The Case of the Missing Marquess (10 page)

That would suffice, if—as I often found it necessary to reassure myself—if indeed Mum was alive and well.

In any event, wait was all I could do.

Or so I had thought. But now, now that I had found my calling in life, I could do so much more. Let my brother Sherlock be The World’s Only Private Consulting Detective all he liked; I would be The World’s Only Private Consulting Perditorian. As such, I could associate with professional women who met in their own tea-rooms around London—women who might know Mum!—and with the detectives of Scotland Yard—where Sherlock had already filed an inquiry concerning Mum—and with other dignitaries, and also perhaps with disreputable persons who had information to sell, and—oh, the possibilities. I was born to be a perditorian. A finder of loved ones lost. And—

And I ought to stop dreaming about it and start doing it. Right now.

The only possibility, as I had been thinking before I was interrupted, seemed to be perhaps a tree.

Backtracking through the boringly well-tended woodlands of Basilwether Park, I concentrated now on looking for that particular tree. It would be located not too near Basilwether Hall and its formal garden, and not too near the edge of Basilwether Park, either, but in the middle of the woods, where adult eyes would be least likely to spy. And like my refuge under the overhanging willow in Ferndell’s fern dell, it had to be distinctive in some way. Different. Worthy of being a hideaway.

The thin rain had stopped, the sun had come out, and I had nearly circled the estate before I found it.

It was not one tree, actually, but four growing from a single base. Four maple seedlings had planted themselves in the same place, and all had survived to form a symmetrical cluster whose four trunks rose at a steep angle from one another, with a perfect square of space in between.

Planting one booted foot upon a gnarl and grasping a handy bough, I swung myself up to stand perhaps three feet above the ground inside the encompassing V’s of the trunks, a perfect axis at the hub of a foursquare leaf-encircled universe. Delightful.

Even more delightful: I saw that someone, presumably young Lord Tewksbury, had been here also. He had hammered a large nail—a railroad spike, actually—into the trunk of one of the trees on the inside. No one walking by was likely to notice it, but there it sturdily jutted.

To hang something upon? No, a much smaller nail would have served that purpose. I knew what this spike was for.

To set one’s foot upon. To climb.

Oh, glorious day, to climb a tree once again after so many weeks of ladylike confinement . . . But oh, consternation, for what if anyone observed me? A widow lady in a tree?

I looked all around, saw no one, and decided to chance it. Ridding myself of my hat and veil, concealing them in the leaves overhead, I hoisted my skirt and petticoats into a bunch above my knees, securing it with hatpins. Then, setting my foot upon the spike and seizing a branch, up I went.

Twigs snagged my hair, but I didn’t care. Except for the usual jabs in the face, it was as easy as climbing a ladder—a good thing, as my sore limbs protested every inch of the way. But Lord Tewksbury, happily for me, had driven railroad spikes wherever no maple boughs presented themselves. Brilliant lad, this young viscount. No doubt he had obtained the spikes from the tracks that ran past his father’s estate. I hoped no trains had derailed on his account.

After I had climbed twenty feet or so, I stopped to see where I was going. I tilted my head back—

Good heavens.

He had built a platform in the tree.

A structure not at all visible from the ground when the trees were in leaf, but from my perch I could admire it clearly enough: a square framework made of scraps of unpainted lumber, set between the four maples. Supporting beams ran from trunk to trunk, wedged into place on tree limbs or else secured with cord lashed around the corners. Planks lay across the beams to form a crude sort of floor. I imagined him scavenging that wood from cellars or stable lofts or goodness knew where, dragging it here, maybe creeping out at night to lift it into the tree with a rope and set it in place.

And all the time his mother applying the curling tongs to his hair, and clothing him in satin, velvet, and lace. Heaven have mercy.

In one corner of the platform he had left an opening by which to enter. As I popped my head through, my respect for young Lord Tewksbury only increased. He had suspended a square of canvas, perhaps a wagon cover, as a roof over his hideaway. In the corners he had placed saddle-blankets presumably “borrowed” from the stable, folded to serve as cushions to sit upon. Into the four tree trunks he had driven nails from which hung loops of knotted cord, pictures of boats, a metal whistle, all sorts of interesting things.

