Throwing off the knitted blanket with which he had covered my fully clad person, I sat up to speak to him. “Much better, thank you, Dr. Watson.” This was the truth. The hour of rest had given me time to remember my mother’s face, and her habitual dictum – “Enola, you will do quite well on your own” – and thereby calm myself.
And reach a decision.
And formulate a plan.
For which I needed to be in position before five o’clock, and already it was past three.
Dr. Watson refused to accept a consulting-fee from me. Thanking him profusely, I departed, walking to the cab-stand at the corner.
“Baker Street,” I told the cabby.
Once inside the four-wheeler, I drew the blinds. Then, while swaying along through London traffic, I removed from my personage as much of Ivy Meshle as I could. Off came my cheap straw hat, which I necessarily sacrificed, stuffing it underneath the seat of the cab. Off came the fair-but-false fringe of curls over my forehead, which I put into a pocket, and my “chignon,” similarly stowed. Off came the green glass earbobs, “choker” necklace and other baubles. From my bosom, where as I have said I kept a variety of useful items, I pulled a scarf, which I tied over my now unadorned head. I closed my mantle to cover most of my dress. I did, however, leave in my cheeks and nostrils the devices that stretched them into a fuller shape.
Raising the blinds, I watched with interest, viewing my brother’s lodging for the first time, as the cab trotted me past 221 Baker Street: just another numbered doorway in a common wall of shops and residences, an ordinary enough place to house such an extraordinary person as Sherlock Holmes.
But I waited until we had passed the next corner before I knocked on the ceiling to signal the cabby to stop.
Once afoot, I walked back towards number 221 on the opposite side of the street, hoping I would not have to stand in the cold for very long. Also, wondering how I could best linger without being noticed. In such freezing weather, there were fewer people about than usual, although newsboys still cried out for a living: “ ’Orrible murder in Whitechapel; read all about it!” And fishmongers pushed their barrows: “Fresh ’erring, live oysters, whelks!” And all swathed in a long waterproof, a poor woman tried to sell trifles from a basket: “Oranges, boot-laces, novelties!”
I stopped to see what she had. Aside from aforementioned oranges that might better have been called “browns,” and boot-laces, she offered a quantity of pen-wipers, made from the usual scraps of fabric but not in the usual squares; these were cunningly shaped like flowers and butterflies. “Clever,” I remarked, fingering one. “Do you sew them yourself?”
“That I do, ma’am, although me eyes ’ave gone nearly blind by the labour of it.”
She had been working by candlelight, firelight, or perhaps even out at night under a street-lamp, poor thing, for want of better illumination.
Holding a blue cotton pen-wiper shaped like a little bird, I asked, “How many have you sold?”
“Not what I’d like, ma’am.” Her chapped lips quivered; indeed we both stood shivering with cold. “On the posh streets, where folk wouldn’t miss a penny or two, the coppers drive me away, they do.”
“So you live hereabouts?”
“No, ma’am. In Southwark, ma’am, but nobody wants ’em there.”
I should think not. Southwark, on the other side of the Thames, was given over to disreputable theatres, gaming, bear-baiting, and the like.
And once the woman returned to Southwark, no one who lived on Baker Street was likely to encounter her again.
I told her, “I’ll give you a guinea for the whole lot, basket and all. And I will trade you my mantle for your waterproof.”
She gawked at me, but had the good sense not to ask questions. Off she went rejoicing, wearing my mantle, with a goodly sum of money in her fist, and off I went in her waterproof, carrying her basket and crying with a suitably Cockney accent, “Oranges, boot-laces, novelties!”
A good ruse, and a necessary one, for I progressed up and down that block of Baker Street for a full three quarters of an hour (and actually sold two pen-wipers!) before I saw Sherlock Holmes emerge from his lodging.
Not in a gentleman’s dress, of course. On his way to capture me, or so he thought, he had disguised himself just sufficiently so that I would not notice or recognise him until it was too late. Therefore he was got up as a common labourer with a leather belt around his coat, a flannel shirt, and a cloth cap from under which his hair fell over his forehead.
