"Asps. Very dangerous. You go first."
Let that quote set the tone for this chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Gladstone, 221 Baker Street (prime piece of real estate, I'm sure), any other part of London, rattlesnakes, asps, or Sallah.
Chapter 10
Holmes was not exactly having a good morning. For starters, Watson had purposefully left the curtains open, allowing an unholy amount of light to fill the room and thereby waking the disgruntled detective a few hours earlier that what he was accustomed to.
To further complicate matters, he'd woke to discover that Edgar had decided to use his favorite hat as a kitty bed. He'd already tried three times to move the cat, receiving a good clawing for each attempt, and now found that he was running out of options. Siccing Gladstone on him wouldn't work. The bulldog was scared to death of Edgar. He could have asked Watson to move him, but the doctor was making a house call at the moment. Mrs. Hudson was out of the question. She absolutely refused to go anywhere near the animal, claiming it was possessed. That left Holmes with one option. He would have to ask Ruth and the idea was not setting with him very well.
It wasn't that he didn't like Ruth. Quite the contrary, actually; she was a rather interesting individual. It was the idea of asking a seventeen-year-old girl to come move a cat so he didn't lose a hand that he didn't like. A grown man should not need this kind of assistance. The only comfort he could find in the situation was the possibility that Edgar was not an ordinary cat. Like Mrs. Hudson, Holmes was sure the feline was the spawn of Satan. Or, at the very least, under his control.
The other trepidation Holmes had was his uncertainty about Ruth's emotional state. She'd spent most of the previous afternoon convinced that her only sibling was dead and had blamed herself entirely for the incident. After learning that her brother would be crippled for life, the girl had stoically retreated to her room. If she were the sort of person who only let go of emotion in private, there was a good chance she'd be a complete wreck this morning. And if she was, Homes did not want to deal with her.
He now stood outside her door, listening. He heard no movement inside, but he knew she hadn't left. He would have heard her if she had. Perhaps she was still asleep. He rapped sharply on the door.
"Come in." Ruth's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. "Please."
"In order to do so, the door needs to be unlocked."
"I think it is."
"You think? Miss Henley, can you not remember if you locked your own door?"
"Mr. Holmes, please, just get in here!"
The intensity of her voice alerted Holmes that something was wrong. He pushed the door open and stepped inside to find Ruth lying on her bed stiff as a board. She was still in her clothes from yesterday, and her hands were gripping the edge of her bed so hard her knuckles had turned white. She scarcely moved as she turned her head to face him with wide eyes and an expression of pure terror.
"Get this thing off me!"
Holmes' eyes strayed down to her midriff where a rattlesnake lay.
"Good grief, Henley, where did that come from?"
"I don't know; just get it off!"
"How do you propose I do that?"
Ruth's eyes shifted to look at the snake.
"Ordinarily, I'd say shoot it, but that's not something I recommend, given its present position."
Holmes took his gaze off the reptile to look at Ruth. Her face was about the same color as the bed sheets, her eyes were wide and glassy, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. She was just a step away from hyperventilating.
"Don't panic," he told her. "I'll be right back."
"Oh, I'm beyond panicking," she muttered as he left the room. "I was panicking when I found it there an hour ago. Right now I'm somewhere between losing my lunch and a near-death experience. And there's nobody in here listening to me. I sound like a raving lunatic. Lovely."
She concentrated on regulating her breathing and trying not to disturb the snake until Holmes returned. He soon did, brandishing a pair of fire tongs.
"This should work. I don't think it's entirely awake yet."
Ruth paled even more, if such a feat was even possible, as her eyes darted nervously between the tongs and the snake.
"I hope you've got an antivenin somewhere in that mess of yours downstairs."
"If we don't, I'm sure Watson could easily obtain one. Don't move."
"Heh. Right."
Her voice quavered with a high, nervous laugh. Holmes recognized the tone. He'd heard it in others before. She was barely holding herself together, and was coming closer and closer to an all-out panic attack as he crept forward with the tongs. The snake seemed more alert now, obviously disturbed by the motion in the room. It flicked its tongue out, watching the man with the tongs for any kind potential of threat. Ruth's stomach began twisting itself in knots and her blood ran cold as the reptile let out a warning rattle.
