Disclaimer: all characters are the creations of either Arthur Conan Doyle or Laurie R. King. Many details of the plot also belong to them.



Chapter Six

Once Mr. Holmes had left with my promise of a handsome sum from my solisiters, a complete role reversal occurred between myself and my aunt. She would allow be to attend university and I would allow her to stay in my home until my twenty-first birthday. She also received the insurance that I would not officially report her fraud. Blackmail could be a very useful tool at times.

For the remainder of spring and the majority of summer, I prepared for the university entrance exams. Since they required a more extensive knowledge that I could gain from simply reading, I enlisted the help of a retired schoolteacher living in the village. With her patient teachings, I gained entry to Cambridge, one of the few institutions offering degrees to women. Oxford would take female students, but would not give them a degree, which would not at all fit with my plans for the future.

September arrived near the end of a blisteringly hot summer. I was glad to be living in the countryside far away from the mass of humanity in London. How the people there handled the heat I could not discern. The smells of unwashed bodies and horse manure must have filled the streets, and the sun beating down on the cobblestones must have suffocated the wealthy ladies and gentlemen in their fine, but confining attire.

Before I was to leave for Cambridge, I took many long walks near the cliff side. The primary reason I didn't mind living in Sussex was the fact that it was on the sea. Even if the Channel wasn't the same expanse as the Pacific Ocean, seeing it reminded me of San Francisco. From our home there one could see the ocean and I rather became attached to it. Such an attachment was probably the reason why my father had agreed to keep the farm where my mother had spent so many joyful summers away from the city. He had loved the sea as much as I did. The water's connection to freedom and adventure was full of dreams and temptation. My own connection to the water had only been increased by my family's death. In my mind's eye, I could still see the waves below that wretched cliff licking at the debris from the accident. Never would I be able to banish that sight from my memory. Although the Sussex cliffside was worlds away from San Francisco, standing above the water still gave me that feeling of intense loss, but there was no danger of me leaping into the waves to join my family. I had long passed that stage of grief.

It would be a long time before I returned to Sussex since coming back for Christmas was not high on my list of priorities. The way that my aunt preferred to celebrate the season, with all the trimmings and traditions of a true English Christmas, only strengthened my resolve. If Mother could have seen the extent to which her only sister had deviated away from her inherited religion, I doubted she would not have blamed me for spending Christmas alone. Perhaps if I were desperate enough when the time came, I could venture down to London. Mrs. Hudson had kindly offered a meal and a place to stay if I ever decided to see more of the city. It seemed to be quite an agreeable idea, with a stroll through the British Museum and perhaps even see a play. Anything to distract myself from what would be my first true Christmas alone. I didn't count last Christmas, spent in the asylum, as a true holiday. Although I would never forget what she told me, I would gladly forget my reasons for being in that place of insanity.

For a few moments more, I watched the waves lap against the rocks below. In the distance I could just make out a fishing boat swaying with the motion of the gentle waves. The only other living beings in sight were the sheep methodically chewing grass over on the next hill. The peacefulness was too much for me. I turned away and walked back towards the house without a second glance at the water. Second glances are only meaningful in romances, the rest of the time they reveal a higher level of uncertainty. At this time, I was hardly uncertain. That would come later.

The next couple of months passed quickly, too quickly some would say. Most of my time was spent in the library, buried deep under piles of books, eagerly taking in all the knowledge at my disposal. Not that university was as simple as reading and writing papers, my tutors certainly demonstrated that being successful in my studies meant a lot more than that. They put before me numerous challenges, most of which I was able to overcome, but there were always those that were beyond my ability. Many times I wondered that, if my parents had not died, that I would be better able to deal with such challenges. Perhaps then I would have had support or a better education. As it was, however, the responsibility was upon me to find ways of managing my new situation and from what I had heard from fellow students, I was doing quite nicely at just that.

Yet there was still something else that bothered me. It was like a nettle in my brain, constantly there to remind me of its unwanted presence. As the nettle continued to poke about, I couldn't help but think that it had all been far too simple. The bank account so easily traced; my aunt so easily blackmailed into giving me independence of a sort; a problem that had practically solved itself. One part of me was pleased at a solution without fuss. The other, however, was restless, wondering about the answers to unasked questions. Mr. Holmes had mentioned only briefly that there was another source of money being transferred to my aunt's bank account. He had said quite firmly that it had nothing to do with me - that it was not of my concern - but I was not satisfied with that. What else was my aunt involved with that she would be receiving these funds? That would be something, it seemed, that I would have to discover myself.

