The Case Of The Peculiar Pink Fan Part 5

Now I had only to manoeuvre until the carpet-bag wedged quite firmly in a fork of the branch. Then, at last, the rope would support me.

Meanwhile, I felt my grip upon the trunk of the tree beginning to slip.

Clinging for dear life with one arm whilst I feverishly employed the other, I pulled the rope towards me, watching the carpet-bag dangle at the other end- Never before in my life had I truly reached the limit of my strength, and never again do I wish to repeat the experience: quite without my permission, my limbs simply let go, and helplessly I fell.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

I BADLY WANTED TO SCREAM, AND UNDER THE circ.u.mstances I certainly had every right to do so. However, any such ululation might have attracted attention of a most unwelcome sort from the house.

Somehow I retained sufficient presence of mind to utter only a squeak as I plummeted.

Also, somehow, perhaps because my extremity of terror shot new strength into me-without taking credit for any conscious virtue in the matter, I am grateful to say that somehow I kept hold of the rope.

Within a moment-a long moment, it seemed, but in fact only several horrified heartbeats-almost at once that blessed lifeline broke my fall. My carpet-bag had after all caught in the beech tree, and with a gasp I found myself swinging in midair, convulsively clutching the rope with both hands.

However, as my strength was all but gone, I slipped downward.

But even whilst swinging in such a manner, one can manipulate one's arc by leaning one's personage this way or that. Doing so, in a moment I landed with the rope still in my hands, and with the appearance of being in full control of my descent, giving barely a thump as I collapsed to the ground just where I wanted to be: near the edge of the sunk fence, but on the other side from where I had begun.

"Enola, what in the name of Heaven are you doing?" whispered my brother explosively (yes, I a.s.sure you this is possible) from the ditch.

"Is...it...not...obvious?" I panted, for how could he not see? I had crossed the ha-ha, and as soon as I had caught my breath, I would proceed to the house.

"It is obvious only that our mother gave birth to an Amazon." Shock vied with (I think and hope) admiration in his voice. "Why did you not tell me you had a rope? Secure it to something, quickly, then give it here so I can lift myself out of this confounded ditch."

His tone, quite accustomed to being obeyed before he could snap his fingers, failed to move me. Without, again, taking credit for any conscious virtue in the act of defiance, I responded not at all, simply because I had so thoroughly exhausted myself.

"The rope, Enola!"

"I think not," I replied blandly, my breathing somewhat more under control. "After I get back, perhaps."

"What? Back from where?"

"From locating and, if at all possible, freeing the unfortunate Lady Cecily. Would you happen to know in which room she is imprisoned?"

"In the most inaccessible apex of the north tower." He meant to discourage me, I think, and realised too late, as I sat up to dust myself off and prepare for action, that he had offered me an irresistible challenge instead. "Enola, you cannot!"

"I am not sure I can," I admitted, "but I certainly intend to try."

"It is simply not possible."

"Why? You intended to do it, before you ran afoul of the sunk fence. How did you plan to accomplish it?"

"a.s.sist me out of this d.a.m.nable ditch, and perhaps I will show you."

My tone quite gentle in contrast to his, I said, "Not until you give me your promise."

"What?"

"Promise me upon your honour that you will let me be, and will make no attempt to apprehend me or to constrain me."

Silence.

A good sign, I realised, for Sherlock Holmes would make no promise lightly. And if he gave his word, he would abide by it without fail. Indeed, if only-if we could be friends-deep within me commenced the most peculiar fluttering sensation, as if a b.u.t.terfly had split open the chrysalis of my heart. Indeed, I felt my pulse begin to throb so hard that I could hear- Hear my own heart beating?

Almost too late, I realised it was not so.

What I could hear, in that silence, was footsteps.

Behind me and off to one side, someone walking.

Someone had come out of the house.

And was approaching nearer by the moment.

My reaction was instantaneous and, I admit, contrary to reason: I tossed the rope to Sherlock, hissing, "Shhh! Stay down." The rope, vertical against the tree behind it, should not be noticed in the night. My brother should escape detection.

