find I could not work because of their unending racket. No, the Vicissitude has a quiet reading room with three seldom-used desks. Not as good as Oxford, but I promised Duncan I’d go up every few days to placate him.”
“Why stay in London? Margery Childe?”
“Well, yes, I shall see something of her. Why the interest in my plans, Holmes?”
“I fear I shall not be available as a consultant for a few days as you wished. I had a second telegram this afternoon in addition to yours. Mycroft wants me to go to Paris for a day or two and then Marseilles. Winkling out information from some none-too-willing witnesses in a large dope-smuggling case. Have you ever noticed,” he added, “how Mycroft’s metaphors tend to concern themselves with food?”
“You wanted me to go?” I was immensely pleased, although tentative about rebuffing his offer.
“I had thought you might enjoy it.”
“I would, very much. But I can’t. I’m not going farther from Oxford than London until after the twenty-eighth. If there’s a blizzard or a rail strike, I can still walk there in time. It couldn’t wait, I suppose?”
“I fear not. Another time, then,” he said. He seemed untroubled, but was, I thought, disappointed.
“Another time, and soon. How long did you say you were to be away?”
“I shall leave Wednesday and return the following Thursday, possibly later if it gets complicated.”
“Ah,” I said, aware of a feeling of disappointment myself. “Well, perhaps I shall have something interesting for you upon your return.”
He walked me to the door of the Vicissitude, and I wondered if I had imagined the faintly wistful turn of his wrist as he tipped his hat in farewell.
The next days went according to the schedule I had given Holmes: Tuesday in London, the morning at the British Museum with an expert in Palestinian and Babylonian antiquities, the afternoon with Margery, the evening at my club; Wednesday in Oxford; Thursday morning at the Bodleian, then back to London for an early-afternoon appointment with Mr Arbuthnot, my solicitor, followed by a fitting with the elves, from which I came away laden with dressmakers’ boxes. I took them to the Vicissitude, where I found a parcel waiting for me, three books I had ordered for Margery. That I carried with me to Veronica’s house, where we had, in her words, a “late tea or early supper” combined with a discussion about how best to arrange her lending library. We decided to leave early for the Temple, so as to examine Veronica’s facilities there before the Thursday-night service. Another “love” night, and I admit I felt a degree of apprehension within the anticipation.
On the street outside the hall, I held up the parcel and told Veronica, “I’d like to give this to Margery before the… before her talk, or at least leave it with Marie. Is the main door locked?”
“I’m sure it will be, but I’ll take you through the hall,” she said. She led me through the back of the hall along the same route we’d followed ten days previously, although this time the final door was locked. She opened it with her key, and as I followed her up the stairs, she spoke over her shoulder at me.
“Margery is probably meditating, but we’ll give it to Marie or else leave it in the common room with a note, where she’s sure to— Marie! Whatever is the matter?”
I looked past her back, and there at the end of the corridor stood the phlegmatic maidservant, looking utterly distraught and wringing her hands as she stared at a door to our left. She did not respond until we were practically on top of her, when she whirled around and threw out her right hand at the door, more in supplication than in indicating the source of a problem. In the extremity of her emotion, both languages had abandoned her, and she just stood with her mouth working and her hand held out to the door.
“Margery? Is it Margery?” Veronica demanded. It had to be—nothing else would have this effect on her.
She nodded jerkily, found a few words.
“Madame… An intruder…”
“Marie,” I said forcibly in English, to force her to think. “Is Margery in here?”
“Is someone with her?”
“
“Margery’s hurt? How?”
“Blood on her face? But she walked in here by herself? And locked herself in?”
“Locked, yes, before I reach her.
I lowered my head and spoke loudly at the door.
“Margery, if you’re awake, please answer. You’re worrying Marie and Veronica. If you don’t answer, we’re going to have to break down the door or call the police.”
Nearly ten seconds passed before an answer came, her voice slow and low, but clear.
“No. Leave me.”
I knelt down and put my eye to the keyhole, which, to my surprise, had no key in it. I looked, and stared straight into one of the most peculiar, dramatic, and inexplicable episodes I have ever witnessed.
What I saw and did next might easily have been rewritten by memory over the years. However, I have before me as I write these memoirs the letter I sent to Holmes the following day describing the events. So, in order to preserve the stark facts of what may or may not have happened, I shall copy directly from that letter:
I saw the back of her head at the end of the room, before an altar. The rest of her was hidden by chairs, and her hair was in complete disarray, but its colour was clear and distinctive.
“What room is this?” I asked Veronica.
“The small chapel. Is she there?”
“Yes.” I stood up. “Stay here with Marie. I’ll see if I can get in that other door, and if so, I’ll come and unlock this one.” I gave her no time to argue, but turned to the two doors that form the end of the corridor. The right one was unlocked, and when I looked in, I saw a connecting door. It, too, was unlocked, but when it came to the door into the chapel, I had to use my picklocks. I shot the bolt behind me, made my way around the edges of the chapel to the hallway door, and dropped my hat onto the doorknob so as to obscure the view from outside. There was an exclamation from the other side, which I ignored, and went up to Margery where she knelt on the floor.
Holmes, she looked as if she’d been run down by a motor lorry. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut and the skin over the cheekbone had split, smearing blood down into her neck and back into her hair. Her mouth on that same side was thick and there were traces of blood on the lip, probably cut on the inside against a tooth. The rest of her was hidden beneath a woollen overcoat. She did not respond to my voice in any way, just stared unblinking at the Celtic-style cross on the altar.
I thought it best to determine the extent of her injuries before deciding what to do, and when I began to ease the coat from her shoulders, she made no more objection than a sleeping child. The coat was undamaged and clean but for some blood at the collar, but beneath it, her dress, in addition to the bloodstains from her face, was torn slightly at the neck and the right sleeve, and a line of lace along the front had been ripped free of its stitching. I unbuttoned the front of her dress—still no response—and found beneath it great red welts surrounded by areas of lesser bruising. From the shallowness of her breathing and the way she held her torso, I judged that her ribs were at least cracked.
She had been beaten, Holmes, by a man (or a powerfully built woman accustomed to using her fists) several inches taller than she, right-handed, wearing a heavy ring on his right hand. And no stranger, either, unless she had been walking down the street in January wearing only a thin woollen dress.
“Who did this to you, Margery?” I asked, but she was far away. I refastened the buttons, then took off my own coat and carried it over to drape across the second keyhole. I walked back to Margery and dropped to my knees directly in front of her.
“Margery,” I said loudly, and repeated it several times. “Margery, you must answer me. You must see a doctor. I think you can walk, but if you don’t respond, I’ll have to carry you to your bed.” The eyes in the ravaged face began slowly to return, and when they had focused on mine, I was relieved to see that the pupils were of an equal and normal size.
“No,” she whispered.
“Margery, you’ve been injured. If you don’t have your ribs strapped, every breath will continue to hurt you, and without stitches, that cut on your face will leave a scar. I’m going to open the door and let Marie help you to bed, and Veronica will have someone put out a notice cancelling tonight’s service.”
