Confound him! Shadowed and in hiding, I clenched my fists in frustration that he would not let me alone. Yet at the same time I felt that benighted butterfly fluttering in my heart.
“Enola, come here! I’ll not leave without you.”
He quite meant it, I could tell, as indeed I should have realised all along, for Sherlock Holmes was a true gentleman—that is to say, incapable of sensible behaviour under such circumstances.
Muttering the naughtiest words I knew, I rose to my feet, yanking knots out of my skirt—what a wretched time to feel shy! But I would not face my brother with my knees bared. Rife with the strangest emotions, I ran towards him while my much-rumpled brown tweed arranged itself to cover my lower limbs to the ankles.
With only the sunk fence between us I stared at Sherlock, intent on every nuance of his face. But he gave me scarcely a glance. “Enola, quick!” He tossed me the rope.
Catching it, I stood where I was, studying him for some indication, some sign…still he had not given me any promise, you see.
Nor would he. He only stared back at me, his chiselled face like marble, something in his gaze imploring me yet daring me to trust him, if only for this one hour of this one night.
“Confound you, Sherlock Holmes,” I told him, and I took the dare. Reaching above my head to grasp the rope that hung down from the beech tree, I swung across the ha-ha to land lightly by his side.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
INDEED I STOOD QUITE TOO CLOSE TO SHERLOCK for comfort, and hastily stepped back. I felt heat of embarrassment rising in my face, but surely in the dark he could not see me blushing. Continuing to move quickly, as if such had been my intention from the first, I ran to the fence and began to climb, still carrying the slack end of the rope in one hand.
Hobbling after me, Sherlock said, “Leave the blasted thing behind.”
Not answering, I took the rope in my teeth instead, for halfway up the cast-iron bars I realised how my skirt was hindering me, I needed to haul it out of my way, and why should I drop the rope? It was for Sherlock; how else was he to climb with a lamed foot? As soon as I reached the fence’s spiked top, I grabbed the rope, looped it around a stout paling, and tossed the end towards my brother.
Did he thank me? Heavens, no. He said, “I don’t need it.”
“Stop where you are!” roared the baron’s voice from the direction of his Gothic manse, and almost simultaneously sounded the even louder roar of a firearm. “Stop, thieves!” The gun fired again, and I heard the bullet clang against a metal fence-post somewhere nearby.
Far from halting me, these blandishments spurred me over the fence at remarkable speed. Sherlock, too, scaled it with great alacrity, making excellent use of the rope he had said he didn’t need. Indeed, by the time a third shot—or perhaps there were four? It is all frightfully rapid and muddled in my memory; my brother was letting himself down the outside of the fence, one could hear the baron and his squeaky-voiced son bellowing and running towards us, they fired once or twice more, and Sherlock fell.
“No!” I hope never again to experience such horror and desolation as I did whilst running to him, thinking that he was hit, hurt, bleeding, or worse, that he lay expiring…
But no! He lived. Even before I reached him, I could see him struggling to rise. Seizing his arm, I hauled him to his feet. “Lean on me,” I told him; indeed, I all but carried him away, trotting. Fortunately, his weight was slight for such a tall man. “Make haste. This way.” I hurried him off through a neighbouring property by a back privy-path I knew from previous explorations. “Are you badly wounded?”
“Only my pride. I slipped.”
Still, such pain panted in his voice that I could scarcely believe him. “You’re not shot?”
“By pistols, at that range? Hardly. They should have waited until they came closer.”
He sounded quite his superior self. Relief washed through me. “Thank goodness.”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it. Just listen to them.”
Fearsome curses sounded not nearly far enough behind us as we ducked through a gap in someone’s fence and around the corner of an unoccupied cow-shed, then through the stony shadows of a neglected creamery. Leaning on my shoulder, Sherlock hobbled badly.
“Stop a moment,” he whispered, panting. “Listen.” He halted.
I, however, moved onward until he let go of me. Then, a few steps distant from his laboured breathing, I could hear, along with the barking voices of the baron and his son, the lilting exhortations of the Irish constable.
