“And knowing the evil ties that bind the dark Moriarty family,” he went on with relish, “the clubfooted youth was perhaps Henry’s grandson or great-grandson. Given his family background, he is not only dishonorable but outright dangerous.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. I was beginning to think there was more Don Quixote delusional thinking going here than anything else. The don was always able to extemporize and spin out of thin air a new and fabulous “logical explanation” for anything he couldn’t understand. Hence windmills became giants until he was knocked to the ground by one of their swinging blades. Then the don would easily explain to his loyal sidekick, Sancho, how the giants had transformed themselves into windmills at the last second to escape his wrath.

  I looked again at the letter in my hand, and said with faux-humble apology, “Please forgive my complete stupidity, but I’m mystified how you got any of that from this letter.”

  The ragged man sniffed and appeared to be talking to himself, rather than answering my question. “I’m rather surprised that Mycroft would’ve written in such an obvious code, knowing it might’ve fallen into the hands of the supremely intelligent Moriartys.”

  I registered that the “supremely intelligent” part was a thinly disguised dig at me. I tried to throw it back at him: “Excuse me, but what ‘code’ are you talking ab—”

  “You really must learn to read between the lines, my dear,” he interrupted. “Or in this case,” he held up three of those flaky-skinned, taloned fingers, “Read every third word.”

  What the hell was he talking about? I looked back at the letter and began rereading it as he suggested, just to prove him wrong. “I . . . don’t . . . know if this will reach . . . you . . . before you . . . slumber, but . . .” I felt my blood chill—there was a code! I forced myself to read on. “But H M is . . . in America . . . take . . . care.”

  I looked over at Mrs. Hudson, who was as flabbergasted as I. Our tattered friend, however, was invigorated. He leapt up from the chair, weaving a bit as he crossed around behind it, then leaned against the top of it as though at a podium, or perhaps to steady himself. “Well! Mrs. Hudson dispatched old Henry for us with a wine bottle to his cranium. My thanks and congratulations, dear lady. You did the world a great service. But I do have a theory that each person of a new generation becomes the epitome of his family heritage.”

  Mrs. Hudson swallowed uncomfortably. “Oh sir! From the way you’ve described the Moriartys, that would make this grandson of his the vilest, the . . . the . . .” She searched for words dark enough. “The most evil, most dangerous of all!”

  “Precisely! Isn’t it invigorating?” The shaggy man’s eyes were positively flashing with enthusiasm. “First, it’s absolutely vital that I focus on recovering my stolen identity papers.”

  “Of course,” I agreed emphatically, though tongue-in-cheek, still refusing to wholly buy into all of this. I added, needling, “Oh, and don’t forget all your stolen diamonds.”

  He waved a taloned hand dismissively, saying, “Far less important. Many other diamonds will follow once I am able to show proof of who I am and all my past accomplishments.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding as if going along with his program, “But isn’t recovering your ID papers going to be just a tad difficult?”

  He laughed. “What most people perceive as difficult I can sort out right away. It’s only the impossible that can take me a little longer.”

  With that, he stepped around from behind the chair with such a bounce in his step that it disturbed his center of gravity, making him look like an inebriated man departing a saloon. He pretended to ignore his wavering and said, “Allow me to get cleaned up and more presentable.” He strolled toward me and the door, endeavoring to stay in a straight line. “Then we shall resolve the inconvenience of my stolen papers, so I can proceed to tackling more demanding mysteries—such as,” he said with an impassioned air, “yesterday’s intriguing murder by a phantom tiger!”

  Aha! Now I had him! “Waaaait a minute! Just stop right there!” I said, forcefully confronting him, completely certain of myself for the first time in hours. “If you’ve been in a deep freezer in the cellar since 1899, how can you possibly know about that?”

  With an imperious twinkle in his eyes he whispered, “It’s elementary, my dear . . . Winslow.”

  From a nearby end table he gracefully lifted a newspaper and placed it into my hands as he breezed on past me and out of the room. It was that morning’s edition of the San Francisco Chronicle.

