“Oh Lord, Holmes, isn’t it dreary always being right?” I complained.
“You are quite right—it was not politic of me to point out that Uncle Sherlock knows best. I merely thought to enquire if you had an appetite yet.”
“No,” I said, and then amended it. “However, I admit that the idea of food is not quite so repugnant as it was earlier.”
“Good. Now, shall we go to the zoological gardens and wax philosophical about the anthropomorphism of monkeys, or shall we talk about the man to whom you refer with a capitalised pronoun?”
“What about Him? Have the police caught Him yet?”
“You needn’t fear, Russell, they have not. And will not, if you choose to do nothing.”
We sat and listened to the noises of the park at night, traffic sounds mingled with distant jungle screeches. My hands were gradually regaining their steadiness, I noticed.
“Touché, Holmes. I am repaid for my thoughtless remark about your son.”
“Hardly thoughtless. At times, a jolt is needed to get an engine moving.”
“Consider my engine jolted. In which direction do you wish me to move?”
“In a most circuitous path, I think. We must not give the man a second opportunity.”
“But what does he want with me?” I cried.
“Would it interest you to know,” he asked, “that nine days ago Somerset House received, and registered, a will for one Mary Judith Russell, signed, witnessed, and dated the previous Friday? I thought it might. And perhaps you would also be interested to know that you chose to leave five thousand pounds each to your beloved aunt, your snivelling cousin, your farm manager, and your college; not a farthing, I was rather hurt to discover, to your old friend Sherlock Holmes. The bulk of your estate—the houses, the factory, the gold, the paintings, and the villa in Tuscany—went to the New Temple in God.”
“Bloody hell,” I muttered.
“As you say. The signature was quite good, by the way—a closer approximation than I could pen. I believe it to be the work of a forger who goes by the name of Penworthy. Poor Miss Russell.” He sighed. “The sudden acquisition of riches drove her to a death of high living.”
“I see now why He—why the man clung to me so closely. I had wondered how, if he is in charge of some criminal organisation, he could afford to remove himself from London for so long, but with something like my father’s fortune at stake, I suppose he could not risk leaving the whole charade to a subordinate. Is there any link with the Temple, other than the will?”
“No proof of one, but it has to be with the woman herself.”
“Oh God. It always comes back to Margery.”
“It does.” He started to say something, then changed his mind. We sat in another patch of silence, until another thing that had to be said forced itself onto my tongue.
“You were right, Holmes, Tuesday—at the house. Inspector Dakins would have seen only the addict’s symptoms and not have listened to anything else. I hated that, having you give me . . . I hated it.”
“You hated me.”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“My shoulders are broad,” he said easily.
“So, who is he?” I asked.
“He does not own that house. It was let, six months ago, to a man using the name Calvin Franich.”
“Does Mr Franich have a small scar on his upper lip?”
“The estate agent said yes, he did. The interesting thing is, Scotland Yard knows of another gentleman with a small scar on his upper right lip and another in his left eyebrow. He calls himself Claude Franklin.”
“Mr Franklin being . . .”
“A rather mysterious gentleman with fingers in any number of shadowy pies. He made a beginning, you may be interested to know, in convincing elderly widows to leave him a little something when they died. He disappeared from this country in 1912, as things were becoming a bit warm for him, and survived the war quite nicely by importing illicit goods to the Mediterranean. Recently, his name has been linked with drugs being smuggled into the south of France, and he seems to have slipped quietly into England some time in the last year. Very lowkey, very clever, very dangerous, was Scotland Yard’s verdict. They weren’t happy to hear he’s come home.”
“I should think not.”
“Has that restored your appetite?”
“Do you know, I believe it has. Not for great quantities, however.”
