Moriarty Returns a Letter (10 page)

“I kept my calendar clear,” said Reggie. He cleared his throat and continued. “I have no court appearances until the Wednesday morning after. Some stockholder suit nonsense. I’ll have plenty of time to prep for it after we return on Monday. So I won’t bring my work if you won’t bring yours.”

Laura sat back just a bit.

“How on earth would I bring my work with me?” said Laura.

“You’ll bring no scripts to read.”

“Well, that’s easy. Agreed.”

“And no paparazzi or gossip reporters. And no fans, other than me. And you won’t take calls from your agent.”

This list of objections was more or less in priority order. The society press had not been kind to Reggie since word of Laura’s pending engagement had been leaked. The gossip column headlines were not all exactly the same, but they all asked the same implicit question: “Is She Too Good for Him?” and emphasized her career stature in comparison with his. The
Daily Sun
column had been especially obnoxious, with opening lines like “Will the barrister’s briefs be big enough to keep the lady satisfied?”

Reggie’s chambers were in fact not doing badly, but in the press at least it was difficult for anyone in a noncelebrity occupation to match up with a rising film star with a blockbuster hit.

“I’ll do my very best,” said Laura. “They say the weather will be lovely. And you won’t even have to drive. I cleverly designed our itinerary so we can take a train the whole way there, with a couple of stops just for the fun of it. Do you think they still provide sleeping cars for short trips?”

“Sleeping is next to trout fishing in how I do not plan on spending my time.”

“Big talker. We’ll see. Anyway, if they don’t, I can sit on your lap all the way there and perhaps initiate a scandal. Or something like one.”

She slid across the desk toward him on that, which made an entrancing sort of swooshing sound and caused her skirt to ride back from her panty hose.

But then her mobile rang. She settled back from Reggie a bit, picked up the phone, said hello, and then she covered the receiver and whispered to Reggie:

“It’s my agent. He must have heard you talking; I’ve no idea how he does it! But we’re not on our way yet, so this doesn’t count.”

Then she said, to the agent on the phone:

“Yes, we’ll be completely unreachable for three whole days. I know that’s outrageous.… No, I can’t. Nothing until I return.… No, you can’t, and if you do, I won’t pick up.… No, I’m not giving you the itinerary, either. We’ll end up at my aunt’s castle at the end of the week, there will be a big to-do, everyone knows that, the media shall have their opportunity at that time and place, and that’s all anyone needs to know.… Yes. So sweet of you to call, but don’t do it again. Cheers.”

She shut off the phone and turned to Reggie.

“Well?” she said.

Reggie nodded. “Fair enough,” he said.

Laura slid in closer again.

But now there was a rap on the office door.

“What is it, Lois?” said Reggie, loudly and in a warning voice.

“Mr. Rafferty,” said Lois, wise enough to stay on the other side of the closed door. “I’m so very sorry. He said it’s quite important.”

“He always says it is—”

“I’m so very sorry,” Lois called out desperately, because the door was opening anyway—and Rafferty came right in.

“Heath! So you are in, after all! Good morning, Miss Rankin.”

Laura got up from the desk, and straightened her skirt.

“It was on its way to being, Mr. Rafferty,” she said, and she gave the man a look that would have frozen him, if he had been aware enough to catch it.

Reggie glared at Rafferty, who just remained standing there in front of the desk as though oblivious that he had interrupted anything at all.

Rafferty was a grayish man, always in a grayish suit, and slight enough in stature and build that Lois, though not tall herself, really should have been able to block his path, if she had tried harder. Reggie made a mental note to have a talk with her about that.

“I need your assistance, for an hour or so,” said Rafferty. “And I expect we’ll need a dolly.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dorset House has been invited to contribute an exhibit for the grand opening of the newly restored Marylebone Grand All En Suite Hotel and Exhibit Hall.”

“All en suite is it, really?” said Laura.

“That’s what they claim,” said Rafferty.

“My, this is an event then.”

“Perhaps you’ve noticed all the hubbub over on Gloucester Court for the renovation?” said Rafferty to Reggie.

“Yes.”

“Well, now it’s completed, celebratory invites have gone out to all of us locals, and unfortunately, Dorset National Building Society was delighted to accept.”

