“You stupid bitch. Why do you think I married you? Why do you think I wait around in this godforsaken hellhole every Thursday night? For your bloody conversation?”
Had we heard any movements from the room during the lengthy silence that followed, we should have moved to intervene, but there was nothing but silence. Finally Margery spoke, calmly, in a voice I’d heard her use during our lessons.
“That boy with the knife; he was from you, wasn’t he? I thought for a moment he might be, that you’d decided the beating wasn’t enough, but I couldn’t believe it. But he was. And he died. Did you arrange that, too? You must have. You wanted me dead so you could have the Temple’s money. My God, what kind of an animal are you?”
I glanced at Holmes, and knew the look of strain on his face was duplicated on my own. “He’s going to kill her,” I whispered.
“That may be what she’s after,” he said.
“Which means,” Margery continued, slowly putting together an incomprehensible picture in her mind, “that you would have killed Mary, once you heard about her will. Why are you laughing?”
“Jesus, you really are stupid.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t write a will. I had it written for her.”
This silence was shorter, as if she were becoming accustomed to a new and foreign mechanism. “You decided to kill me for my money. She saved my life. You then kidnapped her, forged a will, and would have killed her if the police hadn’t found her. I assume you would have then made another effort to have me killed. You aren’t human, Claude. Your own wife, in order to inherit—” She stopped, and when she spoke again her voice, for the first time, was low with horror. “Iris. My God, you killed Iris. Is that what gave you the idea? Her leaving me some money?”
“Margery,” he said, with what could only be affection in his voice, “I’ve been putting this together for months now, since last summer. Long before I married you.”
“Delia?” She groaned. “Oh, no, no.”
“Look,” he said, and I heard the sound of a chair scraping back. “I have to leave. I don’t want to hurt you, Margery. I liked you, I really did. It’s all gone to hell now, anyway. A year’s worth of work and that Russell female will have the police on me, damn her eyes. I’ll have to lie low for a couple of years at least—I could never risk making a claim on your estate.”
“I’m not going to let you walk out of here, Claude.”
“You don’t have any choice, Margery.”
“If you shoot me, Claude, you will die.”
Conviction rang out in her voice, not fear, but Holmes and I were already moving, and we hit the door a split second before the shot rang out. The old wood crashed open before our joined weight and we entered fast, Holmes high with the gun in his hand and me rolling low, as pretty a joint effect as if we had rehearsed it. Franklin was standing behind a heavy oak desk, with the gun still pointing at Margery. He brought it around and got off two quick shots that overlapped with a third from behind me. I came to my feet in a crouch, in time to see Franklin stagger and go down. There was a swish and a heavy thud behind the desk. Holmes, holding the gun out, took three quick steps to the side, and then his jaw dropped and he gave vent to a brief oath.
Franklin had vanished.
I stared briefly at the floor, empty but for a smear of blood, before I gathered my wits and turned to Margery. Holmes began to run his hands over the floor, feeling for the hidden panel.
“How is she?” he asked over his shoulder.
“She’ll do. It went through her below the shoulder joint, but it looks clean.”
“There’s no hope here,” he said, getting to his feet. “He bolted it from the back.”
“I should have known there would be a secret passage here, too.”
“Would have made no difference if we’d known,” he said briefly. “Can you leave her?”
“Yes.”
We thundered down the stairs, leaving all doors open, circled the corner at a run, and swept straight into the arms of the constable.
“What’s all this now?” he said predictably. Holmes dodged his hands and flew on; I danced out of the constable’s reach.
“There’s a woman on the second floor wounded; she needs medical attention. We’re after the man who shot her. Can’t wait.” He was, naturally enough, not pleased, and he followed heavily on my heels. Unfortunately for Billy, Holmes’ assistant chose that moment to join the chase, and he was captured while I continued, despite leaden legs, to gain slowly on Holmes. I finally caught him up when he ran out of land; I found him standing beneath a crane on a pier surrounded by coal barges. He pointed out into the river, chest heaving and momentarily speechless.
A small skiff with its oars shipped, empty and drifting free, was being pulled by the current from the side of a sleek launch that lay slightly upriver. As we watched, the boat coughed and emitted a ragged burst of smoke. I looked grimly about for a boat we could steal, but Holmes threw off his coat with determination and bent to his bootlaces. Arguing all the while, I began to do the same.
“I see a boat up on the next wharf, Holmes. We can have the police telegraph ahead and have him cut off before he reaches the sea. Holmes, we can’t hope to swim it in time.”
“You will swim nowhere. In your current condition, you’d probably drown, and then where should I be?”
“Of course I’m going with you,” I said, and bent to my second boot. My vision faltered for a moment and then recovered. Holmes stood still at my side, watching my efforts.
“You’re not,” he said, and then something immensely hard hit my head and I collapsed instantaneously into the darkness.
