The Marriage of Mary Russell is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

A Bantam Books Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Laurie R. King

Excerpt from The Murder of Mary Russell by Laurie R. King copyright © 2016 by Laurie R. King.

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Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

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This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Murder of Mary Russell by Laurie R. King. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9780425284483

Cover design: Carlos Beltrán and Joe Montgomery

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Marriage of Mary Russell

By Laurie R. King

About the Author

Excerpt from The Murder of Mary Russell

Marriage is a contract, a formal acknowledgement that two individuals—and their families—are legally bound together. Yes, for some (particularly the young and impressionable) marriage is also the end point of wild infatuation, romantic fantasies, and physical urges, but when the two people in question are undeniably mature and constitutionally level-headed, they keep matters rational.

At least, they try to.

—

It was February 1921[*]. I had known Sherlock Holmes for the best part of six years, during which time he had gone from unexpected neighbour to demanding tutor to surprisingly co-operative partner-in-detecting. I had recently turned twenty-one and stepped into the responsibilities of my inheritance, but even before that, I found myself deliberating the benefits, and disadvantages, of the married state in general and to one specific male person in particular.

This was, remember, a time when the Great War still loomed. A quarter of my generation was dead. Those who remained were often physical and emotional shadows of the men they had once been. Being unsuited to nursing, and unwilling to lower my demands, I was left looking at the man I had met during the War, the Baker Street detective-turned-Sussex-Downs beekeeper, who had taken me on as his apprentice, his equal, and finally, his partner.

On the one hand, the very idea was absurd. Marriage, to Sherlock Holmes? He was the least marriageable man I knew. On the other hand, we were already partners. And having that piece of paper—that otherwise meaningless piece of paper—would undoubtedly ease such matters as border crossings, hotel rooms, and claiming one another’s body in the event of a fatal mishap. Marriage would also keep me from the temptations of pure academia, a world that, especially for a woman, could become terribly enclosed.

Marriage—this marriage—would ensure that I was never bored.

So, it was a rational decision, a sensible choice for two intelligent and level-headed people, the obvious next step in our partnership.

Ironic, really, that it would be Holmes who complicated matters with the emotional. And I am fairly certain that the mild concussion I was suffering at the time of the proposal had little to do with it.

One might imagine that, given his devoutly Bohemian nature and my own youthful disdain for societal mores—and considering how little family either of us had—marriage might not have been high on our list of necessities. This was, after all, the modern age, when the exhilaration of those who had survived the War looked to be ushering in an era of high spirits: even at its early stages, the Twenties showed little interest in Victorian, or even Edwardian, niceties.

As for the concerns of The Book of Common Prayer (our society’s guide to the rituals of life): neither of us had any intention that the procreation of children enter into matters. Nor did we anticipate being tempted by the sin of fornication—that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled—since defilement seemed a Medieval sort of concern, easily dealt with by a solemn vow not to pull the other aside into a nearby fornix for the purpose of gratification. If anything, the Prayer Book’s third concern came closest to defining our choice: for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

Experience had already proved that adversity was inevitable. And as the Anglican rites agree, there’s nothing like a signed contract to make one stick to one’s commitments.

Still, we would have been just as happy to spend the rest of our lives in a state of amiable sin, regardless of the ease with which we might be abandoned and the risk to our immortal souls—except that we each had one person whose disapproval filled us with dread. In Holmes’ case, this was Dr John Watson. The two men had met in 1881, going from flat-sharing to friendship over the years, until Watson became as much a brother as Holmes’ actual blood relation. (As for Mycroft Holmes himself, Holmes’ older brother did not factor into our debate: it went without saying that Mycroft’s concerns would be less the state of our souls than how my presence might affect his brother’s continued availability.) And although Holmes appeared to have spent much of the last forty years actively thwarting Watson’s expectations, in fact, he was always aware of his friend’s opinions on matters. The thought of that sadly reproving gaze would have been trying even for Holmes.

As for me, I had neither judgemental friend nor family pressures. What I did have was a housekeeper.

A housekeeper may not be a young woman’s usual conscience, but I had been orphaned at fourteen. From that time, my life was far too complicated for the easy intimacies of close friendship. As for extended family, my American grandparents lived on the other side of an ocean—literally as well as figuratively—while my English mother’s relations were either dead or estranged from me. I had come into the Holmes household as a fifteen-year-old girl, overtly proud and internally empty. Mrs Hudson had instantly sensed the aching void and stepped in, offering her ears, her arms, and all the forms of nourishment an orphan could need.

If I had any family, it was she.

—

The actual marriage proposal had come when my head was spinning (I having been knocked unconscious, deliberately—by Holmes) and his head was dripping wet, grease-clotted, and thoroughly scorched from the fiery, mid-Thames boat wreck that claimed the life of our most recent villainous opponent. Miraculous survival, one’s own and of one’s most significant attachment, has a way of adding its own spin to the head. Or perhaps it was just, as I mentioned, the concussion. In any case, when Holmes emerged from the filthy surface of the Thames, there followed an astonishing, unexpected, and remarkably…stimulating physical encounter, right there on the docks. Namely, we kissed.

I believe this reminder of the physical surprised Holmes as much it did me. Certainly, both of us took care, over the next days, to maintain a cool and distinctly Victorian degree of propriety, even—particularly—when we were alone. Although we had addressed the primary negotiations of the marriage contract then and there (Holmes: I promise not to knock you unconscious again, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Me: I promise to obey you, if it’s something I’d planned on doing anyway.), the next stages were somewhat less straightforward.

Fortunately, we had other matters into which we could retreat, saving ourselves from awkward silences and intense contemplations of the view out of the window. We returned to Sussex a few days after the Margery Childe case finished, spending the first half of the trip wrestling with the compartment’s heater and the case’s more difficult conundra, then the next twenty miles reaching the delicate decision that perhaps we would not tell anyone quite yet about our change of status. I then made some passing and humorous remark about the ceremony itself. A moment of silence descended, before his cautious question:

“You wish an actual…wedding?”

He’d have sounded less dubious had I suggested matching tattoos. My first impulse was to laugh it off, but I controlled myself long enough to think it over. “I don’t know that I particularly want one, but marriage is said to be a community event. And there are people to take into account.”

“You want my brother to walk you down the aisle?”

“Of course not. Nor do I have any great wish to see Watson standing beside you with a boutonnière.”

“You prefer a Jewish ceremony, then.”

I had not even considered the possibility until that moment, and allowed myself a moment to dwell on Holmes, kippah on head, standing beside me beneath the chuppah, signing the ketubah, and stomping on the glass, then me lifted high in a chair—

“I think not.”

“Broomsticks? Hand-fasting? The anvil at Gretna Green? An arch of sabres?”

“I suppose a registry office would do. Unless you happen to have a family chapel?” I added, as a joke.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, as a matter of fact…”

My gaze snapped away from the passing countryside. “You don’t! Do you?” He had a house in Sussex and half a dozen secret boltholes scattered across London, but…could the man actually own a chapel?

“Strictly speaking, it belongs to Mycroft.” Well, I thought, this sounds unusually promising. “If it’s still standing.” Maybe not so promising. “And if we could get at it.” I eyed him warily. “Although it would have to be a night-time affair. And Mycroft may insist that we transport our witnesses either with masks, or behind blacked-out windows.” I opened my mouth to say that, really, a registry office would do. “Plus, there’s the shot-guns to consider.”

I closed my mouth.

If ever I’d imagined that Sherlock Holmes did not know precisely how to snag my interest in a matter, that delusion ended right there.

“Shot-guns,” I repeated.

“Yes. You see, there is some disagreement, amongst the wider reaches of the Holmes family, over who inherited the rights to the estate upon my father’s death. Since neither Mycroft nor I care to bury ourselves in the depths of the Midlands, we rarely assert our claim. However, nor have we given the place over to our cousin entirely. The name Jarndyce comes to mind.”

“And your…cousin who lives there would turn a gun on you?”

“It has been known to happen.”

“Do I want to ask why you don’t press matters?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you—or, Mycroft—want the house?”

“Not really.”

“Then why even mention it?”

“Because you asked if I owned a chapel. And…” He stretched out a hand for his pipe, which even at my young age I well knew was a man’s way of hiding emotion. When he got it going, he finished his sentence. “…my ancestors have been baptised, wed, and buried in the family chapel since the days of Bolingbroke. It would be mildly irritating for the usurper to keep me from my rights.”

Sherlock Holmes was the least sentimental person I had ever encountered. If he was admitting to mild irritation, it meant that the longing for his home chapel went bone deep. It mattered not that we had no right to it, or that I was Jewish, or that armed men stood ready to repel us.

He had my attention.

Still: “Night-time, under the threat of immanent attack, and with our guests literally in the dark as to its location. Would the bride wear black? Paint her face?”

“A dark blue overcoat should be sufficient.”

“With a revolver tucked into my bouquet. Holmes, this all sounds a bit…”

“Piquant?”

“Memorable.”

“It needn’t be. Two witnesses and a priest—I’m sure Mycroft could come up with three experienced soldiers to fill the two categories. Twenty minutes, in and out. Even if the family are wakened by dogs, it would take that long for them to rouse the butler.”

“Holmes, I think—”

“I wonder if they have changed the locks. Perhaps we should allow twenty-five minutes.”

“Holmes, what about—”

“Or we could seize an opportunity to solve the problem once and for all by setting fire to the opposite wing. That would distract them nicely.”

“Holmes, unless you’re planning on keeping our married state a secret for the rest of our lives, or having another ceremony in your sitting room, the repercussions of a clandestine wedding would be considerable.”

“And illegal,” he mused. “Since 1754.”

“Sorry?”

“Clandestine marriages. Illegal since Lord Hardwicke’s 1753 Marriage Act. Is that not what you were talking about?”

“I’m talking about our friends. Being left out would break Dr Watson’s heart. Mrs Hudson would finally hand in her notice, and your brother…well, I can’t imagine what your brother would do.”

“Retreat to the Diogenes Club, as usual.”

