I thought I heard Sherlock chuckle, but could not be sure, because the coachman came running towards us, shouting, “You! Thief! I’ll have the law on you! Robbery, assault and battery!”
“Poppycock. Do please calm down, my good man.” Alighting from the carriage with his usual energy and air of command, Sherlock offhandedly gave the coachman a folded note, specifically, a Bank of England note. Its denomination I can only surmise, but it was sufficient to calm the coachman instantly. “And you, my good lad,” my brother addressed a stable boy who was prepared to mount a cob, presumably to go summon the local constabulary, “all will soon be settled. Put your nag away.” The youngster did so without question, and Sherlock turned to the others, who were staring not only at him but at me securing the reins and descending, shockingly and unmistakably female, from the box, and at the odd assortment of people emerging from the carriage: Watson with the black bag of a doctor, Tewky all dressed up like a dandy, Dawson stout and humble and enjoying herself, and Tish with various colours of greasepaint smeared all over her face from her efforts to remove it.
But all eyes turned to Sherlock when he spoke. “Who is the proprietor of this establishment?”
“I, sir, Roland Mizzlethorpe, M.D., most humbly at your service.” A peculiar sort of concave man stepped forward, long of face, hollow of chest, obsequious of manner. “And you are?”
“It does not matter. You will be dealing with Dr. Watson.”
The man’s eyes fairly bugged out, flashing white like those of a frightened horse, as he slewed them towards Watson. Evidently he recognized the name, I assumed from Watson’s fame as my brother’s chronicler. But I was mistaken.
Watson told him, “I am here on behalf of a patient you call Nora Helmer, although I am sure you know quite well that is not her real name. Her sister has intervened for her, and we wish her to be released immediately.”
Dawson, I noticed tangentially, had somehow obtained a wet handkerchief and was helping Tish scrub her face with it.
Mizzlethorpe visibly tottered between surrender and resistance for a moment, during which he delayed response by violently motioning his people to go back inside the sanatorium. Once the onlookers were gone, he stiffened. “On what grounds?”
“Come, come, my man, you know as well as I do that she does not belong here,” scoffed Watson.
But Sherlock had reached a more shrewd assessment of Mizzlethorpe. “We wish to see her commitment papers.”
“No!” Again the man spooked like a horse.
“Ah. They are irregular?” Then Sherlock remarked to Watson, “Old chap, I will bet you a dinner at Simpson’s that yours is the name signed to them. Lord Caddie seems to have got it off a list. He must not be much of a reader.”
Dr. Mizzlethorpe entreated, “Gentlemen, please! I am sure we all wish to prevent scandal of any sort.”
An imperious voice spoke. “Then I want my sister. Now.”
Tish stood, a lone, lance-straight figure in the shadowy light of lanterns, and all three men turned to stare at her as if a pilaster had spoken. Then they put their heads together and muttered. Off to one side, Tewky was conferring with the coachman as Dawson picked thorns out of him. With no one else near, I went to stand by Tish and take her hand. She welcomed me with a wan smile; evidently she had forgotten that she hated me and was never going to forgive me. The grip of her hand on mine tightened as the men began to move.
Sherlock, Watson, and the Pecksniffian asylum doctor walked off and went inside, but as the front door of the asylum closed behind them, Tish made no attempt to follow them. Perhaps she understood that she had done all she could, or perhaps she could not bear to see where her sister had been kept. Perhaps she felt weak—and no wonder, as she had not eaten all day. She did not speak; she stood like a pillar of the Parthenon, but I could feel her trembling.
We stood hand in hand for what seemed like a long time before, at last, the door opened again.
Tish gave a low, wordless cry, dropped my hand, and ran, or stumbled, into her sister’s arms. They hugged, they wept, and she, Tish, looked far more pitiful than Flossie did. Beautiful Flossie, her long hair untended but only a little bit unkempt, her lovely face, mirror image of her sister’s, pale but not thin, her dress dark and plain but whole. Embracing, the sisters gazed at each other’s faces, then each sobbed upon the other’s shoulder, then they gazed again. “Tish, your hair!” Flossie exclaimed.
