The case of the vanished landlady

Chapter one: First consultation

Disclaimer: I don't own!

Hi there, this is my new Holmes fanfic, hope you'll enjoy it! I will endeavour to keep it as doylesian as possible, having thoroughly studied the canon and general Sherlockiana. If however I should make any blunders, you are welcome to point these out to me (also as regards language), since nobody is perfect. The case is set chronologically before Watsons marriage with Mary Morstan, consequently during the days of his and Holmes' co-habitation. It is connected with no allusion from the canon, the plot and persons other than Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade are entirely my own invention.

Looking over my published notes dating from the time I shared rooms in Baker Street with my extraordinarily gifted friend Sherlock Homes, it strikes me as rather strange that they should include none of those cases in which our formidable landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was involved. It is with some repentance and a strong sense of duty towards said lady that I set out to choose one from such cases as I have in store, one that I distinctly feel should receive the approval of even my sternest critic, since it offers plenty of opportunities to display his singular talents, as well as being non-sensational without bordering on triviality.

The set-off to the case was brought into our cosy drawing-room from the wind-swept streets of London on the 22 of march 1891. As usual at this hour of the day, Mr. Holmes was busy perusing the agony columns of several papers and London gazettes, tossing those he had finished onto a quickly accumulating heap by the side of his armchair. I myself was lounging in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the roaring fire, when Mrs. Hudson announced a spontaneous visitor to our abode.

"I say, Holmes," I exclaimed, getting up and picking the card from the silver tray, "it is quite astounding that anyone should venture into the streets, abandoning the comforts of his home, on a bleak day such as this. One would assume that the matter is urgent – in fact, a case that promises to be worth your while."

"So it would seem", my friend returned in a rather peevish tone, "to any person that has been endowed with a like amount of naivété as you, Watson. It may be that the matter at hand is of some importance – to the advice-seeker, that is. To me, however, it may prove to be the merest humdrum business depending on which are money, power, honour or equally undesirable notions so highly esteemed by the human kind. A case may well be important, Watson…without containing the faintest trace of interest to me, who seeks the thrill of the riddle rather than the thanks of a wealthy desperate."

I sighed softly at my companions notorious irritability, raising the card to the light of the gas-lamp. Dr. Angus Woodnell, 72 Bedford Square, it read, and an instant later the very man was shown into our room. I took his offered hand, which was quite broad and firm, and grasped the opportunity to observe him closely while he made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes.

He was an uncommonly handsome man, well over six feet, his built strong, but slender, with good features and dark hair and eyes. He exuded utterly sympathetic, enticing youthfulness, while it was quite apparent that he deemed himself vastly attractive.

"Mr. Holmes", he commenced with a rich, deep voice, as soon as we were seated, "I'm calling on you not only on my own behalf, but also on that of a friend, or rather on his advice to seek your aid rather than that of the officials, who hold a very low position in his esteem."

"May I learn the name of that well- judged gentleman?" Sherlock Holmes interrupted.

"It is none else than Lord Alistair Montgrave of Berkeley Square, renowned collector and connoisseur of arts, and a close friend of mine since university days."

"Ah well. It is always of assistance to know whom one is dealing with, from the beginning. Take notes Watson, will you? And, Dr. Woodnell", he returned to the vigorous young man, "your own occupation?"

Our visitor cleared his throat pompously. "I extensively studied the human mind, both in conditions of sanity and disturbance, and graduated summa cum laude at St. George's University. I am something of an authority on the subject, having published several works of considerable importance in regard to the sickness and derange that can befall our spirits."

He inhaled deeply and his chest seemed to broaden with pride. "It was two years ago that I was given the position of director and chef practitioner at the lunacy home Dew Dale, in West Hampstead, where only the most severe cases of mental disorder are being treated."

I stifled an amused smile at his immense vanity and sought to give myself airs of being deeply impressed in order to please the young doctor. "Indeed!" I said in response. "Being a medical man myself, I find the topic an incredibly interesting one, but we are disgressing. Perhaps you would like to postpone the further elaboration of the subject to a later occasion, and continue to lay the facts of the case before us?"

For I had noticed, by way of a side glance, that Holmes was already suppressing the urge to yawn during the boastful report our guest issued of his own achievements. Mildly irritated, Dr. Woodnell paused a moment before continuing.

"Very well", he stated, "Matters stand thusly: Accepting the position I mentioned previously increased my income considerably, and in short time I saw myself within the means to settle down domestically. So I took a house in Bedford Square, the more distinguished retreat of my peers, furnished it and was from this point on the lookout for a mistress to the place."

Casting another sideways glance, I caught Holmes with a sardonical smirk on his face. If he had been peeved by our visitors previous self-praise, the doctor certainly had reached the zero point in his opinion with his recent statement. Oblivious to both our facial expressions, Dr. Woodnell carried on with his narrative.

"Last summer then, I made the acquaintance of Miss Harriet Coverley, in the house of my afore mentioned friend, Lord Montgrave, and a few weeks later, I was so fortunate as to obtain her hand in engagement. We are married six month now, gentlemen, and all way during this time there was nothing to foreshadow the terrible misfortune that was to befall us."

