How the mighty had fallen.
The match-flame had travelled down the stick until it burned Sherlock’s fingers. Dropping his light, he said something unrepeatable, and from the darkness above his head I told him, “Shame on you.”
Even as the match went out, I saw him startle in a most satisfactory manner. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice reaching skyward.
“Shush,” I whispered, glee running away and terror taking its place. “You’ll rouse the mastiff.”
“Who is it?” His tone softened, yet sharpened. “Bridget?”
“Do I sound like an Irishwoman?” My wits had begun to rally, and mental functions to take hold. “What have you done with the mastiff?”
“Fed it chopped beef à la bromide.” He lit another match and held it high, trying to see me—yet he did not rise to his feet. I saw that he had taken his right boot off, and his foot stuck out before him, quite swollen within its stocking, either sprained or broken.
Instantly overrun by concern, I forgot all else. “You’re hurt!”
At the same time he yelped, “Enola?” Apparently he recognised, if not my shadowy face, then my unfortunately distinctive voice.
“Do hush. I’ll get you out.” Already unfastening the carpet-bag from my waist, I changed my mind and reached into my bosom first.
Sherlock demanded, “Enola, what in Heaven’s name—you pop up everywhere. What—”
“One might well say the same thing of you and Mycroft, always and forever in my way. Here.” I dropped a generous length of bandaging on his lap. “Wrap your foot in that. Wait.” I let a little flask of brandy fall on top of the bandaging. “Drink some, for the pain. Then bandage your ankle as tightly as you can. Here are scissors—”
“No, thank you, my penknife will serve. I need nothing more, I assure you.” His light had once again gone out, and I could not see his face, but I heard a tremor of laughter and, dare I say it, a kind of warmth in his voice. “Unless perhaps you have a ladder in your pocket?”
“Indeed I do.” Or at least I had a rope in my carpet-bag, in order to rescue—good heavens, whom should I attempt to save first, my brother or the unfortunate Cecily? I longed to linger with Sherlock, for I felt that, given even a brief acquaintance, I could confide in him as I never could in Mycroft; I wanted to explain to Sherlock why I had run away—because I could not be corseted, either literally or figuratively, into any conventional feminine mould—and I wanted to assure him of my regard, and most especially I wanted to ask him whether he had found any communication from Mum to me when he had gone back to search her rooms at Ferndell. Never again might I have such an opportunity for conversation with my brother, unafraid that he might seize me—yet I could have wept with vexation, for there was no time! Not while Lady Cecily remained in such horrifying difficulties.
Thrusting all other thoughts aside, therefore, I demanded, “Lady Theodora hired you?”
Sherlock blurted, “How on Earth do you know of this matter?”
His unguarded reply confirmed my hope: Lady Theodora opposed the forced marriage of her daughter. “I knew it!” I cried. “I knew she would never—no such loving mother would ever—” But a fearsome thought struck me. “How was she able to approach you?”
“You seem to know all about it,” Sherlock grumbled from the depths of the ha-ha, his breath seething between his teeth as he yanked at the bandaging, binding his hurt foot. “What do you think?”
“I think Sir Eustace has her confined to her chambers. So how did she manage—”
“Draw your own conclusions.”
“Doing so, one must conclude that Sir Eustace has separated mother and daughter, imprisoning the latter here, judging by your presence—”
“And yours.”
“Was something arranged? Is Lady Cecily expecting your visit tonight?”
Crankily he shot back, “Is she expecting yours?”
I pressed my lips together, puffing with exasperation. “Just tell me! Was something arranged?”
Silence for a moment.
Then, “No,” he admitted. “I’ve found no way to communicate with her. Enola—”
“But you’re sure she’s held here.”
“No secret of that. They take her out in the landau for a daily airing.”
“Odd,” I murmured.
“Yes, I also think it odd that they should risk her escape for the sake of show. But perhaps a restraint of some sort, hidden beneath her clothing, binds her to the seat.”
