Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche

by Nancy Springer

  My second stop was at 221 Baker Street to ask Mrs. Hudson whether she had heard anything from him. She had not. But whilst riding on the train from Belvidere I had composed a letter to him, which I left for her to give him in case he returned anytime soon. It read:

  Dearest Inquisitive Brother,

  Interestingly, it would seem that the first Dunhench wife, née Myzella Haskell, came to the same fate as the second one: cremation. However, it is rumoured that she did not actually die, but was sent away in a black barouche, whatever that implies. As it sounds rather sinister, I wonder whether the same happened to the second wife, Letitia Glover’s sister? I intend to scrutinize death certificates for both unfortunate wives. Therefore I will be a genealogical researcher named Ermintrude Basilwether lodging at Threefinches or nearby, should you care to look me up.

  Your Loving Sister

  I neither signed my name nor addressed Sherlock by his. One must at least attempt to be discreet lest our correspondence stray into hands other than those of Mrs. Hudson. Having left this missive with her, I took the underground—its Baker Street station so convenient to my brother’s residence! Yet, to my knowledge, he never used it. This subterranean transport whisked me to Victoria Station, where I caught the next train to Dorking, Surrey.

  My journey was uneventful, and I arrived at Dorking—a market town rather smaller than I expected—in time for a late luncheon at none too fancy an eatery. After a bowl of beef stew and one of bread pudding—such was the available fare—I walked back to the station to rent a bicycle, but I was told, with raised eyebrows, that no such newfangled self-propelled transportation was to be had, and I was directed to the livery stables next door.

  There, a tobacco-chewing personage with alarmingly protuberant side whiskers informed me that, while gigs, buggies, and broughams were available in plenty, no drivers were available at the moment. “’Ow in the world do yer come to be traveling by yerself, miss?” he added, not inquiring so much as disapproving.

  “Upon my own two feet,” I replied, rather more tartly than I should have.

  “Be yer one of them suffragists?”

  “Like my mother before me.”

  “Well, yer should ’ave a man wid you just the same for ter ’andle ’orses and such.”

  “I can handle a horse,” I snapped. “I will drive myself.” My own irritation had convinced me that this was so. After all, had I not once successfully driven a hansom cab through London traffic? And had I not read Black Beauty innumerable times as a child?

  “No, miss, ye don’t hunnerstand,” said Side Whiskers in an exceedingly patronizing tone. “The driver is ter bring the ’orse an’ rig back ’ere to the stable after yer gets to—where did yer say yer were going?”

  “Threefinches. How far away is that?” I inquired, thinking I might walk.

  “A good ten-twelve miles.”

  So much for walking. “Surely I will find an inn there, with stabling for the horse?” It was a pity, I thought, that horses, unlike bicycles, could not simply be leaned against a tree until needed.

  Once more I saw eyebrows elevate. “’At’s true, miss, but to pay me by the day, an’ stablin’ on top of that—”

  I produced substantial money, thus squelching protest, and the upshot was that I soon found myself and my minimal luggage in, or rather on top of, something called a “gig,” with the reins of a horse in my kid-gloved hands. The gig stood so high on two enormous wheels that I looked down on the horse, which I supposed was preferable to viewing its posterior. It was a horse of a different colour—taupe, with a yellowish cast. “What’s his name?” I asked Side Whiskers, who stood holding the bridle.

  The man turned away, and not for the first time I sensed that he was hiding mirth, although for what reason I could not imagine. “’Ee’s a mare,” he said, “and ’er name is Jezzie, ain’t that right, Jezzie?” He gave her bridle what seemed to be an admonishing sort of shake.

  Then he let go of it, and we were off. Jezzie—or did the man perhaps mean Jessie; had I misunderstood? Jessie or Jezzie took matters into her own hands, or perhaps I should say onto her own hooves, stepping out immediately at a brisk trot even though I tightened the reins. Luckily we were headed in the proper direction, and almost before I knew it we were out of Dorking, speeding down a country road like a—like a whirligig, of course. The gig’s high wheels whizzed over the rutted road, their motion and the height of my perch making me feel quite dizzy.

