lessingham and his wife live at East Harrington Hall in Leicestershire. The estate is a fairly large one, extending over four parishes: East Harrington, West Harrington, Bulby Upwith and Dedstone. An ancestor, Walter Lessingham, lost his life in the Royalist cause at the Battle of Naseby. The Hartley connection was made in the middle of the last century, when Samuel Lessingham married Ruth Hartley, only daughter of a needle-manufacturer from Redditch. Do you know anything of the present generation, Watson?”

“As it happens, I do – by repute, at least. Hartley Lessingham is one of the most renowned amateur riders in England. He has a string of fine horses and has carried off almost every prize the sport has to offer. As a rider and competitor he is very much respected.”

“And as a man?”

“I do not believe he is very popular,” I replied, choosing my words with care. “There are those, I believe, who positively dislike the man. He is said to ill-treat his horses, for one thing. Then there was something of a scandal last year over an unpleasant incident at a meeting in the Midlands – Cantwell Heath, if I recall it correctly. The horse in front of him stumbled at a ditch and unseated his rider – a popular man by the name of Jackie Weston – and Hartley Lessingham rode straight over him, when he could, in the opinion of most observers, have easily avoided him altogether.”

“Was the other rider seriously hurt?”

“Both legs were badly broken, and but for the skill of the surgeon, he would have lost them entirely. As it is, they say he will never walk again without sticks.”

“Did Hartley Lessingham express any remorse for the incident?”

“None whatever, so far as I am aware, which is what made such a scandal of the affair. Apparently, his only response was to declare that accidents of that sort were only to be expected in such a manly sport.”

“I see,” said Holmes, nodding his head. “I think that gives us a clear enough picture of the man. And the Borrows? Do you know anything of them?”

“I read a book of memoirs and anecdotes a few years ago by a Major Borrow, With the East Sussex Foot in India. It was a rather entertaining volume, as I recall, but whether the author and the girl’s father are one and the same man, I could not say.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “Let us sketch out the situation, then. Major Borrow and his wife are killed. The son and daughter are taken in by the mother’s sister and her husband – Miss Borrow mentions no other children in the household, but of course there may be – then the aunt leaves, for reasons we do not know, and the children are left at East Harrington Hall in the care of Hartley Lessingham. He, of course, has no connection with the children other than through his wife, and does not sound the type of person to be motivated by any great charitable urge.”

My friend fell silent then for a moment, his eyes far away.

“There are definitely possibilities here,” said he at length in a quiet tone, as if thinking aloud. “Who, I wonder, is this Mr Theakston, to whom the girl refers? Could you spare the time to accompany me tomorrow morning at eleven, Watson?”

“Certainly,” I returned. “I should have finished my morning surgery by ten o’clock, and shall then be at your disposal.”

“Excellent! And Mrs Watson?”

“I?” said my wife in surprise. “I am sure that I should be of no use to you, Mr Holmes.”

“On the contrary,” returned he with emphasis, “your presence might make all the difference. To have someone of her own sex present may help to put Miss Borrow at her ease, and perhaps help to elicit information from her that she would otherwise be reluctant to give to two middle-aged gentlemen.”

“Very well, then,” said she with a smile. “I should be delighted to accompany you, and to meet your enterprising young correspondent!”

The London Library

At ten-twenty the following morning, Sherlock Homes arrived at our door in a four-wheeler. The streets were thronged with traffic, and we reached St James’s Square only a few minutes before eleven o’clock. As we were alighting from the cab, a hired carriage drew in to the side of the road just ahead of us. From this stepped a handsome woman in a highly ornamented outfit, followed by a young girl whom I judged to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. The latter was wearing a maroon velvet jacket with a knitted bonnet of the same hue perched on the back of her head. From beneath this, her long light-brown hair fell to her shoulders.

As we approached the entrance to the library, we passed this couple on the pavement, and I was surprised to hear that the tones of the older woman were most harsh. She was instructing the girl to be ready to be collected at half past twelve.

“You be late at your peril!” said she in an unpleasantly threatening tone, to which the girl quietly acquiesced.

As we passed them, I stole a glance at their faces. The girl’s was soft, young and innocent, with some trace, I fancied, of sorrow about the eyes. The woman’s was hard and unkind, and with something in her expression that spoke of a limited, self-absorbed disposition. I realized, too, that my initial opinion, formed from a distance, that the woman was a handsome one, had been premature. There was a weight of powder and rouge upon her face, such as an actress on stage might have worn to look attractive from a distance. At closer quarters one saw only a thin, rather stupid face, with no points of attraction whatever.

We passed on into the library, and a few moments later the girl entered. I had the impression that she had been crying. Holmes stood up and made a slight gesture to her and, with some hesitation, she made her way across the room to where we were seated at a large oblong table.

“Miss Borrow?” said my friend. She took the hand he extended to her and, as he introduced us, she bobbed a curtsy to each of us in turn.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but are you a nurse?” she asked my wife in a hesitant tone as she seated herself at the table.

My wife smiled as she shook her head. “I have been called upon to act as such in an emergency once or twice,” she replied, “but no, my knowledge of nursing skills is somewhat limited, I am afraid.”

A look of relief passed over the girl’s face.

“Thank you,” said she quietly. “I am not mad, you know,” she added abruptly.

“Why ever should we have supposed such a thing?” queried Holmes in a soft tone, eyeing her closely.