“It’ll grow back,” said Tish with a smile—the warmest, widest smile I had ever seen on her, now that her troubles were over.
Coming out of the asylum directly after Flossie, my brother and Watson stood smiling as I dare say I was smiling myself, looking on. Flossie was telling Tish, “It was not so bad, only that I could not sleep at night for all the screaming going on, and I saw the most awful things, and I could not cease brooding over Caddie, his infidelities, how he had doomed me for not being complaisant, and how dare he summon the black barouche for me.”
I noticed Tewky had come over to speak with Sherlock, who nodded, then said to everyone in general, “The coachman has agreed to drive. Come, we must be going.”
Flossie flung up her head in alarum. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the Dorking train station,” Sherlock said.
“To live with me,” Tish told her.
“Oh, Tish! Truly?”
“Of course.”
“But—I’m frightened. Can we keep Caddie away from me?”
“Leave that to me and my brother,” I said.
Flossie turned her lovely, shadowed eyes on me, their question unspoken: Who are you?
“This is my cherished friend Enola Holmes,” said Tish with a fervor that warmed my heart.
“And my brother is Sherlock Holmes,” I told Flossie. “It is incumbent upon us to visit the Earl of Dunhench on your behalf. If, in his obstinacy, His Cadship should wish to reclaim you, we will threaten him with scandal. He has falsely represented you as deceased, so we can hold the fear of the law over his head. I feel quite hopeful that we can persuade him to provide you with a handsome monetary settlement—is that not so, Sherlock?”
“It might perhaps be possible,” he replied.
His tone was annoyingly that of a more cautious older brother, but I didn’t mind. I knew very well what I could do; indeed, what I quite intended to do. “So you need not feel in any way apprehensive,” I assured Lady Felicity. “We will take care of everything.”
Epilogue
by Sherlock Holmes
Undeniably, “The Case of the Black Barouche,” as Enola insists on calling it, presented unique points of interest, and I would not have missed it for the world. But just as undeniable was my strong sentiment of relief when we got back to London and my fearless sister once again went her own feckless way. From the moment we rescued Lady Felicity until several weeks afterwards, Enola remained mostly preoccupied with fussing over Tish and Flossie, blessedly aiming her interfering proboscis in their direction rather than mine. She ordered quantities of flowers and baskets of food delivered to Tish’s lodging. She hired a maid of all work and a cook for them. She commissioned a seamstress to outfit Flossie in “necessaries.” She not only loaned Tish a wig but purchased a new, blond one for her. And the moment the Glover sisters felt strong enough, she began to take them shopping. And again shopping, almost every day. And more and further shopping: for frocks, suits, coats and cloaks, boots, slippers, parasols, reticules, gloves, and hats with all the trinkets and trimmings. I have no very clear idea what “furbelows” are, but I am quite sure the three of them obtained some. As I decidedly declined to exhibit any interest in their purchases, they invited Tewkesbury to London for a day to admire their new wardrobes. Thus was I left largely in peace, for I saw Enola only in regard to business.
This being the unpleasant business of obtaining funds for Lady Felicity from Lord Cadogan Burr Rudcliff II, Earl of Dunhench.
I took this matter upon myself, intending to keep my sister innocent of i
t. In her youthful, swashbuckling way, Enola was determined to blackmail Lord Cadogan Burr Rudcliff II to the utmost, but even though that Cad of all cads quite deserved punishment, I would not be a party to extortion. I had explained this to Enola, and she vehemently disagreed, but one can hardly expect a woman, even a most intelligent one, to comprehend a gentleman’s code of honour.
Therefore, I made sure to act promptly, before Enola might make mischief. Accompanied by my faithful Watson and his trusty service revolver, I traveled back to Dunhench Hall only a day and a half after we had quitted it, and there we arrived to find His Cadship having the howling fantods. Even as his mournful butler blocked our entry, I could hear the earl within, ranting, “Take them down and burn them, every one of them! Burn them, I say!”