“Perhaps, but why on Earth does she not scream for help?”
Sherlock retorted, “Good heavens, Enola, the unfortunate girl is a baronet’s daughter, not such a hoyden as you.”
Hoyden? Was that what he called a free-thinking, independent female? As for Cecily, if he thought her meek and mannerly, he did not know her as well as I did.
“My dear brother, I will allow your insult and your ignorance to pass,” I told him pleasantly. “As you are here to free Lady Cecily, evidently, I suggest we join forces, if you will promise me upon your honour not to attempt any infringement upon my liberty.”
“Join—are you out of your minuscule mind?”
Stung, I shot back, “Am I the one in the ditch with a lamed foot?”
I fear my tone rather inflamed him. “Whatever my mischance, your place is not here. Go home, girl, where you belong.”
A comment quite unworthy of him, I thought, and not deserving of a reply. Giving none, I turned my attention to opening my carpet-bag.
“For the matter of that, Enola, do you have a home?” he continued in heightened tones. “Where are you living all this time, and how?”
Ignoring him, I extracted the rope from the carpet-bag while I mentally enumerated the latter’s remaining contents: curling-irons to drive into the ground were it necessary to fasten the rope to something, a cast-iron meat tenderiser by way of club, a truncated croquet mallet, and some other tools. I hefted the bag to be sure: yes. Weight enough.
“Does any respectable and responsible older person have a care for you?”
Closing the carpet-bag, I tied one end of the rope firmly to its handle. The rest of the rope I laid out upon the ground until I was sure I had provided sufficient slack, and then I tucked a loop of its remaining length into my belt in such a manner that I would not lose it, yet could yank it free at a moment’s notice.
“If not, then you cannot possibly be safe; any female dwelling alone is a magnet for crime.”
Turning my back on him, I rose, and with rope trailing behind me like a tail—two tails, actually, the one to the carpet-bag and the other loose end—I strode to the nearest tree, embraced its trunk, and began to make my way upward.
I strained my every nerve and fiber in order to do so. The beech is the most difficult of all trees to climb, for the trunk is straight and exceedingly tall with smooth silver bark as glossy as satin. Only the utmost necessity—and, I admit, a great deal of petty pride; I would show the great Sherlock Holmes who needed to have a care for whom—only extremity drove me to attempt my ascent.
Gritting my teeth, wasting no breath on naughty words that came to mind, I crept upward, clinging, from time to time slipping back despite my best efforts, fervidly wishing that the blood of Darwin’s monkeys ran a bit stronger in my veins as I grappled and clawed with hands rubbed raw, tried to grip with the soles of my boots—if only I could grasp with my feet, like a chimpanzee! Still, I persevered, every portion of my personage stinging with exertion, until I attained a height of perhaps twenty feet above the ground, sufficient so that I could look down on the ditch, and although I could not see into it, I felt sure that my brother, looking up, could see me—
And just as I triumphantly thought this, my head struck something.
Metal.
What in the name of the devil—
Diabolical, indeed, I discovered as I looked up to study the obstacle. Just below the point where the beech trunk began to branch, someone had placed a steel collar, the sort o
f thing one might use to try to keep squirrels off a bird-feeder, only much larger of course.
No wonder any villains in residence here felt safe allowing copper beeches to overhang their sunk fence. I could climb no farther.
And I fear I then whispered something quite unforgivable, for I had hoped to gain the security of the branches before I deployed the rope.
Ye gods. Ye gods in dirty breeches. Ye gods with great hopping fleas!
But I refused to admit defeat. Wasting no more breath on useless commentary, gripping hard to the beech trunk with three of my limbs, with the fourth I took the rope from my belt and began to pull up the end attached to the carpet-bag.
I required the assistance of my teeth to hold the rope each time I shifted my hand. If I should lose my grip—the consequences were barely thinkable. Meanwhile, all my limbs had begun to tremble and weaken, placing me in extreme danger. It seemed an eternity before I had it—the carpet-bag—swinging within a few feet of me. I knew I could not cling to the beech trunk much longer without falling; I needed to take aim and throw without fail, for I might have no second chance.