  I hauled harder on the reins, trying to slow down the yellow mare, but her only response was to arch her neck—quite prettily, I admit—and clip-clop more smartly, lifting her feet like a Hackney. Folk working in their cottage gardens gaped as we flashed past. I am sure that Jezzie and the gig and I made quite a picturesque sight in that bucolic setting of golden fields and green hedges, but I failed to appreciate the artistic effect, not with my hat coming loose, its wide brim lifted by the wind, and with the horse foaming at the mouth so that bits of spume flew into my face like white butterflies of ill omen. Jezzie showed every sign of wanting to break into a gallop, and if she did, she would surely land us in a ditch. Even as she trotted, the tall gig swayed whilst going uphill, swooped its way downhill, and wildly slewed every time we rounded a curve. I admit that my innards quite sloshed with fear, nay, panic, and I heartily wished I had never said I knew how to drive a horse. What was the use of my holding the reins if Jezzie thumbed her nose at them?

  Again, an impossible metaphor. But such scholarly thoughts did no good; one must take action. I hauled on the reins to my utmost, and then, in desperation, I alternated them, left-right-left-right, in a kind of seesaw attempt to get Jezzie’s attention.

  Thus I managed to hold the willful yellow beast to her rampaging trot. But then, as we rounded yet another terrifying curve, to my hazy gaze appeared a village ahead—Threefinches, already? It had to be. Somehow I simply had to get Jezzie to slow down—

  No, worse! I had to get the diabolical horse to stop, so that I could get off! Otherwise she would carry me on and on and on, to Currywort and Harechase and heaven only knew where.

  Confound the horse, whose full name, I suddenly realized, had to be Jezebel! I was not to be made a fool of by a runaway mare! My worries flipped into wrath so suddenly that without conscious thought I stood up in order to prepare for a showdown. I threw my parasol and carpetbag over the side of the gig, and then, just as it reached the edge of Threefinches, I sawed at the reins with all my strength, wanting only to slow the accursed Jezebel sufficiently so that I could join my belongings. That failing, I grasped the reins with one hand, yanked them to my utmost, and with the other hand I seized the whip and hit Jezzie’s impudent backside with it.

  The result was gratifying, in a way. The mare bucked, kicked, and reared, interrupting her forward momentum enough for me to jump out of the gig, which, rearing along with her, would have made a projectile of me in any case. Lest I be injured by too much upward momentum, I dove for the grassy roadside.

  Landing flat with a whumph and with my face in the grass, I rolled over just in time to lift my head, now hatless, and watch Jezebel paw the ground, reverse direction, and leap into her long-desired gallop, whirling the empty gig back towards Dorking and, presumably, her stable.

  Chapter the Fifth

  I laid my head sideways on the ground, just for a moment, to rest. At the same time I heard tramping feet approaching me from behind, accompanied by a babble of masculine voices.

  “Sent the lydy flyin’, it did.”

  “Could’ve broke ’er neck.”

  “Didjer see that yeller horse go?”

  “That weren’t no ’orse, that were a yeller greyhound.”

  “Is the lydy dead?”

  “Is she fainted?”

  Indignant, I wanted to sit up and say I was not so easily killed and I never fainted, but to my surprise my body would not obey me. I merely stirred and murmured.

  “She’s moving.”

  I saw the clodhopper boots of com
mon men surrounding me and smelled alcohol on the breath of those leaning over me.

  “Let’s get ’er inside.”

  “Somebody go fer the doctor.”

  Strong hands, not ungentle, seized me by the feet and shoulders. I could have kicked and yelled—I felt strong enough now—but my mind had started to function, realizing that I was about to be carried into a pub, for only in a public house, or pub, would workmen be drinking in the daytime. And normally no woman of good repute would enter a pub, or if she did, she would be jeered at until she retreated. But, my avid brain realized, fate in the form of Jezebel had given me opportunity to spend some time inside a pub—no, in the pub, most likely the only pub in Threefinches!

