Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Read online

  “Tom Dubbs served his purpose.” Sherlock climbed back onto the cart and took up the reins again, clicking his tongue to urge the horse into a trot. “That lodge-keeper has apparently gone to report to his master,” he added. “Do you think we will be pursued?”

  “Doubtful. Lord Caddie hardly strikes me as energetic. And even if he does send someone after us, we have little to fear, now that you are no longer a humble scion of the soil, but your masterful self.”

  “True.” With a single word he acknowledged the authority of the great Sherlock Holmes.

  I rolled my eyes towards the starless sky. “While you were Tom Dubbs, did you discover the circumstances surrounding the supposed demise of Lady Felicity Rudcliff?”

  “No, but Tom Dubbs heard all about a mysterious young female being held as a runaway in Dunhench Hall. The hall servants could scarcely wait to make you the talk of Threefinches. And I was not sure whether I could trust Dunhench, womanizer that he is, to deliver you over to the constabulary in the morning.”

  “Thank you for coming to get me … but what were you planning to do once you got the gate open, for heaven’s sake?”

  “It hardly matters now, does it?” In other words, Sherlock had no idea. “I suppose you climbed down the ivy?”

  “It hardly matters.” Ever so demure, I tucked my chin. “However, my visit to Dunhench Hall, although brief, was fruitful. I have reason to believe that our client’s sister is alive, but has been committed to a lunatic asylum, and we must rescue her before she comes to harm.”

  I hoped for exclamations, but I got none. Sherlock merely asked, as blandly as if he were inquiring about a misdirected parcel, “Which lunatic asylum?”

  “She didn’t say. And from the fact that she didn’t say, I infer one of two possible conclusions: either she didn’t know, or the name of the asylum would not have fit onto the painting.”

  “Enola,” he said in what might possibly have been construed as an affectionate tone, “you have gotten into Watson’s deplorable habit of telling your stories backwards. Start at the beginning, please, and give me an orderly account of your findings.”

  So I did, and darkness hid my blushes as I explained about the unmentionables that were missing from Lady Felicity’s chambers. I also told him about the mirror that had not been covered, the death portraits absent from the photograph album, and the odd behaviour of the servants, specifically Dawson. I explained at length the message I had discovered hidden in the watercolour, and I conveyed my impression that Lord Caddie was not a very nice man. As I spoke, I watched as the swaying light from the cart lanterns showed me glimpses of fences, hedges, and grassy slopes, beyond which all remained dark.

  Too much of Lady Felicity’s story also remained dark in my mind. “I am very curious to see what darling Caddie has filed by way of a death certificate. The moment the registrar’s office opens in the morning, I want to be there.”

  Sherlock said, “No need. I will take care of it.”

  “I want to go.”

  “The registrar is likely to be more helpful to me.”

  By virtue of his gender and his top hat this was true, which infuriated me.

  “I shall go. You may come along if you like.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his tone owlish.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter the Eleventh

  We stayed for the remainder of the night at the inn—the very same inn that had so rudely turned me away when I lacked a brother—and in the morning, after only a few hours of sleep, we prepared to visit the registrar, unwilling to delay lest Lord Cadogan create some sort of unpleasantness after all, once he had finished his breakfast.

  I experienced some difficulty regarding my costume. My green dress was once more and yet again ruined. Necessarily I wore my other one, which was buttercup yellow. However, as a female past the liberties of childhood, I could not be seen in public without a hat, and as I had only my battered one with the green ribbons, I chopped away those ruined trimmings then plopped the hat on my head in a shockingly shabby and unadorned condition, assuring myself that I could resume being fashionable when I got back to London.

  Which turned out to be sooner than I expected, because of what the registrar dredged up from his records for us. Corpulent king of his paperwork empire, he responded to our requests—Sherlock’s for the marriage and death records of Myzella Haskell Rudcliff, mine for the same for Felicity Glover Rudcliff—he produced the documents sluggishly enough to show us that he, and not we, ruled here in Threefinches.

