The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4

by Laurie R. King

  If I was right, the key had been found by the still, small daughter of a voice and laid into my dream for me to find. Henry VIII meant nothing to me, but VIII, or base eight, meant a great deal. If human beings had been born with three fingers instead of four opposing their thumbs, we would count by units of eight instead of tens. A one plus a zero would mean eight, 11 would be how we wrote nine, and 20 would be the same as a base ten sixteen. I wrote it out on a piece of paper, the first twenty-six numbers in base eight with the alphabet underneath:

  I was left with the problem of dividing up the twenty-five Roman numerals into numbers whose letter equivalent said something. Although I knew them by heart now, backwards and forwards, I wrote them out too as a visual aid:

  XVXVIIXXIIXIIXXIIXXIVXXXI

  Twenty-five numerals, ones, fives, and tens. Taken at its most straightforward, these yielded a series of Hs, Es, and As, which would be meaningless. My job was to divide that string up so that the letters made sense.

  I began with the first ten numerals, XVXVIIXXII. That last I might be attached to the following X to make nine, but I should keep that possibility in mind. XVXVI, or 10-5-10-5-1, yielded H-E-H-E-A, which, unless she wanted to show her derisive laughter, made no sense. Taking the first XV as 15 gave me MHEA. X-V-XVII = 10, 5, 17 gave HEO, which was better than the other. Higher numbers gave the greatest variation of the alphabet. I tried using the highest possible numbers I could get from the twenty-five digits, which divided into 15, 17, 22, 12, 22, 24, 31. In base ten this had read OQVLVX. The 31 was a problem because there are only twenty-six letters. However, in base eight that yielded M-O-R-J-R-T-Y. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing. My pencil reached out by itself and slowly crossed out the figure 12, substituting 11-1, and there it was. MORIARTY.

  Moriarty could not have done this. The professor-of-mathematics-turned-criminal-mastermind had died at the hands of Sherlock Holmes, hurled over a huge falls in Switzerland nearly thirty years before. Why then was his name here? Was our foe telling us that the purpose behind our persecution was revenge for his death? After nearly three decades? Or was there meant to be a parallel between this case and that of Moriarty and Holmes? I do not know how long I sat there in the Bodleian while the light faded outside, but eventually the little daughter of a voice whispered for one last time, and I heard myself, talking to Holmes in my room on the night it all began. “My maths tutor and I came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours, while we were working with problems in base eight theory.” And the whispery voice of Holmes in my ears: “Professor Moriarty…”

  My maths tutor. She was not the owner of the blonde hairs we had found in the cab; her hair was dark and tinged with grey. However, she had laid Professor Moriarty’s base eight exercises before me on the very day the bomb appeared at my door and, I knew now, three days later had slashed that string of ciphers with great precision into the seats of our cab. My maths tutor, Patricia Donleavy, who had left because of an unexplained illness beginning that same week. My maths tutor, a strong woman, a mind of great subtlety, one of the teachers I had found to learn from, who had shaped me, whose approval I cherished, with whom I had talked about my life, and about Holmes. “Another Moriarty,” Holmes had speculated, and she herself had just confirmed it. I pushed the implications from me. My maths tutor.

  I looked up blankly to see someone standing beside my desk, a desk openly strewn with photographs, calculations, and the translation. It was one of the old library clerks, looking amused. He had the attitude of someone who has waited to be noticed.

  “Sorry, Miss Russell, it’s time to close up.”

  “Already? Heavens, Mr. Douglas, I had no idea. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “No rush, Miss. I have some tidying to do, but I wanted to let you know before you took root in here. I’ll let you out when you come down.”

  As I began hastily to insert the pages back into their envelope, a very unpleasant thought came to me. How many other people had glanced onto the desk during the evening? I knew I had been careful to hide the photographs at first, but at what point had I become so engrossed in the mathematical detective work that I had simply not seen who came past? I seemed to remember two first-year men who had been searching for a book, and an old priest who coughed and blew his nose loudly, but who else? I hoped no one.

