The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4

by Laurie R. King

  “Hello, Uncle John. It was good of you to turn out at this hour.” I kissed his smooth cheek. He’d taken time to shave, which indicated that Holmes had stayed with Veronica himself for some time before asking Watson to report for guard duty. “Where is he?”

  “Holmes? Don’t know. Around somewhere. He’ll probably look in towards morning. Any time now. How have you been, Mary? Did you have a good Christmas? And I missed your birthday, but I have a little something for you, brought it back from Philadelphia. Lovely town, that.”

  “Oh, yes? Er, thanks, and Christmas was fine.” I couldn’t remember Christmas just at that moment. “How is Veronica? Do you know what happened?”

  “Seems to have fallen in front of a train coming into an Underground station. Elephant and Castle, was it? Or Borough? No, the Elephant and Castle station. Concussion, broken arm, lots of scrapes and bruises. Nothing bad, lucky girl. Shockingly easy to happen. Still, Holmes seemed to think it mightn’t have been an accident, so I’m playing nursemaid for a few hours. Her people were here, and a young man with Holmes, but no one else, just the nurses. Until you, of course.”

  “Look, Uncle John, he was right. We can’t take chances. Even . . . even the hospital staff. Keep a close eye, and if anything doesn’t seem right—an unnecessary procedure, an injection—don’t let them do it until you check.”

  “You and Holmes.” He shook his head. “The two of you think I’m new to the game. I’m not about to let a stranger inject her with a lethal dose just because he’s wearing a white coat. Me, of all people! Your Miss Beaconsfield is safe. Now run along and get yourself cleaned up before they catch sight of those boots and throw you out of here.”

  I decided that Holmes was right to trust Watson and that there was nothing I could do for Veronica here. I turned to go, but Watson made that noise beloved of Army colonels—which can best be transcribed as “harrumph”—so I paused.

  “By the way, er, Mary, has Holmes brought up . . . That is, did he say anything to you about, aharrumph, well . . . fairies?”

  “Fairies?” Holmes had many arcane interests, but nursery tales were a new one to me.

  “Yes, you know, fairies, dancing, with wings and . . . you know, wings and things.” He waved his hand vaguely and looked uncomfortable.

  “I haven’t seen a great deal of him lately, but when I did, he never mentioned them. Why should he?”

  “You haven’t seen it, then. It truly was not my fault,” he burst out, “and if I had been consulted, I certainly should have objected. I have already complained strongly to the editors, but they say I have no recourse, since he’s only my agent.”

  I seized on the last word.

  “Are you talking about Doyle? What has he done?”

  He groaned miserably. “I cannot bear to talk about it. Holmes was insufferably rude to me, said I’d ruined his career by getting mixed up with the man, said no one will ever take him seriously again.”

  “I’m certain he meant no such thing, Uncle John. You, of all people, ought to know how he is. He’ll have forgotten it in a week.” Whatever ‘it’ was.

  “It’s been two weeks; he was barely civil when he asked me to come here. Truly,” he pleaded, “there was not a thing I could have done.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” I said soothingly, but if anything, his agitation increased.

  “No! No, you mustn’t. He’s not rational on the subject, believe me, Mary. Say nothing about fairies, or Doyle, or The Strand. Or about me.”

  “Fine, Uncle John, I’ll take care. And don’t worry, it will come out right in the end.”

  Puzzled, I took my leave, and walked out of the hospital without, I think, any obvious haste. Even Watson, who knew me well, could not have guessed that the very sight of a hospital set my flesh to creeping. Even long days of VAD work during the war hadn’t cured me. Such was my haste that the street sweeper outside the hospital had practically to trip me with his broom to catch my attention, despite the fact that I had known he would be there, in some guise or other.

  He did not look at me, but dumped the frayed and much-mended broom into its slot on his trolley and ran a disgusting glove under his nose. I nearly missed his muttered “London Bridge Station, first bench on the right” before he began to cough, great rheumy coughs. I left before the act grew any more graphic.

