The Case of the Missing Marquess by Nancy Springer

Basilwether’s heir and, indeed, his only son, a mere twelve years of age—
     
    “Twelve?” I exclaimed, incredulous.
    “What is that, madam?” asked the hostess behind me.
    “Ah, nothing.” Hastily I lowered the newspaper to the table and my veil to cover my face. “I thought he was younger.” Much younger, in his curled tresses and storybook suit. Twelve! Why, the boy should be wearing a sturdy woollen jacket and knickers, an Eton collar with a tie, and a decent, manly haircut—
    Thoughts, I realised, all too similar to those of my brother Sherlock upon meeting me.
    “Poor lost Lord Tewksbury, you mean? Aye, his mother has kept him a baby. One hears she’s wild with grief, unfortunate lady.”
    I pushed back my chair, left a halfpenny on the table, exited the tea-shop and, after entrusting my carpet-bag to a porter at the railway station, walked towards Basilwether Park.
    This would be far better than searching for bright pebbles and birds’ nests. Something truly valuable was to be found, and I wanted to find it. And I believed perhaps I could. I knew where Lord Tewksbury might be. I just knew, although I did not know how to prove it. All the way up the long drive lined with giant poplar trees I walked in a kind of trance, imagining where he might have gone.
    The first gates stood open, but at the second gates, a lodge-keeper stopped me, his duty being to keep out the idle curious, newspaper reporters, and the like. He asked me, “Your name, ma’am?”
    “Enola Holmes,” I said without thinking.
    Instantly I felt so inexcusably stupid, I wanted to expire on the spot. Running away, I had of course chosen a new name for myself: Ivy Meshle. “Ivy” for fidelity—to my mother. “Meshle” as a kind of cipher. Take “Holmes,” divide it into hol mes, reverse it into mes hol, Meshol, then spell it the way it was pronounced: Meshle. It would be a rare soul who could connect me with anyone else in England (“Are you related to the Sussex Meshles of Tottering Heath?”), much less to anyone named Holmes. Ivy Meshle. So clever. Ivy Meshle! And now like an imbecile I had told this lodge-keeper, “Enola Holmes.”
    Judging by his blank face, the name meant nothing to him. Yet. If any foxhunt after me had begun, the view-halloo had not yet reached this area or this man. “And your business here, Mrs., um, Holmes?” he asked.
    Having been a fool, I decided, I might as well make the most of it. I said, “As Mr. Sherlock Holmes could not himself attend to this matter, he asked me to come and have a look about.”
    The lodge-keeper’s brows lurched, and he blurted, “You’re related to the detective , ma’am?”
    “Indeed,” I replied, my tone quelling, and I swept past him, marching into Basilwether Park.
    The hall, rising before me at the circular end of the drive, would have held ten of Ferndell—but I did not approach its wide marble steps or its pillared doors. My interest did not lie in that noble residence, nor in the formal gardens all around it, studded with topiaries and glittering with well-disciplined roses. Veering away from the drive, I walked across an expanse of lawn towards Basilwether Park proper, that is to say, the woodlands surrounding the hall and gardens.
    Not forest. Woodlands. Stepping beneath the trees, expecting to meet a few thickets, a patch of moss or two, some kindred brambles, I found instead soft grass trimmed short enough to play croquet upon.
    A tame place, this. Walking along, I discovered no interesting hollows, dells, or grottos. Basilwether Hall’s estate was flat and featureless. How disappointing, I thought as I emerged onto lawn again. The only possibility might be—
    “Mrs. Holmes!” cried a wild soprano voice, and I turned to see the distraught mother, the duchess, hurtling towards me. I knew it was she because of the richness of her day dress, the heavy braiding and embroidery on her silver-grey capelet over a gown of shirred mauve drawn back from a