In response, a voice spoke from the gloom on my right.
“Russell?”
I jerked and the handkerchief dropped from my hand, lost forever in the Stygian depths of the pavement, but had he been standing nearer than the ten feet or so that separated us, I believe I should have flung my arms about him and kissed him. As it was, I had to content myself with merely grinning—idiotic, considering the ambiguity of my feelings about the man over the past few weeks. But the lift in my heart could not be denied, as if the door to my own house had suddenly opened up before me on the street.
“Damn it, Holmes, how do you do that? I swear you must have psychic powers, or the best conjuring manual in the business.”
I heard his footsteps come up to me as surely as if it had been a clear spring morning, and an impression of his face swam into view.
“Just a brother, with ears in many places. Mycroft reached me an hour ago with the message that the police had a dangerous young woman in custody. I came on the Underground, which is still operating, if slowly. Had you not emerged in another half hour, I should have gone to your rescue, but I thought it might be less complicated were I to let you talk your own way out. You were not injured?”
“Not seriously, either by the man with the knife or by the metropolitan police, thank you. What are you doing back in town? You said yesterday you were going back to Sussex for a few days.”
“I never left, although town has seen nothing of Sherlock Holmes.”
I had a sudden brief vision of Holmes moving crablike through the city, sidling through the background of scenes in first one guise, then another.
“Basil the driver?”
“Some of his cousins, perhaps,” he agreed. “I decided that the experiments awaiting me were of less importance than the business I have here.”
“And I am keeping you from it.”
“You are it.” Before I could consider whether to be warmed or forewarned by this, he went on. “You said you were going up to Oxford for a few days. Have you changed your mind?”
“Holmes, I can’t change my plans. I promised Duncan.”
“Quite. In that case, I shall assume the London end of the investigation until you return. Not, perhaps, inside your Temple, but nearby. Although, come to think of it, they may need a casual workman. Perhaps even a cleaning woman.”
“Holmes, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“No? You may be right. It is, after all, your investigation. Is there some way I can be of service?” he asked politely, as if he might actually consider standing in the wings awaiting an invitation. I nearly laughed.
“At the moment, I fear, I am more in need of skills domestic than investigative. I am cold, Holmes, and I am hungry.” I could not, of course, see his expression, but I did not think he smiled at my unintentionally plaintive words. He just turned and, tucking my right arm through his left one, began to stroll into the curry yellow night.
He did not even demand speech of me, but as we made our way—or rather, as he surefootedly steered me—through what my ears and nose told me were streets punctuated by narrow and unsavoury passageways, he told me a lengthy tale of a long-ago experiment into sensory deprivation—namely, living for eight unbroken weeks as a blind man, wearing completely opaque lenses and led about by the young urchin Billy.
At a conjunction of walls which, if invisible, had a familiar feel in its echoes, Holmes took out a key and the wall again opened. I greeted the Constable politely and the Vernet as an old friend, ate the food Holmes set before me, drank the brandy he pressed into my hand, and allowed myself to be pushed into the bedroom. The door shut behind me, and with neither qualms nor questions, I let the remnants of the elves’ handiwork slither to the floor and sank with immense gratitude beneath the bedclothes, and slept.
16
SATURDAY, 22 JANUARY
Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could.
If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies
we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not
hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we
have no voice, or representation.
—ABIGAIL ADAMS (1774–1818)
I WOKE TO find a valise containing clothing from my flat just inside the door. I scorned the silks for the moment in favour of a dressing gown I found in the wardrobe, so old that the thread had abandoned the quilted cuffs and collar, but quite long enough to cover my extremities. Holmes was seated in front of his fire, a cup at his elbow, a pipe in his hand, a book on his knee.
“Interior domestic,” I remarked. “Portrait of an amateur at rest. What time is it?”
“Nearly ten.”
“Good heavens, how sybaritic of me.”
“Shocking,” he agreed. “Tea or coffee?”
“Is there milk?”
“There is.”
“All the comforts. Tea, and I’ll make it. A scene as picturesque as the one you occupy must not be broken.”
My arm gave off twinges as I reached for pot and canister, but nowhere near so much as I had anticipated. I hadn’t realised Holmes was watching me until he commented.
“The cut is not troublesome, I see.”
“No, happily enough. It burns, of course, but I was lucky.”
“More so than your assailant. He is dead.”
“What? But I didn’t . . . Ah. Murdered.”
“In his hospital bed, at four o’clock this morning. Not by the sword he lived by, I fear, and the hospital declares itself uncertain until the autopsy, but even they are aware that villains rarely drop dead of natural causes under such circumstances. Someone in a hospital coat with a needle or a pillow, no doubt while the constable was away fetching tea.” He was annoyed rather than disturbed.
“Fast work. Inspector Richmond will be livid. Do you want a cup?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll cook your breakfast when you’re ready.”