“Either that or manipulate two colonies into declaring war on each other, in a way that would require your presence for the next five years.”

“You suggest we make a community ceremony out of it?”

“Unless you plan on moving permanently to Tibet or West Africa.”

“You may be right,” he allowed. “However, I don’t know that I’d want to put Watson under fire. He’s not as fast on his feet as he once was.”

“What about Mycroft? Or Mrs Hudson?”

“Nothing can kill Mycroft.”

“But you don’t mind someone taking pot-shots at your landlady? For heaven’s sake, Holmes, she must be seventy!”

“Mrs Hudson is sixty-five, and there may be more to her than you realise. However,” he went on before I could object further, “I do see your point. A registry office it is.”

Reluctantly, I agreed.

But I could not get his regretful tone out of my mind. If he had let me see the longing—if he had gone so far as to let himself see it—then that family chapel represented something important to him.

It was, of course, ridiculous. A marriage is a contractual arrangement, formalising the bonds between two individuals, their families, and the generations to come. However, given our circumstances—no family, no shame, no children—a piece of paper was less an essential component of life than a convenience, for deferring certain minor nuisances that might occur down the line.

No: when it came to family chapels and putting those we loved in danger, a registry office would do just fine.

And yet…

I could not shake the feeling that to accept a cold and utilitarian setting for this signing of contracts would begin an already challenging enterprise on a note—however faint—of failure. Surely, if there was to be any romance whatsoever in this relationship, it ought to be there at the start?

This man Sherlock Holmes, nearly three times my age and with long decades of history behind him, had spent the past six years rearranging his entire life around first an apprentice, then a partner-in-crime. He now, with no hesitation—no visible hesitation—proposed to change himself even further, sacrificing his independence to become half of a whole. There was nothing I could do about my youth, or about the coach and horses that marriage was going to drive through his orderly existence. Both those things meant that I should have to be even more sensitive than most wives about what parts of our life I could impress control over.

Such as, taking note of his look of regret at being denied the chapel.

—

Monday morning was cold, the sky lowering with the threat of snow, but I laced on my boots and trudged across the Downs to hunt down my…fiancé?

As I approached his old flint house, close enough to the coastline that one could hear the waves at Birling Gap, I was surprised to see all the windows flung open wide. I went in the back door, gingerly venturing a head inside the kitchen.

“Mrs Hudson?”

I did not need to go any farther to know why the Downs air was being invited inside. I hastily dug out a handkerchief to clap across my face. The door to Mrs Hudson’s quarters, which had been firmly shut, opened a crack. One brown eye gazed out at me: brown, but bloodshot.

“An experiment gone awry?” I asked her.

“The man will kill us all,” she declared.

“Any idea how long…?”

“He said the worst of it should be gone by noon.”

That seemed optimistic, but there was no need to say that to her. Mrs Hudson had survived two decades as Holmes’ Baker Street landlady before—for reasons I still could not fathom but attributed to a deeply pathological need for self-mortification—she had followed him in retirement down to Sussex and become his housekeeper.

Many things I did not understand about Mrs Hudson. However, as I said, when I appeared on her doorstep in 1915, she had opened her arms and her heart to me, and was now as near to a mother as I would ever again have.

No, I thought, as I studied her bloodshot eye: it would not be possible to wed Sherlock Holmes without the participation of Mrs Hudson.

“I don’t suppose he’s still up there?” I asked.

“In the laboratory? No, he discovered some urgent task elsewhere.”

“Of course he did. Any idea what direction?”

“He put on his Wellingtons.”

That meant either towards the sea, or up the Cuckmere. I thanked her, and beat a hasty retreat from the noxious fumes.

A few snowflakes danced around me at the Birling Gap cottages, where I followed the sound of a hatchet to ask the young man—the son of one of the lighthouse keepers—if he had seen Holmes go past. He said no, and pointed out (with patience, as if to a sweet but stupid child) that in any event he’d not have got far, since the tide was in.

Not the lighthouse, then.

Walking back up the silent lane, I decided to abandon my tracking of Holmes across Sussex to Alfriston or Seaford—or wherever he had gone. All I wanted was to deliver an apology, that my presence in his life promised not only to complicate matters, but to do so without even such benefits as doing open battle for his ancestral manor. Perhaps if I offered to accompany him on his next tedious and uncomfortable investigation, by way of recompense?

Both apology and offer could wait until he was restored to his aired-out home.

However, it had been a long cold walk across frost-crisp Downsland, with an equally long and frigid way back again. I could always throw myself on Mrs Hudson’s hospitality and thaw out my toes before her fire, but it might be simpler (and less dangerous, when it came to letting slip Certain Pieces of News) to plant myself before the considerably larger and less socially fraught hearth at the nearby Tiger Inn. The innkeeper might even have a pot of soup on the hob.

Naturally, having decided not to seek after Holmes, the Tiger was where I found him, stockinged heels propped up before the crackling logs, beer in one hand and pipe in the other.

The sight of that ravaged scalp over the back of the chair gave me pause: his barber had made an attempt at tidying the results of the fire, but short of taking a razor to it, ear to ear, only time would restore normality. His head was currently an odd mix of neatly cropped greying hair and frizzed stubble, with traces of nearly bald skin here and there. It looked curiously…vulnerable.

With that thought came another—one that would not have crossed my mind for a thousand years, were it not for the events of this past week: should I present my cheek for a demure but affectionate kiss? It was the done thing, between two people on the edge of marriage, but…Holmes? I stood there a moment longer, studying that mottled scalp, but in the end, the thought of the reverberations of such a greeting—through Sussex and to the world beyond—swept any faint impulse out the door.

That decision, I would realise a very long time later, both reflected and set the pattern for our future behaviour: affection between us remained a private thing. Private even, occasionally, from one another.

“Hello, Holmes,” I said.

He tipped his head as I came around his chair to the fire; his eyes were still a touch shot with red, which I did not think was from the cold. “Ah, Russell,” he said. “I see you have been down to Birling Gap. Did Mrs Hudson tell you where to find me?”

I wavered briefly over how he’d known, then refused the bait. “Mrs Hudson seemed to think you were headed to the lighthouse—or to the beach, at any rate. She’s got all the doors and windows wide open.”

“Yes, I’m not sure what went wrong. I may have added sulphur when I meant to reach for the saltpetre. Nothing seriously wrong, but the air was a touch thick.”

“I’m glad the walls are still standing. No, I was heading for home, but thought I’d have something warm first.”

“Do sit,” he agreed, making no move to fetch me a seat.

I had a word with the innkeeper, returning to the fire with another chair. As I arranged it as close as I could get to the heat without risking combustion, my foot brushed something that clanked. I looked down—noticing first the distinctive black hairs on my trousers that betrayed my encounter with the lighthouse keeper’s dog, then the object on the floor.

“What on earth is that?”

“It would appear to be a sterling silver flail.”

Did I want to know? Wellington boots; a peasant’s weapon made from an aristocratic metal; its source in the tiny hamlet of East Dean—the combination bore all the hallmarks of one of his outré cases, and I wished merely to get the matter of the Holmes family chapel off my mind. However, he took my brief pause as an invitation, and launched into an unlikely tale that seemed to involve a well-digger, the restoration of a nearby abbey, a lesser title from an Eastern European country, and strange marks on a stone bridge. Or perhaps it was an aristocratic bridge-restorer and strange digging marks in an abbey: I admit I was not paying much attention.

My bowl of cock-a-leekie soup was half gone before he drew breath, but I did not leap to interrupt him. I was enjoying the sensations of the moment: the fire at my knees felt as if it had been burning for two centuries, the beer in my glass was cool, the soup was a comfort within. The satisfaction made me aware that, once we were married, we could come here anytime, day or night, with no concern for village proprieties.

This startling idea kept my mind well occupied until he leant forward to crack the dottle of his pipe into the fire. I noticed that his glass—and apparently his story—had come to an end, and I cast a quick glance around us to make sure we were not overheard before speaking.

“Look, Holmes, about the…the wedding.”

“Have you another regiment of guests we would offend if they went uninvited?”

I opened my mouth to deliver the speech I had so carefully composed, about how sorry I was that we weren’t able to use his family chapel, and what we might do instead…and yet I heard a very different set of words coming out. A set of words, moreover, that said one thing, but meant another.

“Do you suppose your cousin could be bought out?”

The moment I said it, I knew what the question represented: the bride’s gift to her husband. You’ve spent your life straightening out the problems of others, I was telling him; let me do this for you.

“It’s not his to sell,” he said automatically. “And if it were, he’d refuse to sell it to me.” Then he paused, his right eyebrow quirking up as he turned his gaze from the fire. “Do you mean, would he sell to you? Good Lord. Why would you want that old pile?”

“I don’t especially want another house. But buying it might simplify matters. For you and Mycroft, that is. Unless—is the property entailed?”

He let out a bark of laughter and sat back, fingers laced across his waistcoat. “The Holmes family is hardly grand enough to entail a property in the interests of primogeniture. And I assure you, ownership of that house would trade one small and symbolic problem for a cart-load of mundane nightmares. No, I for one am perfectly happy to allow my cousin to continue fretting over tax bills and the state of the roofs and the return from the tenant farmers. I merely refuse to withdraw from the field of battle and cede my rights of access and usage.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, in that case.”

“Yes?”

I took a deep breath. “Holmes, if we can keep Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson from being peppered with bird-shot, I should be honoured to accompany you in breaking into your family chapel and having the words of marriage recited at speed over our heads.”

—

However (Why is it, I wonder, that my accounts of adventures with Holmes so often employ that word?), our window of opportunity promptly slammed down upon our fingers, a bare two hours later. My first exploratory telephone call was to Dr Watson. He was not at home. His housekeeper informed me that her employer was currently visiting friends in Edinburgh, and although he would return in two days, he would be at home less than seventy-two hours before boarding a ship for New York, where a band of literature lovers (or at any rate, fans of the Doyle tales) were to present him with an honour and—more to the point—a paying lecture series. The dates, unfortunately, were set in stone.