  So I closed my eyes and pretended to be rather more helpless than I was as the men hauled me inside and laid me down on a high-backed bench by the hearth. Someone brought something pungent in lieu of smelling salts, but I shook my head, pushed the malodourous hand away, opened my eyes, and sat up, acting as if it were a great effort for me to do so. A burly, bearded man in an apron, undoubtedly the publican who kept the place, came running with a pillow for my back, and I thanked him with a gracious smile.

  “Will ye have a nip of brandy, lydy?”

  “No, thank you. Water, please.”

  “Jack! Water for the lydy!” he bellowed to some underling, and he remained nearby as I managed, with hands that genuinely trembled, to remove my gloves. Their thin kidskin leather was ruined by the mauling it had taken from Jezebel’s reins, and my hands were red and sore; doubtless they would bruise. Grateful for the cool glass, I held it in both hands and sipped, looking around me. Half of the denizens of the place, like the owner, stood in a semicircle staring at me not unpleasantly, while the rest did the same from seats at the rustic tables—all but one. A tall man with beard stubble on his chin and quite a shock of coarse brownish-grey hair hiding his forehead had withdrawn to a table by the wall, where he devoted his attention to his mug of ale, or stout, or whatever noxious brew he might fancy.

  I said brightly to the tavern-keeper, “I believe I would like to stand up.”

  “Now, why not wait for the doctor, lydy—”

  But taking hold of his arm, as he stood within my reach, I got to my feet with reasonable steadiness. There were muted cheers from the onlookers. Nodding and simpering at the men all around me, I lilted, “Thank you so much. Do you suppose anyone could go out and fetch my bag, and my hat and parasol? I believe they fell along the—”

  Already half a dozen would-be heroes were stampeding towards the door. Yet, if I had walked in here under my own power, any request for help would have been met with deepest suspicion. Such is life: odd.

  Trying not to smile too widely, not to show my amusement, I proposed to the publican, still holding his arm, “I should like to try a little walk around the room.”

  “If’n yer sure yer not hurt, lydy.”

  “I feel quite restored by your hospitality.” With mincing steps I led him forward, leaning on his arm slightly from time to time to make him feel needed. Halfway around the room I reached the vicinity of the tall, scruffy workingman (to judge by his coarse and common clothing) who was hiding his face under his forelock. Beside the table at which he was seated, I paused and said to the publican as if I had just that moment thought of it, “I suppose I am going to need a ride to the inn. There is an inn?”

  “Ye mean yer traveling by yerself, miss?” Suddenly I was no longer a “lydy,” and my doughty escort’s eyebrows shot up all too much like those of Side Whiskers.

  Just barely managing to retain sweetness of tone, I asked, “Why, what did you think I was doing?”

  “I thought yer were having a spin, and ye got spun.” At least this man had a sense of humour. “Ye can’t be thinking of staying overnight at a public lodging place all by yerself—”

  I interrupted somewhat less sweetly. “Why, where should I stay, then, in a haystack? Surely you can recommend a reputable inn where I shall be quite safe.”

  “There ain’t but the one hereabouts to serve all comers!”

  I am sure he would have expostulated further, but just then a herd of men thundered into the pub with my hat, my carpetbag, my parasol, and a youth who cried, “The doctor can’t come! He’s having a baby!”

  Laughter and general hubbub ensued, distracting the attention of my escort, the publican. I took the opportunity to swing my foot at the morose-looking, none-too-clean man seated at the table beside me. Naturally, he looked up. Not at all naturally for one who has just been kicked in the shin, his grey eyes twinkled. Slowly he pushed away from his table and got to his clodhopper-clad feet.

  “It ain’t but a middling walk,” he said in a thick country accent, as if he had pebbles in his mouth. “Ain’t no trouble fer me to show yer the way, missus. I’ll carry yer bag.”

  * * *

  We waited until we got well away from the pub before either of us spoke. Then, in his normal, aristocratic tone Sherlock said, “Well done, Enola, and remarkably well planned that you should drop in at the public house that way.”

  I sighed, admitting, “It wasn’t planned.”

  “Surely it is not mere coincidence that you are wearing a green frock upon which grass stains do not show?”

  I looked down at my faille overskirt, its delicate fabric shredded, and grimaced.

