Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
He was right, of course. Just going on a hunch was a bad way to investigate a case – but Mr Fairfax made me feel so uneasy that I assumed he'd make the ideal suspect in a situation like this. Well, as my Aunt Clarissa once told me, when you ASSUME you make an ASS out of U and ME, so I resolved to keep an open mind until all of the facts were unearthed.
The remainder of the day was relatively uneventful. I learned through casual conversation that Mr Fairfax frequently cultivated flowers in the hothouse outside of their usual growing season, in order to occasionally surprise the Hammonds with a centerpiece (of the sort that greeted us over dinner) or to present to Cordelia in order to brighten up the gloomy November (Holmes and I witnessed the fruits of a previous such gift tucked into a vase in the parlour during tea). I made a mental note that Holmes or I would investigate the hothouse further for any exotic plants, though of course Mr Fairfax didn't mention any such specimens. It started raining around seven, as we were starting dinner - a persistent, sheeting precipitation that soon turned to sleet, so that by the time coffee was served the weather was quite hostile to any prospective outside intruders. I had never much developed a taste for coffee myself – it did not help that this particular brew was slightly bitter – so I discreetly sidestepped taking more than a single sip by engaging myself thoroughly in the conversation. Horatio had, contrary to most social conventions, been invited to join us for coffee, though the Fairfaxes did not imbibe.
"I expect any ghosts would thoroughly enjoy this sort of weather," I remarked brightly as the sleet pummeled noisily at the roof, "After all, don't they usually come out during storms?"
"Well, if ghosts *did* exist," my "husband" replied, "I should think they'd have better things to do than groan and rattle their chains at people, regardless of the weather."
"I for one don't believe in ghosts," Horatio added, with the nasal tones that indicated that the weather was having an adverse affect on his sinuses, "Just because the fire goes out doesn't mean we have spooks about."
"Does the fire always go out when this happens?" Holmes asked.
"That fireplace," Horatio replied, "Has always been rather temperamental. It's hard to light, for one, so one would expect to have a difficult time keeping it alight, especially all night." He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and retreated into the next room to noisily blow his nose.
"Then we shall have to take precautions," Holmes remarked blithely, "In addition to watching out for ghosts. Perhaps faeries are putting out the fire?"
Merry laughter was had all around. As for myself, I was starting to notice what had seemed so absurd in full daylight had (as such things frequently do) started looming ever more menacing as the evening drew towards its close. Not, of course, that I believed that some restless spirit was the culprit – but the more mortal possibilities were still very real.
Young Alexander came in to gather our coffee cups and he paused slightly before taking mine – which was understandable, for mine was the only one that had not been nearly drained.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he mumbled, "I'll leave it."
"Nonsense," I said, "I really oughtn't to drink coffee anyway – it gives me the jitters something awful."
After another hesitation, he took my cup with the others.
Holmes and I made small-talk with our hosts for perhaps another half-hour before retiring for the evening. On our way out, Mrs Hammond informed us that breakfast would be served at 7.00 the following morning.
For the look of the thing, we the happy newlyweds entered "our" room together, and from there Holmes retreated to the study to give each of us the privacy we needed.
Barely fifteen minutes later, I glanced down and realized that things were about to get very, very complicated between us.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
It was ticklish business undressing for bed in the study, despite the fact that I had locked the door leading out to the hall and securely closed the door leading into the adjacent bedroom where she was. Logically, I knew that the latter door was perfectly opaque and not inclined to come open by chance, but at the same time I was still quite aware of Emily's presence on the other side of it and I had found that there was no lock and, thus, no practical way to secure it further. In the end I compromised by firmly turning my back to the connecting door as I disrobed. I was down to my shirtsleeves and was just shrugging out of my braces when I heard her calling from the bedroom.
"John? Could you come help me for a moment, dear?"
Oh, for the love of…
"What is it?" I called back.
"Just come in here please," she repeated, starting to sound a bit exasperated, "I can't get this by myself."
I had never known her to need help with anything. Her natural willfulness seemed to preclude asking anyone for help; instead she preferred to handle things by herself. The fact that she was asking now demanded investigation, at least for the curiosity value. I pulled the braces back into place and crossed to the joining door.
"Yes, Clarissa," I said as I opened the door separating us, "What's the ma—"
That was as far as I got, for at that point I saw precisely the problem at hand and, being a true gentleman, instinctively averted my gaze. The problem involved Emily standing there in the middle of the room, having divested herself of her dress and petticoats, but she was still wearing her chemise and, most significantly, she was still cinched firmly into her corset.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'd had plenty of opportunities to question Watson on what duties would be expected of me during this farce, such as, I realized, assisting her with her corsetry. Watson, of course, was not entirely without blame, for he might have taken me aside and warned me – but most of the fault was mine. I should have expected problems, I should have anticipated snags, and I should have consulted my resident expert on marital matters. Idiot!
"Well?" she said, interrupting my mental tirade, adding in gentler tones that, I expect, were designed not to be heard out in the hall, "You didn't know you were going to have to do this, did you?"
"No, and I'd prefer not having to," I responded, "all things considered."
"The only thing is, if I call for the maid to help me while my 'husband' is right in the next room, our cover is as good as blown."
"I was afraid of that," I muttered, then took a deep breath, girding my metaphorical loins. "Well, there's nothing to be done for it now. Let's get this done as quickly as possible."
She turned her back to me, pulling her hair forward over her right shoulder, and I saw the seemingly endless, tight herringbone column of corset-laces running down the curve of her spine.
In my entire career, I have faced madmen, scoundrels, rogues, and the occasional wild animal – how ironic that the encounter that most made me want to hide was a half-undressed young woman!
