A Letter of Mary mr-3

by Laurie R. King

  "I have Saturday afternoon and all Sunday free, madam. Oh, madam, that's not necessary. No, I couldn't take that. Well, maybe part of it. Thank you, madam."

  "It's I who thank you, Miss Wells. For the family, that is. You've been most helpful. No, I don't think you need clean in here for the next two or three days, until we can remove her things. And it would be best if you could remain ... discreet, until then. It wouldn't do to have people trooping in and out of here. I knew you'd understand. Thank you again, Miss Wells."

  Downstairs, I dropped the key on the desk and asked how long Miss Ruskin had paid for the room.

  "I believe she was planning on leaving us this afternoon, madam."

  "The room will be needed until Sunday," I said firmly, and took a bank note from my bag. "Will that cover it?"

  "Yes, indeed it will, madam, but—"

  "Good, then I'd like the room left as it is until then, please. No one is to enter it."

  "Very good, madam," he said dubiously. "May I ask, did madam find her aunt?"

  "Oh yes, I found her, I'm afraid. Now there's the problem of what to do about her."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Nothing. Good day."

  I ignored his uncertain protests and questions, turned, and walked quickly out onto the street. As I approached the corner where Dorothy Ruskin had died, I saw the spare figure of Holmes, leaning against the ugly yellow wall from which he had extracted the wool fibres. He was reading a newspaper, the Morning Post by the look of it. At the sight of his shoulders, my heart lifted— he, too, had been successful. I waited for a gap in the traffic and stepped briskly down from the pavement.

  Halfway across, my momentum faltered. Within the space of two steps, I came to a frozen halt, mesmerised by the sight before my eyes. The vertical edge of the approaching kerb was splattered by what looked like a glaze of reddish brown paint but which I knew with utter certainty most horribly was not. The street and the paving stones had been scrubbed down, but the edge had been overlooked, and the sun caught with nauseating clarity the thick blobs of colour, broken in the middle by lines where the sluicing water had made runnels, fading after a few feet to smears and splashes and drips. The strip of stained paving loomed up huge across my vision, and for a brief instant I seemed to glimpse white hair falling in a circle of streetlight, starting to rise, a flare of headlamps and a dimly seen figure crouched against the wall, heard a roar of sudden acceleration and the squeal of tires and the heavy wet sound of metal meeting flesh, and the roar built into a dizzying, pounding noise in my ears that took over all sight, thought, awareness.

  I have never fainted in my life, but I would have done so on that street corner had it not been for the abrupt pain of an iron grasp on my arm and Holmes speaking fiercely in my ear.

  "Good Lord, Russell, are you trying to reenact the accident? Come, you need to sit down. There's a café down the street."

  Movement, faces peering, a deep and shaky breath and the roaring sound fading, Holmes' grip on my upper arm.

  "Now sit down. I'll return in a minute."

  Seated. Seeing the intricacy of white threads, interwoven, over, under, over in the cloth; two small perfect crumbs; the distorted face of an immensely pale blond woman in spectacles from the bowl of a spoon. I closed my eyes.

  The gentle iron fingers returned, on my shoulder; a rattle of china came from in front of me. "Drink this." A hot cup was between my inexplicably cold fingers; scalding rich coffee and the fumes of brandy hit my throat and head in a rush of life. I sat for some minutes, eyes closed and two strong fingers steady on the back of my wrist. The urge to tremble lessened, then passed. I took a deep breath, glanced over at my companion, and reached for the coffee spoon to give my hands something to do.

  "Did you have any of your breakfast this morning, Russell?" I shook my head briefly. "I thought not. Here, eat. Then we can talk."

  Plates began to appear, and I forced some warm bread and oniony soup into my throat, and after a few swallows it was easier. Over the cheese, I looked up with a crooked smile.

  "I'm sorry, Holmes. I saw ... there was blood on the kerbstone."

  "Yes, I noticed. There is no need to apologise."

  "I feel extremely foolish."

  "The violent death of a good person is a severely disturbing thing, Russell," he said calmly. "Now, what did you find?"

  In a moment, with an effort, I matched his tone.

  "Her room. A maid, who told me without telling me that the room had been searched, carefully, between Wednesday evening and Thursday morning. Papers disturbed, bed undone and remade, that kind of thing. And, a letter." I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him. "I couldn't decide whether or not to open it. You decide."

  He did not answer, only put it carefully in an inside pocket. He put his hand in the air and asked the waiter for a bill and a cab.

  "Where are we going now, Holmes?" I felt weak but was not about to let him know.

  "A visit to Mycroft's rooms is, I believe, in order."

  I was surprised. I had expected him to answer by saying Scotland Yard, or one of the half-dozen bolt-holes he kept throughout the city— but Mycroft? His corpulent, indolent older brother might indeed throw some light on the matter at hand, were it to be connected with the arcana of international politics rather than mere civil crime. However, we had as yet no indication that this might be the case, and until we did, I could see no point in consulting him.

