The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor

by Laurie R. King

  I started by removing my gloves, shunning for the moment the obvious ruse of dropping one on the floor, and tucking my hair back into place. I sipped at my drink without gagging on the cloyingly sweet stuff, took a magazine from my handbag, and then let it fall shut after two minutes. I slipped my shoes off under the table and surreptitiously leant down to massage my feet, stared out the window at the receding tide of foot and vehicular traffic, froze in apprehension when the voices of the darts players erupted into anger, then gradually relaxed when the publican’s wife put herself into the middle of it, turning it into a joke. After ten minutes, my glass was nearly empty, my eyes were smarting from the smoke and the fumes, and I was beginning to wonder how I could put myself any closer to Colonel Edwards without being obvious. I pulled off the heavy spectacles and folded them carefully on the table, then sat rubbing the bridge of my nose. There came a movement from behind me, male voices at the bar. I held my breath. If he decided to leave, I should have to play this all over again tomorrow. A dreary thought.

  A large moving object came to a halt next to my left elbow. I took my face from my hands to look up, startled, at the man beside me, into a face ruddy with whisky and weather, a wide nose over a trimmed moustache, sand beginning to grey, that gave way to a full mouth and an ever so slightly weak chin. His expression was half-paternal, half-interested male. Ideal, I thought, if only he didn’t look so much like Uncle John. Actually, it was the moustache that brought John Watson to mind, but I cautioned myself that I would have to beware of the affection I felt for Holmes’ longtime partner and biographer. This man was not Uncle John.

  He was holding out a glass, of the same sweet stuff I had been drinking. His smile broadened at my confusion, and I reached for my spectacles.

  “I thought you might like a refill.”

  “Oh, well, yes, thank you. It’s most kind of you, but I don’t usually drink more than one.”

  “Well, you can’t refuse a gift, can you? Besides, you looked all alone over here, and we can’t have that, not at the Pig and Whistle.”

  “Oh no, I’m not all alone. I mean, I am alone, but not—oh dear, that’s not coming out right, is it? Please sit down.” I fumbled my shoes back on and straightened my back.

  He placed his glass on the table and took possession of the chair across from me. He was a big man, not tall, but with broad shoulders and a bit of a belly to show for his intemperate habits. Erect bearing, still the military man.

  “Colonel Dennis Edwards, at your service, miss.” His hand sketched a humorous salute, and he grinned. Oh dear, I thought, what a very nice smile.

  “Mary Small,” I said, and held out my right hand to have the fingers shaken. Instead, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. I blushed. Yes, truly I did, although the wine helped. He was greatly amused.

  “Miss Small—it is Miss, I trust?” I inclined my head. Direct lies were the most difficult, although Mary Small was not a married woman. “Miss Small, I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, have I?”

  “No, I’m new to the area, Colonel Edwards.”

  “I thought as much. I didn’t think I could overlook such a flower as yourself.”

  I did not know quite how to respond to this, and I decided that Mary Small did not know, either. I smiled awkwardly and sipped my sherry, grateful for the sandwiches I had eaten to absorb the alcohol. The colonel soon fetched yet another round, which left me feeling quite warm and seemed not to affect him, beyond stepping up his volubility. He talked about this neighbourhood as if it were his personal possession, told me about the process by which it was being swallowed by greedy London town, told me about his army career. He talked; I listened. Mary Small seemed very good at listening, first to Rosie, now to the colonel. In fact, people responded to her shyness with words, pouring out their life stories. By eight o’clock, two of the darts players had joined us, the publican’s wife, and the publican himself occasionally, all apparently set on thrusting their personal histories on this tall, quiet, pale young woman in the tinted glasses. I have no great head for alcohol, and although I had managed quietly to rid myself of almost half of what was brought me, I had drunk more in the last couple of hours than I normally drank in a week. I felt flushed all over, my hair was coming down, the loud voices battered my senses, and a high and nagging voice spoke in my ear, warning me that I was going to make an awful mistake if I was not careful.