I CAME TO in stages, as if I were hitching myself up the side of a cliff. I finally gained the top and raised my spinning head from the boards that stank of tar and horse dung and rotted fish. I had been stunned only for a minute or two, for the launch was still there, running smoothly now and beginning to turn downstream as its mooring came free. A stocky figure with black hair moved back down the deck towards the wheel. As the boat continued to turn, a second figure came into view, a long, thin man clinging like a spider to the side of the hull, his lower half in the water. The stocky figure walked by the second one without noticing, and the instant he was past, Holmes hauled himself up and over onto the deck and lunged at him.
He was a split second too late, or too slow; perhaps Franklin was simply too fast. Holmes did manage to get his hands on Franklin’s gun, and the two figures stood grappling on the deck while the boat continued to turn lazily and the other boats working the river came and went unawares. With the boat facing downstream and the two men invisible, there came a shot across the water, and another, but when the launch turned again, they were still there, still upright and grappling. Franklin was strong, but Holmes was taller, and the barrel of the revolver was now facing the deck. A third shot echoed across the water, and then the boat turned again, only now there was a sailing barge in its way, heavily laden with horse dung. I heard shouts as the crew tried to warn the launch off, but it was too late. The launch hit her broadsides.
I never knew if the third bullet punctured the launch’s petrol tank, or whether something ruptured the tank when the smaller boat hit the barge, but when I looked at the launch in the instant following the collision, the smoke from its stack had already changed character. In another instant there were sparks coming out, and then flames. Soon there was a dull crump; in thirty seconds, the launch was engulfed in flames, and the voices of the barge crew could be heard even above the roaring in my ears. They succeeded in pushing her off with poles and holding her there.
It only took two or three minutes for her to burn to the water, and then she sank.
I had not realised I was on my feet and at the very edge of the pier until my knees collapsed beneath me and left me sitting on a great mound of rope, watching the sudden scurry of activity before me, men on boats of all kinds, shouts, people running, cursing, gesticulating, a police boat. The
men on the barge were standing in a row, staring down into the water over their side, subdued, with the attitude of those who have witnessed death.
I stared at the fragments of burning planks and unidentifiable smouldering things, the remnants of what had been an expensive launch, and I felt nothing. There was nothing inside me to feel. How curious. I watched the boats gather, waited for the horror to overwhelm me, waited for the urge to fling myself howling into the river, or into insanity, but I felt nothing but emptiness.
After a long, long time, a stir came in the water below my feet. I looked down and saw floating there a white oval topped by a scrawl of iron grey and coated with scum and débris. It spoke to me in the drawl of a Cockney.
“Give us an ’and, laidee.”
“Holmes?” I whispered. I knelt. I put a hand down to the water and hauled back a dripping, scorched caricature of a man in shirtsleeves, barefoot, missing half the hair on the back of his head, covered in oil and filth, and exposed to half the diseases of Europe. When he was upright, I flung my arms around him and put my mouth to his. For a long minute, we were one.
Rational thought returned in a flood. I pulled back, and I hit him—nothing fancy, just a good, traditional, lady’s openhanded slap that had all the muscles of my arm behind it. It rattled his teeth and nearly sent him back into the river. I glared furiously at him.
“Never, never do that again!”
“Russell! I did not—”
“Knock me out and leave me behind—Holmes, how could you?”
“There was no time for a discussion,” he pointed out.
“That is no excuse,” I said illogically. “Never even think of doing something like that again!”
“You’d have done the same, if you’d thought of it.”
“No! Well, probably not.”
“I do apologise for making your decision for you, Russell.”
“I want your word that you’ll never do anything like that again.”
“Very well, I promise: Next time, I will allow the villain to escape while we stage a debate on who is to do what.”
“Good. Thank you.” He stood fingering his jaw; I reached up to explore the knot on my skull. “My head hurts. What did you hit me with?”
“My hand. I think I’ve broken a bone in it,” he added thoughtfully, and, turning his attentions to that part, he flexed it gingerly.
“Serves you right.” I reached out and brushed a strand of rotted straw from the side of his face, peeled a scrap of oil-soaked newspaper from the charred remnant of his collar. He pulled a dripping handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, wrung it out, and unfolded it, then ran it over his face and hands and hair. He held it out and glanced at its transformation into a mechanic’s rag, then dropped it over the side of the pier and turned back to me, his face unreadable.
“A bath and some inoculations are called for, Holmes,” I said, or rather, started to say, because on the third word he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me and his mouth came down on mine with all the force that the side of his hand had used earlier on my skull, and with much the same effect on my knees.
(How could he have known? How could he know my body better than I did myself? How could he foresee that a thumbnail run up my spine would—)
“By God,” he murmured throatily into my hair. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I laid eyes upon you.”
