The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4

by Laurie R. King

“Your assistant. Fine.”

  “That is correct. Her presence makes no difference with the arrangements, however. Are the Simpsons here?”

  “In the next room. I thought you and I might have a word, before.”

  “Quite. We shall leave the city immediately we have seen them. I assume that the roadblocks are still up but that your men are away from the area, as I specified.”

  “As you asked,” Connor agreed, though the resentment in his voice said clearly that he had been forced to follow direct orders from above and was none too happy about it.

  Holmes looked up sharply, then settled back deliberately into his chair, his long fingers laced across his stained waistcoat and a thin smile on his lips. “Perhaps we need clarify this matter, Chief Inspector. I ‘asked’ for nothing. I certainly did not ‘ask’ that this case be wished upon me. You people approached me, and I only accepted after it had been agreed by all parties that my orders take priority in regards to those few square miles of Welsh countryside. Call them requests if you like, but do not treat them as such. Furthermore, I wish to make clear that Miss Russell here is my official representative, that if she appears without me, any message or ‘request’ is to be honoured, immediately and without cavil. Are we quite in agreement, Chief Inspector?”

  “Nah, Mr. Holmes,” Connor began to bluster, the Welsh rhythm creeping back into his throat, “I can hardly think—”

  “That is eminently clear, young man. Were you to pause for thought you might realise that a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice. If you agree, then we shall speak with the Simpsons and get on with the job. If your answer is ‘no,’ then you may give Miss Russell back her bags, and I in return will hand you back your case. The decision is entirely yours. Personally I should be glad to get back to my experiments and sleep in my own bed. Which shall it be?”

  Cold grey eyes locked with brilliant blue ones, and after a long minute, blue wavered.

  “Have no choice, do I? That woman’d have my head.” He shoved back from the table, and we followed the disgruntled chief inspector through the room’s third door and into his office.

  The two people who looked up at our entrance wore catastrophe on their aristocratic faces, that stretched appearance of human beings who have passed the threshold of terror and exhaustion and can feel only a stunned apprehension of what will come next. Both of them were grey, unkempt, and fragile. The man did not stand when we came in, only looked past us at Connor. The tea on the desk was untouched.

  “Senator, Mrs. Simpson, may I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his assistant, Miss Mary Russell.”

  The senator reared back like the chief mourner at a funeral confronted by a tasteless joke, and Holmes stepped forward quickly.

  “I must apologise for my singular appearance,” he said in his most plummy Oxbridgian. “I thought it best for the sake of your daughter’s safety that I not be seen entering the station, and came in, as it were, through the servant’s entrance. I assure you that Miss Russell’s disguise is every bit as sham as the gold tooth I am wearing.” Simpson’s feathers went down, and he rose to shake Holmes’ hand. Mrs. Simpson, I noticed, seemed blind to what Holmes and I looked like: From the moment Connor spoke his name her haunted eyes had latched onto Holmes like a drowning woman staring at a floating spar and followed his every move as he shifted a chair around to sit directly in front of them. I sat to one side, and Connor went around to take up his normal chair behind the desk, separated by it from the amateur and unconventional happenings before him.

  “Now,” said Holmes briskly, “to business. I have read your statements, seen the photographs, reviewed the physical evidence. There is little purpose served in forcing you to go through it all yet again. Perhaps I might merely state the sequence as I understand it, and you will please correct me if I stray.” He then went over the information gained from the file and the newspapers: the decision to strike off into the hills of Wales with only a tent, the train to Cardiff and the car up into the hinterland, two days of peace, and the third day waking to find the child vanished from her sleeping roll.

  “Did I miss anything?” The two Americans looked at each other, shook their heads. “Very well, I have only two questions. First, why did you come here?”

