When I awoke the sun was lower in the sky and Holmes had not moved. I turned awkwardly onto my back to ease my shoulder and looked up at the bowl of the sky. Holmes reached for his pipe and broke the silence.
“I need to go to France and Italy for six weeks. I shall be back before your term begins. Would you care to come with me?”
I lay watching his fingers fill the pipe, tamp down the black shreds of leaf, strike a flame, draw it down into the bowl. The sweet smell of burning tobacco drifted across the hillside. I smiled to myself.
“I believe I shall take up smoking a pipe, Holmes, for the sheer eloquence of the thing.”
He looked at me sharply, and then his face began to relax into the old attitude of humour and intelligence. He nodded, once, as if I had given an answer, and we sat watching the sun change the colour of the sea and sky until the wind came up. Holmes knocked his pipe out against the sole of his shoe, stood up, and reached down to help me rise.
“Let me know when you’re ready for a game of chess, Russell.”
Twenty minutes later we came to his hives, and he went down the row to check them while I stood and watched the last workers come home with their loads of pollen. Holmes came back and we turned towards the cottage.
“I’ll even spot you a piece, Russell.”
“But not a queen?”
“Oh, no, never again. You’re far too good a player for that.”
“We’ll start equal, then.”
“I shall beat you if we do.”
“I don’t think so, Holmes. I really don’t think you will.”
The cottage was warm and filled with light, and smelt of tobacco and sulphur and the food that awaited us.
A
Monstrous
Regiment of
Women
Laurie R. King
A MONSTROUS REGIMENT OF WOMEN. Copyright © 1995 by Laurie R. King. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
King, Laurie R.
A monstrous regiment of women / Laurie R. King.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-42737-5
ISBN-10: 0-312-42737-9
1. Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Russell, Mary (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—England—London—Fiction. 4. London (England)—Fiction.
PS3561.I4813 M66 1995
813'.54—dc20
95021088
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press
First Picador Edition: October 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for Zoe
Editor’s Preface
THE STORY BETWEEN these covers is the second I have resuscitated from the bottom of a tin trunk that I received anonymously some years ago. In my editor’s introduction to the first, which was given the name The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, I admitted that I had no idea why I had been the recipient of the trunk and its contents. They ranged in value from an emerald necklace to a small worn photograph of a thin, tired-looking young man in a WWI army uniform.
There were other intriguing objects as well: The coin with a hole drilled through it, for example, heavily worn on one side and scratched with the name IAN on the other, must surely tell a story; so, too, the ragged shoelace, carefully wound and knotted, and the short stub of a beeswax candle. But the most amazing thing, even for someone like myself who is no particular Sherlock Holmes scholar, are the manuscripts. The Beekeeper’s Apprentice told of the early days of a partnership heretofore unknown to the world: that of young Mary Russell and the middle-aged and long-retired Sherlock Holmes.
These literally are manuscripts, handwritten on various kinds of paper. Some of them were easy enough to decipher, but others, two of them in particular, were damned hard work. This present story was the worst. It looked as if it had been rewritten a dozen or more times, with parts of pages torn away, scraps of others inserted, heavy crosshatching defying all attempts at bringing out the deleted text. This was not, I think, an easy book for Ms. Russell to write.
As I said, I have no idea why this collection was sent to me. I believe, however, that the sender, if not the author herself, may still be alive. Among the letters generated by the publication of The Beekeeper’s Apprentice was an odd and much-travelled postcard, mailed in Utrecht. It was an old card, with a sepia photograph of a stone bridge over a river, a long flat boat with a man standing at one end holding a pole and a woman in Edwardian dress sitting at the other, and three swans. The back was printed with the caption, FOLLY BRIDGE, OXFORD. Written on it, in handwriting similar to that of the manuscripts, was my name and address, and beside that the phrase, “More to follow.”
I certainly hope so.
—Laurie R. King
For who can deny that it is repugnant to nature that the
blind shall be appointed to lead and conduct such as do
see, that the weak, the sick and the impotent shall
nourish and keep the whole and the strong, and, finally,
that the foolish, mad, and frenetic shall govern the
discrete and give counsel to such as be sober of mind?
And such be all women compared to man
in bearing of authority.
—JOHN KNOX (1505–1572)
The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women
(Published in 1558 against Mary Tudor; later applied to Mary Stuart.
Regiment is used in the sense of régime.)
1
SUNDAY, 26 DECEMBER–MONDAY, 27 DECEMBER 1920
Womankind is imprudent and soft or flexible. Imprudent
because she cannot consider with wisdom and reason the
things she hears and sees; and soft she is
because she is easily bowed.
