Sherlock and the American Woman
Late at night in Dorset, Sherlock Holmes was driving back from a case, his mind buzzing with what had happened. John Watson sat beside him, his mind rife with the case and he was already thinking about how he would phrase it all on the website blog. The Baskerville case had been an interesting one to be sure; it had seemingly even unhinged Sherlock for a brief while.
Watson knew that Sherlock had his ways of hiding emotion, hiding behind the powers of deduction and reasoning. Still though, Sherlock did not admit to being human, did not want to admit it at any rate. Seeing the "hound" on the moor at night had given him a start to be sure, he'd been shaken up for a few hours after that. Watson tried to rationalize the encounter, but since he hadn't been there to see it, Sherlock would not calm down.
It had to have been truly frightening, Watson admitted to himself later. The "hound" had unhinged him and Watson knew Sherlock did not sleep that night.
Surely enough, Sherlock had looked tired the next day as Watson had come downstairs from his room. Later on in the Baskerville compound, Watson had been locked inside the room where all the animals had been the previous day when they visited previously. Strangely enough they were all gone, the room was locked, and the "hound" had appeared to be in the room with him.
Watson was still irritated by the fact Sherlock had trapped him in the room and played dog growling and barking noises while leaking the aerosolized experimental drug into the room as well. He'd jumped into a metal cage and locked himself in, whispering over the phone to Sherlock what was going on.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Watson noticed dark thunderheads were congregating in the sky, splatters of rain were coming down and thudding on the windshield as Sherlock drove on aimlessly. Through the air vents, they both smelled the purifying sweet scent of pine mixed with the freshness of rain as a distant rumble of thunder sounded and lightning seemed to split the sky as it struck, several forks branching out to the tree line.
"We might be in for some rough driving." Watson remarked as the rain picked up the pace, pounding down in a faster rhythm now, sounding like millions of dancing feet over every square inch of the car.
"Undoubtedly," Sherlock agreed absentmindedly, knowing Watson was still irritated with him for the compound incident. The private detective had lived mainly in London and was not familiar with driving in bad weather, whereas Watson was in the military and had driven Land Rover Defenders through all sorts of weather and it if got really bad, Sherlock would let him drive.
An hour went by and the rain gave no sign of letting up. They had just come up a steep road to the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere when golfball sized hail started to fall.
"It's just going to get worse," Sherlock spied a driveway and turned up it suddenly, giving Watson a bit of a fright. He hung onto the granny hook above his window and swore as his friend accelerated alarmingly fast.
"Slow down! Bloody hell!" Watson sputtered. "You're not driving through Kandahar!"
"No, I'm driving to there." Sherlock indicated a big house, made of shingles but had three turrets on top made out of stone. Two chimneys, one at each end stood up proudly and a weather vane stood on the tallest point. A modern looking garage stood next to the house with the door down.
"What do you think they'll do, offer us tea?" Watson grumbled as the car rumbled to a stop and Sherlock pulled up his coat collar.
"I hope so. I could go for one." it was nearing 6 PM but thanks to the storm it looked much darker. Lightning flashed nearby as both of the men hustled to the front door.
Rapping loudly at the door, it was opened by a dark eyed lady. She was looking politely bewildered and asked if she could help them in any way.
Sherlock took her in in his usual visual way: Brown eyes, wearing a ratty old red v-neck shirt, jeans on, a blue apron with apples printed all over it, indicating she'd been cooking. She's wearing aquarius sign earrings to that means she is an aquarius and subscribes to the ridiculous belief astrology plays a role in life. The girl is wearing old sneakers with bits of grass stuck to the soles so she has been out cutting grass or gardening earlier on in the day. She has long fingers with a bit of grease under the left pinkie nail indicating she knows basic car maintenance. Also her fingers had scars on them, presumably from car maintenance.
Watson knew Sherlock was in analyze mode and decided to head him off to prevent the woman from getting befuddled.
"Hello, I'm Dr. John Watson," he began. "we were driving back to London and it started to pour and now hail, and it is too dangerous to drive safely, so-"
The woman had frowned and then brightened up with a smile. "Oh, Dr. Watson! I'm a fan of the blog! I'm Nicola Pennington. By all means if you need a place to ride this storm out then come on in!"