  No matter. In his own good time he handed them over. Judging from what I could see, marriage was recorded in a squarish format on creamy paper with quite a florid border, while death came on long and narrow paper that was dark grey and engraved more grimly.

  While Sherlock stood looking over Myzella’s records, I sat on the registrar’s hard bench and studied Flossie’s, making notes—the name of the clergyman who had married her, date, et cetera—but I felt much more interested in her supposed demise. The record of death told me that her unfortunate end had been reported by her husband, whose occupation was noted as Earl of Dunhench and hers as Wife; she had been twenty years old, and the cause of her death had been fever. The informant (Caddie) was described as lordship in apparent good health, not yet of middle age, composed and condescending in manner while his residence was dealt with more briefly: Dunhench Hall. Then, as required by law, fastened to the gloomy grey registration of death was a Medical Certificate of Death.

  It listed Flossie’s cause of death as fever, unspecified.

  It was signed by John H. Watson, M.D.

  Dr. Watson? Our friend Watson?

  It was not inconceivable. Surrey was a short distance from London. And how many medical doctors named John H. Watson might there be in England?

  Trying hard not to squeak or ogle, I got up and showed the paper to Sherlock. His eyebrows fairly levitated.

  “What physician signed for Rudcliff’s first wife?” I asked.

  “None. A medical certificate of death was not required by law until ten years ago. Lord Rudcliff simply reported that Lady Myzella succumbed to brain fever. I think we should be on our way back to London, don’t you?”

  I certainly did.

  * * *

  We did not discuss the matter within earshot of anyone in Threefinches, and we waited until a hired hack had driven us back to Dorking before we sent telegraphs, one to Miss Letitia Glover asking her to call at 221B Baker Street sometime after four p.m., and one to Dr. Watson asking him to leave word whether he had recently, or ever, signed a death certificate for Felicity Glover Rudcliff, Lady Dunhench. Then we took the next train into London. Sherlock and I secured a compartment to ourselves.

  Finally, I could speak with him privately. “You would know Watson’s signature if you saw it, would you not?”

  “I am reasonably sure I would, and that what you showed me was not in his handwriting. But we must wait for proof before we discuss the matter any further.”

  He fell into a brooding silence, while I, never one to concern myself with propriety, put my feet up and fell asleep until we reached Victoria Station.

  There we went our separate ways, Sherlock to inquire at Dr. Watson’s office, and I to my lodging in the Professional Women’s Club to put on a different hat! But first to have a wash, and brush my hair, and change my dress, et cetera. When, much later in the day, I reported back to Baker Street, I was irreproachable in russet delaine trimmed with muted gold, with, of course, a simply ravishing hat in the latest fashion. Worn on the back of the head, it tilted up to a peak in front with a froth of autumn-coloured flowers tucked underneath the brim.

  “That thing you’re wearing looks like a frigate in need of a figurehead,” said Sherlock when I entered his sitting room. He, of course, wore impeccable city attire that had varied little in the past decade.

  “Good afternoon to you, too. Have you heard from Watson?”

  “Not yet.”

&n
bsp; “Bother.” Laying my gloves and parasol aside, I appropriated a seat at his desk so I could draw a picture that I felt was likely to be needed soon. Shortly afterwards, I heard the front doorbell, and Miss Letitia Glover was shown up by Mrs. Hudson.

  “Miss Glover.” Sherlock took her gloved hand in his and bowed over it with utmost courtesy.

  “Hello, Miss Glover.” I shook her hand, and she smiled as if she appreciated my greeting more. Dressed as before, in a mannish fashion but feminine hues—on this day, plum and peach pink—she gazed at me in appeal, her face pale despite the rosy hue of her collar, her wide eyes fraught with anxiety.

  Wishing only to comfort her, I exhorted, “Do not despair, Miss Glover! We have every reason to believe your sister is alive, just as you said.”

  “There are perhaps some slight indications,” Sherlock amended, his tone most quelling. “Please be seated, Miss Glover.”

  She did so, but at the same time she found her voice, exclaiming as she looked from Sherlock to me and back again, “Oh! But what have you found out? Please tell me at once!”

