Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
It was not uncommon for the residents of Mrs. Croft's boarding house for young ladies to receive male visitors despite the Rules, generally the hopeful and deliriously romantic but disgracefully penniless suitors in avoidance of which many of the women were sent here in the first place. My own story, of course, was slightly different from the prevailing one: my father kept bringing young men around in the hopes of marrying me off to one of them (probably just to get me off his hands), generally sons of friends or business acquaintances who, doubtless upon hearing a description of me, expected a blushing bride-to-be or a demure china doll. It should be clear to the reader by now that my father and I were often at cross-purposes on the marriage front, and I found the young men to be condescending and thoroughly exasperating.
The last one was trying to convince me of the great virtues to be found in bearing and raising sons for him when he lost an eye-tooth. You'd think Englishmen under the age of twenty-five were made of glass.
As I was saying, it was not uncommon for the other young ladies to receive male visitors (although Mrs Croft had tried and failed to discourage such visits), but apparently I was the only one in English history to receive two such visitors in the same day. I will however, admit that the two visitors could not be more different in appearance: there was Wiggins, an untidy young waif (whose Christian name I never quite learned) who was by no means short but still apparently had some growing to do before he reached full manhood, and who was always grateful for charity. Then there was Sherlock Holmes, who always dressed tidily except when circumstances dictated otherwise, and who presently looked like he'd rather have his toenails trimmed with a woodsman's axe than be sitting there waiting in the front lobby, still buttoned up in his greatcoat but with his muffler hanging loose around his neck, and with an ear-flapped winter cap perched on his knees, to ask me for anything.
He immediately stood when he saw me enter the lobby, his eyes lighting up just enough to let me know that his presence here wasn't entirely under duress.
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," I greeted him, only emphasising the "Mr" for the sake for Mrs Croft, our self-appointed chaperone, who was knitting ferociously by the fire, sitting just within casual earshot to make sure we didn't spontaneously do something embarrassing right there in the sitting room.
"Miss Cartwright," Holmes replied, clasping my hand briefly in those elegant fingers of his, "Before we get to the heart of the matter... how are you in dealing with ghosts?"
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
How quickly the orderly mind tends to misfile important details - like my otherwise anticipated internal reaction to Emily's entrance in response to my summons. I was, of course, pleased that she was willing to speak with me, but the rest of it... I couldn't quite decipher the remainder, especially the fact that my mouth went dry as soon as she'd appeared. I had forgotten the chief flaw of asking for her help, of course, but I was determined to deal with it the best I could, and I refocused my mind on the task at hand as we sat across from each other, using the busy clicking of the landlady's knitting needles to centre myself.
"Well, I can't say I've met any ghosts," Emily said in response to my initial query, "and you don't strike me as the type to go about chasing spooks, yourself."
"The reason I ask," I replied, "is that Inspector Lestrade has asked for my help in investigating what *appears* to be a haunting in Sussex."
"'Appears'?"
"Either it is a true haunting, which I doubt, or it is a series of perfectly mundane events made to look like a haunting - I have encountered such many times, and each time it proves to be the work of mortal hands."
"All right," she smiled. "So, are you going to tell me any details or are you going to make me guess?"
I outlined the case as far as I knew it, choosing my words carefully when I described the activities of the "ghost". Emily wasn't fooled.
"What do you mean by 'attacking'?" she pressed, "If there was some monster out there hurting young women, I'd bet my left boot that the police wouldn't stop until they caught him."
"From the look Lestrade got on his face, I'd say it was more subtle than a physical assault." I hesitated. "He seemed to imply that the assailant was touching them. Intimately." I'm almost certain my face remained absolutely impassive.
"Oh," she said, "You mean some pervert is groping them."
I heard the landlady drop a stitch in her knitting. I was a bit startled at the abrupt summary myself, but it was, as far as I knew, accurate.
"Yes, essentially," I conceded.
"So, where do I come in? I bet you and Watson could wrestle him to the ground between the two of you."
"It was he who suggested I ask for you help, and in the time it took me to find you, I came up with a possible plan - I'm fully prepared to discard it, of course, if you refuse."
She looked at me expectantly, then smiled again as I hesitated. "Oh, out with it already. I can't say one way or the other until you do."
I took a deep breath. "We set a trap," I said in a low voice, "We check into the inn, posing as husband and wife, and wait for the Ghost to strike."
She matched my conspiratorial tone. "You realise, of course, that you're using me as bait."
"You know I wouldn't even ask you if I didn't think your presence would benefit the investigation," I said quietly, bracing myself, certain that she would refuse and eject me from the boarding house, probably refusing to see me again. The possibility carried with it a certain amount of dread.
"You also realise," she continued in the same tone but with a ghost of a smile now teasing the corners of her mouth, "that anyone who tries to touch me without my leave is likely to get a broken arm."
"Is that acceptance or refusal?"
"Well, do you feel up to the role?"