—JOHN CHRYSOSTOM (c. 347–407)
I SAT BACK in my chair, jabbed the cap onto my pen, threw it into the drawer, and abandoned myself to the flood of satisfaction, relief, and anticipation that was let loose by that simple action. The satisfaction was for the essay whose last endnote I had just corrected, the distillation of several months’ hard work and my first effort as a mature scholar: It was a solid piece of work, ringing true and clear on the page. The relief I felt was not for the writing, but for the concomitant fact that, thanks to my preoccupation, I had survived the compulsory Christmas revels, a fête which had reached a fever pitch in this, the last year of my aunt’s control of what she saw as the family purse. The anticipation was for the week of freedom before me, one entire week with neither commitments nor responsibilities, leading up to my twenty-first birthday and all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto. A small but persistent niggle of trepidation tried to make itself known, but I forestalled it by standing up and going to the chest of drawers for clothing.
My aunt was, strictly speaking, Jewish, but she had long ago abandoned her heritage and claimed with all the enthusiasm of a convert the outward forms of cultural Anglicanism. As a result, her idea of Christmas tended heavily toward the Dickensian and Saxe-Gothan. Her final year as my so-called guardian was coincidentally the first year since the Great War ended to see quantities of unrationed sugar, butter, and meat, which meant that the emotional excesses had been compounded by culinary ones. I had begged off most of the revelry, citing the demands of the paper, but with my typewriter fall
en silent, I had no choice but crass and immediate flight. I did not have to think about my choice of goals—I should begin at the cottage of my friend and mentor, my tutor, sparring partner, and comrade-in-arms, Sherlock Holmes. Hence my anticipation. Hence also the trepidation.
In rebellion against the houseful of velvet and silk through which I had moved for what seemed like weeks, I pulled from the wardrobe the most moth-eaten of my long-dead father’s suits and put it on over a deliciously soft and threadbare linen shirt and a heavy Guernsey pullover I had rescued from the mice in the attic. Warm, lined doeskin gloves, my plaits pinned up under an oversized tweed cap, thick scarf, and a pause for thought. Whatever I was going to do for the next three or four days, it would be at a distance from home. I went to the chest of drawers and took out an extra pair of wool stockings, and from a secret niche behind the wainscotting I retrieved a leather pouch, in which I had secreted all the odd notes and coins of unspent gifts and allowances over the last couple of years—a considerable number, I was pleased to see. The pouch went into an inner pocket along with a pencil stub, some folded sheets of paper, and a small book on Rabbi Akiva that I’d been saving for a treat. I took a last look at my refuge, locked the door behind me, and carried my rubber-soled boots to the back door to lace them on.
Although I half-hoped that one of my relatives might hail me, they were all either busy with the games in the parlour or unconscious in a bloated stupor, because the only persons I saw were the red-faced cook and her harassed helper, and they were too busy preparing yet another meal to do more than return my greetings distractedly. I wondered idly how much I was paying them to work on the day a servant traditionally expected to have free, but I shrugged off the thought, put on my boots and the dingy overcoat I kept at the back of the cupboard beneath the stairs, and escaped from the overheated, overcrowded, emotion-laden house into the clear, cold sea air of the Sussex Downs. My breath smoked around me and my feet crunched across patches not yet thawed by the watery sunlight, and by the time I reached Holmes’ cottage five miles away, I felt clean and calm for the first time since leaving Oxford at the end of term.
He was not at home.
Mrs Hudson was there, though. I kissed her affectionately and admired the needlework she was doing in front of the kitchen fire, and teased her about her slack ways on her free days and she tartly informed me that she wore her apron only when she was on duty, and I commented that in that case she must surely wear it over her nightdress, because as far as I could see she was always on duty when Holmes was about, and why didn’t she come and take over my house in seven days’ time and I’d be sure to appreciate her, but she only laughed, knowing I didn’t mean it, and put the kettle on the fire.
He had gone to Town, she said, dressed in a multitude of mismatched layers, two scarfs, and a frayed and filthy silk hat—and did I prefer scones or muffins?
“Are the muffins already made?”
“Oh, there are a few left from yesterday, but I’ll make fresh.”
“On your one day off during the year? You’ll do nothing of the sort. I adore your muffins toasted—you know that—and they’re better the second day, anyway.”
She let herself be persuaded. I went up to Holmes’ room and conducted a judicious search of his chest of drawers and cupboards while she assembled the necessaries. As I expected, he had taken the fingerless gloves he used for driving horses and the tool for prising stones from hoofs; in combination with the hat, it meant he was driving a horsecab. I went back down to the kitchen, humming.
I toasted muffins over the fire and gossiped happily with Mrs Hudson until it was time for me to leave, replete with muffins, butter, jam, anchovy toast, two slices of Christmas cake, and a waxed paper-wrapped parcel in my pocket, in order to catch the 4:43 to London.
