The Case Of The Peculiar Pink Fan Part 4

I wondered how much Lady Cecily's cousin, whom she was being forced to marry, resembled her father.

How very unfair that such an innocent, intelligent, sensitive girl-Cecily would have given her shoes to a beggar-that such a young lady should have been, first, cursed with Sir Eustace for a father, then kidnapped by a conniving villain-and now, now locked in a room and starved-where?

Boyles gave me Baron Merganser's London address, and it seemed sensible to start looking there. At once.

One cannot always and forever be changing clothes, especially if one were to have a look at the Merganser residence while there was still some daylight; the brown tweed suit would do, I told myself firmly. It was dark enough, as were my grey stockings and brown boots. The only thing likely to give me away in the night was my white collar, which I could remove when it was time. Thinking along these lines, I delayed only to s.n.a.t.c.h up several potentially useful items, jamming them into a carpet-bag.

Swinging this, I hailed a cab, a four-wheeler. "To Oakley Street," I told the driver, "and then just drive slowly." While sighing over the fee the man named, I reminded myself that in his vehicle I could see without being seen.

A very good thing, as I am sure my jaw dropped to my collar-ruffle when I sighted the house.

Could I have mistaken the address? No; the numbers were quite clearly displayed upon the gatepost of the spiked wrought-iron fence which surrounded an ivy-shrouded mansion amid copper beeches, their spreading limbs and odd russet leaves shading the grounds. Yes, there had been beeches...but could I be confused in my recollection? I certainly hoped so; a couple of blocks farther on, signalling the driver to stop, I told him to turn around and drive slowly back again.

So that I could take another look.

Which, no happier than the first, confirmed what I wished not to be the case: Baron Merganser's London home-an exceedingly ugly "pointed Gothic" edifice of steeply gabled grey stone, very likely complete with gargoyles-was the selfsame place at which, as a midden-picker, I had encountered a large and unpleasant man, a quite ferocious mastiff, and-most peculiar-a sunk fence.

I now realized who that ha-ha man must be, having seen him today, expensively dressed although most incongruously consorting with orphans-a circ.u.mstance which failed to lessen my fear of him-in a location that could hardly be coincidental.

Turning matters over in my mind, I felt dreadfully weary, entertaining a strong desire to go home and rest.

Instead, I had the cab drive me towards Covent Garden, where at a busy corner I dismissed it. From a street vendor I purchased some biscuits and a lemonade, forcing myself to eat and drink as I considered what I might do next.

Then, after a bit of wandering I found a butcher's stall, where I bought a large soup-bone with plenty of tasty-looking meat and gristle on it.

This, I thought as I stowed it (well-wrapped in brown paper) in my now-bulging carpet-bag, would distract the mastiff while I climbed the fence.

As for crossing the ha-ha-well, I had learned my lesson a few weeks prior when I had found myself climbing the wall of a most precipitous house, nearly falling half a dozen times before I had made my way to the rooftop, which had proved to be no less treacherous, plummeting me through gla.s.s-but I digress. My point is that, after surviving this fiasco with nothing worse than a few cuts, I had purchased a goodly length of strong rope and promised myself that never again would I venture into any irregular situation without it. Indeed, its tidy coils nestled beneath the soup-bone in my carpet-bag.

With the rope I should be able to improvise some way to achieve the other side of the ha-ha.

After which-I tried to plan as I walked to the nearest Underground station and waited upon the platform for the train that was to take me back towards my fateful destination-after which all I needed to do was get into the house, evade detection, find Lady Cecily, release her from captivity, and bring her away with me?

Heaven help me.

Quite a bit later, when it seemed reasonable to think that folk were abed, after the house-windows had gone dim and the streets quiet except for the monotonous tread of the constable, I slipped up to a certain wrought-iron fence, beside the carriage-house this time. There I unwrapped the soup-bone from its brown paper and lobbed it into the Merganser yard through the bars, pleased to see it land just where I intended, in front of the doghouse. I expected that the mastiff would then come charging out and give a woof or two before he discovered his treat.

However, the dog did not bark; indeed, I saw no sign of him. As before, gas-jets ranged around the outside of the house lit up the environs-what a reckless expenditure!-and I waited several moments, expecting the dog to appear out of some shadow, but he did not.

Hmm.

Might he be sound asleep in his lair?

I mistrusted such good luck, but saw no alternative except to continue. Softly I made my way to the corner of the fence behind the carriage-house, where the friendly shadows gathered thickest, and there, hanging my carpet-bag from my belt and knotting my skirt above my knees, I climbed.

No stable-boy shouted as I let myself down the fence's inner side. No watchdog barked. No alarm of any kind sounded.

Rather than soothing my apprehensions, however, the silence worried me. It seemed too lucky. As if I might be entering a trap.

Yet I felt there was no choice but to go on.

And next, I had to find a way across the sunk fence.