  Mr. Douglas let me out with a cheery “’Night, now” and locked the door behind me. The dark courtyard was deserted but for the statue of Thomas Bodley, and I walked quickly through the entrance arch to the Broad, which, conversely, seemed crowded and well-lit, and safe. I walked back to my lodgings, deep in thought. What to do next? Telephone Holmes, and hope no one was listening in? Send him a coded telegram? I doubted I could devise one quickly, a message Holmes could read and Patricia Donleavy could not. If I went to him, could I do so without alerting my watchers? A sudden movement on my part could endanger Holmes. And where was Miss Donleavy? How could I find her, and how could we spring a trap on her now?

  In the midst of all these whirling thoughts I became aware of some other idea niggling gently at the back of my mind. I stopped dead and tried to encourage it to show itself. What was troubling me? Busy street? No, not even so crowded now. The idea of the telephone? No, wait; back up. Not crowded? The watchers! Where is my watcher? And I saw then that I had not been followed since I left the Bodleian, and I knew immediately what it meant that they had been pulled off me. I clapped my hat to my head and ran.

  Mr. Thomas looked up startled at the crashing entrance of a breathless undergraduate into his lodge.

  “Mr. Thomas, get Holmes on the telephone, I have to talk with him; it’s an emergency.” I was grateful that the old man did not pretend he didn’t know the name of his unacknowledged employer, merely saw my face and reached for the telephone.

  I stood tautly, tapping my fingers on the counter, wanting to scream at the slowness of the thing. Connexions were made, exchanges consulted, and then Mr. Thomas’s face became still.

  “I see,” he said, and, “Thank you.” He hung up and looked at me.

  “The telephone lines seem to be down on that side of Eastbourne,” he said. “Some kind of accident on the road, apparently. Can I do anything, Miss?”

  “Yes. You can go around the corner and tell the garage to get my motor out. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” With surprising agility Mr. Thomas ducked out the door, leaving his post unattended, and I pounded off up the stairs. I had the key in my hand before I cleared the last stair, reached for the keyhole, and stopped. There, in the middle of the shiny brass knob, was a black, greasy smudge.

  “Holmes?” I whispered, “Holmes?” and flung open the door.

  17

  Forces Joined

  The enterprise is hopeful, but full of hardship and danger. It would seem to have been conceived by some sovereign intelligence, that was able to divine most of our desires.

  IT’S A GOOD thing there wasn’t another bomb here, Russell. There wouldn’t be much left of you.” It was the old priest from the library, sitting in my chair and peering at me with disapproval over his spectacles.

  “Oh, God, Holmes, it is good to see you.” To this day he swears that I thrust his head between my breasts, but I am quite certain that he was on his feet by the time I reached him. I was reassured that his musculature had not suffered during his weeks of confinement and enforced sloth, and in fact felt distinctly bruised about the rib cage from the force of his arms. He of course denies this.

  “Holmes, Holmes, we can talk again, it’s over, I know who she is, but I thought she had you, my watchers disappeared and your telephone line is out, and I was coming up here to get the revolver and drive down to Sussex, but you’re here, and—”

  Fortunately Holmes interrupted this drivel.

  “Very well, Russell, I am flattered that you seem relieved to see me alive, but could you be a bit clearer please, particularly concerning the telephone line and the watchers?” He reached up t
o reattach his beard, and I stooped to pick up an eyebrow from the floor and absently handed it to him.

  “I’ve been working in Bodley this afternoon—”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Russell, don’t be completely daft. Or has my absence softened your brain?”

  “Oh, of course, you were there. Why didn’t you make yourself known then?”

  “And have a scene like this in the midst of those hallowed halls? I thought you might wish to work there again in the future, so I came here to wait for you. I could also see you were on the edge of something and didn’t want to risk knocking it out of your head. I did blow my nose loudly in your ear, if you remember, but when that failed to get your attention I took the hint and left. What did you find? I could see that you were working on the Roman numerals theory, but without peering too closely I couldn’t see where your thoughts were taking you.”