Most interesting. I quite wanted to see what, exactly, was being cremated this time. Telling the butler, “We are here on the business of Her Majesty Queen Victoria!” I shoved past him with Watson by my side, and making our way towards the hubbub the misfortunate earl was creating, we found that amoral aristocrat in the parlour, stamping to death something on the carpet as if it were a deadly viper. However, I saw as we walked in, it was just a framed picture, a dainty watercolour of flowers. Rudcliff actually smashed the glass and splintered the frame before he seized the painting itself and cast it into the hearth fire.
“Ah,” I said, comprehending. “You destroy the artwork of Lady Felicity when you can no longer destroy Lady Felicity herself.”
Swinging around, his head menacing like that of a bull about to charge, he bellowed, “Who the hell might you be?”
“I might be, and am, Sherlock Holmes, retained on your wife’s behalf.”
He let out an oath that scattered the nearby servants—they dropped their sacrificial paintings as they ran. Watson kindly bolted the doors behind them, so that the ignoble nobleman and I might not be troubled by their return. Then my good Watson stationed himself at the main entry and stood guard with his pistol in hand.
“Might we sit down?” I asked Lord Cadogan politely. “We need to arrange for your continued financial support of your wife, in the form of a settlement you will pay her.”
“The hell I will!”
“Oh, you will,” I told him earnestly, “or else stand in the dock on charges of falsifying medical signatures on admittance papers.”
The conversation rather deteriorated thereafter. Indeed, so threatening did he become that I pulled out my life preserver—a handy pocket truncheon made of rope and weighted wood—and showed it to him. Phlegmatically Watson remained at his post by the door; he knew, as I did, that most bullies are cowards. And sure enough, His Cadship quickly resorted to bluster.
“You can’t prove it about the signatures!”
“He most certainly can,” retorted my good Watson from across the room. “Or at least one of them. I am Dr. Watson.”
The earl recoiled as if from a physical blow, eyes darting in search of escape. “Brindle!” he howled for his butler. “Bring footmen!”
I rather lost patience. “Sit down,” I ordered Cadogan, directing him with uplifted truncheon towards a chair at the parlour table. “If you attempt to eject us, we will simply return with legal authorities. Do you want that?”
The earl did not answer, but he sat. Behind me, I heard a murmur of voices as Watson directed Brindle to fetch his master’s stationery, pen, ink, blotting paper, et cetera.
I told Cadogan Burr Rudcliff II, “You will now write a complete confession. Start with the fate of your first wife, Myzella Haskell.”
He balked, of course, and I had to prompt him each step of the way: he had falsified commitment papers, locked up his wife in a lunatic asylum, told her family she was dead, faked her cremation. He penned his account so bold and large that I could read it from where I stood. I had him continue to pen much the same shameful account of his treatment of Felicity Glover. Finally, I had him sign and date this document and turn it over to me. Watson then read it and witnessed it.
I seated myself at the parlour table opposite the glowering earl. “Now,” I told him, “we need to arrange payment—”
“Blackmailer!” he exploded at me.
“I am a gentleman,” I told him severely. “Never would I stoop to blackmail! And you have proved that you are not a gentleman whatsoever at all. Only for that reason do I require this surety.” I patted the pocket wherein I held his confession. “If you were a gentleman, this would be merely a gentleman’s agreement, not extortion in any way. As it is, think what you like; nevertheless, you are to place into a bank account for your wife each month the same amount of money that you were paying to have her put away. No less, no more.” I had inquired regarding the sum, which was quite enough for Flossie to support herself in a modest way; it was probably more than Tish made with her typewriter.
His Cadship brightened, reaching almost eagerly for pen and paper, as he had expected me to insist on far worse.
Behind me, a heightened female voice proclaimed, “Great parlous piles of pig dung!”
I stiffened. No, it couldn’t be.
But, I saw plainly as I rose and turned, it was. Enola stood there, imperiously hatted and dressed in her city-of-London best. Next to her, just as formidably arrayed, stood an older woman I did not know. Behind them, near the door, I glimpsed Watson, sheep-faced, not looking at me.
