The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor

by Laurie R. King

  “Ah, Mary, you’ve got spirit. I like that in a young woman. Yes, you’re a secretary now, but not forever, my dear, not forever.”

  I understood then, in a blinding flash of rage at his complacent, self-satisfied condescension, the deep revulsion a smiling slave feels for the master. It took every last iota of my control to smile wryly, take up my pen with my trembling hands, and move across to my place at the typewriter. At the same time, singing through me alongside the rage and the remnants of a fear I could not justify, was the triumphant sureness that here, at last, as clearly as if he had dictated it, was a motive for the murder of one Dorothy Elizabeth Ruskin.

  I EXCUSED MYSELF from dinner with a headache and insisted that the following evening I had an unbreakable engagement with a cousin. Yes, perhaps Sunday, we should talk about it tomorrow. No, the headache was sure to be gone by morning, and I should be happy to come in tomorrow. No, it was a pleasant evening, the rain had let up, and no doubt the fresh air would help my head. No need for Alex to turn out. I bid good night to Colonel and Mr Edwards.

  I walked the two miles to the boardinghouse through crowded streets, and though my toes hurt, my not entirely fictitious headache had cleared by the time I let myself in the front door. Twice during the walk, I felt the disturbing prickle of someone watching, but when I casually turned to browse in the windows, there were too many people on the streets to enable me to pick out one trailer. Nerves, no doubt, the same nerves that made me overreact to the colonel’s temper tantrum.

  After Isabella’s hearty tea, which was geared more towards the labourer’s appetite than that of an office worker, Billy and I went around the corner for a pint. The pub, considerably more working-class than the Pig and Whistle, was owned by a cousin-in-law of one of Billy’s maternal aunts, and the bitter was brewed on the premises. I poured the dark yeasty liquid down my throat and with one long draught washed away the cloying tastes of sweet sherry, the Edwards household, and Mary Small. I put the glass down with a sigh, realising belatedly that I had broken character. Oh well, even Mary Small was allowed her quirks.

  “So, Billy, what have you been doing with yourself?”

  He answered me quietly, though in the noisy pub, it was hardly necessary.

  “I’m taking up art, miss. Painting.”

  “Really?” I looked at his clean hands. “What medium?”

  “Medium?”

  “Yes, what do you paint with?”

  “Tubes of stuff, oily paint. Makes an ’orrible stink, it does.”

  “What sorts of things are you painting?”

  “Boards with cloth pulled over them, mostly.”

  “Canvases.”

  “That’s right. Actually, we’re neighbours during the day, as well, miss.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes, I have a studio place upstairs over the bookshop, down the street from where you’re working.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Yes, so you see, if you ever needs something during the day, I’m quite often looking out the window.”

  “Of course. Do you have a patron?”

  “A what?”

  “Someone who supports you in your art?”

  “Oh yes, I certainly does. Do. Another half?”

  “Let me pay for this round. By the way, Billy, were you by any chance following me this evening, when you left your studio?”

  “Not followin’, exactly. It may have been I was walkin’ the same way as you.” He stopped, looking sheepish. “Didn’t make a very good job of it, did I?”

  “Oh, on the contrary, I didn’t see you at all. I just felt someone watching me. Glad to know it was you. However, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t trail me about. It makes me jumpy.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Thanks. And Billy? Smear a bit of paint on your hands and clothes tomorrow, would you? Just for effect.”

  He looked down accusingly at his betraying hands, then shook his head. “And here I keep thinkin’ I’m getting better at this kind of thing. Only good for fetchin’ beer, I am.”

  “And following a person. A real artful dodger, you are.”

  He grinned at the compliment and pushed his way through the crowd to the bar, shouting jovially to every third person. A less likely artist it was hard to imagine, but with a palette and the smell of turpentine about him, he would pass a cursory examination. As for any paintings he might produce, well, almost anything passed as art these days. He seemed to be enjoying himself, at any rate.

  Half an hour later, I put down my empty glass.