  The morning paper I bought outside the station had a small notice about Veronica’s accident on a back page. I sat reading my way toward the front, noting the reports from the hunting field (the Prince of Wales had been out with the Warwickshire, and they’d taken three foxes. Brought from a zoo and loosed that morning, I thought sourly). A “Jurywomen’s First Murder Trial” would see those good pioneers in the judicial world locked up for the night, alongside the male jurors, in an hotel in Aylesbury. Someone was using a live relic of the Boer War as a doorstop. The drawing of a light frock with an unlikely hat was entitled “Tailor-made for the Riviera.” I had passed on to the ever-cryptic and often sinister messages of the agony column before a heavy and unpleasantly odorous body dropped beside me. I shook the paper in indignation and slid away, burying my face more deeply into its pages.

  “You’re back sooner than you thought, Holmes. Why aren’t you in Marseilles?”

  “Even I cannot productively interview dead men, Russell. Someone reached the three witnesses before I did.”

  I tried to look at him around my newspaper, which was fluttering uncontrollably in the breeze. I shook it upright in irritation.

  “Is this subterfuge necessary, Holmes? I feel a fool. Next thing, we’ll be establishing passwords.”

  “Perhaps it is not, but earlier there was a watcher at the hospital. He followed Miles Fitzwarren’s taxi—don’t drop the paper, for pity’s sake!—so we shall have to move him, as well.” Holmes’ voice was slurred—from wearing a set of toothcaps, no doubt—and then became more so as he bit into a sandwich (bacon, from the smell of it—how could he chew bacon with false teeth?). “Miss Beaconsfield will be safe for a few days, but Fitzwarren and I shall go to her parents and convince them that she needs to be put into private care. That ought to clear the decks for action.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to the Temple. The answer is there.”

  “What about the police?”

  “What about them?”

  “Shouldn’t they be notified?”

  “What an admirable citizen you can be,” remarked the filthy, unshaven man beside me, around a mouthful of sandwich. “By all means, do go visit your friend Inspector Lestrade. He’d be terribly interested.”

  “For goodness sake, Holmes, be serious.”

  “You may be right,” he said, to my astonishment. “Miss Beaconsfield cannot be moved for at least three or four days, and Watson will be wearing a bit thin by then. May as well put the official force at her bedside. One could only wish the Met weren’t so confoundedly possessive about their crimes. They’ll be very uncooperative when we refuse to divulge where we’ve spirited her away to. Still, it’s no crime to aid a victim or investigate a church, not yet.”

  “What about Miles—” I started to ask, but was interrupted by a loud, meaty voice standing over us.

  “Awlright, you,” said the constable, “these benches aren’t put here for you to eat your breakfast on. If you’re not goin’ in to buy a ticket, move along.” Holmes obediently dropped the remainder of his sandwich into an unspeakable pocket, turned and lifted his hat to me (although I was still wearing my mud-encrusted walking gear), and shambled off to his cart. The PC turned his attention on me, and I hastily folded my newspaper around the thick envelope Holmes had slipped onto the bench, put it into my pocket, and joined the queue of early-morning workgoers to buy my ticket.

  13

  FRIDAY, 14 JANUARY

  Women have in themselves a tickling

  and study of vainglory.

  —JOHN CHRYSOSTOM

  AT THE COST of an apologetic smile and some feeble
explanations, I achieved a room at the Vicissitude, and immediately the door was locked behind me, I took out the envelope Holmes had slipped me and spread it out across the bed. To my astonishment, it proved to contain a positive wealth of disparate information concerning the Temple, with snippets about finances interspersed with histories, some of them quite detailed, of a number of members, including Margery Childe.

  As I read through it, and decided that Holmes could not possibly have assembled the documents himself, I gradually realised that the most interesting thing of all was not the information itself, but the way it was presented: The writing was that of one individual, distinctly a professional clerk; the ink and the paper were both uniform and fresh; the method behind the collection, although at first glance nonexistent, revealed a devious style of investigation I thought I recognised; and the sorts of information—interviews with charwomen, the revealing contents of a dustbin, lengthy periods of following key members about—smelt of an investigator with machinations more subtle, and more extensive, than those of the official police.