*****
End of Part 7.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
He was right, of course. Just going on a hunch was a bad way to investigate a case – but Mr Fairfax made me feel so uneasy that I assumed he'd make the ideal suspect in a situation like this. Well, as my Aunt Clarissa once told me, when you ASSUME you make an ASS out of U and ME, so I resolved to keep an open mind until all of the facts were unearthed.
The remainder of the day was relatively uneventful. I learned through casual conversation that Mr Fairfax frequently cultivated flowers in the hothouse outside of their usual growing season, in order to occasionally surprise the Hammonds with a centerpiece (of the sort that greeted us over dinner) or to present to Cordelia in order to brighten up the gloomy November (Holmes and I witnessed the fruits of a previous such gift tucked into a vase in the parlour during tea). I made a mental note that Holmes or I would investigate the hothouse further for any exotic plants, though of course Mr Fairfax didn't mention any such specimens. It started raining around seven, as we were starting dinner - a persistent, sheeting precipitation that soon turned to sleet, so that by the time coffee was served the weather was quite hostile to any prospective outside intruders. I had never much developed a taste for coffee myself – it did not help that this particular brew was slightly bitter – so I discreetly sidestepped taking more than a single sip by engaging myself thoroughly in the conversation. Horatio had, contrary to most social conventions, been invited to join us for coffee, though the Fairfaxes did not imbibe.
"I expect any ghosts would thoroughly enjoy this sort of weather," I remarked brightly as the sleet pummeled noisily at the roof, "After all, don't they usually come out during storms?"
"Well, if ghosts *did* exist," my "husband" replied, "I should think they'd have better things to do than groan and rattle their chains at people, regardless of the weather."
"I for one don't believe in ghosts," Horatio added, with the nasal tones that indicated that the weather was having an adverse affect on his sinuses, "Just because the fire goes out doesn't mean we have spooks about."
"Does the fire always go out when this happens?" Holmes asked.
"That fireplace," Horatio replied, "Has always been rather temperamental. It's hard to light, for one, so one would expect to have a difficult time keeping it alight, especially all night." He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and retreated into the next room to noisily blow his nose.
"Then we shall have to take precautions," Holmes remarked blithely, "In addition to watching out for ghosts. Perhaps faeries are putting out the fire?"
Merry laughter was had all around. As for myself, I was starting to notice what had seemed so absurd in full daylight had (as such things frequently do) started looming ever more menacing as the evening drew towards its close. Not, of course, that I believed that some restless spirit was the culprit – but the more mortal possibilities were still very real.
Young Alexander came in to gather our coffee cups and he paused slightly before taking mine – which was understandable, for mine was the only one that had not been nearly drained.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he mumbled, "I'll leave it."
"Nonsense," I said, "I really oughtn't to drink coffee anyway – it gives me the jitters something awful."
After another hesitation, he took my cup with the others.
Holmes and I made small-talk with our hosts for perhaps another half-hour before retiring for the evening. On our way out, Mrs Hammond informed us that breakfast would be served at 7.00 the following morning.
For the look of the thing, we the happy newlyweds entered "our" room together, and from there Holmes retreated to the study to give each of us the privacy we needed.
Barely fifteen minutes later, I glanced down and realized that things were about to get very, very complicated between us.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
It was ticklish business undressing for bed in the study, despite the fact that I had locked the door leading out to the hall and securely closed the door leading into the adjacent bedroom where she was. Logically, I knew that the latter door was perfectly opaque and not inclined to come open by chance, but at the same time I was still quite aware of Emily's presence on the other side of it and I had found that there was no lock and, thus, no practical way to secure it further. In the end I compromised by firmly turning my back to the connecting door as I disrobed. I was down to my shirtsleeves and was just shrugging out of my braces when I heard her calling from the bedroom.
"John? Could you come help me for a moment, dear?"
Oh, for the love of…
"What is it?" I called back.
"Just come in here please," she repeated, starting to sound a bit exasperated, "I can't get this by myself."
I had never known her to need help with anything. Her natural willfulness seemed to preclude asking anyone for help; instead she preferred to handle things by herself. The fact that she was asking now demanded investigation, at least for the curiosity value. I pulled the braces back into place and crossed to the joining door.
"Yes, Clarissa," I said as I opened the door separating us, "What's the ma—"
That was as far as I got, for at that point I saw precisely the problem at hand and, being a true gentleman, instinctively averted my gaze. The problem involved Emily standing there in the middle of the room, having divested herself of her dress and petticoats, but she was still wearing her chemise and, most significantly, she was still cinched firmly into her corset.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'd had plenty of opportunities to question Watson on what duties would be expected of me during this farce, such as, I realized, assisting her with her corsetry. Watson, of course, was not entirely without blame, for he might have taken me aside and warned me – but most of the fault was mine. I should have expected problems, I should have anticipated snags, and I should have consulted my resident expert on marital matters. Idiot!
"Well?" she said, interrupting my mental tirade, adding in gentler tones that, I expect, were designed not to be heard out in the hall, "You didn't know you were going to have to do this, did you?"
"No, and I'd prefer not having to," I responded, "all things considered."
"The only thing is, if I call for the maid to help me while my 'husband' is right in the next room, our cover is as good as blown."
"I was afraid of that," I muttered, then took a deep breath, girding my metaphorical loins. "Well, there's nothing to be done for it now. Let's get this done as quickly as possible."
She turned her back to me, pulling her hair forward over her right shoulder, and I saw the seemingly endless, tight herringbone column of corset-laces running down the curve of her spine.
In my entire career, I have faced madmen, scoundrels, rogues, and the occasional wild animal – how ironic that the encounter that most made me want to hide was a half-undressed young woman!
*****
End of Part 7.