“It is time for us to return to the hotel,” said Holmes. “However, as it is almost six o’clock we need to wait for a short while at the front gate and visit with Carlo.”
I followed him back and, as expected, a few minutes after six o’clock the dog and the bitches were let out. By five minutes past six, the terrifying mastiff was barking and growling at us from the other side of the fence.
Holmes dropped his satchel on to the ground, knelt down, and extracted from it a canvas sack. He undid the draw strings on top of the sack and removed a covered canister.
“We shall see if the resourceful Miss Violet’s prescription works.”
He slowly removed the top off the pot and walked slowly toward the fence. The mastiff stopped barking and dropped back onto his four legs. Very slowly, Holmes slid a plate through the fence and tipped the canister so that the contents spilled on to the plate. Carlo lunged at the plate and the food disappeared down his gullet in about five seconds. Holmes repeated the actions, as did Carlo. Within no more than five minutes, a full canister of stew and assorted victuals had been devoured, whereupon Holmes sat down on the grass, folded his long legs up underneath his body and quietly chatted to the great beast until it stretched its massive body out on the grass, laid its head on its paws, gave an enormous yawn and went to sleep.
“If I had not seen that, Holmes, I would never have believed that one full meal could do that to such a frightening hound.”
“It can if the stew has been augmented with an entire vial of my precious seven percent solution. Night, night, puppy.”
Chapter Six
Please Sir,
Let Down My Hair
WE RETURNED TO THE PATIENT DOG-CART DRIVER. He turned around to us before beginning the drive back into town and said, “Thought you two chaps might like to know that Mr. and Mrs. Toller stopped when they saw me waiting here and were most insistent on knowing what I was doing. Hope you don’t mind, gents, but I knew that if I said that Sherlock Holmes was gazing into the property with binoculars, it would really put the cat amongst the pigeons, if you know what I mean. So, seeing as how I had heard that the property might be going up for sale, I said that you was a prospective buyer and doing a surreptitious inspection. Toller seemed quite pleased with that, he was.”
“An excellent response,” said Holmes. “Were they the only ones who passed?”
“No. A handsome young chap on a bicycle rode past as well, but he sort of looked at me all suspicious like. Sort of like he was not happy that I had seen him. I sort of remembered his face from being around the hotel a few months back, but I have no idea who he was.”
We returned to the hotel where Holmes gave the driver two extra shillings in recognition of his fine service. Over supper I kept looking around to see if our Percy the Panderer would accost us again, but he did not appear.
The following morning, we waited again in a private sitting room for the young woman who was not attending the Eucharist service. At half past ten o’clock, sharp, Miss Violet Hunter appeared. I could not help but smile as she entered. Color had returned to her face and her lovely eyes had recovered their sparkle. She closed the door behind her, put on an impish grin, and gave each or us a friendly kiss on the cheek. For Holmes, she added an affectionate hug. She was pushing the boundaries propriety for a young single woman, but her happiness appeared to be unfeigned.
“Ah, Miss Hunter,” said Holmes. “Do be seated. I see a great improvement since this time a week ago. You must tell us all about it. Dr. Watson and I are all attention.”
She smiled a radiant smile. “I must admit that I am still terribly perplexed, but I am no longer in such fear as I was. Knowing that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is my protector, and that the local constable is at my beck and call, has helped me beyond words. How can I ever show you how thankful I am?”
“Your smile,” said Holmes, “is all the thanks we need. However, as time is pressing, your report please.”
“I hardly know where to begin.”
“Then start with the good news; that which has most restored your spirits.”
I expected that we would hear about her obvious progress with the strange young Edward, but she dropped her head for a moment in a show of embarrassment and then lifted it, repeating the impish smile with which she had entered.
“Last week I was so upset that I failed to mention that there had been a few lighter moments during my time here. Mr. Rucastle has been quite insistent on having me sit in the parlor and listen to some very amusing stories. He is an odd and not a very pleasant man, but I must give him credit, he is a wonderful story-teller. This past week he regaled me with an entire new set of stories; well, jokes more than stories, Mr. Holmes, and they were all about you.”
“About me?” replied Holmes, obviously not expecting this news.
“Yes. He had been in the town and had heard the rumors that Sherlock Holmes, who it seems everyone has read about, had made a visit. Oh, something to do with the Bishop and the choirboys, or so everyone had said. And that led to all the chaps getting together in the pub and telling jokes about you. May I repeat a few? You would not be offended, would you?”
Before Holmes could register the fact that his soaring ego would not enjoy being ridiculed, I spoke up.
“Of course, we would love to hear them. What did they say about Sherlock Holmes?”
Miss Hunter composed herself and prepared for her recitation.
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson decide to go on a camping trip. After dinner and a bottle of wine, they lay down for the night, and go to sleep.
Some hours later, Holmes awoke and nudged his faithful friend.
"Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see."
Watson replied, "I see millions of stars."
"What does that tell you?"
Watson pondered for a minute.
"Astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets."
"Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo."
"Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three."
"Theologically, I can see that God is all powerful and that we are small and insignificant."
"Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow."
"What does it tell you, Holmes?"
