I told Dr. Watson, “Simply put, the plan is that Miss Glover, disguised as her sister with a torn dress, bare feet, and harrowed face, should confront her brother-in-law so as to make him believe his wife has escaped. Our hope is that he will then reveal the location of the lunatic asylum by ordering her to be taken back there.”
Dr. Watson commented only with lifted eyebrows and a low whistle.
“Exactly,” said Sherlock. “We must organize every stage of this rather risky undertaking.” He began to write on the blackboard, and like obedient schoolchildren we all took our seats. In blocky chalk letters Sherlock wrote:
ESTABLISH HEADQUARTERS NEAR DUNHENCH
GET MISS LETITIA GLOVER INTO DUNHENCH HALL UNDER OUR SECRET GUARD
WHEN SHE IS FORCED INTO CARRIAGE, ACCOMPANY AND/OR FOLLOW
IF NAME OF ASYLUM KNOWN, STOP CARRIAGE. IF DESTINATION UNKNOWN, FOLLOW WITHOUT FAIL
IN EITHER CASE, WATSON MUST USE HIS M.D. AUTHORITY TO FREE LADY FELICITY
Dense but docile, as always, Watson inquired, “Lady Felicity?”
“Felicity Glover Rudcliff, Countess of Dunhench, our client’s twin sister and the unhappy wife of Cadogan Burr Rudcliff the Second, Earl of Dunhench in Surrey.”
“Oh.”
“Now, how are we all to get there? We cannot approach by way of Threefinches. Enola and I would be recognized there, and excite too much talk.”
“We could travel by train to Woking, then rent a drag to approach from the opposite direction, across country,” Watson said. “Perhaps we should hire a vacant cottage near Dunhench Hall, if one is to be found.”
Sherlock concurred. “An excellent idea. As I am known in those parts, would you kindly go there at your earliest convenience, Watson, and call upon land agents?”
“I will go today.”
“And Tish and I will visit used clothing stores in order to costume her,” I volunteered.
Sherlock said, “Once we arrive at our mutual destination, I will help you render her quite ghastly, Enola, with a few tricks from the world of the theatre.”
Tish asked in a small voice, “But how am I to get into Dunhench Hall?”
“Ah. There, indeed, is the rub. We must go after dark, on an evening when the charming earl is either dining or sitting alone, and I suppose we must either bribe the lodge-keeper or cosh him. I dare say you can handle things once we get you past the gates?”
“I think I can fool the butler and Caddie.” Her small voice enlarged slightly. “I look like Flossie and I can act like Flossie when she is angry and I can say what she would say. Heaven knows I have seen her in tempers enough.”
“Good.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the corners.
“And the worst Caddie is likely to do to me is slap me.” She did not sound as if she much looked forward to Caddie or to being slapped.
“One or more of us will be right outside to defend you. But assuming there is no need for us to intervene, after you are thrown out of Dunhench Hall, what then? We must assume they will put you in an enclosed carriage. I hope Enola will be able to slip in and hide under the seat when they bring it around for you. Watson and I must follow. But how? We need to have a gig or something of the sort hidden and waiting just outside the gate, which means we need another man, someone to hold the horse and keep an eye on the lodge-keeper. Someone we can trust.”
Silence.
“Miss Glover, are you sure you have no suitable male relatives?”
“I’m quite sure.”
“Watson? Have you anyone to suggest?”
He did not look as if he did. But with the vibrant sensation of a brilliant idea warming my mind, I spoke; indeed, I nearly shouted. “I know who would love to help. Tewky!”
Chapter the Sixteenth
That was on Monday, but it took us until Friday to put everything together.
We each had tasks. I posted a preliminary letter to Tewky. Watson took three days to find and secure the best possible vacant cottage for our purposes. Tish and I drew and reviewed floor plans for Dunhench Hall. Sherlock planned everything on paper, made numerous lists, and procured detailed maps of Surrey and the surrounding areas. Tish and I ventured into the slums of London’s East End to search used clothing shops for a suitably appalling dress, plus a complete mourning outfit (my idea) to hide her from curious eyes whilst traveling. And on a day when Tish had to work, Sherlock and I took the train to Belvidere to see Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether. I protested that I could go by myself, but Sherlock said he needed to witness this transaction if he were to believe it. “A nobleman’s son and heir, driving a gig at midnight for the sake of one of your mad schemes, Enola?” he grumbled as we walked up the drive to Basilwether Hall. “Ludicrous.”