  It appeared that for some reason Holmes’ brother Mycroft, whose title of “accountant” for an unspecified governmental agency referred to more than fiscal matters, had become mildly interested in Margery Childe’s church several months earlier. He had begun to account for her movements, her resources, and the people she came into contact with, and when his brother had appealed for information, it was simply a matter of having a clerk copy the file. It would have taken Holmes and me weeks to duplicate the work here, and inevitably we should have missed things.

  My diagnosis of a mild curiosity came not so much from the desultory nature of the information as from the actual gaps, which would never have happened had Mycroft turned his full attention to the question. There was a report of Iris Fitzwarren’s death, for example, but not the details. The full report of the inquest held on Delia Laird’s drowning the previous summer was included, but it only confirmed in greater detail what I had already learned from Veronica. The file contained various unimportant items, such as a mention of Veronica’s flirtation with Socialism her final term at Oxford, but for the most part the information was thought-provoking, even in its incomplete state.

  It was in the collection of financial data that Mycroft had dug deepest, and with the most disturbing results.

  Delia Laird’s “good family” that Ronnie had referred to was also a wealthy one. They were long-established manufacturers from the Midlands, and Delia herself had inherited a sizeable part of her father’s estate when both her brothers were killed in France. She had left all her money to Margery. There was a great deal of money.

  Iris had left less, a matter of ten thousand pounds. And there was a third woman, whose name I had not heard before: Lilian McCarthy. She too was moderately wealthy, she too had died—in a road accident, without witnesses, back in October. It seemed to have been her death that sparked Mycroft’s interest. And she too had left a major part of her possessions to the New Temple in God.

  Aside from that trio of suspicious deaths, however, Mycroft had found nothing concrete. There were rumours, for the most part about Margery herself, but none were substantiated and many were absurd, the sorts of wild accusations a figure like Margery Childe would tend to attract. Even Mycroft, who had never met the woman and who possessed an endless depth of suspicion, particularly when it came to females, had clearly discounted the tales of black rituals and witchcraft. She had no criminal record, she was generally well regarded even by people who detested her message, and she seemed to have solid alibis for the days all three women had died. I was interested to see that Ronnie’s information had been correct, that Margery had indeed been married and widowed. In fact, this was the most devious thing Mycroft had been able to find about her: that she did not talk about having had a husband.

  The Vicissitude had gone silent as my fellow club members dressed and ate and left for the day. With difficulty, I inserted the sheaf of papers back into the envelope and took it with me down the hall to the bath. I didn’t actually think about what I had read, not with the top of my mind, at any rate. Instead I found myself thinking about Holmes as he had given me his brother’s information, about his mania for privacy and his penchant for disguise. I lay in the bath and visualised him scuttling into one of his bolt-holes as an elderly newsboy and popping out dressed as a nun, into another with a street pedlar’s tray of pencils and stationery and out again with mops and buckets, and I wondered, not for the first time, how one went about establishing even a single bolt-hole, where one might come and go, at odd hours and in odd attire, without exciting comment. One could hardly place an advertisement. In addition, a bolt-hole would lack a cook, and one could not expect to receive mail. The number of guests one could take in were also limited.

  My mind wandered through the various and sundry drawbacks of the surreptitious life and, drowsing chin-high in the warm water, I became more and more bogged down in speculation about minor details: What if one needed a garment that was in another bolt-hole? If the building changed hands, did one arrive one evening like a rabbit finding its burrow dug up? And was there any way of rigging a telephone, and what if builders came through the wall in making improvements, or rerouted the electricity and cut one off? It was soporific and pleasant, and it was interrupted by a voice in my inner ear that came with the clarity of a divine pronouncement, the remembrance of the gentle remark made at parting by my solicitor, Mr Arbuthnot senior.

  “You are now a very wealthy young lady, Miss Russell, who unfortunately has had little practical preparation for the experience. Please, if there is anything I or my partners can do to assist you, we should consider it an honour. We all had a great deal of respect for your parents.” He had added, with a less official tone to his voice, “I was very fond of my cousin, your mother.”