  I voiced my objections, and when I had finished, I added, "And aside from that, Mycroft will not be at home for some hours yet."

  Unruffled, Holmes laid a generous tip on the white cloth and escorted me to the door with that formality that masks an iron command.

  He was silent in the taxi. I watched him covertly while the food and the purposeful movement of the taxi did their work and everyday reality took root, and by the time the housekeeper had let us into Mycroft's unoccupied rooms, I had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about the effect this episode would have on Holmes. I sank into a soft chair and let Holmes pull up his chair and take out his tobacco. I cleared my throat.

  "I really am most sorry for that lapse, Holmes," I said quietly. "As you know, it is difficult for me to be indifferent when it comes to an automobile accident. I'm afraid that my imagination got the better of me for a moment."

  "Enough, Russell. Everyone is allowed a weakness, even a woman of the twentieth century. You have no need to convince me that you are no squeamish and fainting female. Now, if you are quite finished laying your abject humility at my feet, perhaps you would be so good as to give me the details of your investigation. Then I think you may be interested in mine."

  A thin haze of blue smoke filled the room by the time I finished. We sat for a few minutes, and then he stirred.

  "That her papers were rifled is, of course, suggestive. I thought that might be the case. And I agree: It is most likely that the room was searched after she died. Had there been a chance of her returning to the room, they would have been more careful about returning the papers to their proper order. I think you might at some point have another look at her bag, to see if your memory of its contents on Wednesday differs from what remains in the hotel. Not immediately. Would you like a glass of wine, or some tea? No?" He rose and went over to the cabinet, rattled bottles, and added a swoosh from the old-fashioned gasogene to his glass, then came back and stretched his long legs out to the cold fireplace. "I, too, was not entirely unsuccessful. It did take me some time to uncover the restaurant, which was in an alleyway eight streets down. I walked past it twice. Fortunately, the maître d' had been on duty Wednesday night as well, and he remembered our lady. And the gentleman she dined with was a regular. Fellow by the name of Colonel Edwards, and the man even gave me the address, for a small consideration. The colonel and Miss Ruskin were at the restaurant for nearly three hours, and it was the waiter's impression that they were having a rather intense discussion that seemed to focus on some papers she had brought. He said that t
he colonel appeared to be very upset and even had to leave the room for a while, ostensibly to make a telephone call, but more, the waiter thought, to have a drink by himself and get back under control. Miss Ruskin, he said, was, if anything, amused rather than angry. Also, he told me that the colonel seemed unaware that his guest was to be a woman and that he was very taken aback when they first met. Incidentally, the man remembers that she had a large brown leather briefcase, which she took with her when she left. He even noted the brass letters DR on the top, because they were his initials, as well."

  "So, whoever ran her down paused long enough to take her papers with them. Or rather, the beggar did, I suppose, rather than the driver. Those two witnesses must have been very drunk indeed." My own brain seemed sluggish, and my eyes felt hot and tired.

  "Russell, I have a proposal to make." I eyed him through the smoke and the failing light. "I propose that you allow me to interview the colonel and whichever of our young couple I can lay my hands on, while you stay here, take a rest, and talk to Mycroft about it all when he comes in."

  I began automatically to object, then reconsidered. Action for the sake of proving myself capable was at least as ridiculous as abject humility. It was a measure of my state of mind that I agreed to his proposal without much argument.

  SEVEN

  eta

  Despite my intentions of using the time for careful introspection, I ended up inspecting no more than the backs of my eyelids. I woke at dusk from macabre dreams of leather briefcases and clouded blue eyes on a marble slab, to find myself on the bed in Mycroft's guest room, the sound of voices coming from the sitting room. I washed my face many times with cold and hot water, pushed the pins back into my hair, and went out to join my husband and his brother.

  "Good evening, Russell. I hope you slept well."

  "Not terribly. Hello, brother Mycroft. You're looking well."

  "Good evening, Mary. A glass of sherry, or some tea?"

  "It's late for tea, but I am thirsty. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all." He rang the bell. "Sherlock was telling me about your mysterious visitor and the day's adventures. Most intriguing."

  "Good Lord, was it only this morning that we read about it? It seems a week ago."

  The housekeeper came to the door, and Holmes went to ask her for tea. He returned to the chair between Mycroft and me and reached for the inevitable pipe. Mycroft took a cigar from an elaborate chased silver humidor.

  "Do you mind, Mary? Thank you." He set to the ritual of clipping and raising a cloud of perfumed smoke and finally had it going to his satisfaction.

  "How does it take you, Sherlock? Could it have been simple robbery? Might she have had something of value?"

  "Insufficient data, I fear, Mycroft. Russell— ah, here's your tea. No, don't get up. There. Biscuit?" I declined. "Do have one of those sandwiches, at least. They may be your supper. Russell, I did succeed in reaching Colonel Edwards, just before he left for a weekend shoot in Berkshire, but he gave me a few minutes. He and Miss Ruskin spent the time reviewing her proposed dig, looking through photographs of the site and the location of the exploratory trenches. He was 'favourably impressed,' and he intends— or perhaps I should say intended— to recommend that his organisation support the project."