He was quite the perfect host, producing on cue boiled eggs, toast and marmalade, tinned peaches, and coffee. Beyond that, he was the Sherlock Holmes of old, my friend and compatriot. We had not, I realised, had a great deal of time for simply chatting since I had gone up to Oxford at the beginning of the previous October, and we made up for some of the missed conversation that morning. His monographs and my papers took a solid hour, to say nothing of his bees, his chemical experiments, and the latest developments in forensic pathology, always an exciting topic.
There was actually little need for a conference with Holmes, and as he expressed little interest in what bits of hard information I had gleaned, I began to suspect that the reason for his presence outside the police station had been less the business he had claimed than—what was the alternative? Pleasure?
When eventually I rose to dress, I had forgotten about the rip in my arm and brushed painfully against the back of the chair. Holmes insisted on looking at it then. I hesitated, as beneath the dressing gown, I was wearing only my silk underclothing, but then I thought, Don’t be stupid, Russell, he’s seen you in a lot less than this. Still, I submitted to his ministrations with a heightened awareness of his fingers on my arm, although, for his part, he seemed unaware of a change, simply fitting a clean dressing across the rapidly healing cut as if the arm being serviced were his own.
I told myself firmly that I preferred it this way.
Certainly by the time we left the bolt-hole, we were friends again, which counted for a great deal.
THE OWNER OF the office building where Holmes had established his refuge was an enlightened employer, and the Saturday half day was so scrupulously observed that the place was all but deserted by two in the afternoon. I put a ladder in my stockings climbing out of the wardrobe (no wonder women got in the habit of allowing themselves to be handed in and out of places, with the sorts of clothing we have been forced to wear).
We returned to the station, where I signed the statement for Inspector Richmond and managed to slip away before he could question me further regarding a deat
h I knew nothing about. That task completed, we strolled along to the nearest Lyons for coffee, a cheery place that struck me as an incongruous setting for Holmes until I thought of its anonymity. Outside on the pavement, he seemed oddly reluctant to part.
“You’ll have that arm looked at in a day or two?”
“I said I would, Holmes.”
“You’re certain you don’t want me to . . .”
“Holmes, it’s only a week. Six days. Veronica is safe; I’m already entrenched in the Temple. I don’t want you to dress up as a cleaning woman. As soon as I’ve finished with the presentation, I’ll come back to work.”
“I don’t like it,” he burst out.
“Holmes, hands off! You said yourself, this is my investigation—this side of it, at any rate. See what luck you have with solving the two other deaths. That should be a challenge even for you, deaths classified as accidents months ago. I give you a week, and then we can both tackle the Temple in an all-out effort.”
His narrowed eyes followed a brewer’s dray negotiating a turn into a narrow alleyway. He shook his head.
“I’ve never taken orders, from anyone,” he muttered, almost too low to hear.
“High time then, Holmes,” I pronounced with asperity. “I may be in town Tuesday or Wednesday; otherwise, I’ll see you on Saturday morning at the flat.” I turned and walked away.
I HAD LESS success with Margery, who had regained what small amount of equanimity she had lost and now dismissed the danger. I reasoned, I pled, and finally I lost my temper and shouted at her, but without the slightest effect. She maintained that the attack had been a fluke and insisted she was in no danger; she would not restrict her movements or hire a bodyguard. I charged to my feet and loomed over her.
“I have not to this point considered you a stupid woman, but I am rapidly changing my mind. You obviously don’t care about your own skin, but what about mine? I could have been killed. A quarter of an inch more and I could have lost the strength of my writing hand. What about next time? Who will be with you then? What will she lose? A pretty coat? Or her life? Margery, ask Inspector Richmond to recommend a bodyguard—only for a week or two, until they solve it. Martyrdom is great for the ego, but I personally have always considered it a waste.”
She sat rigid, debating whether or not to have Marie throw me out, but she did hear my words, and after a while she wilted.
“I will think about it, Mary,” she said quietly, and we finished the evening’s lesson with no further furore.
17
SATURDAY, 22 JANUARY–TUESDAY, 1 FEBRUARY
Nature . . . paints them to be weak, frail, impatient,
feeble, and foolish, and experience has declared them to
be unconstant, variable, cruel, and lacking the
spirit of counsel and regiment.
—JOHN KNOX
MOST OF THE passengers left the train in Reading. We sat for a few minutes in the station, carriage doors opening and closing several times, and then the train gave a shudder and we started up. I settled back with my book, eyelids heavy, although I was aware of a not-unpleasant blend of anticipation and apprehension as Friday’s public presentation approached.