I considered the question. "I've masqueraded as more complicated things than a married man."
"All right, then. How long will I have to get ready?"
"A few days, maybe. I need to inform Lestrade that I've accepted the case, and I'll send you a note in the morning to let you know when I'll be collecting you."
"Perfect," she beamed, "I'll be ready. Isn't this going to be exciting?"
I was simultaneously relieved and concerned at her agreement.
I soon found out how wrong I was on one point - there is no role more complex than faux marriage, especially in a setting like the bridal suite of an inn.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
You'd think I was the last hope for Western civilisation, as nervous as he was asking for my help. Of course, he was well-contained as always, but he seemed strangely on edge during our conversation. I don't think I'll ever quite understand him.
After he'd left (bowing to me like I were royalty - always so formal!), I heard Mrs Croft stop knitting and get up.
"A new beau?" she probed, "I haven't seen him around since you moved in."
"He's a good friend of mine," I replied. Mrs Croft tended to be a bit of a gossip, and I wanted to dissuade her as best I could with vagueness.
"What did he want, then? Just to chat? You two seemed to be doing quite a bit of whispering, if you ask me."
I sighed. "He prides himself on his confidentiality - and I respect that."
"Well, you know that I'm always concerned for the safety of my boarders, single ladies, all of them - I just like to know who's coming and going. Now don't misunderstand me - he looked a lot nicer than that street rat this afternoon--"
"Mrs Croft, my friend also prefers his privacy - so if you wouldn't mind."
"Oh, at least tell me the man's name, that much wouldn't hurt."
I decided that the time for tact was concluded. A strategic change of subject was in order, since anything I told her about Holmes would be circulated all over the east side by the weekend, probably slightly edited to make it circulate faster. I couldn't put him through that. "Mrs Croft, do you know what some of the women in the market have been saying?"
She pounced on the prospective lead. "What?"
"They say that your husband died of a shovel to the face rather than a bad heart. According to them, you found him violating the marital boundaries with some tart and got rid of him yourself - you know, I would give them a good talking-to, if I were you, spreading malicious gossip like that."
The colour she turned (a rather huffy shade of pink) and the expression that crossed her face (rather like a stunned trout) foreshadowed several rather noisy confrontations in the market to-morrow, which would certainly prove interesting, especially since I didn't actually know of any such rumour circulating at the time. It also indicated that the entire subject of Holmes had, in a single instant, been completely forgotten.
Creative misdirection is a wonderful talent to hone.
*****
End of Part 3.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
It was not uncommon for the residents of Mrs. Croft's boarding house for young ladies to receive male visitors despite the Rules, generally the hopeful and deliriously romantic but disgracefully penniless suitors in avoidance of which many of the women were sent here in the first place. My own story, of course, was slightly different from the prevailing one: my father kept bringing young men around in the hopes of marrying me off to one of them (probably just to get me off his hands), generally sons of friends or business acquaintances who, doubtless upon hearing a description of me, expected a blushing bride-to-be or a demure china doll. It should be clear to the reader by now that my father and I were often at cross-purposes on the marriage front, and I found the young men to be condescending and thoroughly exasperating.
The last one was trying to convince me of the great virtues to be found in bearing and raising sons for him when he lost an eye-tooth. You'd think Englishmen under the age of twenty-five were made of glass.
As I was saying, it was not uncommon for the other young ladies to receive male visitors (although Mrs Croft had tried and failed to discourage such visits), but apparently I was the only one in English history to receive two such visitors in the same day. I will however, admit that the two visitors could not be more different in appearance: there was Wiggins, an untidy young waif (whose Christian name I never quite learned) who was by no means short but still apparently had some growing to do before he reached full manhood, and who was always grateful for charity. Then there was Sherlock Holmes, who always dressed tidily except when circumstances dictated otherwise, and who presently looked like he'd rather have his toenails trimmed with a woodsman's axe than be sitting there waiting in the front lobby, still buttoned up in his greatcoat but with his muffler hanging loose around his neck, and with an ear-flapped winter cap perched on his knees, to ask me for anything.
He immediately stood when he saw me enter the lobby, his eyes lighting up just enough to let me know that his presence here wasn't entirely under duress.
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," I greeted him, only emphasising the "Mr" for the sake for Mrs Croft, our self-appointed chaperone, who was knitting ferociously by the fire, sitting just within casual earshot to make sure we didn't spontaneously do something embarrassing right there in the sitting room.
"Miss Cartwright," Holmes replied, clasping my hand briefly in those elegant fingers of his, "Before we get to the heart of the matter... how are you in dealing with ghosts?"
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
How quickly the orderly mind tends to misfile important details - like my otherwise anticipated internal reaction to Emily's entrance in response to my summons. I was, of course, pleased that she was willing to speak with me, but the rest of it... I couldn't quite decipher the remainder, especially the fact that my mouth went dry as soon as she'd appeared. I had forgotten the chief flaw of asking for her help, of course, but I was determined to deal with it the best I could, and I refocused my mind on the task at hand as we sat across from each other, using the busy clicking of the landlady's knitting needles to centre myself.
