Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone playing the violin over by the window. It was no tune that I recognised, but right now I knew of only one man in the vicinity who might have a violin with him. The melody he played was slow and thoughtful, and put one in mind of long afternoons spent in a library or a study. As I sat up, I saw a clay pipe resting on the end-table, momentarily forsaken in the name of etiquette. It had been filled, but apparently he'd decided afterwards not to light it after all. Holmes, I saw, was already dressed. He was facing away from me, studying something out the window.
"Good morning," I said, inadvertently startling him so the strings squeaked harshly under the bow. He turned.
"Good morning, Clarissa," he said, in case I needed reminding of our ruse, "I trust you were able to get back to sleep after your nightmare?" He turned back. "I still think it was a bit silly, you insisting we move in here, even after I'd rekindled the fire."
Showtime.
"I tell you, John, it wasn't a nightmare," I replied tartly, "I know what happened, and I know the difference between reality and nightmares."
"Yes, yes," he said, waving a hand, "The Ghost. I think the Hammonds' stories simply got you all worked up and made you imagine things. I told you last night that there are no ghosts, and I tell you again now that there are no ghosts."
The conversation, one can safely guess, deteriorated rather rapidly from there until we were both shouting, ending with my loving husband telling me that he was damn well going to prove that I was imagining things because an intruder would have left footprints and if he didn't find any I would have to accept that it was a nightmare brought on my hysteria. As he barked this, Holmes twitched aside the curtain so that I could see through the window the flawless layer of snow covering the back lawn. He arched an eyebrow at me, and I nodded, advising John that as far as I was concerned he could shove his hysterical nightmare theory up his nose. He stormed out, murmuring an apology to Cordelia - who had come to see what all the fuss was about – in the hallway.
"I'm fine," I said in response to her concern, "My husband's being an ass."
"That's such a shame," she replied, "The two of you seemed to be so much in love yesterday."
"Maybe it *was* a nightmare," I said, for the look of the thing.
She looked honestly concerned. I knew the difference between fake concern and real concern (most of the women with whom my father socialised – wives to the last – had all the personal depth of a sheet of paper), and one could not fake it this well. "The Ghost?"
"I think so. Of course, John says it was a nightmare."
"Well, don't worry about him right now. Men can get a bit silly about their wives sometimes, especially at the beginning."
"You sound like you've had experience in that."
She offered me a strained smile. "My Tim… but he's grown up since then. He doesn't go for that sort of thing any more." She quickly rearranged her features into something more pleasant. "It looks like he left without cinching you up. Let me help you with that, shall I?"
I wondered if Holmes had planned to dodge corsetry duty that morning. It didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. What did matter, however, was finding out what Cordelia was talking about – perhaps she knew more than she let on, and perhaps it was nothing.
Once I was dressed (and my waist back to the socially acceptable eighteen inches), I followed Cordelia to the breakfast table.
"Sorry I'm a bit late," I said to those assembled, who were already partway through breakfast.
"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Baker," Cordelia replied, "You had a poor night's sleep, is all."
"I hope I didn't keep anyone up?" I half remarked, half-asked.
As I'd expected, nobody heard anything unusual during the night, let alone a bloodcurdling scream from the guest room. Damn.
As I ate, I glanced surreptitiously at those assembled and was disappointed to note that none of them showed any signs of having been in a scuffle within the past eight hours. My heart sank as I noticed another conspicuous absence.
"Where's your son Alexander?" I asked Cordelia.
"He's taken ill this morning," she replied, "He says he needs to rest and not to bother him. It might be the change in weather."
"Might be," I echoed dully, my appetite gone. "Maybe I could bring him something for his breakfast?" It was imperative that I have the chance to speak with him.
"Oh, you don't have to do that. You're a guest here, after all."
"It's no bother, really." I glanced over just in time to see Mr Fairfax stop looking very hard at me, and I smiled in a manner that I hoped appeared sufficiently vapid. "I insist."
A theory was forming in my mind, one that I would be testing very shortly.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
*My dear Emily.*
The words had come almost casually the previous night. Were they a meaningless sign of platonic affection – or something else? In any case, I hadn't the time at the moment to analyse it further, so I filed the incident away for later study. Instead, I proceeded with the plan we'd formulated and which commenced with our staged argument. Claiming a need for space, I bundled up to go for a not-so-casual walk.
I had no way of knowing how long it had been snowing when I first noticed it that morning around six, but once I had pulled on a pair of snow boots and stepped in up to my ankles, I knew that if there were any prints they would have left hollows in the snow. The fact that this was not the case proved that the Ghost was no outside intruder. Of course, the probability was all but dismissed in my mind, but one must make certain one has considered all the facts and possibilities before one can be sure of a theory. Just such a theory was rapidly taking shape as I made my way out to the hothouse.