I retorted, “Can you name me any other able-bodied, intelligent young man within our circle of acquaintance who is so blithely unemployed and free to assist us?”
He replied only with a snort before a youthful voice shouted, “Halloo!” and Tewky appeared hatless but otherwise impeccable in a shooting jacket and fawn-coloured breeches, vaulting over a balustrade to greet us. “Hello, Mr. Holmes who brought me home!” Heartily he shook Sherlock’s hand. “It is wonderful to see you again. Hello, Enola!” Arms flung wide open, he threatened to give me a brotherly bear hug.
I stepped back, smiling, but spoke seriously. “Tewky, do please settle down and pay attention. It turns out that ‘black barouche’ symbolizes the sort of vehicle body snatchers employ when they carry people off to a lunatic asylum. We need your help.”
He sobered at once. “Anything I can do for either of you—”
“It’s both of us,” Sherlock interrupted, “and you’d better hear about it before you make any promises. Let us take a walk, shall we?”
Tewky had been raised in a house full of servants who, of course, eavesdropped; he understood at once. He took us for a ramble between the gardens and the woods while Sherlock and I explained the circumstances to him. His response could not have been more satisfactory. “All you want me to do is take the train to Dorking, hire a fast horse and a wagonette, meet you near Dunhench Hall, and assist you as necessary? Of course I will do it. Might I be allowed to punch Lord Cadogan in the nose?”
“Only if I punch him first,” said Sherlock, sounding as dry as a gourmand’s oldest wine. “And depending, of course, whether the duke and duchess will assent to your taking part in this harebrained enterprise.”
“It’s not harebrained at all. It’s brilliant,” said Tewky, very much to my gratification. “And of course my parents will be honoured to let me help you, in preparation for my career as a coachman, as driving is the only thing I’m the least bit good at.”
He meant to make us laugh, and he did. But a few moments later, inside Basilwether Hall, speaking with his parents in our presence, he was quite serious. “This is a chance for me to repay, in some small measure, my debt to Miss Holmes.”
“And of course, it is also a chance to have an adventure,” added the duchess with a wry look on her distinguished face. Nevertheless, she and the duke assented to their son’s participation in the scheme, I think largely because of the grave authority of Sherlock Holmes.
“We will all be depending on you,” Sherlock admonished as he handed handwritten instructions and a hand-drawn map to Marquess Tewkesbury Viscount of Basilwether.
* * *
I think Tish ate very little during that week of preparation. Indeed, she had eaten little since receiving news of the “passing away” of her sister, and she had slept badly, so she had grown gaunt and pallid. From Sherlock’s point of view, this boded well for her success in passing herself off as the unfortunate Flossie. I, however, worried about her. On the morning of The Appointed Day I took it upon myself to invite her to breakfast with me in a private room at my club—an excellent breakfast, including ham, fish, and tongue along with hot rolls and sweet biscuits—and I exhorted her to eat well, but to no avail. She swallowed only a few mouthfuls.
“Ti
sh, you must bolster your strength! What will happen to Flossie if you become too weak to play your role?”
Her smile looked tired. “Stop fussing, Enola. You’re not my mother.”
The shock of such a notion, that I could resemble anyone’s mother, hushed me for the time being, until we adjourned to my room to prepare for travel. Because we desired to attract no attention, regretfully I made myself as inconspicuous as possible in a tan serge suit and my plainest hat over hair knotted into a severe bun. As for Tish, her widow’s weeds completely concealed her from head to toe, even her face being hidden by the thick black veil fastened to the brim of her stiff black hat. “Heavens, I can barely see where I’m going,” she murmured, clinging to my arm as we made our way downstairs and out to our awaiting cab, into which our bags, along with a picnic hamper, had already been loaded.