  “I must be off, Billy, I’m expecting a telephone call.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Stay and have another, Billy. The night’s young.”

  “No, I’ll go.”

  He called good nights and shepherded me to my door.

  That night’s telephone call was again closely guarded. He was ringing from a noisy pub, and though I didn’t exactly shout, I’m sure Isabella’s top floor could hear my every word. We greeted each other, and he asked about my day.

  “Much the same. The son was there today, a very sharp young man, too sharp for his own good. He’ll cut himself one of these days. Wanted to talk about Greek, of all things.”

  “Greek? Why did he think you knew Greek?”

  “That shorthand I learnt in Oxford.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. And the colonel was a wee bit unhappy with me today. Seems he doesn’t like uppity women. Truly doesn’t like them, I mean.”

  “But you disabused him of the notion that you might be one of them?”

  “That I did. He said he liked young women with spirit, but he seemed to think I should marry and have babies.”

  “Did he now?” Laughter bubbled underneath his nonchalance. “And what did you say?”

  “Not a thing. I just went back to my typing.”

  “A ladylike response.”

  “What else could I do? And you, did you finish the wallpaper?”

  “Started hanging it. Luckily, it’s a dark room. She’s a funny old bat, talks your ear off once she gets started.”

  “That’s good. The work goes faster if you can carry on a good conversation. Is she nice?” “Nice” meant a probability of innocence.

  “She seems nice, yes. Don’t know about her sons yet.”

  “No. We’ll talk about it tomorrow night, shall we?”

  “I do hope so. Take care, and Mary? Watch out for those suffragettes.”

  “Ugly sluts, overeducated and badly spoilt. Need to be given some honest work.”

  Little spurts of laughter leaked out of the receiver, and the connexion went dead. A satisfactory conversation, all things considered. I had told him the colonel was violently misogynist, unless the gyn were in the kitchen or nursery (or, presumably, bedroom), and he let me know that Mrs Rogers appeared uninvolved, though the sons were an open question. On top of it all, I had given him something to laugh about, to soften the hard floor of Mrs Rogers’s shed.

  FIFTEEN

  omicron

  THERE WAS NO indication on Saturday morning that before the day ended I would be presented with three major additions to the case, all of them in the space of an hour: a rape attempt, a collection of esoteric publications, and a citation for speeding.

  The morning was long and tedious, involving a systematic renovation of the business files and an equally systematic avoidance of young Mr Edwards’s attentions. Lunch was heavy and alcoholic, and a cold drizzle prevented me from a temporary escape into the grounds. I went back to the study after an hour of male badinage, suffered with gritted teeth, anxious to get through the day so that I could hear what Holmes had found in Cambridgeshire.

  Fortunately, the wine at lunch seemed to have slowed down the roving hands, for although Gerald followed me into his father’s study and watched my every move, he didn’t actually reach for me. The colonel went to his room to rest, and his son talked to me while I sorted files. His monologue
dragged on, covering all the high points of cricket matches and rowing, and I occasionally nodded my head and watched for anything of interest in the files.

  He did it cleverly, I’ll give him that. I stood up to retrieve some files on the other end of the desk, and when I turned back, he was there, his arms clamped around me and his mouth seeking mine.

  I do not know why I reacted so violently. I was in no real danger—I could have laid him out in three simple moves, or broken his neck in four, for that matter. I reacted in part because I was so immersed in the rôle of Miss Small, and even in 1923, few women would fail to react strongly to such an affront. Mostly, however, it was my sheer frustration and rage at the entire situation that erupted. I could feel the urge for his neck in my hands for one brief instant before sanity clamped down, and I considered what to do while dodging his reechy kisses.

  The real danger was not to me and any honour I might possess, but to my rôle. If I were to overwhelm him physically, my time in the Edwards home would come to a sudden end. Mary Small would probably just scream, but aside from the fact that it was difficult to do with his mouth in the way, it would only delay the problem, not solve it. And, there was my pride. I wanted to hurt the slimy creature, but even a quick knee jerk would be out of character. Any injury must be bad enough to stop him, light enough to keep me from losing my position, and must appear completely accidental. All this reflection took about three seconds of grappling, and then my body assumed command.

