Erica, I have given much thought to what I am about to say, and I pray that it will be read in as charitable a mood as it was written. I cannot leave that topic we touched on during my last week with you. I told you that I was worried about your health, but I may not have expressed myself clearly. Erica, there is no longer any reason to feel that mental imbalances are any less deserving of straightforward medical treatment than are physical weaknesses. Even more, perhaps, for the former can easily lead to the latter. Please believe me when I say that I wish the very best for you. You are my sister, my only family, and (to speak honestly) I do not believe that you are yourself.
I know that you feel quite normal, but I could see clearly that you are not. Mental illness is a beast who wanders about inside one, seeking which part he may devour, and that beast is loose inside you now. Please, dear sister, do not let him remain uncaged. I am willing— indeed, I should be happy— to pay for the cost of psychoanalytic treatment and for the cost of care for Mama if necessary during that time.
I will ask a friend to be in touch with you with some names of good doctors. I hope you will at least go to see one, for my sake, if only to obtain a clean bill of health and prove me wrong.
Speaking of health, we are in the midst of an outbreak of dysentery here, as it seems that in my absence no one bothered to educate the new cook on basic sanitation issues. I am writing this in Jerusalem, where I have come to buy the necessary medications.
Please know that I write this letter out of affection and concern for you and that I remain, as always,
Your loving sister,
Dorothy
SIXTEEN
pi
I did not go down to supper that night, though Billy later brought me up a piece of apple tart and some cheese and coffee. I stood at the window and watched the London night fall. The rain stopped abruptly just before dusk, and I thought of Patrick on the farm, praying for some dry days to finish the late harvest.
For a few hours this afternoon, I was so sure of myself, I thought. Where there were clear motive and opportunity, could firm evidence be far behind? And now Holmes tells me the trail lies elsewhere. My efforts since Tuesday have been in vain. Thank God I don't have to go there tomorrow— I don't know how long I can keep it up, knowing there is a good chance that it is futile. But, why the sister and the sister's grandson? The murder was calculated, not merely an act of insane rage. Money, then, that most ubiquitous of motives?
I stood unseeing and rubbed at the dull ache in my right shoulder, my mind an undisciplined welter of unconnected images and phrases. A thin memory wafted up, evoked no doubt by the reference to wall climbing in the letter I had just received. A memory of salt air, and a strong, young body, and the wonder of life opening up. A memory of a girl, not yet a young woman, sitting at the edge of a cliff, tossing pebbles at the rocky beach far below. Her blond hair is tugged out of the long plaits by the wind, and wisps blow into her mouth and across her steel-rimmed glasses. The lean grey-haired man next to her sits quietly, one knee up under his chin, the other dangling carelessly into space.
"Holmes?"
"Yes, Russell."
"What do you think makes a person kill?"
"Self-defence."
"No, I mean murder, not just defending oneself."
"I know what you meant. My answer is, self-defence, always."
The young face squints out across the Channel haze.
"You are saying that all murders are committed because the killer feels that he is being threatened by the other person."
"I should qualify that, I suppose, to admit the occasional unhuman who kills for pleasure or payment, but for the rest, yes. The injunction against the taking of human life is so strong, the only way most people can break it is to convince themselves that their life, their welfare, or the life of their family is menaced by their enemy and that, therefore, the enemy must be removed."
"But, revenge? And money?"
"Subdivisions of self-defence. Revenge returns the killer to a position of self-respect and reestablishes his sense of worth and power in his own eyes. The cousin of revenge is jealousy, anticipating the need for revenge. The other subdivisions are all forms of power— money being the most obvious and the most common." And, his voice added, the least interesting.
"What about the fear of being caught?"
"It acts as a balance to the urge for self-defence. Most people know at least one person whom they could be tempted to do away with, were it not too unpleasantly messy, but for the fear of being caught and having freedom, honour, and perhaps even life itself taken away by the judicial system. Be honest, Russell. If you found yourself in a position where you could rid yourself of another person, and you were absolutely certain that no one would ever even suspect you, would you not be sorely tempted?"