  “Yes, Holmes, it was a code. Roman numerals in a base eight, not base ten. It spelt Moriarty. And do you know who had me working on base eight three days before the bombs were set?”

  “I do remember, yes, your maths tutor. But how does—”

  “Yes, and she even told me of Moriarty’s exercises, though not directly, of course, just mentioned offhand that she had seen some problems in a book and—”

  “Ah, I see now. Yes, of course.”

  “Of course what?”

  “Your maths tutor is a woman. I might have known.”

  “Didn’t you know? I thought I told you. But she’s not blonde, you see, so—”

  “And where is she now? Kindly quit blithering, Russell. I should greatly enjoy catching this woman if she is so kind as to walk into our trap, so I shouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life dodging bombs and pretending to detest the very mention of your name.”

  “Oh. Yes. But she is. I mean, she withdrew my watchers today while I was in the library. She may have guessed what I was doing, or she may have just decided to go ahead, but the telephone lines to the village are down, so I thought—”

  “Right you were, Russell, and that means we must fly. Can you put on some more sensible clothing? There may be rough work ahead of us.”

  I plunged into the next room and into my young man’s mufti in two minutes flat, and in another thirty seconds had my boots on and the gun and a handful of bullets in my pocket.

  The two of us created quite a sensation clattering down the stairs. The hypochondriac down the hall had just come out of the bathroom when we came running towards her. She screamed and clutched her dressing gown to her chest as we flew past.

  “Men! Two men in the hall!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Di, it’s me,” I shouted ungrammatically.

  She leant over the stairwell with several others to watch our descent. “Mary? But who’s that with you?”

  “An old friend of the family!”

  “But it’s a man!”

  “So I noticed.”

  “But men aren’t allowed in here!” Their protests faded above us.

  “Russell, I must use Mr. Thomas’s telephone—Ah, here he is. Pardon me, Thomas.”

  “I beg your pardon, reverend sir, may I help you? Miss Russell, who is this? Please, sir, what do you want? Sir, the telephone is not for public use. Sir—”

  “Mr. Thomas, is my car ready?” I interrupted while Holmes awaited connexion.

  “What? Ah, yes, Miss, they said they would bring it out for you. Miss, who is this gentleman?”

  “A friend of the family, Mr. Thomas. Dear me, I hear Dianne at the top of the stairs. Do you think you should perhaps see what she wants? You know how highly strung she is. No, Mr. Thomas, you go help her; I’ll show this friend of mine out. Yes, friend of the family. Very old. Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Thomas, I’ll not be back in tonight.”

  “Or tomorrow night,” shouted Holmes. “Come, Russell!”

  The car was warmed up and running at the kerb, and the garage man quickly got out when he saw us coming, then paused with his hand on the door.

  “Is that you, Miss Russell?”

  “Yes, Hugh, thanks a million. Bye.” He winced as I squealed the tyres, but after all, it wasn’t his motorcar. Holmes did more than wince before we were out of Oxford, but I didn’t hit anybody, and only brushed the farm cart slightly. It wasn’t his automobile either, and what do men know about driving?

  When I had settled the Morris down to a slow blur on the black and narrow road out of Oxford, I turned to Holmes.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I say, Russell, do you think—that is, is this the proper speed for this particular road and these—watch the cow—these particular conditions?”

  “Well, I could go a bit faster, if you like, Holmes. I suppose the car would take it.”

  “No, that was not what I had in mind.”

  “Then what—Oh, of course, you want an alternate route. You’re right as usual, Holmes. Reach behind you and get the maps; they’re in that black pouch there. There’s a hand torch in the pocket. Holmes, your eyebrow has fallen off again.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he muttered, and peeled off the rest of the disguise.

  “You make a fine priest, Holmes, very distinguished. Now, those maps start with Oxford and work their way down to Eastbourne. There’s a point in a few miles where we can get off to the left. It’s marked as a farm track. Do you see it?”

