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I uncovered a tweed skirt that I might tuck up to current
length, and a blouse that did not look like something
handed down from the butcher's wife. Stockings and suspenders
I found aplenty, but I nearly gave up altogether on
the shoes. Holmes' feet were larger than mine, and his selection
of women's shoes somewhat limited. I held up a
pair of scarlet satin sandals with four-inch heels and tried
to imagine Holmes in them. My imagination failed. (But
if not Holmes, then who? I put them down abruptly,
shocked at myself. Keep your mind on the business at hand,
please, Russell.) I picked up a pair of dowdy black shoes
with a strap across the instep and low Cuban heels and
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found that I could at least walk in them.
I switched on the row of lights and sat down with
the pots and sticks to change my face (How many young
women had been taught the subtleties of make-up by a
man? I reflected idly.), added a long string of pearls (real)
and small earrings (fake), wrapped my head in a piece of
cloth from the scarf drawer (which had, judging from the
shape, once been the lining of a coat), and finally stood
away from the desk to look at myself.
Amazing. Nothing fit me, nothing matched, and my
feet hurt already, yet I would easily pass for a Young Thing
out for a day in Town. I darkened the rims of my spectacles
with some odd brown fingernail enamel and decided reluctantly
that I should have to leave them off for much of the
day, as any other vain young myopic would do. I gathered
up Watson's clothes, turned off the lights, took a deep
breath, and, with my hand inside my bag, opened the door.
No bombs went off, no bullets flew, no rough hands
grabbed at me. I closed the door behind me and went off
to spend the money I had borrowed so shamelessly from
the Holmes brothers.
ELEVEN
another problem:
the mutilatedfour-wheeler
Ever and anon, from a sudden wave that
shall be more transparent than others, there
leaps forth a fact that in an instant
confounds all we imagined we knew.
My first task was to make a
move towards reuniting Watson with his trousers, but as I
made my way back through the tearoom and the store's
many levels, it occurred to me that Holmes' bolt-hole was
ideally situated, that I could easily spend the day without
having to set foot on the street, for this was one of the two
stores in London (I shall not mention which, as the Storage
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Room may still be in use.) that touted itself as catering
for needs from cradle to grave. It could certainly afford me
protection, nourishment, and entertainment for a single
day.
With that happy thought I deposited the bundle of
Watson's salvaged clothing into his black bag and left it
checked, mailed the receipt to Mycroft at his club, and set
off on the unfamiliar but surprisingly agreeable task of
spending money. Late that afternoon, my Storage Room
reach-me-downs long since vanished into the rubbish bin,
my hair sculpted, my fingernails buffed and gleaming beyond
all recognition, my legs encased in sheer silk stockings
that were actually long enough, and my feet in heeled
shoes that didn't pinch, I decided that, all things considered,
the occasional dose of pampering could be great fun.
I took a light and leisurely tea, assembled my multitude
of parcels (which they offered to deliver, and I refused),
and was escorted to the door. Here I ran into a
problem. Holmes had insisted that I follow the same routine
as the morning's, except to take the fourth cab, but
here stood the uniformed doorman, and the first cab. I put
on my spectacles, gave him a huge tip, and shook my head.
Fifteen minutes later the third cab arrived. It was
getting very dark, and at that hour few cabs were free. This
one looked enticingly warm, and my new evening clothes
were not. Surely Holmes had not meant to be inflexible,
had he? I looked through the door at the bored driver,
stepped back, and waved him on. He looked highly irritated,
which matched my mood precisely. I peered down
the street in wan hope, studiously ignoring the doorman,
when up before me pulled a very old and very battered cab
drawn by one very old and battered horse.
"Cab, Miss?" said the voice from the moving anachronism.
I cursed Holmes under my breath. It looked very cold
in there compared to the others, but it was a cab, or it had
been thirty years before: a London growler. I told the driver
where I wanted to go, saw my purchases piled inside, and
got in. The doorman looked after me as if I were stark
raving mad. Which I was.
I did not know London at all well then, though I
had studied the maps a bit, so it took me a while to realise
that we were going in the wrong direction. Not completely
wrong, just very roundabout. My first thought was that the
driver was pulling a swindle in order to charge me more
for the ride. I had opened my mouth to call out when I
froze with a terrible thought. Perhaps I had been followed.
Perhaps this driver was an ally of the blind pencil seller.
First I was frightened, but then I was furious. I fought the
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remnants of a window down and craned my neck out to
see him.
"Oy, driver, where are you taking me? This isn't the
way to Covent Garden."
"Yes, Miss, this is the faster way, away from the heavy
traffic, Miss," the voice whined obsequiously.
"All right, you, now look. I have a revolver, and I
will shoot you if you do not stop immediately."
"Now, Miss, you doesn't want to be doing that,
now," he snivelled.
"I'm feeling more like it every moment. Stop this
cab, now!"
"But I can't do that, Miss, I really cannot."
"Why not?"
The shaggy head leaned over the side, and I stared
up at him. "Because we'll miss the curtain if I do," said
Holmes.
"You! You utter bastard," I growled. The gun shook
in my hand, and Holmes, seeing it, drew his head back
quickly. "Look, you, that's the second time you've played
your bloody tricks on me in three days." I caught the startled
look of a passerby and lowered my voice. "If you do it
again and I have a gun in my hand, I won't be responsible,
d'you hear? As sure as my mother's name is Mary McCarthy,
I'll not be responsible for my temper."
I sat back in the swaying cab and caught my breath.
Several minutes later a thin voice drifted down to me.
"Yes, Miss."
Some distance from the theatre he pulled the ancient
cab into a dark spot adjoining one of London's innumerable
small and hidden parks. The growler sagged sideways
with his weight, and in a moment the door fell open. He
eyed me.
"Your mother's name was not Mary McCarthy," he
said accusingly.
"No, it was Judith Klein, just don't scare me again,
please. I've been walking around frightened and blind since
I left your brother's rooms, and I'm tired."
"Apologies, Russell. My twisted sense of humour has
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had me in trouble before this. Pax?"
"Pax." We clasped hands firmly. He stepped up into
the cab. "Russell, this time it is you who must turn your
back. I can hardly go into the theatre looking like the
driver of a four-wheeler." I hastily departed out the other
side.
Coat and hat, stick and proper evening coat, hair
combed, moustache applied, he alighted from the cab. A
small man wandered up, whistling softly.
"Good evening, Billy."
"Evenin", Mr. . .. Evenin', sir." He touched his hat
to me.
"Don't break your neck over the boxes inside, Billy.
And there's a rug under the seat if you need it. Just keep
your eyes open."
"That I will, sir. Have a good evenin', sir, Miss."
I was so preoccupied that I did not notice when
Holmes tucked my arm in his.
"Holmes, how on earth did you find me?"
"Well, I cannot claim it was entirely a coincidence,
as I thought it possible you would fall victim to the charms
of the place and be there all day. Also, both the doorman
and the attendant to whom you gave Watson's bag were
watching and swore you hadn't yet left when I asked an
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