Dr. Woodnell hesitated, but Sherlock Homes silently bade him go on. Swallowing deeply, our young guest spoke:

"As I have mentioned beforehand, Lord Montgrave is a great patron of the arts, and I am something of a picture fancier myself. Thus, when I admired a fine series of Constables in his possession the other day, his generous soul went out to me and he offered to lend them to me, for myself, my wife and our friends to contemplate them thoroughly. I, as you can well imagine, was overjoyed with the offer and accepted it readily, and a couple of days later they were conveyed to us in a safety van. Now that they adorn the wall of our dining room, however, I wish with all my heart that I had never agreed to the borrow."

"Really?" Mr. Holmes remarked, his eye-lids half shut. " How so?"

"Why, such things don't remain a secret within society, sir", Dr. Woodnell answered. "People knew, of course. Someone in particular. Someone…I'm quite sure you must have heard of. Someone by the name of Montgomery Kenneth."

Sherlock Holmes' eyes flung open and were ablaze with curiosity in an instant. Yet just as quickly as the spark had been struck, it was re-covered with his customary composure as he observed:

"Certainly, Dr. Woodnell. This is interesting indeed. Pray continue."

"If you are familiar with his abominable person, Mr. Holmes", the doctor progressed, "it is not difficult for you to divine the sad conclusion of my narrative. Yesterday in the afternoon, whilst I was working at Dew Dale, - "

" – your wife was abducted from your house", Holmes finished his sentence. "Quite perceivable indeed. In fact, exactly the kind of proceeding that befits a man such as Montgomery Kenneth – renowned master abductor and blackmailer."

Dr. Woodnell nodded miserably. "And now, can you fathom, sir, what it is he expects to gain through this villainous act?"

"The Constable series, I presume?"

"Exactly. He sent me a note, claiming all eight canvases in exchange for my wife, sound in body and mind. Should I reject - "

"Quite, quite. Have you discussed the option of forwarding the pictures with Lord Montgrave?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "He is absolutely in favour of doing so, should you be unwilling or unable to do something in the matter."

I couldn't restrain my admiration and exclaimed: " Marvellous! This is chivalry indeed!" Dr. Woodnell arched an eyebrow.

"A human life is at stake, doctor", he admonished me. "It is quite natural that Lord Montgrave should be so forthcoming…any gentleman would be. Moreover, he wouldn't suffer a monetary loss. Each and every one of the pictures is insured against abstraction, which covers forced delivery. It is, of course, a tragedy all the same. He is quite fond of his Constables, you see."

"Of course," I affirmed.

Sherlock Homes said nothing. He leaned back in his armchair, his legs stretched out towards the fire, and his fingertips steepled together, brows knitted in deep thought. He silently brooded for some five minutes, and our guest apparently started to get quite impatient, when my friend came back to life again.

"Kindly hand me the index, Watson", he demanded, "I – K will do, thank you."

He flipped through the pages of the volume I had given him with long, white fingers, until he had found the entry about Kenneth.

"Ah, there we are. Arthur Montgomery Kenneth, of unnotable birth, was raised in an orphanage in Whitechapel under the worst circumstances conceivable, worked in the docks several years, then turned to criminality, first burglary, then abduction. Compensates his lack of knowledge and education with uncommonly fierce intelligence and cunning. It appears – "

he let the book sink to his knees, eyes shining brightly,

" - that this particular foe is indeed deserving of our undivided attention. Dr. Woodnell? It would be helpful if we could arrange another meeting, as soon as convenient. Pray do bring Lord Montgrave, this time, it would be unwise to take any steps without his consent. In addition, I should like to know exactly which pictures are claimed by Monsieur Kenneth."

"I have a list of the titles with me", Angus Woodnell responded, retrieving a leaflet from his notebook, " and Alistair – Lord Montgrave – can show you copies of them, or you can come and see them at my house, whichever you prefer. Am I to understand that you take the case?"

Holmes gently inclined his head.

"Why, bless you, sir!"

The young doctor rose with energy, a faint flush of glee spreading on his handsome face.

"Very, very obliged sir – very obliged indeed."

My friend waved his thanks away with the weary gesture I only knew too well.

"I shall go to Lord Montgrave immediately", the doctor exclaimed, while I got his hat and cloak, "and arrange a meeting with him. No time must be lost – no time at all. I couldn't bear to leave my poor Harriet in the power of this malignant scoundrel one minute more than necessary."

"Of course, that is quite understandable", I said soothingly and gave him his things. "Do not worry, Dr. Woodnell – Mr. Holmes generally is able to arrange affairs to a satisfactory outcome."

"Certainly. Thank you, Dr. Watson – Mr. Holmes, sir."

The young man bowed, and left our room in a hurry. We heard the clatter of his shoes on the stairs, and a little later the distant bang of the door.

"Well", I said, turning around and rubbing my hands with content, "What do you intend to do first?"

Sherlock Holmes had drawn up his legs in the chair, his cherryroot-pipe stuck between his teeth, which he took out at my inquiry to fill it with shag tobacco.

"I intend to smoke", he said pensively, lighting the pipe and re-placing it between his lips.

Hooray, first chapter completed! Are you already intrigued? Or is everything elementary? Let me know what you think so far! I love to hear from you!