A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [113]
"Miss Ruskin laid a trap."
"You could say that. A trap that could only be sprung by the presence of criminal intent."
"Not very nice of her, neglecting to mention your part in the arrangements."
"The woman had an incredible faith in us, I agree. And not an entirely warranted faith, at least when it came to me. Her sister's ears were much sharper than mine at hearing nuances."
"The search of our cottage did catch our attention, though," said Holmes benignly.
Lestrade shook his head.
"So elaborate. And almost suicidal. Why not come to us in the first place, or even to you, bring it out in the open? As mad as her sister, in a way."
"I think it began simply— in a conviction— and grew. And yes, immensely single-minded, practical people do seem mad. But, you may be right about one thing: I don't think she much cared for the chance she had of living blind."
A short time later, Lestrade's local police driver arrived to take him to the train. Before he left, Holmes congratulated him, so that going down the drive to the waiting car, his shoe leather was floating several inches above the gravel. Holmes shook his head sourly as we watched the driver negotiate the ruts and stones and peace began to settle again onto our patch of hillside.
"What is wrong, Holmes? I'd have thought you would be as cock-a-hoop as Lestrade, snatching a solution from the jaws of befuddlement as you did."
"Ah, Russell, I had such hopes for this case," he said mournfully. "But in the end, it all came down to greed. So commonplace, it's hardly worthy of any attention. Do you know, for a few days I allowed myself to hope that we had a prime specimen among cases, a murder with the pure and unadorned motive of the hatred of emancipated women. Now, that would have been one for the books: murder by misogyny," he drawled with relish, and then his face twisted. "Money. Bah!"
* * *
Two days later, I took the train to London to see Colonel Edwards. I dressed carefully for that meeting, including my soft laced-up boots, which brought me to well over six feet in height. I arrived back late in the afternoon, and while Mrs Hudson went to heat more water for the teapot, I walked over to stand at the big south window that framed the Downs as they rolled towards the sea, to watch the light fade into purples and indigo and a blue in the heights the colour of Dorothy Ruskin's eyes. Small noises behind me told of Holmes filling and lighting his pipe— a sweetly fragrant tobacco tonight, an indicator of his temper, as well. Mrs Hudson came in with the tea. I accepted a cup and took it back to the window. It was nearly dark.
"So, Russell."
"Yes, Holmes."
"What did your colonel have to say?"
I took a contemplative sip of the steaming-hot tea and thought back to the man's reaction as he saw his gentle, hesitant, stoop-shouldered secretary climb out of the taxi as Mary Russell Holmes. I could feel a smile of pure devilment come onto my lips.
"He said, and I quote, 'I always felt there was more to you, Mary, but I must say I hadn't realised just how much more.' "
I grinned as I heard the sounds behind me, then turned, finally, to take in the sight of Sherlock Holmes collapsed in helpless laughter, his head thrown back on the chair, pipe forgotten, uncertainty forgotten, all forgotten but the beauty and absurdity of the colonel's elegy.
PART SEVEN
A woman seldom writes her mind but in her postscript.
— Richard Steele
POSTSCRIPT
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The letter that lay at the heart of our investigation, the little strip of stained papyrus that was written in a hurried moment some eighteen and a half centuries before I first laid eyes upon it, preserved by simple peasants in a vague awareness of its importance, passed within its clay amulet during the formative years of Islam into a branch of the family that followed the Prophet, kept in the heart of generations of believers over centuries of war and wandering until a simple act of generosity on the part of an Englishwoman brought it to light, is still in my possession. In