We gained the inn after some twenty minutes' hard walking. By then, I was completely chilled, and shivering inside my clothes. The sight of the homely building was like the gates of Paradise to me--hopefully Holmes would allow us to stop long enough to take nourishment. I was weak from hunger.
We were ushered to a rickety table by the window, upon which was placed a steaming platter of roasted meats, fragrant vegetables, and a boat over-brimming with thick gravy. I piled my plate high and ate in blissful silence for some moments, pausing only to watch Holmes picking at his dinner with his characteristic lack of appetite.
Our hostess identified herself to us as Mrs. Doyle, and was most gracious, bringing us a pot of steaming tea and a plate of fresh scones, still warm from the oven. I had surely died and gone to heaven, that much was certain.
"Mrs. Doyle." Holmes pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. "We have recently come from the home of the Earl of Lindley." He drew deeply on the cigarette, his gaze keen and alert, watching her for the slightest reaction.
"Oh, yes." Her facial muscles twitched, on the verge of a smile, then lapsed into a bland expression, revealing nothing--and deliberately so. "I'm surprised to find you here, given the Earl's legendary hospitality."
"You're not from these parts, are you?" Holmes had picked up on her accent, which was as upper-class as his own. No, Mrs. Doyle was not bred of these Yorkshire dales, that was evident.
"No, sir--I was born in London."
"Ah!" Holmes's features lit with a brilliant smile. "So I take it you have not made the acquaintance of the Earl, or his late wife." He flickered a glance at me, across the table.
Mrs. Doyle grabbed for the gravy boat, but her fingers slipped, and it fell from her grasp. I jumped back as the porcelain shattered on the stone floor.
"Ah, Mrs. Doyle, I am sorry..." Holmes nodded at me, sipped smoke. "Watson and I will give you something for its replacement." He reached into his inside pocket, brought out his wallet.
"No, Mr. Holmes, it's not necessary." She scraped the shattered pot into her capacious apron and disappeared into the kitchen.
"The slip, Watson, between the cup and lip..."
"I beg your pardon?" I had wanted more gravy, but it was pointless to ask for it now... I helped myself to more food as compensation, intent on filling my stomach while the going was good.
"She called me by name, when you will recall, Watson, that we had not been introduced."
I dropped my fork and stared at him. My mind was racing to catch up with it all... "That's right. How could she have possibly...?"
The inner door opened, and a young woman in an apron came through, from the kitchen. Her hair was scraped on top of her head and hidden under a cap; her hands were hidden in the folds of her apron. "Will that be all, gentlemen?" She kept her eyes cast down, whether from a natural diffidence or something other, I couldn't tell. Her face was perfectly colourless... I remembered how skilfully the Earl's niece, Marjorie, had been painted, and to what astounding effect. Perhaps this young woman could do with a bit of cosmetic help...
"Perfectly, madam. Of course it will be all. Shall we pay you now, or leave payment for the landlady?"
"You may pay Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Holmes."
Mr. Holmes.
There was a vast, outstretching silence, during which a clock could be heard, ticking somewhere in another room, but seeming as loud to my ears as a Chinese gong. Holmes lunged for the girl, grabbed her hands and turned them palms-up, towards the light of the window.
"Leave me be, I'll scream, I'll call the constable--" She struggled in his grasp, but futilely, because Holmes is very strong.
"Watson, look at this--look at her hands!"
I leaned forward, peered at the girl's hands.
They were smooth and unblemished, certainly not the hands of a kitchen maid. They were smooth and unblemished, save for several bright red pin-pricks on the tip of each finger...
...the type of marks perhaps made by a sewing needle...
"Or the thorns of a rose." Holmes dropped the girl's hands back into her lap, retrieved his abandoned cigarette and drew on it sharply. "Tell me, Marjorie, how is it that you can be in two places at once? Working for your uncle, clipping roses in his garden, and clearing tables for Mrs. Doyle?" He tilted his head and gazed at me. "It is indeed curious, Watson, is it not?" He reached towards her, and yanked off her cap in one smooth movement. Marjorie's thick, shining black hair tumbled about her shoulders, a rich, lustrous garment. "Hardly a serving-maid, Marjorie."
"Don't expose me, Mr. Holmes." She glanced quickly back at the closed door, from behind which came the characteristic cooking sounds. "There's much more going on here than you might suspect."
"How on earth did you get here from the Earl's home, and so quickly?" I recalled that it had taken Holmes and I close to half an hour to reach this place, and we were both strong men, in the prime of our lives. It was hardly likely that a girl, encumbered by thick petticoats and a heavy skirt, could have outstripped us in this manner. It was also highly unlikely that she could have passed either before us or behind us on the route that we had taken, without our knowledge of it. The Yorkshire dales are a great, vast expanse of nothingness, with a clear line of sight in any direction over that treeless landscape.