Striding off towards the British Museum, he passed me without a glance. Other than letting his forelock hang, he had not done anything to his face, and with a pang in my heart I saw that his hawk-like features did, indeed, look pale and harrowed, as his friend Watson had said.
Silent, suffering a queer inward pain, I watched him walk by.
I took a long breath and let it out again.
Then I moved on.
Pausing at a greengrocer’s shop, I put down my basket and with my foot nudged it into a crate that was holding up a display of apples. Then I bought a slice of onion.
Walking towards number 221, I concealed this in my handkerchief and held it near my eyes, which promptly began to water.
Very good.
Already, at this cruel time of year, the streets lay in shadow. Doubtless my brother had chosen this hour in order to favour his scheme. Darkness would be falling when Sherlock reached the steps of the museum where –
Oh, Mum, what if I am terribly wrong? What if you’re there waiting for me after all?
The onion in my handkerchief proved unnecessary. At this thought, I started crying.
CHAPTER THE TENTH
AN OLDER WOMAN IN A SIMPLE, RESPECTABLE blouse and skirt answered my knock, looking startled but not appalled to find me weeping on the doorstep.
“Is – Mr. Sherlock Holmes – in?” I inquired between sobs. I had forgotten to speak in an accent (“Mister ’Olmes”) befitting my appearance, but because of my tears perhaps she did not notice.
“Bless you, dear, he just went out.” Wrapping a shawl around herself to speak with me, silver-haired Mrs. Hudson showed herself to be a kindly soul. I knew the landlady, of course, from Dr. Watson’s writings, but remembered not to call her by name.
I lamented, “But – but I – must see him this evening.”
“I don’t know when he’ll be back, miss.”
“I – don’t care. I am in – such trouble. I’ll wait.”
“But it might be hours.” Shivering despite her shawl, she retreated a few steps into the house, preparing to shut the door. “Why don’t you come back later?”
“I’ll wait.” Whimpering, I plopped myself down on the icy doorstep.
“Bless you, dear, you can’t wait there. You’ll freeze. Come in, come in.”
As I had hoped, she led me upstairs and showed me into my brother’s sitting-room.
“Goodness,” I murmured, forgetting myself in my surprise at the mess; I had never ventured into a bachelor’s lodgings before. I knew, of course, from Dr. Watson’s writings, that there would be tobacco (in the toe of a Persian slipper, no less!) and a violin (instrument and bow laid carelessly across a chair), letters skewered by a jackknife to the mantelpiece, bullet-holes in the walls, and so forth. But I found myself ill prepared for what there was not. No flowers. No lace pillows. No ruffled skirts on the chairs.
To be a man, apparently, was to lack the ability to be a woman.
Mrs. Hudson tsked over the books and papers strewn everywhere. “Mr. Holmes is tidy in his dress and in his personal habits if not in his housekeeping,” she excused him. “He’s a real gentleman. Whatever your difficulty may be, he’ll do his best to help you with it, miss, and never mind whether you can pay him or not.”
Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes, for despite his trickery, I wanted to believe all goodness of my brother.
“Shall I take your wrap, miss?” She started to lift it from my shoulders.
&nbs
p; “No!” I clutched the waterproof around me, for it concealed Ivy Meshle’s too-fashionable dress. “No,” I amended, “thank you. I’m cold.”
“Well, miss, just have a seat, then.” The sweet old soul cleared newspapers off an armchair near the hearth for me. “I’ll bring you some tea.” She bustled out.
No sooner had she closed the door behind me than I sprang up, crossing as noiselessly as I could to my brother’s desk, impatiently blinking tears from my eyes. Through the blur I scanned a pile of papers, failing to find what I was looking for as I tossed them aside.
On the now-cleared desk top I saw only the usual lamp and writing implements.
The object of my search could have been anywhere in the room, of course, but I sensed that my brother, although he might toss his violin onto a chair, would take great care of an important clue. I tried his desk drawer.
Locked.
Reaching beneath my waterproof to draw my brooch, that is to say, my dagger, I inserted its stiletto-thin blade into the keyhole and probed the mechanism therein.