There was also the mystery surrounding the Donleavys. I could not forget the nighttime stroll that had ended with me lying unconscious in a pile of rotting leaves. Had that incident been a mere accident? Perhaps Patricia took me for a thief or attacker - I had been dressed in male clothing. It could have also been that I had been led into a trap of sorts, but if I had, why only knock me unconscious, why not do more? Had I foiled a plan or had I unwittingly walked into one?

These questions and more festered within me throughout the term. By the time the Christmas holidays had come, I was itching to look further into the questions and perhaps find some answers to them. Mr. Holmes had been of help in quieting my aunt, but I was not sure if I could trust him for what I was planning to do. I had already made arrangements to go to London to spend at least Christmas dinner with Mrs. Hudson. It would not be difficult to leave for the City a few days earlier, thus having enough time to do some investigating of my own. It did not take me very long to find appropriate lodgings although it was rather out of sorts for an unaccompanied young lady to be on her own in London. The proper clothes were also acquired: a dress suitable for visiting my solicitors, another for Christmas dinner, and yet more for everyday use, predominately suited for walking long distances. The simplicity of the dresses would be enough to make me blend into the crowds, while their decent quality would keep away thoughts as to my work. They were the clothes of most governesses and nurses, certainly not of wealthy young heiresses, but they were serviceable, which was all I needed. I may not have cared about high fashion, but leaving others with a good opinion of one's self is rarely a bad thing.

Upon arriving in London and leaving my belongings at the tourist hotel, I took the omnibus to the offices of my solicitors, who had been my parents' solicitors before me. The office of the head partner was very masculine with its deep green walls and heavy panelling, but it didn't in the least intimidate me. My dress may have been two years out of date and a bit on the short side, but I sat in the client's chair, calmly resolute to my fate.

"What do you mean I have to stay with her for another three years?" I asked, perhaps with a little more force that I had planned.

The senior partner frowned. "I'm sorry, Miss Russell, but she is your only living relative in England and the law expressly states that you must remain with her until you reach your majority. It's unfortunate that you cannot come to terms with her way of life."

Reaching into my handbag, I retrieved the letter of recommendation Mr. Holmes had written just in case such a problem as this would arise. I handed it to the aging solicitor, who politely took it from me and began to read. Somehow he managed to keep his face emotionless as he was informed of the scheme my aunt had been involved in.

When finally he laid the letter on his desk, he said, "This is indeed a difficult situation, Miss Russell. Had you come to this office for help instead of consulting this detective – "

"I needed to be sure before I spoke with you, sir," I said in a rush. "Mr. Holmes is trusted by many in both the police and the government. I believed that his assistance would not only save time but also yield better results."

The solicitor sat back in his chair. "Now that you have dealt with the matter privately, what do you wish this firm to do?"

"I would like my aunt's use of my money to be more closely monitored. Preferably, she should give an appropriate reason for each transaction she makes with that account. Although I doubt she will try anything else now that I am aware of her past actions, it is better to be safe than sorry, as the saying goes."

"That is easily done, Miss Russell."

Soon after I made arrangements with the solicitor for small amounts of money to be made available to myself when I was studying at the university. The money would be enough for clothing and loggings, which would be far better than the cold water flat and ill-fitting dresses that had been a part of my life for longer than I ever could have desired. Perhaps with this change in situation I could finally try to regain the life that had been lost with the death of my family.

By the time I left the office, the streetlamps had already been lit and an entirely different world was waking for the night. No hansom cab passed by as I walked up the street; most likely they were all in use by those wishing to attend the theatre. Holding my handbag tightly with one hand, I made my way back to my hotel, trying to put to rest the phantasy in my mind that the shadows in every alleyway moved at my approach and that there were footsteps following my own. Was I unwittingly walking into a dangerous trap? No, of course not. It was not as though I had any enemies other than my aunt, and I was sure that if she had wanted me dead, she would have done that long before now. Yet I could not help but look behind me at every sound or tense each time a person passed me by. I had never spent any time in any city after dark, so perhaps I could blame my anxiety at my inexperience with such situations.

When I finally heard the clip-clop of a horse and carriage making its way up the street, I turned towards it, hoping that it was unoccupied.