I crawled in to look.

But at once my attention was arrested by a shocking sight in the middle of the plank floor.

Scraps, fragments, rag-tag bits cut and torn so dreadfully that it took me a moment to recognise what they were: black velvet, white lace, baby-blue satin. Remains of what had once been clothing.

And atop that heap of ruins, hair. Long, curled locks of golden hair.

He must have shorn his head to stubble.

After ripping his finery to shreds.

Viscount Tewksbury had entered this refuge. Of his own free will. No kidnapper would have or could have brought him here.

And by the looks of things, Viscount Tewksbury had left this hideaway as he had come, of his own free will. But no longer to be Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether.

ON THE GROUND AGAIN, WITH MY SKIRTS down where they belonged, my black hat pinned in place to cover my unkempt head, and my veil pulled down to conceal my face, I walked blindly. I did not know what to do.

Around one gloved forefinger I twisted a lock of long, blond, curled hair. The rest I had left where I had found it. I imagined the wild birds taking it away strand by strand to line their nests.

I thought of the mute, enraged message the runaway boy had left in his secret sanctuary.

I thought of the tears I had seen on his mother’s face. Poor lady.

But equally, poor lad. Made to wear velvet and lace. Almost as bad as a steel-ribbed corset.

Not at all incidentally, I thought of myself. I, Enola, on the run just like young Lord Tewksbury, except that it was to be hoped he’d had the sense to change his name. Fool that I’d been, coming here as Enola Holmes, I had put myself in jeopardy. I needed to get away.

Still, I must reassure the unfortunate duchess—

No. No, I should leave Basilwether Park as quickly as possible, before—

“Mrs. Holmes?”

Stiffening, I found myself on the carriage-drive directly in front of Basilwether Hall, uncertain whether to advance or retreat, when a voice called to me from above.

“Mrs. Holmes!”

Hiding the lock of blond hair in the palm of one hand, I turned to see a man in a travelling cloak hurrying down the marble steps towards me. One of the detectives from London.

“Excuse me for presuming upon your acquaintance,” he said when he stood before me, “but the lodge-keeper informed us you were here, and I wondered . . .” He was a small, weasel-like man, hardly the muscular sort one expected of a police department, yet fearsome in the way his beady eyes peered at me, like shiny black ladybugs trying to crawl right through my veil. In a rather high-pitched voice he went on, “I am an acquaintance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My name is Lestrade.”

“How do you do.” I did not offer to shake hands.

“Very well, thank you. I must say it is an unexpected pleasure to meet you.” His tone hinted for information. He knew my name was Enola Holmes. He could see that I was a widow. Therefore he titled me Mrs., but if I were merely related by marriage to the Holmes family, he must have been thinking, why would Sherlock send me in his stead? “I must say Holmes has never mentioned you to me.”

“Indeed.” Politely I nodded. “And have you discussed your family with him?”

“No! Er, I mean, there has not been occasion.”

“Of course not.” My tone remained, I hope, bland, but my thoughts twittered like a chaffinch. This snoop would tell Sherlock he had met me, and under what circumstances, at his first opportunity. No, worse! As an inspector for Scotland Yard, at any minute he might receive a wire concerning me. I had to get away before that happened. He seemed suspicious of me already. I had to distract Inspector Lestrade from inspecting
me.

Opening my gloved hand, I uncoiled a lock of fair hair and held it out to him.

“Regarding Lord Tewksbury,” I said in a commanding manner mimicking that of my famous brother, “he has not been kidnapped.” I waved aside the inspector’s attempt to protest. “He has taken matters into his own hands; he has run away. You would, too, if you were dressed like a doll in a velvet suit. He wants to go to sea on a boat. A ship, I mean.” In the young viscount’s hideaway I had seen pictures of steamships, clipper ships, all sorts of sea-faring vessels. “In particular, he admires that huge monstrosity, the one that looks like a floating cattle trough with sails on top and paddle-wheels on the sides, what is its name? The one that laid the transatlantic cable?”