I must admit I did not entirely lack experience in this art. Any enterprising child raised amongst wellsecured larders and sugar-bins learns to pick locks.
With a click, this one yielded to me. Returning my dagger to its concealment as brooch, I pulled open the desk drawer.
I expected to see pen nibs, blotting paper, wooden ruler, things of that sort.
Nothing of the kind met my eye.
Instead, the drawer framed a sort of vignette of my brother’s peculiar life. I glimpsed a revolver, a box of cartridges, a small bottle of some clear liquid lying on its side, a needle and syringe (such as a doctor might use) in an open velvet-lined case, and a dainty, framed photograph of a beautiful woman – an object of much curiosity to me when I had time to think about it.
But I saw all these things only in memory; at the moment my attention was all for what lay atop the array.
With trembling fingers I grasped it: the precious, hand-painted, hand-lettered booklet of ciphers my mother had created for me. I wept anew, seeing it again. But there was no time for me to kiss it or hug it or anything of that sort. Already I heard Mrs. Hudson’s tread upon the stairs. Clawing my waterproof aside, I thrust the cipher booklet deep into my bosom. Closing the desk drawer, I took three soft, swift strides back to my armchair and had just seated myself with waterproof wrapped around me when Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a tray.
“Do have some tea, miss.” She poured and served me that life-sustaining beverage, and then to my dismay, poured herself a “cuppa” and sat down to keep me company.
“Are you still cold, dear? Why don’t you just slip that wrap back to your shoulders so you can enjoy your tea.”
I shook my head, having no difficulty acting like an incoherent, nearly hysterical damsel in distress (for I was a bit distraught), but thinking, This will not do. I had perhaps overplayed my role; what if the sympathetic Mrs. Hudson planned to cosset me until my brother returned?
“Have a bit of walnut cake?” She offered a plate.
Shaking my head again, I wavered, “N-no, thank you. I, um, Mrs. . . .” Just in time I stopped myself.
“Hudson, dear.”
“Mrs. Hudson, I wonder whether . . .” One cannot feign a blush, but no need; I flushed profusely, for I really am a shy person. “. . . Nature calls,” I mumbled. “Might there be . . .”
“Oh, you poor thing, of course.” Sweet soul, she jumped up. “Can you wait for just a few more moments? I must go, ah, see to it.”
The water closet, I knew, would be located at the farthest end of the ground floor, by the back door, for such indoor “conveniences” let in the stench of the sewer; one does not want them near the kitchen or the parlour. And Mrs. Hudson needed to inspect its condition, perfuming it and providing it with an ewer of hot water and a fresh towel, before she escorted me there.
The moment the sound of her footsteps faded down the stairs, I got to my feet, tiptoed to the door of my brother’s lodgings, and silently opened it. After listening, hearing nothing to alarm me, I slipped out, leaving the door ajar behind me so as not to make an unnecessary sound by closing it. Trotting softly down the stairs, I made my escape out of the front of the house without interference, for undoubtedly Mrs. Hudson was still busy trying to oblige my very embarrassing request. Probably she heard the heavy front door close behind me. But I ran, and it was no great distance to the corner cab-stand.
The cabby looked askance at such an ill-clad fare, but I tossed him a sovereign and hopped into his four-wheeler. “The British Museum!”
Any astonishment or resistance on his part overcome by the gold coin in his hand, he promptly obeyed.
I pulled the hood of my waterproof forward as far as I could to conceal my face. Impatiently I wiped away my tears with my hands. (Somewhere I had lost my handkerchief, onion and all.) No more snivelling, I commanded myself; I was doing something risky, indeed foolish, and I needed to have my wits about me.
The cab pulled up at the steps of the British Museum.
Rather than getting out, I peered from the shadows of the cab. I had no problem spying my brother Sherlock lounging against one of that venerable institution’s Grecian Revival columns, puffing a cigarette, the picture of a worthless idler. Very likely some constable would soon collar him and tell him to move on. As for Mum, there was no sign of her. If by any chance the message had come from her – if it had been intercepted by Sherlock, rather than originating from him – if Mum had appeared, then obviously my brother would not be loitering where he was.