Eyeing a sizeable bough that jutted in the proper direction, I swung my arm so that the bag described an arc in the air, and swung once again, then once more to make sure as I let go—
The carpet-bag, as clumsy a fowl as ever flew, blundered aloft, seemed to hang vulture-like in the air for a moment, then fell—
Yes!
Oh, yes, thank goodness. The rope lay over the bough.
Now I had only to manoeuvre until the carpet-bag wedged quite firmly in a fork of the branch. Then, at last, the rope would support me.
Meanwhile, I felt my grip upon the trunk of the tree beginning to slip.
Clinging for dear life with one arm whilst I feverishly employed the other, I pulled the rope towards me, watching the carpet-bag dangle at the other end—
Never before in my life had I truly reached the limit of my strength, and never again do I wish to repeat the experience: quite without my permission, my limbs simply let go, and helplessly I fell.
CHAPTER THE TENTH
I BADLY WANTED TO SCREAM, AND UNDER THE circumstances I certainly had every right to do so. However, any such ululation might have attracted attention of a most unwelcome sort from the house.
Somehow I retained sufficient presence of mind to utter only a squeak as I plummeted.
Also, somehow, perhaps because my extremity of terror shot new strength into me—without taking credit for any conscious virtue in the matter, I am grateful to say that somehow I kept hold of the rope.
Within a moment—a long moment, it seemed, but in fact only several horrified heartbeats—almost at once that blessed lifeline broke my fall. My carpet-bag had after all caught in the beech tree, and with a gasp I found myself swinging in midair, convulsively clutching the rope with both hands.
However, as my strength was all but gone, I slipped downward.
But even whilst swinging in such a manner, one can manipulate one’s arc by leaning one’s personage this way or that. Doing so, in a moment I landed with the rope still in my hands, and with the appearance of being in full control of my descent, giving barely a thump as I collapsed to the ground just where I wanted to be: near the edge of the sunk fence, but on the other side from where I had begun.
“Enola, what in the name of Heaven are you doing?” whispered my brother explosively (yes, I assure you this is possible) from the ditch.
“Is…it…not…obvious?” I panted, for how could he not see? I had crossed the ha-ha, and as soon as I had caught my breath, I would proceed to the house.
“It is obvious only that our mother gave birth to an Amazon.” Shock vied with (I think and hope) admiration in his voice. “Why did you not tell me you had a rope? Secure it to something, quickly, then give it here so I can lift myself out of this confounded ditch.”
His tone, quite accustomed to being obeyed before he could snap his fingers, failed to move me. Without, again, taking credit for any conscious virtue in the act of defiance, I responded not at all, simply because I had so thoroughly exhausted myself.
“The rope, Enola!”
“I think not,” I replied blandly, my breathing somewhat more under control. “After I get back, perhaps.”
“What? Back from where?”
“From locating and, if at all possible, freeing the unfortunate Lady Cecily. Would you happen to know in which room she is imprisoned?”
“In the most inaccessible apex of the north tower.” He meant to discourage me, I think, and realised too late, as I sat up to dust myself off and prepare for action, that he had offered me an irresistible challenge instead. “Enola, you cannot!”
“I am not sure I can,” I admitted, “but I certainly intend to try.”
“It is simply not possible.”
“Why? You intended to do it, before you ran afoul of the sunk fence. How did you plan to accomplish it?”
“Assist me out of this damnable ditch, and perhaps I will show you.”
My tone quite gentle in contrast to his, I said, “Not until you give me your promise.”
“What?”
“Promise me upon your honour that you will let me be, and will make no attempt to apprehend me or to constrain me.”
Silence.
