Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche

by Nancy Springer

  First, however, catching sight of myself in the large, circular mirror over her dresser, I stood still a moment, frowning. Surely if the lady had passed away in this room, hers would have been the first mirror covered? Yet it seemed as if those in all public areas of the hall had been draped while this one was overlooked.

  It followed, therefore, that she had not passed away, or at least not here.

  Hmm.

  Tucking the thought away to be brought out later, I set about hunting with no idea what I was looking for. I peeked into all the milk-glass flasks and jars on her dresser, then lifted the linen dresser scarf in case some paper might be concealed beneath. I searched beneath petticoats and stockings in her dresser drawers. I crossed to her desk, examined her inkwell, read notes she had written (“Need alizarin crimson, Payne’s grey, rose madder, indigo”) and examined her blotter for traces of any revealing words in mirror image; there were none. I looked through her wardrobe, then behind that heavy piece of furniture, then behind her mirror and all the pictures on her walls. I turned up the corners of her carpet. I checked the circular upholstered backs and seats of her lightweight chairs for secret pockets. I examined the solidity of her four-poster bed, got down on my knees to look under it, and even pulled out the fancy porcelain chamber pot I found there.

  Crossing and re-crossing the rooms like a foxhound trying to pick up a scent, I passed in front of Lady Felicity’s peculiar watercolour painting, uplifted on its easel, perhaps a dozen times, and each time I glanced at it and frowned, for something about its graceless lines tugged at the corner of my eye. Why had she painted something so—so uncharacteristically awkward, not to say ugly?

  Finally I lit a candle to stand in front of it and have a closer look at it, at that oddly positioned horse, those jagged trees shaped like—

  Oh, my stars and garters.

  Shaped like capital letters.

  Lady Felicity’s painting was an exceedingly clever cipher.

  Once I became aware of the letters in the trees, I saw them all at once, ranged across the top of the painting: INANE.

  Inane?

  I looked at the bottom of the painting for something more, hoping for clarification. In order to define the letters in the trees, I now perceived, Lady Dunhench—no, Flossie; I had begun to think of her affectionately—Flossie had subtly picked them out with Conté crayon. How very resourceful, as Conté crayon was commonly used to emphasize shadows in watercolour. I searched for touches of Conté crayon on the lower part of the picture and at once found an A in the lower part of the horse’s head and neck, with its reins being the crossbar. Then hints along the rider’s habit and her booted foot in the stirrup showed me a rather elongated S. The horse’s haunch and hock: Y. The corner of the cottage: L. Its door, a squared-off U. Its window with crisscross curtains: M.

  ASYLUM.

  Oh. Oh, please, no. But at the same time my eyes flew back to the top of the picture, seeking the missing letter, and finding it in the overlapping branches of the trees, angular like a backwards Z but still, I could now see, an S.

  INANE ASYLUM? Hardly. The actual message was INSANE ASYLUM.

  Oh. Oh, merciful heavens, no. I felt my entire personage go freezing cold at the thought. But oh, dreadful fate, yes, it could be true, for this, I understood now, was the meaning of the black barouche, the baleful carriage conveying body snatchers who came in the night to carry their victims away to a fate more cruel than death.

  * * *

  I was still standing there, frozen in horror, when someone knocked on the door, making me jump even though the tapping sound was gentle, almost timid.

  “Who is it?” I called once I had my voice under control.

  “It’s Dawson, Miss Ermintrude. Oh, Miss Ermintrude, I went to fold down the bedcovers for you and what did I find but they locked you in here! I had nothing to do with it, Miss Ermintrude!”

  “It’s all right, Dawson.” Like a good and proper eccentric aristocrat, I treated imprisonment as a trifle. “I shall be quite all right if you could just bring me my own clothes from the other room. I should much prefer to sleep in my own nightgown.”

  Actually, I had no intention of sleeping. I meant, somehow, to get out. But I had no wish to do so half naked, as none of Flossie’s things fit me.