  “I’m afraid I…insisted,” said Mrs. Simpson. Her fingers were twisting furiously at a delicate lace handkerchief in her lap. “Johnny hasn’t had so much as a day off in nearly two years, and I told him…I told him that if he didn’t take a vacation, I was going to take Jessie and go home.” Her voice broke and in an instant Holmes was before her, with that compassion and understanding for a soul in trouble that was so characteristic of him, yet which for some reason always took one by surprise. This time he went so far as to seize her hand, in order to force her to meet his gaze.

  “Mrs. Simpson, listen to me. This was not an accident,” he said forcibly. “Your daughter was not kidnapped because she just happened to be on that hill at the wrong time. I know kidnappers. Had she not been taken here in Wales, it would have been while out with her nurse at the park, or from her bedroom at home. This was a deliberate, carefully planned crime. It was not your fault.”

  She, of course, broke down completely, and it took copious supplies of handkerchiefs and a judicious application of brandy before we could return to the point.

  “But why here?” Holmes persisted. “How far in advance did you plan it, and who knew?”

  The senator answered. “Because we wanted to get as far from civilisation as we could. London—well, I know I’m not being diplomatic, but London’s a god-awful place: The air stinks; you can’t ever see stars, even with the blackout; it’s always noisy; and you never know when the bombs won’t start up again. Wales seemed about as far from that as a person could get. I arranged for a week off, oh, it must have been the end of May we started planning it, just after that last big bombing raid.”

  “Did anyone suggest this area to you?”

  “Don’t think so. My wife’s family came originally from Aberystwyth, so we knew the country in a general sort of way. It’s hilly like Colorado, where I grew up, no real mountains of course, but we thought it’d be nice to walk into the hills and tent for a few days. Nothing strenuous because Jessie was—because Jessie’s so small. Just someplace quiet and out of the way.”

  “And the arrangements—the equipment, transportation—an automobile dropped you, did it not? and you arranged for it to meet you after five days—notifying the police and newspapers. Who did all that?”

  “My personal assistant. He’s English. I believe his brother knew where to hire the tent and whatnot, but you’d have to ask him for the details.”

  “I have that information for you, Mr. Holmes,” growled Connor from his desk. “You’ll have it before you leave.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector. Now, Senator, that last day. You went for a walk, bought sausages and bread from a farmhouse, cooked and ate them at five o’clock, stayed inside the tent reading after that because it began to rain. You were asleep by eleven and woke at four o’clock to find your daughter missing.”

  “She didn’t go!” Mrs. Simpson broke in. “Jessica didn’t go out of the tent by herself. The dark frightens her; she wouldn’t go outside even for the horses. I know she loved those ponies that wander around wild, but she wouldn’t follow them off, not my Jessie.”

  Holmes looked directly into her shell-shocked features.

  “That brings me to my second question. How did you feel when you woke up the following morning?”

  “Feel?” The senator looked at Holmes with incredulity, and I admit that for an instant I too thought the question mad. “How the hell do you think we felt? Waking up to find no sign of our daughter.”

  Holmes halted him with a pacifying hand.

  “That’s not what I meant. Naturally you felt panic and disorientation, but physically? How did you feel physically?”

  “Perfectly normal, I guess. I don’t remember.” He looked at his wife.

>   “I remember. I felt ill. Thickheaded. The air outside felt so good, it was like breathing champagne.” The great lost eyes stared at Holmes. “Were we drugged?”

  “I think there’s a very good chance. Chief Inspector, was anything done on the sausages?”

  “Analysed, of course. Nothing there in the two that were left, or in the other food. The old couple on the farm seemed harmless. It’s in the report as well.”

  For another half-hour Holmes continued to question both the inspector and the Simpsons, with little result. No known enemies, they’d seen no strangers the day before, the ransom money was being brought in from America, a loan from his father. At the end of it Mr. Simpson was pale and his wife shaking. Holmes thanked them.

  “I deeply regret having put you through this painful ordeal. At this point in an investigation one never knows which small detail will be of vital importance. Russell, have you any questions?”

  “Just one, about the child herself. I’d like to know how you think she’s taking it, Mrs. Simpson. How do you think she’s reacting to having been spirited away by what may well be complete strangers?” I was afraid my question would break her, but oddly enough it did not. She sat upright and looked straight at me for the first time.