Before moving out of the shadows, I got down close to the ground, because I knew, from my childhood experience of country life, that this was what poachers did in order to make themselves less likely to be seen when venturing across open expanses of forbidden land. Crawling, therefore, I crept towards the edge of the ditch, alert in every sense for any disturbance in the night. Even my skin and the roots of my hair seemed to hearken.

I heard the distant rumble of wheels and clop of hooves on cobbles, the equally distant creak of some privy door swinging on its hinges, and high overhead, beech leaves rustling in a light breeze. Nothing more.

Until a voice spoke from somewhere quite nearby, shocking me rigid.

In a pent whisper it said, "Confound the entire wretched business."

A man's voice.

"I shall be a laughingstock," he whispered on with the fervour of one who vocalises merely to rid himself of unruly emotion. "How could I fail to foresee a device so childishly simple?"

He spoke, I realised, from the depths of the ha-ha.

His was a voice I had heard before.

Somehow my body recognised it in advance of my mind, which still lacked proper function due to shock and terror. But my skin and my limbs felt no fear. Quite the opposite. They hurried me forward, still crawling, until I could look over the edge into the ditch.

Ten feet from me, at the bottom of that dark abyss, the midnight mutterer had lit a match in order to study his predicament, so I saw him clearly. He wore black clothing, a black cap, and he had darkened his face with soot, but I knew him readily enough.

My brother Sherlock.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

MY EMOTIONS MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN A STAMPEDE of wild horses, they knocked me so witless. Yet, I must admit, one of my numerous feelings ran clearly and triumphantly in the fore: sheerest glee.

How the mighty had fallen.

The match-flame had travelled down the stick until it burned Sherlock's fingers. Dropping his light, he said something unrepeatable, and from the darkness above his head I told him, "Shame on you."

Even as the match went out, I saw him startle in a most satisfactory manner. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice reaching skyward.

"Shush," I whispered, glee running away and terror taking its place. "You'll rouse the mastiff."

"Who is it?" His tone softened, yet sharpened. "Bridget?"

"Do I sound like an Irishwoman?" My wits had begun to rally, and mental functions to take hold. "What have you done with the mastiff?"

"Fed it chopped beef a la bromide." He lit another match and held it high, trying to see me-yet he did not rise to his feet. I saw that he had taken his right boot off, and his foot stuck out before him, quite swollen within its stocking, either sprained or broken.

Instantly overrun by concern, I forgot all else. "You're hurt!"

At the same time he yelped, "Enola?" Apparently he recognised, if not my shadowy face, then my unfortunately distinctive voice.

"Do hush. I'll get you out." Already unfastening the carpet-bag from my waist, I changed my mind and reached into my bosom first.

Sherlock demanded, "Enola, what in Heaven's name-you pop up everywhere. What-"

"One might well say the same thing of you and Mycroft, always and forever in my way. Here." I dropped a generous length of bandaging on his lap. "Wrap your foot in that. Wait." I let a little flask of brandy fall on top of the bandaging. "Drink some, for the pain. Then bandage your ankle as tightly as you can. Here are scissors-"

"No, thank you, my penknife will serve. I need nothing more, I a.s.sure you." His light had once again gone out, and I could not see his face, but I heard a tremor of laughter and, dare I say it, a kind of warmth in his voice. "Unless perhaps you have a ladder in your pocket?"

"Indeed I do." Or at least I had a rope in my carpet-bag, in order to rescue-good heavens, whom should I attempt to save first, my brother or the unfortunate Cecily? I longed to linger with Sherlock, for I felt that, given even a brief acquaintance, I could confide in him as I never could in Mycroft; I wanted to explain to Sherlock why I had run away-because I could not be corseted, either literally or figuratively, into any conventional feminine mould-and I wanted to a.s.sure him of my regard, and most especially I wanted to ask him whether he had found any communication from Mum to me when he had gone back to search her rooms at Ferndell. Never again might I have such an opportunity for conversation with my brother, unafraid that he might seize me-yet I could have wept with vexation, for there was no time! Not while Lady Cecily remained in such horrifying difficulties.

Thrusting all other thoughts aside, therefore, I demanded, "Lady Theodora hired you?"

Sherlock blurted, "How on Earth do you know of this matter?"

His unguarded reply confirmed my hope: Lady Theodora opposed the forced marriage of her daughter. "I knew it!" I cried. "I knew she would never-no such loving mother would ever-" But a fearsome thought struck me. "How was she able to approach you?"

"You seem to know all about it," Sherlock grumbled from the depths of the ha-ha, his breath seething between his teeth as he yanked at the bandaging, binding his hurt foot. "What do you think?"

"I think Sir Eustace has her confined to her chambers. So how did she manage-"

"Draw your own conclusions."

"Doing so, one must conclude that Sir Eustace has separated mother and daughter, imprisoning the latter here, judging by your presence-"

"And yours."

"Was something arranged? Is Lady Cecily expecting your visit tonight?"

Crankily he shot back, "Is she expecting yours?"

