Herbert Greenhough Smith, the editor of the Strand Magazine, was dressed, as always, in his old-fashioned frock coat. It marked him out as a man from another age, Mrs Gregson thought. Someone who would love to use his pages to rail against lounge suits and straw boaters. But people bought the Strand for escapism, not politics, and so the readers were spared his anachronistic views. He shifted uneasily in his chair as he examined Mrs Gregson one more time, as if unable to quite believe what she was offering him. They were in his office above Southampton Street, the noise of the apparently endless road repairs outside drifting up to them.
‘I’m . . .’ Greenhough Smith paused and stroked his moustache, wondering how to phrase this. The offer she had made was tantalizing in the extreme. His breath was short at the very thought. But he had to be careful. ‘Do you have the authority for what you are proposing?’
Mrs Gregson shook her head. She had known this would be the trickiest part. ‘Not exactly, but I can assure you—’
‘I don’t need assurances, Mrs Gregson,’ he interrupted, ‘I need a contract with the author.’
‘I can’t give you that,’ she said flatly.
Greenhough Smith swivelled slightly in his chair, and stared at the artwork on his walls, including an enormous portrait of his predecessor, George Newnes, before he rotated back. ‘Then I am afraid I have to decline your offer.’
‘I can have a legal document drawn up saying I will deliver. If I fail to do so, then the monies will be refunded in full. I shall put a charge against my parents’ house.’
‘Will you? And they’ll be fine with that?’
Once she explained the situation, perhaps. ‘Yes.’
Mrs Gregson waited, hands clutched firmly on the handle of her large handbag. He was clearly tempted – who wouldn’t be? – but he was also a businessman. ‘I don’t see what you have got to lose.’
He laughed at this. ‘Only money.’
‘But I just explained—’ she began.
‘No matter how you dress it up, it’s still a promise. Everything you are saying is just a promise. I’d be betting you are as good as your word. And, frankly, Mrs Gregson, I don’t know you from Eve. You claim to be an old friend of Holmes and Watson—’
She unclipped the catch of her bag and took out the small bundle of letters. She slid them across the desk. ‘These are personal, you appreciate,’ she said. ‘Which is why I didn’t use them unless I had to. Perhaps you would simply examine the signature.’
Greenhough Smith picked up the stack, undid the ribbon and leafed through the flimsy papers quickly, as if anxious not to let his eyes fall on any stray sentence. When he was satisfied, he carefully retied the bundle. ‘They would appear to be from Dr Watson, yes.’
‘I have heard no word from Major Watson for some time now,’ she said as she scooped the correspondence back up. ‘I think that does not bode well. Which is why I am anxious to act.’ She felt a surge of emotion well up inside her. But she was not going to cry, even though her eyes were stinging. That wasn’t how she was going to win over an old trooper like Greenhough Smith. She began to sob.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She reached into her bag once more and pulled out a handkerchief. ‘I didn’t mean . . . it’s so . . . I’m so weak. It’s not very professional. But, well, as you can see, I care for the major.’
‘You must care for him very much,’ said Greenhough Smith softly.
She smiled as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘I won’t argue the point, Mr Smith.’ Mrs Gregson cleared her throat and composed herself. ‘I have a scheme to help him, and that scheme will cost me money. The most valuable asset we have – I have – is Dr Watson’s talent as an author and Sherlock Holmes’s celebrity. As editor of the magazine that made both their names, I don’t have to remind you of that. I am offering you at least one case from Baker Street that the world is not yet aware of.’
‘I cannot deny what a coup this would be, Mrs Gregson. And I feel for Dr Watson, as you do. He is an old friend. He has been very loyal over the years.’ Greenhough Smith glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of Newnes once again, as if looking for his approval from the old man. He turned back, slapped the desk with the flat of his hand and grinned at her. ‘I say, let’s do it, Mrs Gregson. Let’s get Watson home. And let’s give the public what they have been baying for – the further adventures of Sherlock Holmes!’
Mrs Gregson tried to keep the feeling of satisfaction from showing in her features. ‘In which case, my price is two thousand pounds.’
As the magnitude of the sum sank in, the smile slowly faded from Herbert Greenhough Smith’s face.
‘In advance.’