Chapter Two
A fortnight ago
My dear Mrs. Watson, Miss Holmes, and Miss Redmayne,
I write with less than joyful news.
No, do not fear. Nothing is terribly wrong, only that I have sustained an inconvenient injury.
From London, the children had gone with their cousins to Eastleigh Park. Home by myself in an echoing manor, I became a little restless, decided on a long walk, and got carried away.
By the time I realized that the day had waned, it was nearly eight, with a storm rolling in. The abrupt darkness made me choose a shortcut. Alas, chancing an unfamiliar footpath in pouring rain led to an unfortunate slip down a small ravine that fractured my left limb.
The trek back nearly bested me, even with the lucky find of a suitable branch for a makeshift crutch. But I was spared the worst, as I was found half a mile from home and carried the rest of the way.
I have since been fitted with a plaster cast and two proper crutches. The pain has become tolerable even without morphine. Instead, I take a few tablets daily of a new synthetic substance called phenacetin, and I must say its effects are remarkable. I am in no particular discomfort, and my mind is unclouded.
Pray do not worry about me. My overall health remains robust, and the physician expects the limb to be good as new in due time.
Your faithful if hobbling servant,
Ash
P.S. You are probably wondering why I chose not to keep this news to myself. Indeed, I would have, but I was to attend a dinner at a neighbor’s estate, where a gaggle of houseguests had just come from London, on their way to Cowes. My staff, in conveying my regrets, let slip the truth, and now there is no point concealing it from you.
?The day was fading, the sun dropping below the tops of the trees. Yet the gentler illumination of early evening saturated every vista with a rich golden tint—a wall of pink and white rhododendrons, a slope of lavender in bloom, a family of swans gliding across a small lake, passing in front of a slender marble pavilion that seemed to float above its own reflection.
The last time Mrs. Watson had visited the grounds of Stern Hollow, she had been in raptures. Today, however, its beauty failed to ease her apprehension. The solitude and vastness of the estate did not feel sanctuary-like, only faintly sinister, an area too large to patrol and too easy to infiltrate.
The silence also did not help. Who knew that birdsong, the rustling of leaves, and the rotation of steel wheels upon well-packed gravel could produce, after a while, a palpitation in the heart, a tense expectation that this tranquillity would be brutally shattered?
All this uneasiness, with Lord Ingram perfectly sound and whole!
Yes, his letter was a ruse. Mrs. Watson, Miss Charlotte, and Penelope’s hasty trip, traveling overnight from Paris to England, so that they could see this beloved young man with their own eyes and make sure that he was all right—that, too, was part of the ruse.
But ruses would not be necessary if they didn’t find themselves in perilous circumstances. They already had their hands full with Moriarty and his minions. This new wrinkle from Lord Bancroft—what in the world did he want?
“I, for one, am looking forward to an excellent dinner,” said Miss Charlotte.
She was dressed as Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, brother to the fictional Sherlock Holmes. Her seafoam-colored jacket was cut to show a large expanse of anchor-printed waistcoat. Instead of a tie, she wore an elaborate cravat, secured by a jeweled shell brooch below the knot. And to complete the nautical theme, for her boutonniere, an actual—if deceased and long-desiccated—starfish, three inches across in diameter, which remarkably looked not too out of place on the lapel.
“I volunteer to brush your beard afterwards!” said Penelope.
Overly enthusiastic combing might damage the costly hairpiece, but the last thing they wanted was to put a prosthetic beard into storage with food crumbs trapped inside.
“Thank you,” said Miss Charlotte in all seriousness. “It would have been better if Sherrinford Holmes had no stomach. Alas, mine is always in need of sustenance. I wonder what marvels Stern Hollow’s pastry sous-chef has prepared for us—I hope there will be a charlotte russe.”
The carriage emerged from a tunnel of green bough, and before them unfurled acres upon acres of gardens in lavish bloom, as if all the annuals knew that the peak of summer was about to pass them by and there was no time to waste in luring one more honeybee into that eternal dance of pollination.
Beyond the gardens, a reflecting pool glittered. The plume of water at its center, jetting up twenty feet in the air, glittered. The windows of the house, lit just so by the setting sun, also glittered. So beautiful, so serene, so normal—when what they were about to attempt was anything but.
