Very likely Mum assumed that I had my bicycle here with me in London. She probably thought that I had ridden it here.
Oh. Oh, my wheeling stars.
I felt weak (excusably so, considering how little I had eaten lately) and sat down on the bed, clutching its edge with both hands.
The bicycle. The skytales. Undeniably a bicycle incorporated various tubular, cylindrical parts of considerable size. Not only that, but it seemed to me—thinking of the many bicycles I had seen—it seemed that they were all made of metallic cylinders of approximately the same dimensions.
Certainly it was worth a try. But I simply could not deal with it yet. I needed to wash my hair—quite a bother, as it required a fire in the hearth, numerous warmed towels, and the assistance of a maid—and it needed to dry, which took hours. Also, the pain and commotion in my middle nearly bent me double; I badly needed something restorative to eat. I would be fully occupied for what remained of the day, and I had no idea where to find a bicycle, other than perhaps by stopping a messenger-boy in the street.
However, after a soothing soup, some heavenly fresh-baked bread, hot shepherd’s pie, and a cup of divine tapioca custard—after taking dinner in my room because my hair was not yet dry, I could better think what to do.
I applied myself to ink, pen, and my best writing paper, with the following result: My dear brother,
You will find this an odd birthday request, I am sure, but it is of utmost importance, not only to me but to you and Mycroft. If you would be so good, I would like you to borrow or otherwise obtain several “dwarf” safety bicycles such as the one I used to ride, so that I may attempt an experiment upon them at tea-time.
I know you will not fail me.
Fondly,
Your seditious sister,
Enola
I addressed this to Sherlock Holmes but included no return address, and rather than trust a messenger, I simply delivered it myself, with my hair in a bun, large dark glasses on my nose, and wearing the nondescript hat and tweeds of a spinster, thereby attracting no unpleasant attention on the Underground—a danger at this late hour. Everyone was abed when I slipped my note through the slot in the door of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock would receive it in the morning.
The morning of my fifteenth birthday, forsooth.
And I spent most of the morning, indeed most of the day, in preparation for my birthday tea. I decided upon a fashionably cut (puffed shoulders, indeed) gown of plum-coloured nainsook, that is to say, the very finest cotton, beautifully draped, suitable for summertime weather yet as luxurious as silk. And I took a risk: Rather than wear my trusty wig, I asked one of the maids at the Professional Women’s Club to help me with my own freshly laundered hair. A doughty woman, rising to the challenge, she gave it no less than five hundred strokes with a hairbrush in an attempt to smooth it and render it glossy. Perversely, it chose instead to fly skyward in all directions, but she was not intimidated, and with the assistance of water and numerous hairpins she tamed it into a very presentable chignon. With some discreet colour added to my face, collar and under-sleeves of ruffled white cotton appended to my plum nainsook frock, and golden-yellow day lilies upon my hat and bodice, I was more satisfied than surprised to find, upon checking myself in the standing full-length mirror, that I passed muster right down to the shine on my dove-coloured button-top boots; even Mycroft could find nothing less than ladylike in my appearance.
This comforted me little; my sentiments concerning today’s meeting with Mycroft—taking tea, forsooth!—were considerably confused and more than a little frightened. Recalling that bleached dawn and Mycroft’s solemn, weary face, his fatigue shared with mine, my feelings, my thoughts about the Gypsy’s words—it all seemed nonsensical now, how affectionately and impulsively I had agreed to meet him. Ludicrous, that I should go like a lamb to risk my freedom. I had given my word and I would keep it, but still . . . Gypsy superstition! Really, Enola, I chided myself as I found the dove-coloured gloves that matched my boots, surveyed myself in the mirror one more time, sighed, then went down to hail a cab.
Only my gloves kept me from biting my fingernails during the brief cab ride.
But the instant we stopped at 221 Baker Street, my thoughts were thoroughly diverted, for upon the pavement in front of my brother’s lodging stood quite an impressive array of bicycles.
