Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
Insufferable woman!
Though I could not prove that she was acting contrary to my suggestions about her role, I got the distinct feeling that she was taunting me, especially after she'd made a point of criticizing so many elements of my carefully orchestrated plan. However, it was far too late to change my mind now – we were already on the train, making our way to Sussex, and I could hardly be sharp with her now, while she sat across from me in the coach, reading serenely from, I discovered, a volume on modern physics. One thing I could say to her credit was that she never ceased to surprise me. I swallowed my vexation and said not a word to her till we had arrived, which made for a very long train ride.
Upon our arrival in the southern countryside – the very region of Sussex, incidentally, where I would eventually choose to retire at the end of my long career – we took a hansom to the inn in question and assumed our respective roles. To my private chagrin, I was still "darling", but at least "Clarissa" was not as fawning and soppy as she had been at Victoria Station.
The inn itself was actually a venerable country manor, possibly built around the turn of the 1800s or not long after, with carefully trimmed hedges at the front - the two such that greeted us on the walk to the front porch had apparently been sculpted to resemble lions or some similar beast, though the guardians lost some of their menace when dripping with ice. Further exploration revealed a lovingly tended flower garden and accompanying hothouse in the backyard. Clearly at least one of the Hammonds had chosen as a hobby the continued beautification of the property, though of course this would be in vain if this supposed ghost succeeded in discouraging any guests.
The inn and surrounding grounds were tidily managed by William and Dorothea Hammond, a venerable and respectable couple in their seventies, of whom the former was rather deaf and could only communicate effectively with the use of an ear trumpet and the latter suffered from arthritis in her hands. Mr. Hammond's Scottish heritage was betrayed by the slight burr to his speech, whilst Mrs. Hammond I suspected to be native English. I asked them (Mrs Hammond, actually, since I felt uncomfortable shouting at Mr Hammond, regardless of his handicap) about the manor under the guise of idle curiosity but actually to establish a frame of reference from which Emily and I would subsequently work. The history of the place, as related to us by Mrs Hammond over a leisurely luncheon, ran thus: The Hammonds had owned the house since shortly after they'd married, purchased with a sum that Mr Hammond had conscientiously saved up while they were courting so that he and his bride would have a nice place to stay and raise their family. Their children (one son, one daughter) had long since grown up and left to start families of their own, but the Hammonds couldn't bear to part with the house, so they decided after some discussion to rent out rooms to boarders, who had increasingly been newlyweds on honeymoon. The income was not quite enough to properly pay the staff – Horatio, a widowed butler whose duties were increasingly more involved in helping the Hammonds personally with everyday tasks rather than with maintaining the household in general; Timothy and Cordelia Fairfax, a married couple of middle age who served as gardener and housekeeper respectively, and the Fairfaxes' nineteen-year-old son Alexander, who was apprenticed to Horatio and entrusted with those tasks to which Horatio himself could not attend – but the Hammonds had formed close friendships with all of them over the years, so that they were happy to help out in exchange for room and board, plus whatever modest sums the Hammonds could pay.
"Of course," Mrs Hammond said as she finished, "Not many people come around anymore, not since the Ghost showed up. William and I are just tickled that you'd like to stay with us, you and your wife, but I still feel obligated to warn you about the danger."
"Oh, we've heard all the stories," Emily smiled beside me, fully in-character as Clarissa, "but ghosts belong in faerie tales and novels by people like Bram Stoker. They're not real, and if a dead man came up to me trying to scare me, I think I'd kick him." Her tone was light and flippant, a charming feint at whistling past the graveyard. I wondered how much of it was acting and how much was genuine.
"Exactly what I say," I rejoined, my face starting to hurt from the cheery façade I'd assumed, "And if a dead man tried to attack my darling Clarissa, he'd have to get through me." I felt her hand briefly touch mine under the table at which we ate, a gesture of reassurance to be sure – it was almost as if she was trying to tell me that she'd be all right, no matter how this turned out. Not that I was the least bit worried about her – I expected, rather, that she was quite serious about defending herself from this spectral attacker.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
I was starting to wonder how long Holmes could go on grinning like a buffoon, under the pretense that this was now newly-married men were supposed to act in order to show how deliriously happy they were with their marital selection. On the other hand, I suspected that he was rather high-strung by the whole affair, between pretending to be married and the prospect that he was going to be solely responsible for defending me from some villain. I confirmed this theory when I touched his hand and found said hand balled into a fist under the table. I think my touch made him subconsciously aware that he was doing it, because the hand uncurled almost immediately.
This is not to say that I was looking forward to staying there with anything short of unease – I didn't believe in ghosts but I did believe in the darkness in men's hearts, and I suspected that whomever the culprit happened to be, he would have to be quite a villain to traumatize young ladies who were rather less worldly than my Aunt Clarissa, for example. Whatever his motive, it would have to be very compelling, or else he would be in very sad shape by the time the police arrived.
But this was only my opinion at the moment.
As we finished eating, Alexander arrived to clear the table.
