The Oedipus Manuscripts
Chapter Two— The Train
January 11, 1890
The train from London to Essex was running a bit slow, Mr. Sherlock Holmes noted as he boarded the five a.m. at King's Cross. It was nearly deserted, as most trains are at this hour of the morning, yet he chose a seat across the aisle to a young woman clutching a carpetbag. It was a rather muddy item, and moderately old, but it bulged full of important bric-a-brac.
His naturally curious nature was slightly piqued, for he could not see her face behind a heavy black mourning veil. It took another moment of silence from the lady for him to safely assume that she was quite asleep. Perhaps she had boarded the train in Surrey. Not even the scream of the whistle and the sudden motion of the train stirred the deep sleeper. I wish I could rest that well on a train, thought Holmes lightly to himself.
The case of which he would be facing that evening was of moderate importance, although the client seemed to think that it was more urgent than it was. Clients always did think that. Holmes settled back against the velvet lined and wood framed bench, crossed his legs like he was at home, unfolded his paper, and began to read.
A motion in the corner of his eye attracted his keen attention from the morning Times: from the white fingers in black mitts slipped a scrap of paper. A ticket stub. He stood, bracing himself against the iron of his bench, and lifted it from the floor. He read it without thinking; satisfied, he pocketed it and returned to his paper, musing over how anyone could sleep in such a frigid, bumpy, and generally uncomfortable place like a train.
Some time had paced on his pocket watch when the still dreaming woman began to mutter incoherently in her sleep. These meaningless syllables eventually formed frantic words: "Lise! No, Lise, no!" The cries of the nightmare rose to the extent that Holmes thought it prudent to wake her.
"Are you alright, ma'am?" he said, shaking her arm and trying to think of the proper thing to say in an awkward situation.
The woman woke with an embarrassed start and brushed the cloth from her face. "Mr. Holmes?"
"Miss Galveston? What an unexpected surprise," said Holmes warmly. He was beginning to see a pattern around the strange little woman; it tied surprisingly to the other case he was working on.
Holmes had not had a real opportunity to get a good, honest look at Emma Galveston; stripped away of all the finery of the New Year's Ball, she was an entirely different looking woman indeed.
One would never go as far to say that she was homely, but there were several flaws about her looks that she covered up in keen flirting and a large fan. Her eyes were too big, giving the appearance of a china doll on a shelf, and were a green so pale that it was close to yellow. They were framed by long, dark eyelashes, but marred by red rims, either from crying or lack of sleep. Given her recent behaviour, Holmes opted for the latter.
Her high cheekbones were a rose tint, and he realized that she was blushing, given the current situation; but there was a certain waxy yellow appearance of her skin that suggested an underlying illness.
"You were in an argument last night," said Holmes softly, his words caressing the air but not lost over the rumble of the tracks. It was a smooth, sensual sound that echoed oddly in her ears. She made sense of the words long before she made sense of his tone, but when she did, she dropped her head in defeat. "That's why you fell asleep on the train- you were arguing and didn't rest."
"It is almost indecent for you to know the details in a lady's evening," she chided. Holmes' face twisted, to keep from laughing, and he smothered it with his best impression of remorse.
"You can drop the act, Miss Galveston." His tone was empathetic, but underneath laid the barest trace of commanding steel. Her face rose defiantly.
"Act?"
"You know; the one where you pretend you're a lady."
She tried a shot at looking innocent, failed, and resorted to a scowl. Knowing that pressing the matter would only earn him more hostility, he hastily switched subjects.
"So, you have friends in Chelmsford?"
"How did you-?"
"You ticket, mademoiselle," said the detective, returning the white stub from his breast pocket.
"Thank you Mr. Holmes, though I cannot really tell how you got a hold of it. Yes, I have friends in Chelmsford. I was raised there."
"Indeed?" said Holmes, although he already knew.
Her face brightened as a thought occurred to her. "You're working on a case in Chelmsford? Then perhaps I could help you! I know practically every family there… I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, am I annoying you?" she asked with her own hint of annoyance. "Because if I am, I will most assuredly stop immediately."
"No, no Miss Galveston," Holmes apologised, perhaps a bit too profusely. What sort of expression had he been giving? Holmes reproached himself for letting his mind wander from his other client. She gave him a suspicious glare. "It is just that at the moment I cannot fill you in on the more delicate details of this case without first consulting my client. If she gives me permission, perhaps I may contact you while you are still in Essex?"
"The Davidson Hotel on South Street. I'll be there until Sunday; you may inquire any time after seven o' clock," she said rather stiffly, clutching her carpet bag a little bit tighter.
