Associates of Sherlock Holmes Page 8

I lost consciousness again, and when next I woke, it was to see an immense figure, something like the marriage of a giant and an ape and a hairy carpet, moving around the camp. This creature made the axe-wielding wild man look petite in comparison. The boy sat on a fallen log, chewing a bit of jerky, and when he saw my eyes open, he held out the food to me. But I was still grievously injured and passed out again. I think it was just minutes later that I opened my eyes and saw the back of the immense hairy creature as it departed the camp, taking long and somehow stately strides. Its feet were huge, at least a foot and a half long.

  Some time later my consciousness returned properly, and I rasped out a request for water. The boy solemnly brought me a tin cup, and I gulped it down. Once I was able to sit up, I found that my wounded shoulder had been sealed over with mud. (When I eventually saw a doctor, he claimed not to recognise the leaves packed in the wound, but declared me remarkably free of infection.)

  I looked at the boy. “What happened?” I asked.

  The child shrugged. “You save me. Big man save you.”

  “Big man. You mean…”

  “Big man.” The boy held his hands apart. “Big feet.” He grinned, and I let out a burst of laughter myself, giddy with the realisation that I might just live after all.

  * * *

  There was a bit of a fuss afterward, of course. When I took the boy to Fraser’s cabin, what passed for the local police were waiting there, someone having seen Newman skulking around before the boy vanished. I professed to know nothing about any of that and spun a tale about going on a hunting trip with Fraser and Newman in search of bears, only to encounter a wild woodsman and this boy. When telling a lie, it’s best to hew closely to the truth, and the wild man had killed my companions, and I had saved the boy, after all. The child said nothing to contradict my account, either because he lacked the sense to understand what had really happened, or out of loyalty to me for rescuing him. He did babble at length about the hairy “big man” who’d rescued us both. When questioned on that subject, I would only shrug and say I’d been injured, and that much of what happened after I dispatched the wild man was a blur.

  I remain unsettled in my mind on this matter, I confess. Did one of Fraser’s “big men” carry me to safety and treat my wound? Or was it just a benevolent woodsman, transformed by my battered mind into a figure from Fraser’s fancies? Perhaps I’d carried the boy back to camp myself and slathered my own injury with leaves and mud, in a feverish delirium, and subsequently forgotten? I cannot definitively say. I wish the professor had not died, so I could ask his opinion.

  I was obliged to sit in a cell while the authorities investigated my story, but the condition of the bodies they found confirmed my account. The head of the constabulary told me those facts I related earlier about the origins of the wild man. There was some fuss about my being a foreigner, wandering about in the woods so heavily armed, with all those dead bodies in my vicinity. But in the end, it all came to nothing, as the only American citizen among the dead was Newman, who was well known locally and widely despised. The authorities set me free, kept my rifles and invited me to please never return to their state. I assured them that no prohibition had ever made me happier.

  I returned to London and vowed that thereafter I would limit my sport to gambling at cards, as, for the first time in my life, the thought of holding a gun was somewhat distasteful to me. It occurs to me now that if I’d held firm to that feeling, I wouldn’t have taken up arms to shoot that fool Adair, and then that cunning fiend of a detective wouldn’t have contrived to capture me, and I wouldn’t be in this cell now. But such reversals of fortune are all part of the sporting man’s life, I suppose, and one never knows: I might have the great detective in my sights again someday, and give these memoirs a happier ending.

  A DORMITORY HAUNTING

  Jaine Fenn

  When recalling women who acquit themselves well in Sherlock Holmes stories, most people think only of Irene Adler. Violet Hunter leaves less of an impression, perhaps because she does not best Holmes, although he does respect her quick and observant mind. Miss Violet Hunter appears in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”, and my inclination to find out how she fared later in life became a firm decision when I realised that this story takes place within a few miles of where I live. Watson feels Violet Hunter might be a lonely person, with the implication that her intellect could be an impediment in finding a husband. At the end of the story Holmes comments that she ended up as head of a private school in Walsall where she “met with considerable success”. That gave me all I needed: I couldn’t resist having a go at mixing mystery and romance in a tale about an admirable and independent woman.