It was now Monday evening; the good Doctor would return on Wednesday; his ship sailed at midday on Saturday.

I hung up the telephone earpiece and gazed down at the scrap of paper on which I’d made some quite unnecessary notes. Holmes and I were in my newly painted and partially refurbished house a few miles north of his, where the air smelt not of sulphur but of varnish, paint, the fresh dyes of carpets and curtains, and the eggs I had scorched for our supper. In the current absence of my neighbour and occasional housekeeper, Mrs Mark, the only sound was the whisper from the fire. “This is not going to work.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Russell. You were not keen on the venue to begin with.”

“I am now.”

“We could proceed without Watson.”

“We really couldn’t. No, Holmes, it’s just not practical. Even without posting banns for a church—assuming we could convince a rector that I counted as one of his flock—we’d still need a fifteen-day period for the Registrar.”

“When Watson gets back, then.”

I looked sadly at my final note on the page: July 7. Five whole months. An eternity.

But what did it matter? Holmes and I would go ahead as we were—as we had been before I stood on a London pier and, seeing him resurrected from a fiery death, literally embraced an unexpected future. Patience, Russell.

And yet, I was afraid. That real life would intervene. That doubts would chew at our feet, causing one or both of us to edge away from the brink. That neither of us had really meant it, and the memory of those dockside sensations would turn to threat. That my gift to him was nothing but the selfish impulse of an uncertain young girl.

I felt his gaze on me, and put on a look of good cheer before raising my face. “Of course. July will do nicely—and will give us plenty of time to arrange a distraction, to get your cousin and his shot-guns away from the house.”

He did not reply. Under his gaze, my smile faltered a bit. “It’s fine, Holmes. You have commitments in Europe next month; I have much to do in Oxford. I will be here when you get back.”

Abruptly, he jumped to his feet and swept across the room to the door. I watched him thrust his long arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. “Thursday, Russell,” he said, clapping his hat onto his head. “Be ready on Thursday.”

“For what?” I asked, but he was gone.

For anything, knowing him.

—

Tuesday morning dawned. I expected…I don’t know what I expected. Excited telephone calls from Mrs Hudson, a disapproving telegram from Mycroft. Earthquakes…

What happened was precisely nothing. A pallid sun crawled above the horizon, setting the frost to glittering. Patrick, my farm manager, let the horses out and wrestled with the aged tractor for a while, achieving a few moments of roar and a stink of burnt petrol over the landscape. Mrs Mark let herself in and pottered dubiously about the newly equipped kitchen. The children from up the lane hurried by for school. An aeroplane passed overhead.

Normal life, it appeared, was going on.

I dressed and went downstairs, eating the breakfast Mrs Mark cooked for me and drinking her weak coffee without complaint. I tried to settle to a paper I had been working on, back in the days of innocence before I turned twenty-one and reached out to seize my majority, but I could make little sense of it. None of the crisp new novels I had bought in London bore the least interest. Even the newspapers were filled with faraway events and two-dimensional problems.

Another day, I might have taken the train to London, but London was filled with Margery Childe and all the uncomfortable elements of that case, that life. Or Oxford, where normally I would have happily fled at an instant’s notice—but its beloved spires seemed awfully…far away.

At midday, I found myself staring out of the window wishing I smoked.

With a sound of irritation, I went to find my warm clothes and set off for the sea.

The Downs were thick with gravid ewes, head-down to the close-cropped grass, scarcely bothering to move out of my way. I wandered along the cliffs, watching all manner of ships ply up and down the grey Channel waters. The new owners of the old Belle Tout lighthouse—the one atop the cliff—were out in their wind-swept garden, hands on hips as they surveyed the exterior. They invited me inside, ushering me up the defunct tower to admire its predictably magnificent view of the new lighthouse, standing with its feet in the water (where it might actually be of some use when the sea mists rose) five hundred feet below and well out from the cliffs. Once we had exhausted the conversational possibilities (the view, the weather, and the sheep), I continued on, greeting shepherds, ramblers, and lighthouse-men as I went, to where the track turned north below the old smugglers’ path. The Tiger Inn, perhaps?

No.

Mrs Hudson had the windows snugly shut again. Smoke trickled from the main chimney, but lights burned in the kitchen, so I circled the house, rapped loudly at the back door, and let myself in.

When I saw her face, I realised that I had been hoping Holmes had told her, so I would have someone to talk to about…it. But her face betrayed no sign of excitement, no shared knowledge—not even a faint reproof from her brown eyes, that I had said nothing…

She didn’t know.

Of course, there were all kinds of things this good woman did not know, even when it came down to the events of one previous week: that Holmes and I had nearly died; that both of us had done violence to the other; that there had been drugs and death and kisses and a startling revelation of Holmes’ warbling soprano voice.

Not all weeks were quite that eventful. Still, as with Sherlock Holmes long before I came on the scene, I had grown accustomed to hiding things from Mrs Hudson, lest she be shocked or, worse, disappointed in me. My face gave nothing away now as I greeted her and exclaimed at the aroma from her oven.

She had not seen Holmes since the previous afternoon. As she reached for the flowered teapot, giving a little arthritic wince, she said, “He was here, though. The house was still cold after I’d finished in the kitchen, so I took to my rooms early, but I heard him come in about eight o’clock—no-one else slams the door quite like he does. He was on the telephone for a time, then I heard him crashing about upstairs. And this morning I found half the clothes from his cupboards strewn all about.”

I knew without asking that she’d have put everything away, grumbling all the while. “Was anything in particular missing?” I asked casually.

She was not fooled, and fixed me with a sharp gaze. “Mary, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “He was at my house yesterday evening, then put on his hat and said he’d see me in a few days.” It was, strictly, the truth, though hardly the whole of it.

“Well, from what I could see, he either went to Town, or to a cricket match.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s right. His silk hat, good suit, and ebony cane are missing. I thought that was it until I got down to the lower levels and found that his cricket whites were gone as well.”

“He owns cricket clothes? I didn’t know he played.”

“Near as I can tell, Mr Holmes tries everything at least once,” she pointed out, a voice of long experience. “Though this being winter, it’s more likely to be for a fancy-dress party.”

I tried to envision his head—particularly in its current bedraggled condition—topped by a cricket cap; those piercing grey (and somewhat bloodshot) eyes looking out from under that diminutive little brim. I failed. Worse than the deerstalker with which the public mind had cursed him.

“Ah well,” I said. “We’re sure to find out eventually. Are those scones done yet?”

(In fact, I should note here, we never did—at least, I never found out why he needed cricket clothing that day. One of the many unsolved mysteries of Sherlock Holmes.)

When Mrs Hudson had stuffed as many scones into me as she could—to my complete lack of argument, since among other things, this past month had seen me locked in a dark cellar on a bread-and-water diet—I finally pushed away my plate, drained my final cup of tea, and asked if she would like me to carry the last few in the basket home to Patrick.

“Oh, Patrick’s away, dear.”

“Away?” One might as well say the roof had gone missing. “Patrick’s never away.”

“Something about a horse. Buying one? Taking one of the mares to one? I can’t remember.”

At this last claim, I frankly stared: Mrs Hudson remembered everything. She blushed faintly. “He caught me when I was washing my hair,” she said. “We spoke through the bath-room door.”

Modesty, thy name is Hudson—particularly, I thought, if Patrick had said he was putting one of the mares to a stallion. I pushed down a smile. “I see. But, why didn’t he tell me?” He lived a stone’s throw from my house, yet several miles away from this one.

“Oh, he’d just decided. Spur of the moment, I’d say. He was here to pick up something I had for Tillie. Are you sure you want those, dear? They’ve gone quite cold. It’ll take no time at all to make a fresh batch, if you’d—”

“Good heavens, no, you mustn’t make any more just for me. I can barely walk as it is.” I watched her wrap the remaining three golden treats into an old napkin, and as I put out a hand for it, a belated thought occurred. “But, that leaves you with none. And you must have been making them for yourself.”

“Make scones for myself? Never. I sometimes bake just because my hands feel like stirring. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d have taken them to the rector. His wife means well, but she’s a bit absent-minded when it comes to the oven.”

I allowed myself to be convinced, and tucked the still-warm parcel into my pocket, to supplement my supper. But as I arranged my hair beneath my woolly cap (wincing a touch at the still-tender knot on my skull), I saw from the clock that it was barely three: so much of the day left, then another day to get through…

“Mrs Hudson, would you like to do something tomorrow? Go to the cinema, perhaps? Tea on the Front, in Eastbourne?”

She looked surprised—and something else. Apologetic? Evasive? “Oh, Mary, I’m sorry, I have things to do. While Mr Holmes is out. You understand.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I hastened to say. “No, really, I have a hundred tasks myself, what with spending the last month in London, and everything there, and, well…” What with recent trauma and abandonment and a loathing of darkness that might have me sleeping with lights on for the rest of my life…“I just thought you might be, that you’d—I’ll go now.”

And I did.

When I reached home, the house was dark, the kitchen empty. A lone saucepan stood on the sideboard, with a note propped up against it from Mrs Mark: stern instructions on how to heat up the soup without ruining the pan.

I ate it cold, along with the single scone I had not consumed on my walk home.

Perhaps I should go up to Oxford tomorrow after all.

—

Habit kept me in place: habit, and a determination not to run from discomforts. Also the knowledge that Thursday was approaching and Holmes was sure to appear at some point to let me know what he was up to. Probably not until five minutes to midnight, but still.

Once the decision was made, I managed to settle into something resembling honest work, and got through Wednesday with an awareness of solitude that was merely pressing, not grinding. I did not look for a reason to delay Mrs Mark when she had finished for the day, nor did I set off to waylay villagers or passing strangers to engage in conversation. In the evening, I only checked all the doors and windows twice, and I shut down the lights in a few of the more distant rooms. When I went to bed, the hallway light alone was sufficient to let me fall asleep. After a time.

