The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (41 page)

“That's well enough. I've a syringe on order from the apothecary.”

Lady Jane interrupted. But as I was saying this is safest if given by spoon. Call it a digestive elixir if you like. If you care for Vittoria's—for the woman's—health—you won't allow her to exercise after, but let her rest for several . . .”

“Oh, she's strong enough—too strong, really—daughter of a filthy charwoman I don't doubt, or a hag who gathers fuel serenaded by Saint Clement's bells. An embarrassment now is all. The shop clerks say, ‘Her smile is like the
Mona Lisa.'
A bad front tooth is all. I'll not allow her a fine FitzRandall for her travelling horse, freak and pickpocket show! Vittoria can overmaster a stallion fifteen hand high! Oh, how I worry after her precious health. All I do care to know is, why did this doctor not include a syringe for the injection? I mean, who is this doctor anyway, your cousin?”

“Something like that,” said Jane, nodding. I came to the awful realization they meant me. I'd provided poison to no one!

“As for his name . . .” Jane smiled. I held my breath. Was she about to call me to her service, or was this just talk? “As for his name, you may learn it very shortly. For he is due here this very day, but if you leave now,” she said, rising to her feet so that he must, too, “you'll miss him, and he'll never guess the medicine wasn't a purge for Madeline or myself.”

He was standing now, sideways to me, wearing a false but handsome look of hurt. “But Jane, I thought you and I were friends! Why if you were half as plentifully endowed with money and moveables as you are with
womanly
charms, I should marry you myself. That is, in that case my uncle would permit me.”

“Yes, Father told me of ‘your uncle's' objection. Insufficient advantage, eh?”

Randall shrugged. “That is the other thing I gain in coming here, not having to again refuse your pathetic father's offer of a rather tempting arrangement, when in fact, being a man of normal appetites, I should certainly enjoy—”

Provoked by the threat of implications unsuited to mixed company, Jane smoothly interrupted. “I know that you imagine you fancy me, Randall . . .”

He gazed frankly at her. “More than imagining.”

“Perhaps.” Surprisingly, Jane smiled at the rogue, then blushed.

“No perhaps. In fact I intend to prove it!”

Jane must have meant to say “How?” when Randall made a grab at her skirts; the sound came out strangely. Jane fell back onto the seating, straightening her clothes, and said firmly, “Randall, you've told me you are busy of late, but coincidentally we are expecting guests; still it grieves us that you must depart so soon. Perhaps next time we can spend—”

He laughed. “Ah, no, I thank you both for your gracious hospitality, but I rather think it's best I stay.” I was furious, and I knew the girls were thinking of using me. But would they? My heart beat loudly.

“However,” he said, fingering his dear watch again, “if I leave
now I just have time to meet your father and see his face as he tells me he cannot keep the house.”

Appraisingly, he looked about the room and chuckled. “This is a grand old place. Not that I'd live here. Why should I? I'll just sell it to someone else.” He leered at the girls. “Break the old bear's heart, it would, knowing he's not even man enough to give you two a home . . .”

Randall paused to let this sink in. “But I'll go . . . go to my meeting. Unless, my lovely Jane, you'd care to distract and delay me with some age-old satisfaction?”

She did her best to remain ladylike. “But what satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” With this, Juliet's balcony-scene question to Romeo, Jane meant to lighten matters, but Randall's response, being more physical than Romeo's, resulted in another skirmish. Jane shoved him off her, crying, “No! I can't! I can't!” and tugging down her skirts. “I—I have female troubles,” she declared, “I cannot be of any use to you, sir!”

Beneath the huge cat my blood raced, I felt mobilized to fight, but the fight was ended.

“Really?” Randall said in patent disbelief. “Here I'd imagined your petty virginity was the obstacle to coming to your family's aid.” Jane's face coloured, but she said nothing. “I'm going, then.” Randall chuckled. “And still in time!” He took up his hat.

For the first time, Madeline spoke. “Wait, sir!”

“I told you, don't talk to him,” Jane said.

“What's this, then?” Randall beamed with delight.

“Stay to tea,” Maddy said.

“Tea!” Randall was outright laughing. “Marvellous!” he roared. “I thought my ears deceived me. The drab one has a voice!” Just when I thought he'd angered me to the limit, he said, “But I don't want tea. Just give me a few minutes, my dear.”

