Oh, you guys are so nice! Thank you, O'Cahan and Jenny, for your comments on the last chapter! I dearly hope I'm doing these characters justice!

Chapter Four

1 April, 1890

I met Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson at The Black Swan this afternoon. Thankfully, it did not take me long to get the morning off from Mr. Rucastle (After all, in the entire two weeks I've been here I haven't had a day away from The Copper Beeches: he could hardly refuse my request for a few hours off) although I was careful not to allude in any way to my plans. I had engaged a sitting room for the three of us. I was ever watching the clock, as I had promised my employer to be back by three, before he and his wife leave for a visit to friends. (What kind of friends do these people have, I wonder? I certainly would not wish to meet them.)

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson arrived mere moments after I did. I was ecstatic upon seeing the two gentlemen; after such a wretched time surrounded by people I could not trust, their presence was more than welcome. I greeted them but didn't waste time with pleasantries before rushing into my story. I had brought along this journal, glancing at my entries every so often as to make sure that I had left nothing out. Both Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes listened keenly to everything I had to say, every once in a while either one asking me a question to clarify something.

After I told Mr. Holmes my story, he shot to his feet and began to pace; I realized that his seeming indifference upon our first meeting hid his energy and mind, and in those moments he had a clearer grasp on the mystery faster than I ever did.

"Is Toller still drunk?" he finally asked.

"Yes," I answered. "I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him."

He asked to confirm that the Rucastles were to be away that night, and then asked if the house had a cellar with a good strong lock.

"Yes, the wine cellar," I told him.

Mr. Holmes then said, "You seem to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you quite an exceptional woman."

(Did he say this to me to flatter me into complying, I wonder? He does not strike me a person who hands out compliments for compliments' sake.) I told him I would try.

Then he set to me his plan. He and the doctor will arrive at the house at seven. Mr. Toller shall hopefully be incapacitated still, and Mrs. Toller is our only obstacle—my job is to draw her to the cellar and then lock her in before they arrive. Such an act does infringe upon my ideas of morality and Christian ethics, but if it is useful in saving a life I suppose I have no choice.

The phrase, "to save a life" might seem over-dramatic, but as Mr. Holmes explained, I think not. He quickly surmised that I was chosen by my appearance to impersonate someone—most likely, Mr. Rucastle's daughter Alice, who all three of us highly doubt to be in America, but rather sequestered upstairs. ("It will do"—ah, his words are explained. My hair—my hair must be the same color as his daughter's. That is why he was so interested in my services) Evidently the poor girl had her hair cut, and that is why I had to sacrifice my own, and explains the hair in my drawer.

The man in the road is by the evidence either her friend or "young man" (possibly a fiancé?) and my laughing—and waving him away—was used by the Rucastles to convince him that his attentions were no longer wished, and that the object of his affection was perfectly happy. The dog, Mr. Holmes surmised, was to discourage the man from attempting communication with the house.

Oh, how stupid I felt when Mr. Holmes explained it all! Oh, I am glad that he is here; I don't wish to be ungrateful. But I do wish I could have been a bit more clever and put most of the pieces together myself. As I look through this journal it all seems so obvious. How could I have not seen…?

But my own complaints have no useful purpose, so I shall refrain from writing them here. What worries Mr. Holmes the most is the disposition of Neddy Rucastle. Neddy's tendency towards cruelty for its own sake does not bode well for that of his parents. According to Mr. Holmes, dispositions are often hereditary (I tend to agree, having worked with many children and their parents before)and he has no doubt that Mr. Rucastle is capable of brutality just as his son is. I think of my employer's face when he told me he was going to throw me to the mastiff, and I shiver. Just as Mr. Holmes's indifference was but a mask to hide his interest, Mr. Rucastle's joviality is a charade to cover his own ruthlessness. Of this I am certain.

It is just after six now. I do not wish to lock Mrs. Toller up too soon, in case she was to find a way out of the cellar before my reinforcements arrive (and also in a bit of kindness, I suppose. I would not like being locked in a cellar for hours) but I need to do it soon.

2 April 1890

My plan to incarcerate Mrs. Toller was successful; my attempts to relieve her drunken, unconscious husband of his ring of keys was also done (despite the damage to my nerves…every time he grunted or moved I was certain his eyes were going to pop open and he was going to grab me…and to think my old English composition teacher accused me of having no imagination!) After this was accomplished, I waited on the doorstep. All nerves aside, I was so glad to see them that i was trying not to smile when the doctor and the detective arrived.

"Have you managed it?" Mr. Holmes asked me, just as thudding came from below the house, causing me to start a little. "That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar," I explained, although I am sure both men could have deduced as much. "Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle's."

"You have done well indeed!" Mr. Holmes said enthusiastically. "Now lead the way!"