Holmes took another cautious step toward the bed. The snake rose up, preparing to strike at this bothersome creature who had interrupted its nap and now had the gall to come closer. Holmes sprang forward and clamped the tongs down on the snake, just below the head. The snake writhed and wriggled in a vain effort to free itself as Holmes lifted it into the air.
Ruth launched herself off the bed, hit the floor, and scrambled over to her desk. She yanked the bottom drawer open and frantically fumbled around for her revolver.
Holding the snake out at arm's length, Holmes turned around to see Ruth aiming the LeMat, seemingly, at him. His eyes widened.
"What are you doing?"
"Keep still," she ordered.
"Absolutely not. Put that thing down. You'll shoot something."
"That's the idea."
Holmes took a step sideways as he tried to reason with her. The gun followed.
"Please put it down. You're distressed. You're not thinking clearly."
"Quit moving. I know what I'm doing."
"No, you don't. Will you please be sensible about—"
BANG!
Holmes flinched. He couldn't help it. Anybody in their right mind would flinch when a gun that was aimed at them went off. However, he didn't seem to be feeling any pain. Perhaps, with her poor eyesight, she'd missed, although how anybody could miss at that distance was a mystery to him. He opened his eyes to look at the snake. What was left of it, anyway.
The head had been shot clean off, and was now sitting in the middle of Ruth's bed, twitching. The tongs were still clamped around the body, which was twisting around in its death throes. Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes could see a smoldering bullet hole in the wall just above the bed. Mrs. Hudson was going to murder them both when she found it.
"Holmes," Watson's voice drifted up the stairwell as he made his way to the third floor, "please tell me that wasn't a gunshot. And will you please explain why Mrs. Hudson met me at the door in near-hysterics saying you're running around the house with a pair of fire tongs like a madman? If you've done something to Gladstone, I'll—"
The doctor stopped short when he entered the room. He looked from Ruth and the still-smoking revolver, to Holmes and the tongs, to the twitching snake and its head.
"What the devil is going on up here?"
"Miss Henley here was demonstrating to me how they deal with unwanted pests in Wyoming."
"That's a rattlesnake!"
"Very good, doctor. You know your reptiles."
"What's it doing here?"
Holmes looked at Ruth, clearly expecting her to enlighten them. She stared back at him defensively.
"I don't know where it came from! It was on me when I woke up."
"The snake was probably placed without you noticing it," Holmes informed her, privately regretting he'd drugged the tea the previous night. "You must be a sound sleeper."
Ruth shook her head.
"No, I'm not, actually. The slightest little noise sometimes…" She trailed off, her eyes widening with realization. She ran her tongue over her lips, noticing the strange aftertaste in her mouth for the first time. "Chloroform," she muttered. "Somebody chloroformed me last night."
"Then the snake was definitely placed," Holmes concluded. At least the blame for her not noticing wasn't squarely on him now. "Most likely by the same person who left that in your hand."
"Left what in my hand?"
"This." Holmes nudged something on the floor with his foot. "You dropped it when you rolled off the bed during your moment of temporary insanity."
"Why didn't you say something about it earlier?"
"I was more concerned with the fact that you were aiming a revolver at my head."
"I was aiming it at the snake's head, not yours," Ruth retorted. Regardless, she set the LeMat back on her desk before picking up the object to examine it. It was an ace of spades playing card.
"Well," Holmes said in a tone that clearly indicated he'd known all along what the object was, "now we know who sent you the snake."
"What are you going to do with it?" Watson inquired.
Holmes studied the headless snake, pondering the question.
"Throw it in the rubbish bin, I suppose. Or perhaps I'll dissect it later."
"Can I put it in the icebox?"
Holmes and Watson both looked over at Ruth with curious expressions. The girl shrugged.
"I owe Charlie a hatband," she explained, nodding to her own hat.
Watson sighed. This, for sure, was going down in the annals as one of his weirder mornings. Holmes handed Ruth the tongs.
"I'd wrap it up in butcher paper if I were you," he warned. "Mrs. Hudson won't be able to see it that way. When you've finished, would you be so kind as to join me in the sitting room? There's an issue with your cat I'd like to clear up."