The majordomo himself, the stately Mr. Walsh, awaited by the granite steps that led up to the house. He seemed especially glad to see Sherrinford Holmes—that gentleman had been, after all, instrumental in clearing Lord Ingram’s name following a particularly unfortunate turn of events at the estate—but he was also highly solicitous of Mrs. Watson and Penelope. “Had you arrived under different circumstances, ladies, I would have arranged for a tour of the house. But I imagine today you will wish to see his lordship first?”
“Indeed, that is so,” answered Mrs. Watson gravely. “His lordship first, everything else later.”
She had visited the grounds of Stern Hollow but never the manor, and she had long wished to wallow in its spectacular interior. But as Mr. Walsh led them down the avenue of statues at the center of the grand entrance hall and up the double-returned staircase to his lordship’s apartment, she did not need to pretend that she was too worried to gawk.
She sincerely paid little mind to the old-master paintings that littered halls and galleries. All she wanted was to see her dear boy.
Yet his brilliant, delighted smiles weren’t enough to put her mind at ease. Or even his whispered reassurances that everything had gone according to plan. With the footmen off to fetch tea, all the curtains drawn, and his valet, Cummings, guarding the door—Cummings, along with Mr. Walsh and the housekeeper, Mrs. Sanborn, took part in the ruse—Lord Ingram rose and hopped a few times on his “broken” limb to show Mrs. Watson that indeed all was well.
They returned him to his chair, his plaster-entombed left limb placed in the exact same spot on the leather ottoman, just in time for the staff to parade in with enough tea things to host a garden party.
“I am very sorry to have put you to so much trouble with my carelessness,” he said for the benefit of their audience with a perfect degree of ruefulness. “Could I at least propose tea and jam tarts? We’ve some excellent strawberry and raspberry jams made only days ago.”
His eyes were on Sherrinford Holmes as he made his offer, his lips softening into the beginning of another smile.
“Sir, our haste was assuredly motivated by concern for your well-being,” replied Sherrinford Holmes. “But I cannot deny that my mad dash to Stern Hollow was also spurred on by the anticipation of your legendary hospitality. I am ready for jam tarts—and all other acts of generosity you choose to bestow upon us.”
?“Now this is an act of generosity I had not anticipated,” said Holmes.
Following dinner, also in Lord Ingram’s apartment, Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne, citing fatigue, had left, leaving the “gentlemen” to their glass of postprandial port. And Holmes had wasted no time in ripping off her beard and climbing atop Lord Ingram.
Even men with actual broken limbs could probably cope with the amatory act just fine, and Lord Ingram was only somewhat inconvenienced by the large cast.
He managed splendidly.
Afterward, he expected that they would discuss the situation at hand, what with Bancroft’s abrupt and unwelcome insertion. But she wanted to look at a pair of letters he’d penned during his “convalescence” largely to amuse himself.
“How nice that I don’t need to write this performative letter—that you’ve done it for me,” she murmured.
He looked down at her, lying across his bed, using his “uninjured” leg as a pillow. This also surprised him. As much as she enjoyed lovemaking, outside of it, she was not one to linger in a cuddle or to engage in any kind of prolonged touching. He supposed that putting her head on his thigh suited her, as she could change her position or cease contact at any moment.
But a small part of him—no, a large part of him; all of him, in fact—wanted this semi-embrace to be a harbinger of things to come.
Except he couldn’t quite conceive what a future might look like for them—or how it might differ from the status quo of occasional meetings followed by long separations.
She read aloud. The first letter purported to be from her to him.
Dear Ash,
I know I already thanked you for the gift of the hamper, but now that I’ve at last plumbed its great depths, I am beyond delighted at this vast stockpile of foodstuff at my disposal.
She glanced up. “I can’t say I’ve ever been informed in so agreeable a manner that I am about to receive a heroic quantity of delicious things.”
“You are most welcome, Holmes.”
“I look forward to discovering the contents of this fabled hamper. And by the way, thank you for the scrumptious charlotte russe at dinner.”