“For the luvva mercy, it’s waking the innocent ye are,” he was saying, “whilst the guilty, they’re long gone.”
Growl, snarl, rumble.
“To be sure, shoot all ye want on your own bit o’ land, but ye can’t be afther firin’ pistols in the street.”
More growls and snarls.
“No harm done; lookit the lovely length o’ rope they lift ye. Back in t’house with ye, now. File a report in the mornin’. Yis, I’ll be keepin’ an eye out for thim.”
In silence we listened to his tread as he returned to his beat. His measured footsteps passed nearby, then faded.
“Long gone, are we?” I muttered when all was quiet. “Would that it were so.”
“You should make your escape, Enola,” said my brother softly. “I will be quite all right.”
Letting me go, when he had me so nearly in his clutches? One would think I might feel gratitude for his chivalry. But quite to the contrary, I became annoyed, and turned on him. “What of that loathsome baron and his beetle of a son?”
“I think we can safely assume that they have retreated.” Sherlock rested his weight upon the stone slab where formerly cheese and butter had been moulded; in the darkness I could only just see him. “They would not defy the constable, for to do so would be to draw attention to themselves.”
I snorted, I am afraid, rather like a horse. “That’s not what I mean at all. What have they done with the lady? It would seem that the girl you’ve seen coaching in the landau is a dressed-up stable-boy. The merest blind. Where is Cecily?”
During the ensuing pause I wished I could more clearly see his face. He replied slowly, “It would appear that I have been befooled, and have never actually seen the Honourable Cecily Alistair here in London.”
“I have.”
“What! When? Where?”
“Last week, at the—near the British Museum. Indeed, it was she whom I was endeavouring to follow when I was obliged to kick Mycroft.”
“You what?”
“Our brother laid hold of me, so I booted him in the shins to get away. Did he not tell you?”
Evidently not, for Sherlock lapsed into convulsions of laughter. Although nearly silent, he laughed so heartily that he rocked back and forth, grasping at the creamery-slab for support.
The man seemed on the verge of hysteria. It was quite time for me to get him out of harm’s way. As soon as he quieted enough to be sensible—I hoped-I told him, “Come along. We must see you home.” If not straight to Dr. Watson.
Sherlock straightened, still chuckling. “I have a cab waiting at the corner of Boarshead and Oakley.”
Ah. Very good. “I can lead you there by a back way.”
“A shortcut?”
“Yes, by which we are less likely to encounter the constable.”
“Excellent.” He attempted to straighten, grimacing as his weight impinged upon his lame foot. “If you would be so good as to allow me once more to lean upon you, Enola.”
I stood where I was, trying to study his face. While I had not hesitated to give him physical assistance when he was in immediate danger, I wondered now whether I could trust him. He was so clever, I would not have put it beyond him to slip handcuffs onto me before I knew what he was doing.
“Or if you would rather not,” he said, correctly interpreting my stillness, “perhaps you could find me something by way of a stick or staff.”
But when he said that, his vo
ice flattened, some sort of life snuffed out, a butterfly crushed, some sentiment I would not previously have credited, but dared to detect only in its absence.
Nor did I dare to give it a name.
Yet something fluttered hard and painfully in my heart, and despite all my very sensible misgivings I walked forward to stand by his side, letting him place his hand on my shoulder.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
SHERLOCK AND I BARELY SPOKE UNTIL WE HAD passed with all the stealth we could manage through back lanes, kitchen-gardens, a carriage-drive where a sleepy watchdog barked at us, rustling hedges, creaky gates, and at last beneath someone’s dark windows to Oakley Street. There we could see the cab, a substantial four-wheeler, waiting at the next corner like a chariot of Heaven beneath a halo of gas-light.
Hitching along half a step behind me, Sherlock spoke then to answer the question I had not asked. “I would be no gentleman if I did not give you my heartfelt thanks and let you go your merry way, Enola.”
My heart leapt.
“But only for tonight.”
