Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Read online

  He shook his head and turned back towards the kitchen, but I seized him by his shirt sleeve. “Are there no rooms available in this inn?”

  “Not fer no single female travelin’ alone. I can’t be ’eld responshible fer what might ’appen.”

  Confound everything, I should have expected and prepared myself for this sort of attitude from an ox of a country innkeeper; I should have planned to coax, soothe, and bribe, but instead I had let my temper run away with me rather as Jezzie had done. “Do your rooms not have locks on the doors?” I quite wanted to produce my dagger and flourish it in front of the stubborn man’s face to show him that I was capable of defending myself, but I knew I would be misunderstood. Instead, I sharpened my aristocratic tone. “Do you not understand who I am? You are speaking with The Honourable Ermintrude Basilwether, niece of—have you never heard of the Duke and Duchess of Basilwether?”

  “Huh. Hif that’s true, then stay wit some of yer hoighty-toighty friends.”

  “Very well, I will!” With no idea whether I was brilliantly seizing an opportunity or making myself even more of a fool than already was apparent, I demanded, “If you refuse to provide hospitality, the least you can do is provide transportation. Find someone to drive me to Dunhench Hall.”

  * * *

  Glad to be rid of me, I suppose, the innkeeper supplied an ancient victoria with a similarly venerable horse and driver. Seated inside, I had no opportunity to talk with the latter, so I passed the time by looking about me. Surrey offered vistas of soft hills like billows on a sunny green ocean studded with cozy white boats—cottages, I mean, each with its flower garden and rose beds and milk cow, between which meandered peaceful waterways decked with lily pads. This was a verdant, comfortable corner of England where no dangers should lurk.

  Or so I thought until I saw Dunhench Hall.

  The moment I caught sight of its tall black chimneys and grey stone gables looming amidst copper beeches, I thought it looked more as if it belonged amidst windy heaths, crags, and tors than here. When my driver turned in at the drive, I saw heavy wrought-iron gates supported by massive stone pillars of great age, blotched by lichens and topped by carved stone effigies appearing to be the heads of deer, although their antlers had broken off like the limbs of some of the gnarled trees that lined the drive.

  The central part of the manse, when it came into view, seemed also to be of great age, except that modern windows had been installed in its thick, ivy-draped stone walls. I could see also that the wings to each side had been added more recently, along with a pillared portico above the old oak doors.

  All the windows stood blank, with their draperies drawn, and on each of the double front doors hung a yew wreath ribboned in black.

  At a sedate trot my victoria rounded the circular drive leading under the portico. I rather expected to see a fountain beautifying the grass plot at the hub of the circle, but instead, there on a pedestal stood a life-size statue of melodramatic manly pulchritude I took to be the romantic poet and expatriate Lord Byron. An interesting choice of subject—but I had no time to consider its implications. My rickety victoria halted; carrying my own carpetbag, I got out; my driver pulled away at once; and there in front of Dunhench Hall I stood with no one to greet me, which was perhaps a good thing, as I had no idea how to explain my presence. Had I foreseen coming here, I should have worn mourning. Even the statue of the poet, I noted with muted surprise and amusement, wore a black armband. And the bell was hung. A real brass bell suspended to one side of the double doors, it had crape streamers trailing from the clapper, which had been wrapped to muffle it so that it could not be rung.

  Ascending a few shallow steps of black granite, I observed that the funereal wreaths on the doors covered their knockers. This stately residence was in mourning with a vengeance, meaning that the grieving family was not to be disturbed by anyone ringing the bell or knocking on the door. I surmised that those who had business here were to let themselves in.

  I tried one of the doorknobs, and it yielded to my hand.

  Well, nothing good could come of my standing out here. And to explain my presence, the most plausible way might be with portions of the truth.