Inside the glass enclosure, I found an assortment of perfectly common English flowering plants (such as those Mr Fairfax was wont to present to Mrs Fairfax) and herbs (such as I'd noticed accenting last night's dinner). However, the humid air carried a faint, though distinct, odour of mothballs, which I followed back to one corner of the hothouse. There, I found a workbench, of the sort used by gardeners for re-potting plants. One such specimen struck a chord in my memory, for it looked exactly like the diagram of Valerian in the herbalism book. Lying nearby was a sharp knife, a mortar and pestle, and a small strainer. I sniffed each one, and each smelled of camphor. It was rather anticlimactic, really, but I had to allow for the possibility that only one person ever went in here anymore – which would only make sense, for only a fool would leave such evidence in plain view unless it was in an area in which he felt secure against prying eyes.. And since Mrs Hammond's arthritis precluded her from engaging in any gardening anymore, there was only one possibility remaining.
I could only pray that Emily wasn't planning to do anything stupid in my absence.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
The Fairfaxes lived in a series of apartments on the lower floor which – despite the fact that they adjoined what by rights would be a cellar and which did in fact contain most of the stored and preserved foodstuffs and a quantity of firewood – were actually quite cosy-looking and habitable. Balancing the laden tray on one hand, I knocked on the door which Cordelia had indicated was Alexander's. There was no answer aside from movement within, so I tried again.
"Who's there?" Alexander's voice came from close to the door, and his words sounded slightly slurred.
"It's Mrs Baker," I replied, "Your mother said you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." Alexander didn't reply, so I added, in a lower voice, "I really think that we need to talk. About the Ghost in general, and especially about last night. I think you know why."
There was another long pause before the door finally unlocked and cautiously opened.
Alexander's face was a fright. The left side of it was swollen and mottled with the bruises that had had ample time to develop since last night, his lower lip was puffy, and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked blearily at me with the remaining eye, and he had a general air of resignation about him.
"I'm sorry," he said mournfully, "I'm sorry about last night, but I had to. You were so nice to me and so was Mr Baker, but I had to. Please, try to understand."
I offered him the tray of breakfast – two eggs, sausage links, toast, and a glass of orange juice – and he took plate and glass back to his bedside table. I set the tray aside.
"Tell me," I said, "Tell me why I shouldn't start screaming bloody murder and have you arrested."
He sat down, lacing his fingers together. I was sure I'd find nail gouges under his sleeves if I cared to look. Finally, he sagged, apparently relieved at the chance to tell someone.
"My father," he began, "Did you know that he never gives Mother flowers when the Hammonds don't have any guests? He practically ignores her the rest of the time. I'll see him in town sometimes, talking with the local women… talking like a courtier talks, not like a married man. I don't think he can help himself. He's gotten better at hiding it, but I think Mother knows anyway. Mothers make a point of knowing everything." He offered me a crooked and bitter smile. I saw the gap where an eye-tooth had been until fairly recently. "Oh, he was so happy for the Hammonds when they said they were going to rent out to guests. How could they have known what he'd planned? How could they know what he'd started growing in the backyard?"
"The valerian," I put in.
"Knockout drops," he replied, "Mother made the coffee so the Hammonds could socialise with their guests. Father probably put it in when she wasn't looking. I knew it smelled off, but I didn't know until later…" His eyes started brimming with tears. "He'd get up in the middle of the night, say he was going to the lavatory. One night I followed him… and I saw…" His shoulders shook in silence for several minutes. I couldn't blame him – he'd obviously seen his father doing something terrible, something that no child should ever see his father doing to a woman, let alone a new bride who hadn't even consummated the act with her lawful husband. He looked up at me. "The next morning, I saw Father, and I hated him, and I knew I had to do something. I knew if I said something they'd only say I had a nightmare."
"So the Ghost was born," I said, "But how did you get in without anyone seeing you?"
He pointed toward the low ceiling above his bed, where I saw a trapdoor. "The Hammonds put in a proper set of stairs, of course, when they moved in, but I think that used to be the way people came in and out of the cellar back when this place was first built. I think everyone's forgotten about it, ever since the ladder was removed. I can reach it when I stand on my bed."
"But where…" I trailed off as I performed some silent calculations. If I was right, the trapdoor opened up right underneath the guest bed!
He nodded, seeing my expression. "I'd wait until Father got up 'to use the lavatory', and then…"
He stopped suddenly, looking past me at the open doorway. I turned to see Mr Fairfax – that repulsive troll! – standing in the doorway.
"Stand aside, sir," I said curtly, "I do not like feeling confined."
"Now, Mrs Baker," he replied, in a tone that indicated he'd overheard most of my conversation with Alexander – or at least the parts that directly pertained to him, "This is a family matter, between me and my son. I'm sure you don't want to go starting trouble, would you?"
I smiled grimly. Like hell I didn't.