  My brother added, “Your hat, also, looks a bit the worse for wear.”

  Its wired ribbons had been badly smashed, but I had restored them as best I could before putting the hat back on my head, and I considered that there was no further need for Sherlock to chaff me. “I’ve been made a fool of. Enough. Have you found out anything whilst lingering at the pub? Keep your voice low,” I added, because as we progressed into the village proper we were walking directly in front of cheek-to-jowl cottages, their gable windows frowning out from under remarkably low wraparound roofs so that they resembled washerwomen in headscarves.

  “I have found out principally that Rudcliff has the reputation of being quite a womanizer.” Sherlock did indeed keep his voice low. “Very few women, however, die and are cremated because their husbands are unfaithful. Did you come here merely to accost me?”

  “No. I have made my own inquiries. It is rumoured that the first Lady Rudcliff, supposedly deceased, was actually, and I quote, ‘taken away in a black barouche.’”

  Sherlock gave a low whistle, and although I could not see his eyebrows under his rustic forelock, I dare say they were lifted like wings.

  “End quote,” I said rather testily. “What, pray tell, does the phrase ‘black barouche’ imply?” Quite evidently he knew.

  “It would be premature for me to say without further evidence, especially as Rudcliff remarried.”

  “Some men like to get married, Sherlock.”

  He gave me a “pshaw” look. “Had he any children by the first wife?”

  “Two, but neither lived.”

  “Then he must desire an heir. So why would he dispose of his first wife, let alone his second?” Sherlock kept his voice down to a murmur, but his tone was knife-sharp. “It is quite preposterous.”

  “What is quite preposterous?”

  But not another word would he say.

  Chapter the Sixth

  The inn was of course called The Three Finches, as could be seen by three none-too-artistic wooden cutouts of birds above the front door on a half-timbered wall of such antiquity that the hostel might have been there since the times of the Tudors. The stones of the front steps were partly worn away by the feet of countless travelers.

  Snatching off his cap to reveal his shaggy wig, Sherlock carried my carpetbag up those steps and into the front hallway of the inn for me, set it down there, then humbly bowed his head and tugged his forelock. Into his other, awaiting hand I deposited a few coins. “Thank you, my good man,” I told him blandly, adding, seemingly as an afterthought, “What might your name be?”

  “Tom Dubbs, miss.” Bobbing, he spoke once more as if
he had a mouth full of marbles.

  “Tom Dubbs. And where do you lodge?”

  “In the stables behind the pub, miss.”

  “Very well, if I have need of you, I will send for you. My name, by the way, is The Honourable Miss Ermintrude Basilwether.” Dismissing him with a nod and a secret smile as I glanced around The Three Finches, I heard him shut the door as he let himself out.

  The Three Finches showed every sign of offering rather countrified accommodations, right down to crockery dogs guarding each end of the mantelpiece. Before me rose a steep and narrow stairway. To one side of me a billiard room was visible through an open door, and to the other side a dining room with a single large table adorned by a red-checked cloth. Judging from the clatter and chatter I heard coming from the regions behind it, the people running the inn were busy in the kitchen.

  A hand bell stood on the hallway table. I picked it up and rang it until the aproned innkeeper arrived. He could have looked fat and jolly as an innkeeper should if it were not that he was scowling. Perhaps I had rung the bell too hard.

  As he did not greet me, I greeted him. “Hallo, my good man. Have you a room available for me?”

  Although to me my request seemed quite plain and simple, the innkeeper walked up to me and stared, his scowl deepening into a frown, as if he found it incomprehensible.

  So I tried again, with no change in my airy tone, which was unwise. I should have spoken meekly and evinced a tempting amount of cash. Instead, I said breezily, “I would like to rent a room. Perhaps for several days.”

  The man’s mouth, which resembled a mail slot with jowls, moved several times before he spoke. “Where’s yer ’usband?”

  “No husband. Just me.”

  “Wot habout yer maid, yer governess, sumphin’ like that?”

  Beginning to comprehend his hesitation, I became testy. “Or my mother, I suppose? No. There are just three of us. Me, myself, and I.”