Sherlock and Watson met us at the train station, and for once, my brother wore neither his deerstalker nor his top hat. Although not exactly in disguise, he did manage to blend into the populace in brown trousers bagged at the knee from wear, a slightly frayed jacket, and an old homburg. As for Watson, there was no need for him to modify his appearance in any way; he was, and always had been, deceptively undistinguished.
Meeting on the platform, seeing to our luggage, boarding the train, and even in the privacy of our compartment, we took care to speak quietly, seldom, and only of commonplaces, such as what a nice warm day it was, summery in September, and, as the train progressed out of London, how lovely was the countryside. Tish kept her veil down and barely spoke; the conductor might have thought she was a young widow sunken in grief. Sherlock read the newspapers. Watson and I, seated diagonally across from each other, chitchatted on occasion for appearance’s sake.
We traveled to Woking, and got off at a station unfamiliar to me but not, evidently, to Sherlock. Hailing a porter to help with our luggage, he led us to where our transportation awaited us. The “drag” turned out to be a capacious vehicle drawn by no less than four horses, basically a large vehicle too plain to be called a carriage, a vehicle with no cloaked and cockaded coachman; a plain country fellow drove us. No shining harness or bearing reins on the decidedly commonplace horses. No filigree and no very plush upholstery, either. Once we were rumbling along and the driver could not hear us, I felt free to say, “We are roughing it.”
“To simulate being a party of small means and no consequence,” said Holmes.
“Wait until you see the cottage,” added Watson with a smile as mischievous as a boy’s.
From behind her veil, Tish spoke up suddenly, her tone distressed. “What if, after all this, Caddie isn’t home?”
Asperity tightened Sherlock’s face, but before he could say anything too cutting, Watson spoke. “I am sure Mr. Holmes has his sources of information, Miss Glover.”
“Quite true,” Sherlock affirmed with a reasonable degree of patience. “Lord Rudcliff remains in residence in Dunhench Hall, and he has no houseguests.”
Our conveyance bucked and slewed along the rutted country roads. Evidently it lacked any sort of springs or suspension. To talk was to risk involuntarily biting the end of one’s tongue off. We were silent.
The train trip from London seemed a mere whisk compared to the interminable journey in the drag along unimproved byways, and all four horses were evidently quite necessary to “drag” such a load across such terrain. Several times, I reminded myself rather sternly that this method of approaching Dunhench Hall was necessary in order to keep our arrival secret.
Finally, Watson got to his feet, stuck his head out a window and shouted to the driver, who bellowed back. Then, after several moments of such back-and-forthing as we found our way between tall hedges lining twisty lanes, we halted in front of our “headquarters.”
The cottage was everything Watson had promised it to be, which is to say it was not much. Patches of plaster had fallen from the outer walls, baring the fieldstone beneath. Its low roof made its two windows and door-for-a-nose resemble a glowering Neanderthal. The two-room interior, furnished with nothing but a stove, a table, and a few chairs, looked not much more attractive—but I did not care, for I was hungry. At once I unpacked our cold and rather late luncheon from its hamper. To my surprise and annoyance, no one else except me seemed very interested in the deviled eggs, baked bean sandwiches, crackers and sardines, et cetera.
Staring out of the cottage’s back window, Sherlock waved away my offer of cold Welsh rarebit. “Unless I am much mistaken, one can actually see Dunhench Hall from here.”
“Correct. We are situated directly behind its grounds.” Coming indoors after having seen to the luggage and dismissed the drag, Watson also gestured refusal when I thrust a sandwich towards him. “Holmes, I have a thought. If we can find or make a way to walk in from here, then we shall not have to deal with the lodge-keeper.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed my brother, and the pair of them seized sticks and sallied forth, to be seen no more before dark.
Sighing, I laid aside the Swiss cheese I was devouring, stood up, and went over to Tish, who remained standing in the middle of the room like a black-draped lamppost. I lifted the heavy veil and peered under it as if discovering her face in a cave. She looked ghastly pale amidst all that black. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I quipped, pulling hatpins so that I could lift away the shroud of black that enveloped her head. After it was gone she stood blinking, as if the dim light of the cottage dazzled her. I took her by the hand and led her to the table. “Come and sit with me and eat something, Tish.”