"I will, Miss Galveston. I most certainly will," said Holmes distractedly. There was something familiar about this woman…
Reuben Manor of Chelmsford, Essex was an ever dwindling estate; each inheritor had the tendency to die mysteriously and suddenly, leaving numerous debts behind. The d'Emeraldé family had never been well liked in Chelmsford; rather, they were outsiders among the gentry class.
The last Lord d'Emeraldé was found apparently accidentally drowned, in the bottom of the large lake on the estate. And of his father? Murdered, with a letter opener in his chest. For a short time Julian had been suspected, but his name was cleared under unreported circumstances.
Lady Roberta Flynn, the eldest daughter of the late Lord Julian d'Emeraldé, was now the heiress of Reuben Manor. She was in her late thirties, with black hair in a chignon knot and lines of worry around her yellow-green eyes. The last decaying resemblances of beauty had faded with the unexplainable disappearance of her flighty and vain younger sister, Lady Genevieve d'Emeraldé.
Holmes found himself seated in a red plush armchair in Lady Roberta's study. He fidgeted a bit under her glare and stroked the armrest. Sir Christian, her youthful blonde husband, was absent, but this was often the case. Sir Flynn ran a respectable mercantile business in London.
"How goes the search?" questioned Lady Roberta without the proper and customary offer of tea.
"I have my leads," grunted Holmes, helping himself to the silver teakettle. Finding it cold, he resisted making a face, and retreated to the armchair. It was hard to speak of such matters when one was thoroughly chilled to the bone.
Lady Roberta took the hint at last. "Shall I have Mildred fetch a fresh pot for you, Mr. Holmes?" Holmes nodded gratefully, and refused to say another word until the maid returned with the desired drink.
The clink of his teacup on the table was lost on his ears as he began to question the lady. "I know this is a delicate matter, but I must inquire on how the last daughter of the family died. She was Genevieve's twin, so you've told me."
"Analisa was… special. Different… but in a good way," she added hastily. "She was only eleven, a time when you could still act more like a young boy than a young girl. It was 1875, if I recall correct, and the old orphanage across the stone wall… Rosalyn's… was still quite full of children. Matron Rosalyn had her hands quite full, and she never quite noticed if a child went astray during the day. Jenny… that's Genevieve… and Analisa made a friend from the orphanage. Her name was Emma, and was an adventurous child just like Analisa. Inseparable, were those three. Because one twin liked Emma, the other felt obligated to like her just a much. Their mother… named Angela… I had a different mother… never really watched over the girls. There was something empty, almost sad about the third wife of my father. I practically raised them. Jenny was a docile little girl, so she acted as a lookout while the other two made mischief on the orchard, practically every day.
"It was on one of those days, in late spring, that Emma coxed Analisa onto a higher branch of an older fruit tree. It was the first day that I was home from vacation in Rome with Christian… I was twenty-two and had just gotten married… there was a terrible crack in a peach tree… she died from a broken neck. And Jenny stood there screaming…"
"Lise! No, Lise, no!" murmured Holmes. "Analisa's pet name was Lise, correct?"
"How did you know?" asked Lady Roberta hoarsely.
"Tell me," said Holmes, shaking off her question. "Was this Emma's name… Galveston?"
"You know her?" gasped the woman, rising to her feet.
"From another case. An incident on New Year's Eve… When was the last time that you saw Miss Galveston?"
"She was to marry a man in London… I think his name was Bailey. Yes, Michael Bailey, that is it. A former sailor and a barman… not much, but for a girl of her poor status, it was the best she could do. The pretty little thing looked so much like Analisa that father even offered Angela to adopt her to replace the dead twin."
"I may have to call on Mr. Bailey," said Holmes evasively, as if he hadn't heard her say that the three girls were practically identical. "But first, may, if I see Miss Galveston again, may I ask her assistance in solving the disappearance of Miss Genevieve?"
"Fine, Mr. Holmes. Just find my sister," Lady Roberta concluded emphatically, clearly distressed on how tonight's meeting had progressed.
January 12, 1890
It was seven twenty-five by Sherlock's pocket watch as he pushed open the ancient white wood doors of the Davidson Hotel. They place itself was three floors, some unfortunate's old mansion, and painted St. Valentine's pink and white. Davidson's was the only inn on this side of Chelmsford, and though the Christmas season had just ended, it was practically disserted. Holmes concluded that it was either not well liked or people just didn't visit Chelmsford for Christmas.
His moves were determined and precise as he attempted not to skid across the waxed floors in his wet rubbers. The snow was piecemeal but there was enough of it to form a deep brown sludge on the streets of Chelmsford. "May I send a message to Miss Emma Galveston?" he said in a commanding tone to the woman at the desk. She was heavyset, with a mud brown dress on; her eyes bulged, making her look like a lazy toad. This analogy in his head caused his anxious attempt to turn a chuckle into a cough.
