A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [107]
Had I been less debilitated, he might easily have failed, but by dint of physical strength and verbal abuse, he got me into my coat, got me to the pavement, pushed and prodded and chivvied and distracted me until I found myself at the entrance to Regent’s Park.
And there we walked. Up and down the paths we went, Holmes carrying on an endless and effortless monologue, beginning with the history of the park, the body once found in this hollow here, and the uprising plotted in that house over there. I then heard about the park’s botanical oddities, the flora of northern India, the peculiar league of poison-eaters from Rajasthan, the embroidery of Kashmir, and the differences between Tibetan and Nepalese Buddhism, followed by a description of his recent monograph on the glass of automobile headlamps, another study on analysing the types of gin used in cocktails, his experiments with a recording of various automobile engines that he thought the police might find useful in helping witnesses identify unlit autos by night, yet another monograph comparing the occasional outbursts of mass hysteria in Medieval times with the current madness for dances with jerking and incomprehensible movements—
I turned on him.
“Oh come now, Holmes, that’s absurd.”
“Thank God!” he exploded, and dropped onto a nearby bench to mop his brow dramatically. “Even I cannot maintain a line of drivel forever.” I stood over him and crossed my arms.
“Very well, you have my attention.”
“Sit down, Russell.” I thought about it, then sat.
“That’s better. We must have walked ten miles tonight—I haven’t seen so much of Regent’s Park since Watson used to drive me out and force me to take exercise. For similar reasons,” he added. “You are feeling better, I think?”
“Oh Lord, Holmes, isn’t it dreary always being right?” I complained.
“You are quite right—it was not politic of me to point out that Uncle Sherlock knows best. I merely thought to enquire if you had an appetite yet.”
“No,” I said, and then amended it. “However, I admit that the idea of food is not quite so repugnant as it was earlier.”
“Good. Now, shall we go to the zoological gardens and wax philosophical about the anthropomorphism of monkeys, or shall we talk about the man to whom you refer with a capitalised pronoun?”
“What about Him? Have the police caught Him yet?”
“You needn’t fear, Russell, they have not. And will not, if you choose to do nothing.”
We sat and listened to the noises of the park at night, traffic sounds mingled with distant jungle screeches. My hands were gradually regaining their steadiness, I noticed.
“Touché, Holmes. I am repaid for my thoughtless remark about your son.”
“Hardly thoughtless. At times, a jolt is needed to get an engine moving.”
“Consider my engine jolted. In which direction do you wish me to move?”
“In a most circuitous path, I think. We must not give the man a second opportunity.”
“But what does he want with me?” I cried.
“Would it interest you to know,” he asked, “that nine days ago Somerset House received, and registered, a will for one Mary Judith Russell, signed, witnessed, and dated the previous Friday? I thought it might. And perhaps you would also be interested to know that you chose to leave five thousand pounds each to your beloved aunt, your snivelling cousin, your farm manager, and your college; not a farthing, I was rather hurt to discover, to your old friend Sherlock Holmes. The bulk of your estate—the houses, the factory, the gold, the paintings, and the villa in Tuscany—went to the New Temple in God.”
“Bloody hell,” I muttered.
“As you say. The signature was quite good, by the way—a closer approximation than I could pen. I believe it to be the work of a forger who goes by the name of Penworthy. Poor Miss Russell.” He sighed. “The sudden acquisition of riches drove her to a death of high living.”
“I see now why He—why the man clung to me so closely. I had wondered how, if he is in charge of some criminal