But where, pray tell, was I to hide? Instinctively I cowered, flattening myself to the ground, but what more to do-I could not think.

"...don't like it, I tell you," said a deep, dark voice I recognised; it was the ma.s.sive man who had quite terrified a certain midden-picker, and who consorted most incongruously with orphans. "I haven't heard Lucifer make a sound for the past hour."

"Because the dog isn't barking, you roust me out of bed?" The second voice, also male, sounded childishly wrought. "Really, Father!"

"Don't pout at me, Bramwell. It's for your sake we're taking all these precautions."

Bramwell.

The Baron of Merganser's son and heir.

Then the big brute of a man was indeed, as I had concluded, the baron himself.

With fascinated horror I watched as father and son emerged from between the beech trees. Both carried heavy walking-sticks by way of weapons. The son, Bramwell, had a burly physique similar to that of his mastiff-like father, but in the younger man's case it made him resemble a toad.

As did his face, what I could see of it in the gas-lit night. Small wonder he had not managed to win a bride in any gentlemanly way.

Father and son made towards the mastiff's quarters, and at once the baron roared, "See? Someone's been feeding him!" Dramatically he pointed at the soup-bone I had flung over the fence. "Someone's poisoned him!"

"No, they haven't poisoned your darling Lucifer. Can't you hear the brute snore? He's in his bed, sleeping."

Facing the mastiff's house, they stood with their backs to me, and I took the opportunity to retreat as noiselessly as possible, scooting away hind-end-foremost, like a crustacean going under a rock, so that I could continue watching them.

"As I should be asleep in mine," added Bramwell pettishly.

"Stop being a donkey! Poison or a sleeping powder, it means the same: someone is trying to get in!"

"So?"

"Someone is prying into our affairs!"

"And what if they do? What if they pry their way right into the tower? All they will find there is a stable-boy dressed as a girl."

"Shut your mouth!" The baron's fury froze me motionless in the shadows. The way he turned on his son, I really thought for a moment that he would strike him. But instead he growled, "Not another word of that. Do you understand me? Reply."

In a subdued tone Bramwell said, "Yes, Father."

"We must arm ourselves with pistols, then search the grounds. Come along!"

"Yes, Father." Meekly Bramwell followed as the baron strode towards the house.

Even as they did so, movement from the other direction caught my eye: swarming up the rope hand over hand as smartly as any sailor, Sherlock lifted himself from the ditch, crawling out upon the side away from me, towards the fence.

Quite sensibly, then, having concluded from Bramwell's words-as I had-that Lady Cecily was not after all to be found in the tower, he intended to make his escape. Good. Fervidly wishing to do likewise, I stayed where I was, flat on the ground behind the nearest tree-trunk, waiting for him to depart-for I knew him to be a fox, in his way as much a danger to me as the irate baron and his unlovely son.

Sherlock rose to his feet-or, rather, his uninjured foot, for the other, wrapped in the bandaging with which I had supplied him, showed all too clearly and unfortunately white in the night, and that pale, bloated L barely touched the ground; he placed hardly any weight on the foot at all. Seriously lame, he must get away as quickly as possible.

Naturally, then, I expected him to limp towards the fence. At once.

But instead, wobbling on one leg, he scanned the yard and gave a muted call: "Enola!"

Confound him! Shadowed and in hiding, I clenched my fists in frustration that he would not let me alone. Yet at the same time I felt that benighted b.u.t.terfly fluttering in my heart.

"Enola, come here! I'll not leave without you."

He quite meant it, I could tell, as indeed I should have realised all along, for Sherlock Holmes was a true gentleman-that is to say, incapable of sensible behaviour under such circ.u.mstances.

Muttering the naughtiest words I knew, I rose to my feet, yanking knots out of my skirt-what a wretched time to feel shy! But I would not face my brother with my knees bared. Rife with the strangest emotions, I ran towards him while my much-rumpled brown tweed arranged itself to cover my lower limbs to the ankles.

