The Baker Street Letters by Michael Robertson

Spencer? Formerly with Dorset National?”
    â€œYes,” she said, looking at the card. “You found me. I hope you’re not here because you think I have need of your services,” she said with just a little bit of a laugh.
    â€œNot at all,” said Reggie. “I came to ask you about the letters.”
    â€œThe letters?”
    â€œThe Holmes letters.”
    She looked at Reggie’s card again. “Well, I guess I might tell you,” she said. “After all, you’ve taken a leasehold on them, haven’t you? Would you like some tea?”
    â€œThank you,” said Reggie as he followed her inside. “I won’t keep you long.”
    She seated him in front of the French windows overlooking the courtyard and her two playing children.
    â€œI did leave very explicit instructions on how to handle the letters, you know,” she said as she joined him there with the tea. “I was careful about it, especially because the lease was changing hands.”
    â€œI hope that wasn’t a problem for you—,” began Reggie.
    â€œOh, don’t worry,” she said. “You didn’t cause me to lose my job. I left just before, to be a full-time mum. There was a temp brought in to replace me.”
    â€œYes,” said Reggie. “Mr. Parsons. Other than him—was it just you answering the letters—the whole time you were there?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you keep records?”
    â€œCertainly. And Mr. Parsons was to do a complete historical inventory and archival of them when you took over the lease. It should all be in the tall filing cabinet.”
    â€œI saw that,” said Reggie. “But I’m afraid a bit of it has been lost. Did you have any other sort of backup? Copies of the letters, anything like that?”
    Her eyes widened slightly, and she put down her tea. “Why would I have such a thing?”
    â€œI didn’t mean you personally, necessarily,” said Reggie, surprised at what seemed a defensive posture. “I just meant—is there any other record at all? A log of the addresses? Backup copies of the letters?”
    â€œNo,” she said, glancing out the window. “Dorset National did not ask me to keep a log.” She took a moment now to unlatch the French windows and tell one of the children in the courtyard to leave the cat alone.
    In a courtroom, Reggie would have regarded this move as an evasion.
    â€œSorry,” she said with a slight smile, brushing the curtains back in place. “They tend to pull its tail a bit.”
    It seemed a long shot, but Reggie had to try. “Mrs. Spencer,” he said, “is there any chance you made copies of the letters for yourself?”
    Her cheeks turned red, and she looked as though she had got caught cutting to the front of the queue at the bakery.
    â€œIs it truly important?” she said.
    Now it was Reggie who hesitated. It wouldn’t do to tell her what had transpired in chambers. “Really just bookkeeping,” he said. “Not important at all.”
    â€œOh,” she said with a slight laugh, and then there was a brief pause as they both pretended the important thing was to adequately stir the sugar in their tea. Then Reggie looked up.
    â€œBut did you?” he said.
    She sat back, looked at Reggie, and sighed. “One moment,” she said.
    She got up, went to a bookcase, and took a laptop out of a satchel there. She started to set it up—and then she stopped.
    â€œYou won’t tell Dorset National about this, will you? I mean, not yet, at least. I’ll tell them myself, if the time comes. But before I left the company, I scanned all my favorites, from the very beginning of the letters, into a file. I was thinking thatsomeday I might compile them all—into a book, or some such thing.”
    â€œA book about crazy people who write letters to a character of fiction.”
    â€œNo, not at all. A