  Precisely at ten o’clock, I was on the telephone to his offices. The haughty secretary immediately gave way to the senior partner.

  “Miss Russell, how very good to hear from you,” he asked politely.

  “Mr Arbuthnot, I hadn’t intended to disturb you with my enquiries, but you generously offered assistance the other day, and I need some help.”

  “Yes, Miss Russell?”

  “I need a flat and a maid, and I don’t want to spend days looking and interviewing. It occurred to me that someone in your offices—I shouldn’t want to disturb you personally, but a junior member, even a secretary?—might guide me to some responsible agents.”

  “But of course,” he said, relieved that my demands were no more outlandish than this. “Perhaps I might research the matter a bit and telephone you shortly?”

  I gave him the number of the telephone I was speaking from, thanked him, and rang off. In ten minutes, the instrument rang, and I was listening to Mr Arbuthnot’s smooth tones.

  “Miss Russell, I believe I have just the man for you. His name is Mr Bell. Shall I put him on the line?”

  I agreed, thanked him, and his voice gave way to a brisk young East End voice.

  “Miss Russell?” he began. “The name’s Freddy Bell. You’re looking for a flat and a maid, Mr Arbuthnot said? Can you give me an idea of precisely what you’ll be wanting, where, and how much you want to spend on it, so I can help you?”

  “Yes, certainly. I don’t need anything terribly large, five or six rooms. Plus quarters for servants, of course. The location is important, though. Not Bloomsbury necessarily, but not far away, if you take my meaning.”

  He caught it immediately, and my opinion of Gibson, Arbuthnot, Meyer, and Perowne went up a notch.

  “A place where you can take anyone, no matter their station, without them feeling out of place, that the thing?”

  “Precisely. Impressive, but not depressing.”

  “Right you are, miss. And the servants?”

  “I had thought a maid who can cook the occasional poached egg.”

  “A housekeeper who does hair,” he noted. “And a driver.”

  “I pre
fer to drive myself,” I said firmly.

  “For those occasional times when you need a butler, or chauffeur?” he persisted. There was a short silence.

  “Are these relatives of yours?” There was a longer silence.

  “Miss, I value my position in the firm. I hope to go far. I would not care to jeopardise it for the world.”

  “My apologies, Mr Bell. I shall consider it. And keeping in mind the fact that you value your position, I shall open myself up to being taken advantage of and say that at the moment, price matters much less than speed. I may not retain the flat for long, or the servants, but I require a working establishment quickly, practically overnight, in fact, and I realise that I must pay for that. Now, about the flat. Can you recommend an agency?”

  “I am your agent, Miss Russell. Mr Arbuthnot asked me to do it for you. I shall make some telephone calls now, and if I might call for you this afternoon, I hope to have some flats to show you by then.”

  “So soon? That’s very good. Three o’clock, shall we say? At my club?”

  “The Vicissitude, isn’t it? At three o’clock. Until then, Miss Russell.”

  What an unlikely conversation. Most “very wealthy young ladies” might have been offended at being fobbed off on the firm’s Cockney, and indeed most partnerships kept a pleasant young man with a school tie for the purpose. Gibson, Arbuthnot, et cetera, was more imaginative than I had thought, and, I slowly realised, my mother’s cousin had trusted me not to be misled by the accent. I looked forward to three o’clock.

  The externals, for the moment, I could leave to our Freddy. Closer to home, I should have to take my own appearance in hand; however, I was not exactly certain where to begin. The elves had only four hands between them, and, too, I did not think their hallmark of subtle quality was precisely what I wanted here. An image a shade more brash perhaps; flagrantly expensive, instead of incidentally so—off-the-rack clothing, but top of the line. I went down to interrogate the concierge and manager, but those earnest and sensible ladies had even less of an idea where that sort of clothing was sold than I did. The other guests, however, were more helpful, and I soon set off to conquer the world of London fashion with a list of names and streets in one hand and a chequebook in the other.