"Well, I can't say I've met any ghosts," Emily said in response to my initial query, "and you don't strike me as the type to go about chasing spooks, yourself."
"The reason I ask," I replied, "is that Inspector Lestrade has asked for my help in investigating what *appears* to be a haunting in Sussex."
"'Appears'?"
"Either it is a true haunting, which I doubt, or it is a series of perfectly mundane events made to look like a haunting - I have encountered such many times, and each time it proves to be the work of mortal hands."
"All right," she smiled. "So, are you going to tell me any details or are you going to make me guess?"
I outlined the case as far as I knew it, choosing my words carefully when I described the activities of the "ghost". Emily wasn't fooled.
"What do you mean by 'attacking'?" she pressed, "If there was some monster out there hurting young women, I'd bet my left boot that the police wouldn't stop until they caught him."
"From the look Lestrade got on his face, I'd say it was more subtle than a physical assault." I hesitated. "He seemed to imply that the assailant was touching them. Intimately." I'm almost certain my face remained absolutely impassive.
"Oh," she said, "You mean some pervert is groping them."
I heard the landlady drop a stitch in her knitting. I was a bit startled at the abrupt summary myself, but it was, as far as I knew, accurate.
"Yes, essentially," I conceded.
"So, where do I come in? I bet you and Watson could wrestle him to the ground between the two of you."
"It was he who suggested I ask for you help, and in the time it took me to find you, I came up with a possible plan - I'm fully prepared to discard it, of course, if you refuse."
She looked at me expectantly, then smiled again as I hesitated. "Oh, out with it already. I can't say one way or the other until you do."
I took a deep breath. "We set a trap," I said in a low voice, "We check into the inn, posing as husband and wife, and wait for the Ghost to strike."
She matched my conspiratorial tone. "You realise, of course, that you're using me as bait."
"You know I wouldn't even ask you if I didn't think your presence would benefit the investigation," I said quietly, bracing myself, certain that she would refuse and eject me from the boarding house, probably refusing to see me again. The possibility carried with it a certain amount of dread.
"You also realise," she continued in the same tone but with a ghost of a smile now teasing the corners of her mouth, "that anyone who tries to touch me without my leave is likely to get a broken arm."
"Is that acceptance or refusal?"
"Well, do you feel up to the role?"
I considered the question. "I've masqueraded as more complicated things than a married man."
"All right, then. How long will I have to get ready?"
"A few days, maybe. I need to inform Lestrade that I've accepted the case, and I'll send you a note in the morning to let you know when I'll be collecting you."
"Perfect," she beamed, "I'll be ready. Isn't this going to be exciting?"
I was simultaneously relieved and concerned at her agreement.
I soon found out how wrong I was on one point - there is no role more complex than faux marriage, especially in a setting like the bridal suite of an inn.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
You'd think I was the last hope for Western civilisation, as nervous as he was asking for my help. Of course, he was well-contained as always, but he seemed strangely on edge during our conversation. I don't think I'll ever quite understand him.
After he'd left (bowing to me like I were royalty - always so formal!), I heard Mrs Croft stop knitting and get up.
"A new beau?" she probed, "I haven't seen him around since you moved in."
"He's a good friend of mine," I replied. Mrs Croft tended to be a bit of a gossip, and I wanted to dissuade her as best I could with vagueness.
"What did he want, then? Just to chat? You two seemed to be doing quite a bit of whispering, if you ask me."
I sighed. "He prides himself on his confidentiality - and I respect that."
"Well, you know that I'm always concerned for the safety of my boarders, single ladies, all of them - I just like to know who's coming and going. Now don't misunderstand me - he looked a lot nicer than that street rat this afternoon--"
"Mrs Croft, my friend also prefers his privacy - so if you wouldn't mind."
"Oh, at least tell me the man's name, that much wouldn't hurt."
I decided that the time for tact was concluded. A strategic change of subject was in order, since anything I told her about Holmes would be circulated all over the east side by the weekend, probably slightly edited to make it circulate faster. I couldn't put him through that. "Mrs Croft, do you know what some of the women in the market have been saying?"
She pounced on the prospective lead. "What?"
"They say that your husband died of a shovel to the face rather than a bad heart. According to them, you found him violating the marital boundaries with some tart and got rid of him yourself - you know, I would give them a good talking-to, if I were you, spreading malicious gossip like that."
The colour she turned (a rather huffy shade of pink) and the expression that crossed her face (rather like a stunned trout) foreshadowed several rather noisy confrontations in the market to-morrow, which would certainly prove interesting, especially since I didn't actually know of any such rumour circulating at the time. It also indicated that the entire subject of Holmes had, in a single instant, been completely forgotten.
Creative misdirection is a wonderful talent to hone.
*****
End of Part 3.