Also upon the pavement stood my brothers, both of them, but they failed to seize my interest. The moment I had paid the cab-driver, I turned to the bicycles, my gaze darting from one to the next.
“What ever is she about?” Mycroft demanded.
I heard a shrug in Sherlock’s voice as he replied, “Bicycles she wanted, and bicycles she shall have.”
“This one!” I exclaimed, belatedly raising my head to greet my brothers. “Hello, Mycroft. Hello, Sherlock.” I grasped the bicycle’s handle-bars, rolling it forward for better access, then began to strip off my gloves to get to work. “This particular one looks very much like the ones Mum and I used to ride. Not that any of them vary greatly in dimensions. But I think we should try this one first.” I drew Mum’s coded message, the skytale, from my bosom, the feminine carryall that was considered safer than pockets.
“Ah! There is method in her madness!” With great good spirit Sherlock echoed the phrase that had often been applied to himself.
I failed to catch Mycroft’s reply, for I was all intent on the bicycle. The long column that ran down from the handle-bars towards the pedals seemed most likely for a skytale. However, after winding one of my strips of paper a few times around it, I saw that it was not going to give satisfaction. I muttered something rather naughty.
“Really, my dear sister,” said a masculine voice near my shoulder, causing me to startle most provokingly; I had not noticed that my brothers had walked over to stand behind me. My irritation subsided instantly, however, as I realised with amazement that the words, gentle and teasing, had been spoken not by Sherlock, but by Mycroft.
Indeed, Sherlock sounded the more pompous of the two today. “Applying analysis of our mother’s character to the problem,” he pontificated, “one would think that, to her, the most important part of a bicycle would be the mechanism upon which the rider exerts control.”
As my back was turned to him, I allowed myself to roll my eyes before shifting my attention to the thick metal column running up to the handle-bars.
Quickly I forgot to be annoyed with Sherlock, for as I wound the skytale spiraling up that cylinder, I saw words beginning to form. But I could complete the message only by winding the paper to its end, just beneath the bicycle’s handle-bars, and even then I could read only a few lines:. . . cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband, and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman’s selfhood and her dreams.
I considered that, if I were not true to myself, then all the mothering I could give you would have been falsehood. . . .
My brother Sherlock, crouching on the other side of the bicycle, continued reading around the curve of the cylinder:I cannot be other than who I am, but perhaps I should not have been a mother. I uch being the case, I find it no surprise that your brothers are both bachelors; . . .
“Heavens,” Mycroft said. “Quite an epistle, and I believe we have got hold of it by the middle. There are three other strips of paper, are there not? Might we attempt to ascertain which comes first?”
“We might, indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and if you would be so good as to send the page-boy for pencil and paper, you can copy it down as Enola and I read it out to you.”
Thus my birthday “tea” began on the pavement outside 221 Baker Street. I will spare the gentle reader the full details of our fumblings and experimentations with the four strips of paper. I must say that I felt an unusual contentment, even joy of a sort, simply working together with my brothers towards a shared goal. My happiness, however, took a rude blow when we finally located the beginning of Mum’s message:My dearest Enola,
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
I WAS READING ALOUD AT THE TIME, AND MY VOICE faltered. Utter silence fell between the three of us, although the traffic in the street rumbled as loud as ever. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft seemed to know what to say. Or perhaps they were waiting for me, dearest Enola, to speak.
“Of course,” I said finally. “The charcoal markings on the envelope, the borders and encirclement and the guardian eyes—the Gypsies put them there to protect themselves whilst they delivered the message.”
“In their superstition, they needed to ward off the shadow of death,” said Mycroft gruffly. “Quite.”
“Enola,” said Sherlock, “I am sorry.”
“For what?” Through the bicycle spokes I made what I hoped was a comical face at him. “Happy birthday to me.”
Sherlock averted his eyes. “Billy,” he called sharply to the boy-in-buttons, “you may return the rest of these bicycles to their owners.”
