Authors: Laurie R. King
I studied my reflection, starting at the top: cloche hat drawn to my eyebrows, hair beneath it in a prim bun which would soften as the day went on. I coaxed a few wisps to lie across my cheek and touch the neck of my frock. No earrings. I retrieved my makeup box, with which I had already lightened my brown skin, and added to the faint shadow under my cheekbones, to help me look slightly underfed. Taking off my spectacles, I rubbed a tiny smudge of purple into the skin under my eyes. The eyes were the hardest thing to disguise, always. One flash of intelligence at the wrong time could undo all my work. The horn-rimmed glasses with lightly tinted lenses I pulled on helped, and they made my face seem even more ethereal behind them. They would also serve to make me look naked when I removed them.
My chin was too strong. I practised dropping it, and my eyes. Shoulders drooping, as if the world was just a bit too heavy. Back and hips were already rearranged because of the shoes. I spent nearly an hour walking up and down in front of the mirror, refining the hang of my arms, the awkwardness of my hands in their demure white gloves, and the angle of my head. I sat in various chairs to practise until the seduction of my silken legs was completely unconscious. I lit a cigarette and coughed violently until I recalled the knack of diluting the smoke with air. Mary Small would definitely smoke, half-defiant, half-guilty. She also bit her nails—off came the gloves and I got to work with the nail scissors.
Finally, I could think of no other preparation—the rest of Mary Small would make herself known to me as the day went on. I stood in front of the mirror, and there she was, a young woman with my features but bearing almost no resemblance to Mary Russell in all the essentials. The doorman did not recognise me as he let me out of Mycroft’s building. Cheap suitcase in hand, I went to stalk my prey.
I ran him to ground that evening, though I had known for some hours precisely where he was. At two in the afternoon, the omnibus had let me off at the bottom end of what had once been a village high street. I stood for a moment to survey the ground (without the suitcase, which lay in the wardrobe of the boardinghouse room Holmes had let) and was well pleased by what I saw.
It was ideal for my purposes, an area of London that yet preserved the social structures of the village it had been in the not-too-distant past, before London in one of its spasms of growth had surrounded it, found it impossible to incorporate due to a scrap of canal and the slightly inconvenient angle of its high street, and then, like an oyster with a piece of grit, had smoothed the foreign object’s uncomfortable edges with a couple of thoroughfares and a bridge, and moved on, leaving the village, its two pubs and a post office, its church, shops, and teahouse, engulfed but more or less intact.
Some hours later, from my table in the front window of that same teahouse, I watched Col. Dennis Edwards walk through the doors of the Pig and Whistle public house. I had taken the table an hour before and had spent the time eating sandwiches and chatting with the waitress-owner. She now knew that I was new to the area and looking for work. I knew that she had corns, five children (one of whom was in trouble over a small matter of removing from a store an item of clothing for which she had neglected to pay), and a husband who drank when he was at home, that her mother had piles, her elderly Jack Russell terrier had become incontinent and she was afraid he would have to be put down, and that she had an appointment the following week to have the last of her teeth out. I also had somewhat less thorough
but equally intimate biographies of half the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, including the occupant of “that great ugly house behind the wall up there,” Col. Dennis Edwards. That gentleman, whom she seemed to think almost was but wasn’t quite, had shown himself to be a parsimonious customer on the rare occasions that he ventured into Rosie’s Tea Shoppe, had difficulties keeping female servants (“not that he’s improper, mind, it’s his temper, don’t you know, specially when he’s been at the bottle”), had a “real looker” of a son with roving hands, whose drinking habits were similar to those of the father, though he was happy rather than mean-tempered when in his cups. A fountain of information was our Rosie. She told me happily about the colonel’s wife, who had died of pneumonia during the war, about his servants and his cars, his dogs and visitors, what he ate and how much he drank, where his clothes came from and her estimate of his net worth. I listened until she began to repeat herself, and I then commented on the young couple who walked past the window holding each other upright and listened with equal interest to ten minutes of their personal habits. Finally, I rose, thinking that the half hour he had been in the pub should have softened him and knowing that if I had to listen to Rosie’s tumbling monotone for another minute, I should go mad. I left her a decent tip and took my sore feet off to the Pig and Whistle for something more fortifying than Rosie’s tea.
