Violet shrugged. “It’s hard for a lady to get much more in Winchester without raising attention. Besides which, it is easily concealable upon my person and might help me convince any of my more mundane antagonists to see things my way, if matters do not go to plan. Now, Mr. Holmes, if I should require your assistance further, how might I inquire after it?”
“The same way you just did would be ideal: a telegram and advance notice.”
“And if I cannot?”
“Speak my name? Think of me? Scream for me, if you must. Really, I don’t quite know. This is my first time having a contracted thrall.”
“Very well,” Violet said. “I suppose I’d best be getting back. How long does it take to pick up a hat, after all? I shall try to keep you gentlemen informed of my plans.”
* * *
Sadly, that luxury eluded us. Holmes and I returned to London and a frustrating lack of news concerning Violet Hunter’s progress.
Or, more likely, her demise.
To complicate matters further, Holmes got us embroiled in a new adventure. He brought that red-headed ninny Jabez Wilson to Baker Street and led us on a whole new meaningless campaign of self-endangerment. I will say little of the matter right now, but will make sure it is the next adventure this volume details. Suffice to say, it quite drove concerns over Violet Hunter to the back of my mind. In fact, she was hardly mentioned at all until Holmes and I found ourselves trapped in an underground vault, surrounded on all sides by hideous monsters, bound, bested and nearly helpless. Suddenly, as our attackers closed in for the final assault, Holmes shouted, “Oh no! Violet is in danger!”
“What?” I shouted at him. “What?”
“We’ve got to help her! But how?”
“Yes. Exactly. How, indeed?”
Holmes spluttered and fretted, lost for ideas. I think I became quite furious with him for I knew—deep in my momentarily doomed little heart—that he was spending zero thought or effort on our present situation. Then, in an instant, an idea came to him. His face broke into an expression of relief, he elbowed one of the monsters that held him slightly back then lunged for me and…
It was the first time I’d kissed a man.
And it was everything I’d dreaded.
To start with: it wasn’t particularly well aimed. The first sensation was of Holmes’s lips all over my cheek and chin, filling my stubble up with slobber. I had just enough time to scream in distress (and sadly not quite enough to punch him in the head) before his lips found mine.
The next instant, I was falling through a swirling void. All around me, I could sense the presence of demons. I had the distinct impression they were pointing at me and laughing. (Little bastards.) Even worse than the sensation of falling to an unknown fate was the realization that I no longer had control of my body. I could tell, because my repeated attempts to wipe my mouth were met by no sensation of touch, either from my arms or the spit-drenched, recently betrayed unwanted-kiss-reception-facility I called a face. Falling. Spinning. Screaming with no voice, until…
With a jolt, I found myself standing in a shabby little bedroom, staring at a periwinkle dress with wires all up and down it, laid out on a clean white bedcover. I think I tried to cry out or to throw my hands to either side to steady myself. But the hands did not move. The voice made no cry. Instead, I heard myself say, “Yes, of course, Mr. Rucastle. But a lady needs some time to prepare, you know.”
The voice was not my own. As I digested the strangeness of it, my head swiveled to one side and my gaze fell, for the first time, on the horrible avianesque abomination that was Jephro Rucastle. He looked sweaty and distraught. He held a pocket watch in his hand and protested, “Yes, but we’ve got to leave, you see… Mallory and I do not wish to miss our boat.”
“Then perhaps we might do the reading another day?” my own, strange voice suggested.
“No! Er… no, I’m sure there will be time, my dear. Only, do hurry, won’t you? There’s my girl.”
No sooner had the door closed than the body I inhabited reeled and stumbled. It shot one hand to the bedpost to steady itself and whispered, “What is happening? Is someone there? Is it you, Mr. Holmes?”
“Violet?” I tried to ask, but no voice emerged.
Yet despite the lack of sound, she heard me. The voice whispered back, “Dr. Watson?”