Whilst he did so, we continued. Again, to spare the gentle reader I will not describe our continuing struggles with Mum’s farewell missive. Here it is as Mycroft eventually transcribed it, in its entirety:My dearest Enola
If you have received this communication, it means that I am deceased. A brupt and, indeed, cruel as those words may sound, I refuse to soften them by saying I have “passed on to a better place” or any of the usual platitudes. You know that as an educated woman and a frethinker I do not believe in a hereafter. One reason I have so ardently championed women’s rights is because I am convinced that one’s life is the only life one shall ever have, and one should live it to the fullest.
It was for this reason that I left you—yes, I will say it; abandoned you; do please believe I feel appropriate guilt—in such as callous manner. I meant to delay a year or two longer, but I could feel I could feel a very likely cancerous growth in my abdomen enlarging at an alarming rate, and I realiseed I had no time to wait. Enola, you have always been wise beyond your years, so I hope you will be able to see that one cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband, and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman’s selfhood and her dreams. I considered that, if I were not true to myself, then all the mothering I could give you would have been falsehood. I cannot be other than who I am, but perhaps I should not have been a mother. Such being the case, I find it no surprise that your brothers are both bachelors; perhaps you, also, will decline to beget children, and perhaps that would be for the best.
In any event: All of my life since I was a child I have longed to experience the simple freedom of the Gypsies. I love their colourful, comfortable dress, their singing violins, their head-tossing horses, their laughter, their flaunting of foolish rules. Their thievery, as you may well imagine, troubles me not at all, being in the same rebellious spirit as my own. For surely you know now that I was larcenous in the eyes of the law when I left you.
Doing so, I selfishly pursued my dream—but I offer the feeble excuse that I was also conscious of you, wishing to spare you the melodrama of deathbed attendance, blach crepe and all of society’s deplorable, onerous rituals of mourning. Also, I wished to avoid the fate of your poor father: a churchyard funeral and slab of stone. I wanted only to be free. Free in my life, what remained of it, and free in death.
How ironic, then, that I, a rationalist, have chosen to live out my days with people who fervidly believe in all sorts of nonsense, from plamistry to the afterlife. But despite their superstitions, nothing can lessen my affection for the Gypsies. They treat me almost as a deity. I lie now in a tent erected especially for me because I am dying. I am cared for tenderly even though those who touch me must undergo ritual cleansing afterward. New shoes are being made for me, and new clothing, so that I will have everything I need in order to be dead. A mulets and coins will be sprinkled on me when they lay me in the ground, and doubtless they will bury my paintbrushes with me If I had horses or a caravan of my own, the caravan would be burned and the horses killed to go with me. As I do not, they will make wreaths shaped like horses and a caravan, and lay these upon my grave, which will be located wherever the wind has blown them at the time. After which, within a day, they will leave me behind, go on their wandering way, and go on singing.
To me, for reasons I cannot explain, this all seems quite beautiful. To you, perhaps not. I try to look at what I have done from your point of view and I realise I have surely caused you pain. Very likely you have wondered about my feelings for you as a mother. I myself have questioned whether I have given you all of the nurture that I could. Thankfully, the answer is yes; I loved you as well as I am able, being the person I am. The paradox is that a different mother would likely have given you warmer love. But if you were the daughter of a different mother, then you would not be Enola.
Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes, my daughter of whom I am justifiably proud, I write this to you because I owe you truth. To your brothers I owe nothing. Yet I rejoice in their accomplishments, and I hope that, should the time come when it is possible, you will share the contents of this letter with them.
I intentionally include no date. I desire no anniversary remembrance of my death.
It has been said that we “live on” in the memories of those we leave behind. With no desire to live on in any sense of the phrase, but trusting that you will not think too badly of me.