Truth to tell, I’d scarcely dropped off when a 3:00 a.m. clamour of the bell ripped me from my warm slumber. I jerked bolt upright, listening to the fading echoes and wondering if the fire brigade were about to arrive. But silence followed rather than the crash of axes meeting wood: my brain began to order itself, and came up with an alternative meaning.

“Holmes?” I croaked. I threw back the warm covers and shivered my way to the window, sticking my head out into the icy air. This time my voice functioned a bit more clearly. “Holmes, is that you?”

“Have you another man in the habit of presenting himself at this hour?” rose from the dark below. He sounded revoltingly cheerful. I closed the window, and made him wait on the doorstep until I had re-plaited my mussed hair, found my glasses, and put on a few more layers of clothing.

“Holmes, what on—” But I was talking to his back, as he swept past into the house. He was dressed for Town, from his high silk hat to his patent leather shoes, but atop the finery there were indications of a day’s harder work: smuts from a train on his white shirt-linen, mustard on his neck-tie, engine grease on one cuff, and Sussex soil up to his ankles.

Then he was gone, the hallway empty. The sound of water running into the kettle came from the kitchen. I became aware that a great deal of cold air was wrapping itself around me, and hastened to shut the door, finding as I did so that there was something in my hand. An envelope. Since I hadn’t brought it downstairs with me—I didn’t think I had—Holmes must have handed it to me in passing.

Yawning, I followed him to the kitchen, which was lovely and warm from the stove’s banked fire. I dropped the envelope and set my chin into my hands, closing my eyes, only dimly aware of the sounds of tea preparation.

I came awake when a cup nudged my elbow. As I reached for it, I noticed the envelope I had let fall on the table. It was large, and of paper so lusciously thick, it tempted the hand. “What is this?” I asked, at the moment more interested in the toast he had slathered with butter and was now drizzling with some of the honey I had helped him process the previous summer.

“A gift. For the, er, bride.”

I jerked back, nearly upending my laden cup over the pristine rag paper, and eyed first Holmes, then the luxurious rectangle, with equal misgivings.

Holmes stood propped against the sink, grey eyes studying me over the top of his cup. I rubbed my palms down my dressing gown, and gingerly picked up the envelope.

No writing: a red wax seal on the flap. I fetched a knife—one free of butter, honey, or even a fleck of dust—and edged it under the seal.

The paper inside, thrice-folded, was similarly blessed with red: an embossed seal, a strip of meaningless ribbon, a second embossing down below, a formal signature. It began:

Randall Thomas, by Divine Providence, Archbishop of CANTERBURY, Prince of all England, and Metropolitan, to our well-beloved in CHRIST ~

Sherlock Escott Leslie Holmes of the Parish of Saint Simon and Saint Jude in the County of Sussex a Bachelor and Mary Judith Russell of the Parish of All Saints Oxford a Spinster ~

GRACE and HEALTH. WHEREAS ye are, as it is alleged, resolved to proceed to the Solemnisation of true and lawful Matrimony and that you greatly desire that the same may be solemnised in the face of the Church: We being willing that these your honest Desires may the more speedily obtain a due Effect, and to the end therefore that this Marriage may be publicly and lawfully solemnised in the ~ Parish ~ Church of ~

Saint Wulfstan’s in Northamptonshire ~

by the RECTOR, VICAR, or CURATE thereof, without the Publication or Proclamation of the Banns of Matrimony, provided there shall appear no Impediment of Kindred or Alliance, or of any other lawful Cause, nor any suit commenced in any Ecclesiastical Court, to bar or hinder the Proceeding of the said Matrimony

There was quite a bit more of this sparsely-punctuated prose, with a formal signature at the bottom: + RANDALL CANTAUR.

I blinked. After a moment, I removed my spectacles and rubbed my tired eyes, before resuming the attempt. But it would seem that the problem was less in my vision than in my comprehension.

“The Archbishop of Canterbury?” I said weakly.

“He owed me a favour. Several, come to that.”

“ ‘The Parish of All Saints Oxford’?”

“He thought it convenient, being the University church. And I imagined you might appreciate the designation.”

The Church often gave the name “All Saints” to churches built on previous sites of pagan—or occasionally Jewish—importance. Had I told him that? God only knew.

“ ‘Saint Wulfstan’s’?”

“Ah, yes. That ate up two or three of the favours owed, since it’s not exactly the correct name for the chapel.”

Or the location—assuming this was his “family chapel.”

“Holmes, what is this?”

“I should have thought it obvious,” he said in surprise, and leant over me to tap the line that followed the chapel name—or, mis-name. “No banns; no public notice. And since the family—that is, Mycroft and I—appoint the chapel’s rector, we can take whomever we like along for the purpose, and issue the appointment then and there. However, may I draw your attention to the addendum on the side?”

His long fingers swivelled the elaborate form ninety degrees, so I could read aloud the print: “ ‘This License to continue in force only Three Months, from the date hereof.’ ” July was five months off, not three. “And also please note the emendation to the time of day.” The formal hand that had filled in our names, our details, and the chapel designation had also struck through the word “Forenoon” to replace it with “Evening.”

“ ‘Between the hours of Eight and Twelve in the Evening.’ ”

“Mycroft has arranged a special train for six tonight. I’ve put Billy in charge of finding Watson and delivering him to Euston by a quarter to. I shall somehow get Mrs Hudson there at the same time, although I may need to dose her with laudanum in the process. I shan’t be there—I will take an earlier train up, so as to examine the ground before the, er, guests arrive.”

My eyes had fixed on one particular line: …resolved to proceed to the Solemnisation of true and lawful Matrimony. For some reason, the words wavered in my vision.

“Oh, Holmes,” I whispered. My attempted gift had been returned to me, tenfold.

—

Three o’clock in the morning may not be the ideal time to embark on a project both abrupt and important, but embark we did. Following much strong coffee and a change of clothing (for me, that is: opening my deceased father’s wardrobe to Holmes would have had overtones even a non-Freudian could hardly deny), we got the motorcar running and I took him to his villa, then turned my head-lamps in the direction of London. Despite his less-than-complimentary assurance that no-one cared what I wore so long as I was able to run in it, I refused to be wed in a twice-let-down frock and shoes more suited to a farmyard.

In an odd coincidence of impulse and practicality, I had recently set up an establishment in London composed of a too-large and peculiarly furnished Bloomsbury flat into which I had poured unlikely knickknacks, expensive clothing, and a pair of servants by the name of Quimby. Before the dust had settled, I realised it was an experiment doomed to failure, but I had yet to break it up; if I had suitable clothing, it would be there.

Under other circumstances, I’d have grumbled that the first train from Sussex did not reach London until nine o’clock—or gone back to bed entirely and set off for Town at my leisure. However, between the coffee buzzing in my veins and the thoughts whirling through my head, I rather thought I might never feel sleepy again. Motoring through the dark countryside at least kept the whirling thoughts under control.

The flat’s brittle and dramatic furnishings were particularly stark by dawn’s early light, even when the Quimbys appeared (summoned by the doorman—I’d have let them sleep) bearing newspapers and breakfast. Mrs Q found me in the bedroom, frowning over the clothing I had flung across the huge modernist-sculpture object that passed for a bed.

Even if I’d had until July, I’d have regarded the traditional white satin wedding dress with floor-length veil as an absurdity, suitable for those wed in a cathedral with scores of family and a phalanx of uniformed groomsmen to hand. I did not even wish eggshell silk, since wearing it would instantly bring me into contact with engine grease, fresh blood, or a pool of quicksand. Surely something on this vast bed would serve my purpose? The eau-de-Nil sheath and the black-and-white frock with the dropped waist were both more suited to an afternoon tea than a mid-night wedding. The brown-and-scarlet was beautiful, but those colours were a very long way from the traditional. And if I were to take Holmes’ caveat seriously (should I?), the magnificent ice-blue evening gown, the burnt-orange frock with the snug skirt, and the green lacy piece with the uneven hem-line and train would each render brisk flight impossible. There was one piece with a lot of beads that I liked, but if silence were required in addition to speed, I’d have to strip it off and flee in my camiknickers.

Which left the grey-blue wool skirt-and-jacket with the Kashmiri embroidery along the front. With a white silk blouse underneath and its matching hat, I would be both presentable and capable of an all-out sprint. I even had a dark overcoat, in the event of rain or skulking in the shadows.

I wondered what the fashion pages might say regarding a throwing knife strapped somewhere about the bride’s person. Better than a revolver in the handbag, I decided, and told Mrs Quimby that I would have three eggs for my breakfast, and a lot of toast.

I got through the day somehow. In the afternoon, I did nearly fall asleep in the bath, but when Mrs Q then took charge of my hair, leaving me with nothing to do but envision the next few hours, my stomach began to feel the approach of nerves, that strange physiological reaction of icy hands and over-warm body. It was all I could do not to wrench away from her—or, worse, blurt out why I was in such a state—but I managed to submit to her attentions, allowing her chatter to wash over my head and across the crystal fittings on the glass-and-mirrored dressing table.

I remember little about that endless afternoon. Time seemed to stretch and contract like the pulling of taffy—until eventually a glance at the clock snipped it off and swept me out the door in a panic, convinced that I would miss the 4:15 from Euston. (Holmes would not take the 3:05, since that train arrived by daylight, and the 4:00 was a local, its many stops eating up an extra 32 minutes. The 4:15 it would be.)

Holmes no doubt intended for me to be on Mycroft’s Special with our priest and witnesses, but the thought of being locked for ninety minutes behind blacked windows with those inquisitive friends was more than I could bear. No: whatever Holmes had in mind, I would stand with him, Kashmiri embroidery or no.

We spotted each other across the crowds at Euston Station. He did not look surprised. Nor did he look like a man dressed for his wedding. I opened my mouth to comment on what looked like a hansom-driver’s outfit—then I shut it. Today, for once, he would not provoke me. At least he had shaved.

“Good afternoon, Holmes,” I offered primly.

“Russell,” he said with a tip of his disreputable hat.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve a Third—” He stopped, looking down at the ticket I was holding out.

“I bought two in First Class,” I told him. “We shall have a compartment by ourselves.”

