Chapter 24
Author's Notes: Thank you to mierin-lanfear, for the best review ever. Haley Macrae, they could, but they won't, as there's only one more chapter to go. This story is called The Great Hiatus, not the Great Never-Ending Sherlock Holmes and Miss Bassano Epic. Masked Pahntom: Thank you for that succint synopsis of the last chapter. Manor Farm is inspired by Glynde Place, built in 1589 from Normandy stone. You can see a picture of it on the Sussex Tourism website. Check out Fulworth in the Sherlock Holmes Atlas for a contemporary photo of the Channel Coast.
Centuries of wind and weather had worn the facade of Manor Farm to a sombre grey that not even the sunlight could warm into a friendly sight. The branches of ivy that embraced the stone features would have been rustic on any other building, but here it looked sinister, like serpents uncoiling to devour their prey. The leaded windows, filled with sharp slivers of glass, were black inside; they had been made to look out of, not into. Looking at the house, Miss Bassano, who had been away from her ancestral home for nearly a decade, was seized with melancholy. Il Tatti, the borrowed flat in Jerusalem, even the little corner house in Marseilles, were all a world away from the Elizabethan pile which towered before her like a reprimanding parent. She fought the urge to cross herself before entering.
Divested of her hat, gloves, and coat, Miss Bassano inquired after her uncle, and was directed to the library. Indeed, the stern-faced man was there, trying to find spots on the bookshelves for the boxes of books and manuscripts shipped down from London. He saw her hesitate in the doorway and waved her inside. Gingerly weaving between the piles of packing, she sat down on a leather sofa, close to the fireplace.
"This is all your husband's doing," Sir Edgar grumbled. "Were it not for his infernal meddling, none of this fuss would be necessary."
"He's not really my husband," Miss Bassano demurred. "And you were the one who insisted on finding him an occupation."
Sir Edgar wheeled around sharply to face his niece. "He most certainly is your husband. I saw to that myself."
"Well, George and Martha Altamont are married, yes..." Miss Bassano waved dismissively.
Sir Edgar's eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned in impatience. "And Sherlock Holmes and Beatrice Regina Bassano are married also."
Miss Bassano's face drained of all colour and she looked faint. "What?" she asked softly, her lips barely moving.
"Of course!" Sir Edgar exclaimed. "It had to be done, and quickly. You might have been with child!"
"But I wasn't... I'm not..." Miss Bassano stammered.
"Well, we didn't know that, did we?" Sir Edgar replaced a book on a bookshelf and reached for another in an opened crate.
"You could have asked me," his niece whispered, her lips now white. Sir Edgar disregarded her completely, searching a top bookshelf with his eyes for a companion tome to the one he was holding in his hand. "Does he know?" she asked desperately.
"Hm?"
"Does he know? Is Mr Holmes aware of all this?" Miss Bassano forced the words out with great physical effort.
"If he isn't, he's a fool," opined Sir Edgar. "Damned irresponsible not to look at your own documents."
Pale, and barely able to walk straight, Miss Bassano exited the library, her hands grazing the walls for support. Once in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she sat at the writing desk. She dipped her pen in ink, but her hand was suspended in mid-air over the paper for some time before she began to write.
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Mr Sherlock Holmes
221B Baker Street
London
Dear Mr Holmes,
I have had so much practice with the numerical code you devised during your stay in Tibet, that writing it now seems easy. In fact, I see meaning everywhere. You cannot imagine the unexpected messages contained in a train schedule, or the household accounts.
The papers are filled with your sensational apprehension of that criminal Colonel Moran. No doubt we can all breathe a little easier with his incarceration. I hope that his place will not soon be filled by another, similarly devious criminal.
I wonder if you would consider coming to visit us at Manor Farm when you are between cases. We would be pleased to have you, and I have something which I would discuss with you in person. If you will send a telegram in advance, a driver can meet you at the station.
I look forward to seeing you soon.
Yours,
B. Bassano.
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He took the train to Eastbourne, and was greeted at the station by a familiar face. Holmes recognised the driver Miss Bassano had promised almost immediately. It was the same manservant from Il Tatti, returned to her faithful service in England. He had the same gruff manner as before, but the years had aged him considerably. The two men moved through the crowd of holidaymakers, to the waiting carriage. The sun shone brightly as they drove through the countryside, the fresh spring air delighting the visitor from smoky London.
Manor Farm, Holmes reflected, was quite the opposite of the bucolic retreat its name suggested. The ancient, imposing structure loomed over the countryside, its size proclaiming dominion over its surroundings. Only its red door, set into a pointed archway, showed signs of welcome.