"Oh, thank you." Watson came in and Sherlock brought up the rear.
"That storm's been getting worse and worse. I heard the highway overpass is washed out completely." Nicola bustled into the living room and flicked on the light, filling the room with a cozy glow. Sherlock noted the living room was modestly furnished as he sat down, still in observation mode..
Four pictures, one with Nicola in it wearing makeup, clearly a glamor shot. Second is of an elderly couple, obviously her grandparents, in the mid seventies or eighties range and the grandfather is a retired navy man judging by the hat. Third is a picture of two men, one a bit taller than the other with a heavy brow and not fond of shaving, the other more neat and clean with a more benign countenance than the other. I suspect those must be her brothers and given how old they appear, she must be the youngest. The last picture showed Nicola in a Halloween costume dressed as a 16th century Tudor noblewoman which indicates she likes history.
"….I'm sure that would be fine." Watson replied as Sherlock snapped out of it and tried to catch up.
"Sherlock?" Nicola asked as he glanced at her. "I said I'm-"
"Making supper," he answered automatically. "we would be delighted to join you."
"Any requests?"
"Your accent-Middle American?" Sherlock turned to her.
"New England," Nicola grinned. "I come from one of the original 13 colonies."
"Ah, nice," Watson and Sherlock tailed her into the kitchen where she pulled on a pair of mitts and brought out a large pan which was simmering something. "what are you making?"
"I am making a game terrine." Nicola answered, uncovering the foil from the top and checking to make sure it was done with a meat thermometer. The smell was incredible in the kitchen, making the gentlemen salivate.
"What sort of game?"
"I had some rabbit, duck, deer. Good way to use up leftovers."
"I agree. I've had some great ones at my local pub." even the mere memory of the terrine he'd once had set his gastric juices going into overdrive as Nicola put the baking tin on top of the range, upending it onto a plate, and with a little jab at the edges, the block of terrine fell out easily. The smell was overpowering now, making Watson think of rabbit and deer. Nicola brought it over to the table, gesturing for her two guests to sit down.
"So what brings you gents down here into the wilderness?" she put a stack of plates, beside her and began to cut up slices for them. Watson began a condensed narrative of their latest exploit as she brought the plates over to the table and they sat down. Nicola filled their glasses with a red wine as she listened, the picture of rapt attention.
Just as he was finishing, a brilliant crack of lightning lit up the sky and the power went out.
"I did hope this wouldn't happen, but oh well." Nicola went over to her kitchen bar and pulled out a drawer, whacking her shin in the process, retrieved red candles and a lighter, then went back to the table. She put them in brass holders and lit them, producing a tiny flame that sputtered at first then produced an even glow.
"Hope we don't starve," Sherlock said wryly at what might have been an attempt at humor. "would be a shame." Watson glanced at him with a mildly exasperated look on his face but chose to see what their host would do with his remark.
Nicola gazed at him for a moment over the rim of her glass. Setting it down with a small thud, she explained, "Oh no we won't. The range over there is gas. It has an electric starter, but with a spark," she held up the lighter. "we can have fire easily."
"So," Watson continued. "tell us about yourself, Nicola."
"I can tell you all about her," Sherlock started before she opened up her mouth, face looking amused in the glow of the candles. Watson rolled his eyes, knowing where his eccentric friend was going and powerless to stop it, listened in resigned silence.
"She's from the Penningtons, her father is Richard Alan Pennington, a very successful computer programmer who married Victoria Janice Alfred and had three children, Robert Jack, Russell Gordon, and you, Nicola Jay. You grew up with modest money as your father didn't want any of you to get accustomed to the high life and spend money without having any idea of its value. Your brother Robert went into the merchant marine, married and has children and your brother Russell has a career as a flight engineer who is currently in Germany with the crew of his C5 Galaxy American airplane. You, as indicated by your terrine making abilities have a love for food and you live out here in seclusion with your trust fund ready whenever you want it." he narrowed his eyes a little at her as if begging her to challenge his assumptions.