The last time she’d visited Stern Hollow, her appetite had suffered a rare collapse, and she’d picked apart, rather than enjoyed, a beautiful slice of charlotte russe. Tonight, she’d relished it, and he had been most gratified by the sight of her empty plate.
In fact, when Inspector Treadles called at my hotel this afternoon, I treated him to some excellent plum cake from the hoard.
“Ah, so I’m to expect a visit from our Scotland Yard connection. You are beginning to sound clairvoyant, my lord.”
Her golden hair had been dyed grey to play an old lady on the RMS Provence. Since then it had been shorn and was now just long enough to hold a curl again.
“I have been working on my ability to control the future,” he said modestly, taking hold of a strand of her hair and feeling its fine, weightless texture against his skin.
The good police officer was saddened that the trip you two had planned for the Isles of Scilly must now be postponed. But he was far more concerned that your injury might not have been a result of pure bad luck. I tried, but he left still fixated on the absence of kerosene at your children’s play cottage, which would have provided illumination for you on the way back.
It is possible that I could not convince him otherwise because I myself do not entirely believe that there were no other forces at work that night, lack of evidence notwithstanding.
“I like this bit,” she declared. “If you had truly been hurt, everyone would have been highly suspicious of foul play.”
Inspector Treadles then asked whether I would be leaving directly. You know I do not wish to be away from France for too long, but I could not bring myself to cross the Channel right away. The odd timing and serious nature of your injury—I told the inspector that I planned to remain in Britain until I felt better assured.
Upon hearing that, he replied that he would like me to look into something for him, if I happened to be idle in the near future. This surprised me, but I accepted the commission, with the understanding that other demands may preclude me from finishing the investigation in a timely manner.
“Have I mentioned yet, my lord, that I am somewhat alarmed by your extraordinary imitation of my handwriting? I can scarcely tell that I haven’t penned this myself.”
She could indeed post the letter to him from London, if she so wished. He let go of her hair and briefly touched her soft, cool earlobe. “Why, thank you, Holmes.”
So there you have it, my itinerary for the days immediately ahead. Keep me apprised of your recovery. If circumstances are favorable, perhaps I’ll travel to Stern Hollow again before I return to Paris.
Yours,
Holmes
P.S. Have I mentioned how grateful I am for the lovely hamper, one of the best gifts I’ve ever received? So grateful that I have decided to write the next installment in the very sedate little story that you found so relaxing.
At this, Holmes sat up.
Six months ago, he had sent her a pair of fuchsia silk stockings and she, in return, had penned an erotic vignette of a man watching a woman undress. And she had enjoyed his deliberately overwrought response so much that she asserted more than once her intention to continue the tale. Well, now he had done so for her.
She scanned the next few lines, which had been set down in a simple Caesar cipher.
He, of course, knew exactly what it said.
Her clothes lay discarded at the foot of the bed. Firelight caressed her smooth, supple skin. She made no attempt to cover herself, though occasionally she adjusted the pillows underneath her head.
He stared at her. His hands were busy, but his feet had been nailed in place since she had removed her garments and lain down on the rumpled bed. Light refracted from the folds of black satin sheets. Her lips were red, her calves shapely.
He swallowed.
His alarm clock clanged. He swore under his breath and silenced it. The woman rose, dressed quickly, came forward, and took her payment from him.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Will the painting be finished soon?”
“Yes, soon,” he mumbled.
“Ah, I’m almost sorry,” she said as she walked out the door. “Your studio is the only one that’s remotely warm in winter.”
“You made my tale of torrid seduction into one of a professional relationship, and a platonic one at that? Ah, but wait, you wrote a reply to this letter, too, didn’t you?”
Dear Holmes,
The hours have been long since your departure.
To answer your question, my recovery continues apace. My staff aim to build the best wheelchair known to man so that I can move about outside. But they have had to admit that even if they fitted pneumatic tires to this wheelchair, without a spring suspension, my broken limb would still be badly jostled along the garden paths, which was not designed with invalids in mind.
So, for now, I remain confined to my apartment. There are also plans to have me carried, like a pharaoh upon a palanquin, on the shoulders of four footmen, for me to visit other parts of the house. I have thus far demurred, not only out of hidden egalitarian principles deep in my heart but also out of fear that my inexperienced footmen might drop me while descending the grand staircase and give me a concussion and a dislocated shoulder to go with my fractured femur.