I used occasionally to wonder why the otherwise canny folk of the nearby towns, and particularly the stationmasters who sold the tickets, did not remark at the regular appearance of odd characters on their platforms, one old and one young, of either sex, often together. Not until the previous summer had I realised that our disguises were treated as a communal scheme by our villagers, who made it a point of honour never to let slip their suspicions that the scruffy young male farmhand who slouched through the streets might be the same person who, dressed considerably more appropriately in tweed skirt and cloche hat, went off to Oxford during term time and returned to buy tea cakes and spades and the occasional half-pint of bitter from the merchants when she was in residence. I believe that had a reporter from the Evening Standard come to town and offered one hundred pounds for an inside story on the famous detective, the people would have looked at him with that phlegmatic country expression that hides so much and asked politely who he might be meaning.
I digress. When I reached London, the streets were still crowded. I took a taxi (a motor cab, so I hadn’t to look too closely at the driver) to the agency Holmes often used as his supplier when he needed a horse and cab. The owner knew me—at least, he recognised the young man who stood in front of him—and said that, yes, that gentleman (not meaning, of course, a gentleman proper) had indeed shown up for work that day. In fact, he’d shown up twice.
“Twice? You mean he brought the cab back, then?” I was disappointed, and wondered if I ought merely to give up the chase.
“T’orse ’ad an ’ot knee, an’ ’e walked ’er back. ’E was about ter take out anuvver un when ’e ’appened t’see an ol’ ’anson just come in. Took a fancy, ’e did, can’t fink why—’s bloody cold work an’ the pay’s piss-all, ’less you ’appen on t’ odd pair what wants a taste of t’ old days, for a lark. ’Appens, sometimes, come a summer Sunday, or after t’ theatre Sattiday. Night like this ’e’d be bloody lucky t’get a ha’penny over fare.”
With a straight face, I reflected privately on how his colourful language would have faded in the light of the posh young lady I occasionally was.
“So he took the hansom?”
“That ’e did. One of the few what can drive the thing, I’ll give ’im that.” His square face contemplated for a moment this incongruous juxtaposition of skill and madness in the man he knew as Basil Josephs, then he shook his head in wonderment. “’Ad ta give ’im a right bugger of an ’orse, though. Never been on a two-wheeler, ’e ’asn’t, and plug-headed and leather-mouthed to boot. ’Ope old Josephs ’asn’t ’ad any problems,” he said with a magnificent lack of concern, and leant over to hawk and spit delicately into the noisome gutter.
“Well,” I said, “there couldn’t be too many hansoms around, I might spot him tonight. Can you tell me what the horse looks like?”
“Big bay, wide blaze, three stockin’s with t’ off hind dark, nasty eyes, but you won’t see ’em—’e’s got blinkers on,” he rattled off, then added after a moment, “Cab’s number two-ninety-two.” I thanked him with a coin and went a-hunting through the vast, sprawling streets of the great cesspool for a single, worn hansom cab and its driver.
The hunt was not quite so hopeless as it might appear. Unless he were on a case (and Mrs Hudson had thought on the whole that he was not), his choice of clothing and cab suggested entertainment rather than employment, and his idea of entertainment tended more toward London’s east end rather than Piccadilly or St John’s Wood. Still, that left a fair acreage to choose from, and I spent several hours standing under lampposts, craning to see the feet of passing horses (all of them seemed to have blazes and stockings) and fending off friendly overtures from dangerously underdressed young and not-so-young women. Finally, just after midnight, one marvelously informative conversation with such a lady was interrupted by the approaching clop and grind of a trotting horsecab, and a moment later the piercing tones of a familiar voice echoing down the nearly deserted street obviated the need for any further equine examination.
“Annalisa, my dear young thing,” came the voice that was not a shout but which could be heard a mile away on the Downs, “isn’t that child you are trying to entice a bit young, even for y
ou? Look at him—he doesn’t even have a beard yet.”
The lady beside me whirled around to the source of this interruption. I excused myself politely and stepped out into the street to intercept the cab. He had a fare—or rather, two—but he slowed, gathered the reins into his right hand, and reached the other long arm down to me. My disappointed paramour shouted genial insults at Holmes that would have blistered the remaining paint from the woodwork, had they not been deflected by his equally jovial remarks in kind.
The alarming dip of the cab caused the horse to snort and veer sharply, and a startled, moustachioed face appeared behind the cracked glass of the side window, scowling at me. Holmes redirected his tongue’s wrath from the prostitute to the horse and, in the best tradition of London cabbies, cursed the animal soundly, imaginatively, and without a single manifest obscenity. He also more usefully snapped the horse’s head back with one clean jerk on the reins, returning its attention to the job at hand, while continuing to pull me up and shooting a parting volley of affectionate and remarkably familiar remarks at the fading Annalisa. Holmes did so like to immerse himself fully in his rôles, I reflected as I wedged myself into the one-person seat already occupied by the man and his garments.
“Good evening, Holmes,” I greeted him politely.
“Good morning, Russell,” he corrected me, and shook the horse back into a trot.
“Are you on a job, Holmes?” I had known as soon as his arm reached down for me that if case it were, it did not involve the current passengers, or he should merely have waved me off.
The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4 Page 35