*****
End of Part 11.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone playing the violin over by the window. It was no tune that I recognised, but right now I knew of only one man in the vicinity who might have a violin with him. The melody he played was slow and thoughtful, and put one in mind of long afternoons spent in a library or a study. As I sat up, I saw a clay pipe resting on the end-table, momentarily forsaken in the name of etiquette. It had been filled, but apparently he'd decided afterwards not to light it after all. Holmes, I saw, was already dressed. He was facing away from me, studying something out the window.
"Good morning," I said, inadvertently startling him so the strings squeaked harshly under the bow. He turned.
"Good morning, Clarissa," he said, in case I needed reminding of our ruse, "I trust you were able to get back to sleep after your nightmare?" He turned back. "I still think it was a bit silly, you insisting we move in here, even after I'd rekindled the fire."
Showtime.
"I tell you, John, it wasn't a nightmare," I replied tartly, "I know what happened, and I know the difference between reality and nightmares."
"Yes, yes," he said, waving a hand, "The Ghost. I think the Hammonds' stories simply got you all worked up and made you imagine things. I told you last night that there are no ghosts, and I tell you again now that there are no ghosts."
The conversation, one can safely guess, deteriorated rather rapidly from there until we were both shouting, ending with my loving husband telling me that he was damn well going to prove that I was imagining things because an intruder would have left footprints and if he didn't find any I would have to accept that it was a nightmare brought on my hysteria. As he barked this, Holmes twitched aside the curtain so that I could see through the window the flawless layer of snow covering the back lawn. He arched an eyebrow at me, and I nodded, advising John that as far as I was concerned he could shove his hysterical nightmare theory up his nose. He stormed out, murmuring an apology to Cordelia - who had come to see what all the fuss was about – in the hallway.
"I'm fine," I said in response to her concern, "My husband's being an ass."
"That's such a shame," she replied, "The two of you seemed to be so much in love yesterday."
"Maybe it *was* a nightmare," I said, for the look of the thing.
She looked honestly concerned. I knew the difference between fake concern and real concern (most of the women with whom my father socialised – wives to the last – had all the personal depth of a sheet of paper), and one could not fake it this well. "The Ghost?"
"I think so. Of course, John says it was a nightmare."
"Well, don't worry about him right now. Men can get a bit silly about their wives sometimes, especially at the beginning."
"You sound like you've had experience in that."
She offered me a strained smile. "My Tim… but he's grown up since then. He doesn't go for that sort of thing any more." She quickly rearranged her features into something more pleasant. "It looks like he left without cinching you up. Let me help you with that, shall I?"
I wondered if Holmes had planned to dodge corsetry duty that morning. It didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. What did matter, however, was finding out what Cordelia was talking about – perhaps she knew more than she let on, and perhaps it was nothing.
Once I was dressed (and my waist back to the socially acceptable eighteen inches), I followed Cordelia to the breakfast table.
"Sorry I'm a bit late," I said to those assembled, who were already partway through breakfast.
"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Baker," Cordelia replied, "You had a poor night's sleep, is all."
"I hope I didn't keep anyone up?" I half remarked, half-asked.
As I'd expected, nobody heard anything unusual during the night, let alone a bloodcurdling scream from the guest room. Damn.
As I ate, I glanced surreptitiously at those assembled and was disappointed to note that none of them showed any signs of having been in a scuffle within the past eight hours. My heart sank as I noticed another conspicuous absence.
"Where's your son Alexander?" I asked Cordelia.
"He's taken ill this morning," she replied, "He says he needs to rest and not to bother him. It might be the change in weather."
"Might be," I echoed dully, my appetite gone. "Maybe I could bring him something for his breakfast?" It was imperative that I have the chance to speak with him.
"Oh, you don't have to do that. You're a guest here, after all."
"It's no bother, really." I glanced over just in time to see Mr Fairfax stop looking very hard at me, and I smiled in a manner that I hoped appeared sufficiently vapid. "I insist."
A theory was forming in my mind, one that I would be testing very shortly.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
*My dear Emily.*
The words had come almost casually the previous night. Were they a meaningless sign of platonic affection – or something else? In any case, I hadn't the time at the moment to analyse it further, so I filed the incident away for later study. Instead, I proceeded with the plan we'd formulated and which commenced with our staged argument. Claiming a need for space, I bundled up to go for a not-so-casual walk.
I had no way of knowing how long it had been snowing when I first noticed it that morning around six, but once I had pulled on a pair of snow boots and stepped in up to my ankles, I knew that if there were any prints they would have left hollows in the snow. The fact that this was not the case proved that the Ghost was no outside intruder. Of course, the probability was all but dismissed in my mind, but one must make certain one has considered all the facts and possibilities before one can be sure of a theory. Just such a theory was rapidly taking shape as I made my way out to the hothouse.