"There's another route, Doctor..." Her eyes shifted from Holmes to myself, nervously, just as she'd been in the garden. "It is known only to those members of the Earl's family, because of the danger; I'm certain you can appreciate it."
"What danger?" Holmes had lit himself a fresh cigarette. I leaned across and poured his tea, pushed the cup in his direction.
"The route I took is--"
His hand shot out, picked something off the shoulder of her dress, and examined it in the light from the window. "The route is underground."
My mouth dropped open. Really, I ought to have been used to this by now, but as I have said, Holmes continued to amaze me, over and over. He turned his opened palm to me, exposing the tiny grain of soil that lay there. "Holmes?"
"A type of local moss, Watson, that grows in subterranean caves. Native to the Yorkshire dales, and occurs nowhere else. You will recall my monograph on types of vegetation indigenous to Britain." He coughed, dismissing the subject. "Marjorie could hardly have picked it up in the kitchen, given the extent to which Mrs. Doyle maintains the standards of cleanliness." He fixed his gaze on Marjorie. "You travelled here by an underground route, possibly one that is known only to the Earl's family, correct? You work here with Mrs. Doyle for what reason, to earn your keep? I hardly think that necessary, seeing as how you are the niece of an Earl--"
"Uncle's fortunes are nearly expended, Mr. Holmes." She mumbled this under her breath, so low that I had to lean forward to catch it. "And I am permitted nothing under his guardianship, as it is."
"His fortunes are expended?" Holmes raised one dark eyebrow. "A gambling man, is he?" He cast a sardonic look at me. "You might lecture the Earl on the evils of gambling, Watson."
"Very amusing, Holmes."
"Mr. Holmes..." She cast an imploring glance in his direction, her dark lashes jewelled with bright tears. "My uncle is not the one who summoned you here. It was me, and not for the reason you think. Uncle called you in to investigate the supposed murder of his wife--"
"--But his wife is not dead, she is very much alive and right here--" The door from the kitchen opened and closed. "Ah, Mrs. Doyle ... or should I say, the Lady Bromhampton, wife of the Earl of Lindley."
The story was simple enough. The Earl of Lindley was a dissolute drunkard--I ought to have realised, given his high colour and his moodiness at dinner--who had wasted his fortunes in various bawdy houses in both London and Birmingham, with frequent stops at Newcastle. His wife had not been murdered, as Holmes had been informed by the Earl, but she had left him, and some time ago, to be exact. According to Marjorie, her Aunt Millicent had bought this inn with financial backing from her family, and had built it from a small, out-of-the-way country hostel to a going concern. The Earl, hovering on the verge of ruin and public exposure, had begged Millicent to return to him, but Millicent (sensible woman) refused.
Shortly before Holmes and I had been summoned, the Earl had returned from Newcastle with a woman of ill-repute, one of the floozies with whom he'd been known to regularly consort. This was not merely a routine meeting, but something far more sinister, because the floozy in question, a Miss Douglas (familiarly known as "Big Suzette") had discovered the Earl's true identity, and set about to blackmail him. For child support, no less--as she was some four months pregnant with his child.
"He killed her, Mr. Holmes, right there in the bedroom, he killed her! Strangled her with his bare hands, he did!" Marjorie's black eyes overflowed; Holmes hastily handed her his clean white handkerchief, which she pressed against her face and sobbed. "He sleeps in the room two doors down from yours--when I'm in residence at the house, I sleep in the servant's quarters." She glanced at me, her huge, dark eyes filled with pain. "I crept into your room that night, Dr. Watson, and I--"
Something knifed me, painfully. I was suddenly very afraid. So she knew, she'd seen Holmes and I, lying in each others' arms... It was all over: I would lose my practice, and my social standing, and Holmes would be utterly ruined. All for one night of pleasure and love, I thought bitterly. One night, one immortal night that would ruin us both...
"--I couldn't see much, I've got weak eyes, and I hardly see at all in the dark ... my candle had gone out, I couldn't make anything out except the light from the window ... so I wasn't sure if you were really in the room or not, and I didn't want to disturb anyone, so I just shut the door and left."
I had to ask. "You saw nothing at all?"
"Nothing, Dr. Watson." She scrubbed at her face with Holmes's handkerchief. "I ought to have my eyes looked at--I can see just fine in the daylight, but I've no night vision. I'm practically blind in the dark, I am."
Oh, thank God.
"Why on earth would the Earl--" Holmes reached under the table, laid his hand on my wrist, squeezed. I could feel his relief, as palpable as my own. "--summon me from London to validate the evidence of his own crime?"