  “Jessica is a very self-contained, determined child. She is highly intelligent and does not panic easily. To tell you the truth, assuming she is being treated well, she is probably less upset than her mother is.” A ghost of a smile flickered across her bare face. There were no more questions.

  Connor saw them out and returned with a thick, bound folder.

  “Here’s the full report, everything we’ve found, copies of the prints, interviews with the locals, everything. Most of it you’ve seen already. I imagine you’ll want to take it with you, not stop to read it now.”

  “Yes, I want to be away as soon as possible. Where’s the caravan?”

  “The north end of town, on the road to Caerphilly. Stables run by Gwilhem Andrewes. He’s not what you might call a friend of the police, and I wouldn’t trust him with my back turned, but he’s what you wanted. Shall I have a car take you?”

  “No, I don’t think that would be appropriate treatment for a pair of gipsies, do you? And you’ll have to have a talk with Miss Carter and Sergeant Donaldson. We do not want the whole police force to know that Senator Simpson spent an hour with two arrested gipsies, do we? No, I think we’ll just carry on as if you’ve let us off with a warning, if you’d be so good as to arrange my release. You know where we’ll be; if you need to talk with me, have one of your constables stop me. No one will think twice of a copper rousting a gipsy. But, if he needs to arrest me, have him do it gently. I do promise not to beat up my daughter in railway stations anymore.” Connor hesitated, then forced a laugh. Perhaps only the circumstances had rendered him humourless.

  We rose to take our leave. Connor rose with us, and after a small hesitation, came around the desk and held out his hand to Holmes.

  “There’s sorry I am, Mr. Holmes, for what you found here in my building. I am newly come here, but I say that in explanation, not in excuse.” Holmes took the hand and shook it.

  “I found good men here, Mr. Connor. Young men, it is true, but I think from the look of you they will age quickly.”

  “They will that, Mr. Holmes. Now, I’ll be wishing you Godspeed, and a good hunting to you. And to you, Miss Russell.”

  We were soon out on the street, carrying three bags apiece, working our way up to the outskirts of town, where we soon located Andrewes Stables. Holmes left me in the office and went to find the owner. I cooled my heels by juggling for half an hour, desperate for something to read (though strictly speaking I should be barely literate) until I heard voices outside the door, and in came a shifty, greasy character followed by the marginally less disreputable figure of Holmes, smelling strongly of whisky and flashing his gold tooth. Andrewes leered at me until Holmes distracted him by holding money under his nose.

  “Well, then, Mr. Andrewes, that’s settled. I thanks you for holdin’ my brother’s wagon for me. Here’s what I owes you. Come, Mary, the wagon’s out in the yard.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Todd, you’re a shilling short here.”

  “Ah, terrible sorry, I must a dropped it.” He laboriously counted out three pennies, a ha’penny, and six farthings. “There it is, now we’re quit. Get the bags, girl,” he snarled.

  “Yes, Da’.” I meekly followed him, laden with the four largest bags again, through the muck-slimed yard to the gipsy caravan standing in the back. A rough-coated, heavy-legged horse was being introduced between the traces. I deposited my load and went around to help with the process, blessing Patrick’s tutoring as I did so, and found that though the arrangement of the harness was different from that of a plough or a hay cart, it was logical and quickly mastered. I climbed up beside Holmes on the hard wooden seat. He handed me the reins, his face a blank. I glanced at the two men standing nearby, arranged the thick straps in my hands, and slapped them hard across the broad back in front of me. The horse obligingly leant forward, and we pulled out onto the road north, on the trail of Jessica Simpson.

  6

  A Child Gone from Her Bed

  Let her be restored…and they will receive her with extraordinary, pathetic welcome…. The strange hymn of rejoicing.

  ON THE VERY outskirts of the town Holmes had me pull over and apply the brake.