  Dawson whimpered. “But, Miss Ermintrude, I don’t dare put a key to this door. If you take advantage of me to make an escape, I’ll be sacked for sure and tossed out to starve like a stray cat!”

  Stiffly I said, “I promise you, Dawson, I am above trickery. I shall stand over by the windows. You may speak to me to make sure of me, then just open the door a crack and thrust the things in before you lock it again.”

  “All right, I—I’ll try, dear.”

  My voice softened greatly. “Thank you, Dawson.”

  While she was gone, I paced the room, retracing my thoughts and questioning my conclusions, for the idea of a black barouche sweeping a lady away into the night seemed terribly melodramatic—but, in actuality, it need not be black or a barouche. A brougham, landau, victoria, phaeton, or any other carriage would serve the purpose. I had heard whispers that commitment to a lunatic asylum was all too often the fate of inconvenient women. Any man of means who wished to rid himself of a female encumbrance could have her committed for any of a plethora of reasons: nervousness, pride, reading French novels, consulting mediums, fear of darkness, failure to obey, suppression of perspiration, excessive laughter—any form of hysteria would do. All he needed in order to do so were the signatures of two doctors, one of whom could be the man who ran the hellish place. The wife thus disposed of—generally it was a wife—was then forgotten for all practical purposes.

  But how could Flossie possibly have known that this was to be her fate?

  Yet she had. There could be no mistaking the cipher in her watercolour. Also, now that I thought about it, although my search of Flossie’s room had yielded no other clues, yet it had. The items I had not found were significant by their absence. In no conceivable way could certain essential feminine unmentionables have gone to the grave—or the crematorium—along with Flossie. But if she were yet alive, and had been stolen away somewhere, well, of course she would have need of certain personal items, even if she might never again wear an evening gown.

  There must have been a hundred lunatic asylums in England. Where, oh where, had they taken her?

  And how, oh how, was I ever going to find out?

  * * *

  The more immediate question was: How was I going to get out of Dunhench Hall, specifically, the chambers into which I was locked?

  Until after Dawson had delivered my carpetbag, hat, parasol, et cetera, I could not think clearly about this problem, because I knew the sensible thing to do would be to cat-foot over to the door as Dawson opened it, overpower her, take the key from her, and lock her up in my stead.

  But I had promised not to trick her.

  Nonsense. All I had to do was gag her mouth so that she would not scream, and in order for her to remain gagged, I would have to tie her hands behind her.

  But how long would it be before someone found her?

  Nevertheless!

  But what of decency, honour—

  And so quarreled my mind until the chance was gone and I had thanked Dawson and let her lock the door again. Confound her for being a nice woman; she simply did not deserve to be bound and gagged, have trouble brought upon her, or be sacked to starve like a stray cat.

  One would think the fray within my mental faculties would then cease, but no. Confound you for being a fool, Enola! shrieked a combative thought, causing me to feel upset—with myself?

  How absurd. You will do quite well on your own, Enola. Almost as if hearing it speak from the grave, I remembered my mother’s voice.

  Instantly calm, I began to think clearly once again, and to act upon my thoughts.

  First, I clothed myself, not in a nightgown, but in my own comfortable and modest green day-dress, newly mended. Then I
put out the lights as if I had gone to bed. I stationed myself by a window, listening for any footsteps passing in the hallway. When there were none, and when my eyes had grown able to see somewhat in the darkness, I pulled open the draperies that had been shut since Flossie’s “unfortunate demise,” in order to peer outside.

  It was quite a dark night, unlit by moon or even stars. I could see very little except the portico, which was glorified by gas lanterns flanking the front door.

  The darkness could work either for me or against me, but it did not change my options for escape. I could think of four possibilities:

  Number one: Climb up inside the chimney like a sweep—and I quite liked to climb, nor did I mind dirt, but what if I became stuck? I was slender, but perhaps not quite slender enough, as chimney sweeping was generally done by young boys.

