A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [59]
On the street outside the hall, I held up the parcel and told Veronica, “I’d like to give this to Margery before the… before her talk, or at least leave it with Marie. Is the main door locked?”
“I’m sure it will be, but I’ll take you through the hall,” she said. She led me through the back of the hall along the same route we’d followed ten days previously, although this time the final door was locked. She opened it with her key, and as I followed her up the stairs, she spoke over her shoulder at me.
“Margery is probably meditating, but we’ll give it to Marie or else leave it in the common room with a note, where she’s sure to— Marie! Whatever is the matter?”
I looked past her back, and there at the end of the corridor stood the phlegmatic maidservant, looking utterly distraught and wringing her hands as she stared at a door to our left. She did not respond until we were practically on top of her, when she whirled around and threw out her right hand at the door, more in supplication than in indicating the source of a problem. In the extremity of her emotion, both languages had abandoned her, and she just stood with her mouth working and her hand held out to the door.
“Margery? Is it Margery?” Veronica demanded. It had to be—nothing else would have this effect on her.
She nodded jerkily, found a few words.
“Madame… An intruder…”
“Marie,” I said forcibly in English, to force her to think. “Is Margery in here?”
“Oui.”
“Is someone with her?”
“Non. Elle est seule. Alone, but… hurt.”
“Margery’s hurt? How?”
“Il y avait du sang dans la figure.”
“Blood on her face? But she walked in here by herself? And locked herself in?”
“Locked, yes, before I reach her. Pas de réponse.”
I lowered my head and spoke loudly at the door.
“Margery, if you’re awake, please answer. You’re worrying Marie and Veronica. If you don’t answer, we’re going to have to break down the door or call the police.”
Nearly ten seconds passed before an answer came, her voice slow and low, but clear.
“No. Leave me.”
I knelt down and put my eye to the keyhole, which, to my surprise, had no key in it. I looked, and stared straight into one of the most peculiar, dramatic, and inexplicable episodes I have ever witnessed.
What I saw and did next might easily have been rewritten by memory over the years. However, I have before me as I write these memoirs the letter I sent to Holmes the following day describing the events. So, in order to preserve the stark facts of what may or may not have happened, I shall copy directly from that letter:
I saw the back of her head at the end of the room, before an altar. The rest of her was hidden by chairs, and her hair was in complete disarray, but its colour was clear and distinctive.
“What room is this?” I asked Veronica.
“The small chapel. Is she there?”
“Yes.” I stood up. “Stay here with Marie. I’ll see if I can get in that other door, and if so, I’ll come and unlock this one.” I gave her no time to argue, but turned to the two doors that form the end of the corridor. The right one was unlocked, and when I looked in, I saw a connecting door. It, too, was unlocked, but when it came to the door into the chapel, I had to use my picklocks. I shot the bolt behind me, made my way around the edges of the chapel to the hallway door, and dropped my hat onto the doorknob so as to obscure the view from outside. There was an exclamation from the other side, which I ignored, and went up to Margery where she knelt on the floor.
Holmes, she looked as if she’d been run down by a motor lorry. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut and the skin over the cheekbone had split, smearing blood down into her neck and back into her hair. Her mouth on that same