The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4

by Laurie R. King

  I thought this might be of interest to you.

  Incidentally, heartiest congratulations on the success of your Palestinian episode, no more than I expected from you, but the Minister and the PM are immensely grateful. I suppose that when your name finds its way onto next year’s lists you will wish me to arrange for its removal. This becomes tedious, and I gather that before too long I shall be doing the same for Miss Russell.

  I trust this finds you and your companion well. I anticipate your return (with something of the eager interest of a fox outside a hen-house into which he has seen saunter a cat).

  Mycroft

  I tore my eyes from the intimations of the penultimate paragraph and looked up from the missive.

  “Glasgow Rangers? Buckets of bees?”

  “Cockney rhyming slang. Strangers, with a great deal of money—bees and honey—and the boss is somebody’s ‘trouble and strife.’ Wife. A woman.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, put down the letter, and took up the photographs to lay them out on the low table in front of the sofa, and began to study them carefully. The photographer had taken two full sets of the interior of the cab, the first as it had been originally, the second after I had removed my scraps. With a pang I remembered the pleasure the green silk dress had brought me as I saw a portion of its cuff in one photograph.

  “What was the point of this destruction, Holmes? Why attack the clothes, and not us? Even Billy wasn’t badly hurt, just parked to one side. Do you mind if I open the window a bit?”

  “It is a bit thick in here, isn’t it? That’s good. Better close it in a minute or two, though, we don’t want our voices heard. Why indeed, as you say, might a foe be content with a few clothes and the seat cushions of an old cab? Except to show us that she knew where we were, and that she could as easily have done the same to our bodies as your clothes. And finally, to thumb her nose at me by pulling my own trick of leaving reversed footsteps, and topping it off with Baker Street mud. It was a demonstration, no doubt about that, but was that all? I think not. Look closely at the slashes on the seats, there.” He arranged the last set of photographs so that they overlapped, to place the seats in a continuous line. “Do you see something?”

  I looked at the shredded seats, the cuts that crossed, met at their lower ends, and ran parallel. I laid my spectacles to one side and squinted hard at the clear black and grey images. “Is there a pattern?” I asked, hearing the excitement in my voice. “Hand me that pencil and pad, would you, Holmes?” The first two cuts crossed each other in the middle, and I wrote an X on my pad. The next two met at the lower edge of the seat, a V. After some minutes and discussion with Holmes, I had a string of Xs, Vs, and straight lines on my pad that looked like this:

  XVXVIIXXIIXIIXXIIXXIVXXXI

  “Roman numerals?” I wondered. “Does this mean anything to you?” I asked Holmes, whose steely eyes were studying the page intently. I could see that it did not, so I put on my glasses and sat back.

  “A string of twenty-five Roman numbers. Do they add up to something?” I did the simple sum in my head, ten plus five plus ten and so on. “One hundred forty-five, if they make up twenty-five separate numbers. Of course, they could say fifteen, seventeen, twenty-two, twelve, and so forth.”

  “What would that come to?”

  “There won’t be much difference, because of the nature of Roman numerals, but it comes to, let’s see—143.”

  “Interesting. And the number between them is 144, a dozen dozen.”

  “And the two sums added together make 288, which is the number of dollars my father had in his desk when he died. Holmes, these numbers games could go on forever.”

  “What if we translated the numbers into letters, one of the more simplistic codes?”

  We scribbled and thought, but came up with nothing. Reading it as 15, 17, 22, 12, 22, 24, 20, 11 yielded gibberish as OQVLVXTK, and no other combination made any sense either. I finally pushed it away.

  “There are just too many variables, Holmes. Without a key we can’t even know if it’s a word, or the combination to a safe, or a map coordinate, or—”

  “Yet she left it for us to find. Where could she have put the key?”

  “Judging from her previous style, I should say that the key is both hidden and completely obvious, which is always the most effective means of hiding something.”

  It was very late now, and my eyes felt gritty. I picked up the conversation where we had left it before the slash pattern had appeared.