“But an intensity of flavours. It is not your stomach that abhors the idea of food, if I may be allowed to mention that indelicate organ, but your palate. I have discovered a new establishment run by a chronically unsuccessful cracksman who was fortunately employed in the governor’s kitchen during his last spell. He has found his calling. You shall begin with the prosciutto—no, not pork. Ah yes, the baked pear and Stilton, that ought to awaken your taste buds. And then a bowl of his onion soup—he makes it with a touch of garlic and a particularly interesting cheese grated on top—with a nice young Côtes du Rhône, I think, and perhaps if you’re up to it a sole almondine with a glass of sparkling white wine—”
“You have convinced me. However, Holmes,” I said gravely, “before we go any further, there is something I have to know. I realise this may not be the ideal time, but it is necessary that I ask, because my mind has dwelt much on the question while I was locked in the darkness, and if I do not bring it up now, I may never nerve myself up to it.” I looked down at my gloved hands, choosing my words with care. “These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit that I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer.” I looked up into his face. “The question I have for you, then, Holmes, is this: How are the fairies in your garden?”
By the yellow streetlights, I saw the trepidation that had been building up in his face give way to a flash of relief, then to the familiar signs of outrage: the bulging eyes, the purpling skin, the thin lips. He cleared his throat.
“I am not a man much given to violence,” he began, calmly enough, “but I declare that if that man Doyle came before me today, I should be hard-pressed to avoid trouncing him.” The image was a pleasing one, two gentlemen on the far side of middle age, one built like a greyhound and the other like a bulldog, engaging in fisticuffs. “It is difficult enough to surmount Watson’s apparently endless blather in order to have my voice heard as a scientist, but now, when people hear my name, all they will think of is that disgusting dreamy-eyed little girl and her preposterous paper cutouts. I knew the man was limited, but I did not even suspect that he was insane!”
“Oh, well, Holmes,” I drawled into his climbing voice, “look on the bright side. You’ve complained for years how tedious it is to have everyone with a stray puppy or a stolen pencil box push through your hedges and tread on the flowers; now the British Public will assume that Sherlock Holmes is as much a fairy tale as those photographs and will stop plaguing you. I’d say the man’s done you a great service.” I smiled brightly.
For a long minute, it was uncertain whether he was going to strike me dead for my impertinence or drop dead himself of apoplexy, but then, as I had hoped, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard.
Suddenly, without warning, I found myself turning to him, leaning into him until my face was buried in the lapels of his coat. “Oh God, Holmes. I was so frightened. Even now, the thought that He is out there somewhere paralyses me with terror.” We stood together for a long moment, and he cleared his throat.
“There is only one solution, you know, Russell.”
“Yes. I know.” His white evening scarf was soft against my cheek, and he smelt of wool and tobacco. I sighed, and stood away from him, only peripherally aware of his hands falling back to his sides. “I seem to have
spent the last few weeks running away from things. I can’t very well do it now.”
“You will not be alone,” he said quietly. And indeed, from that moment on I was not. I tucked my arm into his, and in amity we walked out of the park and caught a cab.
WHAT THE WALK and the conversation had begun, the food finished, though what had helped most was having my anger redirected at its rightful target. After eating, we walked through nearby Covent Garden and then up to my flat, where I made coffee and we sat talking and I dozed off in front of the fire. Holmes woke me and sent me to my bed, where I slept, not for long, but deeply. I woke and put on my dressing gown to prowl the dark flat that smelt now of Holmes’ tobacco, but the restlessness of the day before was controllable now, and the shame something to be acknowledged and not dwelt upon. I made myself some warm milk with a grating of nutmeg and stood at the window, watching the empty street below. After a while, the beat constable appeared, reaching for doorknobs, shining his light into corners, quite unprepared for any of the evil things that might befall him, but solidly, stolidly, reassuringly English. He passed on. I finished my drink and, walking past the smell of a pipe, returned to bed, and to sleep.
“ARE YOU QUITE certain you feel up to it, Russell?” Holmes pressed.
In answer, I held my hand outstretched over the breakfast table. Steady as a rock, I noted proudly, and then noticed for the first time what Holmes was wearing.
