A Study in Sable (37 page)

Holmes, the Watsons, and Pablo Sarasate had joined Nan in her room; since there was only one bed, and it had only one door, it was easier to fit chairs into it. Nan sat cross-legged on her pillow while Mary Watson sat properly at the foot. The violinist had taken the chair nearest the window and sat with his back to it, sun streaming over him. He had removed his coat but seemed entirely happy where he was, basking in the warmth like an elegant cat.

“The difficulty is,” said Holmes, “I believe we need to exclude Miss Sarah from most of our plan.”

He glanced at Nan, as if he expected her to object, but she nodded agreement. “You're right,” she concurred. “She's free of Magdalena's influence
now,
but there is no telling how long she will continue to be free. I would like to think that now that she is aware of what Magdalena is doing, she'll keep her wits about her and her mind as her own, but . . . since we don't know
how
Magdalena does what she does, I see no way of ensuring that she can't control Sarah again.”

Pablo shrugged as they all looked at him for his opinion. “I think that she is best left out of most of it. And for the same reason.”

“We cast protections on her, but whether they will hold . . . I don't know,” said Watson. “But at least I
think
I may know where Magdalena gets her powers from.” As they all gazed at him expectantly, he said, with a little pride, “Once I knew she was making people worship her
en masse,
it came to me. I believe she has lorelei blood—and so did her sister.”

Holmes laughed, his face full of incredulity. “Oh, come now, Watson! This is more of your superstitious farradiddle! The lorelei is a romantical German legend—why, the story isn't even a folk legend, it's from this very century—”

“Wait, hear me out, Holmes. Will you admit that nearly
every
nation with significant bodies of water has legends of beautiful singing
women who enchant entire boatloads of men onto the rocks to their doom, or otherwise enchant them with song?” Watson waited expectantly.

“Well . . . yes,” Holmes admitted. “The Greeks had the sirens. The Russians have the rusalkas, and the sirin. The Chinese—”

“Indeed,” Watson replied, interrupting him. “Make the assumption that these legends have an origin in a real power—perhaps psychical in nature—perhaps merely the ability to manipulate harmonic sounds in order to render the human psyche susceptible to suggestion—”

Holmes brightened. “Of course! My own experiments on the behavior of house flies in response to musical tones—”

“Yes, yes, precisely,” Watson interrupted him again. “Let us assume that because of their higher-pitched voices, the ones who inherit this power are exclusively women. And because, unlike psychical manipulation, which depends on one mind projecting thoughts directly onto the mind of one other,
sonic
manipulation depends only on the response of however many people there are listening to the music, these sirens can affect more than a single person at a time.” He coughed slightly. “Then, of course, if the siren concentrates her efforts on one particular person, her results are more profound.”

“By Jove, Watson . . . that is a tenable theory.” Holmes nodded. “Logical, and scientifically sound. There is hope for you yet.”

Nan caught Watson's wink at her when Holmes turned his head, and did her best not to snort. It was
amazing,
the contortions that Holmes would put his own logic into in order to avoid the simple conclusion that magic was real, and worked.

“Now, to change the subject, the last obstacle to our plan has fallen,” Holmes continued. “The Marquess's valet is none too fond of Magdalena, and is not anxious to see her become the lady of the manor. He has agreed to ‘make sure his lordship sleeps
alone
tonight' by drugging the brandy he habitually takes before entertaining the lady in his bedroom. Sarah assures me that Magdalena's maid will not expect to see her before three in the morning at the earliest.”

“Have you prepared the note, Sherlock?” asked Watson.

Holmes nodded, took a folded note out of his vest pocket, and handed it to Nan. “Maestro, can you arrange for the Marquess to be engaged in something exclusively male immediately after dinner?”

“Easily,” said Sarasate, with a brisk nod of his handsome head. “I shall ask him about the British custom of billiards and cigars after dinner, and beg to have a taste of it. He is excessively fond of billiards, and the rest of his male guests are weary of musical gatherings after so many nights of them. I think it will take no effort at all to persuade them into an evening that excludes the ladies.”

“And I've purloined one of the maid's uniforms,” said Nan. “Magdalena has only seen me the once, and paid no attention to me. I can easily slip her the note, and she'll think it is from Willie.”

“And Sarah?” asked Watson.

“I can tell her to come to the conservatory at eleven during dinner,” Sarasate assured him. “We are linked in partnership at dinner, it seems, for when she is not there, I have an empty place beside me. I suppose we are equally awkward to place, socially; we are too important to send to dine with the servants, but not important enough to put anywhere except at the foot of the table. If for some reason she does not come to dinner tonight, then I can bring her a note to that effect under the guise of being concerned about her.”

Watson and Holmes both nodded with satisfaction. “I have one small item I would like to add to the plan,” continued Sarasate, and he reached down to his feet for something. When he stood up, he handed Holmes a violin case he must have brought with him. “I hope you know the
Danse Macabre
by Camille Saint-Saëns?”

“I am familiar with it,” Holmes said with surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“Above all things, we will not want Magdalena to employ her powers on us. We know they are sonic in nature. I have taken the liberty of writing a little variation for two violins on the
Danse Macabre
and left the manuscript in the case with this spare instrument of mine. I believe that if there are two of us playing, the effect will be too confusing for Magdalena to counter.”

Holmes stopped just short of opening the case, turning just a little pale. “This is surely not—”

“Not either of my Stradivarius instruments, no,” Sarasate chuckled. “It is a very good violin that I take with me for the purposes of playing at picnics and other places where I would not risk my beauties.”

Holmes sighed with relief and opened the case. He took out the violin, quickly tuned it, then played a few bars of the music he had found with it. Nan shivered; there was something about that piece that was . . . wild, and uncanny. She had the notion that Sarasate had put something of his Elemental Mastery into the composition.

