The Marriage of Mary Russell (4 page)

My eyes had fixed on one particular line: …
resolved to proceed to the Solemnisation of true and lawful Matrimony.
For some reason, the words wavered in my vision.

“Oh, Holmes,” I whispered. My attempted gift had been returned to me, tenfold.

Three o'clock in the morning may not be the ideal time to embark on a project both abrupt and important, but embark we did. Following much strong coffee and a change of clothing (for me, that is: opening my deceased father's wardrobe to Holmes would have had overtones even a non-Freudian could hardly deny), we got the motorcar running and I took him to his villa, then turned my head-lamps in the direction of London. Despite his less-than-complimentary assurance that no-one cared what I wore so long as I was able to run in it, I refused to be wed in a twice-let-down frock and shoes more suited to a farmyard.

In an odd coincidence of impulse and practicality, I had recently set up an establishment in London composed of a too-large and peculiarly furnished Bloomsbury flat into which I had poured unlikely knickknacks, expensive clothing, and a pair of servants by the name of Quimby. Before the dust had settled, I realised it was an experiment doomed to failure, but I had yet to break it up; if I had suitable clothing, it would be there.

Under other circumstances, I'd have grumbled that the first train from Sussex did not reach London until nine o'clock—or gone back to bed entirely and set off for Town at my leisure. However, between the coffee buzzing in my veins and the thoughts whirling through my head, I rather thought I might never feel sleepy again. Motoring through the dark countryside at least kept the whirling thoughts under control.

The flat's brittle and dramatic furnishings were particularly stark by dawn's early light, even when the Quimbys appeared (summoned by the doorman—I'd have let them sleep) bearing newspapers and breakfast. Mrs Q found me in the bedroom, frowning over the clothing I had flung across the huge modernist-sculpture object that passed for a bed.

Even if I'd had until July, I'd have regarded the traditional white satin wedding dress with floor-length veil as an absurdity, suitable for those wed in a cathedral with scores of family and a phalanx of uniformed groomsmen to hand. I did not even wish eggshell silk, since wearing it would instantly bring me into contact with engine grease, fresh blood, or a pool of quicksand. Surely something on this vast bed would serve my purpose? The eau-de-Nil sheath and the black-and-white frock with the dropped waist were both more suited to an afternoon tea than a mid-night wedding. The brown-and-scarlet was beautiful, but those colours were a very long way from the traditional. And if I were to take Holmes' caveat seriously (should I?), the magnificent ice-blue evening gown, the burnt-orange frock with the snug skirt, and the green lacy piece with the uneven hem-line and train would each render brisk flight impossible. There was one piece with a lot of beads that I liked, but if silence were required in addition to speed, I'd have to strip it off and flee in my camiknickers.

Which left the grey-blue wool skirt-and-jacket with the Kashmiri embroidery along the front. With a white silk blouse underneath and its matching hat, I would be both presentable and capable of an all-out sprint. I even had a dark overcoat, in the event of rain or skulking in the shadows.

I wondered what the fashion pages might say regarding a throwing knife strapped somewhere about the bride's person. Better than a revolver in the handbag, I decided, and told Mrs Quimby that I would have three eggs for my breakfast, and a lot of toast.

I got through the day somehow. In the afternoon, I did nearly fall asleep in the bath, but when Mrs Q then took charge of my hair, leaving me with nothing to do but envision the next few hours, my stomach began to feel the approach of nerves, that strange physiological reaction of icy hands and over-warm body. It was all I could do not to wrench away from her—or, worse, blurt out why I was in such a state—but I managed to submit to her attentions, allowing her chatter to wash over my head and across the crystal fittings on the glass-and-mirrored dressing table.

I remember little about that endless afternoon. Time seemed to stretch and contract like the pulling of taffy—until eventually a glance at the clock snipped it off and swept me out the door in a panic, convinced that I would miss the 4:15 from Euston. (Holmes would not take the 3:05, since that train arrived by daylight, and the 4:00 was a local, its many stops eating up an extra 32 minutes. The 4:15 it would be.)