All three of us went up the stair and into the dim hall behind the locked door; Mr. Holmes cut the cord over the door and removed the bar. None of the keys, however, convinced the lock to turn. Even more ominous was the utter silence from inside the room. I felt unease wrap itself around my spine like a snake, and I shared a somber look with Dr. Watson.

"I think, perhaps, Miss Hunter, we should go in without you. Watson?" Mr. Holmes looked at the doctor. "Put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

I stood back as the men used their combined strength to knock down the door; as it was a shabby, rickety thing, it gave in at once. Despite Mr. Holmes's warning, I ran in the room with them.

It was empty. The skylight above was open, and I frowned.

"There has been some villainy here," Mr. Holmes said. "He must have guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and carried his victim off."

"But how?" Dr. Watson ask.

"We'll soon find out." Mr. Holmes swung himself through the skylight and onto the roof. "Ah, yes!" he cried, and both the doctor and I stood under the skylight, straining upward to hear him.

"There's the end of a long ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

But something still felt wrong to me, like a math equation solved incorrectly, or rather, one solved correctly through imperfect and unreliable means. "But it is impossible," I said. "The ladder was not there when the Rucastles left."

"He has come back and done it," Mr. Holmes said, swinging back through the skylight and landing on his feet. "I tell you he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be surprised if this were he whose step I hear upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

I took a step away from the door, feeling more ill and nauseous than frightened. Mr. Rucastle was upon us just as I did so. At the sight of him, I am ashamed to say I gave a small cry and landed myself against the wall—his face did look like a demon, I promise you—but Mr. Holmes rushed forward and confronted him. "You villain! Where's your daughter?"

It dawned on me that Mr. Holmes was angry. Until that moment I had assumed that his work came out of a fascination of the mind, of adventure. I do not doubt this is at least mostly true, but I now know that crime and cruelty also disgust him. But of course, my philosophical musings are not well placed; I return to my narrative.

Mr. Rucastle looked at the skylight. "It is for me to ask you that!" he shrieked (yes, a shriek, like that of an angry being of Celtic mythology) "You thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, I have! You are in my power! I'll serve you!" And then he clamored down the stairs.

"He's gone for the dog!" I gasped in sudden, horrific realization.

"I have my revolver," Dr. Watson quickly said.

"Better close the front door!" Mr. Holmes said and the three of us ran down the stair behind Rucastle. As we reached the hall we heard the baying of the mastiff, and then a scream of agony so wretched it made my knees weak with horror. The subsequent sounds were too horrible to describe.

Mr. Toller stumbled into the room. "Someone has loosed the dog!" he said, shaking. "It's not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it will be too late!"

The men ran to the yard, and I heard the sound of the doctor's gunshot a moment later. Gathering my courage, I took a deep breath and tentatively went outside. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes were attempting to disentangle Mr. Rucastle from the dog, and I stood aside as they managed to bring him into the house. My hand slipped over my mouth as they passed, as I saw the mangled form and face of the man who had hired me. He was still alive, however, and they laid him on the drawing-room sofa. Dr. Watson did what he could to help the undeserving man, and then the door opened and Mrs. Toller walked in. I gasped out her name when I saw her; I had completely forgotten her existence.

"Yes, Miss," she addressed me. "Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, Miss, it's a pity you didn't let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted."

"Ha!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed. "It's clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about the matter than anyone else."

"Yes, sir," she said, "and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

Oh, how I cringe when I think of how I misjudged her! She soon had enlightened us all with the whole story, how Alice Rucastle had been unhappy since her father's marriage, and how she had rights by her mother's will but let her father handle everything. Then Alice met Mr. Fowler—the man I had seen in the road. Mr. Rucastle knew that if Alice got married he would have no control over her fortune, as her husband was sure to meddle. He attempted to coerce Alice to sign a paper that would give him the rights to use her money even after she was married, but she refused. He worried her so about it that she got brain fever and was at death's door for weeks. She recovered, but was weak, and her hair had been cut off during the fever. But this made no difference to Mr. Fowler, and in Mrs. Toller's words, "he stuck to her as true as man could be."

We could surmise the rest of the story; it was Mr. Fowler who supplied Toller with drink to get him suitably drunk, and with a sympathetic Mrs. Toller managed to gain a ladder as soon as the Rucastles had gone. The two lovers have fled to I know not where. And, indeed, at this moment I cannot muster enough interest to care, for I am exhausted, emotionally and physically. Dr. Watson has taken me back to The Black Swan, the local doctor is with Mr. Rucastle, and Alice and her young man are safely off to be married. And my eyes are so heavy that I hope that my night will not be plagued with dreams of mastiffs and Rucastles so that I can sleep.

Yes, only two journal entries in this chapter. I'm almost done with the fifth and final chapter, though! I'm really excited for it, since it's what happens "after" the Conan Doyle story, so I have a lot more freedom.