  "What organisation is that?"

  "Something called the Friends of Palestine, a group of retired military officers and churchmen. They raise money to support various projects, mostly in the Holy Land. From what he said, I gather it's a combination of drinks club and Bible-study group."

  "Men only?"

  "Men only. In fact, he admitted that he was surprised when D. Ruskin turned out to be a woman."

  "Didn't do his homework, then."

  "Apparently not. He did appear to be genuinely shocked at hearing of her death, though it didn't put him off his weekend. He has a garage normally inhabited by three cars, only two present this evening, neither showing signs of any recent repairs. According to the driver— calls himself the chauffeur— the third car is a roadster that belongs to the colonel's son, who is in the machine on his way to Scotland at the moment, some sort of informal motoring competition called a rally. Sounds a considerable danger to livestock and unsuspecting Scots pedestrians. The tyre marks are of an appropriate width for a roadster rather than a saloon car, and several marks on the wall on that side indicate black paint from a low-slung mud guard and a driver who is either exceedingly careless or often intoxicated."

  "Speaking of intoxicated, any trace of the witnesses?"

  "Miss Chessman and Mr O'Rourke left directly from their respective offices to catch a train for her parents' house near Tonbridge. Her neighbour, who should know better than to trust an old man asking questions, said that Miss Chessman was severely upset over an accident she had witnessed in the wee hours of Thursday morning. Or, to use the neighbour's au courant phrasing, she was severely traumatised by the event and was, in her neighbour's judgement, not far from a nervous breakdown. What I suppose Watson would term 'brain fever.' End of relevant data."

  "And the letter?"

  "Ah yes, the letter. This must go into the hands of Scotland Yard very soon. Will Chief Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues believe that Sherlock Holmes has possessed the thing and not opened it? Never. Therefore, we may as well steam it open. Is there hot water left in that pot?" I picked it up and sloshed it about by way of an answer. "Good. Toss the biscuits out and pour the water into their bowl. Have you done this before, Russell? Yes, of course you have. Then you know that impatience is not the thing. Too much steam, too fast, warps the paper and tells a tale. Slow, see? Here comes the end. Good-quality glue and paper make it easy. That knife, please, Mycroft— Wipe off the butter first, man! That's better. Come, now, just a bit more— there. I think I'll use tweezers on this, in case the Yard decides to look for prints. Probably useless— the paper's a bit on the rough side— but mustn't take the chance of confusing their poor little heads. Move the tray, please, Russell. Thank you."

  Holmes laid the letter down on the table, and we all bent over it. He automatically noted the more obvious characteristics.

  "Woman's hand, fussy. Dated Wednesday, would have arrived yesterday. Not old enough to be from the mother, who must be in her nineties. Perhaps a sister."

  We read:

  Dear Dorothy,

  It was so very lovely to see you over the weekend. It made a deep impression on Mama (you may not be able to tell, but I can). I hope you can return before you have to leave, though I will understand if you cannot.

  I am writing because shortly after you left, two gentlemen came here looking for you, something regarding a donation to your project in the Holy Land. They told me their names, but I'm afraid I can't remember them, as they were very long and foreign. Perhaps I should have written them down, but I was a bit flustered and could hear Mama calling from upstairs. But you must know them, as they knew you. They were both very dark and tall and looked a bit like the photographs you sent of the people who worked on your excavations, those same sharp noses. Very proper, though— educated gentlemen in proper suits. One of them had a name that sounded something like mud. At any rate, I wanted you to know in case they hadn't reached you. They seemed particularly anxious to see you before you left and seemed disappointed they had missed you. I told them that you were going down to Sussex to see Mr Holmes and his wife and that a telephone call there might be possible. I also told them the address of your hotel in London.

  I'm afraid I gave them rather short shrift, as Mama was waiting for her bath. I hope they didn't think me rude, and I hope they give you lots of money, which they obviously have, as they drove off in an enormous shiny black saloon car, complete with uniformed driver.

  Please write to tell me what the Holmeses were like. I imagine an extraordinary couple. But then, we may see you on Saturday, with any luck.

  Your loving sister,

  Erica

  "Oh God, Holmes, I can't bear the thought of telling that woman that
her sister was— that her sister is dead. Isn't it time to turn this over to the police?"

  However, Holmes was not listening. He frowned over the pages in his hand, then thrust them at his brother.

  "What do you make of the writing, Mycroft?"

  "I admit that you are my superior in graphological analysis, Sherlock, but this is not exactly what I might have expected, either from the contents of the letter or from a sister of the woman you described. The lack of education in words and writing indicates only that Miss Ruskin achieved what she did through the sheer force of her mind, but still, I should have expected a greater degree of intelligence and independence here."

  "But she's clever— look at those overstrokes!"

  "Clever, yes, but with an undercurrent of anger that wells up in the full stops."

  "And the hooks on the t-bars, why, I don't believe I've seen such tenacity since the time—"