The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (91 page)

T
HERE WAS NO
indication on Saturday morning that before the day ended I would be presented with three major additions to the case, all of them in the space of an hour: a rape attempt, a collection of esoteric publications, and a citation for speeding.

The morning was long and tedious, involving a systematic renovation of the business files and an equally systematic avoidance of young Mr Edwards’s attentions. Lunch was heavy and alcoholic, and a cold drizzle prevented me from a temporary escape into the grounds. I went back to the study after an hour of male badinage, suffered with gritted teeth, anxious to get through the day so that I could hear what Holmes had found in Cambridgeshire.

Fortunately, the wine at lunch seemed to have slowed down the
roving hands, for although Gerald followed me into his father’s study and watched my every move, he didn’t actually reach for me. The colonel went to his room to rest, and his son talked to me while I sorted files. His monologue dragged on, covering all the high points of cricket matches and rowing, and I occasionally nodded my head and watched for anything of interest in the files.

He did it cleverly, I’ll give him that. I stood up to retrieve some files on the other end of the desk, and when I turned back, he was there, his arms clamped around me and his mouth seeking mine.

I do not know why I reacted so violently. I was in no real danger—I could have laid him out in three simple moves, or broken his neck in four, for that matter. I reacted in part because I was so immersed in the rôle of Miss Small, and even in 1923, few women would fail to react strongly to such an affront. Mostly, however, it was my sheer frustration and rage at the entire situation that erupted. I could feel the urge for his neck in my hands for one brief instant before sanity clamped down, and I considered what to do while dodging his reechy kisses.

The real danger was not to me and any honour I might possess, but to my rôle. If I were to overwhelm him physically, my time in the Edwards home would come to a sudden end. Mary Small would probably just scream, but aside from the fact that it was difficult to do with his mouth in the way, it would only delay the problem, not solve it. And, there was my pride. I wanted to hurt the slimy creature, but even a quick knee jerk would be out of character. Any injury must be bad enough to stop him, light enough to keep me from losing my position, and must appear completely accidental. All this reflection took about three seconds of grappling, and then my body assumed command.

I stumbled backwards half a step to put him off balance, with a twist, so he was forced to take a single step (my boy, your breath is foul!), and then leant away—all of them natural movements. I then rose slightly, twisted my head away from him, made certain of my balance and his full preoccupation, and finally swung one heel around hard to knock his feet out from under him while simultaneously giving
a sudden stumbling lurch with all my weight behind me, my hip aimed at the sharp corner of the immovable oak desk just behind him. The high and satisfying scream that tore through the room did not come from my throat, and I stepped back to let him sink stiffly to the floor. He was not breathing. He looked quite green. I began to fluster about him before his knees hit the carpet.

The door burst open and Colonel Edwards was there, hair awry and pulling on his coat. I turned as he came in.

“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. I don’t know—”

“What in God’s name is going on? Was that you I heard, or—Gerry? What the devil’s wrong with him?”

As dear Gerry was somewhat preoccupied with curling into a tight knot and wheezing into a semiconscious state, I took it upon myself to answer, albeit quite incoherently.

“Oh, Colonel, I don’t know. I just—he was—I fell, you see, and I must have hit his stomach or maybe the desk hit his back, and oh, shouldn’t we call a doctor? He looks like he’s having a fit; maybe he’s dying.” A tortured gasp followed by a deep groan told us that he had finally regained his breath. The colonel knelt beside him, saw no signs of blood, and stood up with narrowed eyes. He looked hard at me, took in the disarray of my hair and blouse, including a popped button, and started to smile grimly.

“I told him he’d get into trouble one of these days if he didn’t keep his hands to himself. Wouldn’t have thought it’d be you who gave it to him, but you never know.”

“Gave it—But sir, I didn’t mean to do anything. I just caught my heel on the carpet and tripped. Shouldn’t we ring for a doctor?”

“Doctor couldn’t help any. He’ll get over it. It’s nothing most men don’t have happen sometime or another. Ice and a whisky should take care of it.”

“But what—” I stopped. A complete innocence of male anatomical characteristics was surely not to be expected. “You mean I—oh dear. The poor boy.” I knelt down, and Gerald, who had reached the
sickly smile stage, smiled sickly up at me. “I’m so very sorry. I’m always so clumsy, and you did so surprise me.”