"You got most of that right," Nicola allowed. "I'm the second child-Russell came last. I'm sure you read most of this on the Internet but what you won't find anywhere online is that I went to college and had a job to pay for it all. I'm in my thirties now and paid off my student loans several years ago, I hate cities, and I don't particularly care for anybody. I'm a philanthropist and cook for the local elderly people who have limited mobility."
Sherlock's eyes twinkled in their blue depths. He enjoyed a challenge, though this wasn't an official case. Rumor had it that she had fallen out with her family and she liked living in seclusion with only herself. Nicola pulled her medium length hair out of her ponytail and began to braid it expertly, tying it off with the elastic and flipping it over her back carelessly.
Watson glared at Sherlock, silently asking if he'd had enough showing off yet. The proper answer of course would be never. Watson looked over at Nicola and she didn't seem the least bit irritated or annoyed at what Sherlock had said about her at all. Nor did she express any kind of amazement of his observational skills, which annoyed Sherlock a little bit.
Right on cue, Sherlock felt something brush against his leg, something furry, and a rusty sounding meow came from under the table. He jumped and Nicola laughed.
"Met him, have you?" she gestured near the table and muttered something. A large ginger colored cat jumped onto her lap and curled up, purring audible. "This is Max. I adopted him from an animal shelter and he's been mine for four years now."
"He's charming," Max allowed Watson to stroke him and the purring got even louder. "how old is he?"
"He's about six years now."
"Very nice." Sherlock grumped, annoyed that there wasn't a case at hand. Nicola seemed to sense his irritation and glanced at him as another thunder rumble made them all jump.
"Right on top of us. No cases for you here, I'm afraid," she said mildly. "the overpass won't be fixed for a bit and I don't know how long the power will be out for."
"Well isn't that lovely!" Sherlock got up from the table with a grunt of "excuse me," and went into the living room again, noting that it was cold. He picked up a few pieces of pine wood, threw it into the fireplace, then withdrew his cigarette lighter. Sherlock had quit smoking but often had the lighter with him anyway-one never knew how handy they were.
He tried to light the fire but it didn't work. Just as he was about to curse in frustration, Watson and Nicola came into the room, giggling as the cat followed them.
"Making a fire are you?" Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes on a portrait on the mantlepiece. Nicola picked up dried birch bark from a small basket, arranged it in the fireplace, then borrowed his lighter. Within two minutes she had a fire blazing on the hearth merrily. "Got to have kindling or it won't work. Pine doesn't light readily."
Watson sat down in the armchair with Max leaping into his lap and purring as the doctor scratched behind his ears. Sherlock sat down next to his friend on the loveseat as Nicola sat opposite them in the couch. She flinched as the lighhtning struck the sky again, then shrugged and turned to her guests.
"Who is that?" Sherlock asked before she could even open her mouth.
"The mantlepiece portrait? That's Lettice Knollys."
"I've heard that name before," Sherlock muttered to himself.
"I imagine you have. She lived in the sixteenth century here in England, a noblewoman, second wife of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester."
"Wasn't he Queen Elizabeth's lover?" Watson questioned.
"Rumored lover," Nicola's eyes lit up. "he came from a family of traitors and was a bit of a snob. His first wife was Amy Robsart who took a spill down the stairs, broke her neck and died there. For years people are still convinced he was the one who killed her."
"You a historian?"
"That's what I went to school for, John."
"Oh. I was reading a medical piece on Amy Robsart awhile ago and they believe she had-"
"Breast cancer," Sherlock supplied. "it metastasized to her skeletal system, weakened her neck, and that's how it fractured so easily."
"I lean towards a different theory. I think that Amy killed herself."
"Why?"
"Well Sherlock, it was fairly simple to see. She was depressed Robert was never around, was very moody and was prone to fits of melancholy as her servants reported. On the day she died she'd given the servants the day off to go to a local fair. It wouldn't have been hard in her state of mind to finalize a suicide plan she may have made awhile ago. Now was her chance to carry it out and find some peace from a husband who ignored her."
"It would never have happened," the detective quipped. "the religion of choice in that day was Protestantism and suicide was a cardinal sin."