Edgar was not the least bit happy with having his nap disturbed. The cat gave a disgusted growl when Ruth scooped him up from Holmes' hat and deposited him in the floor. After watching her pet stalk off to skulk in a corner, she collapsed into an armchair near the fireplace. Watson took the one across from her, while Holmes occupied himself with lighting his pipe by the window.
"It was an eastern diamondback," she said before the detective could even open his mouth. "Crotalus adamenteus. About four-and-a-quarter foot long. Six years old. Highly venomous."
"You're sure?"
Ruth gave him a condescending glance.
"Trust me. I got a very good look."
"I believe you. I daresay you are more an authority on American reptiles than I."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were mocking me."
"That is a moot point. The fact of the matter is that Davis tried to kill you."
Ruth shuddered.
"He certainly could've picked a better way to do it," she said, absentmindedly rubbing a spot on her right arm just below the elbow. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off and shock was setting in, she felt positively ill. "Snakebite's a slow and painful way to go."
"I think that was his intent," Holmes pointed out.
"Is there any way the animal could be traced?" Watson asked. "American rattlesnakes aren't exactly commonplace in London."
"I doubt it," Ruth told him. "It was probably one of his own 'pets.' Davis isn't dumb enough to use a snake from someone's private collection or steal one from a zoo. He's reckless, not stupid. He wouldn't use a snake that would arouse suspicion."
"An American snake in England?" Holmes laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, that's very unsuspicious."
Ruth glared at him.
"You know what I mean."
"Precisely. Which is why I believe we shall leave the snake lead unfollowed and consider our next course of action."
"I am going to check on my brother. You can do whatever you want."
"Do you plan to tell him how you acquired his new hatband?"
Ruth shivered and rubbed her arm again.
"No. He'll just worry over it. There's no point in getting him agitated when he can't do anything about it."
Holmes did not seem to care to hear the answer. He turned his attention to Watson, detailing him with instructions he wanted carried out for some reason or other. As he spoke, Ruth inadvertently let her mind wander. She could feel the snake's dusky skin as it slithered up her leg and crawled across her chest, sinking its venomous fangs into her arm or neck…
"Are you all right?"
Watson's voice cut in on the loathsome hallucination. Ruth straightened up with a start, suddenly aware that she hadn't been breathing.
"Yes," she said, not too convincingly, "I'm fine."
"In that case, you might want to change into something more respectable," he told her. "I doubt the hospital staff will let you in looking like that."
The doctor's tone had been light-hearted and jesting, but Ruth did not seem to notice. She stumbled from the room and hurried upstairs, returning a few minutes later in the navy-blue dress that Holmes had noted being repaired with horsehair. Watson grabbed his coat and hat, and the pair left.
After they were gone, Holmes took out a file labeled "Henley, Ruth," and added a singled word to the hand-written notes inside:
Ophidiophobic.
In a complete reversal of the previous day, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The bright sunshine made everything seem annoyingly cheerful. It was what a hopeless romantic would most certainly dub, "a perfectly wonderful day." In Ruth's mind, "sickeningly ironic" sounded more appropriate. She tried to pay attention to her surroundings as she travelled with Watson to the hospital which she hadn't even bothered to get the name of, but eventually gave up. London streets all looked the same to her.
The cab they were in finally clattered to a stop in front of a large, imposing-looking building of gray stone. Ruth hopped out and lingered at the curb with some uncertainty. Watson passed her, but stopped when he noticed her sudden hesitation.
"What is it?"
"Eh, nothing," she muttered. "I've just never cared much for hospitals and doctors, that's all. I don't mean you," she stammered, hurrying to correct herself when she saw his amused expression. "You're all right. It's just… doctors in general, I guess."
"That's fine," he told her amiably. "Holmes doesn't care for doctors, either. He detests them, actually. Heaven only knows why he's tolerated me all these years."
"You don't act like a doctor." Ruth tipped her head to one side as she pondered the statement. "Or maybe it's because you act more like a doctor is supposed to."
"How do you mean?"