I walked slowly, studying the contents of shop windows, until I stood looking in through the wall of small panes that formed the front of the pub, as if attracted by the warmth within. Two nights before, it would have been stifling inside, but the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in the past twenty-four hours, and most of the clientèle who would have been standing on the pavement were now inside. It did look warm and comforting, with its wooden walls, polished bar, and even a patch of orange-and-brown carpet on the floor. At the far right, I saw a boisterous party in a booth, the table littered with bottles and empty glasses. Two young women sat laughing uproariously at the antics of one of the men, who was hurling darts with
exaggerated fury towards a frayed-looking target on an equally frayed wall. A man in a crisp black suit sat with his back to the window, watching the darts players. Two greying ladies whom I had seen earlier that day sat with a pair of strangely coloured drinks, vaguely green and unpleasant. Had I seen them in the knitting-wool shop? No, it had been the stationers, where I had purchased a lined notebook. A man and a woman stood behind the bar, the man pulling a pint for a second blacksuited man and talking sideways to the woman in a way that spoke of a long, comfortable marriage. And there, halfway between me and the bar, was the object of my interest, a sturdy, moustachioed man nursing a glass of what I took to be whisky, watching the darts game.
I straightened my thin shoulders, summoned up a nest of mouselike thoughts, and walked in. The man in the dark suit stood with two glasses on the bar in front of him while he counted out a handful of coins. He slapped them down on the bar, made a remark to the owner, who laughed, and picked up the two brimming glasses. He ran his eyes across me, then, to my relief, he walked past the colonel’s booth to join the similarly dressed man at the front window. I needed the colonel alone.
“Get you something, miss?” I turned to the publican, who smiled encouragingly to keep me from bolting out his door. I fiddled with the clasp on my handbag, then took a few steps towards him and opened my mouth to speak, but a great burst of laughter from the dartboard brought me to a stop. I glanced over at that side of the room, and on their way back, my eyes were caught by those of the colonel, who had turned around at the publican’s question. I twitched him a shy smile, then looked back at the man waiting behind the bar.
“Yes, yes, please. May I have—oh, let me see, a sherry perhaps? Yes, a sherry. Oh, sweet, I think. Oh, yes, that would be fine, thank you.” I counted the money from my little purse and picked up the glass, thanked the publican again, smiled at his wife, eyed the room indecisively, smiled again briefly at the man with the moustaches, and made
my hesitant way past him to a chair at a table next to the window, a location that just happened to put me ten feet from him, at an angle that I could not see him without moving my chair, yet where he could hardly miss having me in full view at all times. I settled myself, and, since a goat tethered out in the jungle is of no use if it simply stands there quietly, I began my routine of helpless bleating, calling the tiger in to me.
I started by removing my gloves, shunning for the moment the obvious ruse of dropping one on the floor, and tucking my hair back into place. I sipped at my drink without gagging on the cloyingly sweet stuff, took a magazine from my handbag, and then let it fall shut after two minutes. I slipped my shoes off under the table and surreptitiously leant down to massage my feet, stared out the window at the receding tide of foot and vehicular traffic, froze in apprehension when the voices of the darts players erupted into anger, then gradually relaxed when the publican’s wife put herself into the middle of it, turning it into a joke. After ten minutes, my glass was nearly empty, my eyes were smarting from the smoke and the fumes, and I was beginning to wonder how I could put myself any closer to Colonel Edwards without being obvious. I pulled off the heavy spectacles and folded them carefully on the table, then sat rubbing the bridge of my nose. There came a movement from behind me, male voices at the bar. I held my breath. If he decided to leave, I should have to play this all over again tomorrow. A dreary thought.
A large moving object came to a halt next to my left elbow. I took my face from my hands to look up, startled, at the man beside me, into a face ruddy with whisky and weather, a wide nose over a trimmed moustache, sand beginning to grey, that gave way to a full mouth and an ever so slightly weak chin. His expression was half-paternal, half-interested male. Ideal, I thought, if only he didn’t look so much like Uncle John. Actually, it was the moustache that brought John Watson to mind, but I cautioned myself that I would have to beware of the affection I felt for Holmes’ longtime partner and biographer. This man was not Uncle John.
