Enola Holmes and the Mark of the Mongoose by Nancy Springer EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Nancy Springer
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Fiction
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- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
The front door opened so suddenly and forcefully that it badly startled me,
causing me to pencil a ruinous scrawl across the conic sections I was so
carefully drawing for my geometry class. Vexed, I looked up to see Joddy,
the boy-in-buttons, hurrying to offer his tray to take the visitor’s card, but
the man brushed past him to stride towards my desk, causing an odd
pleating effect within my mind, as if time folded and compressed.
After all,
it had been less than a year since I had made peace with my much older
brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, while before that I had been on the
run from them, terrified of them, and in disguise. Therefore, even though I
was now free to be my youthful self in a tailored linen suit with skirt cut
short just below my ankles—even though I was now at liberty to be the
real-life, very modern, May 1890 Enola Holmes—it’s small wonder that
once again I felt myself to be the fussy-frilly and obedient Ivy Meshle at her
job in the reception vestibule of the great Dr. Ragostin’s office. After all, the
sign was still painted on the front window: Dr. Leslie Ragostin, Scientific
Perditorian. (An impressive way of saying that the completely imaginary
doctor, my “cover,” purported to be a finder of missing persons.)
“Where’s Ragostin?” barked my visitor, addressing me principally with
his cleft chin, above which I saw mostly a great deal of dark brown
moustache, bristling eyebrows, and thick spectacles. He could not have
been more than twenty-five years old, dressed like a gentleman but quite
lacking a gentleman’s manners.
He looked familiar, distantly, as if he might be a Somebody I had seen in
the newspaper, and he was handsome in a forceful way … for whatever
reason, he put me sufficiently off balance so that I found myself uttering a
meek Meshle sort of reply. “Dr. Ragostin is not here, but I am authorised to
help you. Please be seated.”
He did no such thing, but continued to tower over me, his moustache
hiding everything about his mouth but the very middle of his lower lip; I
wondered how he circumnavigated that biscuit-duster in order to eat. He
was saying, loudly, “I need Ragostin to find Wolcott Balestier!”
Pencil in hand, I tried to write it down. “Would you spell—”
“He may be a victim of foul play! I’ve alerted Scotland Yard, but they
won’t listen to me!”
I tried again. “Would you please—”
“It’s those vermin venomous pirates have got him!”
I verily felt my eyes widen at that. “Pirates?” A black flag bearing a
skull-and-crossbones fluttered in the wind of my mind.
“Craven back-stabbing cowards! They’d better not hurt my chum
Cotswold!”
“Who?” I demanded, meaning the most intriguing pirates, seafaring
marauders with sneers picturesquely scarred by the sword.
“My mate! My buddy! The best friend a man ever had! Wolcott
Balestier!”
Oh, bother. We were back where we started. “Would you please spell the
name, please?”
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