Miss Bassano waited for him in the drawing room. Her face, Holmes saw, was pinched and tired. Still, she managed a friendly smile and invited him to sit across from her.
"You look well," he lied.
"As do you," she returned.
"Your uncle is well, I trust?" he inquired.
"Uncle has been called to London on business, else he would have welcomed you himself."
"I thought he was retired now," Holmes said, confused.
"He is indeed, but on occasion, the ministry requires him to advise on certain delicate matters," Miss Bassano explained.
"And you do not join him on these trips to London?"
Miss Bassano shook her head. "Alas, Uncle prefers to travel alone."
"So how do you occupy yourself in his absence?" Holmes asked.
"I walk a great deal. There are many cottages on our property, and I have taken to visiting the tenants, and inspecting their circumstances. I daresay it is more attention than they have received from their landlords in centuries," she said ruefully. "There is one vacant cottage by the sea, on the very boundary of our land; we haven't been able to rent it to anyone, though I can't understand why. I don't really mind, of course. I like to visit there whenever I need to escape Manor Farm." She looked up suddenly. "Would you like to see it? It's very picturesque."
Holmes acquiesced readily, and soon they were walking toward a small cottage, whose white walls gleamed against the green grass. He held the gate for her, and she opened the door inside. The furniture did perhaps have a lingering scent of damp, but the air was not stale, and Miss Bassano's ready actions in starting a fire in the small cast-iron stove told him she had done it many more times than she would admit to.
The cottage was comfortably equipped inside. It was fully furnished, and besides the stove, the front room had two sofas, occasional chairs, tables, and even bookcases, all conveniently arranged into a vision of home. The window in the front room looked back onto the rolling South Downs, but as Holmes walked through to the back of the house, he understood what Miss Bassano had meant when she called the cottage picturesque. From these windows, a vista to the rocky coastline opened up before him. Nothing but the curves of the white cliffs blocked the blue of the Channel. Just before the house was a garden, which though narrow, extended almost all the way down to the rocky path which wound along the coastline. Flowering bushes and plants embraced the fence on both sides, the blossoms nodding in time with the ocean breeze. Holmes, whose preferred vistas up to that point had been the terraced houses of Central London, blackened by soot and smoke, found it hard to look away.
He reached for a cigarette, and lit it, thus distracting himself. Miss Bassano was watching him, and for a moment, it appeared as though she had a small, wicked smile on her face. The illusion vanished, however, as Holmes sat across from her and said, "I believe there was something you wished to discuss with me."
Miss Bassano flushed and turned pale in turns. She looked down at the floor, and only her hands showed signs of her inner agitation. She stood up and unlocked a desk with a small key from her keychain. From the otherwise empty space, she retrieved a large folder, and silently handed it to Holmes. Not bearing to watch as he opened it, she turned to the window.
Holmes unfastened the ribbon tie and unfolded the heavy green paper to reveal the contents of the folder. There were only two sheets of paper inside, identical in size and format. They were marriage certificates, signed, dated, and sealed in the official manner. The top copy was familiar enough – It witnessed the marriage of George and Martha Altamont. The second one, however...
"I'm so sorry!" Miss Bassano exclaimed. She turned around, and her face was more drawn and tortured than ever. "I didn't know. I hardly remember that day, and Uncle said it was irresponsible, but I didn't think..." She trailed off and sank into a soft chair, covering her face with her left hand.
Holmes coolly examined the papers, holding them up to the light to check their watermark. Returning them to the folder, he carefully tied the ribbons, and laid it aside.
"I just don't know what to do," Miss Bassano sighed in quiet desperation.
"Do you need to do anything?" Holmes asked. Miss Bassano looked up at him in surprise and confusion. "Surely, your Uncle meant well," he suggested.
"Yes, of course... But you can't have a wife, not really!" she cried.
"Why ever not?" Holmes asked, throwing the last of his cigarette in the grate of the black stove. Miss Bassano's eyes darted wildly across the room, as if in search for answers. They did not come. "It seems that I have had a wife for the last three years, and it has not been such an unbearable burden," Holmes continued.
Miss Bassano, stunned, now covered her face with both hands. Holmes reached over and touched her shoulder with his long fingertips. "This has upset you," he said. "Let us not speak of it any more."
His companion dropped her hands and straightened her back. Confusion still played upon her features, but something in his tone or his gestures had calmed her. She nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon Holmes in solemn promise.
Holmes stood up and walked back towards the window which offered a view of the Channel. "You need not worry about finding a tenant for this cottage," he called to her. "You may inform you Uncle it has been occupied."
A few days later, Miss Bassano received a letter in the morning post. As she opened the envelope, a small gold band fell out. On the note which accompanied it, the familiar handwriting explained:
I believe this belongs to you.