  Holmes claims that night’s ride took ten years from his life, but I found it quite exhilarating to be rocketing along unlighted country lanes at high speeds with the man I hadn’t been able to properly speak with openly for so many months. He didn’t seem to find many topics of conversation during those hours, though, so I had to fill in.

  Once, when we slipped by inches through a gap between a hay wagon and a stone wall, losing considerable paint to the latter, Holmes was really quite uncharacteristically silent. After some minutes I asked him if he was feeling well.

  “Russell, if you decide to take up Grand Prix racing, do ask Watson to do your navigating. This is just his métier.”

  “Why, Holmes, do you have doubts about my driving?”

  “No, Russell, I freely admit that when it comes to your driving abilities, I have no doubts whatsoever. The doubts I have are concerned with the other end of our journey. The question of our arrival, for one thing.”

  “And what we shall find when we get there?”

  “That too, but it is perhaps not of such immediate concern. Russell, did you see that tree back there?”

  “Yes, a fine old oak, wasn’t it?”

  “I hope it still is,” he muttered. I laughed merrily. He winced.

  WE SUCCEEDED IN working our way across all the major arteries coming from London on our cross-country flight. Finally we shook them off and straightened out for the last clear run at home. I glanced at Holmes in the pale moonlight.

  “Are you going to tell me how you came to be in Oxford? And what your plans are for the next few hours?”

  “Russell, I really think you ought to slow this machine down. We cannot know when we will come across our opponent’s minions, and we do not wish to attract their attention. They believe you are in Oxford and I am in bed.”

  I allowed the speedometer to show a more sedate speed, which seemed to satisfy him. Hedgerows and farm gates flew past in our head-lamps, but it was still too early for the farmers themselves.

  “I came to Oxford by train, a commonplace method of transport considerably more comfortable than your racing car.”

  “Holmes, it’s only a Morris.”

  “After tonight I doubt the factory would recognise it. At any rate, I regret to inform you that your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has taken a definite turn for the worse. It seems that last week he foolishly allowed himself to take a chill and was soon in bed with pneumonia. He refused to go into hospital; nurses were in attendance around the clock. The doctor came regularly and looked grim when he left. Russell, have you any idea how difficult it is to find a specialist who can both lie a
nd act? Thank God for Mycroft’s connexions.”

  “How have you kept Watson away?”

  “He did come to see me once, last week. It took me two hours to apply the make-up to convince him, and even then I had to refuse to let him examine me. If he had come bouncing out of my cottage like a cat hiding the feathers, can you imagine what that would have done with the trap? The man never could prevaricate. Mycroft had to convince him that if anything were to happen to my dear friend Watson it truly would do me in, so he is back in hiding.”

  “Poor Uncle John. We shall have a lot of explaining to do when this is over.”

  “He has always been most forgiving. But, to continue. I had thought that my grave illness might increase the pressure on the woman and force a move out of her. I was going to speak to you about it when you came down this week, as I knew you should when you got Mrs. Hudson’s weekly letter tomorrow—or, rather, today—but it began to move faster than I had anticipated, so I came to Oxford to consult. Only to find that you in turn were coming here.”

  “What happened to make you come?”

  “You know my hillside watchers? They’ve really become most careless, glints of light from their glasses and lighting cigarettes in the dark. One of Mycroft’s little gifts last month was a high-powered telescope, so I’ve spent a great deal of time behind my bedroom curtains, watching the watchers. Their routine is quite predictable, always the same people at the same times. Then suddenly yesterday, or rather the day before yesterday—Sunday evening it was—as I was watching them watch me, they all disappeared. A man whom I hadn’t seen before came from the back side of the hill, they talked for a few minutes, and then off they went, leaving their equipment behind them. I hadn’t dared hope for something like that, but given the opportunity I wasn’t about to let it go by. I sent old Will up to take a look and bring back what he could find for me. He’s retired, but in his day he was the best, and when he doesn’t want to be seen, a hawk wouldn’t find him.