Chapter 15

Author's Notes: OK, L'Wren, mierin-lanfear, Haley Macrae, and Xena, I see that I, like Lucy, have some 'splaining to do. The thing is, that chapter 14 in its final form is the very watered down version of what I originally had in mind. So, it might not be quite as convincing as I would have originally liked. But the point that I am trying very hard to get across, and obviously not succeeding at, is that Holmes can and does make mistakes. I am of the Jeremy Brett school of Sherlockiana, which attempts to uncover the cracks in the stony facade. And the way I see it, Holmes is alone in a foreign country – he may have dealt with it fine had he been left alone, but he was picked up by a woman. Not just any woman, either – a woman quite unlike any he had ever met, due to accidents of her past. And Holmes is essentially a type-A personality, who lives life on the basis of assumptions to which he clings very dearly, so when circumstances fail to correspond to his belief system, his world crumbles. But he has pride, and principles and all these wonderful things which are essentially meaningless when not based in reality. So what I was trying to show in Chapter 14 is that Holmes is noble and gentlemanly and thinks that what has happened is essentially his fault. And because it's the 19th century, Miss Bassano has very few options, even in Italy. Holmes recognises this, and tries to make amends. As much as we would all like for her to be the strong independent type, and she goes a lot further in that direction than most women Holmes has met, or will meet, she still has limitations due to her historical circumstances. You are all very observant readers, and recognise that something is amiss. Rest assured that something is indeed amiss, which is a big part of the plot of this story, and will be revealed in time (I sound like JK Rowling). Meanwhile, bear with me, if I haven't totally ruined the mystique for you with this never-ending note.

As regards this chapter, Port Said is the port at the mouth of the Suez Canal. Life on the steamer is inspired by the account of a German, travelling in the late 19th century on a British ship where cards were frowned upon and there was to be no reading of novels on a Sunday. The map existed, information courtesy of the Italian Sherlockians to whom I owe so much. Travel times are taken from Around the World in 80 Days (the book, not the movie!!!), and seem to have been realistic.

On with the motley...

They stood alone on the deck of the British steamer, which rocked gently in the dark waters of Port Said. The porters were loading the fourth of Miss Bassano's trunks on board. Holmes winced as they staggered under the weight.

"Was it really necessary to bring so much?" he asked.

Miss Bassano looked at him with derision. "When one is asked to pack up one's life, one tries to bring as much as one can." She turned back to the dock. "I sent away to Paris for a few things and billed the Foreign Minister. You might call it a trousseau." She bit her lip and played with the gold band on her left ring finger.

Holmes shifted uncomfortably. "I must apologise again; I had no idea this would affect you so much."

"Marriage," she said in a shaky voice, "is a sacrament and we are using it out of convenience."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

Miss Bassano turned to face him, and met his eyes with a gaze desperate for reassurance. "Tell me, was your pursuer so terrible that you should have risked your life in fleeing, and turned my world upside-down, instead of appearing before your friends, declaring your death an unfortunate misunderstanding, and returning safely to home and hearth?"

"Yes," Holmes said fiercely. "You have yourself witnessed what my enemies are capable of. But," he added, "I have not lost the hope that I will indeed return to England and resume living as I had."

Miss Bassano nodded slowly. The porters were removing the gangway, and the ship blew its whistle. The sound resounded across the harbour. "In the meantime, we must carry on and fulfil our obligations," she stated quietly. As the ropes tethering the ship to the docks were untied, Miss Bassano turned on her heel and walked down the deck, through the doors inside.

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How, in the name of providence, Holmes wondered, had they ended up on the most Puritanical steamer in the British naval service? There was nothing wrong with preserving order and dignity on a ship, but this was surely going too far. He had been sitting in a deck chair, enjoying a newspaper and a cigarette, when an attractive but stern-looking young lady had approached him. With reproach in her eyes, she had handed him a Bible and said only, "It is Sunday, sir."

Shocked, Holmes had dropped his cigarette and burned a hole through the Times. A shameful waste, he reflected as he patted the sides of his overcoat in search of his cigarette case. The bulge in his left pocket emerged to be Enrico Gambillo's railway map, which had promised "alphabetic indexes and lists of all trains, street-cars, railway and steamship connections, maps of the Adriatic, Mediterranean and Sicilian routes." Finding a cigarette at last, Holmes lit it up and took a drag. Releasing a puff of smoke into the blue of the sky and sea, he smiled, remembering how inaccurate the map had turned out to be. He had a good mind to write to the author and complain.

He threw the stub of his cigarette overboard, and turned to go back inside. In the privacy of his stateroom, he would write that letter after all. It being Sunday, there weren't exactly any card games to play...

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Miss Bassano, or Martha, as he had taken to calling her, looked up from her embroidery as he walked in. She was sitting at a table beside the porthole, struggling to see her handiwork. Most of her time was now spent in the relative privacy of their suite of rooms. From the very first evening, when the prevailing mood of the ship had become evident, she had refused to come out except for dinner and prayers. The latter she could not avoid, even through excuses of illness. The ship's captain had personally insisted on her attendance, and no protestations could move him to lenience.

"Were you chased inside by the Puritans?" she smirked.

"Something like that," he said. "Would you believe that I am expected to read the Bible instead of the Times on Sundays? One of them," he placed an acid emphasis on the word, "gave me a copy." He put the book down in front of her.

"Perhaps next week, you can return the favour," she smiled wickedly.

"As much as I would relish the opportunity, it will not, alas, be possible. The ship's steward says that we are ahead of schedule and will arrive in Bombay on Saturday." He opened the writing desk and prepared paper, a pen, and ink.

"Who are you writing?" she inquired from her corner.

"Messr. Enrico Gambillo," Holmes replied testily. "I wish to inform him that his map is dangerously unreliable."

She laughed, "Wait, I have something for you."

"His address?" Holmes asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Laughing, she disappeared for a moment into her bedroom and then re-emerged, carrying a leather case, which she put down on the desk in front of him. "Open it," she encouraged.

Holmes's long fingers lingered for a minute on the clasp, admiring the tooled leather and brushed metal. Lifting the lid, he saw that the case was actually a portable writing desk, equipped with a handsome set of pens, inks, sand, and stationery.

""Thank you," he said, surprised. Replacing the lid, he moved the set aside. "Messr. Gambillo, however, may countenance receiving a letter on ship's letterhead."

His companion shook her head and smiled as she returned to her seat by the window. "As you wish," she said.