  I rose abruptly, and five sets of eyes looked up at me uncertainly. I faced the wife and asked, with immense dignity, for the use of her facilities.

  When I returned a few minutes later, considerably cooler and my hair under control, the party had broken up, but the colonel remained, and he stood when I entered.

  “Miss Small, it occurs to me that neither of us have dined. Would you care to join me? Just a simple meal. There’s a nice restaurant up the street.”

  This is really too easy, I thought happily.

  “Oh, Colonel, it would be lovely, but I have to be up early tomorrow. I have an interview for a position at eight-thirty on the other side of town, and I really mustn’t miss it, I’m getting—well, the situation is becoming a bit urgent. I must find work by the end of the week, or—well, I must, that’s all. So I’d enjoy having dinner with you, but—”

  “But of course you’ll have dinner with me. Just a quick dinner, nothing fancy, and we’ll have you in early. Where are you living?”

  I told him where the boardinghouse was located and protested weakly, but of course he overrode my objections, and so we went to dinner. It was a pleasant-enough meal, and the wine was superb, causing me to regret the earlier alcoholic treacle that I had swallowed. The colonel drank my share, however, and seemed to enjoy it. I heard more of his story, his love for hunting, the book he was writing, his cars. Finally, over coffee, he fell silent, and as I looked down at my cup, I felt his eyes on me for a long minute.

  “Don’t go to that interview tomorrow,” he said. I raised my eyes in surprise.

  “Oh, but I must. I can’t afford to miss the chance. I have to find work, I told you. If I don’t, I shall be forced to go home.” I made it sound most unpleasant.

  “Where is home?”

  “Oxfordshire. Outside Didcot.” Not too far from the truth.

  “And what do you do, that you interview for?” Here it came.

  “Oh, anything, really. Except cooking,” I had to add in all honesty. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen. But anything else. The interview tomorrow is for a personal secretary, which would be ideal. Correspondence, typing, a bit of research—she’s a writer—driving. All things I can do, and it pays well. I can’t let it go by,” I repeated.

  “Certainly you can. Come work for me.”

  The jackpot. O frabjous day! I thought, but I put on a face full of distress and embarrassment.

  “Oh, Colonel, I couldn’t do that. It’s terribly nice of you to be concerned about me, and I do truly appreciate it, but I couldn’t possibly take advantage of your kindness.”

  “It’s not kindness; it’s a job offer. My own secretary left several weeks ago” (slammed out of the house after the colonel had emptied a desk drawer over her head, according to Tea Shoppe Rosie), “and the work’s been piling up ever since. And, as I said, I’m writing a book, and you say you can do research. I’ve never been much for libraries. Plus that, you drive. I don’t. I get tired of taking taxis on my chauffeur’s days off. What do you say?”

  “Are you serious, Colonel Edwards?”

  “Absolutely. What was the pay at the other job?”

  I told him a figure, he increased it 10 percent, I protested that he didn’t know my qualifications, said I refused to accept charity, so he lowered it to 5 percent, with the other 5 percent to come after review in a month. As I had no intention whatsoever of being with him in a month, I accepted, with the proper degree of gratitude and confusion. This pleased him greatly, and a bit later, after much brandy and talk, he accompanied me to Billy’s cousin’s boardinghouse with a proud
, almost possessive set to his jaw and shoulders. As I closed the door and heard the taxi drive off, I couldn’t help wondering if he thought he had bought me or won me, and further, if he would see a difference in the two.

  I unbuckled the straps of my oppressive shoes and walked in stockinged feet through the still house, through the odours of tinned curry powder and stale cabbage and underwashed bodies, up the worn stair runners to my room. I turned up the gas with an irrational pang of hope that Holmes (with that customary disregard of his for agreed-to plans that made it impossible to depend on his whereabouts) might be revealed in a corner, but I saw only a slip of paper that someone had pushed under the door. It was from my landlady, to inform me that a gentleman had rung twice and would telephone again tomorrow night.