He submitted with surprisingly good grace, and handed me into the compartment, taking my small valise—the one with the long strap to free one’s hands for flight or fight—to place in the rack overhead. He, I noted, had none. I stifled a sigh, and held out to him the smaller parcel I had fetched as my taxi passed through Town.

Champagne with two glasses; pâté with biscuits; three wedges of cheese; grapes that had hurried across Europe from some Egyptian hot-house.

His mouth gave a twitch, and he set about decanting our picnic.

For the first time that day, I relaxed: whatever lay before us, it would include emotional swordplay, and it would involve Holmes.

I raised my glass to him, then sat back against the leather seat.

“Tell me what we are likely to encounter,” I requested. “Other than dogs, furious cousins, and armed butlers.”

“That may be enough to be going on, considering our hostages to fortune.”

“Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson,” I supplied. “And Billy?” William Mudd, once the young page on Baker Street, now an investigator in his own right.

“Once he’s seen the other two off at Euston, Billy’s work is finished. No, just Mycroft.”

I came perilously near to splashing wine on the pale wool. “Mycroft? Your brother is removing himself from London?”

“A rare occurrence, it is true.”

Such an event had been described as a planet leaving its orbit.

“Plus his pet Anglican rector,” I said.

“Not…exactly.”

I fixed him with a gaze. “Tell me, Holmes: will anything about this ceremony be recognised in a court of law? I ask because my solicitors are sure to do so.”

“Your solicitors will be quite satisfied with the paper-work,” he said.

“And we won’t be required to commit blood-shed in the course of it?”

“I fully intend our presence to go without notice.”

“Then would you hand me the grapes?” I requested. The rest of the journey passed in an amiable silence. I may even have napped.

—

It was dark when we arrived in…not Northamptonshire, but near there. Holmes carried my small valise across the platform and through the station to the street beyond, but rather than summon one of the two taxis at the kerb, he turned right. Around the corner waited a large, shiny motorcar, its heavy engine idling a cloud into the frigid air. We climbed in. Without waiting for instructions, the driver switched on the head-lamps and put it into gear.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“An acquaintance.”

We drove some five or six miles, out of town and up first one country road, then a smaller one, and finally a rough track that had the man pulling himself forward to peer over the wheel.

At the end, he turned into a wide spot and applied the brakes. Head-lamps and engine cut off; silence and blackness descended. Holmes addressed our driver. “It might be best to turn the motor around, the next time.”

“For ease of departure, yes, sir.”

“We shall return here within two hours.”

“I’ll keep your friends here until you come.”

“Russell, you’re certain you won’t hold me to blame for the ruination of your shoes or garments? We have a mile or so of ground to cover.”

“In that case,” I said, “hold on a moment.”

I knew my…intended well enough to have suspected that formal clothing would be doomed, so I now felt around for the valise, opened it, and pulled out a pair of shoes considerably less sleek than those I currently wore. I laced them on by touch, then pushed the good pair inside with the kit for emergency repairs: replacement silk stockings, sponge bag with damp cloth, nail-scissors, hair-brush, and pins. I did up the buttons on my overcoat, to preserve the more vulnerable clothing beneath from snags and grime, and dropped the long strap of the valise over my head.

“Ready,” I said.

There was just enough moon to give definition to the land around us. We appeared to be on a bridle path—less pitted and filled with ordure than a farm track—leading through trees, up a low hill, and finally opening onto pasture land. A trickling sound ahead of us gave evidence of a small stream; beyond that, a dark shape took form, soon resolving into the roof-line of a considerable building.

Holmes took my elbow, guiding me over a narrow foot-bridge that crossed the stream, then let me go to lead the way up what felt underfoot like close-mowed lawn. As the silhouette of the building became more precise, he grew alert, then stopped.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Lights,” he breathed back. “Around the front of the house.”

“Is that unusual?”

“A bit. My…as a boy, I only saw them lit when we had guests.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Shouldn’t matter. If anything, guests will keep the family occupied.”

I supposed a house-party was unlikely to migrate towards a chapel, unless his cousin was particularly religious or intending a Black Mass; still, this evidence of the rightful owners—rather, the residents—brought back the day’s clammy nerves.

“Come,” he said, and we continued.

The path grew narrow, between shrubs of some kind. I followed a thin white line—Holmes’ shirt-collar—with my arms folded across my chest, feeling the pluck of branches at my sleeves. The white line grew less and less conspicuous, until I was forced to give a little hsst through my teeth: my eyes were poor at night, but I hadn’t thought his were that much better.

A white shape hovered into view: his shirt-front, rather than back. “How can you see where you’re going, Holmes?”

“My feet learned these paths as a boy,” he replied, and set off again, leaving me to consider Sherlock Holmes as a bare-kneed lad.

The next time I caught him up was beside a stone wall where the air smelt of horses. He lowered his head to speak into my ear. “This next bit is complicated. You wait here while I go through to unlatch the door. I’ll be two minutes.”

I tugged my coat lapels together against the cold, and felt more than heard him move off.

Now that I was still, I could hear the night: the faintest of breezes through the leaves; the cry of a vixen in the woods; from a window over my head, the snort of a horse reacting to a stranger’s scent. No dogs yet, thank God. Then I tensed: voices.

They were far off, possibly near the front of the house where the glow was coming from. I could not make out the words, although I thought there were two men. Still, they came no closer, and soon faded away, leaving me with the fox, a far-off owl, and the tiny shift of pebbles beneath my shoes.

A scraping noise came, and a creak, followed by footsteps, hurrying down a stone stairway as if by daylight. Then Holmes was again touching my elbow, leading me up a flight of deeply worn stone steps in the direction of a dim rectangle.

The warm odour of honey told me where we were before I stepped through the doorway: a tall, fragrant beeswax candle hung over the altar, filling the world with sweetness.

The chapel was small: forty celebrants would have been a crowd, with a small gallery over the back for a choir of at most half a dozen. It was old: those windows might have come from the thirteenth century, and the vaulted ceiling not much later. And it was simple: hand-hewn stone, time-smoothed floors, three tapestries whose colours had faded into abstract patterns, carved wooden pews in need of polish—none of the clutter of statues, memorials, and religious bric-a-brac that family chapels tended to collect over the centuries.

With one modern exception. Beside the door, gazing across the intervening pews at the altar, was the portrait of a woman: thin, grey-eyed, with a nose too aquiline for conventional beauty. Her force of personality dominated the silent room.

And something else: the silver-and-pearl brooch at her throat. My hand rose of its own volition to touch this very necklace, resting against my own skin, a most uncharacteristic present from Holmes on my eighteenth birthday. Inside it was a miniature image of his grandmother, the sister of the artist who had painted it, Horace Vernet. That side of the Holmes family—a family otherwise composed of stolid English country squires—proved to his mind (as he had once mused to Watson) that art in the blood was liable to take the strangest forms: surely only the artistic gift for observation and deduction could explain the marked abilities of both Holmes brothers.

The tiny miniature did not give much scope for the artist’s gift of observation, but this portrait manifestly did. She appeared to be about my own age, but even in youth, she shone with the same blazing intelligence and understanding as the man at my side.

“Your mother?” I asked.

“Yes.”

She had died when Holmes was eleven. But for all his reaction now, the portrait might not have been there. When he had closed the door again, Holmes walked past me to the centre of the room and spread out his arms to declaim at the altar:

‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

His voice, by nature somewhat high-pitched, was gathered by that vaulted ceiling and ushered back down at us, resonating like a struck G string. When he stopped speaking, the stones continued to murmur the words to themselves. Something like a whispering gallery, only delivering its sounds to all corners simultaneously.

I was struck by a thought. “You’ve played the violin in here, haven’t you?”

He turned and grinned. “Only when the vicar was out of earshot. If he caught me, I’d get a beating.”

For a brief fraction of an instant, I saw the boy beneath the greying man. At my startled reaction, his humour faded. “What?” he asked.

“Oh, Holmes. I wish—I wish we’d met when you were young.”

“You’d have found me priggish, cocksure, and impatient. Just ask Mrs Hudson.”

“Did she…? Oh, of course—you couldn’t have been more than, what, twenty, when you let rooms from her on Baker Street.”

“About that. Though we’d met somewhat earlier.”

“Had you? I feel I know so little about your past.”

He snorted. “Yet the rest of the world seems to think it knows me all too well, thanks to Watson and his friend Doyle.”

“When did you—”

“Russell, this is hardly the time. I’d like to take a closer look at what’s going on at the front of the house, before we bring our ‘guests’ here.”

Meekly, I followed. But as we passed out of the chapel, his gaze rose in a brief, pained, and involuntary glance, telling me beyond doubt that tonight’s labours were well justified: this place mattered to him.

We spent an hour exploring first the grounds nearest the chapel, then what we could see of the house itself. As we stood pressed among the rhododendrons that flanked the entrance drive, my mind trying (and failing) to see any signs of Holmes in this most conventional of English façades, a sudden play of head-lamps came from the lane behind us. We ducked down, watching a lorry pass by. To my surprise, it came to a halt at the front entrance. A man in formal dress came out of the door, followed by a footman and maid who, under the other man’s direction, helped the lorry’s driver unload a number of anonymous crates.

“Odd place for a delivery, isn’t it?” I said.

He made a noise suggesting agreement.

“I don’t suppose you can make out any marks on those crates?”

This time, his grunt expressed irritation.

As we watched, a second lorry arrived, and the same ritual followed. When both deliveries were received, the lorries drove off and the servants went back inside, leaving the powerful lights burning.

“Is this not also an odd time of day for deliveries?” I asked Holmes.

“Particularly from lorries with no company names on their sides.”

“Was that your cousin, in the high collar?”

“The butler,” he said.

“You think the family are at home?”

“Not many lights burning upstairs,” he pointed out.

“That would be nice,” I said. “Still, it’s odd the servants took a delivery at the front door. Feels rather like drinking the master’s port when his back is turned.”

“True, they were none too furtive about it.”