  The banner headline was

  mysterious murder by phantom tiger.

  4

  An hour later I stood in the mahogany-paneled foyer of Mrs. Hudson’s house. In its center was a heavy circular oak table with a Victorian lace tablecloth beneath a round Waterford crystal vase containing some delicate pink and white sweet peas from Mrs. Hudson’s gardens. I was pondering the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle that, in addition to the phantom tiger headline, included a photo of Lieutenant Ortega. I remembered the news photographer taking it just outside my ER. Even in the grainy black and white, it was easy to see the grief the officer was feeling over the brutal death of his mentor, Detective Donald Keating, whose covered body was lying on a gurney before him.

  From up the ornate wooden stairway nearby came the Englishman’s voice. “Winslow, are you present?”

  “Yes,” I spoke loudly so he could hear me, my thoughts returning to the enigma presently upstairs.

  He called down, “So, because of the taxations and the various economic crises, the financial arrangements I made for the preservation of this estate are essentially gone?”

  “According to Mrs. Hudson, they’re completely gone,” I called back.

  “That is lamentable.”

  “I was thinking that your Rip Van Winkle hibernation process might perhaps be worth a fortune—but you said your ‘key serum’ was derived from the Bering Sea blackfish?”

  “You are correct. And fascinating little creatures they are.”

  “They were. I just called the San Francisco Aquarium, who told me the blackfish were driven to extinction thirty years ago.”

  “How unfortunate. And careless.” I heard his footsteps starting down the lovely old wooden staircase. “Well, my good friend Charlie Darwin said we were creatures of adaptation. I suppose I shall put his theory to the test.”

  The configuration of the stairway cut off my view right at the top step, so that the first things I saw were shiny black patent leather shoes. There were dapple-gray spats saddled across them. Then I glimpsed the pants, or in his case they should be more appropriately referred to as trousers. They were also a medium gray, cuffed, slim-fitting, and pleated at his waist, which rapidly became visible to me as he came further down.

  Next into view came his black 1890s frock coat, with its long coattails swinging down to his knees as he descended step by step. Beneath that period jacket he wore a stylish silk vest with an understated paisley tapestry pattern in rich shades of burgundy. A gold watchchain with a sovereign attached to it hung in an arc across the lower front of the vest. His white shirt had gold cufflinks, of course, and the traditional Victorian high collar with those two little upward points of stiff material. His wide black tie was on the outside of the collar. I also caught the scent of cedar from the chest where he must have stored these garments.

  His right hand was holding his gold pocket watch, which the long fingers of his left hand were adjusting when suddenly his balance seemed to falter again. His left hand clutched the banister as he stopped on the bottom step, and I saw his face. For the first time really.

  As a child I’d always been completely confounded and amazed by the metamorphosis of a hairy caterpillar into something strikingly different. But I must say that no previous transformation I had ever witnessed was as thorough as the one now facing me. On the bottom step before me, in place of the macabre, gruesome, malodorous, stained, ragged, drooling—well, you remember. In place of that grotesque creature was the perfect example of what I could only describe as what the magazines of his day would have considered to be “the Compleat English Gentleman.”

  My God, I thought. He looked like he really could be the fictional Sherlock Holmes. Or a real-life, 1890s Hubert Holmes. (And for your ease of reading, I’ll refer to him hereafter merely as Holmes.)

  He was just over six feet, but his confident, upright bearing made him seem taller. His black hair was still shoulder-length but now clean and neat. His brows, now trimmed, were equally dark. The scraggly, filthy beard was gone. Vanished was his corpse-like pallor. He was squeaky clean-shaven, so I could better appreciate the strong jawline, which had a prominent squareness that suggested determination. His face was aquiline. He was a bit pale from lack of sun, but his skin was clear and appeared flushed with health. His teeth were straight and now, thankfully, very white.