So much for my leaping heart; it plummeted. My brother’s caveat was just what I should have expected, yet I had hoped—never mind, but still, my disappointment stung. I responded hotly. “Why, in Heaven’s name, must you continue to hound me? Can you not see—”
“I quite appreciate your remarkable abilities, my dear sister, but it is my duty to think of your future. How will you ever wed if you continue on your present course?”
No proper male could ever care for a girl who climbed trees and swung from ropes, he was saying.
“What of it?” I retorted. No one had ever cared for me; what difference if no one ever did? Still, I fear I spoke bitterly. “I am quite accustomed to being alone.”
“But surely—Enola—you cannot intend to spend your life as a spinster.”
This from a confirmed bachelor.
“The world is a dangerous place. A woman requires a man to protect her.”
This, as he limped along, leaning more and more heavily on my shoulder. “Bosh,” I told him. “If you say another word to annoy me, I will kick your sore foot.”
“Enola! You wouldn’t!”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “Rather, I would aim to lame the other one.”
“Enola!” He sounded quite aghast. I think he believed me.
“No more talk of your so-called duty,” I responded. “Might I remind you that it is from marriage, the so-called ‘protection’ of a man, that you are attempting to rescue the hapless Cecily Alistair? And might I ask how you intend to do so?”
Silence.
“Can you find out where they are keeping her?”
In a low tone he answered obliquely, “I have been a nincompoop, convinced they had her in the house. Rather than wooing the upstairs maid—”
“Ah. Bridget, no doubt.”
He grimaced. “Precious little information have I got from her. What I should have done was follow the occasional carriage, even if it meant clinging to the back—”
“You cannot do that with your foot—”
“I am quite aware of the condition of my foot!” He sounded wrought. Halting, he leaned against someone’s front gatepost so that he faced me. “Enola, tell me what you know of this matter, if you would be so good.”
Quite pleased to spend a few more minutes in his company, but careful not to show it, I retorted, “If you will tell me what you know. Is Lady Theodora at liberty to contact you?”
“Unhappily so. Due to the strength of her feelings against her husband’s arrangements regarding their daughter, Lady Theodora has secretly separated from Sir Eustace and, along with her remaining children, she has returned to her family’s estate in the country.”
Once I had learned from him the name and location of this refuge, I gladly told him all about my recent encounter with Cecily Alistair, concealing only its location, the Ladies’ Lavatory. For modesty’s sake, and also to safeguard my future patronage there, I called it only “a public place.” But concerning the unlucky lady’s grandiose escorts, her constrictive clothing, her haggard appearance, and her recognition of me, I spoke fully. I detailed her signalling with her oddly unfashionable fan, the ingenious manner in which she had slipped it to me, and the content of the invisible writing I had found upon its pink paper.
“Her chaperones were the Viscountess Inglethorpe and the Baroness Merganser,” I concluded.
“You are sure of this?”
“Quite sure.”
He accepted that I would not tell him how I knew. “Then they do have Lady Cecily in their clutches, and in the most desperate straits. Confound it.” As if fleeing from his own thoughts, my brother lurched into a limping walk, seizing my shoulder once more for support.
I tried to offer hope. “But surely there is a limit to the infamy these people are attempting. While they can force her to the altar, surely they cannot, at the moment of truth, compel her actually to say ‘I do.’”
“You credit the girl with a degree of obstinacy equal to your own, Enola.”
From the quirk in his voice I could not tell whether he was laughing at me or giving me a sort of back-handed compliment.
“An attribute most unlikely,” he continued, “which you of all people, having once rescued her from a Mesmerist, should know. Lady Cecily has shown herself to be susceptible to the strong will of another. She can be dominated. According to Lady Theodora, she has hardly been herself since she was abducted, and indeed shows herself to be a vessel of rather unsteady course.”
“True enough,” I muttered without attempting to explain how the rigours of a right-handed up-bringing had forced Cecily to become two different selves, the docile public daughter versus the brilliant, rebellious reform-minded left-handed lady, who must not be locked into a prison masquerading as a marriage.
