• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"Oh, it's a system I learned in Oxford."

"Were you writing right to left?"

"On alternate lines. Makes it much smoother, not having to jump back to the beginning of the line each time."

"Well, live and learn." He handed me back my notebook. "Time for a little something. Sherry, I think, Miss Small?"

"Oh, Colonel Edwards, I don't think—"

"Now look, young lady." His mock sternness was meant to be amusing. "I never drink alone if I can help it— it's bad for the health. If you're going to be around here, you'll have to learn to be sociable. Here." He handed me a brimming wineglass, and I sighed to myself. Oh well, at least the quality was decent.

An hour later, he stood up. "I must go, though I'd dearly love to repeat last night's dinner. You go on home, take my manuscript, and finish the letters tomorrow. We'll go to dinner tomorrow night."

Not with Holmes due back, we wouldn't. "Oh, no, I couldn't—"

"Tomorrow or Saturday, one or the other, I won't take a no."

"We'll, er, we'll talk about it tomorrow," Mary Small said weakly.

"Or tomorrow and Saturday both, if you like. Here's the manuscript. Didn't you have a coat? Oh now, look at the rain out there. I'll have Alex run you home and come back for me; it'll take me that long to climb into my stiff shirt anyway." Protests were ignored as he stepped out and shouted orders to his man. "That's settled, then. I don't like to think of you getting wet. Here's your coat."

He held it for me, and his hands lingered on my shoulders. "Don't you think I should call you Mary?"

"Whatever you like, Colonel." I busied myself with my buttons.

"Would you call me—"

"No, sir," I interrupted firmly. "It wouldn't be right, Colonel. You are my employer."

"Perhaps you're right. But we will go to dinner."

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, Mary."

* * *

My portrait of Colonel Edwards was filling out. It now included his home, his investments, his relationships with servants and hired help, and the suggestive knowledge that he had been duped by colleagues over the gender of D. E. Ruskin, for some as-yet-unknown reason, and was very angry about it. In addition, I now had eighty-seven pages of material written by his hand and shaped by his mind, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is so revealing of a person's true self as a piece of his writing. I hurried through the substantial tea provided by Billy's cousin, a tiny, whip-hard little woman with the unlikely name of Isabella, and shut myself in with the manuscript.

At page seven, there came a knock at the door.

"Miss, er, Small? It's Billy. There's a, er, gentleman on the telephone for you."

"Oh, good. Thank you, Billy. You're looking well. Perhaps we can have a chat sometime, over a pint? Where's the 'phone? Ah, thank you."

It was very good to hear his voice.

"Good evening, Mary," he said, warning me unnecessarily of the need for discretion— he never called me Mary. "How does the new job go?"

"Billy told you, then. It's very interesting. I've learnt a great deal already. He's a nice man, though I've heard some talk about him. Hard to believe, though."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is. And you? How are you getting on?"

"Well, as you know, the place is pretty run-down; there's a lot for someone like me to do. I spent yesterday morning weeding the rose beds and the afternoon digging in the potato patch."

"Poor thing, your back must be breaking. Don't pull anything." I more than half meant it— sustained physical labour was not his forte.

"I was inside today with a leaking joint in the kitchen, and she started me stripping wallpaper."

"Lucky you."

"Yes, well, that's why I'm calling, Mary. I won't finish the job tomorrow, so she wants me to stay on until Saturday."

I shoved away the rush of disappointment and said steadily, "Oh, that's all right. Disappointing, but I understand."

"I thought you might. And, would you tell those friends of yours that we'll meet them Saturday night