I pressed my lips together, puffing with exasperation. "Just tell me! Was something arranged?"

Silence for a moment.

Then, "No," he admitted. "I've found no way to communicate with her. Enola-"

"But you're sure she's held here."

"No secret of that. They take her out in the landau for a daily airing."

"Odd," I murmured.

"Yes, I also think it odd that they should risk her escape for the sake of show. But perhaps a restraint of some sort, hidden beneath her clothing, binds her to the seat."

"Perhaps, but why on Earth does she not scream for help?"

Sherlock retorted, "Good heavens, Enola, the unfortunate girl is a baronet's daughter, not such a hoyden as you."

Hoyden? Was that what he called a free-thinking, independent female? As for Cecily, if he thought her meek and mannerly, he did not know her as well as I did.

"My dear brother, I will allow your insult and your ignorance to pa.s.s," I told him pleasantly. "As you are here to free Lady Cecily, evidently, I suggest we join forces, if you will promise me upon your honour not to attempt any infringement upon my liberty."

"Join-are you out of your minuscule mind?"

Stung, I shot back, "Am I the one in the ditch with a lamed foot?"

I fear my tone rather inflamed him. "Whatever my mischance, your place is not here. Go home, girl, where you belong."

A comment quite unworthy of him, I thought, and not deserving of a reply. Giving none, I turned my attention to opening my carpet-bag.

"For the matter of that, Enola, do you have a home?" he continued in heightened tones. "Where are you living all this time, and how?"

Ignoring him, I extracted the rope from the carpet-bag while I mentally enumerated the latter's remaining contents: curling-irons to drive into the ground were it necessary to fasten the rope to something, a cast-iron meat tenderiser by way of club, a truncated croquet mallet, and some other tools. I hefted the bag to be sure: yes. Weight enough.

"Does any respectable and responsible older person have a care for you?"

Closing the carpet-bag, I tied one end of the rope firmly to its handle. The rest of the rope I laid out upon the ground until I was sure I had provided sufficient slack, and then I tucked a loop of its remaining length into my belt in such a manner that I would not lose it, yet could yank it free at a moment's notice.

"If not, then you cannot possibly be safe; any female dwelling alone is a magnet for crime."

Turning my back on him, I rose, and with rope trailing behind me like a tail-two tails, actually, the one to the carpet-bag and the other loose end-I strode to the nearest tree, embraced its trunk, and began to make my way upward.

I strained my every nerve and fiber in order to do so. The beech is the most difficult of all trees to climb, for the trunk is straight and exceedingly tall with smooth silver bark as glossy as satin. Only the utmost necessity-and, I admit, a great deal of petty pride; I would show the great Sherlock Holmes who needed to have a care for whom-only extremity drove me to attempt my ascent.

Gritting my teeth, wasting no breath on naughty words that came to mind, I crept upward, clinging, from time to time slipping back despite my best efforts, fervidly wishing that the blood of Darwin's monkeys ran a bit stronger in my veins as I grappled and clawed with hands rubbed raw, tried to grip with the soles of my boots-if only I could grasp with my feet, like a chimpanzee! Still, I persevered, every portion of my personage stinging with exertion, until I attained a height of perhaps twenty feet above the ground, sufficient so that I could look down on the ditch, and although I could not see into it, I felt sure that my brother, looking up, could see me- And just as I triumphantly thought this, my head struck something.

Metal.

What in the name of the devil- Diabolical, indeed, I discovered as I looked up to study the obstacle. Just below the point where the beech trunk began to branch, someone had placed a steel collar, the sort of thing one might use to try to keep squirrels off a bird-feeder, only much larger of course.

No wonder any villains in residence here felt safe allowing copper beeches to overhang their sunk fence. I could climb no farther.

And I fear I then whispered something quite unforgivable, for I had hoped to gain the security of the branches before I deployed the rope.

Ye G.o.ds. Ye G.o.ds in dirty breeches. Ye G.o.ds with great hopping fleas!

But I refused to admit defeat. Wasting no more breath on useless commentary, gripping hard to the beech trunk with three of my limbs, with the fourth I took the rope from my belt and began to pull up the end attached to the carpet-bag.

I required the a.s.sistance of my teeth to hold the rope each time I shifted my hand. If I should lose my grip-the consequences were barely thinkable. Meanwhile, all my limbs had begun to tremble and weaken, placing me in extreme danger. It seemed an eternity before I had it-the carpet-bag-swinging within a few feet of me. I knew I could not cling to the beech trunk much longer without falling; I needed to take aim and throw without fail, for I might have no second chance.

Eyeing a sizeable bough that jutted in the proper direction, I swung my arm so that the bag described an arc in the air, and swung once again, then once more to make sure as I let go- The carpet-bag, as clumsy a fowl as ever flew, blundered aloft, seemed to hang vulture-like in the air for a moment, then fell- Yes!

Oh, yes, thank goodness. The rope lay over the bough.