The syringe sat on the table before me, its needle glittering in the light from the lamps. The small glass bottle rested beside it, the clear liquid within it beckoning to me like the worst of vices. At any other time, I would have held both in my hands, ready to find the stimulation my mind so needed, but that night, I could not touch either. A strange aversion to the liquid was present and would not allow itself to be banished. I stared out into the street, which was just beginning to fill with the populous of London, whether they be lawful or criminal. Street Arabs wound through the labyrinth of carriages and people, either picking pockets or hawking the early edition of the Times among other things.

A small number of cases had occupied my time over the past few months, most of which had solutions that anyone could have bothered to discover had they merely observed. There were, of course, those cases that did hold some interest for me, including one brought to me by Mycroft and the problem of the Surrey governess. It seemed as though, since my reappearance in London, that there were few, if any, crimes that were worth the trouble. With the absence of Moriarty, the criminal world had greatly deteriorated.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stair. Without moving from my position, I measured the heaviness and speed of the step so that, by the time the door opened, I knew exactly who would be standing there.

"Welcome, Inspector. I presume Mrs. Hudson already offered you tea?"

As always, Lestrade was slightly disturbed by the fact I had not looked to see who had entered the room, but he was past the stage of asking where I had received my knowledge.

"Yes she did, Mr. Holmes, but there's no time for that. There is a problem that needs your assistance directly. The cab's waiting outside."

Wordlessly, I rose from the table and grabbed both overcoat and hat before hurrying down after Lestrade. Mrs Hudson stood in the foyer, holding my stick.

"You'll be back for tea, Mr. Holmes? We're expecting guests, remember."

Impatiently, I took the stick and waved her aside. "It all depends on the case, Mrs. Hudson. There's no need for you or your guests to wait if I do not appear at the required time."

She nodded, turning back to the kitchen as I followed Lestrade out into the street.

Once in the cab, Lestrage began to reveal to me the particulars of the case.

"The body of a young woman was found by one of my men this morning. He saw what looked like a beggar, but when he went to wake the fellow up, he found that it wasn't a fellow at all. T'was a girl with yellow hair wearing an old dress, but it was rather good quality. That's what lead me to think she was a servant or had come from the orphanage." Lestrage paused for a moment, staring out into the street. "The worst was that she was so young. Couldn't have been more than eighteen, I say."

"Was there any evidence that she had been interfered with?" I asked.

Lestrade flushed slightly. "No, there wasn't, Mr Holmes. No one wants another Ripper on the loose, especially Scotland Yard!"

I raised a hand to appease him. "It was only a question, Inspector. Never would I dare to encroach upon the honour of the police."

He looked at first as though he was uncertain about my comment, then continued in a rush. "Of course we searched her pockets looking for some form of identification. However, there was nothing except this, Mr. Holmes." He held to me a small slip of paper. "It's the reason I came to consult you so quickly after finding the body."

I carefully took the paper in a gloved hand, not wanting to interfere with any fingerprints that could have been upon it. There was nothing untoward about the paper, at least not at first glance. It could have been purchased at any stationary shop in London, probably anywhere in England, for that matter. No watermark could be seen, nor could anything that might distinguish it from other types of paper. Perhaps a chemical analysis of the properties of the paper would yield better results than mere observation.

The handwriting, however, was a different matter. The letters had a peculiar angle to them that bespoke of left-handedness while the writing was purely feminine in form. The instrument used to write the note had blotted twice, which had stained the writer's hand – the marks from the stain appeared numerous times on the page. This bespoke of haste, since the writer had not stopped to wipe the ink off her hand. The way that the letters were often misshapen, which assured me that indeed this note had been written in with great speed. The words themselves were of little interest; my name and address were all that was written upon the note. The only other piece of information I could discern from the note was that it had been written by an upper-class, well-educated young woman whose hand shook slightly when she wrote.

I handed the note back to Lestrade. "Do you believe it to have been written by the victim?"

The inspector shrugged. "Unless it's proven otherwise, I would say so, Mr. Holmes."

"Did you happen to notice a small ink stain on the girl's left hand, Inspector?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "I can't be sure, Mr. Holmes. We're nearly there, so you'll be able to see for yourself."

A moment later, the cab stopped at a nondescript alleyway walled on each side by brick walls heavily stained with soot from the factories. A pile of rubbish lay on one side of the alley, probably unnoticed by the majority of people who passed it by. It would impossible to know how long it had been there. A bobby stood at the entrance to the alley and nodded grimly at Lestrade and I as we made our way to the pile, beside which knelt the police surgeon.

"Any findings, doctor?" Lestrade asked, taking from his pocket a notepad and pencil stub.