Holmes no doubt intended for me to be on Mycroft's Special with our priest and witnesses, but the thought of being locked for ninety minutes behind blacked windows with those inquisitive friends was more than I could bear. No: whatever Holmes had in mind, I would stand with him, Kashmiri embroidery or no.

We spotted each other across the crowds at Euston Station. He did not look surprised. Nor did he look like a man dressed for his wedding. I opened my mouth to comment on what looked like a hansom-driver's outfit—then I shut it. Today, for once, he would not provoke me. At least he had shaved.

“Good afternoon, Holmes,” I offered primly.

“Russell,” he said with a tip of his disreputable hat.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said. “I'm afraid I've a Third—” He stopped, looking down at the ticket I was holding out.

“I bought two in First Class,” I told him. “We shall have a compartment by ourselves.”

He submitted with surprisingly good grace, and handed me into the compartment, taking my small valise—the one with the long strap to free one's hands for flight or fight—to place in the rack overhead. He, I noted, had none. I stifled a sigh, and held out to him the smaller parcel I had fetched as my taxi passed through Town.

Champagne with two glasses; pâté with biscuits; three wedges of cheese; grapes that had hurried across Europe from some Egyptian hot-house.

His mouth gave a twitch, and he set about decanting our picnic.

For the first time that day, I relaxed: whatever lay before us, it would include emotional swordplay, and it would involve Holmes.

I raised my glass to him, then sat back against the leather seat.

“Tell me what we are likely to encounter,” I requested. “Other than dogs, furious cousins, and armed butlers.”

“That may be enough to be going on, considering our hostages to fortune.”

“Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson,” I supplied. “And Billy?” William Mudd, once the young page on Baker Street, now an investigator in his own right.

“Once he's seen the other two off at Euston, Billy's work is finished. No, just Mycroft.”

I came perilously near to splashing wine on the pale wool. “
Mycroft?
Your brother is removing himself from London?”

“A rare occurrence, it is true.”

Such an event had been described as a planet leaving its orbit.

“Plus his pet Anglican rector,” I said.

“Not…exactly.”

I fixed him with a gaze. “Tell me, Holmes: will anything about this ceremony be recognised in a court of law? I ask because my solicitors are sure to do so.”

“Your solicitors will be quite satisfied with the paper-work,” he said.

“And we won't be required to commit blood-shed in the course of it?”

“I fully intend our presence to go without notice.”

“Then would you hand me the grapes?” I requested. The rest of the journey passed in an amiable silence. I may even have napped.

It was dark when we arrived in…not Northamptonshire, but near there. Holmes carried my small valise across the platform and through the station to the street beyond, but rather than summon one of the two taxis at the kerb, he turned right. Around the corner waited a large, shiny motorcar, its heavy engine idling a cloud into the frigid air. We climbed in. Without waiting for instructions, the driver switched on the head-lamps and put it into gear.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“An acquaintance.”

We drove some five or six miles, out of town and up first one country road, then a smaller one, and finally a rough track that had the man pulling himself forward to peer over the wheel.

At the end, he turned into a wide spot and applied the brakes. Head-lamps and engine cut off; silence and blackness descended. Holmes addressed our driver. “It might be best to turn the motor around, the next time.”

“For ease of departure, yes, sir.”

“We shall return here within two hours.”

“I'll keep your friends here until you come.”

“Russell, you're certain you won't hold me to blame for the ruination of your shoes or garments? We have a mile or so of ground to cover.”

“In that case,” I said, “hold on a moment.”

I knew my…intended well enough to have suspected that formal clothing would be doomed, so I now felt around for the valise, opened it, and pulled out a pair of shoes considerably less sleek than those I currently wore. I laced them on by touch, then pushed the good pair inside with the kit for emergency repairs: replacement silk stockings, sponge bag with damp cloth, nail-scissors, hair-brush, and pins. I did up the buttons on my overcoat, to preserve the more vulnerable clothing beneath from snags and grime, and dropped the long strap of the valise over my head.