And Enola glared straight past me, skewering the Earl of Dunhench with her stare. “Balderdash! Poppycock!” she expanded. “You cad!” She ordered Caddie, “Give Flossie at least three times that amount per month, or Dame Haskell and I will tell the whole world what you did to your wives. Not only Felicity, but also Myzella.”
Much as I was taken aback by Enola’s appearance on the scene, I retained sufficient presence of mind to pull my attention away from her, turn, and check on the earl lest he throw something. But I need not have concerned myself. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He sat like a great gawking gudgeon, fixated on the two females as if he saw an invading army. But his apprehension seemed focused mainly upon Dame Haskell, who had not said a word. Having given her my usual quick assessment, I saw only a short and rather shapeless old woman with quite a countrified face resembling a withered apple. Yet somehow, in their redoubtable hats, she and Enola seemed to loom like veritable Erinyes, Fates, Furies. Up until that moment I had regarded women’s elaborate headgear as merely silly at best and ridiculous at worst. But in that shadowy moment at Dunhench Hall, I began to perceive it differently.
Dame Haskell tilted her head—and her imposing hat—just a threatening trifle towards the Earl of Dunhench and ordered, “Do it.”
Instantly he took up his pen, and within a few minutes, with surprising celerity, the necessary papers were signed and the first deposit of Felicity’s much-increased stipend turned over to me.
“Now,” I told him, “I require a written promise that you will make no attempt ever to contact, or interfere in any way with, your wife or her sister, Letitia Glover.”
“Now see here—” he began to bluster.
Enola silenced him. “Remember how Tish had you screaming and on the run in your own dining room?” she told him with unholy glee. “I would think you’d be glad to stay as far away as possible from both of the Glover sisters.”
He glowered and sulked, but he wrote the necessary document. With our business finally concluded—although no handshakes were exchanged—Watson and I saw ourselves out, each of us escorting one of the ladies.
Enola took my arm, but once the doors of Dunhench Hall had closed behind us, I had no idea what to say to her. Descending the steps, I remained silent, displeased by her being there, by her interference—I admit it. However, the first moving object that caught my eye drove all such thoughts from my mind. It was an all too familiar prancing yellow horse hitched to Dame Haskell’s awaiting brougham.
“Please tell me that is not Jezebel!” I exclaimed.
“It’s not. It’s Jezebel’s twin sister, Jasmine.” Parting
from me with a grin I could not begin to decipher, Enola rode away with Dame Haskell, their mild-mannered mare trotting sweetly and sedately out of sight.
Watson stood by my side. “Definitely not Jezebel,” he remarked. “It is the merest coincidence, surely, that two mares should look so much alike.” He gave me his most guileless smile, and although I lifted my eyebrows in return, I no longer felt any inclination to reproach him for letting Enola into Dunhench Hall; I knew quite well how persuasive she could be when she wanted her own way.
“Indeed. I find myself quite weary of anything having to do with twins,” I remarked. “Let us go, shall we?”
Once back to London, I took him out to dine, and we drank a toast to a job well done.
Flossie very sensibly used some of her funds to buy tinware and japan it—that is to say, paint flowers and such on it with lacquer, decoratively coating the metal so that it would not corrode—and with her artistic flair she rendered her wares markedly superior to most. Eventually she took a stall in Covent Garden where she sells the tins and trays and candle shades and so forth at a goodly profit, with great success, as I am frequently reminded by Enola, who at least once a week purchases from her a very pretty flowerpot, match holder, or equally useless item, then brings it to my flat and, if she finds me at home, gives it to me. Indeed, on one pretext or another, my sister finds her way often to my flat, where she is quite welcome. However, she has not yet managed to involve herself in another case of mine. Nor do I intend that she should—although, undoubtedly, somehow she will.
Also by Nancy Springer
THE ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERIES
The Case of the Missing Marquess
The Case of the Left-Handed Lady
The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan
Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Page 14