  —Jaine Fenn

  It is sometimes said – most often by men – that there is no more chaotic mental space than the mind of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. But whilst I have had to deal with my share of confusion, disruption and pigheadedness amongst my charges, the commotion that roused me that late October night was not of the usual kind.

  The moon was half-full, hidden intermittently by racing clouds, and the first chill of winter had blown across the hockey fields during the afternoon’s match with St Hilda’s. We had lost, again: perhaps I should encourage Miss Simpson to take her well-earned retirement, but she is popular with the girls, and I pride myself that Rosewood Academy is a place that values pleasure in education above prowess in sport.

  Lights had been out for a while, and I was dozing over some paperwork when a faint yet chilling shriek came from above. More cries followed, and I picked up the lamp and left my office, breathing a little hard. The dormitory is on the top floor and I was breathing harder still when I reached it. However, as the other teachers had all retired to bed, I was first upon the scene.

  The occupants of the room were in a state of borderline hysteria. The lower school girls were shadowy shapes sitting up in their beds, some with covers drawn to chins; a couple were standing, but leapt back onto their beds when I entered. They had been looking down the length of the great attic room, towards the curtained alcoves where the fifteen senior boarders slept.

  “Back to bed and back to sleep, girls. It appears you must set an example for your older schoolmates.” For indeed, the upper school boarders all appeared to be out of bed, congregating in the centre of their dorm in a storm of over-loud whispers and gasps. As I strode forward and raised my lamp, white faces turned to stare. “What is going on here?” I demanded.

  No one rushed to answer. Behind me, I heard a step on the boards, and caught a whiff of lilac eau de toilette – our French mistress, if I was not mistaken. I glanced behind to check and, supposition confirmed, called back, “Miss Fournier, please ensure that the younger girls settle without further fuss.” I turned back to the seniors. “Well?”

  “Please Miss Hunter,” Jenny Miller put her hand up, presumably in response to the unexpected invasion of the girls’ intimate space by the highest authority in the school; I tried not to be amused to see such a gesture from a girl in a nightshirt, “there’s a ghost.”

  I raised my lamp higher. “An invisible ghost, presumably? How novel.”

  “Not in here,” said Jenny, “out there.”

  She pointed to the arched window at the far end. Through it I saw a faint glow, as of the cloud-covered moon. Girls were slinking back towards their beds, and silence had returned to the dormitory. If left to their own devices, after a stern warning, everyone would no doubt calm from this latest fancy. However, the shriek had been imbued with genuine terror. “Well, I had best see it off then.”

  I admit that my steps as I approached the window might not have been as firm as those when I entered, but I believe the girls did not apprehend any hesitation on my part. I have no love of attic spaces, and kept my eyes upon the window, seeing only that faint, silvery glow. The girl in one of the two alcoves nearest the window had not been amongst the gossipy huddle that had greeted me. Rather, she sat on her bed, hunched over something in her lap. Mary Fraser.
No doubt the scream had been hers. For a moment I considered asking her to put down her rosary and hold the lamp – to face the fear that, by her rocking motions and murmured prayers, patently gripped her – but I relented, and handed the lamp to Jenny, part of the cluster of girls one step behind me.

  I eased open the catch on the window, drawing a gasp from the girls and a whimper from Mary. It loosened all at once, and I had to grab for the handle to stop the wind slamming the window back into the wall. I stuck my head out as the moon broke free of the clouds, flooding the world outside with silver. My heart, I admit, did beat a little fast, but I saw nothing more unsettling than the shadows of the trees upon the lawn. Certainly no ghost. I pulled the window to and fastened it shut then turned to my escort and held out my hand for the lamp. “Thank you Jenny. There is, you will be glad to hear, nothing untoward outside the window. Now, if you will all make your way back to your beds, no more will be said.”

  I did not have to tell them twice.

  Turning back to Mary I found her looking up at me. “There was no ghost,” I said gently.

