The Case Of The Peculiar Pink Fan Part 11

Her question was largely rhetorical, as her deafness, thank goodness, prevented my making any detailed answer. Nevertheless, the dear woman would not take my upraised, dismissive hands for an answer, and hustled me to a seat by the hearth, where she provided me with a basin of warm water in which to soak my insulted feet, a bowl of nourishing if noxious liver-and-barley soup, and a great deal of sympathetic monologue: "The dear alone knows how ye get yerself into these sitchywations, but it's none uv my business, just let me comb out yer poor 'air now, ye'll be needing bag balm an' some cotton lint for them ruined feet, I'll warrant ye went and give your shoes to some poor wretch, ought to 'ave more care for yerself but there ain't a gooder 'eart in London, 'ow ye get yerself all sc.r.a.ped and banged up and yer poor smock torn this way is beyond me, eat yer soup now and there's some bread pudding, poor lamb, yer half starved, wot am I to do wit you?"

But she knew quite well what to do, actually, and by the time I finally thanked her, from the warmth of my bed watched her close my chamber door behind her, and heard her creaking footsteps and plangent voice going down the stairs, I was warmly fed, bathed, and clothed, with my sore feet attended to and my sore heart beginning to feel better as well.

I had felt quite betrayed, you see, because Sherlock had told Mycroft my whereabouts-but my reaction was childish, I realised as I lay trying to compose myself for slumber; Sherlock was only doing his duty as he perceived it, and he had never promised me anything else. In our familial game of hide-and-seek, my brother played fair.

Brothers. Mycroft, too, had done nothing-however annoying-that might not reasonably be expected of him. It was not his fault that he was who he was, any more than it was Mum's fault- Oh, Mum.

While Mrs. Tupper had mothered me today, where was my real mother? My riddling inquiry, Narcissus bloomed in water, for he had none.

Chrysanthemum in gla.s.s, for she had one.

All of Ivy's tendrils failed to find: What was the Iris planted behind?

had not yet received any answer. Of course it was too soon to expect one. Perhaps in today's Pall Mall Gazette. Closing my eyes, I told myself that I would have a look at it after I napped.

But even when I received my answer, what would the good of it be? Never in her life that I could recall had Mum washed or bandaged or fed me, or combed my hair...

My eyes opened, staring at the blank ceiling, and errant tears trickled down my temples.

Very well. I was not going to be able to sleep. Sighing as I wiped the tears away, I got up, found myself a sheaf of foolscap paper and a lap desk, and began to sketch.

I drew an orphan, for I felt like one. Then I drew Lady Cecily all got up as an orphan, for she, a girl lacking a father's love, must feel much as I did. Detailing her sensitive face and brilliant eyes, I thought in how many ways I felt myself a soul-mate to her, and how I had never expected to see her again, yet it had now happened. Therefore might I hope that, perhaps in a few years, when we were grown, we might see each other more often, and perhaps go sketching together?

Meanwhile, Sherlock would make sure she found her way safely to her mother's care. Feeling an odd hiatus in myself as I thought of my brother, I drew a quick caricature of his tall form, and felt my hollow heart fill and warm.

Mycroft's turn. I made quite a brisk study of representing him with a wedding veil draping him to his swollen waistcoat. It made me smile.

Hoping for another reason to smile, next I drew a picture of quite a lovely young lady with gloriously coiffed chestnut hair in which nestled the most dainty and fetching of hats: myself, in a blue promenade gown and quite an expensive wig, with my face disguised by powders and paints and primping plus a parasol. Beautiful, by George, but-but hardly the whole story. I drew myself as a midden-picker, then as Ivy Meshle in her cheap frou-frou and false curls, then as a street stray in a smashed bowler hat, a paragon among ragam.u.f.fins- But this could go on and on. I ought to draw a portrait of Mum.

Taking a fresh sheet of foolscap, I tried, but found I could not. I could not at that moment bring her features to mind.

Instead, within my tentative outline of a feminine head, I filled in other features.

Steady eyes, young yet wise.

Straight nose.

Strong chin.

Quirky mouth. Mona Lisa smile.

An angular face not unlike that of my brother Sherlock, yet quintessentially-my own?

I gawked. Was it really me? Enola?

Never before had I been able to draw myself truly. Why could I do it now?

My own pencilled gaze demanded truth of me.

Because, I admitted-if only to myself-because I knew why the Mona Lisa smiled so oddly. Doubtless she had a mother somewhat like mine. I knew that I would not search for Mum. Not yet, if ever. Not until, or unless, I felt she wanted to see me.

But whether I ever saw her again or not, I was still Enola.

MAY, 1889.

IVY MESHLE, AFTER A FEW DAYS BACK AT WORK FOR "Dr. Ragostin," takes pleasure in penning the following letter to "Dr. Ragostin's" client, the general: Dear Honourable Sir: Regarding the matter of your missing war memento, to wit, one leg-bone inscribed by the amputating surgeon, Dr. Ragostin is pleased to inform you that he has recovered it from the possession of one Paddy Murphy, cab-driver, who admits to having acquired it by means of your third upstairs housemaid, for whom he professed an amorous interest, his scheme being to exhibit it among his low-minded companions for paltry financial gain. If you wish to prosecute the aforementioned Paddy Murphy, a constable may be sent to apprehend him in the Serpentine Mews. Meanwhile, your leg remains in Dr. Ragostin's safekeeping, and you may send for it at your convenience, kindly remitting payment as previously agreed. Dr. Ragostin is delighted to have been able to offer you his trifling a.s.sistance, and remain Sincerely yours,

Leslie T. Ragostin, Ph.D.

as dictated to Miss Ivy Meshle

"My dear Mycroft!" The great detective, Sherlock Holmes, is frankly surprised to find his brother at the door of 221b Baker Street; Mycroft hardly ever deviates from his customary orbit between his government office, his own lodgings, and the Diogenes club. "Come in, have a cigar and a gla.s.s of sherry-no? Some urgent wind blows you this way?"