A good sign, I realised, for Sherlock Holmes would make no promise lightly. And if he gave his word, he would abide by it without fail. Indeed, if only—if we could be friends—deep within me commenced the most peculiar fluttering sensation, as if a butterfly had split open the chrysalis of my heart. Indeed, I felt my pulse begin to throb so hard that I could hear—
Hear my own heart beating?
Almost too late, I realised it was not so.
What I could hear, in that silence, was footsteps.
Behind me and off to one side, someone walking.
Someone had come out of the house.
And was approaching nearer by the moment.
My reaction was instantaneous and, I admit, contrary to reason: I tossed the rope to Sherlock, hissing, “Shhh! Stay down.” The rope, vertical against the tree behind it, should not be noticed in the night. My brother should escape detection.
But where, pray tell, was I to hide? Instinctively I cowered, flattening myself to the ground, but what more to do—I could not think.
“…don’t like it, I tell you,” said a deep, dark voice I recognised; it was the massive man who had quite terrified a certain midden-picker, and who consorted most incongruously with orphans. “I haven’t heard Lucifer make a sound for the past hour.”
“Because the dog isn’t barking, you roust me out of bed?” The second voice, also male, sounded childishly wrought. “Really, Father!”
“Don’t pout at me, Bramwell. It’s for your sake we’re taking all these precautions.”
Bramwell.
The Baron of Merganser’s son and heir.
Then the big brute of a man was indeed, as I had concluded, the baron himself.
With fascinated horror I watched as father and son emerged from between the beech trees. Both carried heavy walking-sticks by way of weapons. The son, Bramwell, had a burly physique similar to that of his mastiff-like father, but in the younger man’s case it made him resemble a toad.
As did his face, what I could see of it in the gas-lit night. Small wonder he had not managed to win a bride in any gentlemanly way.
Father and son made towards the mastiff’s quarters, and at once the baron roared, “See? Someone’s been feeding him!” Dramatically he pointed at the soup-bone I had flung over the fence. “Someone’s poisoned him!”
“No, they haven’t poisoned your darling Lucifer. Can’t you hear the brute snore? He’s in his bed, sleeping.”
Facing the mastiff’s house, they stood with their backs to me, and I took the opportunity to retreat as noiselessly as possible, scooting away hind-end-foremost, like a crustacean going under a rock, so that I could continue watching them.
&nb
sp; “As I should be asleep in mine,” added Bramwell pettishly.
“Stop being a donkey! Poison or a sleeping powder, it means the same: someone is trying to get in!”
“So?”
“Someone is prying into our affairs!”
“And what if they do? What if they pry their way right into the tower? All they will find there is a stable-boy dressed as a girl.”
“Shut your mouth!” The baron’s fury froze me motionless in the shadows. The way he turned on his son, I really thought for a moment that he would strike him. But instead he growled, “Not another word of that. Do you understand me? Reply.”
In a subdued tone Bramwell said, “Yes, Father.”
“We must arm ourselves with pistols, then search the grounds. Come along!”
“Yes, Father.” Meekly Bramwell followed as the baron strode towards the house.
Even as they did so, movement from the other direction caught my eye: swarming up the rope hand over hand as smartly as any sailor, Sherlock lifted himself from the ditch, crawling out upon the side away from me, towards the fence.
Quite sensibly, then, having concluded from Bramwell’s words—as I had—that Lady Cecily was not after all to be found in the tower, he intended to make his escape. Good. Fervidly wishing to do likewise, I stayed where I was, flat on the ground behind the nearest tree-trunk, waiting for him to depart—for I knew him to be a fox, in his way as much a danger to me as the irate baron and his unlovely son.
Sherlock rose to his feet—or, rather, his uninjured foot, for the other, wrapped in the bandaging with which I had supplied him, showed all too clearly and unfortunately white in the night, and that pale, bloated L barely touched the ground; he placed hardly any weight on the foot at all. Seriously lame, he must get away as quickly as possible.
Naturally, then, I expected him to limp towards the fence. At once.
But instead, wobbling on one leg, he scanned the yard and gave a muted call: “Enola!”
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 6