As we waited to see if another lorry would arrive, I played with this little mystery. There could be any number of explanations, from the innocent (a day-time delivery with mechanical break-down?) to the criminal (a servants’ romp? a drugs party? a below-stairs smuggling operation?) I rather liked one of the latter possibilities—although in all fairness, just because Holmes had a disagreement with his cousin, I would not wish a servants’ revolt on the man. And I found that, although Holmes might be happy with cutting all ties with the house, I nonetheless felt somewhat protective about it. The house that had shaped the boy deserved better than larcenous care-givers.

“Hard on a household, when the servants can’t be trusted,” I reflected. “Not that I’ve ever run a house this size, but it’s such an oddly intimate relationship. Can you imagine, if Mrs Hudson were getting up to something behind your back?”

At the thought, I had to stifle a guffaw. Holmes, on the other hand, made no reply. In fact, he seemed remarkably silent.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Holmes?” I pressed.

He pulled out his watch to check its luminous hands. “Time we were on our way.”

Ah, I thought: something touchy from his past, involving a servant and trust betrayed. Not the best time to ask, perhaps.

I took another glance at the house, brightly lit but uninformative. These servants, faithless or not, weren’t using the chapel for their drugs party or illicit hoard: the minor puzzle of a front-door, after-hours delivery did not affect our own clandestine plans.

We extricated ourselves from the shrubbery, and left the front of the house to itself. When we were across the stream and the path had grown wide again, I came up beside him.

“Holmes, are you quite certain?”

“That we will not be discovered? I see no reason to fear it.”

“No—well, that too, I suppose, but I was thinking of the house itself. You know, until I signed all those papers for my coming-of-age last month, I didn’t realise how much money I have. It’s quite a ridiculous amount. You and I haven’t—that is, at some point we’ll need to decide how to arrange finances, but I suppose…” In truth, I had no idea if Holmes was well off or skirting the edge of penury—one more part of his life where I was in complete ignorance. “Holmes, are you sure you don’t wish to buy this place?”

I could feel his gaze on me, although it was rather too dark to see. “My dear Russell, are you proposing that you turn your inheritance over to your husband?”

“No! Well, not exactly. But…Holmes, we’re a partnership. Pooling resources and energies are a part of that. I’m just saying that if you’ve changed your mind, if you decide that you want this house, I’ll back you.”

“Ah. No, thank you, Russell. The occasional visit—once every twenty years or so—should prove quite sufficient. Beyond that, a visitation threatens to become…a haunting.”

I wished I could see his face. I wished I knew more, that I understood his past, that I felt certain about…Ah, but no: here I was on firm ground. Certainty was the one thing I did have, when it came to this man at my side.

I submitted to an urge and tucked my arm through his, letting his sure feet lead us both through the night.

—

When the big motorcar had come back down the lane and gave up its passengers, I braced myself for emotional excess: exclamations and cries—tears, even. But to my astonishment, our two witnesses appeared to have worn out their enthusiasms on the train up. Mrs Hudson (showing no signs of laudanum) merely gave me a hard embrace and began deftly rearranging my hair, while Dr Watson harrumphed and shook Holmes’ hand with only a degree more emphasis than necessary.

Mycroft drew his brother’s attention to a set of clothing on the front seat, then launched his massive form off in the direction of the house. Holmes ripped the top off the box and folded himself into the back of the car, rapidly divesting himself of the hansom-driver’s raiment (thank goodness!) while I introduced myself to the car’s fourth passenger: a small, ginger-haired fellow with a surprisingly firm hand-clasp and an unexpectedly rich voice that had begun life in Wales. Hearing it, I instantly regretted that the marriage service was not to be sung, since that voice in the chapel would be a thing of beauty.

However, loosing that voice in song would rouse the household, if not every other one for miles: best not.

The driver handed me a trio of shaded hand torches, one for each guest. Our progress down the hill was considerably slower and less silent than it had been with just the two of us. Holmes, shiny now from evening shoes to silk hat, caught us up before the stream. Mycroft, despite his bulk, was in the chapel when we arrived.

And there, dear reader, I married the only man who mattered in my life.

Reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of…well, perhaps not of God, but certainly of prowling cousins with shot-guns, we vowed that we knew of no impediment to our joining; we swore that we would love, comfort, honour, and keep, in sickness and health; and we entered into the state that was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

(Did I imagine it, that brief glance Holmes shot towards the portrait that hung beside the door, as the vows were being said? I do not think I did.)

Our Welsh friend romped us through a nice brisk service, trimming away any references to obedience, skipping over the part with the rings (we’d both forgot about rings), and glossing over all mentions of children, Christ and the Church, or St Paul (indeed, pretty much the remainder of the Service). He fell to the temptation of acoustics and sang his portions of Psalms, although his voice was throttled down considerably from what he so clearly wanted. At the end, Mrs Hudson was in tears, Dr Watson was bright pink, the vicar was beaming, and even Mycroft looked moved as he reached inside his breast pocket for a pen.

We hadn’t even been interrupted by gunfire.

The forms were signed, congratulations exchanged, the vicar handed an envelope.

Then Mycroft cleared his throat. “Er, Sherlock. Mary ought to see the Hall. Just this once.”

There was a solemn but silent exchange between the two brothers. At the end, Holmes said, “Cousin Rudy is sure to have sealed the doors. Wouldn’t you think?”

“One way to know.”

Holmes’ gaze slid sideways to where the other three stood. Mycroft, rightly, took this as agreement, and reached for his overcoat. “I will escort our guests.”

The four of them filed out. Holmes slid the ancient oaken bar across the door, and in the honey-scented silence delivered the traditional salute of the bride-groom. We then passed up the length of the little chapel to the narrow chancel door. Outside, a dim electrical bulb revealed one of those odd collection of angles that result when an ancient house falls victim to a later generation’s urge for grandeur: to the right, a long, trim eighteenth-century wall; to the left, a jumble of stones considerably less even and more spotted with lichen. An archway into the darkness was stained at the centre from generations of passing rush-torches.

Under the archway we went, into a narrow passage open on the left like a diminutive cloister. Three doors opened in the right-hand wall, none of which appeared to have been used since gentlemen wore breeches. At the third, Holmes reached up to pat along the ledge created by a long, protruding stone. He located what he was searching for, but had to prise at it with his pocket-knife (which he had kept despite the change to formal wear) before his hand came away with a key so old it had rusted into the stones.

But not, it seemed, quite rusted through: the lock mechanism gave way before the key’s shaft did.

The air inside was no warmer; on the other hand, no roomful of servants sitting around a fire looked up at our entrance. Although the space could have concealed any number of servants, since its lack of windows meant it was completely black.

Holmes reached out his hand and, with the eagerness of a boy, led me with sure feet into the house where he had been born.

Along the dusty stones of unused corridor, up some narrow and equally gritty wooden stairs, through a many-windowed room that seemed to contain shrouded furniture, down more stairs, and through another corridor.

By the time we climbed a spiral stairway—the ancient clockwise sort designed to free a swordsman’s arm against invaders—I would not have sworn that we weren’t on the outskirts of Oxford, if not London. Down the next passage, Holmes let go of my hand. His clothing rustled, then he went still, the only sound his breathing. He had his ear pressed to the wall—or, I realised on perceiving a faint outline in the stygian dark, to a door.

Perhaps two minutes went by with the sound of our breath and the odours of dust and horse-hair and a faint but dangerous mushroom smell of dry-rot (one of any old building’s “cart-load of mundane nightmares”). At the end, he straightened, and began to explain.

“Below us lies what was once the Great Hall, although by the time I was born, it was little more than a very cold formal dining room—the tapestries had disintegrated, the dais was levelled, and the screened rooms were turned into a butler’s pantry. One could see the bones of the original hall, just, beneath the plaster and modernity. Up here was the minstrel’s gallery. Mycroft and I used to stretch out here to analyse the guests, trying to deduce their histories, their medical conditions, and their secrets. Step away a bit,” he suggested, adding, “We’ll see if it’s been nailed shut.”

I retreated until my back was against the opposite wall. There came the sound of metal against metal—a noise alarmingly like the cocking of a revolver—and the faint line grew sharper. The door gave way with a sudden crack, and we froze, waiting for exclamations from below.

None came.

Radiating embarrassment, Holmes licked his thumb to rub spittle against the hinges, then tried again.

This time, nothing but a mild creak betrayed the door’s movement.

Holmes made a quick survey below, then stood back, allowing me to peer around the frame of the door. The electrical lights in the high-ceilinged room were on, but it was empty of people, so I dared to venture out onto the narrow balcony. A pair of long tables had been arranged against the wall below: one had been laid with plates, cutlery, glasses, and an unlit chafing dish, while the other held unidentifiable shapes beneath linen drapes. Late-night party, or preparations for a formal breakfast? This being the Season, it could be either, or both. If the much-despised cousin had daughters—granddaughters?—of coming-out age, they might be bringing home house-guests after a nearby dance. Or perhaps they rode with the local hunt, and had a meet scheduled for the morrow. For all I knew, it was a household of Miss Havishams, laying out a banquet for a party that would never come.

Then I noticed what the air was telling me: the room was not only lighted, it was far from cold, and bore all the signs of incipient life: wood-smoke, furniture polish—and food.

These were not preparations for a hunt breakfast, nor were they a madwoman’s decaying feast. The servants here were no criminal cabal—the lorries we had seen were delivering food and drink for immediate use. Guests were expected, and soon.

Holmes had reached the same conclusion. His hand came down on my left shoulder, and he began to say, “Russell, I think we—”

Before he could finish, sudden movement came from the doorway below. Boot-heels rang against tile, and instantly he whirled, one arm swinging across my stomach to hurl me backwards through the doorway.

“Ooph!” was my response, followed by “Ow!” as I slammed against the opposite wall. He shut the door, quick but silent, then grabbed my hand again to haul me down the corridor.

Breathless and somewhat befuddled, it wasn’t until the top of the spiral stairs that I balked. “Holmes, wait!”

“If we don’t beat them to the door, the only way out is the roof.”