With a sigh of relief, I smiled. I had been right all along. Mum was safe in the country somewhere, and Sherlock was trying to outsmart his disgraceful younger sister. When he went home, he would find out who was smart.
The cab-driver had appeared at the door. “Miss?”
“Drive on,” I told him.
All that evening by the warmth of my humble hearth-fire I cherished my reclaimed booklet of ciphers in my hands. Such bliss, to see again that familiar first page bordered with Mum’s daintily hand-painted gold and russet chrysanthemums around her handwritten ALO NEK OOL NIY MSM UME HTN ASY RHC. And something new: On the page Sherlock had pencilled the solution, ENOLA LOOK IN MY CHRYSANTHEMUMS.
On the next page, decorated with windflowers, he had printed SEE WITHIN MY ANEMONES ENOLA. And so on – he had solved the cipher illustrated by the ivy on the picket fence (ENOLA LOOK IN MY BED KNOBS); indeed, he had deciphered all the messages, including some I hadn’t been able to. For a page decorated with pansies: HEARTS EASE BE YOURS ENOLA SEE IN MY MIRROR. With a pang I wondered which mirror, and what my brother had found behind the mirror’s backing: perhaps not just a sum of money? Perhaps a note from Mum, expressing regret, or farewell, or concern, even –
I stopped myself far short of the word love. Mum had more important things to do. She was a woman of character, intellect, and principle. A Suffragist, tireless in her devotion to matters concerning the rights of the fair sex. A free-thinker. And an artist. A very good artist, as evidenced by the lovingly – or to choose another word, the exquisitely rendered flowers adorning the booklet in my hands.
While I adored Mum’s handiwork, I found myself now turning my attention to my brother’s notations. He had pencilled them so lightly that I could easily have erased them, so that my cipher book would be once again the way Mum had given it to me. But rather to my surprise, I found that I wanted to keep Sherlock’s intrusions. I wanted to possess something of my brother, if only his small, precise lettering beneath my mother’s artistic flourishes.
Handwriting tells a great deal about a person in my opinion, both that which is plain to be seen and that which may be hidden. I had been thinking of my brother Sherlock as the great detective, incisive and commanding, but his handwriting was smaller than my mother’s. He did not think of himself as so very big. He might indeed be a bit shy in his way, as I was.
Although severely logical. My mother’s fanciful handwrit
ing could have been put down to artistic temperament, but just the same, I thought, it showed her aspirations, her idealism, her dreams. But in my brother’s printing: no dreams. His was the bleak realism of the scientist.
Although, I cautioned myself, under different circumstances – perhaps a letter to a friend, written instead of printed, would show more heart. People can have different handwritings. Look at Lady Cecily.
Perhaps not the best example. Her handwritings were too different. Her perfectly modest, correct, stylish notes and letters on the one hand, but then her big, childish, backwards scrawl on the other –
Hand.
And suddenly, while I lounged half-drowsing before my fire, with nary a thought of accomplishing anything or finding anyone, up flashed a memory of Lady Cecily’s desk. As if my mind had slipped a slide into a magic lantern, projecting an image, I saw the lady’s lovely jade writing implements. Placed to the left.
And I quite clearly remembered seeing Lily, the too-faithful maid, then shift ink-pot, pen, et cetera, over to the right.
A shock of insight jolted me wide-awake. I sat bolt upright, staring.
At my own dressing-table, its very modest hairbrush, comb, jar of hand-cream, and so forth positioned upon the right side, of course, because I am - right-handed.
But how had Lady Cecily’s silver-embossed dresser set been placed?
“Oh, my stars,” I whispered.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
“HOT WATER, MISS MESHLE!”
Thus startled out of a few hours of sleep by my landlady’s too-cheery bellow, I groaned aloud: My triumphant feelings in regard to my brother Sherlock had vanished overnight, replaced by terror of possible consequences.
“Miss Meshle, are you awake?” Confound the deaf old woman, she had not, of course, heard my less-than-civil response.
The Case of the Left-Handed Lady: An Enola Holmes Mystery Page 8