  “There was no ghost,” she parroted back. Since moving up to the seniors she had taken to agreeing with the words of her elders, regardless of her own opinion. Whilst it made her pliant in class, it was not a healthy trait. I sighed, tempted to leave it at that. But she was a troubled young lady, and trouble untended only increases. I sat down on the end of her bed. “Mary, what did you see?”

  Mary stared at the beads in her hands. “Nothing.”

  “All right. What do you think you saw?”

  “A ghost.” She flicked her chin up in brief defiance before dropping her gaze again.

  “Not… some other kind of apparition?” When she first came to my school two years ago Mary had claimed to see the face of the Madonna in a stain that appeared on the refectory wall after some particularly damp weather. She had been teased for it, and at assembly the next week I had delivered a lecture on respecting the religious views of others, whatever variation of the Christian faith they favoured.

  Mary shook her head, then in a low voice said, “It was a ghost, one of the unquiet dead, and it was white like bone and it flapped and beckoned to me and I was sure it was going to come through the wall and take my soul.” She dropped her head, hugging her knees tighter.

  I had an urge to touch the poor girl’s hand, to comfort her. But that would not have been appropriate.

  I would have liked more details, if not from poor Mary then from the other girls, on what they thought had happened here, but asking questions would give credence to what was most likely no more than the moon emerging from the clouds, or some piece of pale debris blown past the window. Instead, I asked Mary, “Would you like to move?”

  “Move, miss?”

  “Yes, to another alcove.” When Mary became a senior at the start of term I had decided to put her in the end alcove because she was an asthmatic; being near the window would help her breathing when the weather allowed it to be open, and not being surrounded on all sides by other girls would make her unfortunate tendency to snore less disruptive.

  “No, miss. I don’t want to be any trouble, miss.” Amongst her other challenging traits, young Mary Fraser can be very stubborn.

  * * *

  “I think Miss Hunter has a point.”

  “Thank you Mr Connor.” I managed to hide my surprise at this unexpected support. The Walsall Historical Association can be somewhat resilient to change, and Chairman Stevens had devoted much of tonight’s presentation to lamenting the loss of “traditional craftsmanship” in the area. I felt that these new industrial techniques might themselves be of interest to historians in a few hundred years time, but had waited until after the meeting to put this radical idea to our chairman. His uncharacteristic silence indicated that he was not impressed.

  My new ally continued, “I believe Miss Hunter’s own establishment was once a brewery?”

  “A malt-house,” I corrected, then regretted speaking out. Mr Connor had done nothing to deserve my ire. Chairman Stevens, however, was beginning to annoy me. But I bit my tongue. Even so, the esteemed leader of the Association gave his characteristic harrumph, and excused himself with a curt, “Good evening, then”.

  I turned to Mr Connor. “You came back.” He had arrived unannounced at last month’s meeting for the first time; late, greeted with frowns and stares and forced to claim the one empty seat next to mine. At the time I had ignored him save basic pleasantries, but I had noted his fine bearing, strong features and thick head of auburn hair, a shade not dissimilar to my own. This month he had arrived early and chosen to sit next to me, having asked permission and introduced himself first.

  “I did.” His voice had a faint burr, perhaps Irish. “And you would probably consider it forward of me to say this, but I came back partly in the hope that you might be here.”

  “I could consider that forward, yes. In fact I probably should.” I glanced at his hand and saw no ring, but whilst the estimable Mr Holmes would no doubt deduce the potential existence of a wife, any offspring and the family income at a glance, all I could say with certainty was that this charming gentlemen was well turned out.

  “So to state that it would be a shame to wait a whole month to see you again would be downright scandalous?”

  He was keeping his voice low, but over his shoulder I saw the looks we got from the knots of townsfolk making their leisurely way out of the hall. As a person of status in the community, I would be expected to disengage from such shamelessly open attention at the first socially acceptable opportunity. “It would,” I said curtly, but somehow failed to step away.

  “But not so scandalous that you have discounted it.”