“Holmes, that was Billy.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m pretty sure.”

After a long moment, the pressure on my arm slacked off.

“Billy?”

I ran the moment back through my mind: yes, I was in the act of being dragged at speed, off my feet and backwards, but that distinctive skin colour, that head of hair and stocky body. “Pretty sure,” I repeated.

“Positive?” he demanded.

I did not know Holmes’ one-time Irregular and long-time assistant terribly well; it had also been some time since I’d laid eyes on him. “Eighty…-five percent?”

Eventually, his hand loosed from mine.

“If we have to go off the roof,” my gracious husband informed me, “I’m not standing below to catch you.”

Back along the narrow corridor to the faint outline; the slide of metal like the gun cocking; a flood of light.

The moment our two heads ventured above the rail, a cheer rose up, an enthusiastic “Hip, hip, hurray!” that, despite the sparse numbers, had dust sifting from the rafters. Billy, yes—along with Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, and Dr Watson—but others as well. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard stood shoulder to shoulder with my farm manager, Patrick Mason; Old Will, Holmes’ gardener with the questionable past, was standing with striking familiarity between two Royal Princes, while a former Prime Minister seemed particularly chummy with a mismatched Eton-and-Balliol pair: a Duke’s younger son, and the reformed cracksman (more or less reformed) who had taught me his skills at the combination dial.

Below us lay our extended and idiosyncratic circle of friends: our family.

Holmes and I looked at each other, then went down to join them.

Mycroft’s doing, of course, from a spur-of-the-moment invitation to Balmoral that swept the cousin’s family away from home to the special train from Euston (rather fuller than either Holmes or I anticipated). He had made the estimate of precisely how long it would take us to get from chapel to minstrel’s gallery. He had summoned all the friends he could lay hands upon and spread them at our feet, beginning the instant he received Mrs Hudson’s telephone call.

“Wait,” I interrupted him. “Mrs Hudson?”

That good lady was standing nearby, wearing a remarkably handsome dress, rearranging a platter of her mouth-watering gougères and directing the maids (who belonged here, and who clearly had no idea that we were from The Family’s Other Side—again, Mycroft’s doing). When the grey-haired housekeeper heard her name, she looked up. “Yes, dear?”

“But you didn’t know,” I protested. “Not when I saw you on Tuesday. You must have discovered it after that—but how did you have time for all…this?”

Her brown eyes filled with affection and mirth, and she shook her head. “Oh, the two of you, imagining you can keep anything from me. Mary dearest, I’ve known Sherlock Holmes since he was a beardless lad in a borrowed top-hat. Forty years and more we lived under the same roof: do you imagine the man can keep a secret this momentous from me? And you—why, I could see this was in the works the day you came looking for him, just after Christmas. All it wanted was the date. Then the two of you came back from London last week with the news leaking out of you like steam from a boiler, so I telephoned the Doctor and Mr Mycroft, warning them that it would be very soon. Patrick, too, although I had to get him away once he knew: that poor man will never learn to lie. Take some food, my dear. You’re looking a bit light-headed.”

I gazed at her, then at the room beyond, and started helplessly to laugh.

I had given Holmes this wedding as a gift—only to have him turn around and hand it back to me tenfold. And now his two oldest friends in all the world had conspired against our plans, casually rendering our feeble attempts at a gift into solid gold.

Really, one could only laugh.

Later, fed and well plied with a champagne far superior to what we had drunk on the train, I found my eyes drawn to the corner where my…yes, my husband was in conversation with Inspector Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, his long fingers wrapped around a delicate glass. Thoughts and speculations began to stir: nerves, with icy hands and over-warm body—

As if I had said his name, Holmes’ grey eyes came up—and as if my hand had brushed an electrical cord, I jerked away, to turn and speak to the swarthy man at my side. I was vaguely aware that Billy had been talking, but rather than try to retrieve the topic, I said merely, and a bit abruptly, “Mrs Hudson has hidden depths to her.”

“She most definitely does that,” he agreed with an odd fervency, although his face gave away nothing. Some history between the two, no doubt.

I heard Holmes laugh. Lestrade was looking increasingly owlish, and Holmes exchanged an unspoken message with Mrs Hudson. She smiled at him, reaching for a bottle to refill the Inspector’s glass. More history there.

So many threads of past experience weaving through the room; so many reasons to feel new and untried. Or there would be, were I the usual twenty-one-year-old girl.

Still, I should have to take care, in the years to come, to stand my own ground and practice the art of self-assertion. Beginning, perhaps, now.

“Tell me, Billy. Would you be interested in helping me break a law or two, strictly in the course of justice?”

He shot a quick look across the room—at Holmes, or Lestrade? or Mrs Hudson, even?—before returning his close attention to the glass in his hand. “One thing I learned early from Mr Holmes: the law is not the only path to justice. What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a painting,” I said. “I’d like to give it to my husband.”

* Events referred to are either in The Beekeeper’s Apprentice or, for the Margery Childe case, A Monstrous Regiment of Women.

BY LAURIE R. KING

Mary Russell

The Beekeeper’s Apprentice

A Monstrous Regiment of Women

A Letter of Mary

The Moor

O Jerusalem

Justice Hall

The Game

Locked Rooms

The Language of Bees

The God of the Hive

Beekeeping for Beginners: A Short Story

Pirate King

Garment of Shadows

Dreaming Spies

The Marriage of Mary Russell: A Short Story

The Murder of Mary Russell

Stuyvesant & Grey

Touchstone

The Bones of Paris

Kate Martinelli

A Grave Talent

To Play the Fool

With Child

Night Work

The Art of Detection

And

A Darker Place

Folly

Keeping Watch

Califia’s Daughters (as Leigh Richards)

About the Author

LAURIE R. KING is the New York Times bestselling author of fourteen Mary Russell mysteries, the Stuyvesant & Grey historical mysteries, and five contemporary novels featuring Kate Martinelli, as well as the acclaimed novels A Darker Place, Folly, and Keeping Watch. She lives in Northern California.

laurierking.com

Facebook.com/LaurieRKing

@LaurieRKing

If you enjoyed The Marriage of Mary Russell

by Laurie R. King

Read on for an exciting preview of the next novel featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes

The Murder of Mary Russell

Available in hardcover from Bantam Books

April 2016

I

13 MAY 1925

SUSSEX

Chapter 1

9:15 A.M.

Irony comes in many flavours, sweet to bitter. The harshest irony I ever tasted was this: when I was interrupted that spring morning, I felt only relief.

But then, tyres on wet gravel sound nothing like the crack of doom.

The noise caught me in the midst of an attack on the post overflowing my desk in Sussex. Since dawn, I’d been elbow-deep in five months’ worth of pleas, adverts, requests for information now out of date, proposals of joint ventures similarly belated, legal and scholarly papers in need of review, and a thin handful of actual letters from friends near and far. I wanted nothing more than to haul the lot outside and set a match to it.

When I heard the noise, I assumed it was Mrs Hudson, returning for some forgotten element of her morning’s trip to Eastbourne. However, the tyres sounded more tentative than Patrick’s hand on the wheel (Patrick Mason was my farm manager and our housekeeper’s occasional driver). Nor did the approaching engine sound familiar. A taxi bringing Holmes, perhaps, finished with his unspecified tasks for his brother Mycroft? I hadn’t seen my husband since he’d left Oxford, two weeks before.

But a glance through the library window showed an unfamiliar car with London number plates and a solitary figure considerably smaller than Sherlock Holmes. The driver circled counter-clockwise, coming to a halt before the house.

I headed to the door with a light heart: unarguable proof that Mary Russell had no talent for reading the future.

I stepped from the front door into the roofed portico beyond, stopping as the fickle morning sunshine gave way to another quick shower. The driver’s door opened, but he hesitated, seeing not just the rain, but me. He’d expected someone else.

“May I help you?” I called.

“Er, the Holmeses?”

“This is the place,” I confirmed. The shower grew stronger, spattering down the drive, and although the day was warm enough, I had no wish to change out of wet clothes. I turned to rummage through the odd population of canes, sticks, and tools in the corner of the entryway, but before I could locate an umbrella that functioned, the car door slammed and footsteps hurried across the stones. I let go the handle and gave the visitor some room under the shelter.

He was a short, stocky man in his forties, wearing a new black overcoat, an old brown suit, and a cloth driving cap that he now pulled off, snapping it clear of drops before arranging it back over his blond hair. His brief question had been insufficient to betray an accent, but it had to be either Australian or South African—his pale blue eyes positively blazed out of sun-darkened skin, and his suit had a distinctly colonial air to it. I had just chosen Australia when his greeting confirmed it.

“G’day, Ma’am. Nice place you got here.”

With that greeting, I finally raised a mental eyebrow.

A person’s first words can reveal a great deal more than the speaker’s origins. The closer one sticks to the traditional forms—Good day, Madam, terribly sorry to bother you but…or a chatty variation such as, Dreadful weather for May, Ma’am, please don’t come any further into it, I just…—the smoother the transition into a stranger’s life. But Nice place you got here, coupled with a blithe spattering of drops across the entry tiles and a grin that showed too many teeth? The man was out to sell me something.

Had I actually been working that morning—had I not been so grateful for any interruption at all—I might simply have taken another step back and shut the door in his face. Might not even have gone out at all, for that matter, thus setting events off in a very different direction. But with nothing more compelling than a stack of mail to draw me, that self-assured grin made for a nice little challenge.

Wouldn’t one think that life with Sherlock Holmes would have taught me all about the perils of boredom? And overconfidence? But like a fool, I felt only relief at this holiday from envelopes. “My husband is not here at the moment.”

Another young woman might have said those words apologetically, or perhaps nervously. I merely stated them as fact. He gave me a quick glance, head to toe, taking in my short but decidedly unfashionable haircut, my complete lack of makeup, the old shirt I wore (one of Holmes’ with its sleeves rolled up), and the trousers on my legs. He reacted with a degree more sensitivity than I might have expected. His posture subsided, his bare grin gave way to something more polite, and he removed his hat again, this time a gesture of respect rather than convenience. Even his words reflected the change.