"That being said it would have only made her situation more desperate," Nicola cut off Sherlock. "when people go suicidal hardly anything matters to them anymore. Religious doctrines would not have mattered. It was the only way out as far as she was concerned."
"You speak like you knew her," Watson observed, ignoring the cat flipping his tail and purring loudly for more attention.
"Oh yes, I know someone who was like her, desperate for a way out of a hellbound life."
"Who?" Sherlock inquired, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, hands steepled under his chin.
"Me," Nicola said simply. "I've been through depression and all it calls for. I've had the urge to do myself in when I thought I was cornered at every turn, so horribly miserable I could not see the proverbial light."
"What could have tipped you over the edge?"
"Sherlock!" Watson scolded, moving to sit beside Nicola. "Sorry, he's too blunt and doesn't understand what tact is."
"It's OK. Old wounds now. I had a man in my life, Sherlock, and I thought he could make me happy. This was almost ten years ago when I wanted companionship. He was abusive, mentally and physically." Nicola displayed her left arm which had a horizontal scar about two inches long. "I tried to make him happy, but it was all a sham. He ignored me, called me names, everything. I got so depressed that one night I stood in front of the sink with a knife in my hands, ready to die."
"Then what happened?"
"The drunken lout came in, asked if I was going to kill myself and without waiting for an answer, told he he'd help me and that's how I got this! The moron gave me this wound, knocked me down on the floor, threw a towel over my face and left. I managed to get help mind you, then after I had emergency surgery to stop the bleeding, I had time to think. No man was worth dying for, so I had my father evict him from my flat where I was living at the time, file a police report, and got psychiatric help. Never again."
"I should say not!" Watson was infuriated, Sherlock was silent. Max jumped into Nicola's lap, meowing for attention. She stroked his ears, giggling when he head butted her palm, asking for more love. Whenever she was tense, Max would notice and beg for attention. He was her very own therapy cat.
Sherlock on the other hand, seemed to think there was more to the story than she was telling them. A warning glance from John prevented him from asking a series of follow up questions. He resolved to look her up online later.
"Thank you. Now gentlemen, it's getting rather late out. Would you rather bunk in here or take rooms for the night? This house has plenty of them."
"I would like to stay where it's warm," Sherlock said straightaway. "have you any blankets?"
"Tons of them." Nicola disappeared to the linen closet.
"What was that, Sherlock?" John hissed. "We barely know her and you're asking all sorts of personal information out of her already!"
"She's interesting," Sherlock mildly said. "she likes history so we may be able to use her in future cases if they call for it. I also know that's not all of her story and I will find out more." John sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Sort of an on call historian?" it would be useful. London was full of history and her knowledge could become valuable.
"Yes." Nicola came in and handed out fleece blankets all around. "Nicola, what do you know about the Tower of London?"
"It's been standing for almost a thousand years. Criminals and royalty alike were locked up in there, the last known use was in the second world war. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard lost their heads on Tower Green and were interred in the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. They even housed animals there but all they have now are the ravens."
"I think you'd be fit for the job."
"What job?"she took off her shoes and parked herself on the couch next to Sherlock; the love seat was far too small to hold his lanky frame but it was just right for John.
"We need a historian on our little crimefighting team. Mostly just call or text you with questions and you reply back. Interested?"
"Of course." she lay down one way and he was opposite of her. Max gave them both a disgusted look, choosing to jump up with John and sleep with him.
"My own cat is shunning me," Nicola laughed. "oh well."
"He's a smart cat. Knows what's up and who is the best in this pack." John teased as he started to fall asleep.
"Eh. Cats are weird."
Late in the night, a noise awakened Sherlock. The fire had gone out and he got up, shivering to relight and build it up well to last until morning. He took the birch bark Nicola had shown him, set it on fire, then put it on top of a pine log that would last a long time. Replacing the fire screen, he basked in the warmth for a moment, then went to the glass doors that opened out onto a little patio.
Hail was falling, even bigger than before. They looked like billiard balls and pelted down with ferocity, knocking several things over in their tirade.