“So?

“It is indeed an event,” said Rafferty, pulling up a chair, uninvited. “Not only is Dorset National Building Society participating, but so is another bank down the street, and so is the Sherlock Holmes Museum, and the Regent’s Park Preservation Society, and the pub on the corner, and the American burger place with the clown, and—”

“I get the idea,” said Reggie. “It’s the biggest thing since the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. What’s it to do with me?”

Rafferty looked at Reggie and sighed, as though this was a shared disappointment.

“I’m afraid Dorset National, for its part, wants to contribute an exhibit of the letters. Apparently that beats the pants off the alternative proposal, which would have been a series of bulletins illustrating how interest rates have changed over the years.”

Reggie raised an eyebrow.

“Do not ask which letters I’m referring to,” said Rafferty. “You know which letters. The Sherlock Holmes letters. The letters that people still write to him, ignoring that he is fictional and would have expired long ago either way. The letters that get delivered to Dorset House because we occupy the entire two-hundred block of Baker Street, and which you are responsible for because you agreed to take a lease on this floor for your law chambers.”

Reggie sighed. He knew all that, of course. Responsibility for the letters was more or less ingrained in his life now, although he did his best whenever possible to shuffle them off to his younger brother, Nigel, in Los Angeles.

But Reggie was beginning to get used to them. He didn’t even mind any longer that once or twice people had even suggested that he
looked
like Sherlock Holmes—or the way they imagined Sherlock Holmes should look. He knew he didn’t. And he knew they only mentioned it at all because of the letters, and because he was tall, and perhaps just a little angular.

And more important, he knew that Sherlock Holmes was never lucky enough to embark on an engagement trip with Laura Rankin. Reggie personally was having much more fun these days than Sherlock Holmes ever did, fictional or otherwise, and intended to keep it that way. So long as the letters didn’t interfere with that, he had no problem with them.

“All right,” he said to Rafferty. “But my question still stands—what does this pending exhibit have to do with me?”

“I need you to help me move the cabinets.”

Reggie had to think about that for a minute. He had thought this would be some legal matter, or a leasing issue, or something unimaginably worse.

He said, “Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Rafferty. “Of course seriously.”

“Why not just have Building Maintenance handle it? Or hire a professional? Or have the hotel itself do the transport, given they’re so keen for it?”

“Out of the question,” said Rafferty. “This is not an ordinary matter of moving furniture, Heath, as you should realize. These are the letters to Sherlock Holmes. Many people know that they exist, but only a small circle know exactly where we keep them. I don’t want that publicized, and I think we all know from recent experience the sort of thing that happens when we allow strangers on the top floor.”

“I don’t suppose this can wait a few days?” said Reggie. “I’m going out of town, but my brother Nigel arrives day after tomorrow. You can reach him at my penthouse number. He could help you. And except for you, no one likes the letters more than he does.”

“It has to be done today,” said Rafferty. “I got the large dolly from Building Maintenance and some packing boxes. It’s all upstairs. I wasn’t able to arrange a rental truck, but with both your car and my hatchback I’m sure we’ll be able to—”

“I’ll help,” said Laura cheerfully.

“I would hardly ask you to move heavy boxes, Miss Rankin,” said Rafferty, “but I’m delighted to let you supervise, if you like.”

Reggie looked at Laura, who was smiling and didn’t seem at all nonplussed about the task.

“We can spare you an hour,” said Reggie. “No more.”

“I’m sure that will take care of it,” said Rafferty.

“Very well,” said Reggie. “I haven’t helped anyone move furniture since university, but if that’s what you want—let’s get it over with.”

They took the lift to the top floor. Rafferty took out a bundle of keys from his pocket, sorted through until he found the oldest and oddest of the bunch, and used that one to unlock the storage room.

The door opened with a musty scent. Rafferty reached up and pulled the chain for a single overhead bulb.

There were at least a dozen full-size cabinets in the room, each of them almost as tall as Reggie.

“Not all of them, I hope?” said Reggie.