"I expect you'll want to see your room and get settled then," Mrs Hammond announced brightly, as if to take the edge off the previous topic of discussion, "You'll find it very cozy, I promise." Her smile slipped, just a notch, as she completely failed to add, "as long as you forget about the Ghost." What she did say was, "I hope you're comfortable while you're here."
"I for one would like that very much," Holmes said, standing and tossing his napkin onto the table for Alexander to pick up, "Just lead the way, Mrs Hammond."
A sound that proved to be Alexander dropping a fork caused me to glance back as I followed Holmes and Mrs Hammond out of the dining room. The look he gave me lasted only an instant, but I read a plea in it. Did he know something? Was he in danger? Were Holmes and I in danger? It was difficult to tell for certain, and I dared not question the young man in case it drew unwelcome attention to him or to us. As Alexander vanished into the kitchen, his bussing complete, I turned and hurried to catch up with my companions.
As far as bedrooms went, the one where Mrs Hammond expected my "husband" and me to sleep tidily straddled the line between cozy and spacious. Against the left wall was a curtained canopy bed, large enough to sleep man and wife, facing a gaping, unlit fireplace and the connecting door into the study. In the wall directly across from the hall door was a small window, possessing both curtains and locking shutters, looking out onto the garden through a delicate veil of frost-patterns on the glass. The bed was flanked by two bed-tables, and against the wall near us was a large, empty wardrobe, smelling of pine and camphor. Mrs Hammond left us to get settled
Were we actually in the throes of newly wedded bliss, I expected that Holmes and I could probably coexist in such a setting for five minutes before we killed each other. As for John and Clarissa Baker, they needed to get unpacked, and I needed to see what the damage to my clothing was from the hasty packing. Our luggage (mostly mine) was arranged tidily at the foot of the bed. As I reached for one of my valises, Holmes abruptly reached out and took my wrist. I straightened up in surprise, and he held up my hand, with the sticking plaster on the pad of my index finger.
"Hatpin?" he asked.
"Packing incident," I replied tartly but not unkindly, "I don't expect you'd be interested in the details, though, considering that it was largely your fault."
He appeared to turn this over that analytical mind of his, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"I wasn't even th…" he began, but then stopped with a frown. He began afresh. "You may be happy to note that I have entirely given up all hope of ever understanding you."
"Glad to hear it," I replied sweetly, "Now come along, honeybunch, we have unpacking to do."
He ground his teeth. "I have also decided that I vastly prefer 'darling' to 'honeybunch'- if you *must* call me by a pet name during this farce."
"Anything you say, darling," I replied, thoroughly enjoying myself.
*****
End Part 5.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
Insufferable woman!
Though I could not prove that she was acting contrary to my suggestions about her role, I got the distinct feeling that she was taunting me, especially after she'd made a point of criticizing so many elements of my carefully orchestrated plan. However, it was far too late to change my mind now – we were already on the train, making our way to Sussex, and I could hardly be sharp with her now, while she sat across from me in the coach, reading serenely from, I discovered, a volume on modern physics. One thing I could say to her credit was that she never ceased to surprise me. I swallowed my vexation and said not a word to her till we had arrived, which made for a very long train ride.
Upon our arrival in the southern countryside – the very region of Sussex, incidentally, where I would eventually choose to retire at the end of my long career – we took a hansom to the inn in question and assumed our respective roles. To my private chagrin, I was still "darling", but at least "Clarissa" was not as fawning and soppy as she had been at Victoria Station.
The inn itself was actually a venerable country manor, possibly built around the turn of the 1800s or not long after, with carefully trimmed hedges at the front - the two such that greeted us on the walk to the front porch had apparently been sculpted to resemble lions or some similar beast, though the guardians lost some of their menace when dripping with ice. Further exploration revealed a lovingly tended flower garden and accompanying hothouse in the backyard. Clearly at least one of the Hammonds had chosen as a hobby the continued beautification of the property, though of course this would be in vain if this supposed ghost succeeded in discouraging any guests.
The inn and surrounding grounds were tidily managed by William and Dorothea Hammond, a venerable and respectable couple in their seventies, of whom the former was rather deaf and could only communicate effectively with the use of an ear trumpet and the latter suffered from arthritis in her hands. Mr. Hammond's Scottish heritage was betrayed by the slight burr to his speech, whilst Mrs. Hammond I suspected to be native English. I asked them (Mrs Hammond, actually, since I felt uncomfortable shouting at Mr Hammond, regardless of his handicap) about the manor under the guise of idle curiosity but actually to establish a frame of reference from which Emily and I would subsequently work. The history of the place, as related to us by Mrs Hammond over a leisurely luncheon, ran thus: The Hammonds had owned the house since shortly after they'd married, purchased with a sum that Mr Hammond had conscientiously saved up while they were courting so that he and his bride would have a nice place to stay and raise their family. Their children (one son, one daughter) had long since grown up and left to start families of their own, but the Hammonds couldn't bear to part with the house, so they decided after some discussion to rent out rooms to boarders, who had increasingly been newlyweds on honeymoon. The income was not quite enough to properly pay the staff – Horatio, a widowed butler whose duties were increasingly more involved in helping the Hammonds personally with everyday tasks rather than with maintaining the household in general; Timothy and Cordelia Fairfax, a married couple of middle age who served as gardener and housekeeper respectively, and the Fairfaxes' nineteen-year-old son Alexander, who was apprenticed to Horatio and entrusted with those tasks to which Horatio himself could not attend – but the Hammonds had formed close friendships with all of them over the years, so that they were happy to help out in exchange for room and board, plus whatever modest sums the Hammonds could pay.