  “We need to do a thorough check on this equipment, I fear,” he said. “The last time I hired one of these the wheel fell off. It would not be convenient this time. You strip the horse down, take a look under the traces, and I think you’ll find a few sores. Currycomb, rags for padding, and ointment for the sores are in the calico bag.” He disappeared beneath the caravan, and while I brushed and treated the puzzled horse, he tightened bolts and applied grease to dry axles. With the horse back in harness, I went around to see if I might be of help and found his long legs protruding from the back.

  “Need a hand?” I called.

  “No point in both of us looking like mechanics. I’m nearly finished.” A minute passed, silent on my part, grunts and low imprecations on his.

  “Holmes, there’s something I must ask you.”

  “Not just now, Russell.”

  “I need to know. Is my presence…an embarrassment?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I mean it, Holmes. Inspector Connor today all but accused you…me…I just need to know if my presence is inconvenient.”

  “My dear Russell, I hope you don’t flatter yourself that because you talked me into bringing you on this delightful outing, that means I am incapable of refusing you. To my considerable—Oh blast! Give me a rag, would you? Thank you. To my considerable surprise, Russell, you have proven a competent assistant and, furthermore, hold some promise for becoming an invaluable one. It is, I can even say, a new and occasionally remarkable experience to work with a person who inspires, not by vacuum, but by actual contribution. Hand me the large spanner.” His next remarks were punctuated by grunts. “Connor is a fool. What he and his ilk choose to believe is no concern of mine, and thus far it has not seemed to harm you. You cannot help being a female, and I should be something of a fool as well were I to discount your talents merely because of their housing.”

  “I see. I think.”

  “Besides,” he added, his voice muffled now by the undercarriage, “a renowned bachelor such as myself, you probably would be more of an embarrassment were you a boy.”

  There really was no possible response to that statement. In a few minutes, filthy as a miner, Holmes emerged, cleansed himself as well as he was able, and we set off up the road again.

  We wobbled along north in the colourful, remarkably uncomfortable little caravan, walking up the hills whenever the sway of the high wooden seat and the jolts to the base of the spine became too much, which was most of the time. Holmes peppered me with information, badgered me mercilessly into my rôle, criticised and corrected my w
alk and speech and attitude, forced Welsh vocabulary and grammar down my throat, and pontificated between times on the Welsh countryside and its inhabitants. Were it not for the constant awareness of a frightened child’s life and the fraying thread that held it, the outing would have been great sport.

  Up through Glamorgan we walked and rode and walked again, into Gwent and then Powys, turning west now into the hilly greensward that curled up towards the Brecon Beacons, all hill farm and bracken fern, terraces and slag heaps and sheep. The shepherds eyed us with mistrust as we rumbled past, although their thin, black, sharp-eyed, suspicious dogs, lying with bellies pressed to the ground, as alert as so many pessimistic evangelists to snatch back a straying charge, spared us not a glance. As we passed through the villages and hamlets children ran shrieking to the road, and then stood in silent wonder staring up at our red, green, and gold splendour, their fingers in their mouths and their bare feet spattered with mud.

  Wherever we went, we performed. While the children watched, I juggled, pulled colourful scarves from their colourless pockets and ha’pennies from dirty ears, and when we had the attention of their mothers, Holmes would come out of the pub wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pull out his fiddle. I told the fortunes of women who had none, read the cracked lines on their hard palms and whispered vague hints of dark strangers and unexpected wealth, and gave them stronger predictions of healthy children who would support them in their old age. In the evenings when the men were present their wives looked daggers at me, but when their ears were caught by “me Da’s” ready tongue, and when they saw that we were moving on for the night, they forgave me their husbands’ glances and remarks.

  On the second day we passed the police roadblock, receiving only cursory abuse since we were going into the area being guarded, not coming out. On the third day we passed the Simpsons’ camping site, went on a mile, and pulled off into a side track. I cooked our tea, and when Holmes remarked merely that he hadn’t thought it possible to make tinned beans taste undercooked, I took it that my cooking was improving.