The power was still out as forked lightning lit up the dark sky repeatedly as Sherlock drew the sheer curtains over the glass windows and turned back to the couch.
Watson was content, never moving an inch even as the cat flexed his paws, momentarily stabbing his friend with his hidden claws. Nicola was at her her end of the couch, sound asleep but Sherlock noticed that she was shivering and her lips were pale.
"Poor girl." he muttered as he grabbed up his blanket and got beside her, spreading it over both of them. Sharing body heat and both of the fleece blankets gradually warmed Nicola up, especially when he put his arm over her, holding her to him so he could ensure she was warm enough.
Just before he went back to sleep, he was aware of a hand over his and giving it a friendly squeeze as if to say thanks.
About an hour later, the doorbell rang and Nicola jumped alert, rubbing her eyes. She glanced over at her clock on the wall, indicating that it was about 2 AM. Max jumped up and trailed her to the door, looking around,wanting to go outside, but as soon as he saw the rain drumming down, he changed his mind.
"Hello?" Nicola saw a figure standing there, cloaked in darkness. The power was still out so she had no idea who they were or what they wanted. "Can I help you?" the figure was of medium height so she figured it was a kid, probably ten years old. "Why don't you come in so I can call your parents to pick you up?" the figure wavered for a moment then Nicola reluctantly closed the door. "I can't help you if you don't help me." was her reasoning as the iron tongue clicked and held the door shut. She fastened the deadbolt as extra insurance, then turned away.
"Who was that?" Sherlock asked amid a yawn.
"I don't know," she admitted. "there's a figure near the door and because the lights are off I can't see any features."
"Let me look." Sherlock went to the door, opened it, then saw the solitary figure. "have you an umbrella I can borrow?"
"Sure." Nicola loaned him her umbrella, white with black and red flowers printed on it. He opened it up, stepped outside, and as soon as he got to the black figure, it disappeared. Nicola's face drained of color as Sherlock got back inside.
"That was interesting," he latched the umbrella back together and glanced at her. "what is it?"
Nicola looked astonished at first, then she shut her mouth, her brow narrowing slightly as she seemed to comprehend something invisible to Sherlock's eyes. "After all this time, he's back."
"What?"
"I'll show you." Nicola and Sherlock went back into the sitting room where she stood at the bookshelf, fingers tapping each binding until she found a smooth purple folder hidden between two books. Handing it to Sherlock, she turned to the fire, stoking up and putting on a log of birchwood to keep it going. John was still out cold on the sofa as Nicola put another blanket over him.
"I don't understand. All t his says is that a guy named Jerry Rogers was killed on the Danby bridge 17 years ago."
"Well Sherlock, he was my age when he died and I knew him. He was a good friend until he fell in with the wrong crowd. And what's more-" she hastened to cut off Sherlock's inevitable response. "he looked a great deal like John."
"So?"
"It's 17 years to the day today when he was killed on that bridge. You two drove over the bridge in order to get here. The weather tonight is much like it was that day when he died."
"You don't think he's visiting you posthumously? Oh, come now!"
"Shhh!" she indicated his friend. "It's the only explanation that makes sense. You and your limited mind can't fathom what could be really out there beyond the realm of our understanding. Skepticism is a good thing but it will only take you so far if you refuse to contemplate the possibility of the paranormal."
"Are you a spiritualist?"
"That's a little different. I am a paranormal investigator." Nicola expected Sherlock to laugh but he didn't. "Like you, but I deal with the deceased and entities."
Sherlock only rolled his eyes but both of them were startled from their conversation when the doorbell rang at least four times.
"That's how Jerry would ring the bell when he came over." Nicola got up and went for the door with the detective in tow. Unlatching the deadbolt and flinging open the storm door, she was confronted with the black figure but it was much closer than before.
Initially frightened, Nicola didn't sense any menace from the figure, only a vague apprehension. Trusting her instinct, she extended her right hand to the figure who did the same. Memories flashed by of the two playing together when they were children, using his tire swing, an outing at the beach, camping with her two brothers and she smiled.