“Where did you find the dressing gown, Holmes?”
“Lent me by the good Mr Quimby.”
“Good of him. I was afraid they might be offended, an unchaperoned female and a male guest.”
“I told the missus I was a bodyguard, and she had no further qualms. Women find me reassuring.”
In the general run of things, Holmes was as reassuring as a shark, but I said nothing, applying myself to the eggs and the toast that tasted of actual food again.
“You wish to begin at once?” he asked again.
“Of course. We’ve no time to waste.”
“Do not expect to be fully yourself for some days, Russell,” he warned.
“I’ll try not to fight off more than six thugs at a time. Joke, Holmes, only a joke. There isn’t anyone in the Temple to fight, anyway, not at night. The guard is a drowsy old man.”
“Miss Childe has taken on bodyguards, one or another of whom follows her about during the day.” I looked up at him quickly, Mrs. Q’s excellent eggs turning to pap in my mouth.
“And at night?”
“Apparently, she dismisses him after her services, earlier on the other evenings. However, you’ll have to keep an eye out for the night guard, who prowls the Temple building itself.”
“Thanks for the warning. I can’t think she’d have him in the Temple overnight, though, and I’ll be away long before he reports for duty in the morning.”
“Take a gun.”
“I will not. It would be found, and I’ll not risk shooting a guard or even the tedious Marie just for the sake of your nerves.”
He was not happy, but left it.
“You’ve decided how you will get in, then?” he asked.
“I can hardly borrow a child or two, so I shall go as an unfortunate and very young lady of the evening, at odds with her procurer.”
“A prostitute beaten up by her pimp.”
“I’ll need foul teeth and a few fresh bruises. Which reminds me: What was it that you put on my wrist to make the fading bruises for the benefit of Inspector Dakins?”
“Algae from the water closet mixed with pipe cleanings. A pretty effect, is it not? I shall give you caps on two teeth and a yellow mouthwash I’ve been working on. It will stay on your tooth enamel even if you eat, although it won’t stand up to brushing. The taste is pretty appalling, I’m afraid.”
“I wouldn’t have expected any less.”
I rested during the middle of the day, and ate again. Holmes returned, given entrance by Q as I was scraping the last of the cheese from the plate. He deposited an armload of clothing and a stained and mottled canvas grip on the table with a fine disregard for propriety. I snatched up the underclothes and carried them away, then returned, to find him with a plate of his own.
“Thank you, Mrs Q,” I called.
“Wig, or dye?” he asked around a mouthful of lightly curried chicken.
“Dye, for safety. I haven’t been red for a while. A fiery redhead, that’s the job.”
The colouring was good enough to resemble a hennaed exaggeration of a natural red rather than a complete change in colour. Glasses, I should have to do without, carrying a pair in my pocket for the occasional peep. Skin lightened, two teeth capped and the rest stained with the revolting mixture. Mrs Q was seething with curiosity but said not a word. Holmes and I played chess and drank coffee all afternoon, and after a light, early supper, I went to dress.
The brassiere emphasised everything I hadn’t thought was there; the dress was pathetic, particularly with the weight I had lost in the last two weeks. I overdid my hair, then pulled half of it into disarray. Holmes helped me with the bruises and reddened one of my eyes, and I stood back, waiting for his approval. His face, though, was as closed as ever I had seen it, and his jaw tightened briefly before he spoke.
“I suppose I shall become accustomed to this eventually,” he muttered.
“I don’t plan to wear this sort of thing regularly, Holmes,” I protested.
“It’s not the clothing you wear; it’s the lion’s dens you insist on walking into. You’d best go, before I’m tempted to lock you in your bedroom.”
With a splutter of indignation, I thrust my arms into the sleeves of the ragged coat and slammed out the door. That the doorman did not immediately seize me and hand me into charge confirmed what I had begun to suspect of the building’s bohemian ways.