Do please convey my regards to Inspector Treadles next time you see him. I am sure he is grateful to receive your help, and I have no doubt you will be of great assistance to him.
I do not know how else to reassure you that the accident was indeed a result of my own misadventure, so I will simply let time bear witness to that. Please do not worry about me.
Yours,
Ash
P.S. While I am relieved for your immortal soul that your story has taken on a, well, not exactly wholesome but at least less lubricious bent, I must say the part of me that was looking forward to a bit of outrage was rather disappointed. Ah, Holmes, how you have corrupted your old friend.
P.P.S. However, I cannot help but think that the story would benefit from the addition of a few more lines. May I suggest the following?
The man stared at the closing door.
The painting was finished some time ago, and he suspected that she knew it.
Where did that leave him then?
Holmes did not say anything, even after enough time had passed for her to have read the letter five times over.
Pinpricks of sensation stung Lord Ingram’s fingertips—and the inside of his chest. It had not occurred to him when he wrote his “reply,” but now it was blazingly obvious that he had revealed everything of himself in the little addendum to “her” story.
What did it say about them that her naughty and lighthearted tale, when he took over its authorship, immediately became a narrative of suppressed yearning, even though he had intended only a humorous rebuttal?
Perhaps it was a sign of how much more relaxed he had become around her that at this realization, he felt not a soul-crushing angst but only a bout of acute self-consciousness, which caused him to say, “I noticed that Mrs. Watson was tense—far more tense than she had reason to be. Did anything happen?”
The answer occurred to him as the question left his lips. “My goodness, did Bancroft write again?”
Holmes had informed him of Bancroft’s first letter as soon as she’d received it, and he had been waiting, on tenterhooks, to see what his brother would do next.
She glanced at him, but chose not to question the abrupt change in their topic of discussion. “He did. His latest missive reached us just as we were about to begin our trip here to see you. The first letter had been addressed to Sherlock Holmes and sent to the General Post Office in London. This second note was delivered directly to the front door of Mrs. Watson’s hired house in Paris.”
The windows of Lord Ingram’s apartment had been closed for hours. But now the air became too still, too thick to flow into his windpipe. “Did he say this time what he wanted?”
“No, he only chided me for not yet replying to his previous note and neglecting our long-standing friendship.” Holmes was silent for a moment. “You and I are lifelong friends. Lord Bancroft and I, his two proposals notwithstanding, are only acquaintances. And my lord Bancroft, as you know, never does anything without calculation.”
His hand gripped the cast on his limb. He had the irrational desire to claw at the plaster. “What about the situation in Aix-en-Provence?”
In the struggle against Moriarty, they were not without allies, one of whom was none other than Moriarty’s daughter, Miss Marguerite Moriarty. Above all else, Miss Moriarty wanted to be reunited with her son—and Holmes had discovered the boy’s whereabouts aboard the RMS Provence earlier in the year.
Now Miss Moriarty was ready to strike, which meant that they, if they wished to pry their friend Stephen Marbleton from Moriarty’s grip, must act at the same time. Otherwise, once Miss Moriarty’s actions became known to her father, Mr. Marbleton’s chances of a successful escape would tumble precipitously.
“The situation in Aix-en-Provence is manageable,” answered Holmes. “For now, at least, we have enough personnel.”
Thanks to her bargain with his brother Remington, which allowed her to borrow some of his agents, with the understanding that they were officially on loan not to her but to Lord Ingram.
Slowly she folded the letters in her hands, as if she were reading them again as she did so. “As for my lord Bancroft, we will learn soon enough what he wants.”
“I suppose that’s the reason I only wrote a single exchange of correspondence for us ahead of time. After tomorrow, I have no idea what will happen.”
And compared to the difficulties ahead, that she didn’t read his letters and immediately offer reassurances of love and regard barely counted as a vexation, let alone a problem.
“But these are lovely letters.” She kissed the edge of the letters and looked him in the eye, her gaze deep and clear. “One of the best I’ve ever received, and certainly one of the best I’ve never sent.”