"You're not brusque or harsh. You're personable and unfailingly polite, but still professional. The nurses at the hospital in Cheyenne ought to take a leaf out of your book."
"Not very pleasant ladies, I take it?" He inquired, holding the door for her.
"Angels of mercy they are not. Half of 'em couldn't even take a decent joke."
To her surprise, Watson laughed.
"Yes," he agreed. "Some nurses are like that. Particularly when faced with an uncooperative patient."
"I wasn't a patient," she admitted. "Just uncooperative. Which way?"
"Upstairs, unless they've moved him. Follow me."
Ruth complied, absently wondering if all the hospitals in the world had been designed by the same person. They certainly looked like they had. With the exception of accents, this hospital's interior and its people lingering in the halls looked, sounded, and smelled similar to the one in Cheyenne. It wasn't bringing back good memories. She decided to force her mind in another direction.
"So, I guess you've had some unpleasant encounters with nurses yourself?"
"Yes, you could say that. I remember one nurse in particular from my days in medical school who was constantly finding fault with us 'young, worthless, lazy no-accounts.' She would have made a fantastic drill sergeant. Eventually, some friends and I got so fed up with her that we concocted a substance to put in her food which turned her tongue green for three days."
Ruth gave an unladylike snort of laughter.
"You didn't."
"I did."
"That's awful!"
"I know. Had we been caught, we surely would have been thrown out. All right, your turn. What were you doing in a hospital terrorizing nurses if you weren't a patient?"
Ruth's face suddenly turned an interesting shade of pink.
"Well, I suppose, technically, you could say I was a patient. I was supposed to be, anyway. A small incident at the local telegraph office left Charlie with a broken wrist and me with a very minor concussion. The nurses wanted to keep me contained for observation and refused to tell me anything about Charlie's condition. This didn't sit too well with me, so I created a little diversion and used the ensuing chaos to sneak off and find him. I was with him long enough to be reassured he was fine before the nurses finally caught up with me. They hauled me back to my room and locked me in, so I broke the lock on the window, crawled down the drainpipe, and went back to our hotel. Joe was absolutely livid."
"I'd imagine so."
"If it hadn't been for the fact that I was apparently hurt, I think he would've strangled me."
"'Apparently hurt'? You had a concussion."
"A mild concussion," she corrected. "It was a mild concussion. I could still walk. The nurses were just trying to make it worse than it was."
"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have been walking around with a head injury." Watson stopped by a partially-open door at the end of the hall. "This is it."
Ruth followed him inside, still showing some uncertainty at the odd smells that were so commonplace in medical establishments. The room itself was typically sterile and Spartan. Charlie had appeared to be sleeping, but quickly came around when he heard the door open. Watson pointedly lingered at the far end of the room to give the siblings a bit of privacy, a bit difficult in such a small space. Ruth came over and hovered by her brother's bed.
"Well, you certainly made a mess of yourself this time, Charlie Henley."
Pale as he was, Henley's cheeks flushed as he chuckled.
"What're you talking about? Just a scratch."
"I can see that." Ruth's resolve finally crumbled. "Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry."
"For what, this? This wasn't your fault."
"But I'm the one who wrote to you about Davis being here. I'm the informant. I sent you the letter and…"
"And now you're thinking that if you hadn't wrote it, none of this would've happened," he finished for her. "For the love of Pete, Ruth, stop blaming yourself for things you didn't do!"
"I shot Jim in the leg."
"All right, that one was partially your fault. But only partially," he added quickly. "As you've pointed out yourself on more than one occasion, I'm as much to blame for what happened to Jim as you are."
"Well, since you admit it, and I admit it, I guess we're at an impasse. Truce?"
"Truce. Are you all right? You look a little shook up."
"I'm fine. I just had a bit of a…" She trailed off, rubbing her right elbow. "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Charlie sighed. She was lying and he knew it. He also knew that forcing it out of her would do either of them little good.
"What're your plans for the day?" He asked, deciding to change the subject.
"Aside from making sure you weren't going to kick the bucket on me? Not much. I was going to talk with Joe later and see if he needed me for anything. I'm not just going to sit around in Hyde Park with my sketchbook, if that's what you're asking. I'm going to help."