I could feel her surprise. And mine as well. It was sickening and disorienting. Like watching two plays at the same time. No. Worse. I remember a fellow named Remmer, who had nearly lost his eye in Afghanistan. It had been hanging out of his head by the nerve for a few moments, before I replaced it. It’s not a difficult procedure, you just shove it back in. But I was repelled by his description of those few moments it was out. It wasn’t particularly painful, apparently. He remembered looking straight ahead, as always, feeling his feet on the ground and knowing he was steady. But at the same time, he was looking down at the ground, watching it sway back and forth as his left eyeball swung at the end of the nerve. He tried to close his eyes to stop the unwanted input, but as the eyelid whose services he required was now significantly behind the eye in question, he had no power to make the interruption cease.
That’s what it was like, finding myself in the sudden possession of Violet Hunter’s thoughts and feelings, as well as my own. Apparently, it was no better for her, as I could clearly hear her thinking, Ugh, this is just the worst!
I know! I’m sorry!
I felt the body I was in retch, and very nearly vomit.
“What happened?”
I think Holmes sent me here to help you.
“He calls this help?”
I tried to shrug, then concentrated my thoughts on stilling the swirl of our mutual stomach. After only a few moments—before I was ready—Violet thought, Come on, we’ve no time to lose.
What are we—?
The body I was in lurched down and heaved the mattress over to one side. Concealed beneath it were the gardening shears I’d seen the week before, the roll of tape and two bottles of whisky. My hands reached down and scooped up the shears. We then went to the dress, flipped it over, and cut the long wires that protruded from the back.
They’ll see they’re gone! I protested.
No they won’t. My body went to the dresser and withdrew a pair of stockings from the top drawer. These had already been twisted into strange knotted braids. As I watched, my hands laid one between the severed halves of the first wire, then reached down for the black tape. In an instant, I realized the genius of it. As the entire length was nothing more than copper cable wrapped in the same kind of black cloth tape…
I don’t know much on the subject of electricity, Violet thought, but if a few inches of each wire is composed of cotton, rather than copper…
Yes! Brilliant! That ought to stop it conducting!
My hands wound tape around the end of the old wire, the new cotton section, and the disembodied length of wire on the other side. A careful examination would reveal the deception, but a casual observer would be indeed unlikely to discover Violet’s modification.
Well done! I thought. A sound plan, indeed. Where are the other two bottles of whisky?
Already placed in Mr. Toller’s way. In a few hours, he’ll be useless.
And the gun?
Secreted on my person.
To my horror, Violet thought of where she’d put it— an area she knew was unlikely to be searched, but not one in which I personally had ever had the opportunity to conceal things. The remembrance caused me to reflect on the suddenly unfamiliar shape of the body I inhabited. My mind drifted… well… exactly where one might expect. And of course, that mind was not only my own. I could feel Violet’s wave of indignation and anger.
Dr. Watson!
I’m sorry! I am, but this is my first time owning… Madam, I apologize, but can you imagine what you would think if you suddenly found yourself in possession of a male body?
It turns out she could. A wave of mumbled, half-swallowed thoughts i
ntruded over my own.
Ha! You’re no better than I am!
Do try to contain yourself, won’t you? It’s about to get a lot worse.
What do you mean?
“Dr. Watson…” she said out loud, “I am expected to change my dress.” I watched my hand point towards the periwinkle execution dress.
What? No! No, for two reasons, at least!
I thought you said you were here to help. You are not allowed to falter, sir. The plan goes forward. With the wires cut, we’re much safer, don’t you think?
Well, yes, but… do it with your eyes closed, at least!
With my eyes closed? Clearly you have never struggled into an unfamiliar dress before.
Do you know something, I actually haven’t.
By God… For a doctor, you’re surprisingly squeamish…
To her credit, Violet did manage the operation with her eyes closed for the bulk of it. Still, it didn’t matter. Just the sensation of cloth sliding into place over divots and bulges I’d never had before was enough to… well… If Violet Hunter ever elects to slap my face, she is forgiven in advance. In fact, even if she elects to light me on fire…
In less than five minutes’ time, we descended the stairs to the sitting room. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were waiting, expectation and worry on their faces.