"Oh yes," I said with feeling.
Holmes laughed dryly. "I am glad your aunt could not see your face just then, Russell. I promise you that I won't mention this conversation to the local constable if her body is found one of these days." Holmes, who had never been formally introduced to my aunt, was no fonder of her manipulative ways than I, her orphaned ward.
"I'll remember that. But, Holmes, if all murderers— most murderers— are only acting in self-defence, then how can you condemn them? Any animal has the right to defend itself, doesn't it?"
His response was as unexpected as it was electrifying. My friend, my mentor, turned on me, with a look of such absolute disgust and loathing that I could not breathe, and had I not been frozen to the spot, my body would probably have fallen forward off the cliff just to be free of that awful gaze. His voice was tight with scorn, and it shattered my fragile adolescent attempts at self-assurance.
"For God's sake, Russell, human beings are not animals. For thousands of years, we've fought our way up from being animals, and the veneer is a fragile one at best. Some people forget this, but don't you, Russell, you of all people. Never forget it."
He stood up swiftly and stalked away, and I began to breathe again. After a while, I took myself home, shaken, confused, angry, and feeling about four inches tall.
That night after dinner, I went upstairs early to avoid my aunt's eyes and to think. My room was small, had no view to speak of, and was located on the cold north side of the house, but it had one invaluable feature: The stones of the main chimney stepped up along the outside wall just under my window, so that with the aid of a fine, nearly invisible rope, I could leave the house unseen. I used the escape route rarely, but knowing it was available transformed the room from a prison into a safe haven. I had even mounted a bolt on the door, which I threw now, and I stood with my forehead against the cool painted wood as the confusion and the emptiness welled up in me. Holmes was my only friend, all the family I possessed, and the thought of his disapproval devastated me.
A slight noise came from behind me. I whirled around, my heart in my throat, to see the man himself in the armchair next to the window, leaning forward to replace a book on the bookshelf, his unlit pipe between his teeth. I stared at him. He took the pipe out of his mouth, smiled at me, and spoke in a low voice.
"Good evening, Russell. If you do not wish to have uninvited visitors, you ought to pull the cord up after you."
I found my voice.
"Most people use the front door, for some reason."
"How odd. Would you prefer I went around ..."
"It would seem somewhat anticlimactic. What are you doing here? I'm afraid I can't offer you any refreshment, if you are here because Mrs Hudson has decided to go out on strike."
"What a terrifying thought. No, I am not in need of refreshment. I came to apologise, Russell. My words this afternoon were unnecessarily harsh, and I did not wish you to be disturbed by them."
I turned to tidy an already-neat stack of papers on my desk.
"It is not necessary to apologise," I said. "It was a stupid thing to say, and I deserved your response. I am relieved that you aren't angry with me," I added.
<
br /> "My dear child, it was not stupid. The question of human responsibility is one that every adolescent must ask, or grow up never knowing the answer. The problem is that I forgot you are only sixteen. I often do, you know. It was a valid question, and I treated it as if it were a moral flaw. Please forgive me, and I beg you, do not let it stop you from asking questions in the future. You say what you like, and I shall attempt to avoid acting like an old lion with a toothache. Agreed?"
Embarrassed and relieved, I grinned and stuck out my hand. He stood up and took it.
"Agreed."
"I'll be off, then, before Mrs Hudson sends out the hounds for me. There may be something in your macabre joke after all— this will be the third time in a week I have made her serve me a cold supper. Ah well. Until tomorrow, Russell."
He reached down and pulled up the noiseless window, then threaded his long body out into the darkness.
"Holmes," I called. His head reappeared.
"Yes, Russell."
"Don't come here again," I said, then realised how it must sound. "I mean, while my aunt lives here, I can't— I don't—" I stopped, confused.