(—arch my body against his, close my eyes, stop the breath in my throat? That his lips on the inside of my wrist and on the hollow of my jaw would concentrate my entire being, every cell in my body—)
“Holmes,” I objected when I could draw breath, “when you first saw me, you thought I was a boy.”
(—on that point of joining? That his mouth at the corner of mine was so excruciating, so tantalising, that it would arouse me more—)
“And don’t think that didn’t cause me some minutes of deep consternation,” he said.
(—than a direct kiss, would ring in my body the desire for more?)
When he held me away from him, it was fortunate he left his hands on my shoulders. He spoke as if continuing a discussion.
“You do realise how potentially disastrous this whole thing is?” he said. “I am old and set in my ways. I will give you little affection and a great deal of irritation, though heaven knows you’re aware of how difficult I can be.”
“And you smoke foul tobacco and get down in the dumps for days and mess about with chemicals, but I don’t keep a bull pup.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Holmes, is this a proposal of marriage?”
He blinked in surprise.
“Does it need proposing?” he asked. “Would it please some obscure part of your makeup if I were to get down on one knee? I shall, if you wish, although my rheumatism is a bit troublesome just at the moment.”
“Your rheumatism troubles you when convenient, Holmes,” I remarked, “and I think that if you’re going to propose marriage to me, you’d best have both your feet under you. Very well, I accept, on the aforementioned condition that you never again try to keep me from harm by hitting me on the skull, or by trickery. I’ll not marry a man I can’t trust at my back.”
“I give you my solemn vow, Russell, to try to control my chivalrous impulses. If, that is, you agree that there may come times when—due entirely to my greater experience, I hasten to say—I am forced to give you a direct order.”
“If it is given as to an assistant, and not as to a female of the species, I shall obey.”
These complicated negotiations of our marriage contract thus completed, we faced each other as a newly affianced couple, reached out, and shook hands firmly.
A Letter of Mary
Laurie R. King
A LETTER OF MARY. Copyright © 1996 by Laurie R. King. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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[email protected] The character referred to as Peter on pages 187 to 195 is based on the character of Lord Peter Wimsey and the novels of Dorothy L. Sayers. The character and those novels are copyright © The Trustees of Anthony Fleming deceased 1923, 1926, 1927, 1928, 1930, 1931, 1933, 1934, 1935, 1936, 1937, 1972, 1973, 1977, 1998.
The permission for the use of the character in this book is acknowledged.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
King, Laurie R.
A letter of Mary: a Mary Russell novel / Laurie R. King.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-312-42738-2
1. Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Russell, Mary (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—England—Fiction. 4. England—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.I4813 L47 1997
813'.54—dc20 96022424
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press
For my brother Leahcim Drawde Nosdrahcir and his family
From his sister Eiraul EEL
EDITOR’S PREFACE
THIS IS THE third in a series of manuscripts taken from a trunk full of odds and ends that was sent to me a few years ago. The puzzle of its origin and why I was its recipient is far from solved. In fact, it becomes more mysterious with each manuscript I publish.
After the first of Mary Russell’s stories (The Beekeeper’s Apprentice) came out, I received a cryptic postcard that said merely: “More to follow.” After the second (A Monstrous Regiment of Women), the following newspaper clipping arrived in th
e mail:
A group of Japanese businessmen on a river cruise yesterday caught and towed to Hampton Court a punt which police have determined originated at Folly Bridge in Oxford. In it were found clothing and a pair of glasses. The Thames Authority has no suggestion as yet how a punt could manoeuver the locks and deeper stretches of river.
I rose to the challenge. A bit of research determined that the clipping was a filler in the London Times, dated three weeks before the book’s publication date. The subsequent phone calls to England cost me an arm and a leg, but eventually I discovered that the clothing (trousers, sensible shoes, and a blouse) was that of a tall, thin woman, and it had been found carefully folded on the cushions, with the glasses on top. There was no suicide note. The pole was in the boat (a punt is not rowed or motorized, I gather, but shoved along with a wooden pole). Downstream from Oxford, the river becomes too deep for the punter to reach the bottom.
I even found out that the police dusted the thing for prints, which sounded like a joke until my informant told me how much a wooden punt costs nowadays. With a vague idea that this might someday help me find where my trunk had come from, I asked for a set of the prints. It took a while to clear this with the higher authorities, but I did after some months receive a copy of the forensic report, which informed me that they had been made by two people, both with long, thin hands, one of them slightly bigger and thus probably male, the other with a scar across one of the pads. The scarred ones had been found on the glasses.
Interestingly enough, the fingerprints taken from the sides of the punt match those on a filthy clay pipe that was in the trunk with the manuscripts.
I should also mention that the inlaid box described in the following pages does exist, although when it reached me, there was no manuscript inside. It did hold a pair of black-lensed glasses, a dainty handkerchief embroidered with the letter M, and a key.