The Case Of The Gypsy Goodbye Part 8

Alive!

And I saw Squeaky draw his knife to kill her.

"No!" I shrieked, dropping Toby's leash to free my hands, increasing my already reckless speed to sprint towards him. "Stop!" Rapidly closing in on him, yet I was not near enough to restrain him by any means other than my voice. "Murder! Police!" And as he jerked around, quite startled, to look for the source of the commotion, I threw my carpet-bag-for lack of any better weapon-I hurled it with desperate force at his head.

He ducked, and it missed, of course, but it gave me enough time to come face-to-face with him, with my dagger drawn.

His lip drew back in a mongrel-dog snarl as we crouched, blades menacing, shuffling our feet in a slow circle. He recognised me. "You again. Ye're dead," he said.

"Help," implored a faint voice from the ground. "Please help me."

The distraction very nearly "did fer" me. As I glanced downward, Squeaky struck.

Too late I attempted to parry. The cutthroat's knife flashed towards my undefended neck-but at the crucial instant, a walking-stick descended with great force upon Squeaky's hand, and he cried out as his weapon dropped from his fingers. Within the next moment, Sherlock had a firm hold of the puny villain, twisting both of his arms behind his back.

I opened my mouth to thank my brother, but there was no opportunity, for just then a huge form in a truly hideous bonnet lunged at Sherlock's shoulders. Mrs. Culhane was back. Staggering from the impact of her weight, Sherlock very nearly fell. Alas, he lost his grip on his prisoner, who at once took to his heels. I tried to detach Mrs. Culhane from my brother; she swatted me aside and sent me sprawling. But someone nearly as large as she grasped her flailing arm. Mycroft wrenched her off of Sherlock, hurling her to her adipose posterior into the muck.

I failed to enjoy this scene to my satisfaction at the time, because my concern was all for another faint cry from the ground. Kneeling beside the lady, I grasped her filthy hand in mine. "Your Grace?"

Looking up at me, she nodded, and indeed, even layers of grime could not obscure the flowerlike beauty of her face, although her glorious tresses were gone, leaving only an inch or two of stubble stiffened by mud. It was Duquessa Blanchefleur.

"Help me," she whispered.

"We have come to do so," I a.s.sured her. "But what-are you injured?"

She shook her head.

Toby, that paragon of trackers (according to The Sign of the Four), came over and sniffed the Duquessa without showing the slightest hint of recognition.

"Are you weak?" I asked the lady. "Starved?"

"No, not at all!" Her lovely eyes widened, quite earnest. "The paupers share their bread with me. The poorest of the poor, in rags, have pity on me."

Just the same, I produced one of the strengthening sugar candies I always carry with me and placed it into her mouth, as Sherlock crouched at her other side, and Mycroft. Of Mrs. Culhane, I saw nothing more. Apparently, she had wisely retreated.

"But I want to go home," Lady Blanchefleur said quite simply, her words rendered pitiful only by her circ.u.mstances. "Will you take me home?"

"We have come here for that purpose," said Sherlock. "May I a.s.sist you to sit up, my lady?"

"Oh, no. No, I cannot sit up, nor can I stand, not by myself." She seemed a trifle breathless, as if shocked, as if sitting up or standing by herself would be indecent. "Unless someone could possibly fetch me . . ."

Her words trailed away, and one could hear the blushing embarra.s.sment in them. Averting her eyes from my brothers, she gazed at me imploringly.

"What?" asked Mycroft with far less than his usual gruffness. "What on Earth is it that you need?"

Wincing away from his question, she whispered to me, "I tried to crawl . . . but even that was . . . impossible. My waist . . ."

And I remembered the diabolical corset I had seen hanging in Mrs. Culhane's shop.

Blanchefleur had worn such a corset, her ladies had told me, since childhood.

Indeed, I looked down upon a woman with the waist of a six-year-old. Never before had I actually seen the proof, but Mum had read to me from her Dress Reform journals of such-such mutilation- "Ye G.o.ds with bunions!" I exploded, suddenly furious, although not at the unfortunate lady. I glared across her supine, shorn, and deformed body at my brothers. "I am sure she was sent to the very best boarding schools, Mycroft!"

"What on Earth-"

"Her poor waist, compressed to the extent that her personage has . . ." I could not remember the word atrophied, and this made me even angrier. "All her strength given up to fashion, so that now she cannot sit, stand, or walk unless she is encased in one of those infernal devices of torture!"

Lady Blanchefleur began silently but with eloquence to weep.