  “I agree that she was demonstrating her cleverness. She won a number of points in that round. I wonder what her next move might have been had we not been spirited away by Mycroft. Cutting off Watson’s nose to show that she could have taken his head?”

  “More to the point, what will her move be now, when we walk openly home? For how long will her wariness last before she thinks it is perhaps not a trap, that we truly are divided and the trauma of it has made me an empty wreck? Mere extermination is not what she wants, apparently. She wishes to ruin me first. Very well, we’ll give her that, and wait for her to move.”

  He carefully inserted the papers and photographs back into their oversized envelope and stood looking down at me.

  “Well, Russell. Thank you for showing me Palestine. It may be a long, long time before we are able to speak freely. I shall say good night, and good-bye, and we will meet when the prey takes the bait and comes into our trap.” His lips gently brushed my forehead, and he was gone.

  THUS BEGAN OUR act of alienation. Holmes and I had only a few days to perfect our rôles of the two friends now turned against each other, the father and daughter alienated, the near-lovers become bitterest, most implacable of enemies. It takes time to develop a part, as all actors know, time and an exploration of the nuances and quirks of the person being played. We had to be word-perfect before we reached England for the trap to be effective. We had to assume that we were being watched at every moment, and a slight slip of affection could be disastrous.

  It is a truism of the actor’s art that one can play only oneself on the stage. To be fully effective the actor must have a sympathy for the character’s motives, however unsympathetic they might appear to an outsider. To a large extent, the actor must become the character if the act is to be effective, and that is what Holmes and I did. From the time we rose in the morning we did not play enemies, we were enemies. When we met it was with icy politeness that rapidly disintegrated into vicious attacks. I grew into the rôle of the young student who had come to view her old teacher with withering scorn. Holmes responded with malevolent counterattacks and the full strength of his razor-sharp sarcasm. We cut each other with our tongues and bled and crawled off to the sanctuary of our individual cabins and came back for more.

  The first day was technically difficult, keeping up the persona in front of my real face, continually thinking, What might I do at this point if I really were this way? and How ought I respond to that? It was exhausting, and I went to bed early. The second day it quickly became easier. Holmes never looked out from behind his mask, and mine too was now firmly in place. I went to my room early to read but found it difficult to concentrate. My mind wandered off. What on earth was I doing here? I ought to be in Oxford, not on this boat. I had no business taking off this time of year. Even basic work was impossible in this battleground. Perhaps the captain might let me off in France and I could take the train home. Probably be faster, and certainly more restful. I wonder—

  I jerked to attention, horrified. These were not the thoughts of an actor; this was the character thinking. I had become, for a moment, the person I had played throughout the day. I sat appalled at the implications: If this could happen after less than forty-eight hours of play-acting, what would happen after days and weeks of it? Would I be able to shut it off at will? Or, my God, would it become a habit too firm to break? “For what will it profit a man, if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life?” Wouldn’t a nice clean bomb be better than losing Holmes? A malevolent
voice seemed to murmur beneath the engine throb.

  “If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my right hand lose its cunning.” I went out into the common room for some brandy, and Holmes passed me silently as he went into his room. I stood in the dark, looking out at the black sea until the glass was empty, and went back to the hallway. Holmes had left his door slightly ajar, and my steps slowed. I stopped and let my shoulder and head come to rest against the wall, not looking in at the segment of his room that was available to my eyes.

  “Holmes?”

  “Yes, Russell.”

  “Holmes, when you have acted a part for some days, do you find it hard to drop it?”

  “It can be difficult to shake off a part, yes.” His voice was calm, conversational. “When I spent a week working on the docks on a case many years ago, the day after the man was arrested I dressed and went out at the usual time, and walked clear down to Oxford Street before I came to myself. Yes, a part can become habitual. Had you not realised that risk?”

  “Not completely.”

  “You are doing well, Russell. It becomes easier as time passes.”