He studied me for a moment, and then his hard face was transformed by a smile of such unexpected gentleness that I clamped my jaws hard to block the prickle in my eyes.
"I understand," was all he said, and was gone.
But I never forgot his words on the cliff.
* * *
What had Miss Ruskin possessed that could turn two, perhaps three, human beings into killers? What of hers, what piece of paper or small, flat item could have driven someone to the extremity of running her down with an automobile? If I knew what it was, I would know who. If I knew who, I could deduce what it was. I knew neither.
So I went to bed.
PART FOUR
Sunday, 2 September 1923
[In Nature there are] no arts, no letters, no society, and worst of all continual fear and danger of violent death.
— Thomas Hobbes
SEVENTEEN
rho
Sunday morning began with the richly evocative sound of changes being rung on the bells and the sun streaming through a gap in the curtains, and deteriorated rapidly. For ten whole minutes, I lay happily contemplating the floating dust motes and deciding how best to use a beautiful, warm, free, late-summer Sunday in London. I luxuriously considered the riches available to me. Were I in Oxford there would be no doubt but that I should take to the river with boat, book, and sandwich, but where in London might I find a combination of strenuous work and pointlessness? Perhaps I could take a boat downriver to—
My blissful self-indulgence was broken by a sharp rap on the door, followed by Isabella's equally sharp voice.
"Miss Small? Gennleman downstairs to see you."
"A gentleman? But—" No, surely not Holmes. Who, then? Lestrade? Could something have happened to— Oh God. "Did he give his name?"
"A Colonel something, miss. Come to take you to church."
"To church!" I was absolutely flabbergasted.
"Yes, miss, it bein' Sunday and you new to the area and all, he says. What do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him—" Dear God, of all the things I did not want to spend the morning doing, sitting in a stuffy building and singing muscular Christian hymns was fairly high up on the list. "Tell him I'll be down in ten minutes, would you please? No, better make it fifteen."
Make no mistake— I have nothing against Christian worship. Although I am a Jew, I am hardly a fanatically observant one, and at university I regularly attended church for the sheer beauty of the liturgy and the aesthetic pleasure of a lovely building being used for its intended purpose. However, I had a fairly good idea of where and how the colonel worshipped his God, and it was bound to be worlds removed from evensong at Christ Church. Nonetheless, a job was a job. And, I could always develop a headache or the vapours and return here.
The flowery cotton frock, white gloves, and wide-brimmed straw hat I appeared in seemed to meet with Colonel Edwards's approval, and he rose from his chair in what Isabella called her parlour and greeted me with an oddly formal half bow. He positively sparkled with his Sunday-morning polish, looking jovial and avuncular and nothing at all like the man whose pale rage had actually frightened me two days before.
"It occurred to me this morning, Mary, that I was being remiss in my duty as a neighbour to abandon you to your own resources on Sunday morning. If you've already made your plans, I should be most happy to take you to your own church, but if not ..." His voice trailed off in a question. I did not allow my baser self to take the offered escape.
"I should be delighted to join you, Colonel. I had no plans."
"Good, very good. Come then. We'll be late."
It was precisely as I had envisioned it, a nominally Anglican service conducted in an ugly Victorian monstrosity with no open windows, packed with overdressed enthusiasts, and complete with a sweating, roaring sermon based on an unspecified text but touching on topics ranging from employment problems to women's suffrage to the duties of an imperial power. The sermon was one of the longest I have ever had the misfortune to be subjected to, and as the man could not even manage to cite his biblical references properly, I did not feel it incumbent upon me to listen properly. I let myself sink into a light hypnotic trance, fixed an attentive look on my face, and reviewed irregular verbs. I worked my way through Greek, Hebrew, Latin, German, French, and Italian, and had begun on Spanish when the sermon thundered to its foregone conclusion. We paid our silver, sang a few more thumping hymns, and were given a blessed release.