“You play well, Señor Holmes,” said Sarasate with great satisfaction.

Holmes actually flushed a little. “Praise from the master is praise indeed. I never would have had the temerity to think I could ever play
for
you, much less
with
you—”

Sarasate chuckled. “You will perform to great effect, Señor Holmes, I am certain of it.”

“If I am expected to perform well, I had better go to practice,” Holmes replied. “Midnight will come all too soon.” He packed up the violin and, with a slight bow to all of them, took his leave.

“Where is he staying?” the violinist asked curiously. “Since he is not in the stable here with you?”

Watson shook his head. “That is one of Sherlock's little mysteries, although my suspicion is that he is camped out in a building used to store game known, appropriately enough, as the ‘Game Larder.' Virtually all game is out of season now, so it would be empty. He probably has a local urchin bringing him supplies, as we have the wagon-driver who fetches items daily from the village picking up things for us.”

“Well, good; he will be far enough from the manor that his practicing will not be heard, then. I gave him the easier of the two parts, obviously, but it is clear he is a competent player. And—something I would not have suspected, given his devotion to logic—a sensitive one.” Sarasate nodded with satisfaction. “His playing will echo my magic almost as well as if he were one of us.”

Nan looked from the Watsons to Sarasate and back. “I assume that business about Magdalena's power being some sort of sonic influence on the nerves is all gammon?”

Watson laughed. “Completely. I
do
believe that Magdalena is a member of that class of Water Elementals known as the sirens, or rather, has a siren ancestor. I can tell you that sirens, like the Selch and the Selkies, are quite real, and like them I suspect they can intermarry with humans. Or at least, interbreed. Since they are exclusively female, they probably only keep the female infants and abandon the males.”

“So, if a male infant was found—it would be easy enough to introduce siren blood into a family,” agreed Mary. “That makes perfect sense. The family would never know.”

“Their magic is probably related to mine,” observed Sarasate. “Music is an excellent conduit for my magic. Well! That is extremely satisfactory; if her magic is based in music, she should be more susceptible to mine.”

“Let us hope,” said Watson.

“I think we are as prepared as we can be,” Mary put in. “So the wisest thing we can do is rest and be ready for midnight.”

• • •

“Tonight, at eleven,” Sarasate said, over the soup. Then later, over the fowl course, he added, “The conservatory.” He had interspersed both these bits of information with normal dinner conversation, choosing a moment when the others were laughing at something Magdalena or one of the other sparkling conversationalists had said to give Sarah her instructions in an undertone.

Sarah was both relieved and terrified. Relieved that the others had finally come up with a plan; terrified that it wouldn't work. All sorts of things had occurred to her as the outcome of the latter. The least of the disasters would be if Magdalena simply denounced them all to her host and had them thrown out, or even thrown into the local gaol.
That
scenario was one that could be salvaged; with all the
tricks they had up their sleeves, they could easily escape from a simple country gaol and get to where they could contact Lord Alderscroft, who would smooth things over. Magdalena would still be free to act, but no longer unnoticed. And without Sarah, or some other medium to protect her, the ghost of her sister might just drive her back to Germany. She would still have gotten away with murder, but at least she wouldn't be a threat to the British Government.

But the worst—well—she could
use
her powers on all of them, turning them against each other. And she could exert herself to put Sarah thoroughly under her control, like a mediumistic lapdog, serving with adoration as long as Magdalena was plagued with spirits.

As she was making dinner conversation with Pablo, she wondered what the plan actually was, and how much chance of success it had. She knew
why
she had been left out of the planning for tonight, and she absolutely agreed with the others.
It would have been far too much of a risk to tell me anything. What if Magdalena got me under her control again? I could have run to her with what I knew. Could have? More than likely would have.
But not knowing the plan—the uncertainty naturally made her imagination run wild—this was actually making her hand shake so much she was glad that the soup course was over.

As usual, she excused herself from the after-dinner activities—but just in time to hear that the men intended to have an evening of brandy, cigars, and billiards, leaving the ladies to their own devices. She had thought that Magdalena would be displeased by this, but in fact, she seemed delighted.
I wonder why?

But this was not an evening to give in to curiosity. She headed straight for her room. Eleven was not that far off.

• • •

It was so dark in the conservatory that Nan could only see shadows. Pablo had been in the conservatory earlier that day with a compass, and had made what little preparations needed to be made; mostly deciding where they were all to stand. Now he arranged them all
with the help of a dark lantern. “You, John, stand here,” he whispered, removing a clay pot he had used to mark the spot. “You, Mary, here. Señorita Nan, here, and Señorita Sarah, here. Señor Holmes, you will be opposite me. You form the point of one triangle, I the point of another, interlocking to make a star of six points.”

“Is this relevant?” Holmes whispered. Nan couldn't see his expression, but she fancied he had an eyebrow raised.

“Si,”
said Pablo. “Acoustics. Soft human bodies will resonate differently than the thin forms of plants or the iron frame of the conservatory.
You
know this; you know how an empty concert hall sounds significantly different from one that is full. We must take full advantage of the resonance between your violin and mine.”

More gammon?
She couldn't tell from Pablo's voice; he sounded completely in earnest.

“Ah, of course,” Holmes murmured, sounding satisfied.

Well, all that matters is that he does what he needs to do. It doesn't matter that he believes or disbelieves in magic. He ought to be so busy concentrating on his part of the music that he won't devote any of his mind to
disbelieving,
anyway.

Not for the first time, she wondered if that had been Pablo's plan all along, to give Holmes something he had to concentrate on so that his skepticism wouldn't disrupt the delicate workings of the magic he, Mary, and John had worked up among the three of them. She knew, more or less, what it was intended to do—

“Hush!”
Pablo whispered urgently.
“She comes!”