“Ah, yes, my dear, yes! You look perfect!” Rucastle gobbled. “Now have a seat near the window, won’t you? Here is the new manuscript and I have the humble hope of an amateur fabulist that it is better than the last, hey? Ha! Oh, I say, it’s a bit stifling, isn’t it?”
Really? Stifling? Violet and I thought, together. In England, in February?
Yet Mrs. Rucastle shuffled around behind us for a few moments. I heard the window slide open, felt the cold blast of air and the ill-concealed tug as both wires were dropped through the open window.
“Yes. There. We’re all ready, aren’t we?” Mr. Rucastle decided. “Well, why don’t we begin at the top of page eighteen, eh?”
So we did. After a few sentences of exposition and dreck, we got to the lines I’m sure were the true order of the day.
“Oh, Ampere, why will you not come to me? Do you forsake your word? Your Alice is waiting, will you not join me so we can finally…”
And here Violet faltered. The same uncomfortable thought flitted across both our minds.
“…finally be one?”
From the garden behind me, a slight buzz began to intrude itself on my notice. Nearly inaudible, but certainly present. I could just detect a change in the light that filtered through the window, over our shared shoulder, and onto the page.
“Here now! Here! Read this bit, won’t you?” Mr. Rucastle suggested, lunging forward to turn to another page. “It’s where Ampere’s father explains business contracts to him. Oh, but you can read it in a female voice. I… I want it to sound as natural as it may, you know.”
“A contract in good faith must be honored,” Violet read. But I read ahead of her on the page and… well… I may have lost my nerve a bit.
No! Do not say that out loud! Run! Get us out of here!
Dr. Watson! Violet thought, leaning forward and placing fingers against her brow. We have already spoken about this! I am here to unravel this mystery, not to run from it. Now please, cease this distraction!
No! Run!
I will not, but if you persist in this behavior, I shall… I shall… Ah! I shall touch my thigh, in a most improper manner.
It’s a good thing my mind had no control over Violet Hunter’s mouth, or it would have been left hanging open in terrified incredulity.
You wouldn’t.
Why not? It’s mine.
Jephro Rucastle, frustrated by the delay at what he perceived to be his moment of triumph, shout-gobbled, “What is wrong, my dear? Why do you not read? Are you not well?”
“Not too well, I think,” Violet said. “Pardon me, Mr. Rucastle. The story continues: the service provided, the payment rendered, it must be accepted. The rules and laws we do business by mean nothing if the covenant is broken.”
Behind us, the buzz increased. The light grew and shifted. As Violet read, I felt one of the wires on the back of our dress tug. It was as if someone had picked it up to regard it, wondering what it might be. For three to five minutes of pure horror, Mr. Rucastle picked passages— begging, urging, cajoling, demanding—trying to get that demon behind Violet and myself to end our mutual life.
But Ampere would not be fooled. The light became flickering and uncertain. The buzzing subsided. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle sank down in their chairs, dejected and defeated.
“Oh well. We shall have to try again, when we return,” Rucastle sighed. “For now, my dear, we must hasten for our boat. Good day, Miss Hunter. Get some rest and do feel better.”
Which we did. As the Rucastles bustled about, Violet retired to her room and threw us onto her bed. Our head spun. I don’t know if it was proximity to such a powerful electric force, the excitement of a near-death escape, or merely the disorientation of sharing a body and mind, but the both of us felt sick and drained.
What must we do? I asked, after a time.
Nothing, now, she replied. Mr. Toller is not likely to drink himself all the way into a stupor with the Rucastles present. Once they are gone, he’ll waste no time. So we may rest, but we must not sleep. The Rucastles won’t be gone long.
Eh? It sounded as if they were bound on a journey.
They think they are. Last night, when Mrs. Rucastle circled today on her calendar, I might have seen fit to forge a note, informing them the schedule for their ship had been modified.
Well done!
Thank you, Doctor. Of course, we are hardly more than ten miles from Southampton Docks and the Rucastles will be hurrying. It probably won’t take them long to determine they’ve been had, but then… what will they do? Rush back? Dither? I’ve no idea.