“Out!” Jane said to Randall. Then she started, I could swear, to say my name. “Joh—”

But Maddy replied, “It's my home, too.” Her voice resounded
against the masonry, clear and brave. Jane was furious, but said nothing. The same could be said of me.

There followed one of the strangest, most terrible scenes to which I've ever borne witness. I'd like to say I can't recall precisely what transpired, but truth is I cannot forget.

All right, Holmes, all right, I'll bloody tell it. I scarcely imagine any other person could believe so depraved a story, much less willingly consort with any person living or dead who had been in that room then, including myself. Yet I have little fear you will harbour ill-will against me for those events, though I myself do.

So, yes, I have feelings enough, but they're all a-jumble and herky-jerky. I will continue to outline for you (or is it me?) more of the facts.

He pulled Madeline's skirts up, right as she sat on the divan. No, that happened after—yes—Jane asked Maddy, “Are you sure?” and Maddy answered somehow by saying nothing. The room was so quiet I was sure they heard my heart beat. But who listened for mine? At once, Randall lifted Madeline's blue skirt, along with the white eyelet lace-edged ones that lined it. Then he lifted it more.

Above the plain well-worn and mended black wool stockings which were ribbon-tied just above the knees, her thighs looked rather brown against the bleached muslin of frilled long open-front pantaloon-type drawers. Maddy's skin glowed like rosy pearls.

As if he'd some right, Randall parted her legs, stood between them. Her hair there, surely not meant to be seen like this, was tawny like clover honey.

He reached down, touched her in this citadel.

Her face contorted and she screeched in pain.

Then followed a moment of panic. I stood, with the obese mouser now digging its claws into my lap, and me holding onto him, biting my lip and remaining somehow silent . . .

Maddy meanwhile had contracted her knees toward her chest to kick at Randall, who reached out and caught her ankles and seemed quite amused with, nay, inflamed by, the show. I don't wish
to make an indecent remark, so I'll just say that in addition to his interest in events, made evident by his own
déshabillé
, Randall's grin was monstrous. He moved in for the kill.

“Wait!” Jane had found her voice.

“But I don't
want
to wait.” One wondered whether Randall knew how.

Jane's left leg shot out, and she pressed the shiny patent pointed toe of her black kid lace-up boot hard against Randall's belly, preventing him from finishing the job.

“A well-turned ankle,” Randall rejoined.

(Holmes, you did tell me it is physically impossible for a pig to look up into the sky.)

Jane ignored the bait. Her foot remained in place.

“I'm not leaving
now
.” Randall was pouting.

“We shall see,” Jane said coldly. “Maddy?”

Randall's hips pushed forward. Jane shoved the boot-point deeper into his belly, obscuring the patent leather toe-tip.

“Oof!”

“Wait,” Jane repeated, then, “Maddy?” She petted the girl's neck. “My sweet dove, are you all right?”

“Bosh!” Randall expostulated. “She adores it!”

“Maddy??”

Madeline stared into the air somewhere, her hands over her lap. “I'm here,” the girl said at last. She sounded smaller. “I'm sorry, Janie. I do mean to help . . . But must it hurt?”

“No, Maddy, no,” Jane whispered . . .

Feeling weak and futile, I sat and felt my blood rising to fill the feline-inflicted wounds on my legs, even as the lead-footed animal leisurely readjusted itself on my lap. Which stung, but not as much as what happened later.

Jane stroked her cousin's mousy hair, pausing to swat Randall's hands away. “No, I won't let anything hurt you.” So saying, Jane reached to her trembling cousin, into the girl's lap. With one hand she boldly took hold of both Madeline's wrists. Mind you, she kept
her foot right where it had been. Firmly, Jane pulled Maddy's arms over the girl's head.

Maddy's eyes widened. Was it fear? alarm? For surely this was just how Maddy's father had grabbed her . . . I'd seen his fury, and doubtless Jane had, too, for she said quite clearly, “Hold still, child, will you? Stop making work!”

In recognition and terror, Maddy looked into her cousin's eyes. Jane stared back, not with malice but something else altogether. Clasping Maddy's wrist now to her own heart, Jane kissed the girl nearly imperceptibly on the cheek, whispering, “You've
ever
pleased me, ever!”