"Good. Here's something you can do: They put all my things in the drawer over there. Get that playing card and take it to Mr. Holmes."
Ruth slid the drawer of the nightstand open and found the card lying on top. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.
"I've got it. Anything else?"
"Do you still have Pa's LeMat?"
"Well," she began with an impish grin, "family heirlooms aside, I've never had much stock in guns, so it's pretty safe to say that I—"
"Ruth."
She sobered at Charlie's stern tone.
"Yes, I have it. I haven't had a reason to use it, but I've kept it all the same. Although, I have to admit, I was sore tempted to use it the day you showed up."
"Keep it with you."
She blinked, surprised by the briskness of the sudden order.
"What?"
"I mean it, Ruth. Keep it with you. Keep it with you all the time. Don't give these men an opportunity to catch you off guard."
"All right. I'll keep it in my coat pocket."
"Promise me, Ruth. Promise that for once in your life, you'll actually listen to me."
Gently, she reached over and took her brother's hand.
"I promise, Charlie."
He smiled.
"Good girl."
"I'm not a pet, Charles."
The smile broke into a grin at the sharp retort.
"Now, that's the Ruth I know."
"Be careful what you wish for," she warned. "The Ruth you know is liable to string you up by your toes from a flagpole in a fit of petty anger."
"I'll take my chances."
His expression was so perfectly deadpan that Ruth finally gave in and laughed. Her amusement, however, was short-lived and soon faded when she caught sight of the spot under the sheet where her brother's leg should have been.
"Does it feel strange?"
"A little," he admitted. "One of the nurses said they were gonna fix me up with a wooden leg."
"So, now you'll be like Uncle Ted."
"No!" Charlie's eyes widened with horror. "Absolutely not! If I ever start acting like Uncle Ted, I want you to shoot me."
"Well, I won't make any guarantees. You and Uncle Ted crazy as a pair of loons might make our family reunions more interesting. But if you start calling me Martha, too, then I will shoot you. That's a promise."
"Can you do one other thing for me?"
"Sure."
"Stop by my room and get my notebook. There's some information in there that might help. Show it to Mr. Holmes if you like."
"I'll do that. I'll see you tomorrow, Charlie." She hesitated before giving him a brief hug and then hurrying from the room.
"I have something Holmes wants Inspector Lestrade to see," Watson told her, pulling the door shut behind him. "We'll have to stop at Scotland Yard first."
"That's fine. I'm not really in a hurry. I'd just like to get back to Baker Street before Mr. Holmes decides to poison my cat."
Across town, Holmes was still slouched down in his armchair at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the day, thankfully without looking in the icebox, and the house was unusually quiet. Gladstone had succumbed to the latest anesthetic experiment and was snoring gently in front of the fireplace. Edgar, on the other hand, lurked on the mantelpiece like Beelzebub himself, staring unblinkingly at the detective with a baleful eye. Holmes would never consider himself a fanciful man, but in that moment he could practically feel the loathing emanated from the animal. If he ever needed proof of demon possession, he needn't look farther than Ruth Henley's cat. Some chloroform might be in order. Or perhaps a priest…
An urgent knocking at the front door gave Holmes the release he needed. He left the room and hurried downstairs, only to have Edgar follow him like a malevolent shadow, prowling along the baseboard. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Holmes opened the door.
A boy stood on the threshold with an envelope in hand.
"Message for you, Mr. 'Olmes."
He started to hand the letter to the detective, but froze when Edgar took up residence by the door and promptly began hissing. The boy's eyes widened at the sight of the menacing creature.
"Blimey! That one's vicious, 'e is!"
Holmes booted the cat away from the open doorway, ignoring the furious spitting, and took the envelope.
"Yes, I was aware of that, unfortunately. Here." He tossed the boy a coin and shut the door without another word.
The message appeared to be from the telegraph office near Scotland Yard. Holmes removed the note and let the envelope flutter to the ground, paying no heed when Edgar tried to eat it.
MURDER IN REGENTS PARK. STOP. COME AT ONCE. STOP. LESTRADE.
Mild cliffie. Not too bad, eh? I mean, we all knew there'd be another stiff eventually. I'll bet Lestrade's none too happy.