Sherlock continued, “Indeed, such are the accounts I have heard of her that I fear, were I to locate her and attempt a rescue, she might choose that occasion to scream, taking me for a kidnapper.”
Nonsense. Ignoring the substance of this remark, I pounced upon its suggestion. “You have hopes of finding her, when she could be anywhere in London?”
“Hope is irrelevant. I must find her, or have her found, even if, as I was saying, she thinks she is being kidnapped.”
“She will think nothing of the sort. Show her this.” Reaching into my so-called bosom—actually a repository of numerous supplies—I brought out a pink paper fan fringed with downy pink feathers.
From my brother’s throat issued a sound somewhat like the midnight call of a corn-crake, and his faltering step halted. “Is that—is that the one—”
“No. A duplicate.” I handed to him this dainty item I had obtained from a caterer on Gillyglade Court. “But if she sees you with it, she will know you are her friend.”
He pocketed it, saying “Thank you,” but with a great deal of doubt and not much hope in his tone. “I am sure I shall look very sweet carrying it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Have you a better plan?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor do I.” We had nearly reached the place where the cab waited; I halted. “You can manage from here, I’m sure. I’ll go no farther.” By shunning the illumination of the street-lamp, I hoped to prevent his seeing in full detail my costume or any other aspect of my personage. That was my only thought. I had forgotten my fears that he might attempt to seize me and take me with him in the cab.
Oddly, not until he had actually let go of my shoulder and stepped away from me did I remember once more to be afraid. He stood so much taller than I.
And so handsome, to my eyes at least, with his keen features silhouetted by an aureole of gas-light.
He said, “Will you not come along with me, Enola, have a cup of tea, and speak further of this matter?”
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly. An unjust thought; Sherlock Holmes had given his word, which was inviolate; surely I could enjoy a few mo
re hours in his company—
At the thought, my heart squeezed with a sensation so akin to rapture that I began to understand: my fear was of my own fondness for him. A few more hours in his company, and I might find myself too weak to leave. I might, like some fairy-tale denizen of the night, be caught by daylight, and captured.
I spoke almost in terror. “Some other time, thank you.”
“There is no other time. The coerced marriage is scheduled to take place two days from tomorrow morning.”
Ye gods!
“What!” I cried, and then a bit more lucidly, “Where?”
“That’s the devil of it. I don’t know.”
Ye reeking gods!
“Bridget could tell me only that arrangements have been made to use some quite secluded chapel.”
Ye gods with corns and bunions!
Sherlock said, “Are you sure you will not come with me, Enola?”
Mind and emotions all in a tumult, vehemently I shook my head. “I need to think,” I said.
“I see. Well, in that case I can only offer you my most sincere thanks for your assistance tonight.” He extended his arm, offering me his hand to shake.
Or to take hold of me. Did he think I was a fool?
Yet I would not, could not, insult his feelings by refusing. Our fingers touched, and then his gloved hand surrounded my rather grubby paw, all smirched, even bloodied, from climbing. But when I felt his grip begin to linger, I snatched my hand away.
“My dear, skittish sister,” he murmured, his tone wry, almost, dare I say it, wistful, “you remind me of a wild moorland pony. Until we meet again, then, farewell.” And he limped away.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
I WILL SPARE THE GENTLE READER A FULL ACCOUNT of the remainder of that night. Suffice it to say that, after watching my brother drive away in his cab, I was rent by the most unexpected and vehement sentimental eruption, a kind of Vesuvius of the emotions, that took me quite by surprise. Intermittently on my journey back to the East End I sobbed. Once I had reached my bed, I fell nearly insensible into an exhausted slumber. And in the morning when I awoke, I found myself weeping anew, unfit to be seen at breakfast. Lacking reason to dress, I remained in my nightgown; indeed, it was only a sudden, irrational terror—What if my brother has tracked me here?—that enabled me to leave my bed. Levitated by panic, I peered, trembling, between the window-sash and the blind. There was no sign of Sherlock, of course, to my most exceedingly contradictory disappointment.
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 7