“Yes, I imagine he did. Come, Mary, you’ll not get much more accomplished today. Why don’t you have a glass of sherry and then take your work home with you to finish up.”

“But…we can’t leave him here!”

“I’m certain he’d be much happier if we did, wouldn’t you, Gerry?” A weak, uncontrolled flap of the hand signalled agreement and dismissal. “I’ll send Alex in with ice and brandy. He’ll help you up.” We left the room, and the colonel began to chuckle. I stopped short and drew an audible breath.

“Colonel, do you mind if I use the small room for a few minutes? I’m rather…I would like a sherry after that, though.”

“Certainly, my dear. I’ll be downstairs.”

I let myself into the large marble bath that lay between the colonel’s study and his bedroom. His steps retreated down the hallway, and I heard him shout for Alex. Next door, the groans had given way to profuse, bitter, and unimaginative cursing. I grinned maliciously, locked the door, and turned on the tap in the basin.

I had three minutes, perhaps more. I moved swiftly to the other door, the one that opened into the colonel’s private room, and pushed it open on noiseless hinges.

I did not know what I was looking for, but I was not about to pass up the opportunity. I ran my eyes over the room, inviting them to choose a target.

It was a large room, totally and unremittingly male: dark wood, undersized bow window, a thick, garish Persian carpet on the polished floor, cabinets—glazed on the top half, panelled below—covering one wall. There were two paintings: one of a man, which looked like a self-portrait by one of Rembrandt’s third-rate students, all heavy moodiness and no technique, and the other a huge, gilt-framed, enthusiastically done nude of a remarkably well-endowed young blond woman who was cowering coyly before a thick, glossy, and lubricious
snake. Not perhaps my image of Mother Eve, but the leering expression on the face of the snake was cleverly done, given the lack of facial characteristics to work with.

The cabinets were unrevealing, containing a variety of trophies and awards, family heirlooms (one assumed) and statuettes, predominantly of females in various stages of undress. One minute passed. The telephone rang, and I heard the colonel’s voice. I pulled open a few of the wooden doors, to find clothing, no apparent hidden compartments, and enough dust to make it obvious that the housekeeper cut a few corners. I walked around the bed to the well-worn armchair that sat next to the window. It was oddly positioned, I thought, almost as if—ah! It was within arm’s reach of a locked cabinet. I dropped next to the door and yanked a pin out of my hair, bent the end of it, and set to work. Two minutes gone. I heard voices downstairs, but not on the stairs yet.

After an agonising thirty seconds, the lock gave and I pulled the doors open, to find books. Pornography. Damn! I flipped through them quickly, but they were only books, mostly illustrated. I locked the doors again and heard the colonel bidding the caller good-bye. I made to rise, then froze. There, in front of my eyes, was a double row of cheap, well-thumbed pamphlets and paperback booklets. The title that jumped out at me was
Emancipation and the Enslavement of the Family
. There must have been nearly a hundred of the things, ranging from the inch-thick
Cover Their Heads
to a four-page
Suffragettes: The Devil’s Hands
. I pulled out
Women’s Suffrage: Against God’s Plan
, noted the name and address of the publisher, and slid it back into its place as voices came shockingly loud directly outside the room. I plunged around the bed and closed the bathroom door behind me an instant before the knock came on the hallway door. I turned off the tap and hurried to pat my hair into order and correct the disarray to my person.

“Are you all right, Mary?”

“Oh yes, sir, I’ll be down in just a moment.”

“I have the files you were working on; you needn’t go back into the study. I’ll have Alex take you home; it’s raining very heavily now.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t be a minute.”

Rapid repairs completed, I took several calming breaths and went downstairs to the loathsome and inevitable sherry.

“There you are, my dear, drink that. Look, Mary, I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding upstairs. Gerry’s a bit impetuous sometimes.”

Misunderstanding? Easier to misunderstand the intent of a gun barrel.

“It’s fine, Colonel, really. Is he going to be all right?”