"It can be arranged," slurred the woman with an accent more common farther north.
Shortly his intended companion flittered down the stairs, having trouble with the final and wettest step; she tripped and was headed headfirst into the wood floor when…
…he caught her with one fast arm. "I believe that is the second time I have saved your life, Miss Galveston," said Holmes.
"Mr. Holmes!" squeaked Emma, finding herself not contacting the floor. "They said you wanted to see me?"
"All in good time, Miss Galveston. But first, I must return your slipper," he said quite seriously as he fetched the dainty red shoe that had flown from her feet.
"Thank you Mr. Holmes," she said with a giggle of embarrassment, unable to stifle it. What was it this man that made her so unsure of her self? He wasn't handsome, like the fellows that flocked around her at parties. He wasn't merry, with a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes. He was a plain six and thirty London man with a tweed suit and cape and black rubbers. His face was drawn and narrow, and his nose was hawk-like. Certainly, in his own words, he was 'no white knight.'
She stood from this awkward and undoubtedly improper position, smoothed her rose coloured gown, and slipped back on the shoe that he stood holding like Cinderella's Prince Charming.
"You are welcome, Miss Galveston. You're out of mourning?" he said, raising an inquisitive dark eyebrow as he looked the pastel dress up and down. She shuttered a bit at his gaze, like he could see right through her.
"Mr. Holmes, I have spent more than half my life mourning for the dead. The living have to live sometime," she expressed darkly, her face clouded with past grievances.
"An interesting and somewhat appropriate philosophy for an orphan."
"You have been checking up on me?" she asked without a hint of surprise.
"It seems that you are much more involved in this incident I am investigating than I originally believed."
"Is that so? Then you must fill me in on my connection to your case. As I said yesterday morning, I am more than willing to help you if I can."
"Of course you recall the time you spent at Reuben Manor," he said, guiding her to a couch in the corner of the lobby where their conversation would not be intruded upon.
"Yes," said Emma, her face tensing up. He took a moment to judge it. Her yellow-green eyes were hardened, her nose scrunched up in discomfort. But the limp black curls had fallen quite becomingly around her narrow face in sort of a flyaway look. His grey eyes traced the pattern of the conch shell that pinned her hair. "Then I suppose your case has to do with either Roberta or Genevieve."
"You were friends with them? As a child?" he said, snapping back to business.
"A brief window of precious time, Mr. Holmes. I was twelve and residing across the wall at Rosalyn Home for Unloved Children," she said spitefully. "That is what we called it. As one of the eldest children there, Matron gave more freedom to me than the younger children because I was more responsible. Or she just didn't have time for me. It matters not- I knew my mother. I did not need some widow taking her place, anyway," she said bitterly. "I was born in India," she said abruptly, "but perhaps you knew that. No?
"Well then. My father was Adam Galveston, a struggling businessman from London who tried his hand in India. My mother was a young heiress with the money to start his business. A well made couple. Everyone said it was quite a shame that they were struck down by the fever when I was seven years old. Both dead on the same day…"
"Is India where you met Miss Robinson?"
"Good guess, but no. Her father was my father's most trusted servant. Elemi Rabin's children were raised like proper English girls upon my father's insisting. The eldest girl, Ellen, was by best friend in India. The fever took her too. I never met Kathryn until she took a boat to England; I left India before she was born. She was seven years younger than me, and that is perhaps why she and I never bonded like Ellen and I did when we were girls." Lost in her reflections, Emma stopped speaking.
"Miss Galveston," attempted Holmes at sympathy, "I know you have had a difficult life, but please, your friend's life may hang in the balance. I need to know everything you can remember about Jenny d'Emeraldé."
"I'm sorry Mr Holmes," the woman said shortly, rising to her feet. "But there isn't anything I could tell you that would help Genevieve more than hurt her. If she ran, it was for a good reason."
"You knew?"
She smoothed the crystal beadwork on the rose taffeta gown. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
"Lise-" he tried.
"Lise is dead." And with that, the woman flounced back up the stairs.
Holmes stared into space for a moment, and then made up his mind about something that had been troubling him. "Perhaps I should pay a visit to Mr. Bailey after all…"
Authoress' Note:
I would like to thank my first reviewer for their insight on my first chapter. True, Kathryn Robinson was a bit of a You-Know-What but she was just a temporary character; a poor victim swept up in fate. Sorry that this chapter was on the short side, but this is all the plot that I could give you before the next (and very important chapter), What Bailey Knew.
As always, I would like to make credit at this time to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the canon works. I do not own any of the canon characters found in this piece.
The Oedipus Manuscripts is a story, written by GreyEyedDetective, for the purpose of fanfiction entertainment. Constructive criticism and positive reviewing is encouraged.