“Dear me, no,” said Rafferty. “I insisted that we would display nothing recent—nothing that you or your brother has responded to, Heath, or, for that matter, anything within anyone’s living memory. We’re not going to take a risk with privacy issues, or any sort of liabilities. We’ll lend the contents of just two cabinets—this one, containing the early letters that began to be delivered here when Dorset House was first built, and also the smaller one over there in the back corner.”

Reggie went back to take a look.

“The label says: ‘Pre–Dorset House,’” said Reggie.

“Exactly,” said Rafferty. “The letters began in the 1890s, long before this block of Baker Street even existed. Scotland Yard received most of them back then. But when Baker Street was extended and Dorset House was built, that created an actual 221B. All the letters started coming here, and Scotland Yard sent over everything it had accumulated years earlier. They needed the space, I guess. In any case, I’m sure the hotel people will find the letters historically very quaint—and it won’t cause us a bit of trouble.”

“So you say,” said Reggie. He positioned himself behind the farthest cabinet, and got ready to maneuver it out of the narrow space.

“Careful, Heath, mind the floor,” said Rafferty. “That’s what the dolly is for.”

“It’s what a moving crew is for,” said Reggie. “And yet, here I am doing it.”

7

More than an hour later, Reggie’s Jaguar and Rafferty’s hatchback both pulled up in front of the hotel. Reggie and Laura got out and helped Rafferty unload a cabinet and boxes, and then Reggie wheeled the dolly toward the lobby entrance.

The elderly bellman prepared to open the door for him, but a thirtyish-looking supervisor intervened.

“Deliveries around the back, please,” he said.

“We tried that,” said Reggie. “But it’s blocked. There are two cargo vans there already.”

“Well, yes, I know there’s a bit of a queue,” said the supervisor, with a sort of shrug.

Reggie checked his watch. The task was already taking longer than advertised.

“We are delivering these materials at the request of the hotel,” said Rafferty, sounding offended on behalf of the letters themselves.

“Yes,” said the supervisor, “but isn’t it possible for you to wait your turn?”

“Another possibility,” said Reggie, “is that you will continue to block our path and accidentally end up wearing one of these boxes as a hat.”

“Boys, play nice,” said Laura.

Reggie gave that approach some thought, but before he could try it out a more authoritative figure came out from the supervisor’s office.

She was tall, in her mid-fifties, and as carefully tailored and impeccably maintained as the hotel lobby itself. She took a moment to size up the situation, and then focused on Laura.

“Laura Rankin! Is that you?”

“So pleased to meet you,” said Laura, extending her hand. “Unless we have already, in which case I hope you’re doing well.”

“No, we haven’t, but of course I recognize you. My name is Helene, and I’m the manager here.” She turned to the doorman supervisor. “Charles, help them with those boxes, will you?”

“No thank you,” said Rafferty quickly. “Heath and I can handle them without problem.”

“As you wish,” said Helene.

Reggie and Rafferty began to wheel the boxes in, and the hotel manager walked alongside Laura.

“I wish someone had told me you were coming,” she said. “I would have—” And then she stopped. “Oh! I just realized. This is the week of your trip to the castle, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” said Laura.

“I read about it in
The Daily Sun
. Oh my, are you staying here tonight?” Her eyes lit up, the color flecks in her pupils flashing like paparazzi cameras and pounds sterling. “I didn’t realize. Someone really should have told me. I didn’t see our hotel listed on your itinerary.”

“No, we’re not staying; we—do you mean
The Daily Sun
actually published my entire travel itinerary?”

“Yes,” said the hotel manager. “Didn’t you know?”

“No,” said Laura. “I suppose I’d better have a chat with someone there.”

“Yes, there must be boundaries, mustn’t there?”

“There soon will be,” said Laura. “Can you point us to the exhibit room? Where the Sherlock Holmes letters go?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you there myself,” said the woman, and then, to Reggie and Rafferty, “Just follow along, please. It’s right this way.”

She escorted them through the lobby and across the main reception area, beneath the skylights, and past golden draperies, gigantic indoor palms, and tourists and locals seated at high tea.

They went up the carpeted ramp to the mezzanine level, where a perimeter corridor had the truly prime display space, which a visitor would have to traverse to get to the other exhibits.