The List Of Seven Read Free

minutes to an hour away. Heading west, that placed them in Kensington, with Regent's Park the northern extreme.
    The coachman dismounted and opened the door. His dress and deferential manner did not contradict what he appeared to be, a career servant, fifty, muscled, and dour. A young man alighted first, slender and pallid, bearing the tremulous conceit of a privileged university student—as broad cultural types went, not an inordinate favorite of Doyle's. Wearing an elaborate cravat, dickey, and beaver hat, he'd either come straight from a social function or considerably overestimated the formality of his destination. Curtly brushing the coachman aside, he lent a hand to the coach's second passenger as she descended.
    She was in black, as tall as the young man, willowy and supple, swaying in emotional currents that seemed considerable. Bonnet and shawl framed a pale oval face; a familial resemblance to the younger man—his sister, Doyle chanced, two or three years his senior—but the glimpse of her features was brief as the young man took her arm and ushered her quickly to the door. He knocked straightforwardly, the signal apparently unknown to them. As they waited, the young man attempted to press her on some persistent point—perhaps imprecations against their rough surroundings; it appeared he had accompanied her under protest—but despite her apparent frailty, a steadiness in the set of her eyes indicated her will was the stronger.
    The woman glanced anxiously about the street. This is the author of the note, and she is looking for me, Doyle realized.
    He was on the verge of starting across to them when the door opened, and the house swallowed them up.
    Shadows played against the parlor curtains. Employing the glass, Doyle saw the woman greeted by the man whose dark face he had spied earlier at the window, accompanied by the pregnant woman; she took the brother's hat, the woman's shawl. The dark man gestured modestly, indicating they should adjourn to an inner room, and with the woman leading the way, they moved from sight.
    She is not acting out of bereavement, concluded Doyle. Grief collapses inwardly. What's propelling this woman forward is fear. And if 13 Cheshire was a. snare, she had walked eagerly into its jaws.
    Pocketing the glass and reassuringly fingering his revolver, Doyle abandoned his post and crossed the street toward the coachman, who was leaning diffidently against his cab, lighting a pipe.
    "Pardon me, friend," said Doyle, putting on an affable, half-pixilated smile. "This wouldn't be where they're having on that spiritualist thingamajig, now would it? I was told Thirteen Cheshire."
    "Wouldn't know about that, sir." Flat, nothing. Most likely the truth.
    "But wasn't that Lady . . . Lady Whatzis and her brother ... well, of course, you're their driver, aren't you? Sid, isn't it?"
    "Tim, sir."
    "Tim, right. You fetched my wife and me from the station when we visited out to the country that weekend."
    The man peered uncomfortably askance at Doyle, feeling a social obligation to harmonize. "Out to Topping, then."
    "That's right, out to Topping, when they had everyone out for ..."
    "For the opera."
    "Right-o, the opera ... Last summer, wasn't it? Now be honest, Tim, you don't remember me, do you?"
    "Summers Lady Nicholson's got people out all the time," Tim offered as apology. '"Specially that opera crowd."
    "Now I'm trying to recall: Was her brother there that weekend, or was he off at Oxford?"
    "Cambridge. No, he was there, I think, sir."
    "Of course, it's coming back now—I've only been out to Topping just the one time." That's enough, thought Doyle, I'm pressing my luck as it is. "Fond of the opera, are you, Tim?"
    "Me, sir? Not my cuppa. The track, more like."
    "Good man." A glance at the watch. "Look, it's nearly eight, I'd best get inside. Cheers. Keep warm."
    "Thank you, sir," said Tim, grateful for the consideration or perhaps more so for Doyle's departure.
    Doyle took the steps. Lady Caroline