But Inspector Lestrade’s gaze remained riveted upon the blond, curling tresses in my hand. He babbled, “What . . . where . . . how do you deduce . . .”

“The
Great Eastern
.” At last I remembered the name of the world’s largest ship. “You will find Lord Tewksbury at a seaport, probably the docks of London, in all likelihood applying for a berth as a seaman or a cabin boy, as he has been practising tying sailors’ knots. He has cut his hair. He must have gotten some common clothing somehow, perhaps from the stable boys; you might want to question them. After such a transformation, I imagine no one at the station recognised him if he went by train.”

“But the broken door! The forced lock!”

“He did that so that you would search for a kidnapper rather than a runaway. Rather mean of him,” I admitted, “to worry his mother so.” This thought made me feel better about telling what I knew. “Perhaps you could give Her Grace this.” I thrust the lock of hair at Inspector Lestrade. “Although truly, I do not know whether it will help her feel better or make her feel worse.”

Gawking at me, Inspector Lestrade seemed barely to know what he was doing as his right hand rose to accept the tresses of a duke’s son.

“But—but where did you find this?” With his other hand he reached for me as if to grip me by the elbow and draw me into Basilwether Hall. Stepping back, away from his grasp, I became aware of a third party to the conversation. At the top of the marble stairway, looming amid balustrades and Grecian columns, Madame Laelia watched and listened.

I lowered my voice to answer Inspector Lestrade quite softly. “In the first floor, so to speak, of a maple tree with four trunks.” I pointed in its direction, and as he turned to look, I walked away, rather more quickly than a lady should, down the drive towards the gates.

“Mrs. Holmes!” he shouted after me.

Without altering the rhythm of my pace or looking back, I lifted one hand in a polite but dismissive wave, imitating the way my brother had waggled his walking stick at me. Restraining an impulse to run, I kept walking.

When I had passed through the gates, I breathed out.

 

Not having ridden in a train before, I was surprised to find the second-class passenger car divided into little parlours for four people each, with leather seats facing each other as in a carriage. I had imagined something more open, like an omnibus. But not so: A conductor led me down a narrow aisle, opened a door, and willy-nilly I found myself compartmented with three strangers, taking the one remaining place, which faced the rear of the train.

Moments later I felt myself being carried, slowly at first but moment by moment accelerating, backwards towards London.

All too apt a position, as Inspector Lestrade had so reversed my affairs that I could no longer foresee what lay ahead.

Since he had talked with a nitwit widow named Enola Holmes, and would tell my brother Sherlock, I needed to abandon my nearly perfect disguise.

Indeed, I needed to completely reconsider my situation.

Sighing, perched on the edge of my seat because of my bustle—or rather, luggage—I braced myself against my backwards progress. The train lurched and swayed as it rumbled along at least twice as fast as any bicycle had ever skimmed down any hill. Trees and buildings whipped past the window at a speed so tumultuous that I had to avoid looking out.

I felt a bit ill, for more than one reason.

My safe and comfortable plans for cab, hotel, genteel lodgings, and quiet waiting would no longer serve. I had been identified. Seen. Either Lestrade or my brother Sherlock would trace a young widow’s steps through Belvidere and find that I had gotten onto the afternoon express train to the city. So much for misdirecting my brothers towards Wales! Although they could have no idea of my financial well-being, nevertheless, they would know now that I’d gone to London, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Except leave London as soon as I arrived, by the next train to anywhere?

But surely my brother would inquire of the ticketing agents, and now my black dress marked me. If Sherlock Holmes found that a widow had gotten on the train to, say, Houndstone, Rockingham, and Puddingsworth, he would investigate. And surely he would find me more easily in Houndstone, Rockingham, Puddingsworth, or any such place than in London.

Moreover, I
wanted
to go to London. Not that I thought Mother was there—quite the opposite, actually—but I would best be able to find her from there. And I had always dreamt of London. Palaces, fountains, cathedrals. Theatres, operas, gentlemen in tails, and ladies dripping with diamonds.