Your mother,
Eudoria Vernet Holmes
Our reactions to this epistolary event were interestingly various. Sherlock suddenly decided that he must himself return the remaining bicycle to its owner, and off he went, riding upon it, whilst Mycroft escorted me upstairs, puffing and very red in the face, then went down again, roaring for tea. As for me, I suppose I would not have been human had I not shed a few tears, especially when Reginald Collie came bounding to meet me, his whole-hearted, selfless affection in such contrast . . . I slumped on a sofa, the dog leapt to my side, and I laid my face against his furry neck and wept. If only my mother had been more like a dog.
The absurdity of which thought almost made me laugh amidst my tears. Now really, Enola, I chided myself, sitting up to blow my nose. Truly, I owed a great deal to my mother, and as she hoped, I did not think too badly of her. By being herself, Suffragist and troublemaker Eudoria Holmes, she had given me the courage of her example, to be myself: Enola.
Returning to find me wet-eyed, Mycroft rumbled a series of unintelligible tsking sounds and began to hunt in his pockets, but I was able to smile and tell him, “For a change I have my own handkerchief,” holding up a dainty one embroidered with violets.
“All but useless,” he grumbled.
“I think it has served its purpose.” I no longer felt much inclined to weep. Rather, I marvelled to find myself sitting in the same room with my brother Mycroft without terror. I was astonished to see him obviously ill at ease, as I regarded him with fond amusement.
“Where is Sherlock, and where is the confounded tea?” he complained.
Whatever would we do without tea? It arrived, Mycroft poured, he offered me a plate of cake—birthday cake?—and as I took a slice he said suddenly, “Enola, I think it is within my power to make your birthday a bit happier after all.”
“You already have,” I said.
Crossly he responded, “Let me speak. First, I am sorry—”
“No need!” I cried.
“Do please be silent. I am sorry I ever heard of, or spoke, the words girls’ boarding school, and given what I have lately learned, I no longer harbor any desire to send you to any such place. Moreover, I regret that I have so underestimated you. When we first met, I thought of you as a child I must save from herself, a responsibility I must undertake, indeed, a neglected waif to be rescued. Your response, although I have often found it outrageous, has nevertheless proved me quite mistaken.” He had spoken largely to the tea-things, but suddenly he raised his piercing gaze, facing me directly from
under his bristling eyebrows. “I hope you understand that I meant no harm.”
“Of course you meant no harm. You were trying to do what you perceived as your duty.” I realised we were about to enter into a diplomatic negotiation. Mycroft still held legal power over me, still felt responsible for me, and Sherlock was nowhere nearby to save me should Mycroft choose to take me quite literally in hand—yet, without mindfully knowing why, I felt not the least bit afraid.
Mycroft nodded. “What I still perceive as my duty. Enola, it is my responsibility to see that you live in a safe place—”
“I lodge at the Professional Women’s Club,” I told him, feeling sure it was no longer necessary to hide from him my whereabouts, although I still could not have said why.
His eyebrows shot up in amazed approval. “Nowhere in London could you be safer. But the expense! By now, the money our dear but devious mother provided for you—”
“I invested some of it in a boarding-house,” I told him, “and the rents quite suffice for my needs.”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, whilst just as explosively Reginald Collie barked and leapt about as our brother walked in. “Sherlock, did you hear that?” Of course Sherlock could not have heard any of it. With heavy momentum, rather like a mill-wheel, Mycroft turned to him. “She lodges at the Women’s Club! She owns a boarding-house, and lives off the rents!”
“Why should you be surprised, my dear Mycroft?” Dropping into a chair as if the day’s events had wearied him, Sherlock poured himself some tea. “You expected such competence; indeed, you are quite right in what you have been telling me all along.”
“What do you mean?”
“You hypothesised that she was in the business of finding missing persons.” Sitting back with cup in hand, Sherlock turned to me with a quizzical look. “The boarding-house you own, Enola—would it by any chance include the office of one Dr. Ragostin, Scientific Perditorian?”
The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye Page 10