I WALKED TO the Underground station at Russell Square, occasioning a number of scandalised glances and the attention of several police constables, and rode the stinking depths to Liverpool Street. There, I emerged, to climb into an omnibus that took me into Whitechapel. The district was, as always, dreary and oppressive, and I was feeling queasy again and uncertain. I bought a hot pie from a vendor, but it did not help much, and I would have given the remainder to a starved-looking cat, but a child snatched it away before the animal could do more than sniff it.
I wandered up and down for the better part of an hour, cursed and driven away first from one corner and then another by their rightful occupants, approached by two separate men, both of whom lost interest when they heard my tubercular cough, establishing my presence in the neighbourhood and making quite certain that no one was following me. Eventually, I wound up across from the Temple’s front entrance, along with the handful of buskers, acrobats, and pavement vendors who come out of the stonework whenever a crowd is about to pour out. This lot was considerably less skilful and affluent than their West End counterparts. The acrobatic midgets were stretching their backs as if to ease rheumatism while quarrelling violently with their musician, who held a violin case under his arm. The pie-seller’s wares looked flaccid and misshapen. The two flower sellers chatted with a surprising camaraderie, considering the usually fierce territoriality of the breed. And here came another odd one, a massive woman whose full bust strained the bright yellow satin of her dress above the tray she bore, a selection of glittering geegaws. With the ponderous dignity of the profoundly intoxicated, she took up a strategic position across the street from the doors, and no sooner had they opened with the first of the released crowd than she burst into full-throated song.
“‘I’m called Little Buttercup—dear Little Buttercup, tho’ I could never tell why,’” she warbled in a nearly accurate contralto, the jet beads on her primrose bonnet quivering with effort. She was remarkably successful, and one could imagine that the chief value of the baubles purchased lay in the story that would accompany its display—“You’ll never guess where I bought this hideous thing. There was this creature, from the nineties, I swear, my
dears. . . .”
When the tumult had subsided and the buskers were making off, I walked over to examine the dregs in Buttercup’s tray. She had finished with Gilbert and Sullivan (“Sailors should never be shy . . .”) and moved up in time to Al Jolson.
“‘It’s time for mating . . .’” she gushed in a quavering Jolson tenor. “‘Anticipating . . . the birdies in the trees.’ Buy a pretty, my pretty?” she broke off to trill at me with a gust of gin. I poked a scornful finger through the brooches and chains and found a ring, a chip of red glass set in a silver band that would discolour my finger before morning. I put it on.
“Loverly, dearie, a piece of real ruby that is. You’ll treasure it forever.”
“I doubt that,” I said dryly, and haggled her down from her ludicrous price to a couple of farthings. I paid her, tucked my near-empty purse back into its pocket, and turned to look at the doors again.
“I shall stay on the street until you come out, Russell,” said Holmes in his normal voice.
“As you know,” I muttered with my hand over my face, “there is a good doorway up the street.”
“If you find the path blocked, do not force it. We will return.”
“Your singing voice is unearthly, Holmes, and the hat is ungodly. Nonetheless, I am glad you are here. I shall see you in a few hours.”
“If you do not appear by dawn, I shall storm the city of women,” he declared, but the jest was paper-thin. I drifted off.
Twenty minutes later, when the nearby pubs were calling for final orders, I eased into a dim corner for my final preparations. Makeup was all very well and good, but it would not fool a doctor, and I suspected that I would be examined in the shelter. I took a small wide-mouthed bottle out of my coat pocket, put it to my mouth, and sucked at it until it had attached itself firmly to my lip. I left it there for a minute, and when I broke the suction, I felt the flesh instantly begin to swell. I spent a few more minutes loosening my hairpins and pulling a small rent in the sleeve of my dress, stowing away my spectacles and running a layer of grime over face and clothes, then placed the bottle in a corner, peered cautiously out to be certain there was no eye on me, and stepped onto the pavement. I held myself as if my ribs pained me and walked up to Margery Childe’s refuge for women.
The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4 Page 59