"No, merely a vexing draught beneath the door of my comfort," grumbles Mycroft, settling his bulk in the best armchair.

"May I be of a.s.sistance?"

"I doubt it, as you were chump enough to let her go."

"Ah." Sherlock turns away to dig his long fingers into his rather eccentric pipe-tobacco container, a Persian slipper. "Our sister. Am I never to hear the last of the ha-ha incident?"

"Perhaps when I hear the last of the bridal-veil incident. How is Cecily Alistair, by the way?"

"Much better, in the care of her mother and her mother's family. I understand that Lady Theodora is planning a trip to Vienna for herself and her daughter, to consult with the alienists there regarding the young lady's Jekyll-and-Hyde moods."

"Ah. They think her a dual personality?"

"Possibly." Standing on the hearth-rug, Sherlock packs his favourite meerschaum pipe, spilling only a little tobacco in the process.

"Well, certainly an arranged marriage is no cure for that. It was a close thing for her."

"Not really." Puffing to suck the flame into the tobacco, Sherlock lights his pipe with a match, as there is no fire in the hearth at this time of year. "Enola and I had the matter well in hand, and you had no business being there; did I not tell you to stay away?"

"My dear Sherlock, how many times must I tell you? I felt it my duty to protect Enola. Do you not shudder at the thought of our sister single-handedly undertaking to trick Viscount Inglethorpe, Baron Merganser, and their formidable wives? I could not do otherwise than try to help."

"I doubt that Enola perceives your interference as help." Smoking seems not to soothe Sherlock; indeed, he begins to pace, his long legs taking him across the room and back in a few rapid strides.

Mycroft retorts, "What she perceives is irrelevant, for who is to rescue her from herself if not we, her brothers? I wished to help her that day at the Witherspoon orphanage just as I do now."

"Now?" With droll trepidation Sherlock pauses to eye his older brother. "What ever is she up to now?"

"Why, I wouldn't know. I've had no news of her. It is just this." From his waistcoat pocket Mycroft produces a newspaper clipping and hands it to his brother.

"Ah." Sherlock hands it back, feeling no need to read it, as he has seen it daily in the Pall Mall Gazette: Narcissus bloomed in water, for he had none.

Chrysanthemum in gla.s.s, for she had one.

All of Ivy's tendrils failed to find: What was the Iris planted behind?

Mycroft peers up at him from beneath a thick hedge of eyebrows. "What was concealed behind the mirror, Sherlock?"

"Nothing except a considerable sum of money, which I have deposited in a bank for her should she ever need it. Why?"

Mycroft answers the question with another question. "Do you think she placed that advertis.e.m.e.nt because she needs money?"

"I doubt it. She seems quite able to pay cab-fare generous enough to see her out of many an escapade. In regard to what was behind the mirror, I imagine she is merely curious."

"But why such a strong curiosity?"

"Why not? Curiosity goes hand in hand with intellect, and intellect runs in the family."

"Intellect in a female? Bah. Nonsense, Sherlock; it is some matter of the heart that compels our sister to send our mother another flowery missive. What do you think she wants from this advertis.e.m.e.nt?"

Frowning, the great detective stands still to look down on his brother, but fails to answer.

Indeed, Mycroft hardly gives him time to answer before he speaks on. "I know what Enola hopes for, and I propose that we should give it to her."

"I fail to follow you."

"Sherlock, it is simple enough. The girl is devoted to her mother, who abandoned her; Enola longs for a.s.surance of her mother's affection. That is what she hopes you found behind the mirror: a love letter from Mummy. And that is what we could provide for her."

Several seconds pa.s.s while Sherlock Holmes puffs his meerschaum and stares at his brother. Then he says, not as a question but as a statement, "To bait a trap with, you mean."

"Necessarily so, in order to get her back within the pale of civilised society, provide her with a proper education, see to her future-"

"Desirable as those objectives may be, my dear Mycroft, I think a trick is hardly the way to befriend Enola. I will not lie to her."

"Sherlock! You are saying you will not help me?" A surge of surprised anger lifts Mycroft to his feet at the same time as Sherlock calmly takes a seat.

"That is correct." Sherlock Holmes reaches over to his desk and picks up a slip of foolscap, folding it repeatedly. "Moreover, I have antic.i.p.ated you. In tomorrow's editions you will see a communication from me. Here is the copy I have kept." He tosses the now-wadded paper across the room to his brother, who succeeds in catching it. Mycroft opens it and reads: E.H.: Iris was monetary, now planted in Shropshire Royal Bank, your name. Regret can give no further satisfaction. Our mutual friend C.A. thanks you profusely for your gallant a.s.sistance, as do I. With utmost regard, S.H.

Mycroft Holmes studies this for some time before he looks up, expressionless.

"Well," he says coldly, "so that's the way it's going to be."

Quite gently, "That's the way it's going to be," says Sherlock.

ALSO BY NANCY SPRINGER.

THE ENOLA HOLMES MYSTERIES.

The Case of the Missing Marquess.

The Case of the Left-Handed Lady.

The Case of the Bizarre Bouquets.

THE TALES OF ROWAN HOOD.

Rowan Hood, Outlaw Girl of Sherwood Forest.

Lionclaw.

Outlaw Princess of Sherwood.

Wild Boy.

Rowan Hood Returns, the Final Chapter.

THE TALES FROM CAMELOT.

I am Mordred.

I am Morgan le Fay.

Ribbiting Tales.