Nancy Springer - The Case of the Left-Handed Lady

Table of Contents

I KNEW I WAS GOING TO DIE....

Striding on my way, I myself shivered with cold. And with fear. Listening.

My attention diverted, too late I sensed a presence behind me.

Some small sound, perhaps the chuff of shoe leather against the frozen mud and crushed stone of the street, perhaps the hiss of an evil breath but even as I opened my startled mouth to gasp, even as I leapt to turn, something seized me around the neck.

Something unseen, behind me.

Fearsomely strong.

Gripping tight, tighter.

Not a human grasp. Some some narrow doom, serpentine, constricting, biting into my throat I could not think, and never even reached for my dagger; I only reacted, dropping my lantern as both my hands flew up to claw at the thing, whatever it was, tormenting my neck but already I felt my breathing cut off, my body thrashing in pain, my mouth stretching in a voiceless scream, my vision dimming to darkness, and I knew I was going to die.

ALSO BY NANCY SPRINGER

THE ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERIES

The Case of the Missing Marquess
The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan
The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline
The Case of the Gypsy Good-bye

THE TALES OF ROWAN HOOD

Rowan Hood, Outlaw Girl of Sherwood Forest
Lionclaw
Outlaw Princess of Sherwood
Wild Boy
Rowan Hood Returns, the Final Chapter

THE TALES FROM CAMELOT

I am Mordred
I am Morgan Le Fay

PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008
Reissued in this Puffin edition, 2011

Copyright Nancy Springer, 2007

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Springer, Nancy.
The case of the left-handed lady : an Enola Holmes mystery / by Nancy Springer.
p. cm.
Summary: Pursued by her much older brother, famed detective Sherlock Holmes, fourteen-year-old
Enola, disguised and using false names, attempts to solve the kidnapping of a baronets sixteen-year-
old daughter in nineteenth-century London.

eISBN : 978-1-101-53325-3

[1. Kidnapping Fiction. 2. Hypnotism Fiction. 3. Characters in literature Fiction.
4. London (England) History 19th century Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories.]
I. Title
PZ7.S76846Carl 2007
[Fic] dc22 2006008261

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

For my mother

LONDON,

JANUARY, 1889

WE WOULD NOT BE IN THIS DEPLORABLE situation, declares the younger and taller of the two men in the small club-room, if you had not tried to bully her into boarding school! Sharp-featured, and thin to the point of gauntness, pacing the floor in his shining black boots, black trousers, and black cutaway evening jacket with tails, he resembles a black egret.

My dear brother. Comfortably seated in a deep armchair upholstered in morocco leather, the older, stouter man raises eyebrows like winter hedgerows. Such bitterness of spirit is not at all in your usual character. He speaks placidly, for this is his club, specifically its very secure private chamber for conversation, and he looks forward to an excellent roast beef dinner as he tells his younger sibling in kindly tones, While it is undeniable that the foolish girl is on her own in this great cauldron of a city and might already have been robbed and left destitute, or worse, plundered of her virtue still, you must not allow yourself to become emotionally entangled in the problem.

How not? The stalking man swivels to give him a hawklike glare. She is our sister!

And the other missing female is our mother; what of it? Will fretting like a foxhound in a kennel help to find her? If you must blame someone, adds the seated man, folding his hands across the pillowy expanse of his silken waistcoat, Mother is the person at whom you should direct your ire. Logician that he is, he recites reasons. It is our mother who let the girl run wild, in knickerbockers, on a bicycle, rather than providing her with instruction in the drawing-room graces. It is our mother who spent her days painting posies while our sister climbed trees, and it is our mother who embezzled the funds that should have gone for governess, dancingmaster, decorous feminine dresses, et cetera for the youngster, and it is our mother who ultimately abandoned the girl.

On the childs fourteenth birthday, mutters the pacing man.

Birthday or any other day, what does it matter? complains the older brother, who is beginning to tire of the subject. Mother is the one who abdicated her responsibility, finally to the point of desertion, and

And then you impose your will upon a brokenhearted young girl, ordering her to leave the only world she has ever known, now trembling beneath her feet

The only rational way to reform her into some semblance of decent young womanhood! interrupts the older brother with asperity. You, of all people, should see the logic

Logic is not everything.

Certainly this is the first time I have ever heard you say so! No longer placid or comfortable, the stout man sits forward in his armchair, his boots (sheathed by impeccable spats) planted on the parquet floor. He demands, Why are you so so overridden by emotion, so affected? Why is locating our rebellious runaway sister different than any other little problem

Because she is our sister!

So much younger that you have met her exactly twice in your life.

The tall, hawk-faced, restless one actually stands still. Once would have been enough. His quick, sharp voice has slowed and softened, but he does not look at his brother; rather, he appears to stare through the oak-panelled walls of the club-room to some distant place or time. He says, She reminds me of myself when I was that age, all nose and chin, gawky, awkward, simply not fitting in with any

Nonsense! At once the older brother puts a stop to such balderdash. Preposterous! She is a female . Her intellect is inferior, she requires protection... there can be no comparison. Frowning, nevertheless like a statesman he calms his tone in order to take charge. Such questioning of past events serves no useful purpose; the only rational query now is, how do you propose to find her?

By an apparent effort of will the tall man reins in his faraway gaze, focusing his keen grey eyes upon his brother. After a pause he says merely, I have a plan.