have to sit on the table — I can't do it with you on my lap.' There was no response. We waited a while, and then Holmes shrugged and reached for the picklocks. She stirred, and then slowly pushed her foot towards him. Without comment he got to work and, touching her as little as possible, within two minutes had the shackles on the floor. She gave him a long, grave look, which he returned, and then gathered herself up against me again and put her thumb into her mouth.
We sat, and dozed, and waited, until finally there came another car on the road, which braked to a halt just outside the caravan. Holmes opened the door to the Simpsons, and Jessie flew into her mother's arms and glued her arms and legs around her as if she would never come free, and Mr. Simpson put an arm around both of them and led them to the car, and I found it hard to see properly, and Holmes blew his nose loudly.
SEVEN: Words with Miss Simpson
Directing all things without gifting an order, receiving obedience but not recognition.
The end of a case is always long, tedious, and anticlimatic, and since this is my story I choose to save myself from having to describe the next hours of weariness and physical letdown and questions and the ugliness of confronting those men. Suffice it to say that the night ended and I crawled into my hard bunk for a few hours of collapse before a fist on the caravan door brought me into the day. Cup after cup of black coffee did not help the soggy thickness in my bones and brain, and it was with considerable sour satisfaction that later that afternoon I watched the last of the cars drive off down the narrow track. I rubbed my tired eyes and propped up my sore foot and thought vaguely of a bath but found I could not summon the energy to do anything except sit on the wagon's back step and watch the horse graze.
It must have been nearly an hour later that I became aware of Holmes, sitting on a stump and tossing his jack knife repeatedly into the tree next to him.
'Holmes?'
'Yes, Russell.'
'Is it always so grey and awful at the end of a case?'
He didn't answer me for a minute, then rose abruptly and stood looking down the road towards the house with the plane trees. When he looked around at me there was a painful smile on his lips.
'Not always. Just usually.'
'Hence the cocaine.'
'Hence, as you say, the cocaine.'
I hobbled into the caravan for more coffee and brought the lukewarm cup back into the last rays of the evening sun. The oily slick on top was slightly nauseous, and I abruptly tipped it out, watched it soak into the trampled grass, and spoke in a rush of words I had not intended to say.
'Holmes, I don't think I can sleep here tonight. I know it's late and we should barely get on the road before we had to stop, but would you mind awfully if we didn't stay here until morning? I really don't think I can bear it.' My voice came out a bit shaky at the end, but I looked up to see Holmes with a genuine smile in his eyes.
'Mary, me girlie, you took the very words from me mouth. If you'll get the nag in place, I'll have these things stowed away in a minute.'
It was considerably more than a minute, but the sun was still above the hills when we turned the painted wagon around and faced back up the road we had come down the day before. I began to breathe more easily, and after a couple of miles Holmes put his back against the caravan's painted door and let out a sigh.
'Holmes? Do you think they'll catch the person behind this?'
'It's possible but not, I think, likely. He's been very cautious. He was not seen — he has certainly never been here, he'd never have overlooked the tree branch, or the curtains. These five were hired and paid anonymously, had no address or telephone number, no means of contacting him other than the newspaper, and received their orders from postboxes all over London: The ones I saw were all from the same typewriter, which will soon be lying on the bottom of the Thames. The Yard may have luck with tracing the money, but something tells me they won't. However, sooner or later he'll put his head up again, and perhaps we'll see him then. Russell? Come, Russell, don't fall off under the wheels, I beg you. Hand me those reins and go to sleep. No, go on. I've been driving horses since before you were born. Get on wi'ya, Mary.' So I got on.
I woke up many hours later in stillness and heard the little caravan's back door open. Boots thumped gently onto the wooden floorboards, outer clothing rustled, and Holmes climbed into his bunk. I turned over and went back to sleep.
It was a blessing that we were saddled with the caravan and horse and were forced to make our way slowly to Cardiff. If we had gone off by car and plunged immediately into officiai business and then whisked ourselves back home by train, it would have left me, and perhaps even Holmes, gasping and stunned. As it was, two long days of plodding travel forced us to put the case into its proper place. We rode and walked, Holmes alternated between pipe and gentle, lyrical violin pieces. We talked, but not of the case, or of what I had taken upon myself to do. Leaving the horse and caravan with Andrewes, we piled our assorted bags into a cab and were driven to the best hotel that the driver thought might accept us. It did. The baths were sheer sybaritic pleasure, deep and hot, and four rinses later I was again blonde, with a definite tan colour remaining on my skin. I stood in front of the mirror, tying my necktie, when two taps came at the door.
'Russell?'
'Come in, Holmes, I'm nearly ready.'
He let himself in, and I saw that he too remained slightly brown, though the grey had reappeared around his ears. He sat down to wait as I pinned up my still-damp hair, and it occurred to me that he was probably the only person I knew who could simply sit nearby and watch me without one or the other of us needing to make conversation.
I finished and picked up my room key.
'Shall we go?'
The Simpsons, as might have been expected, were grateful and fragile. Mrs. Simpson kept touching her daughter gently as if to reassure herself of the child's presence. Mr. Simpson looked rested and apologised for having to rush about — his words — instead of talking, as he was needed urgently in London. In the midst of it sat Jessica. She and I greeted each other solemnly. I noticed the faint shadow of a fading bruise on her cheekbone that I hadn't seen in the dark. I asked after her doll, and she replied seriously that she was quite well, thank you, and would I like to see her hotel room? I excused myself and followed Jessica down the hallway. (The Simpsons' suite and hotel were considerably more upstage than ours.)
We sat on the bed and talked to the stuffed person, and I was introduced to a bear, two rabbits, and a jointed wooden puppet. She showed me a few books, and we spoke of literature.
'I can read them,' she informed me, with the barest trace of self-satisfaction.
'I can see that.'
'Miss Russell, could you read when you were six?' Oddly enough there was no overtone of pride here, just a request for information.
'Yes, I believe I could.'
'I thought so.' She nodded her head in prim satisfaction and smoothed the skirt of the rag doll.
'What is your doll's name?'
I was surprised at her reaction to this simple question. Her hands went still, and she concentrated on the battered face in her lap, biting her lip. Her voice when she answered was quiet.
'Her name used to be Elizabeth.'
'Used to be? What is her name now?' I could see that this was important but failed to grasp just how.
'Mary.' She spoke in a whisper, and after a few seconds her eyes came up to mine. Light dawned.
'Mary, is it? My name?'
'Yes, Miss Russell.'
It was my turn now to look down and study my hands. Hero worship was not one of the topics Holmes had