From where I stood in shadow, I saw Jane stroking Maddy's neck, throat and shoulders. Jane loosened and unbuttoned Madeline's shirt and corset-cover, and began kissing her cousin's shoulders and chest, whispering, “Such a good girl, so pretty, so dear . . .” and such. Then as first her mind and then slowly her heart understood what her cousin was trying to do, I saw Maddy throw her weight toward Jane, I heard Maddy gasp, a strange strangulated sound as if an ancient ghost were escaping the girl's soul through her throat.

Next came tears—from hope and gratitude—coursing from palest eyes down her be-kissed face, into her astonished mouth.

Jane continued her work, occasionally looking up to kick the fascinated Randall backward as needed, or slap his clumsily nearing hand and bark, “Wait!” close into his transfixed gaze.

But mostly she petted and kissed and undressed and in sum loved the girl in one enormous yet slow-shrinking spiral, effortlessly as if by implication alone conquering the untouched wilderness between. How to describe this steady, knowing approach? Holmes, fain to say it reminds me now only of that Japanese game of war you showed me—the one played with flat round black stones versus white shell disks on the cross points of a square wooden grid, owning whatever one's colour completely encircles. Here directness is of the lowest value, the least advantage. Over and over, while Randall
meant to plant a flag at territory's centre, and failed, Jane instead surveyed each border with intimate precision. Like the mountain to Mouhamet, the girl, the Madeline, came now to the Prophet. New-awakened flesh rose to Jane as simply as night-tides yearn up, up toward the heavens—then waves peak, tumble or relax, unfolding themselves for the soft, brilliant moon.

Surely, as Inspector Lestrade likes to say, events had gone quite a distance down Queer Street. But in truth I had no quarrel thus far. In fact, Jane seemed to me a woman of genius just then, guessing how to heal Madeline of a serious spiritual ailment, or else at least how to get a bit of fresh air to the wound. I rather applauded the pluck, the audacity: to transform Rape into Exorcism!

But I had (as I think had Madeline) forgot the reality of Randall's presence, the nature of some men to twist any advantage to a greater one, to use with their every power what falls in their path—no matter the cost to them in eternity—to grind the gentle in the dust beneath their heels.

Jane, too, felt concern, for she enquired again of Madeline: “Shall we send away our guest?”

The “guest” started to say something, but stopped when Maddy said, “No.” She insisted like a child. “I'm helping!”

“You are always helping me, Maddy.”

“Not enough. I don't care what he does, but for the house, and my life here with you. He doesn't matter.”

For me, the analgaesia of Jane's devotion wore off fast when she gave the nod to Randall, let him take what he wanted. She retracted her foot from his belly—yes, she'd had to keep it there!—measure by tiny measure. Jane held Madeline, and spoke to her; Jane cherished the girl while Randall enjoyed the fruits of Jane's labour. But Maddy looked all right with it. She didn't care now, so far as I could tell, she didn't hurt, at least not too terribly. That day she could likely endure Hades if within her cousin's arms.

I, on the contrary, had more than a little problem with developments, however foreshadowed. What was I here for, to lament the
hour of my birth? Yet there was at this point nowhere to go and less use in going.

Fuming with indignation, jealousy and rage, I tried to becalm myself by slowing my breath and involving myself in an inward recitation of the names of nerves and bones, yet watching Jane with Madeline with Randall, I hated to think of bodies (hers and hers) or cadavers (his).

Poor line of thought. I transferred my thoughts to: I'd never seen so much of ladies' underwear at once, save on a clothes-line. Odd how it bunched up now, her tiny becorsetted waist a-wash with layers of clothing from above and from below, enough for winter bedding . . . But all I could think was of her perfect skin peeking betwixt stockings and pantaloons, and of her sensibilities, which ought never face this plight, but be kept safe for that one wedding-night. . .

I pondered the dread consequences . . .

Next I transferred my thoughts to something neutral, I hoped: Randall's clothes, surely a subject of great disinterest. One item at a time, though I recognized what shop displays and clerks always point out as “Our Men's Best.” Sure enough, garment for garment like a perfect catalogue of a fop, study made plain to me Randall wore “our men's best” silk neck scarf, our men's best shirt, collar, cuffs . . . I wondered if Randall adorned in men's best usually mistakes himself for the best man present.