Holmes was silent for a minute, then spoke: "Watson, you idiot. Someone has stolen our tent!"
Holmes burst out laughing. His ego clearly was not injured by a joke at my expense.
“A splendid story. And is there another one?”
“Yes sir. Several more.”
Sherlock Holmes looks at his friend Dr. Watson and says, “Really Watson, you would be much more comfortable on a hot day if you did not wear your red flannel underwear.”
Watson is surprised. “How could you possibly know that I was wearing red flannel underwear?”
“Elementary. You forgot to put your trousers on.”
Again, Holmes laughed and I smiled.
“Another one?” said Holmes. Miss Hunter complied:
Dr. Watson was feeling quite sad and he says to Sherlock Holmes, “I need someone who can touch my heart and bring out the best from me.”
Sherlock Holmes replies, “Have you considered Jack the Ripper?”
I had to admit that that one was clever, and I laughed with them.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” says Dr. Watson. “The first man was smothered in oats, the second in barley, and third in wheat. What can it possibly mean?”
“Elementary Watson. We are looking for a cereal killer.”
“And just one more,” she said. “But I warn you, it’s a tricky one.”
Dr. Watson returns to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes has built a new doorway and is painting it a brilliant citrus yellow.
“Good lord, Holmes. What have you made?”
“A lemon entry,” says Holmes.
For a brief second Holmes said nothing, and then roared with
laughter, slapping his knee as he did so. Miss Hunter laughed with him. I was terribly frustrated because, for the life of me, I could not see what the humor was. “What is so funny about lemons?” I asked. The two of them, rather callously, I felt, laughed even harder.
“We must,” said Holmes, “leave our good friend in his quandary. Now, enough of the delightful frivolity. I think you should tell us about your progress with the lad, the odd Master Edward.”
“Yes sir. And thank you for the opportunity to laugh together with you. It did my heart good. You have been such a blessing to me. I hope you are not offended if I say that you have become to me the father that, as an orphan, I never had.
“But on to my report. The week did not start well at all. I had not noticed that again the boy had fastened a hat pin to a stick, and whilst I was not looking he poked it hard and deep into my backside. I screamed in pain, whereupon he gave a nasty laugh and started to run away. He had not expected that I could run as fast as I do, and I was up to him in a flash, and did exactly what my mother would have done to me. I turned him over my knee, pushed his trousers down and gave him a series of very hard spanks on his backside.
“Now sir, when my mother used to do that to me, I would just grit my teeth and would never let on that she was hurting me. When she was done, I would give her a devilish grin and walk away as if nothing happened, knowing that it would infuriate her all the more. I fully expected that Edward would do the same, as any schoolboy who has an ounce of gumption would. But he did nothing of the sort. As I was paddling his posterior he let out with the most unholy screaming, and I could hear him saying, ‘I’m sorry Alice. Please don’t be angry with me, Alice. I promise to be good, Alice.’ When I let him back on his feet he stood up his threw his arms around my waist in pitiful desperation. He kept on saying the same things and adding, ‘Please don’t go way again, Alice. I will be good, I promise. Please don’t leave again.’ He clung to me very tightly and sobbed and cried and whimpered for near to ten minutes. He could not stop. And again, and again he called me Alice.
“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was very confused. His actions were beyond strange. When he had finally stopped his sobbing, I sat down beside him and asked, very gently, why he had been calling me Alice. Perhaps I did not tell you, Mr. Holmes, that Alice is the name of his older sister. She left the Copper Beeches just after the turn of the new year and emigrated to America. Mr. Rucastle told me that she now lives in Philadelphia. Well, Edward looks at me and he says that I am just like Alice. ‘In what way?’ I asked. He said that Alice was the only one who would ever spank him, and that she did so because she was the only one who loved him and wanted him to be good. And he said that Alice loved the dog and the bitches, just as he saw that I did.
“And then if he didn’t look up right in my face and say that I had Alice’s hair and it made him think about her whenever he looked at it. And then he did something very strange. Umm … perhaps I can show you better than I can explain.”
She stood and moved her chair until it was touching the chair Holmes was sitting in, and then she sat down again with her back only a few inches away from Holmes’s body.
“Here. Give me your hand,” she said earnestly, and reached behind her and grasped Holmes’s left hand. “Edward moved around behind me just as you are now, and he slowly reached up and pulled the combs out of my hair. Like this.” She slowly lifted Holmes’s hand toward the back of her head and directed his fingers to one of her combs. “Just give it a small pull, sir, it will come out. Oh, goodness, sir, don’t be shy. Just do what the boy did.” Holmes complied and extracted one of the combs. “And then he pulled the rest of them. So just give them a tug sir, and you will see what happens.”
Holmes looked very ill at ease. Removing combs from the hair of a young woman was clearly beyond his experience. After the fourth comb was in his hand Miss Hunter gave her head a great shake and a veritable cascade of stunningly beautiful chestnut hair came tumbling down. It stretched from the crown of her head to the small of her back. Upon hitting the nadir of its extent, it bounced and swayed. A thought flashed across my mind that whatever man she might someday marry would be a very lucky fellow indeed.