He was holding out a glass, of the same sweet stuff I had been drinking. His smile broadened at my confusion, and I reached for my spectacles.
“I thought you might like a refill.”
“Oh, well, yes, thank you. It’s most kind of you, but I don’t usually drink more than one.”
“Well, you can’t refuse a gift, can you? Besides, you looked all alone over here, and we can’t have that, not at the Pig and Whistle.”
“Oh no, I’m not all alone. I mean, I am alone, but not—oh dear, that’s not coming out right, is it? Please sit down.” I fumbled my shoes back on and straightened my back.
He placed his glass on the table and took possession of the chair across from me. He was a big man, not tall, but with broad shoulders and a bit of a belly to show for his intemperate habits. Erect bearing, still the military man.
“Colonel Dennis Edwards, at your service, miss.” His hand sketched a humorous salute, and he grinned. Oh dear, I thought, what a very nice smile.
“Mary Small,” I said, and held out my right hand to have the fingers shaken. Instead, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. I blushed. Yes, truly I did, although the wine helped. He was greatly amused.
“Miss Small—it is Miss, I trust?” I inclined my head. Direct lies were the most difficult, although Mary Small was not a married woman. “Miss Small, I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, have I?”
“No, I’m new to the area, Colonel Edwards.”
“I thought as much. I didn’t think I could overlook such a flower as yourself.”
I did not know quite how to respond to this, and I decided that Mary Small did not know, either. I smiled awkwardly and sipped my sherry, grateful for the sandwiches I had eaten to absorb the alcohol. The colonel soon fetched yet another round, which left me feeling quite warm and seemed not to affect him, beyond stepping up his volubility. He talked about this neighbourhood as if it were his
personal possession, told me about the process by which it was being swallowed by greedy London town, told me about his army career. He talked; I listened. Mary Small seemed very good at listening, first to Rosie, now to the colonel. In fact, people responded to her shyness with words, pouring out their life stories. By eight o’clock, two of the darts players had joined us, the publican’s wife, and the publican himself occasionally, all apparently set on thrusting their personal histories on this tall, quiet, pale young woman in the tinted glasses. I have no great head for alcohol, and although I had managed quietly to rid myself of almost half of what was brought me, I had drunk more in the last couple of hours than I normally drank in a week. I felt flushed all over, my hair was coming down, the loud voices battered my senses, and a high and nagging voice spoke in my ear, warning me that I was going to make an awful mistake if I was not careful.
I rose abruptly, and five sets of eyes looked up at me uncertainly. I faced the wife and asked, with immense dignity, for the use of her facilities.
When I returned a few minutes later, considerably cooler and my hair under control, the party had broken up, but the colonel remained, and he stood when I entered.
“Miss Small, it occurs to me that neither of us have dined. Would you care to join me? Just a simple meal. There’s a nice restaurant up the street.”
This is really too easy, I thought happily.
“Oh, Colonel, it would be lovely, but I have to be up early tomorrow. I have an interview for a position at eight-thirty on the other side of town, and I really mustn’t miss it, I’m getting—well, the situation is becoming a bit urgent. I must find work by the end of the week, or—well, I must, that’s all. So I’d enjoy having dinner with you, but—”
“But of course you’ll have dinner with me. Just a quick dinner, nothing fancy, and we’ll have you in early. Where are you living?”
I told him where the boardinghouse was located and protested weakly, but of course he overrode my objections, and so we went to
dinner. It was a pleasant-enough meal, and the wine was superb, causing me to regret the earlier alcoholic treacle that I had swallowed. The colonel drank my share, however, and seemed to enjoy it. I heard more of his story, his love for hunting, the book he was writing, his cars. Finally, over coffee, he fell silent, and as I looked down at my cup, I felt his eyes on me for a long minute.
“Don’t go to that interview tomorrow,” he said. I raised my eyes in surprise.