  Tonight, really, I saw from my watch. So much for an early dinner. The realisation of the hour and the sudden contrast of stillness and solitude after the long, tense day made me feel dizzy, but I knew I could never sleep, not until my brain slowed down. I undressed mechanically, brushed out my hair at the leprous mirror, and thought.

  I had to admit, grudgingly and to myself, that a part of me liked this man Edwards. The part of me that was closest to Mary Small responded to him and thought how very pleasant the evening had been. He was intelligent, if not particularly brilliant, and had an easy way of understanding how to make people relax and enjoy themselves. He had probably been a very good commander of men, with that ability. He had made me laugh several times, despite my (and my character’s) anxiety.

  Physically, he was the complete opposite of Holmes. Scarcely my height, he was heavily muscled and gave the impression of power. Even his expensive suit rode uneasily on his shoulders, but my mind skittered away from the thought that he would look most natural with few clothes on. His hair was still full and only beginning to show grey at the temples and ears. He seemed to be a hairy man, for in the restaurant the light had reflected from a dark copper fur on the backs of his broad hands and thick fingers, and his cheeks had shown stubble by midnight. Odd for a man with hair of that colour, I thought absently.

  Yes, Mary Small had liked him, had, in fact, found him attractive. Sweet, protected virgin that she was, she found his attention and authority flattering. Russell, however—that was another matter. As Mary Small began to fade in the mirror and I continued to analyse the evening’s currents, I found that I was, underneath, distinctly annoyed. What another woman might find appealingly masculine, I reflected, was also just plain boorish. From the first glass of sherry, unasked for and unwanted, to the dinner menu, ordered without consultation, the evening had been one of not-so-subtle manipulation and domination. It was, admittedly, the usual thing, but I did not like it one bit.

  I studied my face and asked it why this was troubling me. Was it not precisely how I had planned it, down to my worn lace collars and crippling shoes? He had responded in exactly the way I had wanted. Why, then, was I not sitting here gloating? Part of the problem, I knew, was the sour feeling that comes with practising deceit on an innocent, and after all, he might be completely without blame in Miss Ruskin’s death. That was compounded by the fact that I liked him as a person, but it was not all.

  I sat enfolded by the boardinghouse, silent but for a rumbling snore from somewhere above me, and knew that I was apprehensive—no, to be truthful, I was almost frightened, by the man’s strength. I had laughed at his jokes, even the ones I would normally find tasteless, and I had acquiesced to his decisions, completely, naturally. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a contest, but we were each playing a different game, by different rules, and I suddenly felt very unsure of myself, as inexperienced as Mary Small in the ways of dealing with men. I felt ill from the food and the drink and the smoke, and most especially from the words, the spate of words that had pushed and prodded and battered me all evening. I ached for Holmes, for the sureness of his hands and his quiet voice, and I wondered where he was sleeping that night.

  The thought of Holmes steadied me. I looked grimly at my shadowed reflection and told myself, Enough of this, Mary Russell. You are here to track down the person who murdered a good woman, a friend. You are the former apprentice and now full partner of the best man in the business. You have a quick, trained mind that is second to few and certainly better than that of Col. Dennis Edwards. And you are the daughter of Judith Klein, who was by no means small in spirit. This rôle calls for caution and a sure touch, but it is nothing to be overwhelmed by, and you will not be intimidated by a large middle-aged man with overactive glands and hairy hands.

  I went to bed then and listened to the night sounds of the city. With dim surprise, I realised that it was one week since Dorothy Ruskin had died, one week and a couple of hours and three miles from the site. I slept eventually, although I did not sleep well.

  THIRTEEN

  nu

  THE RAIN STARTED during the night, in its typical understated London fashion. The grumble of distant thunder grew imperceptibly from the dying roar of the traffic, and the eventual rustle of drops on stones and slate gradually came to underlie what passed in London for a quiet night. Nothing dramatic, just dull London wetness. I huddled under my black umbrella in the bus queue the next morning and thought, Here I cannot even turn to my neighbours and say how good it is for the crops—they’d look at me as if I were from another planet.