The surgeon sniffed in disgust and picked up a delicate, but limp, hand.

"Strangled," he said without betraying any emotion. "The ligature marks are very clear. It was likely done with a scarf or something similar. There are no signs of rope markings or bruises from hands on her neck." He leant over the hand, closely examining the fingernails. "She was surprised from behind. She didn't have an opportunity to defend herself."

I asked again about the ink stain to be met with the affirmative. "There's a small black mark on her left hand. It certainly could be ink – I can't think of anything else that it would be."

The surgeon then rose and brushed off his trousers. "She can be taken to the morgue now. I'll do the post mortem this evening, though it would probably be a waste of time. The cause of death is clear." He made a signal to a waiting carriage, from which two men dressed in unrelieved black emerged, ready to carry the body away.

Something greatly bothered me about this. All the clues were too familiar to be brushed aside: the left-handedness, the blonde hair, the level of education and social status of the young woman. They were all leading to a place I would prefer not to have gone.

"May I see her face, doctor?" I asked.

The surgeon stood aside to let me pass with a nod while Lestrade took on an expression of intense curiosity.

"Do you believe that she is known to you, Mr. Holmes? That would certainly explain why she had your address with her."

Before I lifted the cloth that covered her face, I said, "It would also mean that we had never met. Surely someone who had previously consulted me would know my address. The placement of the note appears a little too obvious."

"In what way?"

Staring into the now-uncovered face, I beheld a pair of blue eyes, magnified by a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. Yellow hair surrounded the face like a pillow and the dress was similar in state to the ones I had previously seen the girl wearing.

"Because I know this young woman. She consulted me in April about a problem with her aunt," I paused for a moment, a strange guilt growing within me. Something had not seemed correct at the end of that case and now I realised that I had made a fatal mistake.

"Her name is Mary Russell," I told Lestrade, whose eyes opened wide in surprise.

I rose before he could speak. "It would be best if you could perform the post mortem, doctor. This is more than a simple strangling. Anything you can find would be appreciated." The surgeon nodded grimly and signalled to his assistants so that they could remove the body.

Turning to the bobby, I requested that he begin to question anyone in the vicinity who could have witnessed something untoward in the street the night before. This particular street was not residential, which would make it rather difficult to find witnesses at that time of the day, but every loose end had to be carefully measured before it could be tied.

"Inspector, Miss Russell resided in Sussex, so for her to have been in London most likely means that she would have needed loggings. Someone will need to discover where she had been staying and any luggage will have to be searched."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade replied. "But what of the note? It was written by the victim, you said so yourself."

"Perhaps her luggage will render the answer to that," I replied cooly.

As I began to walk away in what I deduced was the direction Miss Russell had come from, Lestrade asked, "And what will you be doing, Mr. Holmes?"

I stared up the street, which even now was not extraordinarily busy. "I will be deducing her path to this point. There should be evidence of her attacker on the way, if he or she was following Miss Russell for an extended period of time."

"And do you think it could have been a woman?"

"Until evidence tells me otherwise, it is indeed a possibility, Inspector."

Lestrade carefully placed the notebook and pencil back into the pockets of his overcoat. "Quite true, Mr. Holmes. The girl's height and build were small. It would not have been difficult to keep hold of her at the same time as squeeze the life out of her. Poor girl."

At his remark, my head flew up from its examination of the pavement. "What did you say? The girl was small?"

Looking confused, Lestrade replied, "Why yes. You mean you didn't notice, sir?"

It was a jibe, that was obvious enough, but I was not going to follow such a red herring at the time. Instead, I hurried over to the coroner's carriage. "Doctor! One last look at the body, if I may."

Leaping into the carriage, I stared down once more at the girl's body. The face was similar in shape and the colouring was correct, but the size of the body was horribly wrong. I could recall the awkward height of Miss Russell as she stumbled along the road from Eastborune and the success to which she wore male attire. While Miss Russell was nearly six feet in height, this girl could not have been more than five and a half.

If this girl was not Mary Russell, who was it? Furthermore, why had she been murdered and dressed up to look exactly like someone she was most definitely not?


Author's Note:

So there it was, finally an update for this story. I told you it'd be action-packed. P

I'm not 100percent sure about some of the language and facts. For the post mortem, I read somewhere that in the Victorian age they were not deemed as necessary in all circumstances - I do not know if it applies also to 1894, the websites I looked up on the history of forensic science didn't say exactly.

Thanks very much to all that have (and will) review. It is much appreciated.