Ever since I had met Margery Childe, I had been torn, mentally and physically, and above all spiritually, between the London that she shared with Holmes and my own comfortable Oxford. For nearly four weeks, I seemed to have shuttled back and forth, in my mind and on this train, increasingly aware that a choice was being prepared for me to make. Now, however, whether because of the assertiveness I had shown to Holmes or the irritation I had felt with Margery, I felt considerably distanced from the problems the two of them represented. As the miles clicked by, I even began to reflect that, actually, one could almost look on the entire period since Christmas as a sort of holiday, an interesting and piquant interlude, possessed of an intellectual challenge, picturesque natives, a murder for spice, and the whole business tied up neatly before it threatened to trespass onto real life. I had renewed an old friendship and now cherished the addition of Margery Childe to my circle of acquaintances. Even the prickly state of affairs with Holmes had shown signs that the prickles were losing their more threatening points. Given time, and perhaps distance, that friendship might yet be maintained.
However, it was finished now—intoxicating feminists, doers of Good Deeds, and tutors with disturbingly male characteristics—an episode to be pulled out and remembered with fond amusement in the distant future. But now, Friday: a clear goal, known obstacles, all opponents out in the open, a hard challenge, but one I had been preparing myself for since I entered Oxford at the age of seventeen. Margery Childe, Veronica Beaconsfield, Miles Fitzwarren, and Sherlock Holmes were in a box labelled LONDON, and this short train journey should serve to close the top on it and place it, albeit temporarily, on a shelf.
Truly, honestly, I must never think these things.
Hubris was shattered without warning when my compartment door was calmly opened by a medium-sized man wearing a tweed ulster and an obviously false black beard, a disguise that effectively concealed the lower half of his face but could not hide the eyes. I did not need the gun barrel pointed at my chest to tell me what the man was, for I had seen such eyes before: This was a killer. Worse, there was intelligence there, as well as a distinct gleam of liquid pleasure. I sat very still. He closed the door behind him.
“Miss Russell,” he said, very businesslike. “You have two choices: I can shoot you here and now, or you can swallow a mixture I have with me and become my prisoner for a few days. Obviously, the fact that I have not already used my gun indicates that I prefer the latter; bullets are unimaginative and do distressing things to human flesh, and the noise they make increases my personal risk of capture. That may appeal to you, but I assure you that you will be in no condition to feel satisfaction at my arrest. I suggest you choose the sleeping draught.”
The unreality of his entrance and the melodrama of his words robbed me of speech. I sat gaping at him for a long minute before I found my tongue.
“Who are you?”
“If I told you that, Miss Russell, I could hardly let you free again.”
“Free me? I should drink your poison quietly and save you the trouble?”
“You choose the bullet, then? So very final, that choice. No chance of escape, of subverting or overcoming your gaolers, of changing my mind.” He cocked the gun.
“No. Wait.” It is very difficult to think with the end of a revolver in one’s face. He was, quite clearly, a thug, with a heavy veneer of sophistication over an uneducated accent. Only a man who feared calloused hands spent time at a manicurist’s. Still, there were brains alongside the brutality: not a pleasant combination. “What is in the mixture?”
“I told you: a soporific, standard medical issue, suspended in brandy. It’s a decent brandy, too, if that matters to you. You will smell as if you were drunk, but you will sleep three or four hours, perhaps a little longer, depending on your sensitivity to the drug. You have one minute to decide,” he said, and stood calmly just inside the door of the compartment.
“Why?” I asked desperately.
“We need you out of the way for a bit. We had thought merely to kidnap you, drop a bag over your head or put chloroform to your face, perhaps a needle in a crowd. However, your little demonstration yesterday night made us a bit wary of your skills at defending yourself. It was decided that the only options were those that kept us at a distance from you, while we were in public places where a prolonged struggle might draw attention.”
Lies and truth mixed together. I thought he was telling me the truth about what the mixture contained; I thought he was telling the truth when he spoke of keeping me prisoner; I thought he was lying when he said he would turn me free. I also felt I knew who he was—not that I had set eyes on him before, but Ronnie had described just such a man. Although he did not strike me as “gorgeous” under the circumstances, I had no doubt that this was Margery Childe’s dark, Mediter
ranean gangster. I had never felt so alone.
“Thirty seconds,” he said, without looking at a watch.
Perhaps, if I might get him to come closer . . . I nodded coldly and held out my hand.
His left hand went into an inner pocket and brought out a small decorated silver flask. He did not, however, bring it to me as I’d hoped, but tossed it onto the seat beside me. I put down my book and took up the flask, which was slightly warm from his body heat. I removed the stopper, sniffed it deeply: brandy, and something else. No bitter almonds, at any rate, or any of the other poisons that had an odour. I raised it to my mouth and wetted my tongue—again, no immediate taste of poison, but there was a familiar bitter undertaste, reminiscent of hospitals. I knew the taste; everything in me, body and mind, screamed against swallowing it. The thought of becoming unconscious in the hands of a man like this was intolerable, impossible. But would he use the gun, or was it a bluff? I looked into his eyes, and I knew with a certainty that it was no bluff. To fight in this small compartment would be suicide. Which, then, was it to be: a bullet or the chance of poison? I knew enough about poisons to be certain that the flask did not contain arsenic or strychnine, but that left a hundred others, from aconitine, which would kill with an imperceptible amount, to—
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