"You're all right now aren't you, Jerry?" the figure's fingers seemed to stretch to meet hers without moving, then suddenly it was a lot closer in the blink of an eye. Sherlock wanted her to back off, to not touch the figure, but he knew Nicola would not obey him. His eyes grew wider as the figure and Nicola touched fingers then hand.
A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the figure enough so Nicola could see it was Jerry she was touching. He did look a lot like John, with the same brown hair and blue eyes except the hair was longer. Sherlock's jaw dropped open at the resemblance between the two of them.
Then the flash was over and the figure disappeared. Nicola's knees buckled, she nearly fell back against the door. Sherlock helped her, his mind buzzing with what he'd just witnessed.
"All right?"
"Yeah," she straightened up. "bit of a shock to me to be sure. It makes sense now."
"How?"
"I think Jerry came by to make sure I was all right one last time before he departed to the hereafter. He once said he was going to marry me but we were kids and I didn't take him seriously. Evidentially he really meant it. He appeared now after all these years to check on me one last time before he decided to leave for good."
"Why today of all days?"
"Because the weather mirrored that of what it was 17 years ago when he died. He would know I would associate this night with him." Nicola sat down on the couch while he sat next to her. "All I want for him now is to ascend and be happy."
Sherlock said nothing, not knowing what to think at all. He lay down on the couch as the rumbling outside seemed to taper off. He didn't mind when Nicola curled up next to him, picking up the fleece blanket and draping it over them both.
"Thanks for not badgering me with questions or your skepticism," she mumbled, already half asleep. "goodnight."
"You're welcome." privately Sherlock's mind was boggling having been presented the bizarre spectacle of Nicola and her dead friend. John would be a definite skeptic, insisting that it was an elaborate hoax, but all of Nicola's reactions were genuine. There was no explanation as to how a corporeal figure could move fast enough like that specter had.
Resolved to push it out of his mind, it had been Nicola's party not his, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The next morning, John got up and heard a distinct beeping sound. It was a clock radio in the kitchen that he stumbled across. Turning it off, he went over to the coffeepot and opened up a cabinet to have the coffee bag fall out at his face.
"Morning, John!" Sherlock bounced out of the hallway in a fine mood.
"You're in a good mood." he muttered as he set the coffee pot to work. "Where's Nicola?"
"She'll be down in a moment."
"Good morning, boys!" Nicola entered, wearing simple jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt with a C5 cargo plane with the words size matters on it. Her hair was pulled back at her temples, little rhinestone studs were in her ears, and she looked refreshed.
If John had his coffee already, he might have thought that something was going on between Sherlock and Nicola, but it was too out of character for Sherlock, so the thought never crossed his mind.
"Power's on again, thank goodness. What would you like for breakfast, boys?" she threw on her apron and turned on the gas range.
"Nothing too complicated, how about some eggs?" the pot rumbled and gurgled, sending forth a brown stream of coffee into the carafe below. John took a mug that was green and decorated with dog pawprints, poured the brew in, and began to pull at it.
"I can do them one better." in no time at all, there was scrambled eggs and salmon on the side, fried crispy brown.
As they were finishing up, Nicola's phone beeped. She picked it up, unlocked it, and read the message.
"The overpass is fixed so anytime you guys want to bug out, you are welcome to."
"What about you?" everything put back in its place and the fire out, Nicola picked up a suitcase behind the foyer door.
"Well, that depends." they went out to the garage, watching as she sent a signal from her cell phone and the door opened up. "I have a Tudor convention in a few days to lecture at on the subject of William Cecil and Robert Dudley." the door revealed a beautiful Audi TT convertible in deep gold. Stowing away her gear, she made sure all the doors were locked and turned to her new friends.
"Here's my cell number. You can get me anywhere and anytime on it." cards were issued to both. "Now I believe that the storm delayed traffic so I'll need an alternate route to Surrey. Gentlemen, have a wonderful day!" she shook hands with both, flashed them a smile, then jumped into her Audi as they got into the Land Rover.
"That was an interesting interlude," John remarked as they strapped in their seatbelts. "think we'll see her again?"
Sherlock watched the flashy car disappear around the bend. "I think so, John."
END