But not to freedom. The ordeal moved to the next stage, which consisted of the stewed tea and watery coffee prepared by the Mother's Union to accompany their pink- and green-iced biscuits. Everyone knew the colonel, everyone came over to talk with him, and everyone glanced sideways at me before being introduced. I was certain that at any minute some acquaintance would recognise me and all would be lost, but I was spared that. I suppose the circle Holmes and I moved in, if it can be described by that term, had little overlap with that particular church population.
I was positively quivering by the time the colonel bade his farewells to the few remaining parishioners in the church hall, though whether my reaction was one of suppressed hysterical laughter or the urge to commit mass ecclesiasticide, I am still unsure. The colonel, however, was rarely unsure of anything, and he interpreted my withdrawn expression and trembling hands in a way that suited him.
"My dear Mary, how thoughtless of me to make you stand about sipping tea and chattering; you're obviously ready to break your fast. Come, I've made reservations at Simpson's. Now, where is Alex?"
Simpson's! Where even the busboy knew me as Mrs Holmes? That would never do.
"Colonel, I'd really rather not go to a restaurant just now. Do you mind?"
"Oh, well, certainly, my dear." My contradiction took him aback. "What would you like to do?"
"I had thought this morning of going to Kew. I know that half of London will be there, but I should greatly enjoy a walk." And hope that anyone who might normally know me would be put off by my change in dress, manner, and posture. I could always hide behind my hat.
The colonel puzzled at my rebellion for a moment, and then his face cleared with inspiration.
"I have just the thing, my dear girl. Just the thing. Here's the car. Only a bit of a drive is all. Alex, we want Westbury's."
"Very good, sir. We shall need some petrol before the day is through."
"They'll have it there for us."
"Colonel," I inserted, "I must be back by six o'clock. I told a cousin of my mother's that I'd take dinner with him."
"Six, you say? Oh, that's too bad. They do a very pleasant dinner at Westbury's. Perhaps they'll give us a good tea, though. Make yourself comfortable, Mary. We'll be about three-quarters of an hour."
"What, or who, is Westbury's?" I asked.
"Who, definitely. Though I suppose 'what' would not be too far off th
e mark. Westbury is a friend of mine, with the most magnificent house set into grounds by Capability Brown himself. Westbury has a large number of friends, and he and his wife love to entertain and do it very well, too. Unfortunately, Westbury is embarrassingly short of the old folding stuff— the dratted new tax laws, don't you know? So rather than confine themselves to the occasional small party, they hold one every weekend, Friday night to Monday morning."
He nodded to himself as if to admire a clever solution. I had obviously missed a key word somewhere.
"I'm sorry, Colonel, I fail to see how this avoids the expense."
"Oh, well, you see, the servants present each guest with a bill for services, be it afternoon tea or the full weekend with Saturday-night dance."
"Ah, I see. Westbury's is a weekend resort hotel."
"Oh, no!" The colonel was shocked. "The Westburys have guests, all friends. The servants handle the financial side of it, and it's all quite fair, a reasonable bill— they have a superb kitchen, a cook who is totally loyal since Westbury saved his life in the trenches— plus ten percent, of course. I occasionally do wonder if Westbury isn't given some part of it, by some means or another, but they aren't in business, oh my, no. It's just that their friends want to help out, and it's really such a pleasant place, it would be such a pity to open it up to the Americans and have charabancs full of day-trippers pocketing the silver and treading down the flowers, and one doesn't mind doing one's bit to cover costs, don't you know? They're such very nice people. Unfortunate about the money, though. Hmm."
I opened my mouth, shut it, and sat back in the leather and laughed until the tears came into my eyes, in a manner of total abandonment most unsuited to Mary Small. I laughed at the startled eyes of Alex in the mirror and at the Westburys' friends and the tax laws and the total madness of it, and the colonel eyed me uncertainly and then began to chuckle politely, as well. I very nearly told him then who I was, to put an end to the farce, but something stopped the words on my tongue, and I changed what I was going to say.
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