The Marriage of Mary Russell (3 page)

At midday, I found myself staring out of the window wishing I smoked.

With a sound of irritation, I went to find my warm clothes and set off for the sea.

The Downs were thick with gravid ewes, head-down to the close-cropped grass, scarcely bothering to move out of my way. I wandered along the cliffs, watching all manner of ships ply up and down the grey Channel waters. The new owners of the old Belle Tout lighthouse—the one atop the cliff—were out in their wind-swept garden, hands on hips as they surveyed the exterior. They invited me inside, ushering me up the defunct tower to admire its predictably magnificent view of the new lighthouse, standing with its feet in the water (where it might actually be of some use when the sea mists rose) five hundred feet below and well out from the cliffs. Once we had exhausted the conversational possibilities (the view, the weather, and the sheep), I continued on, greeting shepherds, ramblers, and lighthouse-men as I went, to where the track turned north below the old smugglers' path. The Tiger Inn, perhaps?

No.

Mrs Hudson had the windows snugly shut again. Smoke trickled from the main chimney, but lights burned in the kitchen, so I circled the house, rapped loudly at the back door, and let myself in.

When I saw her face, I realised that I had been hoping Holmes had told her, so I would have someone to talk to about…it. But her face betrayed no sign of excitement, no shared knowledge—not even a faint reproof from her brown eyes, that I had said nothing…

She didn't know.

Of course, there were all kinds of things this good woman did not know, even when it came down to the events of one previous week: that Holmes and I had nearly died; that both of us had done violence to the other; that there had been drugs and death and kisses and a startling revelation of Holmes' warbling soprano voice.

Not all weeks were quite that eventful. Still, as with Sherlock Holmes long before I came on the scene, I had grown accustomed to hiding things from Mrs Hudson, lest she be shocked or, worse, disappointed in me. My face gave nothing away now as I greeted her and exclaimed at the aroma from her oven.

She had not seen Holmes since the previous afternoon. As she reached for the flowered teapot, giving a little arthritic wince, she said, “He was here, though. The house was still cold after I'd finished in the kitchen, so I took to my rooms early, but I heard him come in about eight o'clock—no-one else slams the door quite like he does. He was on the telephone for a time, then I heard him crashing about upstairs. And this morning I found half the clothes from his cupboards strewn all about.”

I knew without asking that she'd have put everything away, grumbling all the while. “Was anything in particular missing?” I asked casually.

She was not fooled, and fixed me with a sharp gaze. “Mary, what is going on?”

“I don't know,” I told her. “He was at my house yesterday evening, then put on his hat and said he'd see me in a few days.” It was, strictly, the truth, though hardly the whole of it.

“Well, from what I could see, he either went to Town, or to a cricket match.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That's right. His silk hat, good suit, and ebony cane are missing. I thought that was it until I got down to the lower levels and found that his cricket whites were gone as well.”

“He owns cricket clothes? I didn't know he played.”

“Near as I can tell, Mr Holmes tries everything at least once,” she pointed out, a voice of long experience. “Though this being winter, it's more likely to be for a fancy-dress party.”

I tried to envision his head—particularly in its current bedraggled condition—topped by a cricket cap; those piercing grey (and somewhat bloodshot) eyes looking out from under that diminutive little brim. I failed. Worse than the deerstalker with which the public mind had cursed him.

“Ah well,” I said. “We're sure to find out eventually. Are those scones done yet?”

(In fact, I should note here, we never did—at least,
I
never found out why he needed cricket clothing that day. One of the many unsolved mysteries of Sherlock Holmes.)

When Mrs Hudson had stuffed as many scones into me as she could—to my complete lack of argument, since among other things, this past month had seen me locked in a dark cellar on a bread-and-water diet—I finally pushed away my plate, drained my final cup of tea, and asked if she would like me to carry the last few in the basket home to Patrick.

“Oh, Patrick's away, dear.”

“Away?” One might as well say the roof had gone missing. “Patrick's never away.”

“Something about a horse. Buying one? Taking one of the mares to one? I can't remember.”

At this last claim, I frankly stared: Mrs Hudson remembered everything. She blushed faintly. “He caught me when I was washing my hair,” she said. “We spoke through the bath-room door.”