  Opening the door, I slipped inside, then quite naturally stopped to gaze upward, where high mullion windows remained undraped, letting in light enough so that I could see a tall peaked roof with timbers running across it. This was indeed a hoary old hall, a fitting place for Beowulf to have feasted in. On all sides the walls showed the dull glint of antique armaments—broadswords, battle-axes, pikes, cutlasses, samurai swords, and wicked-looking Moorish scimitars. Above the weaponry hung a close-ranked array of ancestral portraits dignified by swags of black crape. The most ancient ones were too small and dark to see clearly, but above a huge fireplace (its mantel draped in black) hung a large, modern oil-painted portrait of a handsome man—seemingly Lord Byron again? Softly, I walked closer to inspect the painting, peering at it, doubting that Byron had ever worn any military uniform, let alone such a vision of gold braid and epaulettes, crimson sash and saber. Even its gilt frame, elaborate to the point of being baroque, could not detract from the forceful presence of that handsome male image.

  On the bottom of the frame I saw an engraved metal plaque probably naming the painting’s subject. I leaned forward, squinting to read it in the dim light—

  Hollow and echoing out of the shadows of Dunhench Hall spoke a sepulchral voice. “Who are you?”

  I admit I leapt like a startled deer, turning in midair towards that which had alarmed me.

  In the shadows, I saw first a white shirt front, and then, as the man walked towards me, an impeccably clad figure so tall it could have been Sherlock—but no. I could now see a long, deferential face with an unfortunate nose and prominent, lugubrious eyes like those of a Pekingese.

  “Miss?” inquired the butler—for he had to be the butler, standing with his hands behind his back, bowing slightly.

  Reassuring myself that shadows hid the destruction Jezzie had wrought upon my costume, “I am The Honourable Ermintrude Basilwether,” I answered as haughtily as I very well could, considering that I wanted to smile. “And you?”

  “Brindle, Miss Basilwether. I regret to inform you that the family is not receiving visitors, miss.”

  “I assure you, Brindle, had I been aware the house was in mourning, I would never have ventured here,” I fibbed, allowing my tone to grow a trifle friendlier, “but now that I am here, I must impose upon Dunhench hospitality, as my man has already driven away.”

  His lapdog eyes betrayed consternation, although the rest of his face remained impassive. “I am afraid I do not quite understand, miss.”

  I assumed an air of high-class impatience held in check. “Might I be seated and partake of some refreshment after my long journey?”

  “Indeed, Miss, er, Basilwether. Of course, miss.” After taking my carpetbag and parasol to set them aside, he showed me through the tall, gloomy hall and into a parlour of less imposing size but just as gloomy, what with the drapes drawn and all the mirrors covered with black crape. Seating me at a pedestal table, he excused himself and hurried out. My chair, a tall and stalwart oaken antique, was none too comfortable, but I waited patiently, glad of a chance to think. My intention had been to stay at The Three Finches Inn, but might I not, after all, find out more at Dunhench Hall?

  I had decided I most certainly must try when tea arrived. Carrying a well-laden tray, in bustled a stout, middle-aged, smiling woman who exuded a comfortable, motherly air despite her dull black bombazine dress. “I’m Dawson, the housekeeper, miss,” she said, bobbing her head to me as she set down the tray and started laying out an admirable refection for me: a cup of beef bouillon, a plate of sandwiches, buttery pound cake, vanilla wafers, salted almonds, lemonade, chocolate-covered cherries, and, of course, tea. Standing by with her hands folded over her apron, she nodded approval as, drawing off my gloves and laying them aside, I ate far more heartily than a lady ought.

>   “Have you come a long way, miss?” she asked as she poured for me.

  “Only from London, but I have been exceedingly vexed and insulted.” I had decided to act the part of an offended upper-class eccentric. “I traveled to Threefinches with the simple and innocent purpose of doing some genealogical research, and I quite expected to stop at the inn, but no sooner had I arrived than they sent me packing as if they thought me a woman of ill repute! Merely because I am of age to travel without a chaperone!”

  Like a large black hen, Dawson made comfortable clucking sounds. Also, she began to show signs of scuttling away, but I forestalled her.

  “Dawson, could you tell me, please, who has passed away to put this house in mourning?”

  Her folded hands became prayerful. “Most unhappily, Lady Felicity Dunhench, miss.”

  “Oh, dear! Lady Dunhench herself? I am so sorry to hear of it. Was she well advanced in years?”

  Shaking her head, Dawson began to show signs of distress. “No, miss, quite the opposite. A sweet young lady she was, taken away by a fearsome fever all sudden, within a day.”