  Two: Slide down the laundry chute to the basement—but then I would still need to find a way out of the basement. And, again, sliding down laundry chutes is usually an activity for children. I studied the opening with the same doubt I felt towards the chimney: What if I became stuck?

  Three: Climb out of the window and—as my view of the portico told me I was located in the modern wing, where there were no vines to assist me down—as an alternative, could I stand on the windowsill, grasp the eaves, and somehow swing myself up onto the roof, whence I could clamber over to the old manse and its ivy? Still looking out the window, I shuddered and shook my head; extremely risky, both the swinging and the clambering. I quite agreed with Darwin that I was related to chimpanzees, but I lacked opposable digits on my feet.

  Four: Climb out the window and down. But how? I peered and peered to no avail. The stone walls were not so rough-hewn as to provide footholds. I saw no drainpipe, no handy buttress, and alas, no ivy. How would I ever be able to climb down?

  Then the answer came to me, so ridiculously simple that I smacked myself on the forehead for not having thought of it sooner.

  I would climb down the good old-fashioned way, by improvising a rope out of bedclothes knotted together.

  Chapter the Tenth

  Of course I had to wait until the nadir of night, when the denizens of Dunhench would be slumbering their deepest, and I could not light a lamp for fear of alerting someone to my activities, but during the hours that passed I became neither sleepy nor bored; I was busy fastening bedcovers corner to corner. Like many tasks, this turned out not to be nearly as simple as it seemed, especially not in the dark. I tied sheet to sheet to coverlet to coverlet to crewel-embroidered counterpane as best I could, pulling hard to tighten the knots, only to find that when I tested them, they parted as if by magic. No doubt, I thought sourly, my brother Sherlock had written a monologue on the superior knots used by sailors and mountain climbers, but as neither he nor his monologue were there with me in my prison, what was I to do?

  Enola, think, said my mother’s ghost in my mind.

  I thought, and I remembered the modern “safety pins” I had noticed in the top drawer of Lady Felicity’s dressing table, surely kept there for the purpose of holding things together in an emergency.

  Aha.

  Mentally I thanked both Flossie and my mother as I applied these formidable and reassuring pins to my knots, including those of the drapery panels I had added to my rope, and especially the all-important supporting quadruple knot I had tied to the bedpost. Then I put on my hat, secured it with the usual hatpins, fastened my carpetbag to my waist with the cloth belt from Flossie’s purple dressing gown, inserted my parasol therein, opened the window and flung my approximate rope out through it, and, necessarily exiting the window backwards, I set forth.

  As I am quite experienced at climbing, I scooted rapidly down sheets, coverlets, counterpane et cetera, and my celerity was fortunate, for my makeshift “rope” parted before I was quite finished with it, and I fell. Experience of similar situations previously helped me not to scream. And, as luck would have it, I did not fall very far. Almost immediately I landed on soft grass, taking the impact on that portion of my anatomy best padded to withstand such accidents. I stood up, brushed myself off, and considered my options regarding how to get back to Threefinches.

  A bicycle? Ludicrous; no one was likely to have left one outdoors in readiness for me. A horse? In the stable, there would be a watchdog that would bark at me, thus rousing the boys asleep in the loft. However, I might find a horse in a pasture somewhere—and ride it bareback? So it could run away with me, like Jezzie? No, thank you.

  My transportation, it seemed, would be shank’s mare.

  Once decided, I strode, indeed I nearly ran, towards the drive, visible by the light of the portico lamps. In passing, I made a very childish face at Caddie’s statue, sticking out my tongue. Then, turning my back on Dunhench Hall, I hurried towards its gates.

  The night remained so dark that at first I could see nothing except my own shadow, and shortly I could see nothing at all. I remained on the drive only by listening for the crunch of gravel under my feet and correcting course when I strayed onto the grass. Also, I retrieved my parasol from my carpetbag and waved it from side to side in front of me in case I encountered an obstacle, although I thought there should be none except the gate.