  I guessed his age to be late thirties or early forties. But I was unprepared for just how truly impressive he was. While not matinee-idol handsome like He Who Shall Not Be Named, he was nonetheless a man at whom women would look twice. I found myself a bit dumbstruck. I simply couldn’t help it, so extreme was the difference between the fearful, ugly creature I had first encountered and this elegant, decidedly attractive gentleman now before me.

  Holmes’ left hand was still tightly gripping the banister, and he was blinking heavily, as though trying to clear his vision or his head. Finally, he glanced up, and his gray eyes met my mesmerized blue ones. He had caught me in the act: appraising him.

  “What?” he asked, sensing some implied criticism in my gaze. He cocked his head questioningly. “You preferred the beard?”

  “Uh . . . no. No,” I managed to murmur, trying to get a handle on my confused emotions. “No, this is much . . . better,” I stammered, then regained wits enough to express my concern. “But are you feeling okay?”

  He blinked twice more as his eyes held mine. I thought I might have detected some curiously connective spark in them, but if so, he strove to dissuade that impression by abruptly looking away. “Yes. Indeed I do. Hale and hardy.” I knew he was protesting too much, and he sensed this because he added, “Just reorienting my brain a bit, but otherwise tip-top.” Eager to change the subject, he touched the length of his hair, asking, “By any chance, do you know of a barber in the vicinity?”

  I was still trying to regain my composure, “What? Oh. No. I mean, I don’t think you really need to—”

  Mrs. Hudson entered just then, sparing me the embarrassment of feeling a bit like a college sophomore confronting a vastly popular senior quarterback / Rhodes scholar.

  “Is this the one, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, indicating the heavy, hundred-year-old-and-then-some valise she was laboring to carry. It was black and rectangular, with thick leather protecting the corners and edges. Holmes’ eyes brightened at the sight. He stepped off the final stair, though I noted he did it rather gingerly, as if worried about a misstep.

  “Indeed it is! Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, as he slowly crossed the foyer, seemingly reluctant to display any impediment. He bent carefully to help her lift and set it flat on the central, circular table. As he passed me, I caught a whiff of his fresh cologne. The subtle, pleasing lavender fragrance completed his transformation from entombed semi-corpse.

  He gazed fondly at the valise. “The contents of this will help us bring the blackguard Moriarty descendant to justice.” He was running his fingers around the edges of it, inspecting it for anything out of the ordinary.

  “But even if you could find him,” Mrs. Hudson asked, “hasn’t the statute of limitations run out on the robbery and—”

  “Retribution, Mrs. Hudson. That’s what I shall have. And justice for the guilty, I should hope. But most importantly, I must regain the documents that attest to my identity.”

  I found myself still trying to bait him, “What about Scotland Yard? Wouldn’t they still have your fingerprints? Copies of the other documents?”

  “Precisely what I’d been recalling upstairs. They certainly should,” Holmes agreed, “and I intend to wire them posthaste.” He turned his head sharply toward me. “If you would kindly direct me to a telegraph—” He’d become suddenly woozy, apparently from his quick head turn. His legs grew rubbery again, and he threatened to collapse.

  “Whoa,” I blurted as Mrs. Hudson and I each took an arm to support him. “Maybe a little inner ear problem there.” But he ignored me, brusquely grabbing at the table to steady himself. Also, I thought, trying to prove he could be self-sufficient. I ignored that idea.

  “You really need to sit down,” I said conclusively.

  “No, no, I’m fine, I tell you. Just fine,” he insisted with harsh, huffy determination. But I could see by his sudden paleness and eyes trying to focus that his brain was still swimming even as he rationalized, “You try walking around after sleeping one hundred twenty-three years.”

  As I hung on to his shaky arm, everything that had been churning in my head while waiting for him to “freshen up” came surging back again. In trying to sort out all the freakish elements that had been thrown at me, I knew only one thing for certain: I was in a major quandary. This strange man was most definitely off-balance—likely in more ways than just physically. However, I couldn’t remain here in Marin to monitor his behavior. Nor could I leave Mrs. Hudson with that worrisome duty.