  Sherlock gave me a glance that spoke as plainly as words, assigning to me the task of speaking with the winsome young woman, as it was I who had raised her hopes.

  I pulled my chair closer to our client’s. Sitting nearly knee to knee with Miss Glover, I told her, “I have been to Dunhench Hall, and made the acquaintance of Lord Cadogan Rudcliff, and found him to be superficially charming but at times most unpleasant. For instance, I saw him throw your letter into the fire without reading it.”

  She gasped, and her gloved hands flew to her mouth.

  “Also, for no particular reason he locked me into a bedroom—your sister’s bedroom.”

  Tish Glover’s eyes went nearly black, their pupils widened so. I leaned towards her to encourage her confidence. “Miss Letitia, do you paint as well as your sister does?”

  “No, I could never!” Tish’s hands left her mouth to describe loops and whorls in the air as she spoke of her sister’s talent. “Flossie depicts so accurately whatever subject she chooses, but not only that, she has a genius for composition! She tried to explain to me about the golden ratio and how to translate it into an outward spiral like a snail shell, but I am quite incapable of understanding! Still, I can see how her paintings order themselves along graceful proportions and curves.”

  I nodded vigorously. “Such, exactly, was my observation of her artwork. Therefore I sensed something odd when I perceived this—please pardon the crudeness of my rendition—when I found a painting like this upon the easel in her studio—I mean, her boudoir.”

  Tish ogled the pencil sketch I showed her with a fair degree of repulsion. “Why, what could Flossie mean by painting that?”

  “My thought exactly. But after looking closely, I saw that she had picked out certain areas in Conté crayon, thus.” Holding the sketch against a book, I penciled for her its hidden letters. Standing behind Miss Glover’s chair, Sherlock watched as well. As I spelled out INSANE ASYLUM, Tish covered her mouth again, stifling a choked sound.

  Sherlock murmured, “Extraordinary.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “most extraordinary. She must have guessed somehow that her husband was scheming to put her away.”

  Sherlock quibbled, “Unless she was referring to her predecessor, Lady Myzella.”

  Tish choked back a sob again. “Sherlock,” I told my brother with some asperity, “don’t be such an egghead. I am sure Flossie is alive, on the evidence of the things that are missing from her dresser drawers.”

  Tish caught her breath then held it as she reached out for me with her gaze. Sherlock said mulishly, “What things, exactly?”

  He thought he would make me blush? Confound him. Without hesitation I shot back, “Things that a young lady who is alive needs once a month.”

  He was the one who blushed, and his red face with its aristocratic white beak was most gratifying to behold in the moment before he turned away.

  Tish wailed, “But where is she? Which insane asylum?”

  “That, indeed, is the problem.” Sherlock quickly regained control, and would have elaborated, I am sure, except that just then the front bell rang, and we all turned silent as statues, listening.

  A moment later we heard boyish steps running up the stairs towards us. Sherlock went out to meet the messenger, then came back in carrying a slip of paper.

  “It’s a note from Watson,” he said, “and it confirms both our suspicions and our hopes; he has never heard of Felicity Glover Rudcliff. Her certificate of death cannot be considered valid, for his signature upon it was forged.”

  Chapter the Twelfth

  Tish dreadfully wanted to find her sister that very day if not sooner, begging to know the name of every insane asylum in Surrey. While quite sympathizing with her, I thought Lord Cadogan would have been more likely to dispose of his wife a bit farther from home, in London, where there were lunatic asylums (formerly called madhouses), sanatoriums, mental hospitals, and variously named facilities for imbeciles, idiots, and other defectives, in plenty. Tish reminded me that her sister had specified “insane asylum.” I opined that Flossie had chosen those two words for their brevity as opposed to, for instance, Saint Marlebone’s Incarceratory for the Dangerously Crazed. Or Earlswood Asylum for Idiots and Imbeciles, for instance, should not be overlooked. Tish nodded agreement but whispered, “Oh, poor dear Flossie.”