  I stumbled backwards half a step to put him off balance, with a twist, so he was forced to take a single step (my boy, your breath is foul!), and then leant away—all of them natural movements. I then rose slightly, twisted my head away from him, made certain of my balance and his full preoccupation, and finally swung one heel around hard to knock his feet out from under him while simultaneously giving a sudden stumbling lurch with all my weight behind me, my hip aimed at the sharp corner of the immovable oak desk just behind him. The high and satisfying scream that tore through the room did not come from my throat, and I stepped back to let him sink stiffly to the floor. He was not breathing. He looked quite green. I began to fluster about him before his knees hit the carpet.

  The door burst open and Colonel Edwards was there, hair awry and pulling on his coat. I turned as he came in.

  “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. I don’t know—”

  “What in God’s name is going on? Was that you I heard, or—Gerry? What the devil’s wrong with him?”

  As dear Gerry was somewhat preoccupied with curling into a tight knot and wheezing into a semiconscious state, I took it upon myself to answer, albeit quite incoherently.

  “Oh, Colonel, I don’t know. I just—he was—I fell, you see, and I must have hit his stomach or maybe the desk hit his back, and oh, shouldn’t we call a doctor? He looks like he’s having a fit; maybe he’s dying.” A tortured gasp followed by a deep groan told us that he had finally regained his breath. The colonel knelt beside him, saw no signs of blood, and stood up with narrowed eyes. He looked hard at me, took in the disarray of my hair and blouse, including a popped button, and started to smile grimly.

  “I told him he’d get into trouble one of these days if he didn’t keep his hands to himself. Wouldn’t have thought it’d be you who gave it to him, but you never know.”

  “Gave it—But sir, I didn’t mean to do anything. I just caught my heel on the carpet and tripped. Shouldn’t we ring for a doctor?”

  “Doctor couldn’t help any. He’ll get over it. It’s nothing most men don’t have happen sometime or another. Ice and a whisky should take care of it.”

  “But what—” I stopped. A complete innocence of male anatomical characteristics was surely not to be expected. “You mean I—oh dear. The poor boy.” I knelt down, and Gerald, who had reached the sickly smile stage, smiled sickly up at me. “I’m so very sorry. I’m always so clumsy, and you did so surprise me.”

  “Yes, I imagine he did. Come, Mary, you’ll not get much more accomplished today. Why don’t you have a glass of sherry and then take your work home with you to finish up.”

  “But…we can’t leave him here!”

  “I’m certain he’d be much happier if we did, wouldn’t you, Gerry?” A weak, uncontrolled flap of the hand signalled agreement and dismissal. “I’ll send Alex in with ice and brandy. He’ll help you up.” We left the room, and the colonel began to chuckle. I stopped short and drew an audible breath.

  “Colonel, do you mind if I use the small room for a few minutes? I’m rather…I would like a sherry after that, though.”

  “Certainly, my dear. I’ll be downstairs.”

  I let myself into the large marble bath that lay between the colonel’s study and his bedroom. His steps retreated down the hallway, and I heard him shout for Alex. Next door, the groans had given way to profuse, bitter, and unimaginative cursing. I grinned maliciously, locked the door, and turned on the tap in the basin.

  I had three minutes, perhaps more. I moved swiftly to the other door, the one that opened into the colonel’s private room, and pushed it open on noiseless hinges.

  I did not know what I was looking for, but I was not about to pass up the opportunity. I ran my eyes over the room, inviting them to choose a target.

  It was a large room, totally and unremittingly male: dark wood, undersized bow window, a thick, garish Persian carpet on the polished floor, cabinets—glazed on the top half, panelled below—covering one wall. There were two paintings: one of a man, which looked like a self-portrait by one of Rembrandt’s third-rate students, all heavy moodiness and no technique, and the other a huge, gilt-framed, enthusiastically done nude of a remarkably well-endowed young blond woman who was cowering coyly before a thick, glossy, and lubricious snake. Not perhaps my image of Mother Eve, but the leering expression on the face of the snake was cleverly done, given the lack of facial characteristics to work with.