  With considerable annoyance, I recalled the Chinese proverb which declares that when you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them. That was a way bigger step than I wanted to take, but damned if I saw any other immediate alternative.

  Reaching for a polite approach that wouldn’t exacerbate the situation or ignite his potentially unhinged brain, I said offhandedly, “You know, I think it would be a good idea for you to come back with me into the city so I can try to help you sort things out.”

  “Very kind to offer.” He breathed deeply, still trying to steady himself. “But I prefer being beholden to no one, particularly not . . .”

  A woman! Wow. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but I could see it in his judgmental expression. I immediately rammed my knee into his crotch. Mentally.

  I decided to put the offensive remark on hold for now. “I’m sorry,” I said, with a deadly smile, as the professional physician taking charge, “but I’m afraid you have no choice.” He looked hard at me, which I rebuffed by presenting him with my most steely, mature, and formidable facial expression: I’m a doctor, pal, so don’t mess with my diagnosis.

  Holmes took it in, seemed to be weighing all his other options only to discover he had none. Finally, he sighed and mumbled in Latin, “In rivo fimi sine remo sum.”

  “Right. You’re up the creek without a paddle.”

  He was clearly surprised that I had understood. It pleased me to see him be the one gawking for a change. I grabbed his valise and headed out.

  A few moments later I was putting the valise into my Accord when Mrs. Hudson brought out a suitcase of his clothing, which we also stowed in my trunk.

  The dear lady looked at me with concern. “Amy, lass.” Her hand gently squeezed my arm. “Of course I’m still sorry you’re unable to take up my offer about the estate, but my goodness, I feel simply terrible that I got you into this, this—”

  “It’s alright.” I placed my hand atop hers. “You had no idea. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Well, I did kill a man.”

  Her eyes expressed a painful childlike guilt. I tried to placate her, shrugging slightly as I stammered. “Oh, but that was just—Well, I mean, you know, yes, technically, I guess apparently you did, but that was just because—”

  “I didn’t intend to. I was desperate to save Dougy.”

  “Exactly!” I put my arms around her.

  She leaned her snowy-white head against my chest, murmuring, “It’s haunted me all these years.”

  “Believe me, I would have done the same thing.”

  She looked up at me, fighting tears, but hopeful. “Really?”

  “Definitely. He was a very evil man who’d broken into your house. With a gun. He was threatening to kill you both. And probably would have. It was self-defense. And you saved your husband. Had sixty more wonderful years together.”

  She sniffed and wiped a tear. “Aye. That we did, Amy.” Her face clouded again. “But what about now? What about the police? What about—”

  We both saw Holmes emerging from the front door. He had donned a finely brushed black bowler hat. I grasped Mrs. Hudson by both her tiny shoulders and looked right into her hazel eyes, whispering insistently, “I will deal with him. And I guarantee that you have nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing at all. Do you hear?”

  She pursed her lips, forcing a tight smile. And then managed a tiny nod expressing the deepest, heartfelt gratefulness.

  I responded with an earnest, reconfirming nod. But I was already worried that I’d just overpromised and might somehow underdeliver.

  Then I watched Holmes make his way carefully down the front walk, seemingly mindful not to exhibit any signs of difficulty. He carried a dusty wooden case of his wine bottles from the cellar. An old violin case rested on top.

  He inhaled the clean Marin County air deeply, “Ahh. Invigorating. Don’t you love it here, Mrs. Hudson?”

  She rose to the occasion, saying cheerfully, “Aye, sir. I always have.”

  There wasn’t enough room in my trunk for the wine case and violin, so I put them in the back seat while asking, “What kind of wine is this?”

  “Extreeeeemely rare vintage.” He wiggled a snooty connoisseur eyebrow, then stepped back to inspect my car. “Interesting. Mr. Daimler and Mr. Benz were experimenting with self-propulsion in my day.” He sniffed again, this time disapprovingly. “Hmm. Petrol. I’m rather surprised they didn’t settle on using electricity instead. Seems that any thinking person would’ve.”