I have never seen Mycroft look so bewildered, but Sherlock, because he had at one time been subjected to quite a lecture by Florence Nightingale, did understand. Indeed, as one might expect, Sherlock took charge. "Hush, Enola. You've said enough. Might we borrow your cloak?"

Biting my lip to silence my anger, I stood up, took off the much-besmirched cloak, and handed it to him.

"Now, Your Grace, we shall carry you. Mycroft, lift her shoulders, please. There, you see, I told you our undertaking tonight would require two strong men."

Actually, once he had the Duquessa wrapped in my cloak for modesty, Sherlock carried her easily by himself, she was such a frail thing, her weight so slight. He turned westward, towards the City. But after we had tramped through the slums for quite a distance without seeing a cab-indeed it would have been difficult to find one anywhere in London, as the hour was perhaps four in the morning-he turned to Mycroft and said, almost as if they were two boys again playing a game, "Your turn. Here."

He handed the lady over to Mycroft, and to Mycroft's credit, he bore the burden gently and steadily.

Still we saw no cab nor any sign of any form of transportation. Certainly the East End streets were not deserted, not in summertime, but the drunkards and other denizens, sneak thieves and round-the-corner Sallys, stayed far from us: two grim aristocratic men carrying what appeared to be a lifeless body as I trailed along, quite a sight I am sure in my muddy yellow dress with my face, hands, and hair in a mess, carrying a carpet-bag and leading a spotted spaniel by a leash.

Mycroft eventually handed Duquessa Blanchfleur back to Sherlock, and so we continued for miles, as they took turns carrying her.

During this entire protracted ordeal, both of my brothers remained almost completely silent, and Sherlock, in the lead as usual, seemed to have forgotten that I existed. But Mycroft walked next to me, and I felt him stealing frequent glances at me.

At last he spoke. "Enola. When, earlier this evening, Sherlock told me that all would become plain, was he speaking of you?"

Actually, I had no idea why Sherlock had insisted on bringing Mycroft along. Therefore I had no answer for Mycroft's question. But as Mycroft seriously awaited my reply, sudden irrepressible laughter burst from me. "Indeed," I cried, "considering the condition of my hair, my face, and my personage right now, seldom has a woman been plainer."

I heard Sherlock chuckle. But Mycroft gazed at me, more solemn than ever, and in that moment, to my astonishment, I felt that I rather liked him.

"Exactly," he said. "Last summer I met a rather spoilt yet neglected stick of a girl, or so it seemed to me. Yet now I see quite an extraordinary woman. All is not plain, not at all, for you are still but fourteen years of age."

"Fifteen," I replied pensively, "in a few days." I had been thinking of my approaching birthday anniversary with no great joy.

Already owlish, Mycroft's eyes widened yet more. "Really?"

"Truly?" exclaimed Sherlock at the same time. "Has it been a year already?"

"Almost a year since Mum ran off with the Gypsies? Yes."

Saying it made me remember the message from Mum that I carried, still unread, over my heart, and I felt a familiar ache. Somewhat intensified, under the circ.u.mstances.

"I still cannot believe our mother would-" Mycroft began, for apparently Sherlock had discussed Gypsies with him.

But Sherlock silenced him. "I coerced you into accompanying us tonight, Mycroft," he told his older brother quietly, "so that you would come to know Enola better, see her in action, and perhaps derive some insight from the experience." Meaningfully, he halted, turned to Mycroft, and handed over to him the helpless and apparently fainting Duquessa Blanchefleur. "Have you?"

"This is an exceedingly inconvenient time for conversation," Mycroft growled.

"Quite," agreed Sherlock placidly as Mycroft trudged forward with his burden and we walked beside him. "At your earliest convenience, then?"

Mycroft said something rather naughty, although justifiable under the circ.u.mstances, which I shall not repeat.

Silently we slogged onward.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

DAWN BLEACHED THE SKY BEHIND THE CHIMNEY-POTS by the time we finally reached Aldgate Pump, one of London's huge hygienic monstrosities, unofficial marker that we were pa.s.sing out of the unwashed East End and into the City proper. At the adjacent cab-stand, a few yawning drivers had arrived, and Sherlock was able to secure a four-wheeler.

As he laid Duquessa Blanchefleur gently upon one of the seats, she stirred and opened her eyes. "It is as I have always thought," she murmured. "At their hearts, people are truly kind. Thank you."

"You deserve all kindness," I told her as I gave her another candy.

