Nancy Springer - The Case of the Disappearing Duchess

The Enola Holmes Mysteries

The Case of the Missing Marquess

The Case of the Left-Handed Lady

The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets

The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan

The Case of the Cryptic Crinoline

The Case of the Disappearing Duchess

( PREVIOUSLY TITLED 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

Mister Sherlock, Im that glad to see you, I am, and that obliged... Mrs. Lane, faithful Holmes family servant, who has known the great detective since he was a boy in short pants, cannot keep the quaver out of her voice or the tears out of her dim old eyes.... that obliged to you for coming...

Nonsense. Shrinking, as usual, from any display of emotion, Sherlock Holmes studies the dark woodwork of Ferndell Hall. I welcome the opportunity to visit my ancestral home. Dressed in summertime country attirebeige linen suit, lightweight tan kidskin boots and gloves, deer-stalker caphe lays the gloves and hat on the parlour table, as well as his stick, and proceeds at once to business. Mr. Lanes telegram was rather enigmatic. Pray, what is so odd about this package you hesitate to open?

Before she can answer, into the parlour hurries her husband, the white-haired butler, with considerably less than his usual dignity. Mister Sherlock! How good of you! And much the same prattle must be gone through all over again.... delight to my old eyes... so very kind of you... very warm day; might I presume, sir, to offer you a seat outside?

So Sherlock Holmes is hospitably settled on the shady porch, where breezes mitigate the heat, and Mrs. Lane is offering iced lemonade and macaroons, before Holmes succeeds in addressing business once more.

Lane, he asks the venerable butler, what exactly alarms you and Mrs. Lane about this package you recently received?

Well trained by decades of sorting out household disorder, Lane answers methodically. First and foremost, Mister Sherlock, the way it came in the middle of the night and we dont know who left it there.

For the first time looking less than bored, the great detective leans forward in his cushioned wicker chair. Left it where?

At the kitchen door. We wouldnt have found it till morning if it were not for Reginald.

The shaggy collie dog, who is lying flat on his side nearby, raises his blunt head when he hears his name.

Weve been letting him sleep indoors, explains Mrs. Lane as she settles her amplitude in another chair, being that hes getting along in years, like us.

Reginald lays his head down again and thumps his furry tail against the floor-boards of the porch.

He barked, I suppose? Sherlock Holmes is growing impatient.

Oh, he barked like a tiger, he did! Mrs. Lane nods emphatically. But even so, I dont suppose we would have heard him if it were not that Ive been sleeping in the library on the davenport, begging your pardon, Mister Sherlock, because the stairs plague my knees so.

But I was in our proper quarters, says Lane with emphasis, and knew nothing of the matter until Mrs. Lane summoned me with the bell.

Leaping at the kitchen door and barking like a lion, he was! Presumably Mrs. Lane refers to the dog. Her excited comments quite contrast with her husbands careful report, especially given that neither tigers nor lions bark. I was afraid to do a thing until Mr. Lane came down.

Sherlock Holmes leans back in his chair with his aquiline features resuming their usual expression of disappointment with the folly of humankind. So when you eventually investigated, you found a parcel, but no sign of the mysterious person or persons who had left it there atwhat time was it?

Lane answers, Three-twenty of Thursday morning, or thereabouts, Mister Sherlock. I went and hunted a bit outside, but it was a dark night, cloudy like, and nothing to be seen.