The noise had increased. The entire apparatus began to vibrate. The copper kettle and odd configuration of tubes and beakers rattled and shook. One clamp came loose and clattered off the table to the floor. A tube shook free and several drops of liquid arced into the air.
‘Holmes—!’ I began, but he was up and out of his chair, bounding across the room when a sudden small explosion blew the lid off the copper vessel, broke three glass tubes and an adjacent beaker, and sent a spray of foul smelling liquid up the nearby wall and across a row of books. A flame erupted underneath it.
We shouted simultaneously and in a flash he was upon the equipment, dousing the fire with a large, wet blanket pulled from a bucket he had evidently placed nearby in anticipation of such a possibility. The blanket slid down among the broken pieces. The flame went out and there was silence except for a low sizzle.
The room now reeked of raw alcohol, and a dark, burnt smell. A slow drip fell from the table to the carpet.
Mrs Hudson’s familiar sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’ she called out. ‘A young lady is here to see you.’
Holmes and I looked at each other like two schoolboys caught smoking. As one, we leapt to tidy the room. Holmes flung a second wet cloth sloppily over the steaming mess in the corner while I used a newspaper to whisk some broken glass and other bits under an adjacent desk.
I threw open the window to let out the hideous odour and in a moment we were back in our chairs, another log tossed onto the fire.
‘Show her in, by all means, Mrs Hudson,’ shouted Holmes.
He picked up his cold pipe and assumed an insouciant air. I was less quick to compose myself and was still sitting on the edge of my chair when the door opened.
‘
Into the room stepped a vibrant young woman of about twenty-eight, exquisitely poised, small and delicate in stature. I was struck immediately by her beauty and graceful deportment but equally by the keen intelligence radiating from her regard. She was elegantly clothed in a deep purple travelling costume of rich wool, trimmed with small touches of tartan, gold and lace about the throat.
Her luxurious hair was brown with glints of copper, and her eyes a startling blue-green behind small gold spectacles. She removed these, took in the room, the mess, the smell and the two of us in one penetrating and amused glance. I immediately thought of a barrister assessing an opponent.
‘Oh, my,’ she said, sniffing the air.
A strong, rank odour emanated from the contraption, the newspapers and wet cloth on the chemistry table. This mess continued to hiss and clank intermittently.
I rose quickly to greet her. Holmes remained seated, staring at her in a curious manner.
‘Madam, welcome. Let me close the window. It is so cold,’ I offered, moving towards it.
‘Leave it,’ commanded Holmes, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Do come in, Mrs McLaren, and be seated.’
The lady hesitated and suppressed a cough. ‘Some air is welcome. Well, Mr Holmes, how clearly you have been described in the newspapers. And you must be Dr Watson.’ Her accent carried a hint of the soft lilt of the Highlands, but modified by a fine education. I liked her immediately.
Holmes appraised her coolly. ‘Do sit down, Mrs McLaren, and state your case. And please, be succinct. I am very busy at the moment.’ He waved a hand, indicating the settee before us. I knew for a fact that Holmes had no case at present.
The lady smiled. ‘Yes, I see that you are very busy.’
‘Welcome, madam,’ I repeated, mystified by my friend’s unaccountable rudeness and attempting to mitigate it. ‘We are at your service.’
‘Let me come straight to the point,’ said she, now seated before us. ‘I live in Scotland, in the Highlands to be more precise, at Braedern Castle, residence of Sir Robert McLaren, the laird of Braedern.’
‘McLaren of Braedern. Yes, I know that name,’ said Holmes arising languidly with a slow stretch and then in a sudden movement vaulting over the back of his low chair as if on springs. Arriving at the bookcase, he ran his finger along several volumes of his filed notes, pulled down one and rifled through it.
‘Ah, McLaren. Whisky baron. Member of Parliament. Working at the time of this article to establish business in London. Effectively, it appears. A Tory. Unusual for a Scot. Widower. Late wife very wealthy. And, ah, yes. Go on.’
He returned with the file and draped himself once more in the chair.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is my father-in-law.’
‘Obviously. It says here a daughter who did not survive infancy, and three sons.’
‘You are not au courant. Two sons survive. The eldest, Donal, died three years ago, killed during the siege of Khartoum.’
‘You are married to one of the remaining sons. Not Charles, the current eldest, but Alistair, the younger.’
Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘That is correct, Mr Holmes. And how did you deduce this?’
I did not like Holmes’s regard. ‘Madam, how can we help you?’ I said.
But the lady persisted. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she wondered.
‘It is obvious. Your ring. Lady McLaren’s famous amethyst and emerald engagement ring – I have a clipping here on its history – matches your dress perfectly and would surely be on your hand if you had married the elder son. The rest of your jewellery is quite modest. Therefore the younger son.’
The lady put a hand to her small gold brooch from which dangled a charm. Along with a simple wedding band and gold earrings this was the sum total of her jewellery. She smiled.
‘Regarding my jewellery, perhaps I am simply not in the habit of overt display, Mr Holmes. Rather like yourself.’ Her eyes flicked to his dressing gown.
‘Nevertheless?’ Holmes said. She remained silent. Her silence was a tacit acknowledgment. He smiled to himself, then he got up and moved back to the fireplace, making rather a fuss over his pipe. It struck me that she simultaneously disturbed him in some way, and at the same time incited those tendencies which I can only describe as showing off.
‘I have come to London to attend the opera, see my dressmaker, and to do a little Christmas shopping,’ she began. ‘While I was here, I thought—’
‘On second thought, I have heard enough, Mrs McLaren.’
‘Good grief, Holmes! Madam, I beg your forgiveness,’ said I. ‘Please do relate your concerns. We are all ears.’
Before she could answer, Holmes barked out, ‘Your husband either is, or you imagine he is, having an affair. I do not deal in marital squabbles. Kindly close the door behind you.’ He moved sharply away to a bookcase and stood there, his back to her.
She remained seated.
Holmes paused and turned around. ‘Really, madam, I beg you. What would your family think of this visit?’
‘It matters little what my family might think of my visit. I am quite on my own in this matter. Your opinions, while incorrect, are of moderate interest. Do enlighten me as to your train of thought.’
She had opened Pandora’s box. ‘Madam, mine are not opinions,