“Sorry, Ma’am, but it’s not him I’m looking for. I wonder…does Mrs Hudson live here? Mrs Clari—Clara Hudson?”

“She does, but—”

His right hand shot out at me. “Then you must be the missus. Mary Russell? You look just like she described you!”

I stifled my arm’s automatic impulse—to catch that outstretched hand and whirl him against the wall—and instead permitted him to grab me and pump away, grinning into my face. Still a salesman.

After four shakes I took back my hand. “Sir,” I began.

“Is she here? My mother?”

If he’d squatted down to tip me head over heels, he could not have astonished me more. Mother??

He saw my reaction, and gave a sort of smacking-of-the-forehead gesture. “What am I thinking? Guess I’m a little excited. My name is Samuel—Samuel Hudson. Great ta meetcha,” and the hand came out again to seize mine.

Mother?

Of all the mysteries that are love, maternal love may be the most basic. My own mother had died when I was fourteen. A few months later, with the raw instincts of a barnyard chick imprinting its affections on the first available surrogate, my bereft heart had claimed Mrs Hudson for its own. I had known her for ten years now, lived with her for more than four, and she was as close to a mother as I would ever again have.

I knew of course that she had a son in Australia—or rather, she had a “nephew” whom her sister claimed as her own. Glimpses of an older person’s complex and unspoken history can be startling, even when one’s main source of comparison is a dedicated Bohemian like Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps especially in that case: Mrs Hudson had always been a point of solid dependability amidst the anarchy that surrounded Holmes.

Motherhood is more than a biological state. Yes, I knew—well, suspected—about her past, but I had never conducted the close investigation I might have with a stranger, and definitely never asked Holmes if Mrs Hudson had been married before giving over the child to be raised. I admit that a few weeks into our acquaintance, when it dawned on me that the nephew might in fact be a son, my first reaction was an adolescent giggle over the idea of Mrs Hudson as a fallen woman. My second reaction was curiosity. Oddly, Holmes refused to say anything about the matter. It took a while before I realised that his blatant unconcern was the only way he could grant his poor housekeeper (as if she wasn’t so much more than housekeeper!) some degree of privacy.

Once I saw this, I followed his lead. I made no further attempts to rifle her possessions or read the letters from Australia—written largely by her sister (who had died, some nine months before this), although Mrs Hudson’s interest clearly lay more in the news about their shared son. To judge by the sighs and a general air of distraction after each letter’s arrival, it was not an easy relationship. In fact, her “nephew” seemed to be something of a ne’er do well, but since she never asked for assistance or advice, we could only politely ignore her unspoken woes.

Until now, when he stood on our doorstep.

Assuming this was Samuel Hudson.

Would most young women accept such a claim without question? Perhaps. And perhaps most young women would be justified in their naïve acceptance. However, I was married to Sherlock Holmes, had known him only a few hours longer than I’d known Mrs Hudson, and the basic fact of life with Holmes was: the world is filled with enemies.

So, I would not permit this person to meet Mrs Hudson without a thorough vetting.

All of this reflection and decision took me approximately three of the fellow’s hand-pumps. I bared my teeth to make a grin at least the equal of his, and drew back to welcome him inside (which had the added benefit of removing my hand from his).

“She’s away for the morning,” I told him. “I’m not sure exactly when she’ll be back. However, I can probably manage to make you a cup of tea in her absence. Unless you’d rather have coffee?”

“A cuppa would go down a treat,” he said, then to clarify: “Tea, thanks.”

I closed the door against the cool air and led him into the main room, our idiosyncratic combination of sitting room, library, and dining room. The south wall, to my right, had a table in the bay window, where we took our meals; the east wall held laden bookshelves, and French doors to the terrace; on the north lay a wide fireplace with chairs and a settee, along with the entrance to the kitchen. Holmes’ observation beehive, set into the wall beside the bay window, was behind its cover.

“Whadda great room,” the visitor enthused.

I bit off my tart response—I’m sorry, it’s not for sale—and instead turned the topic onto a more pertinent track. “Not to be rude, but I don’t suppose you have any sort of identification? You don’t look much like her.” Mrs Hudson’s grey hair had once been brown, not blonde, and her dark eyes were nothing like this man’s bright blue. Even if the fellow had been born “Samuel Hudson,” it was a common enough surname. He might be some lunatic with a Sherlock Holmes mania built around a minor coincidence.

If so, this would not be the first fantasist to waltz into our lives, although the odds were mounting in his favour: he was certainly from Australia, and he knew not only our names, but where we lived. Still, the thought of that hand clamping down over Mrs Hudson’s beloved palm…

(I recount these details to show that I was not entirely oblivious to the world around me. Just not attentive enough.)

“Nah, guess I don’t,” he said, running a hand over his visage. “That’s probably why I never doubted who my mother was—Mum and I both have my granddad’s looks, or so I’m told. Identification, is it? I didn’t bring my passport, didn’t expect—ah, what about these?” His fingers came out of an inner pocket with a photograph and a golden chain. He handed me the first.

It showed two women and an infant. The women sat in the formal pose required of a slow shutter speed, although it had been taken in a garden, not a studio—a private garden, most likely, since neither wore a hat. The infant was as unformed as any small human, little more than pale hair and layers of cloth. The woman holding him was blonde, with light-coloured eyes, and I thought—as I had from the first time I’d seen this photograph, years before—that there was something odd about the way the woman’s hands clutched the baby, thrusting him at the camera rather than cuddling him to her. Her features, too, had some faint air of hidden meaning, a triumph almost, that made one very aware of the empty hands of the woman at her side.

The other woman, taller, straight of back and dark of hair and eye, looked into the camera with a gaze of sad acceptance. Even if I had not recognised this woman’s features, I would have known her by that expression: I see what you are up to, it said, but I love you anyway.

Heaven knows she’d had plenty of opportunities to look at me that way, over the years.

I handed the photograph back to Samuel Hudson. “She has a copy of that.” I did not add, Hers is worn down to the paper from ten thousand touches of her finger. My mother had used that very gesture, on the mezuzah at our door.

“Well, that’s me,” he said. “With my mother and aunt—although until just a few months ago, I thought the two went the other way around.”

I glanced up sharply at the bitter edge in his voice, to see his other piece of evidence dangling from thumb and forefinger: a gold chain strung through a hole drilled in an old half sovereign coin.

“Does she still wear hers?” he asked.

The chain looked too bright and the gold of the pendant less worn than I remembered, but the necklace definitely caught my attention. I’d never seen it around Mrs Hudson’s neck, but I recognised it as the flash of gold I’d first spotted years before, tucked in the bottom of her incongruously large and ornate jewellery box. I might have taken no notice, at the time, but for the casual haste with which she had flipped something over it.

“No, she doesn’t wear one like that,” I told him.

“Well,” he said, “I guess she’ll remember it anyway.” He gave it a polish on his coat-tails, held it up in admiration, then set off on a circuit of the room, pausing on his way to drop the chain over the jack-knife Holmes always left on the mantelpiece. I watched with increasing unease as he surveyed the walls, peered at the books on the shelves, poked an obtrusive finger through the clutter of papers and oddments on the table under the window. I was sorry I’d invited him in. And I changed my mind about letting him cool his heels here until she returned.

I would give him a polite cup of tea, and I would get rid of him. Let Mrs Hudson meet him on her own terms.

“Tea,” I said. “Just let me put on the kettle. How long have you been in England? I hope your trip went well—that you weren’t caught in those storms I read about last month?”

As I moved in the direction of the kitchen, I became aware of two things. First, I wanted badly to be alone, just for a minute, so I could try to beat my thoughts into order. (Mother? Mother! Though nothing like her. Shouldn’t I be pleased? Does that make him my sort-of…brother? But—) Second and even more peculiar, while my mouth was making conversation, my body wanted nothing to do with him. I was edging away towards the kitchen door because I did not want to turn my back on this man.

What was going on? I knew of no wrongdoing on his part, other than making his mother sigh. Still, I kept retreating backwards, making conversation as I went—too bad he’d hit a rainy day because the view from Beachy Head was glorious. Where did he live in Australia? Was he staying in Sussex or just down from London for the day?

Sydney, came the reply (which I knew), and only for the day (a relief, although he hadn’t come far that morning: the car bonnet was shiny, not hot enough to steam away the rain). At that point, my heels touched wood, so I ducked through the door and let it close, to stand with my hands resting on the old, well-scrubbed wooden table. I took a deep breath, then another.

I, better than most, had reason to understand that when one does not face up to events, they return—with a vengeance. My mother’s death and my desperate adoption of Mrs Hudson in her place might be facts of a distant past—but only until a situation came along to upend matters.

Well, that situation had arrived. Mrs Hudson was not my mother. Mrs Hudson was getting old, and deserved a full relationship with her son—her actual child—before she died. That he was a touch smarmy for my taste had nothing to do with matters.

After a moment, I scrubbed my damp palms down my shirt-front and picked up the kettle. (The new whistling tea-kettle, that I gave her for her birthday, just last— Oh, get a hold of yourself, Russell!) I filled it, shoved the whistle in place, and set its broad bottom over the flame. I would not hurry. Samuel Hudson might push through the door at any moment, to invade his mother’s private realm, but he had the right to invade. This was his mother’s home. If she were here, she would permit him inside. Therefore, so would I.

But I was relieved when he did not follow me.

Kettle on, two cups on a tray, anything else a hostess ought to do? A plate of something hospitable, perhaps? I searched through the tins where she stored her baked goods, and found a startling array of biscuits, sponges, and tea cakes—ah, yes: we were having a party on Saturday. I hesitated between her Sultana biscuits and a loaf with strips of lemon peel on the top. Which would an Australian salesman prefer? Perhaps I should ask.

“Mrs—your mother has made Sultana biscuits and a lemon loaf. Which would you—”

My voice strangled to a halt as I stepped into the sitting room and looked into the working end of a revolver.

Behind the gun stood a man with murder in his eyes.

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