Modesty, thy name is Hudson—particularly, I thought, if Patrick had said he was putting one of the mares to a stallion. I pushed down a smile. “I see. But, why didn't he tell me?” He lived a stone's throw from my house, yet several miles away from this one.

“Oh, he'd just decided. Spur of the moment, I'd say. He was here to pick up something I had for Tillie. Are you sure you want those, dear? They've gone quite cold. It'll take no time at all to make a fresh batch, if you'd—”

“Good heavens, no, you mustn't make any more just for me. I can barely walk as it is.” I watched her wrap the remaining three golden treats into an old napkin, and as I put out a hand for it, a belated thought occurred. “But, that leaves you with none. And you must have been making them for yourself.”

“Make scones for myself? Never. I sometimes bake just because my hands feel like stirring. If you hadn't shown up, I'd have taken them to the rector. His wife means well, but she's a bit absent-minded when it comes to the oven.”

I allowed myself to be convinced, and tucked the still-warm parcel into my pocket, to supplement my supper. But as I arranged my hair beneath my woolly cap (wincing a touch at the still-tender knot on my skull), I saw from the clock that it was barely three: so much of the day left, then another day to get through…

“Mrs Hudson, would you like to do something tomorrow? Go to the cinema, perhaps? Tea on the Front, in Eastbourne?”

She looked surprised—and something else. Apologetic? Evasive? “Oh, Mary, I'm sorry, I have things to do. While Mr Holmes is out. You understand.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I hastened to say. “No, really, I have a hundred tasks myself, what with spending the last month in London, and everything there, and, well…” What with recent trauma and abandonment and a loathing of darkness that might have me sleeping with lights on for the rest of my life…“I just thought you might be, that you'd—I'll go now.”

And I did.

When I reached home, the house was dark, the kitchen empty. A lone saucepan stood on the sideboard, with a note propped up against it from Mrs Mark: stern instructions on how to heat up the soup without ruining the pan.

I ate it cold, along with the single scone I had not consumed on my walk home.

Perhaps I should go up to Oxford tomorrow after all.

Habit kept me in place: habit, and a determination not to run from discomforts. Also the knowledge that Thursday was approaching and Holmes was sure to appear at some point to let me know what he was up to. Probably not until five minutes to midnight, but still.

Once the decision was made, I managed to settle into something resembling honest work, and got through Wednesday with an awareness of solitude that was merely pressing, not grinding. I did not look for a reason to delay Mrs Mark when she had finished for the day, nor did I set off to waylay villagers or passing strangers to engage in conversation. In the evening, I only checked all the doors and windows twice, and I shut down the lights in a few of the more distant rooms. When I went to bed, the hallway light alone was sufficient to let me fall asleep. After a time.

Truth to tell, I'd scarcely dropped off when a 3:00 a.m. clamour of the bell ripped me from my warm slumber. I jerked bolt upright, listening to the fading echoes and wondering if the fire brigade were about to arrive. But silence followed rather than the crash of axes meeting wood: my brain began to order itself, and came up with an alternative meaning.

“Holmes?” I croaked. I threw back the warm covers and shivered my way to the window, sticking my head out into the icy air. This time my voice functioned a bit more clearly. “Holmes, is that you?”

“Have you another man in the habit of presenting himself at this hour?” rose from the dark below. He sounded revoltingly cheerful. I closed the window, and made him wait on the doorstep until I had re-plaited my mussed hair, found my glasses, and put on a few more layers of clothing.

“Holmes, what on—” But I was talking to his back, as he swept past into the house. He was dressed for Town, from his high silk hat to his patent leather shoes, but atop the finery there were indications of a day's harder work: smuts from a train on his white shirt-linen, mustard on his neck-tie, engine grease on one cuff, and Sussex soil up to his ankles.

Then he was gone, the hallway empty. The sound of water running into the kettle came from the kitchen. I became aware that a great deal of cold air was wrapping itself around me, and hastened to shut the door, finding as I did so that there was something in my hand. An envelope. Since I hadn't brought it downstairs with me—I didn't think I had—Holmes must have handed it to me in passing.