"Of course," Mrs Hammond said as she finished, "Not many people come around anymore, not since the Ghost showed up. William and I are just tickled that you'd like to stay with us, you and your wife, but I still feel obligated to warn you about the danger."
"Oh, we've heard all the stories," Emily smiled beside me, fully in-character as Clarissa, "but ghosts belong in faerie tales and novels by people like Bram Stoker. They're not real, and if a dead man came up to me trying to scare me, I think I'd kick him." Her tone was light and flippant, a charming feint at whistling past the graveyard. I wondered how much of it was acting and how much was genuine.
"Exactly what I say," I rejoined, my face starting to hurt from the cheery façade I'd assumed, "And if a dead man tried to attack my darling Clarissa, he'd have to get through me." I felt her hand briefly touch mine under the table at which we ate, a gesture of reassurance to be sure – it was almost as if she was trying to tell me that she'd be all right, no matter how this turned out. Not that I was the least bit worried about her – I expected, rather, that she was quite serious about defending herself from this spectral attacker.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
I was starting to wonder how long Holmes could go on grinning like a buffoon, under the pretense that this was now newly-married men were supposed to act in order to show how deliriously happy they were with their marital selection. On the other hand, I suspected that he was rather high-strung by the whole affair, between pretending to be married and the prospect that he was going to be solely responsible for defending me from some villain. I confirmed this theory when I touched his hand and found said hand balled into a fist under the table. I think my touch made him subconsciously aware that he was doing it, because the hand uncurled almost immediately.
This is not to say that I was looking forward to staying there with anything short of unease – I didn't believe in ghosts but I did believe in the darkness in men's hearts, and I suspected that whomever the culprit happened to be, he would have to be quite a villain to traumatize young ladies who were rather less worldly than my Aunt Clarissa, for example. Whatever his motive, it would have to be very compelling, or else he would be in very sad shape by the time the police arrived.
But this was only my opinion at the moment.
As we finished eating, Alexander arrived to clear the table.
"I expect you'll want to see your room and get settled then," Mrs Hammond announced brightly, as if to take the edge off the previous topic of discussion, "You'll find it very cozy, I promise." Her smile slipped, just a notch, as she completely failed to add, "as long as you forget about the Ghost." What she did say was, "I hope you're comfortable while you're here."
"I for one would like that very much," Holmes said, standing and tossing his napkin onto the table for Alexander to pick up, "Just lead the way, Mrs Hammond."
A sound that proved to be Alexander dropping a fork caused me to glance back as I followed Holmes and Mrs Hammond out of the dining room. The look he gave me lasted only an instant, but I read a plea in it. Did he know something? Was he in danger? Were Holmes and I in danger? It was difficult to tell for certain, and I dared not question the young man in case it drew unwelcome attention to him or to us. As Alexander vanished into the kitchen, his bussing complete, I turned and hurried to catch up with my companions.
As far as bedrooms went, the one where Mrs Hammond expected my "husband" and me to sleep tidily straddled the line between cozy and spacious. Against the left wall was a curtained canopy bed, large enough to sleep man and wife, facing a gaping, unlit fireplace and the connecting door into the study. In the wall directly across from the hall door was a small window, possessing both curtains and locking shutters, looking out onto the garden through a delicate veil of frost-patterns on the glass. The bed was flanked by two bed-tables, and against the wall near us was a large, empty wardrobe, smelling of pine and camphor. Mrs Hammond left us to get settled
Were we actually in the throes of newly wedded bliss, I expected that Holmes and I could probably coexist in such a setting for five minutes before we killed each other. As for John and Clarissa Baker, they needed to get unpacked, and I needed to see what the damage to my clothing was from the hasty packing. Our luggage (mostly mine) was arranged tidily at the foot of the bed. As I reached for one of my valises, Holmes abruptly reached out and took my wrist. I straightened up in surprise, and he held up my hand, with the sticking plaster on the pad of my index finger.
"Hatpin?" he asked.
"Packing incident," I replied tartly but not unkindly, "I don't expect you'd be interested in the details, though, considering that it was largely your fault."
He appeared to turn this over that analytical mind of his, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"I wasn't even th…" he began, but then stopped with a frown. He began afresh. "You may be happy to note that I have entirely given up all hope of ever understanding you."
"Glad to hear it," I replied sweetly, "Now come along, honeybunch, we have unpacking to do."
He ground his teeth. "I have also decided that I vastly prefer 'darling' to 'honeybunch'- if you *must* call me by a pet name during this farce."
"Anything you say, darling," I replied, thoroughly enjoying myself.
*****
End Part 5.