  “That is precisely what I am afraid of, Holmes,” I whispered. “How long before the part becomes so natural that it is no longer a part? How am I to maintain my objectivity, to watch for signs that the opponent is opening herself up, if I become the part?”

  “When the time comes, you will do it. I have faith in you, Russ.”

  His easy words brought me an element of stability, calm within the storm. “I am glad you have faith in me, Holmes,” I said drily. “I bow to your superior experience.”

  I could feel his smile through the door.

  “I shall send you messages from time to time while you are up at Oxford. Obvious ones, for the most part, though if I have the opportunity to send a secure one, I shall do so. You, of course, will write occasionally to Mrs. Hudson when she returns from Australia, and she will leave the letters lying about pointedly.”

  “You think it will be safe to allow her to return to Sussex?”

  “I do not know how I should keep her away. Mycroft had practically to kidnap her to get her on the ship in the first place; Mrs. Hudson is a very determined woman. No, we shall simply have to take on one or two extra servants. Mycroft’s agents, of course.”

  “Poor Mrs. Hudson. She’ll be so upset when she finds we’ve quarrelled.”

  “Yes. But Mycroft will be a safe liaison. There’s no hiding anything from Mycroft. I fear our alienation will also cause considerable pain to Dr. Watson. I can only hope it will not wind on for too many months.”

  “You think it could go on so long?” Oh, God.

  “I believe our foe is a careful and patient individual. She will not act precipitously.”

  “You are right. As usual.”

  “Your aunt will be pleased, I fear. Your farm, of course, will necessitate the occasional trip to Sussex.”

  “No doubt it will.” I thought for a moment. “Holmes, an automobile might come of considerable use in this adventure. However, I can no longer borrow money from Mrs. Hudson, and I doubt that my aunt would approve the expenditure. My allowance goes up this year, but not enough for that.”

  “I think Mycroft should be of help there, in persuading your trustees and the University offices that an automobile is a necessary item. You may even come to my farm once or twice, in attempts at reconciliation.”

  “Which will, of course, fail.”

  “Of course.” I imagined the quick smile flitting across his features. “This is a good trap we’re constructing, Russell, strong and simple. It only needs patience, patience and alertness to the prey’s movements. We will catch her, Russell. She’s no match for us. Go to sleep now.”

  “I believe I will. Thank you, Holmes.”

  I did go to bed, and eventually to sleep, but in the still hours that are neither night nor morning the Dream came for me, with a greater force than it had had in years. I came up from it to find myself huddled on the floor with my arms over my head, a shriek of complete hopelessness and terror echoing off the walls. All the old symptoms washed over me: cold, copious sweat, sour vomit in the back of my throat, heart bursting, lungs heaving. Then the door was flung open and Holmes was kneeling beside me with his strong hands on my shoulders.

  “Russell, what is it?”

  “Go away, go away, leave me alone.” My voice was harsh and hurt my throat. I stood up and nearly fell, and his hands helped me to my bed. I sat with my head in my hands, pushing the dream back into its box, my body slowing. Over the pounding in my veins I was peripherally aware that Holmes was still beside me, tying the belt of his dressing gown, smoothing his hair back from his temples with both hands, and drilling the back of my skull with his gaze. Eventually he left off and went out of the room, but he did not close the door, and was back after a minute with a glass in one hand and his tobacco pouch in the other. He held out the glass.

  “Drink this.”

  To my surprise it was not brandy, but water, cool, sweet water, sweeter than honey wine. I put the empty glass on the table with hands that were almost steady, and shivered from the drying sweat.

  “Thank you, Holmes. Sorry I woke you. Again. You can go back to bed now.”

  “Pull the bedclothes over you, Russell; you’ll take cold. I’ll just sit for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  He brought a chair around to the head of my bed and sat down, crossed his pyjama-clad legs, and took out his pipe, and I curled up and listened to the old, familiar sounds of a pipe being filled and lit: the scrape and tap as he cleaned the bowl, the rustle of the tobacco pouch, the rattle of the matchbox, the quick scratch and flare of the match lighting, the suck of air drawing, and several quick puffs of his lips around the stem. The sharp smell of sulphur and the sweet wash of pipe tobacco filled the air, and Holmes sat and smoked, unobtrusively, undemandingly.

