A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [66]
“Is one of you lot named Mary something?” he demanded. My heart tried to sink at the same time as it began to accelerate.
“I’m Mary Russell.”
“That’s it. There’s a person outside, knocked me up at this gawdforsaken hour sayin’ as how he absolutely had to talk to you, though why ’e can’t wait for a decent hour I’m sure I—” I shut the door on his complaints and scrambled for clothing. Heavy jersey over my head, I stubbed my toe on my boots and rescued my spectacles, began to put on my woollen trousers and got them started back to front, but by that time, Phoebe, calm and efficient, had the candles lit and I could see.
“What is it, Mary?”
“Some kind of emergency for me. I’m going to see.”
“Shall I come?”
“Good heavens no. No reason for all of us to climb into wet clothes in the middle of the night. I’ll be back in a tick.”
“Take your walking stick,” she ordered. “A strange man, at this hour.”
It was easier to obey than explain.
Mine host led me down the narrow stairs to the door—he had actually left my messenger standing on the step. It was raining again, but despite the garments, I did not think I knew the figure huddled there.
“Holmes?” I said doubtfully.
The man turned, and I did know him, but only just.
“It’s Billy, isn’t it?” Once an Irregular, then Holmes’ long-ago messenger boy from the Baker Street days, and even now in middle age an enthusiastic assistant in London adventures. He looked completely out of place here.
“Yes, mum.”
I reached out and hauled him into the inn, ignoring the splutters of the innkeeper. Billy peeled off his hat and woollen scarf, looked around for a place to put them and then dropped them on the floor, and began to unbutton his overcoat with blue fingers. I dug into my pocket and thrust a bill of some denomination or other into the innkeeper’s hand. His protests cut off sharply.
“A fire, if you please. And hot drink, and food.”
“Yes, miss. Right away, miss.”
“Miss Russell, I have orders to take you to Town, immediately I find you.”
“Speed will not be improved by your turning to ice,” I pointed out, “and I have no boots on. Are you alone?”
“My brother’s outside,” he muttered, and finally succeeded in opening his coat. He groped into an upper pocket and came out with an envelope. I took it but did not open it.
“How did you find me?”
“They told me at your house you’d set off on a walking tour, planned on putting in for the night along the way. There were twenty-eight other places I asked before this one.” The memory of twenty-nine sets of furious landlords was not, it seemed, a pretty one, and I was struck by the vision of two Cockneys hunting through the wilds of Oxfordshire in a London taxi, pounding on door after enraged door.
“Why didn’t—oh, never mind. Here’s something hot. I’ll call your brother in. No, you dry out a bit.” The envelope in my hand, I put my head out into the rain and gave a low whistle, and the driver of the cab was soon huddled beside his brother in front of the fire, drinking a horrid mixture of tea and brandy while their coats steamed. Only then did I put my thumb into the envelope and tear open the flap. I read, in Holmes’ cramped and hurried hand:
Veronica Beaconsfield had a nearly fatal accident on the Underground today (Thursday) at four o’clock. Her doctor says she will recover. She’s in Guys, room 356. I’ve dug Watson out to stick to her.
So much for my walking tour. So much for the resumption of my real life. I went up for my kit and followed Billy and his brother out to the incongruous, mud-spattered black taxi.
My friend Ronnie lay in her private room, bandage and plaster and a few inches of skin. The grizzled figure beside her bed looked up as the door opened, and I knew that under the coat lying across his knees there was an old Army revolver pointing at me. His face lightened immediately and he got to his feet, leaving the coat on the chair. I stepped back into the corridor so as not to disturb Veronica.
“Mary! I was beginning to wonder