"He was hoping you would come to rather a different conclusion, Mr. Holmes." Lady Millicent spoke up. "You will remember that my husband made much of the peacock feather that was found at the scene of the crime... you will also remember--"
"Marjorie's feather fan!" I cried.
"Uncle never did give it back, Mr. Holmes." Marjorie sniffed, seemed to draw herself up. "I only had a couple of feathers left of it, it was all falling apart, it was so old... I'd carry them around in my pocket, just to keep them close. Oh, it's silly, I know, it's merely a sentimental object..."
"Not at all," I murmured.
"Then your husband, the Earl of Lindley--" Holmes nodded at Lady Millicent, "--murdered this ... prostitute in your own marriage bed, and tried to suggest that it was Marjorie who was the true perpetrator of the crime?" He threw his head back and laughed. "How utterly prepostrous!" He took one of Marjorie's soft hands in his own, examined her smooth palm as he had done before. "Marjorie, my dear, I want you to squeeze my hand as hard as you are able. Go on, do as I say."
Marjorie did as he said. Holmes never even winced, did not even blink. "Charming soft hands for a young lady, but hardly the hands of a murderer." He smiled, pressed her hand back into her lap. "I say, Lady Millicent, your husband, if you'll pardon it, is rather a stupid sort of man, is he not?"
"It's not just that," Marjorie interjected. "He hates me, Mr. Holmes ... can't stand the sight of me. I hated seeing him with those women, seeing them in the house. He used to make me wait on them, wash their underclothes--"
"Oh, dear God, do not go on, I pray you!" Holmes pressed two fingers to his forehead, adopted a martyred expression.
"Holmes." I cleared my throat, anxious to have this tied up and put to rights. "There has clearly been a murder here, and I think it is time to call in Inspector Lestrade, let him handle it from here on in."
"You are quite right, my dear Watson." Holmes rose from the table, neatly dropped a ten-pound note beside his plate.
"Mr. Holmes, that's far too much!"
"Not at all, Lady Millicent." He smiled. "This has been a most satisfying case." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You do understand that your husband, the Earl of Lindley, will be taken into custody and charged with murder?"
She nodded, silently. "I want nothing from him, Mr. Holmes."
"You will receive everything that is his, Lady Millicent."
"I want nothing," she repeated.
He nodded, drew a deep breath. "Then it goes to Marjorie." He cast a quick look around the place, beckoned to me. "Come along, Watson. There is a telegraph office in town from which we can summon Inspector Lestrade. Everything should be neatly tied up in a matter of hours."
"Hours, Holmes?!" I laughed. "For all that Lestrade is eager, I doubt that even he can make it from London in mere hours. Do you think he can fly?"
"Lestrade?" Holmes's sensual mouth quirked at the corners. "It would surprise me not a bit."
The train back to London was nearly empty, and Holmes and I had a compartment to ourselves, with pull-down blinds and a door that locked. I nestled myself on the seat, sank into the Times gratefully. It was over, another successful case resolved, and a very satisfying one, indeed.
"We were almost found out, Watson." Holmes was sitting opposite me, smoking a cigarette, his long legs crossed at the ankles. "Back there, at Lindley Hall, we were almost ruined, you and I."
I swallowed hard. I knew what was coming next. "I realise that." I laid my newspaper down, gazed at the floor, my hands, the tops of my shoes--anything to avoid looking into those pitiless grey eyes.
There was a rustle at my side, and there was Holmes, lifting my face to look into my eyes. "We shall just have to be exquisitely careful from now on, Watson." He leaned into me and kissed me gratefully, and I embraced him, held him close to me as the kiss went on and on, became more and more torrid...
"This is all so new to me, Watson..." He smiled. "Surely there are other things one can do, without the necessity of nudity?"
His tone of voice, his eagerness, lit fire in my belly. "Oh, yes..." I drew him down beside me on the seat, and kissed him, hands roaming everywhere, straying into warm, secret places. I stroked the hard bulge in his trousers until he climaxed, silenced his cries with my mouth; I writhed against his hard shoulder as he did the same, biting the dark fabric of his coat to drown the sounds of my release...
"We shall have to be very careful, Watson..." We lay on the bed, now, side-by-side and still fully clothed, wrapped into each other. He was very, very precious and I didn't want to let him go; I wanted him next to me always.
"But what a case, Holmes!" I wrapped my arm around his waist.
"Indeed ... a veritable book of secrets, Watson!"
He looked beautiful to me, lying there, sleepy and sated, confined by his clothes, but mine ... mine forever. "We shall have our own book of secrets, Holmes."
"Hmmm ... yes, indeed." He pulled me close to him and kissed me, and we were swift and careful as we made love again. And when the porter came to call our stop, we were both fully clothed and utterly respectable, careful to guard our book of secrets.
Beyond, there was home, and Baker Street, and my own darling love.