  I escaped from the crowded omnibus and its smell of wet wool a full twenty minutes early, so I went into Rosie’s for a cuppa to start the day. Rosie was busy, but she sloshed my tea with affection and asked what I was doin’ out so early.

  “I found a position! I start with Colonel Edwards this morning. I met him at the pub last night and he said he needed a secretary, and he hired me.”

  Rosie froze, and her face travelled through surprise and appraisal to suspicion and reappraisal, then ended up at a politely noncommittal “Good for you, dearie, so I guess we’ll be seein’ summat of you.”

  Ten minutes later, I splashed up the drive to my new job, berating myself. Fine detective you make, Russell, I thought. Can’t even play a rôle without worrying about what a complete stranger thinks of you. I shook the water from my umbrella, squared my meek shoulders, and rang the bell.

  THE WORK OF any decent detective is at least nine-tenths monotony, despite the invariably brisk pace of any detective novel, or even a police file, for that matter. Take, for example, the accounts written by Dr Watson of the earlier cases of Holmes: They give the overall impression of the detective leaping into the fray, grasping the single most vital clue in an instant, and wrestling energetically with the case until all is neatly solved. There is little indication of the countless hours spent in cold, cramped watch over a doorway, of days spent in dusty records rooms and libraries, of the tantalising trails that fade away into nothing—all are passed over with a laconic reference to the passage of time. Of course, Watson was often brought in only at the end of a case, and so he missed the tedium. I could not.

  I will not recount the secretarial work I did for Colonel Edwards, because to do so would bore even the writer to tears. Suffice it to say that for the next few days I was a secretary: I filed and organised, I typed, and I took dictation. At the same time, of course, I had my ears fully cocked and my eyes into everything, at every moment. I listened in on telephone calls when I could, hearing long, dreary, manly conversations about dead birds and alcoholic beverages. I went systematically through each filing cabinet until my fingers and back cramped, and I dutifully chatted with the servants whenever I could manage to happen across them, receiving mostly monosyllabic grunts for my pains. No, if I wanted a life filled with nonstop excitement and challenge, I should not choose the life of a detective. High-wire acrobatics, perhaps, or teaching twelve-year-olds, or motherhood, but not detecting.

  It is endurance that wins the case, not short bursts of flashy footwork (though those, too, have their place). For the next days, I soaked up all possible information about Colonel Edwards and the people around him: his eat
ing and drinking habits, what he read, how he slept, his likes, dislikes, passions, and hates—all the urges and habits that made the man.

  The first day, Thursday, I spent all morning with the colonel in his upstairs study, sorting out correspondence and putting things to order. We ate lunch together in the study, and afterwards he showed me, almost shyly, the first pages of his book on Egypt in the years preceding the war. I promised to take it home and study it, which seemed to please him. We then sat down to dictation.

  The first letters were to the managers of two manufacturing businesses, concerned with the upcoming yearly reports. The third was a short letter to a friend confirming a weekend bird-slaughtering party in September. (“Do much shooting, Miss Small?” “Why, no, Colonel.” “Invigorating way to spend a holiday. Of course, it takes some strength to use a bird-gun.” “Does it, Colonel? It sounds jolly fun.”) The fourth was to a bank manager, with details for increasing the monthly allowance for the colonel’s son, Gerald, when he returned to Cambridge. (Thank God it’s Cambridge, I thought, and not Oxford. I’m not exactly unknown there.) The fifth was of considerable interest to me, addressed to a friend, concerning a comember of an organisation whose name set off bells. It read:

  Dear Brooks,

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the little flap-up last week, and I have come to the conclusion that I shall have to resign from the Friends. It was a downright nasty trick Lawson played on me, keeping information from me until the last minute like that. I was the chair of that committee, after all, and it makes me look a damned (‘I beg your pardon, Miss Small, change that to confounded, would you please?’) fool not to know it was a woman I was meeting.