in time to see Charles Cary enter the room, his face flushed and healthy-looking—a marked contrast to the drawn and haggard visage we had seen on the previous night. He kissed his mother on the cheek and then settled himself at the table with the air of a man who has just concluded some satisfying business.
“It seems your errand in town was a successful one, Lord Cary,” Holmes remarked, as if reading my thoughts.
“What? Oh, yes, it was; nothing much, just a small matter,” he replied. He appeared to be distracted by something, but turning his attention to Holmes and myself, he smiled. “Please call me Charles,” he said. “I don’t like all this ‘Lord Cary’ business—it makes me feel terribly old and responsible.”
“Oh, but you are,” his mother replied warmly. “Charles has not gotten used to being the man of the house—have you, Charles?”
Charles looked at her from under his blond lashes and bit the nail of his right index finger. “Well, it was a damn bloody nuisance of Father to go off and drown like that—it upset poor Elizabeth terribly.”
“Elizabeth is a high-strung child,” his mother replied dismissively.
“Where is your sister, by the way?” Holmes inquired.
“She went up to her room when we returned . . . she wasn’t feeling well,” Cary replied, stretching out a hand towards the coffeepot. In the morning light I could see that several of his nails were also bitten to the quick. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too noticed this, but his attention was focused upon Lady Cary.
“I’ll ring for some hot coffee,” she said as her son lifted the empty coffeepot.
No sooner had she spoken, however, than the door to the kitchen swung open and Grayson emerged, a steaming pot of fresh coffee in one hand and a tray of cinnamon buns in the other.
“Good man, Grayson,” said Charles Cary, plucking a bun from the tray as the butler set it down upon the table. “Always one step ahead of us, aren’t you?”
“I do my best, sir,” the old man replied as he poured his young master a cup of coffee. “Will Miss Elizabeth be taking her coffee upstairs today?” he inquired in a voice that I thought contained the slightest hint of disdain.
“She’s resting just now, so I think perhaps not,” Cary responded, biting into the cinnamon bun. “She’s still rather upset today,” he said after Grayson had retired from the room.
“Understandable, I’m sure,” Holmes replied, leaning back in his chair. I wondered what he thought of the Cary family. There seemed to me to be undercurrents of unresolved tensions between everyone in the household. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that they were all watching each other—and watching us as well, waiting to see what we might do.
Lady Cary turned to her son. “Mr. Holmes has just been telling me the most ingenious things about myself. He really is wonderfully observant, Charles—it’s rather like being under a microscope.”
Charles Cary turned to look at my friend. “Oh? What have you gleaned in your short time here, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, he knew that Grayson was not an Englishman, for example,” said Lady Cary.
“Actually, he’s half English—his mother was a high-caste Indian woman, and his father was a British cavalry officer,” Cary replied.
“I see,” said Holmes.
Lady Cary rose gracefully from her chair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will leave you to your coffee—I know you have many things to talk about.”
“By all means,” said Holmes, rising as Lord Cary and I did the same.
She turned to her son. “If you need me, I will be in my rooms.”
Charles Cary took his mother’s hand and pressed it to his lips—not an unusual gesture in some circumstances, perhaps, but it seemed a little out of keeping with his natural air of reticence and dignity. Holmes showed no expression. Either he did not think it odd, or, more likely, he was keeping his thoughts to himself.
After
“It seems your errand in town was a successful one, Lord Cary,” Holmes remarked, as if reading my thoughts.
“What? Oh, yes, it was; nothing much, just a small matter,” he replied. He appeared to be distracted by something, but turning his attention to Holmes and myself, he smiled. “Please call me Charles,” he said. “I don’t like all this ‘Lord Cary’ business—it makes me feel terribly old and responsible.”
“Oh, but you are,” his mother replied warmly. “Charles has not gotten used to being the man of the house—have you, Charles?”
Charles looked at her from under his blond lashes and bit the nail of his right index finger. “Well, it was a damn bloody nuisance of Father to go off and drown like that—it upset poor Elizabeth terribly.”
“Elizabeth is a high-strung child,” his mother replied dismissively.
“Where is your sister, by the way?” Holmes inquired.
“She went up to her room when we returned . . . she wasn’t feeling well,” Cary replied, stretching out a hand towards the coffeepot. In the morning light I could see that several of his nails were also bitten to the quick. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too noticed this, but his attention was focused upon Lady Cary.
“I’ll ring for some hot coffee,” she said as her son lifted the empty coffeepot.
No sooner had she spoken, however, than the door to the kitchen swung open and Grayson emerged, a steaming pot of fresh coffee in one hand and a tray of cinnamon buns in the other.
“Good man, Grayson,” said Charles Cary, plucking a bun from the tray as the butler set it down upon the table. “Always one step ahead of us, aren’t you?”
“I do my best, sir,” the old man replied as he poured his young master a cup of coffee. “Will Miss Elizabeth be taking her coffee upstairs today?” he inquired in a voice that I thought contained the slightest hint of disdain.
“She’s resting just now, so I think perhaps not,” Cary responded, biting into the cinnamon bun. “She’s still rather upset today,” he said after Grayson had retired from the room.
“Understandable, I’m sure,” Holmes replied, leaning back in his chair. I wondered what he thought of the Cary family. There seemed to me to be undercurrents of unresolved tensions between everyone in the household. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that they were all watching each other—and watching us as well, waiting to see what we might do.
Lady Cary turned to her son. “Mr. Holmes has just been telling me the most ingenious things about myself. He really is wonderfully observant, Charles—it’s rather like being under a microscope.”
Charles Cary turned to look at my friend. “Oh? What have you gleaned in your short time here, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, he knew that Grayson was not an Englishman, for example,” said Lady Cary.
“Actually, he’s half English—his mother was a high-caste Indian woman, and his father was a British cavalry officer,” Cary replied.
“I see,” said Holmes.
Lady Cary rose gracefully from her chair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will leave you to your coffee—I know you have many things to talk about.”
“By all means,” said Holmes, rising as Lord Cary and I did the same.
She turned to her son. “If you need me, I will be in my rooms.”
Charles Cary took his mother’s hand and pressed it to his lips—not an unusual gesture in some circumstances, perhaps, but it seemed a little out of keeping with his natural air of reticence and dignity. Holmes showed no expression. Either he did not think it odd, or, more likely, he was keeping his thoughts to himself.
After
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