Chapter 12
Author's Notes: Thanks to Haley Macrae, whose observation that Holmes is not the world's most patient man was right on target. He won't have to wait long. Apologies to my modern readers for Holmes' appallingly misogynistic positions on certain things, but I think they are in keeping with the prevailing attitudes of late-Victorian Englishmen in general. I'm hoping that this chapter isn't going to alienate my already limited readership; it deals with mature themes and subject-matter. Reader discretion is advised.
He stood in the middle of the Ponte S. Trinita, taking in a view particularly suitable to his melancholic and fugitive nature. On one side, he could see the silhouette of the Ponte Vecchio. On the other, the river opened wide as the sea toward the Cascine park. If exile was suspension, a state of constant waiting, Holmes thoughtit was not for him. Even the times when his agency was reduced to searching for lost dogs and children were preferable to the abominable languor of Il Tatti. As a woman, Miss Bassano did not require the activity of the outside world to entertain her. Indeed, Holmes would have been shocked if she had preferred the bustling streets of Florence to the quiet comforts of her home. But if he was to spend another sleepless night in the villa's library, looking through the interminable eighteenth-century reports farming, in search of literature, he would go mad.
So he was relieved when Miss Bassano sent him out on Sunday morning. She had complained of a headache, probably due to the heat, but suggested that he descend into town, seeing as the servants had the day off also. He spent the cooler morning hours ducking in and out of the shadows of cinquecento pallazzos; had wondered at the golden doors of the Baptistery that had started the European Renaissance in art; had heard mass at the cathedral; had felt a pinch of regret around his heart that he could not take confession and by penance release the secrets of his soul. He was not even at liberty to confide in his old friend and companion, left to grieve his loss in far-away London.
It was his stomach that reminded him of the lateness of the hour. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his back on the terracotta roofs of the midday city and walked toward the hills. As he walked, taking great strides, he caught up with Miss Bassano's maid, also returning from her outing. Not yet out of her teens, she was shy and answered Holmes's questions with the shortest of answers. Her name was Abigail. She had been with Miss Bassano for six years, ever since she came to Italy. Miss Bassano was always kind and patient with her. She was grateful, as any poor orphan should be. Yes, the household was small. No, they managed just fine with three servants. Yes, she had picked up a few Italian phrases. No, she did not miss England. There seemed little more to ask, and they walked in companionable silence.
They reached the villa just as the heat began to rise from the ground to meet the sun's rays. Abigail took her leave of Holmes and began walk around the side of the house to the back entrance when they heard a crash, and something came flying out of a shattered window on the first floor. Abigail came running back to Holmes's side and looked at him, terrified. Without a word, Holmes sprinted up the stairs and through the door.
His eyes had to adjust to the darkness of the hall, and for a few moments the shadows in the many gilded mirrors played tricks with his perception. A scream sounded from his left, followed by the thuds and bangs of moving furniture. He flung open the door, and saw a room in disarray. Most of the furniture was overturned. Papers, books, lamps, and vases lay strewn across the floor. The curtains waved in the breeze coming from the shattered window. In the middle of it all, stood Miss Bassano, a poker from the fireplace brandished above her head, aiming it at the form of a man at her feet. In the seconds it took for Holmes to dash across the room toward her, Miss Bassano brought the iron rod down and hit the man between his shoulder-blades. She had missed his skull by inches.
Holmes tackled her from behind, easily lifting her off her feet with one arm around her waist. With the other, he wrenched the poker out of her hands and flung it to the floor, where it clattered beside the now-unconscious man. Now restraining the silently writhing form of Miss Bassano with both arms, he cried out to Abigail, who had followed him inside,
"Get the police! Now!" And as an after-thought, he added, "And get a doctor!"
He heard Abigail's retreating footsteps and put Miss Bassano down. As he released her, she slid to her knees. Tears streaming down her face, she began to retch.
A/N: I was going to make this chapter longer, but with the next scene it would be too long. Stay tuned for more!