  The cabinets were unrevealing, containing a variety of trophies and awards, family heirlooms (one assumed) and statuettes, predominantly of females in various stages of undress. One minute passed. The telephone rang, and I heard the colonel’s voice. I pulled open a few of the wooden doors, to find clothing, no apparent hidden compartments, and enough dust to make it obvious that the housekeeper cut a few corners. I walked around the bed to the well-worn armchair that sat next to the window. It was oddly positioned, I thought, almost as if—ah! It was within arm’s reach of a locked cabinet. I dropped next to the door and yanked a pin out of my hair, bent the end of it, and set to work. Two minutes gone. I heard voices downstairs, but not on the stairs yet.

  After an agonising thirty seconds, the lock gave and I pulled the doors open, to find books. Pornography. Damn! I flipped through them quickly, but they were only books, mostly illustrated. I locked the doors again and heard the colonel bidding the caller good-bye. I made to rise, then froze. There, in front of my eyes, was a double row of cheap, well-thumbed pamphlets and paperback booklets. The title that jumped out at me was Emancipation and the Enslavement of the Family. There must have been nearly a hundred of the things, ranging from the inch-thick Cover Their Heads to a four-page Suffragettes: The Devil’s Hands. I pulled out Women’s Suffrage: Against God’s Plan, noted the name and address of the publisher, and slid it back into its place as voices came shockingly loud directly outside the room. I plunged around the bed and closed the bathroom door behind me an instant before the knock came on the hallway door. I turned off the tap and hurried to pat my hair into order and correct the disarray to my person.

  “Are you all right, Mary?”

  “Oh yes, sir, I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  “I have the files you were working on; you needn’t go back into the study. I’ll have Alex take you home; it’s raining very heavily now.”

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t be a minute.”

  Rapid repairs completed, I took several calming breaths and went downstairs to the loathsome and inevitable sherry.

  “There you are, my
dear, drink that. Look, Mary, I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding upstairs. Gerry’s a bit impetuous sometimes.”

  Misunderstanding? Easier to misunderstand the intent of a gun barrel.

  “It’s fine, Colonel, really. Is he going to be all right?”

  “Certainly. A bit sore for a day or two, but perhaps you’ve succeeded in teaching him discretion where I failed.”

  “But I didn’t mean—”

  “No, I realise you didn’t intentionally hurt him. No one could have done that deliberately. Nonetheless…Look, Mary, I’ve just had a telephone call from a friend to invite me to a talk Monday afternoon. Would that be a good day for you to go to Oxford? I know it’s not much warning, and if you would prefer to work on the files before starting on another project, I’ll understand.”

  And leave me alone with Lothario? No thank you.

  “Monday’s a good day. I’ll take an early train. I’m quite looking forward to it.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad about that.” He did look pleased, but something else, as well. Actually, I thought, he was acting oddly. Not remarkably so, just small things, such as the way he was fiddling with his glass, the way he looked at me, reserved, somehow, and appraising. Was it suspicion? No, I thought not. If anything, he seemed more confident and less attentive of me. Polite, but dismissive, as well. My speculations were interrupted by the arrival of Alex with my coat. The colonel held it for me, handed me the file of letters and manuscript, and said that he would see me Tuesday morning. No mention of dinner that night or Sunday. Interesting, very interesting. Just what was it that had changed the man’s attitude towards me, and why?

  Alex, uncommunicative as always, led the way to the garage. The roadster that Holmes had hypothesised was back now in its place, a very fast and slightly dented (along the sides) sleek, black Vauxhall. I exclaimed over it.

  “Yes, miss, it belongs to young Mr Edwards.”

  “It is a beautiful thing. It looks fast, too.”