“Ready,” I said.

There was just enough moon to give definition to the land around us. We appeared to be on a bridle path—less pitted and filled with ordure than a farm track—leading through trees, up a low hill, and finally opening onto pasture land. A trickling sound ahead of us gave evidence of a small stream; beyond that, a dark shape took form, soon resolving into the roof-line of a considerable building.

Holmes took my elbow, guiding me over a narrow foot-bridge that crossed the stream, then let me go to lead the way up what felt underfoot like close-mowed lawn. As the silhouette of the building became more precise, he grew alert, then stopped.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Lights,” he breathed back. “Around the front of the house.”

“Is that unusual?”

“A bit. My…as a boy, I only saw them lit when we had guests.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Shouldn't matter. If anything, guests will keep the family occupied.”

I supposed a house-party was unlikely to migrate towards a chapel, unless his cousin was particularly religious or intending a Black Mass; still, this evidence of the rightful owners—rather, the residents—brought back the day's clammy nerves.

“Come,” he said, and we continued.

The path grew narrow, between shrubs of some kind. I followed a thin white line—Holmes' shirt-collar—with my arms folded across my chest, feeling the pluck of branches at my sleeves. The white line grew less and less conspicuous, until I was forced to give a little
hsst
through my teeth: my eyes were poor at night, but I hadn't thought his were
that
much better.

A white shape hovered into view: his shirt-front, rather than back. “How can you see where you're going, Holmes?”

“My feet learned these paths as a boy,” he replied, and set off again, leaving me to consider Sherlock Holmes as a bare-kneed lad.

The next time I caught him up was beside a stone wall where the air smelt of horses. He lowered his head to speak into my ear. “This next bit is complicated. You wait here while I go through to unlatch the door. I'll be two minutes.”

I tugged my coat lapels together against the cold, and felt more than heard him move off.

Now that I was still, I could hear the night: the faintest of breezes through the leaves; the cry of a vixen in the woods; from a window over my head, the snort of a horse reacting to a stranger's scent. No dogs yet, thank God. Then I tensed: voices.

They were far off, possibly near the front of the house where the glow was coming from. I could not make out the words, although I thought there were two men. Still, they came no closer, and soon faded away, leaving me with the fox, a far-off owl, and the tiny shift of pebbles beneath my shoes.

A scraping noise came, and a creak, followed by footsteps, hurrying down a stone stairway as if by daylight. Then Holmes was again touching my elbow, leading me up a flight of deeply worn stone steps in the direction of a dim rectangle.

The warm odour of honey told me where we were before I stepped through the doorway: a tall, fragrant beeswax candle hung over the altar, filling the world with sweetness.

The chapel was small: forty celebrants would have been a crowd, with a small gallery over the back for a choir of at most half a dozen. It was old: those windows might have come from the thirteenth century, and the vaulted ceiling not much later. And it was simple: hand-hewn stone, time-smoothed floors, three tapestries whose colours had faded into abstract patterns, carved wooden pews in need of polish—none of the clutter of statues, memorials, and religious bric-a-brac that family chapels tended to collect over the centuries.

With one modern exception. Beside the door, gazing across the intervening pews at the altar, was the portrait of a woman: thin, grey-eyed, with a nose too aquiline for conventional beauty. Her force of personality dominated the silent room.

And something else: the silver-and-pearl brooch at her throat. My hand rose of its own volition to touch this very necklace, resting against my own skin, a most uncharacteristic present from Holmes on my eighteenth birthday. Inside it was a miniature image of his grandmother, the sister of the artist who had painted it, Horace Vernet. That side of the Holmes family—a family otherwise composed of stolid English country squires—proved to his mind (as he had once mused to Watson) that art in the blood was liable to take the strangest forms: surely only the artistic gift for observation and deduction could explain the marked abilities of both Holmes brothers.

The tiny miniature did not give much scope for the artist's gift of observation, but this portrait manifestly did. She appeared to be about my own age, but even in youth, she shone with the same blazing intelligence and understanding as the man at my side.