She held her body in place and turned her head so her face was almost touching the face of Sherlock Holmes and continued her instructions. “And then, sir, the boy used his fingers as if they were a wide-toothed comb and ran them down through my hair repeatedly.” Again, she reached for Holmes’s hand, snatched away the combs he was holding and, using both of her hands, lifted his hand again to the back of her head. She curled his fingers and then pulled them down through her luxurious locks while at the same time transferring a section of them from the back of her body to the front. Holmes’s hand passed directly over her breast and down to her thigh. At this point he pulled it back, made it into a fist, brought it to his mouth and feigned a coughing spell. He stood and moved away, all the while forcing a cough.
It would have been terribly unkind of me to laugh openly at his extreme discomfort, but I could not wait to get back to London and have a jolly laugh with my fiancée, Mary, and her mother about the incident.
Miss Hunter continued on blithely, as if the situation were commonplace. “Oh dear, Mr. Holmes. Do you need a glass of water? No? Well then, as I was saying, Edward stroked my hair, and the next day he again let it down and stroked it. And he told me that he used to do this all the time to his sister. So, I told him that I was sorry that I wasn’t his sister, but that he could think of me that way if he wanted to, and the tears came to his eyes and he gave me a great warm hug. And he has been as good as gold for me since, and we have become great pals, and he is learning to swim and doing quite well, as is common with children who have asthma and who cannot take part in other sports.
“All that was my good news, Mr. Holmes. Oh, do be seated, Mr. Holmes. You look uncomfortable standing. However, the one confusing thing that took place just yesterday was when he again called me ‘Alice’ and this time I tried to cheer him up a bit. I said that I was quite sure that his dear sister would be back at Christmas to celebrate with the family. And didn’t he give me a strange look. He said, ‘No Miss. Alice can never come back. She has died, but not completely. She is only half dead. Alice is a zombie. You can hear her screaming at night if you listen.’ This sent some chills up and down my back, but I knew that these ideas had been put into his head by the previous nurse, the Haitian woman, and goodness only knows what other nonsensical things she had taught him.
“So that, Mr. Holmes, has been my week with Edward.”
“Ah yes. An interesting week indeed.”
Holmes was pacing back and forth, avoiding returning his chair as if it had been contaminated with the plague.
“Excellent report, Miss Hunter. Now let us leave the lad and move on to the others who inhabit the Copper Beeches. Have you learned anything more about Mr. Rucastle and his strange behavior, other than his penchant for telling jokes?”
She looked quite serious and replied. “He recently turned fifty and is a widower. From what I picked up in the kitchen and in talking to Edward, I learned that his first wife, the mother of Alice, died a decade ago. The current Mrs. Rucastle, Edward’s mother, is much younger; no more than thirty. She is very tight with Mrs. Toller, the wife of the manager. They all met in London when they worked together in a bank. I am not sure why they now live in Hampshire, but they do. He is trying to sell the house and property so that they can move into Southampton. I asked Mrs. Rucastle why they wanted to move and she said that it was because of Edward’s health, and she reminded me that I had said that the Copper Beeches was terribly unhealthy for him. I would like to think that was the reason, but she really does not seem to care much about his health. I hope I am wrong on that one, as the poor boy, all twisted up inside, is quite desperate for his mother and father to love him.”
She was silent again and looked up with a pleading face at Holmes. “Is there anything else sir? I have tried very hard to
account to you for everything. Oh, one thing I forgot. Edward said that his sister not only loved him, she also was very fond of the dog and the bitches, and they loved her.”
“And you have done well. Ah, but you did say that this crowd who now live at the Copper Beeches were once together working in a bank in the City. Did you happen to come across or hear the name of the bank?”
“Not outright, sir. But around the house and in Edward’s little school room, there is quite a bit of blank stationary with the name of the Holder and Stevenson Bank on Threadneedle Street. When people stop working for places like that they usually like to filch some pens and paper and the like. So, I have guessed that it would be that bank.”
“It does indeed make sense, and a fortunate coincidence.”
Mr. Alexander Holder, a partner in the esteemed private banking firm of Holder and Stevenson, was a former client of Sherlock Holmes. Last winter he had arrived at 221B Baker Street distraught to the point of being ready to take his own life. Within forty-eight hours Holmes had restored his fortune, his reputation, and the relationship with his son. I recounted his story in The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet. If we needed information about what had taken place with Mr. Rucastle and his ilk in the City, Alexander Holder would try to help Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.
I exchanged a knowing glance with Holmes and he nodded. Then he turned to Miss Hunter and offered his hand to help her rise from her chair. “My dear Miss Violet, our time, I fear, has expired. I promise that I will continue to make investigations on your behalf. However, as you do not appear to be in imminent danger, it would be in order if I returned to meet with you in a fortnight.”
“Oh no, Mr. Holmes. Must I wait that long? I feel so much safer knowing that you are looking after me. Could you not return next week?”
“Very well, my dear. If there is any cause for concern that arises during the week, you may let me know and I will return a week from today. If not, then I shall see you in a fortnight. And now, my dear, you must return to the Copper Beeches before you are missed.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 32
