A Letter of Mary

bit.

I studied my face and asked it why this was troubling me. Was it not precisely how I had planned it, down to my worn lace collars and crippling shoes? He had responded in exactly the way I had wanted. Why, then, was I not sitting here gloating? Part of the problem, I knew, was the sour feeling that comes with practising deceit on an innocent, and after all, he might be completely without blame in Miss Ruskin's death. That was compounded by the fact that I liked him as a person, but it was not all.

I sat enfolded by the boardinghouse, silent but for a rumbling snore from somewhere above me, and knew that I was apprehensive— no, to be truthful, I was almost frightened, by the man's strength. I had laughed at his jokes, even the ones I would normally find tasteless, and I had acquiesced to his decisions, completely, naturally. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a contest, but we were each playing a different game, by different rules, and I suddenly felt very unsure of myself, as inexperienced as Mary Small in the ways of dealing with men. I felt ill from the food and the drink and the smoke, and most especially from the words, the spate of words that had pushed and prodded and battered me all evening. I ached for Holmes, for the sureness of his hands and his quiet voice, and I wondered where he was sleeping that night.

The thought of Holmes steadied me. I looked grimly at my shadowed reflection and told myself, Enough of this, Mary Russell. You are here to track down the person who murdered a good woman, a friend. You are the former apprentice and now full partner of the best man in the business. You have a quick, trained mind that is second to few and certainly better than that of Col. Dennis Edwards. And you are the daughter of Judith Klein, who was by no means small in spirit. This role calls for caution and a sure touch, but it is nothing to be overwhelmed by, and you will not be intimidated by a large middle-aged man with overactive glands and hairy hands.

I went to bed then and listened to the night sounds of the city. With dim surprise, I realised that it was one week since Dorothy Ruskin had died, one week and a couple of hours and three miles from the site. I slept eventually, although I did not sleep well.

THIRTEEN

nu

The rain started during the night, in its typical understated London fashion. The grumble of distant thunder grew imperceptibly from the dying roar of the traffic, and the eventual rustle of drops on stones and slate gradually came to underlie what passed in London for a quiet night. Nothing dramatic, just dull London wetness. I huddled under my black umbrella in the bus queue the next morning and thought, Here I cannot even turn to my neighbours and say how good it is for the crops— they'd look at me as if I were from another planet.

I escaped from the crowded omnibus and its smell of wet wool a full twenty minutes early, so I went into Rosie's for a cuppa to start the day. Rosie was busy, but she sloshed my tea with affection and asked what I was doin' out so early.

'I found a position! I start with Colonel Edwards this morning. I met him at the pub last night and he said he needed a secretary, and he hired me.'

Rosie froze, and her face travelled through surprise and appraisal to suspicion and reappraisal, then ended up at a politely noncommittal 'Good for you, dearie, so I guess we'll be seein' summat of you.'

Ten minutes later, I splashed up the drive to my new job, berating myself. Fine detective you make, Russell, I thought. Can't even play a role without worrying about what a complete stranger thinks of you. I shook the water from my umbrella, squared my meek shoulders, and rang the bell.

* * *

The work of any decent detective is at least nine-tenths monotony, despite the invariably brisk pace of any detective novel, or even a police file, for that matter. Take, for example, the accounts written by Dr Watson of the earlier cases of Holmes: They give the overall impression of the detective leaping into the fray, grasping the single most vital clue in an instant, and wrestling energetically with the case until all is neatly solved. There is little indication of the countless hours spent in cold, cramped watch over a doorway, of days spent in dusty records rooms and libraries, of the tantalising trails that fade away into nothing— all are passed over with a laconic reference to the passage of time. Of course, Watson was often brought in only at the end of a case, and so he missed the tedium. I could not.

I will not recount the secretarial work I did for Colonel Edwards, because to do so would bore even the writer to tears. Suffice it to say that for the next few days I was a secretary: I filed and organised, I typed, and I took dictation. At the same time, of course, I had my ears fully cocked and my eyes into everything, at every moment. I listened in on telephone calls when I could, hearing long, dreary, manly conversations about dead birds and alcoholic beverages. I went systematically through each filing cabinet until my fingers and back cramped, and I dutifully chatted with the servants whenever I could manage to happen across them, receiving mostly monosyllabic grunts for my pains. No, if I wanted a life filled with nonstop excitement and challenge, I should not choose the life of a detective. High-wire acrobatics, perhaps, or teaching twelve-year-olds, or motherhood, but not detecting.

It is endurance that wins the case, not short bursts of flashy footwork (though those, too, have their place.) For the next days, I soaked up all possible information about Colonel Edwards and the people around him: his eating and drinking habits, what he read, how he slept, his likes, dislikes, passions, and hates— all the urges and habits that made the man.

The first day, Thursday, I spent all morning with the colonel in his upstairs study, sorting out correspondence and putting things to order. We ate lunch together in the study, and afterwards he showed me, almost shyly, the first pages of his book on Egypt in the years preceding the war. I promised to take it home and study it, which seemed to please him. We then sat down to dictation.

The first letters were to the managers of two manufacturing businesses, concerned with the upcoming yearly reports. The third was a short letter to a friend confirming a weekend bird-slaughtering party in September. ('Do much shooting, Miss Small?' 'Why, no, Colonel.' 'Invigorating way to spend a holiday. Of course, it takes some strength to use a bird-gun.' 'Does it, Colonel? It sounds jolly fun.') The fourth was to a bank manager, with details for increasing the monthly allowance for the colonel's son, Gerald, when he returned to Cambridge. (Thank God it's Cambridge, I thought, and not Oxford. I'm not exactly unknown there.) The fifth was of considerable interest to me, addressed to a friend, concerning a comember of an organisation whose name set off bells. It read:

Dear Brooks,

I've been doing a lot of thinking about the little flap-up last week, and I have come to the conclusion that I shall have to resign from the Friends. It was a downright nasty trick Lawson played on me, keeping information from me until the last minute like that. I was the chair of that committee, after all, and it makes me look a damned ('I beg your pardon, Miss Small, change that to confounded, would you please?') fool not to know it was a woman I was meeting.

His supporters seem to have rallied round, and there's little chance he'll resign. If he apologises, I might reconsider, but not otherwise.

My best to the missus, and hope to see you both on the twenty-fourth.

Dennis Edwards

I did not think his resignation threat referred to the Society of Friends.

Two other letters followed, but I recorded them mechanically, taking little notice of their content other than seeing that they had nothing to do with my interests.

'That's it for today, Miss Small. Do you want to read them back to me before you type them?'

'If you like, but I think they're quite clear.'

'Didn't go too fast for you, did I? Let me see.'

'No, not at all. Oh, do you read shorthand?'

'I read a bit, but I don't recognise this. What is it?'

I couldn't very well tell him the truth, that it was my own system, a boustrophedonic code based on six languages, three alphabets, a variety of symbols mathematical and chemical, and a hieroglyphic, designed to keep up with even the fastest of lecturers and leave me time to record nonverbal data, as well. It was totally illegible to anyone but Holmes, and even he found it rough going.

'Oh, it's a system I learned in Oxford.'

'Were you writing right to left?'

'On alternate lines. Makes it much smoother, not having to jump back to the beginning of the line each