  I do, of course, have my reputation to think of. And that of the school. Yet sometimes I find myself wishing to do what is not expected and required, within acceptable boundaries. “It appears I have not.”

  “Then would the possibility of meeting me at The Singing Kettle this Saturday afternoon be one you would entertain?”

  “I do believe I would, Mr Connor.” People would gossip anyway. I might as well give them something to talk about.

  * * *

  Four days after the panic in the dormitory, and three days after I accepted Mr Connor’s offer to meet for tea, there was another incident. The girls were at study in the library when, according to Miss Grainger the mathematics mistress, who was with them at the time, several textbooks “leapt off the shelf”. Miss Grainger is not prone to exaggeration, but without being present myself I cannot say whether the books leapt, fell or were simply pulled down when Miss Grainger’s back was turned. I can say that Mary Fraser was in the room at the time.

  * * *

  “A widower, you say?”

  Mr Connor picked up the teapot. “As of six months ago. My dear Anna contracted a fever. She passed quickly, and in many ways she is still with me.”

  “My sympathies. Yes please, I will have more tea. And was she also, ahem, Irish?”

  “Irish? Oh, the accent. I left Ireland when I was a boy, as so many of my countrymen do. I lived most of my life in America, where I met Anna and made business connections in the mining industry which have, whatever else, left me in a favourable financial position.”

  A man looking to turn a woman’s head might make such a statement. But would such a man, a few breaths earlier, also imply he has not fully accepted the death of his wife? Either way, Mr Connor was nothing if not direct, and I decided to follow suit. “Strange, then, that you should leave the United States and choose to settle in a quiet town in the Midlands. Assuming, that is, you plan to stay in Walsall?”

  “I’ve taken rental of a modest house on Ablewell Street. As to why: half my family went to the United States, the other half to work on the railways here. Those who came to England did well, and some still live in the area. With no wife or children in this world, I thought to try and reconnect with them. How long I will stay, I am not yet sure.”

  I took a
sip of tea. “Ablewell Street is near St Matthews. I myself attend St Matthews for evensong most weeks, yet I have not seen you there.”

  “I worship at a different church.”

  I had thought as much. “Ah, your Irish roots perhaps?”

  “I was raised a Catholic, but have drifted away from the faith of my fathers.”

  He had not, I noted, admitted which church he attended – if any; I would not put it past this unusual man to be an atheist. But his upbringing could provide knowledge relevant to the other matter on my mind. “Your familiarity with Catholicism still outstrips mine. May I ask a question?”

  “Related to the Catholic faith? If you wish.” He took a sip of tea.

  “Where does Catholicism stand on the matter of ghosts? I had thought the Church of Rome’s view not dissimilar to the Protestant one, but would welcome contradiction in this matter.”

  “Ghosts?” He put down his cup and cleared his throat. “In essence both branches of Christianity state the same view: ghosts are manifestations of the spirits of the dead.”

  “A view which, as we enter the twentieth century since Christ’s birth, is hard to credit.”

  “Many do, Miss Hunter.”

  A suspicion was forming. “Including yourself, Mr Connor?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Then I am guessing,” I said, “that Sunday may find you on Caldmore Road.”

  “You guess correctly. I am a Spiritualist.”

  “Ah.”

  “Does knowing this preclude our meeting again?” He sounded regretful.

  My heart softened. “I think we may agree to differ on certain subjects.”

  He smiled. “I will take that to mean that tea next week remains a possibility.”

  “It does.” Something about Mr Connor’s company made me inclined to take risks.

  * * *

  Three days later the “ghost” made another appearance in the dormitory. Miss Langham dealt with the crisis this time, as I was sound asleep, having taken a draught to combat a minor chill. All the staff who live at the school had been made aware of the previous incident – and my judgement that the cause was youthful hysteria – so she did not wake me. But breakfast was a strained affair, and Miss Langham approached me for a private word. When I asked whether Mary had been the one to raise the alarm, she replied, “Why yes, Miss Hunter. The poor girl was terrified out of her wits.”