Sherlock Holmes by Barbara Hambly Page A

encounter. Six feet tall, broad of
shoulder and chest, he had dark eyes luminous with intelligence
under a noble brow in a rather long face, and by his well-cut, if
rather American, brown suit and gloves of fawn kid, he clearly
added material wealth to the blessings of kindly nature. He held
out his hand to Holmes and introduced himself, and Holmes inclined
his head.
    “And this is my partner and amanuesis, Dr.
Watson,” said Holmes, and Mr. Colby turned unhesitatingly to shake
my hand. “Anything that may be said to me, may be said in his
presence as well.”
    “Of course,” said Colby, in his deep,
pleasing voice, “of course. I have no secrets - that's what gravels
me.” And he shook his head with a ghost of a chuckle. “The Colbys
are one of the wealthiest families in New England: we've traded
with China for fifty years and with India for twice that, and our
railroad interests now will better those profits a thousand
percent. I've been educated at Harvard and Oxford, and if I may say
so without tooting my own horn, I'm reasonably good to look on and
I don't eat with my knife or sleep in my boots. So what would there
be about me, Mr. Holmes, that would cause a respectable girl's
guardians to reject my suit out of hand and forbid me to exchange a
word with her?”
    “Oh, I could name a dozen commonplace
possibilities,” replied Holmes, gesturing him to a chair. “And a
score more if we wished to peruse a catalogue of the outré .
Perhaps you could tell me, Mr. Colby, the name of this unfortunate
young lady and the circumstances under which you were so rudely
ejected from her parents' favor?”
    “Guardians,” corrected our visitor. “Her
uncle is the Honorable Carstairs Delapore, and her grandfather,
Gaius, Viscount Delapore of Depewatch Priory in Shropshire. It's a
crumbling, mouldering, Gothic old pile, sinking into decay. My
family's money could easily rescue it – as I've said to Mr.
Delapore, any number of times, and he agrees with me.”
    “A curious thing to do, for a man rejecting
your suit.”
    Colby's breath gusted again in exasperated
laughter. “Isn't it? It isn't as if I were a stranger off the
street, Mr. Holmes. I've been Mr. Delapore's pupil for a year, have
lived in his household on week-ends, eaten at his table. When I
first came to study with him I could have sworn he approved of my
love for Judith.”
    “And what, precisely, would you say is the
nature of Mr. Delapore's teaching?” Holmes leaned back in the
basket-chair, fingertips pressed lightly together, closely watching
the young American's face.
    “I guess you'd say he's … an antiquarian.”
Colby's voice was hesitant, as if picking his words. “One of the
most remarkable students of ancient folklore and legend in the
world. Indeed, it was in the hopes of studying with him that I came
to Oxford. I am – I guess you might call me the intellectual black
sheep of the Colby family.” He chuckled again. “My father left the
firm to my brothers and myself, but on the whole I've been content
to let them run it as they wished. The making of money … the
constant clamor of stocks and rail-shares and directors … From the
time I was a small boy I sensed there were deeper matters than that
in the world, forgotten shadows lurking behind the gaslights'
artificial glare.”
    Holmes said nothing to this, but his eyelids
lowered, as if he were listening for something behind the words.
Colby, hands clasped, seemed almost to have forgotten his presence,
or mine, or the reality of the stuffy summer heat. He went on, “I
had corresponded with Carstairs Delapore on … on the subject of
some of the more obscure Lammas-tide customs of the Welsh
borderlands. As I'd hoped, he agreed to guide my studies, both at
Oxford and, later, among the books of his private collection –
marvelous volumes that clarified ancient folkloric rites and put
them into contexts of philosophy, history, the very fabric of time
itself! Depewatch Priory…”
    He seemed