Inside the glass enclosure, I found an assortment of perfectly common English flowering plants (such as those Mr Fairfax was wont to present to Mrs Fairfax) and herbs (such as I'd noticed accenting last night's dinner). However, the humid air carried a faint, though distinct, odour of mothballs, which I followed back to one corner of the hothouse. There, I found a workbench, of the sort used by gardeners for re-potting plants. One such specimen struck a chord in my memory, for it looked exactly like the diagram of Valerian in the herbalism book. Lying nearby was a sharp knife, a mortar and pestle, and a small strainer. I sniffed each one, and each smelled of camphor. It was rather anticlimactic, really, but I had to allow for the possibility that only one person ever went in here anymore – which would only make sense, for only a fool would leave such evidence in plain view unless it was in an area in which he felt secure against prying eyes.. And since Mrs Hammond's arthritis precluded her from engaging in any gardening anymore, there was only one possibility remaining.
I could only pray that Emily wasn't planning to do anything stupid in my absence.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
The Fairfaxes lived in a series of apartments on the lower floor which – despite the fact that they adjoined what by rights would be a cellar and which did in fact contain most of the stored and preserved foodstuffs and a quantity of firewood – were actually quite cosy-looking and habitable. Balancing the laden tray on one hand, I knocked on the door which Cordelia had indicated was Alexander's. There was no answer aside from movement within, so I tried again.
"Who's there?" Alexander's voice came from close to the door, and his words sounded slightly slurred.
"It's Mrs Baker," I replied, "Your mother said you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." Alexander didn't reply, so I added, in a lower voice, "I really think that we need to talk. About the Ghost in general, and especially about last night. I think you know why."
There was another long pause before the door finally unlocked and cautiously opened.
Alexander's face was a fright. The left side of it was swollen and mottled with the bruises that had had ample time to develop since last night, his lower lip was puffy, and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked blearily at me with the remaining eye, and he had a general air of resignation about him.
"I'm sorry," he said mournfully, "I'm sorry about last night, but I had to. You were so nice to me and so was Mr Baker, but I had to. Please, try to understand."
I offered him the tray of breakfast – two eggs, sausage links, toast, and a glass of orange juice – and he took plate and glass back to his bedside table. I set the tray aside.
"Tell me," I said, "Tell me why I shouldn't start screaming bloody murder and have you arrested."
He sat down, lacing his fingers together. I was sure I'd find nail gouges under his sleeves if I cared to look. Finally, he sagged, apparently relieved at the chance to tell someone.
"My father," he began, "Did you know that he never gives Mother flowers when the Hammonds don't have any guests? He practically ignores her the rest of the time. I'll see him in town sometimes, talking with the local women… talking like a courtier talks, not like a married man. I don't think he can help himself. He's gotten better at hiding it, but I think Mother knows anyway. Mothers make a point of knowing everything." He offered me a crooked and bitter smile. I saw the gap where an eye-tooth had been until fairly recently. "Oh, he was so happy for the Hammonds when they said they were going to rent out to guests. How could they have known what he'd planned? How could they know what he'd started growing in the backyard?"
"The valerian," I put in.
"Knockout drops," he replied, "Mother made the coffee so the Hammonds could socialise with their guests. Father probably put it in when she wasn't looking. I knew it smelled off, but I didn't know until later…" His eyes started brimming with tears. "He'd get up in the middle of the night, say he was going to the lavatory. One night I followed him… and I saw…" His shoulders shook in silence for several minutes. I couldn't blame him – he'd obviously seen his father doing something terrible, something that no child should ever see his father doing to a woman, let alone a new bride who hadn't even consummated the act with her lawful husband. He looked up at me. "The next morning, I saw Father, and I hated him, and I knew I had to do something. I knew if I said something they'd only say I had a nightmare."
"So the Ghost was born," I said, "But how did you get in without anyone seeing you?"
He pointed toward the low ceiling above his bed, where I saw a trapdoor. "The Hammonds put in a proper set of stairs, of course, when they moved in, but I think that used to be the way people came in and out of the cellar back when this place was first built. I think everyone's forgotten about it, ever since the ladder was removed. I can reach it when I stand on my bed."
"But where…" I trailed off as I performed some silent calculations. If I was right, the trapdoor opened up right underneath the guest bed!
He nodded, seeing my expression. "I'd wait until Father got up 'to use the lavatory', and then…"
He stopped suddenly, looking past me at the open doorway. I turned to see Mr Fairfax – that repulsive troll! – standing in the doorway.
"Stand aside, sir," I said curtly, "I do not like feeling confined."
"Now, Mrs Baker," he replied, in a tone that indicated he'd overheard most of my conversation with Alexander – or at least the parts that directly pertained to him, "This is a family matter, between me and my son. I'm sure you don't want to go starting trouble, would you?"
I smiled grimly. Like hell I didn't.
*****
End of Part 11.