Nor did Sherlock disabuse her by reminding her of the "kindness" of Mrs. Culhane or Squeaky. Instead, he turned to me. "Enola, might I ask you how you came to be involved in this affair?"

"Of course you may ask," I told him, and although we were all very weary from the night's labours, I hoped my smile expressed my fondness for him. "But I decline to answer."

He raised his eyes heavenward briefly before he spoke again. "Let me rephrase. You are known to Duque Luis del Campo and his household?"

"I am known to them as a concerned gentlewoman."

"Then I think it would be less distressing to the household if you and you alone were to see Duquessa Blanchefleur home."

"Leaving masculine eyes out of the matter, you mean."

"Exactly. Wait a minute." Taking Toby's leash from me and handing it to Mycroft, he strode to Aldgate Pump, produced a handkerchief (not edged with lace-his was the large masculine item), sopped it with water, came back to me, and began scrubbing my face as if I were a child.

Exceedingly fatigued, and also caught off guard, I stood like a department-store dummy for a few minutes before I reacted, pushing him away and taking the handkerchief to finish the job myself, washing mud and muck off my face and hands.

"Not too bad," Sherlock said doubtfully once I had put on my wig and my hat to cover my dreadful hair. "Do you need your birthmark?"

"No."

"Until we meet again, then."

"Yes. Once this errand is done, I quite intend to sleep until tomorrow."

I tossed my carpet-bag into the cab. But as I placed my foot on the step to follow it, Mycroft spoke for the first time. "Wait!"

Poor Mycroft, I had almost forgotten he was there. With hasty compunction I turned to him.

All of his usual pomposity and loquacity had vanished during the rigours of the night. He spoke with gruff but almost childlike simplicity. "When shall we see you?"

So warm was the unexpected surge of affection I felt for him that I had to remind myself that he had made no promises and I could not trust him. After a moment I replied, "I don't know. I will be in touch. I promise."

"Kindly notice that I have not summoned a constable to take you in hand," he replied with some return of his usual testiness.

"I have noticed, believe me," I told him earnestly.

"Such being the case, why can we not agree-"

"I am quite exhausted, Mycroft, unable to reason. I dare not agree to anything."

Suddenly Sherlock spoke up with incoherence most unusual for him. "Enola. Your birthday!"

I turned to him in genuine bewilderment. "My birthday? What of it?" Neither of them had ever concerned himself with my birthday.

And both of them seemed to have lost all of their usual eloquence. As if he were having trouble completing a thought, Sherlock said, "We should be together."

"What for?"

"All three of us," Mycroft said just as labouriously.

Not to celebrate, certainly, the day that our mother had run away. "I cannot imagine either of you offering me cake or gifts. Why . . ."

But I let the question incomplete, partly because it would have been cruel to make them say any more, partly because I myself could not at that time face my own befuddled emotions, and also because-odd, for a logician's daughter-I remembered what the Gypsy woman had said to me: that I was fated to be forever alone-unless I chose to defy the fate.

Together. All three of us.

Or safely alone?

The decision was mine.

"Enola?" asked Mycroft.

Far too tired to think it through, I trusted the impulse of my heart: I nodded. "Baker Street? Sherlock?"

"Baker Street by all means, at tea-time. Bring the skytales."

That simply it was decided: The three of us would meet again on-not so much my birthday as the anniversary of Mum's disappearance. All three of us trying to decipher what had become of her.

A bitter thought. But I said only, "Very well," and waved, and stepped into the cab to take Duquessa Blanchefleur home to Oakley Street.

I pillowed her exceedingly dirty and pitifully cropped head in my lap whilst holding her hand. A few times during the journey she opened her eyes, but only to give me her angelic smile and close them again.

When we reached the Duque's Moorish mansion, it was still very early, with only intermittent sleepy traffic on the street and pavements. Nevertheless, I knocked for the cabbie to descend, then told him to pull around to the back of the del Campo residence, like a delivery van. Fewer eyes would see there, and I felt sure that Duque Luis del Campo would prefer (as I did, for different reasons) that details of Blanchefleur's whereabouts whilst absent from her family should be kept out of the newspapers.

As we stopped by the kitchen door, a cook ran out, scolding, then screamed like a guinea hen when I opened the cab and she saw the scene within.

"Fetch your master," I told her, "and Mary-" Heavens, I could not think of their names, only Mary of Magdala, of Bethany, of Nazareth, of flowers, none of which would do. "Send down Duquessa Blanchefleur's ladies-in-waiting, and hurry. And be quiet about it," I added futilely as she scuttled off squealing like a shoat.