  I placed my hands to my mouth in feigned horror. The gentle reader will understand I had to pretend utter ignorance of anything to do with this matter. “How dreadful! When did this happen?”

  “Just this Sunday past, like the angel she was.”

  “So recently? The funeral must have been only yesterday!”

  Instead of answering, Dawson blurted, “Excuse me, miss,” and bolted out of the room as if she smelled something burning. While the parlour door was still closing behind her I shot to my feet, crossed the room as noiselessly as possible, and eavesdropped, hoping conversation would ensue nearby.

  It did. I heard the sepulchral tones of the butler, then the forthright voice of the housekeeper saying more audibly, “Passed her along to us from the inn, they did, afraid she might make a scandal, her with her skirt torn and her hat all knocked about like she been in a rumpus.”

  I confess I blushed—for I had hoped my dishevelment had gone unnoticed—but I kept listening. The butler had spoken, and the housekeeper was replying, “She seems a right enough sort. Says she’s just doing some sort of gene—genie—some kind of research. But the last thing we need right now is a houseguest! What’s his lordship going to say when he sees her at the dinner table?”

  “Sees who?” drawled an aristocratic, sardonic voice, male, that I had not heard before.

  “Your Lordship!” gasped both housekeeper and butler simultaneously.

  At times, I can be as prudent as the next person. This was one of those times. Soundlessly I abandoned my eavesdropping and retreated to the parlour table where I was supposed to be. As I seated myself, slipping my gloves back on and trying to assume a ladylike languor, I considered what an ironic blessing it was that the mirrors all around the room were covered—supposedly so that the soul of the departed might not blunder into one and get trapped inside the house, and in actuality so that I could not see what a fright I looked.

  A moment later, as I dreaded and expected, the parlour door opened and the Earl of Dunhench made his entrance.

  Chapter the Seventh

  Soberly and impeccably clad in a grey broadcloth suit with a black mourning band around one sleeve, he posed in the doorway much as he must have posed for the portrait in the great hall; even minus his military regalia I recognized him at once, and acknowledged him to be nigh on swoonably handsome. Yet I did not much like the way he coolly looked me up and down, although I suppose it was to be expected; after all, I was a stranger invading his home.

  After his pause, he crossed the short distance between us. “Miss Ermintrude Basilwether?”

  I arose, but rather than curtseying, I offered him my gloved hand to shake. I wanted to put him off-balance a bit. But it was he who unbalanced me. Taking my outstretched hand in his, he bowed over it and kissed it.

  Hastily I withdrew it, feeling the heat of a rosy blush in my face. “My lord!” I twittered, for my voice had shot up an octave or two, and my knees folded without my permission, seating me in my chair.

  “Let us have some light in here,” he said, sounding impatient with the funereal gloom. He lit the table lamp, then sat across from me. “Please, Miss Basilwether, do tell me what adventure has befallen you to disorder your charming clothing?”

  I heard no mockery in his voice, so why not? I told him my tale nearly in full, omitting only my actual intentions and my encounter with Sherlock. I intended to amuse the earl, and I did; he smiled at my description of Side Whiskers, grinned when I told him how Jezzie had jettisoned me in front of the pub, and chuckled over my contretemps with the innkeeper. If he were not constrained by being in mourning, I think he would have laughed out loud.

  Yet I think only decorum, not grief, restrained him. While talking I had been watching his dark eyes nearly as black as his hair, and fascinating eyes they were: intelligent, lustrous, large, widely spaced over high cheekbones. His portrait did not do justice to the curious gleam I sometimes glimpsed in them; I think no painter could. Outwardly, the Earl of Dunhench, impeccably correct, crisp of collar and smiling of face, looked like a paragon of civilized good taste. But something in the glint of his eyes hinted otherwise.

  That, and something in his manner, some exceeding force of self. As I explained how I had arrived at Dunhench Hall and began to apologize for my intrusion, he interrupted. “Of course you must stop here for as long as you like; what else are you to do? But I quite forbid you to wear black; you are the only bright and interesting object I have seen in days. I will instruct Dawson to take the greatest good care of you.” He stood up, bowed, and left the room before I could get my mouth closed to speak.