  My wits gradually returned from the realm of Pan and, as they had a thousand times before, turned to the Dream. This upwelling of my subconscious had driven me to the works of Freud and Jung and the others of the European schools of psychoanalytic theory—countless hours of self-hypnosis, self-analysis, dream symbolism. I had analysed it, dissected it, thrown the full force of my mind against it. I even tried ignoring it. No matter what the approach, eventually there came another night when I was flung again into the hell and the agony of the thing.

  The one thing I refused to try was telling someone about it. One morning my aunt had become too persistent in her questions about my “nightmares,” and I had hit her in the face and knocked her to the floor. My neighbours in lodgings had commented on my nocturnal disturbances, and I had passed it off as studying too hard. The thought of telling someone, and having to see their face afterward, had always clamped my mouth down on the words, but now, to my exquisite horror and relief, I heard the words trickle from my mouth. Slowly at first, inexorably, they pushed themselves into the dim room.

  “My brother—my brother was a genius. Reading by three, complex geometry by five. His potential was huge. He was nine when he died, five years younger than I. And I, I—killed him.” My harsh voice faded, leaving the low sound of engines and the burble of the pipe. No reaction from Holmes. I turned onto my back and put my arm across my eyes, as if the hall light hurt them, but in truth it was that I couldn’t bear to see his face as I told him this.

  “I have this—this Dream. Only it’s not a dream, it’s a memory, every minute, tedious, horrible detail of it. We were in a car, you see, driving along the coast south of San Francisco. My father was going into the Army the following week. He had been rejected because of his bad leg, but finally he persuaded them to put him into—” I laughed bitterly. “You could guess this, I think—into Intelligence work. We were taking a last family weekend at our cabin in the woods, but I was—being difficult, as my mother put it. I was fourteen, and had wanted to go with some school friends to Yosemite, but had to go to the cabin instead. My brother was being particularly beastly
, my mother was upset over Dad leaving, and Dad was distracted by business and the Army. A merry company, you see. Well, the road is bad there, and at several places it runs along the top of some cliffs over the Pacific. A drop of a couple hundred feet. To make a long story short, we were just coming up to one of these, with a blind corner to the left at the top of it, when I started screaming at my brother. My father turned around at the wheel to tell us to shut up, and the car drifted across the centre. There was another car coming around the corner, going very fast, and it hit us. Our car spun around, I was thrown out, and the last I saw was the outline of my brother’s head through the back window as the car went over the side. Dad had just filled the petrol tank. There was nothing left of them. Any of them. They scraped together enough pieces for the funeral.” Silence.

  How could I possibly have thought it right to tell Holmes this? I was empty, dead, the world was filled with a howling wind and the gnashing of teeth. The Dream had escaped my control, my past had freed itself to destroy me and the (yes, I would admit it) love (the thin wail of my mother’s voice as the car went over) I had for this man.

  “I went crazy for a while, kept having to be restrained from throwing myself off things. I finally came across a very good psychiatrist. She told me that the only way I could make up for it was not to kill myself, but to make myself worth something. In effect, though she didn’t say it so simply, to be my brother’s stand-in. It was an effective piece of therapy, in a way. I no longer tried to jump from high places. But the Dream started that same week.” Holmes cleared his throat.

  “How often does it come?”

  “Not often now. I haven’t had it since we were in Wales. I thought it was finally gone. It appears not. I’ve never told anyone about it. Ever.” I lay there and thought of the time, just before I left California, that Dr. Ginzberg drove me down to the cliffs, and I had seen the sparkle of glass and the scorch marks below, and how tempting and welcoming and cool the waves looked as they pounded themselves to froth on the rocks far below.