“Certainly. A bit sore for a day or two, but perhaps you’ve succeeded in teaching him discretion where I failed.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“No, I realise you didn’t intentionally hurt him. No one could have done that deliberately. Nonetheless…Look, Mary, I’ve just had a telephone call from a friend to invite me to a talk Monday afternoon. Would that be a good day for you to go to Oxford? I know it’s not much warning, and if you would prefer to work on the files before starting on another project, I’ll understand.”

And leave me alone with Lothario? No thank you.

“Monday’s a good day. I’ll take an early train. I’m quite looking forward to it.”

“Good, good. I’m glad about that.” He did look pleased, but something else, as well. Actually, I thought, he was acting oddly. Not remarkably so, just small things, such as the way he was fiddling with his glass, the way he looked at me, reserved, somehow, and appraising. Was it suspicion? No, I thought not. If anything, he seemed more confident and less attentive of me. Polite, but dismissive, as well. My speculations were interrupted by the arrival of Alex with my coat. The colonel held it for me, handed me the file of letters and manuscript,
and said that he would see me Tuesday morning. No mention of dinner that night or Sunday. Interesting, very interesting. Just what was it that had changed the man’s attitude towards me, and why?

Alex, uncommunicative as always, led the way to the garage. The roadster that Holmes had hypothesised was back now in its place, a very fast and slightly dented (along the sides) sleek, black Vauxhall. I exclaimed over it.

“Yes, miss, it belongs to young Mr Edwards.”

“It is a beautiful thing. It looks fast, too.”

“I believe he is in the habit of driving it in the high sixties, on the proper roads, of course.” Cars were obviously Alex’s weak point, as this one made him positively effusive.

“Cor, stone the crows, as my granfa’ used to say,” I said appreciatively. This pithy bit of vernacular struck home, and he actually broke down and smiled. I walked over to admire the gleaming enamel and the red leather upholstery more closely, and I thought that perhaps when this case was over, I, too—But then my acquisitive yearnings were stifled by the sight of a jumble of papers pushed into the front pocket, and my curiosity came to the fore. I circled the car under Alex’s proud gaze, then, sighing like a love-struck adolescent, climbed reluctantly into the suddenly dowdy saloon car. I opened my bag as Alex went to his door, and I gave an exclamation of dismay.

“What is it, miss?”

“I don’t seem to have my pen in here. I must have left it in the study. Would you mind awfully just waiting for a tick while I pop up and—oh dear. Mr Edwards will be there. Well, perhaps I’ll just wait until Tuesday to retrieve it.”

“Would you like me to fetch it, miss?”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Not to worry. In the study, did you say?”

“Somewhere around the desk. It’s where I was working when…It’s gold,” I finished weakly, to his well-hidden, butlerian amusement.

“Won’t be a minute, miss.”

I waited until his footsteps faded, then pushed open the door and leant into the front of the roadster. The corner of one piece of paper looked tantalisingly familiar. Several months before, I had been returning to an urgent appointment in Oxford, trying to coax a modicum of speed out of my amiable Morris, and had collected a summons for my pains. Here in my hand was an identical slip of paper. I turned it over, looked at the date unbelievingly, and felt a foolish grin take hold of my face. Gerald Andrew Edwards had not been in Scotland on the night our cottage had been ransacked, not unless he had spent the next twelve hours driving very fast. The following morning, he had been nabbed for speeding near Tavistock, about as far from Scotland as England went. I took my gold fountain pen from my bag, made a note of the details, and then, clutching the pen in my hand, followed Alex towards the house.

He was, of course, annoyed at his wild-goose chase after a pen that had fallen into the folds of a notebook, and he drove me in silence to Isabella’s boardinghouse.

I climbed the stairs to my cheerless room and closed the door gratefully behind me. I shrugged off my damp coat and was arranging it over a chair and considering the effort of asking for a measure of coal to make a fire, when I heard a gentle knock. Billy stood there, holding out to me a wad of what looked like used butcher’s paper that had been rolled, flattened, and folded.

“Letter for you, from a gentleman.”

“A letter? Not a telegram?” I was astonished—I had received exactly five letters from Holmes in the eight years I had known him. (Holmes’ chief method of distance communication was through brief telegrams, preferably so cryptic as to be unintelligible. One such had contained a deliberate misspelling that was corrected along the way by some conscientious telegraphist, thus rendering the message totally meaningless.)