She sat, but she said, “I can’t eat.”
“Truly? Try a few crackers, at least.” I opened the can of sardines.
“I can’t. I’ll be sick.”
Munching sardines and crackers, I asked, “Why? What frightens you? His caddish Lordship?”
“Yes. But even more…” She gulped, looked down, looked up at me, and I could see she spoke with great difficulty. “Even more, the prospect of the lunatic asylum itself. Being taken there and—and put away.”
“Tish, Dr. Watson and my brother will not let you be locked up! You will only lead the way so that we can rescue your sister. Will it not be wonderful to free Flossie?”
“If she is all right. But if—if she has become like the others…”
Beginning to comprehend the breadth and depth of her fears, I lost my own appetite, setting sardines and crackers aside. “I must admit I’ve given very little thought to the aftermath,” I said softly. Where would Flossie go, where would she stay, if not with her sister? And what if Flossie had become a bit mad in the madhouse? How was Tish to take care of her and make a living at the same time?
I took a deep breath. “Tish, let me say two things. One: I will always help you. And two: sometimes it is best to deal with one problem at a time.” Resolutely I stood up to take her into the other room. “Right now, you and I have a great deal of work to do.”
Chapter the Seventeenth
“Let’s cut my hair first,” Tish said.
Get the worst thing over with, I thought. I said nothing, but neither did I begin to hack heartlessly at her hair. Freeing her long locks from where they had been pinned up behind her ears, I combed them down over her back, then braided them into a tight, thick plait perhaps half a metre long, tying it not only at the bottom, but at the top as well. Then I took scissors to her hair above the plait and cut it off. I laid it in her lap. She placed one hand atop it, accepting it, but did not speak or look up.
Cropping off what remained of her hair close to her head, I watched for tears, but saw none. Finally I asked, “How are you?”
“I feel quite literally light-headed. And it’s cold. I believe my scalp is getting goose bumps.”
I laughed in relief that she had some spirit back, fastened a shawl into a sort of turban around her head for warmth, and prepared to work on the rest of her. Because he knew she would not welcome his personal assistance, Sherlock had given me detailed instructions. “Change your
clothes,” I told her, “and we shall uglify the skin of your limbs and shoulders.”
“How exciting.”
“Call me when you are ready.” I went into the other room, where the stove was.
During my solitary luncheon I had managed to light the stove using kindling and sticks we had brought with us in the drag. My brother had foreseen and provided for every contingency, including water, which we had carried in kegs, and basins and such. Testing the pot of water I had put on the stove, I found it to be passably warm. While I waited, I leaned my arms on the sill of the rear window and stared at the grim peaked towers of Dunhench Hall silhouetted against the sky.
“Ready!” called Tish.
I hauled the pot of water into the other room where Tish was, then set it down while I admired her. In the stained and grimy secondhand unmentionables we had bought for her, and a faded, tattered dress that failed to quite conceal them, she looked quite shocking already.
“You deserve a medal,” I told her. “An investiture from the queen.”
“Why?”
“You’re brave, Tish.” I hugged her, had her sit down, then took a bar of homemade brown lye soap, dipped it in the water and began to lather her exposed limbs with it.
“The Most Honourable Order of the Bath?” Tish joked.
“If only it were that simple. You must let that soap scum dry upon you. Meanwhile, we must see to your hands.”
“What about them?”
“Did Flossie clip her fingernails the way you do?”
“No, not being a typist, she grew them longer … oh, dear.”
“Not to worry. I have the solution right here.” I set to work with a goodly supply of dried pistachio shells Sherlock had provided, fitting them exactly upon her nail beds, fixing them there with rubber cement and then snipping the ends a bit raggedly. As Tish watched, her eyes opened wide. “How remarkable!”
If by “remarkable” she meant that her fingernails now looked overgrown, splitting and dirty, she was quite correct.
Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Page 11