With only the sunk fence between us I stared at Sherlock, intent on every nuance of his face. But he gave me scarcely a glance. "Enola, quick!" He tossed me the rope.

Catching it, I stood where I was, studying him for some indication, some sign...still he had not given me any promise, you see.

Nor would he. He only stared back at me, his chiselled face like marble, something in his gaze imploring me yet daring me to trust him, if only for this one hour of this one night.

"Confound you, Sherlock Holmes," I told him, and I took the dare. Reaching above my head to grasp the rope that hung down from the beech tree, I swung across the ha-ha to land lightly by his side.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

INDEED I STOOD QUITE TOO CLOSE TO SHERLOCK for comfort, and hastily stepped back. I felt heat of embarra.s.sment rising in my face, but surely in the dark he could not see me blushing. Continuing to move quickly, as if such had been my intention from the first, I ran to the fence and began to climb, still carrying the slack end of the rope in one hand.

Hobbling after me, Sherlock said, "Leave the blasted thing behind."

Not answering, I took the rope in my teeth instead, for halfway up the cast-iron bars I realised how my skirt was hindering me, I needed to haul it out of my way, and why should I drop the rope? It was for Sherlock; how else was he to climb with a lamed foot? As soon as I reached the fence's spiked top, I grabbed the rope, looped it around a stout paling, and tossed the end towards my brother.

Did he thank me? Heavens, no. He said, "I don't need it."

"Stop where you are!" roared the baron's voice from the direction of his Gothic manse, and almost simultaneously sounded the even louder roar of a firearm. "Stop, thieves!" The gun fired again, and I heard the bullet clang against a metal fence-post somewhere nearby.

Far from halting me, these blandishments spurred me over the fence at remarkable speed. Sherlock, too, scaled it with great alacrity, making excellent use of the rope he had said he didn't need. Indeed, by the time a third shot-or perhaps there were four? It is all frightfully rapid and muddled in my memory; my brother was letting himself down the outside of the fence, one could hear the baron and his squeaky-voiced son bellowing and running towards us, they fired once or twice more, and Sherlock fell.

"No!" I hope never again to experience such horror and desolation as I did whilst running to him, thinking that he was. .h.i.t, hurt, bleeding, or worse, that he lay expiring...

But no! He lived. Even before I reached him, I could see him struggling to rise. Seizing his arm, I hauled him to his feet. "Lean on me," I told him; indeed, I all but carried him away, trotting. Fortunately, his weight was slight for such a tall man. "Make haste. This way." I hurried him off through a neighbouring property by a back privy-path I knew from previous explorations. "Are you badly wounded?"

"Only my pride. I slipped."

Still, such pain panted in his voice that I could scarcely believe him. "You're not shot?"

"By pistols, at that range? Hardly. They should have waited until they came closer."

He sounded quite his superior self. Relief washed through me. "Thank goodness."

"Goodness has nothing to do with it. Just listen to them."

Fearsome curses sounded not nearly far enough behind us as we ducked through a gap in someone's fence and around the corner of an unoccupied cow-shed, then through the stony shadows of a neglected creamery. Leaning on my shoulder, Sherlock hobbled badly.

"Stop a moment," he whispered, panting. "Listen." He halted.

I, however, moved onward until he let go of me. Then, a few steps distant from his laboured breathing, I could hear, along with the barking voices of the baron and his son, the lilting exhortations of the Irish constable.

"For the luvva mercy, it's waking the innocent ye are," he was saying, "whilst the guilty, they're long gone."

Growl, snarl, rumble.

"To be sure, shoot all ye want on your own bit o' land, but ye can't be afther firin' pistols in the street."

More growls and snarls.

"No harm done; lookit the lovely length o' rope they lift ye. Back in t'house with ye, now. File a report in the mornin'. Yis, I'll be keepin' an eye out for thim."

In silence we listened to his tread as he returned to his beat. His measured footsteps pa.s.sed nearby, then faded.

"Long gone, are we?" I muttered when all was quiet. "Would that it were so."