Hopefully it will be long enough for Holmes to get here. Well… assuming he isn’t dead. Good Lord! I might be dead! I hadn’t even thought of it, but… how would I even tell? What would I do? If my body is dead, could I… could I stay here?
I really wouldn’t know, Violet thought, shrugging our shoulders.
So, there we lay for quite some time, trying to collect our thoughts, to steady our stomach and to pass the time until Toller fell over drunk. We felt really terrible, but were careful to remember we must not sleep. Slowly the fading light of day gave way to twilight, then moon-drenched night. Of course, with no action to preoccupy us, my mind kept drifting back to certain facts… I was a girl! Every time I thought of it, Violet knew. But, she could also feel the many times I tried to distract myself from that thought with any other concern I could muster.
Just think about baseball, Violet thought-suggested. I hear that helps.
Baseball? What is that?
An American game, a bit similar to cricket. From what I hear it is even more boring.
What? Is that possible? Yet it did help to distract my thoughts. It was an interesting mental challenge, trying to devise a game even more boring than cricket. It would have to be mostly just standing about, obviously. But, as standing is not a game… Better to give at least one fellow a ball. Tell him to throw it, or something, but only once every five minutes. But then what would the other fellows do? Oh! One of them could swing at the ball, I suppose. But in the interest of keeping it boring, we should make it so it is often judicious for him to elect not to. Yes, yes. It was all coming together. Simply wretched.
Finally, from downstairs, we heard Mrs. Toller’s raised voice and her husband’s murky replies. We heard the muffled slamming of a door.
Well, I’m new at this, of course, Violet thought, but I do believe that is our signal.
Madam, I concur.
Down the stairs we went, to find Mrs. Toller bustling about in the kitchen, red-faced and angry. When she saw us, she snipped, “Oh, it’s you. Feeling better?”
I’ll take care of this, Violet thought.
>
“No,” she said, sinking down on one of the chairs. “I feel awful. But I thought… something sweet might help.”
“Well, you’re out of luck. I got nuffin’.”
“Last week, in Winchester, I bought a jar of peach preserves. It’s down in the cellar. Would you mind fetching it for me? I’ll happily share it with you, if…”
Violet had chosen her bait well. Though I did not know Mrs. Toller, the alacrity with which she turned and sped through the cellar door did seem to suggest she might be an insatiable sweet tooth. No sooner had she bustled down the stairs than Violet twisted our mutual mouth up into a satisfied smile, rose, went to the door, closed it and turned the key.
“That’s one Toller down,” she said. “Though I strongly suspect…”
She opened the door to the sitting room. There, sprawled on the couch, snoring into the crook of his arm, lay Mr. Toller.
“Ah, yes. Two.”
She unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and walked us back to the unused portion of the house. Up a flight of stairs, down a hall, to an old whitewash-smeared door. This yielded to the first key she tried and we slipped inside.
I must say, Miss Hunter, you seem to have quite a high aptitude for this sort of work, I thought.
Thank you, Doctor. I could feel us smile. Though we must not congratulate ourselves yet. There are many rooms; it may take us quite some time to try them all.
No need. If they are trying to conceal her, they must likewise conceal her noise. She will be in the room farthest from the used portion of the house. Let us remember: Toller has been bringing Alice food every day, through an area that’s been shut down to all other traffic. Find the path that isn’t dusty and it shall lead straight to her, I would think.
And, indeed, it did. We came to a door at the far end of the hall. The handle looked polished from regular use, but a better clue was the wadded-up curtains stuck into the crack under the door, to stop extra noise. Violet tried key after key until, at last, the door swung open. There, tied to the far wall, with innumerable leather straps, stood Alice Rucastle. Chains would have rattled, I suppose. She wore a mask over the lower part of her face, designed, I think, to allow breathing but to stop her calling out. As we entered, she stared at us with a strange mixture of surprise, hope and… something else. Just madness, it seemed to me.
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 17