  Regarding the gate, I felt no great concern. I could climb over it, although it would be difficult, partly because of the darkness but mostly because of my skirt, likely to catch on some wrought-iron doodad. Confound skirts, which seemed designed by malicious intent to prevent women from doing anything adventuresome, let alone climbing gates—

  Wait. I could see the gate.

  Backlit by some small light, the mighty filigree of metal, a masculine mockery of lacework, loomed a short distance ahead of me.

  Moreover, I whiffed something that smelled of hot tin—a lantern. And as my eyes adjusted to the unexpected presence of illumination, I could make out a silhouette blending in with that of the gate, the form of a tall, thin man standing—No, as I watched he stooped, almost crouching, unmistakably furtive in his movements.

  My hand crept towards the hilt of the dagger sheathed in the front of my corset. But I did not touch it, because I began to formulate some interesting notions. Reminding myself that it is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of sufficient data, I took a long step sideways to get off the lane and onto its grass verge. Then, holding my breath and stepping soundlessly on the grass, I stalked closer to the unidentified person. I could now see that his was a dark lantern, casting light on only one side that could be slid open or closed. Such was the sort of equipment a person might use who was, I could now see, attempting to pick open the padlock on the gates.

  As he moved slightly, by the light of his lantern I got a clear look at his profile beneath the brim of a deerstalker hat.

  Smiling, I called to him softly. “Never mind, Sherlock. I can climb over.”

  I rejoiced to see him startle like a hare—which indeed he resembled in that hat with its bow on top like rabbit ears. Bolting upright, he caused a clash of metal as he kicked his lantern into the gate.

  “Shhh!” he hissed as if I were the one who had created such an unfortunate clatter. But it was too late for either of us to shush. Out of the darkness sprang a thin shaft of candlelight—quite close at hand, moving towards what seemed to be a window—

  The lodge-keeper’s cottage!

  There was no time to smite myself for being a ninny. Yanking my skirt up above my knees, I ran to the gate and scaled it in the moment it took Sherlock to slide his lantern closed so no one could see us in the night.

  Nor, alas, could we see anything at all.

  I felt my brother hoist me under the shoulders as I reached the top of the gate, and he hauled me over as if I weighed nothing at all. My skirt caught on something, of course. He ripped me free and ran, still carrying me quite jouncily.

  “Put me down,” I complained.

  He did so, but only because he tripped over something and fell, hurling me to the ground in the process. Lying on my back with the b
reath knocked out of me, I felt the most peculiar, overlarge tickling sensation on my face. Had the source of discomfort not snorted upon me, thereby identifying itself as a horse, I think I would have screamed once I had caught my breath. But instead, I sat up, and the beast began to eat my hat. I started to push the annoyance away, then changed my mind, took hold of its bridle’s cheek strap, and hauled myself to my feet. “Sherlock?” I whispered to the night, a sudden quaver of fear in my voice—had he hit his head? Had he hurt himself? Was he lying nearby with a broken neck?

  I could not see him. But, flickering through what seemed to be woods, I did see lantern light—the lodge-keeper, looking for us.

  A familiar and peremptory voice ordered, “This way, Enola. Get in the cart!”

  Feeling my way along the horse towards his voice, I whispered, “Are you all right?”

  “Get in the cart!” A thin, sinewy, and surprisingly strong hand came down from somewhere above the horse’s tail, grasped my arm, and lifted me. I flailed, encountered a structure of wood, and found myself sprawling approximately on or in it as Sherlock turned the horse and flicked the whip, and we trundled away.

  * * *

  Trundled, I say, because in the dark we could not go dashing off; indeed, I do not know how Sherlock was able to guide the horse at all. Perhaps the horse guided him. Horses exhibit an uncanny willingness and sense of direction when returning to their stables.

  After a few minutes Sherlock stopped the horse, secured the reins, and got down to light the lanterns on each forward corner of the cart. By then I had gotten myself organized into some degree of verticality. Judging by Sherlock’s actions there was no longer any need for stealth or silence, so I asked, “Whatever became of Tom Dubbs?” Sherlock wore his own hair and the country tweeds of a gentleman.