  Sherlock, who was perched on the settee, folding and refolding Watson’s message and looking abstracted, suddenly stood up. “I will do everything in my power to find her,” he said with an air of authority and finality, bowing slightly and extending one arm towards the door, signaling our client that it was time for her to leave.

  But Tish remained in her chair. “I am going nowhere except to assist in the search for my sister.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said in that charming way of his. “Rather than gallivanting from bedlam to bedlam, it would be far more efficient to ferret out information at Dunhench, which is what I intend to do.”

  “Certainly, do so. Meanwhile, I intend to ‘gallivant’ just as you described.” With thinned lips and uplifted chin, Tish faced him.

  Sherlock condescended to her as if he were trying to reason with a child. “Have you a brother, an uncle, any respectable man to accompany you?”

  “I have no one but Flossie, and Flossie has no one but me.”

  “All the greater your obligation to safeguard yourself. Have you thought what perils you might encounter, a woman all alone in such places?” His oh-so-sensible tone could not have been more annoying.

  “She will not be alone,” I interceded. “I will go with her.”

  Sherlock’s manner quite changed as he turned to me, and his glare rather endeared him to me, as did this outburst: “Enola, don’t be a fool!”

  My heart warmed to him; I smiled. “It’s rather too late for me to be otherwise, my dear brother.” Standing up, I collected my gloves and parasol, then offered my hand to Tish, who accepted it as she rose to accompany me.

  In heightened tones Sherlock appealed, “But what can either of you expect to do?”

  “We shall see.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holmes.”

  Arm in arm, Tish and I sashayed out of Sherlock’s lodging.

  * * *

  At the nearest tea shop, we stopped to partake of that life-sustaining beverage along with a very late luncheon of fish-paste sandwiches, roly-poly pudding, and apple slices to be dipped in honey. Tish addressed me, “Miss Holmes—”

  “Please, call me Enola. Or Eudoria, or Hadassah, or Tuppence Ha’penny, or anything you please.” In one of my reckless moods, I spoke on. “You know, Tish, I have become quite fond of you and Flossie, even though I have never met her and I scarcely know you.”

  That made her smile a little despite her fears for her missing sister. “I feel honoured by your kind regard, Enola, and so would Flossie, I am sure.” She stopped smiling. “I confes
s I have not the slightest idea how to gain entry into an insane asylum.”

  “Nor do I. We shall ask Watson.”

  “Also, I have only a very little money.”

  “I have a great deal, almost as much as there is honey on my hands.” By that time I had got myself quite sticky. “Think no more of it. Tell me, Tish, if I may ask, where do you get waistcoats of such lovely hues?”

  “I have them especially made for me. It is my one extravagance.” Tish seemed to be having difficulty eating much, although she had progressed to sipping her second cup of tea. “I started dressing this way,” she added in a sombre tone, “to stand apart from my sister. If she could be so effortlessly beautiful, why then, I had to look—different, somehow. But now, under the circumstances, I feel terribly sorry for my pettiness.”

  “Not at all. It is only normal that one should wish to be oneself and not someone else. I feel the same way. Before I began to disguise myself as a grown-up, I was quite a shocking creature wearing knickerbockers.”

  Tish almost laughed.

  “I should like to dress like you,” I added somewhat truthfully, meaning at times, perhaps. Actually, I quite adored the new fashions, for—after decades of crinolines and bustles—verticality had at last come into style, and I was a decidedly vertical creature.

  After we had quite finished our tea (and the attendant had brought us basins of cool, lemon-garnished water wherein to wash our fingers), we took a cab to Dr. Watson’s office. He was glad to see me, inquiring anxiously about Sherlock’s condition, and when he heard that it was much improved, he was most solicitous to oblige both me and Tish, professing himself outraged that anyone had dared to forge his signature as a physician. He quite wanted a word with the man who had done that, he assured us. Shortly thereafter, we left with an index of London sanatoriums in our possession and admonitions of caution echoing in our ears. Had the good doctor not been attending a baby with badly corrupted nappy rash that possibly could have turned fatal, I think he would have volunteered to serve as our escort.