  * * *

  The good Dawson commenced her care of me by leading me on a grand tour of Dunhench Hall, omitting nothing except, of course, the backstairs haunts of the servants. But morning room, main parlour, dining room, drawing room (more accurately withdrawing room, where ladies could go to get away from cigar smoke), music room (its piano closed and draped with crape), billiard room, gun room, and library all were shown to me, and I made sure to smile, gaze, gasp, and exclaim as if I had never in my life seen any home so grand. Dunhench Hall really was in a class of its own in regard to elk antlers sprouting from the scagliola walls and bearskins on the parquet floors. But for me, the best was yet to come. We went up the rose-carpeted front stairs and into a moist, heavenly scented glass-roofed conservatory, flooded with sunlight (I suppose a greenhouse is exempt from being draped with crape) off of which opened a private parlour where, I suppose, Lord and Lady Rudcliff could enjoy the orchids in comfort. On the walls of this pleasant room hung a number of light and airy watercolour paintings, quite a relief to my eyes after the dark and dour oil portraits downstairs. “Oh, I love watercolours,” I exclaimed quite truthfully, admiring each in turn: Child with a puppy, boat beneath a willow, girl in a rose garden, woman reading, cat in a window—terribly conventional subjects, yet beautifully done with grace of line and an unfailing eye for composition.

  “Who painted these?” I cried, failing to find a signature on any of them.

  “Why, Lady Dunhench did, Miss Basilwether.” Dawson sounded subdued, mentioning the recently dear departed. “Quite the artist she was. Shall we go on? I believe you will like way the guest accommodations have been arranged.”

  I responded with the requisite enthusiasm, and we worked our way down a long corridor of bedrooms decorated and designated according to all the hues of the rainbow, although the red bedroom was called The Poppy Room, the orange one was Apricot, et cetera. All were indeed marvels to behold if one fancied such a close conspiracy of the same colour in different patterns for walls, floors, drapes, lamps, and bedcovers.

  “Which one would you prefer to have, dear? Um, Miss Basilwether?”

  “Oh, I cannot possibly make up my mind!”

  “We’ll put you in The Fern Room, to match your dress.”

  “I quite like green,”
I acknowledged, “but this dress is ruined.”

  “Not at all, dear—I mean, Miss Basilwether. We can replace that overskirt in two shakes of a little lamb’s tail.” Solicitously she took me by the elbow, propelling me down the corridor, then plied a key from the ring of them she carried on her belt, letting me into yet another room—or suite of rooms: boudoir, dressing room, bedroom, decorated with exquisite taste in a range of soothing colours: peach, ecru, soft pink, cream, pale yellow, white. I saw delicate “ladies’ chairs,” carved, but with upholstered circular backs and seats, a couch that curved around a circular ottoman, lacy handmade lampshades. Over the dressing table hung a circular mirror framed in golden scallops. A remarkable white bedstead seemed designed to cup the sleeper almost like a boat. Even the wardrobes were painted white.

  Dawson bustled to the wardrobes and opened them, but I stood still, my gaze fixed upon a large watercolour supported by an easel as if it had just been finished. “Are these Lady Dunhench’s rooms?” I asked, feeling a bit peculiar at the thought, my voice sinking to a whisper as if I might disturb a ghost.

  “Yes, Miss Basilwether.” Dawson plucked garments from the wardrobe.

  “And she painted this watercolour?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Indeed, Lady Felicity’s boudoir might better have been termed a studio, for it was fitted out with tables, baskets, and lazy Susans full of supplies. But the painting I was studying seemed oddly unlike any of the others I had seen of hers. It depicted a woman in a russet habit riding a bay horse, with a cottage and woods in the background, but the composition was dreadful. The horse’s nose nearly exited the left-hand side of the painting, leading the viewer’s eye outward and away, quite an elementary mistake. Nor did the painter seem interested in what a horse looked like, or a cottage; both were crudely done. And the background was filled with woods, flat and monotonous—why not a hill or two, some distant sheep, a vista? Even the trees of the woods looked clumsy, with straight limbs jutting at odd angles instead of forming graceful curves. I frowned, trying to make excuses for the talented Lady Felicity.