Yawning, I followed him to the kitchen, which was lovely and warm from the stove's banked fire. I dropped the envelope and set my chin into my hands, closing my eyes, only dimly aware of the sounds of tea preparation.

I came awake when a cup nudged my elbow. As I reached for it, I noticed the envelope I had let fall on the table. It was large, and of paper so lusciously thick, it tempted the hand. “What is this?” I asked, at the moment more interested in the toast he had slathered with butter and was now drizzling with some of the honey I had helped him process the previous summer.

“A gift. For the, er, bride.”

I jerked back, nearly upending my laden cup over the pristine rag paper, and eyed first Holmes, then the luxurious rectangle, with equal misgivings.

Holmes stood propped against the sink, grey eyes studying me over the top of his cup. I rubbed my palms down my dressing gown, and gingerly picked up the envelope.

No writing: a red wax seal on the flap. I fetched a knife—one free of butter, honey, or even a fleck of dust—and edged it under the seal.

The paper inside, thrice-folded, was similarly blessed with red: an embossed seal, a strip of meaningless ribbon, a second embossing down below, a formal signature. It began:

Randall Thomas, by Divine Providence, Archbishop of
CANTERBURY,
Prince of all England, and Metropolitan, to our well-beloved in
CHRIST
~

Sherlock Escott Leslie Holmes of the Parish of Saint Simon and Saint Jude in the County of Sussex a Bachelor and Mary Judith Russell of the Parish of All Saints Oxford a Spinster ~

GRACE and HEALTH. WHEREAS ye are, as it is alleged, resolved to proceed to the Solemnisation of true and lawful Matrimony and that you greatly desire that the same may be solemnised in the face of the Church: We being willing that these your honest Desires may the more speedily obtain a due Effect, and to the end therefore that this Marriage may be publicly and lawfully solemnised in the ~ Parish ~ Church of ~

Saint Wulfstan's in Northamptonshire ~

by the RECTOR, VICAR, or CURATE thereof, without the Publication or Proclamation of the Banns of Matrimony, provided there shall appear no Impediment of Kindred or Alliance, or of any other lawful Cause, nor any suit commenced in any Ecclesiastical Court, to bar or hinder the Proceeding of the said Matrimony

There was quite a bit more of this sparsely-punctuated prose, with a formal signature at the bottom: + RANDALL CANTAUR.

I blinked. After a moment, I removed my spectacles and rubbed my tired eyes, before resuming the attempt. But it would seem that the problem was less in my vision than in my comprehension.

“The Archbishop of Canterbury?” I said weakly.

“He owed me a favour. Several, come to that.”

“ ‘The Parish of All Saints Oxford'?”

“He thought it convenient, being the University church. And I imagined you might appreciate the designation.”

The Church often gave the name “All Saints” to churches built on previous sites of pagan—or occasionally Jewish—importance. Had I told him that? God only knew.

“ ‘Saint Wulfstan's'?”

“Ah, yes. That ate up two or three of the favours owed, since it's not exactly the correct name for the chapel.”

Or the location—assuming this was his “family chapel.”

“Holmes, what is this?”

“I should have thought it obvious,” he said in surprise, and leant over me to tap the line that followed the chapel name—or, mis-name. “No banns; no public notice. And since the family—that is, Mycroft and I—appoint the chapel's rector, we can take whomever we like along for the purpose, and issue the appointment then and there. However, may I draw your attention to the addendum on the side?”

His long fingers swivelled the elaborate form ninety degrees, so I could read aloud the print: “ ‘This License to continue in force only Three Months, from the date hereof.' ” July was five months off, not three. “And also please note the emendation to the time of day.” The formal hand that had filled in our names, our details, and the chapel designation had also struck through the word “Forenoon” to replace it with “Evening.”

“ ‘Between the hours of Eight and Twelve in the
Evening
.' ”

“Mycroft has arranged a special train for six tonight. I've put Billy in charge of finding Watson and delivering him to Euston by a quarter to. I shall somehow get Mrs Hudson there at the same time, although I may need to dose her with laudanum in the process. I shan't be there—I will take an earlier train up, so as to examine the ground before the, er, guests arrive.”