All the way up the Apples
„League with you I seek/ And mutual amity so strait, so close/That I with you must dwell, or you with me." Paradise Lost
Frances' movements, her head bowed over her work, her lithe body twisting around the mannequin to secure this fold and that with a pin - they were painfully like Kitty's. He watched her for a couple of minutes without her knowledge, until Madame Martinez found an opportunity of approaching her and getting her away from her task.
The sight of the young and white skin gave him an inward shiver - it was the flesh of his wife, a woman so long in her grave now, eaten by worms for the most part, but eternally young an lively in his recollection. And now, to support the vision, her living image came toward him and fueled his dolour. Frances raised her chin, unaware of the tempest that raged in his chest.
„Where `ave ya been?"
„At home, in England."
He cast down his eyes before her evident wrath. Like Kitty. So like Kitty.
„So I `ave `eard. It would of been kinder, Mr. `olmes, if you `ad informed me of your decision ter go away. As you may remember, I take some li`le personal interest in this affair. It woulda been nice ter know you wa`nt giving up on`t.
He would be damned if he kept her informed of his steps, the little liar. Reason returned in a sudden flux whose impact dispelled all feelings except that of profound distrust. Despite all physical resemblance to the woman he had loved - it was necessary for him to recall that the young seamstress was a different person entirely, and that he did not know her.
No doubt Watson had given her a clean and neat christian upbringing, sincerely devoting his energies to the reparation of flaws her earlier life had instilled in her. But when all was said and done, Frances was a child of the street, forever pursuing her own advantage. She was not to be trusted.
„I am so sorry, Frances. I did not think this purely private detour of mine could possibly interest you. Maybe you will be reconciled if I tell you that I am the bearer of kind wishes and presents? Your Uncle John sends a supply of books he hopes you will like. I have them in a valise in the cab outside."
Her face seemed to light up for a second, then it hardened again into a strict look of jealous pride. „I told him not ter send any gifts. I can very well provide for meself."
„I am sure he did not mean to question your autonomy", he hurried to say, „just to treat you to a little reading matter if you should have leisure enough to enjoy it."
Her eyes softened again, her lips relaxed into a little smile. „Dear, foolish Uncle John. So he made you carry a valise full o' books across the Channel? I shall tell him he must not be so silly in my next letter." She cast a quick look over her shoulder. „I'll ask Madame ter excuse me a li`le earlier terday. Might I trouble ye ter drop them books at my address?"
„I would be happy to take you", he replied courteously. He could enquire for her dress anytime at the Sûreté, but it could not be a mistake to have a quick look at the inside of her lodgings. His instinct told him that in his current investigation, Frances was playing a decisive role, although he had not yet made sure of its nature. He did not like it.
He had not taken Watson into his confidence when he had seen him on his quick visit to the City. There was no sense in that - full of paternal partiality, he would volubly have defended his warden against the slightest insinuation of a possible entanglement with the case. On the whole, his stay in England seemed fairly fatuous in hindsight.
He had effected nothing, save making up leeways as regards the dinner invitation to his best friend, and a confirmation of Mrs. Hudson's still rather reliable memory. According to the Sussex land registry office, Mr. Tom Rhys-Folmec had tenanted the neglected house for almost as long as he lived on the Downs himself. Also, he had walked toward the cemetery at dusk, to linger by the grave of his wife uselessly for the quarter of an hour. A waste of time.
No, no, the key to the mystery was here in Paris after all, was right there beneath that stylish lingerie hat. Fanny talked to Madame Martinez in rapid French while putting on her gloves. While he could not assert a special familiarity with the fashion of the day, he still admired her unerring sense of what became her rather small frame, and her capability to defray the costs from an undoubtedly small purse.
They boarded the hired vehicle waiting in the street; and Fanny gave the driver directions toward her place. It was on the outskirts of the City, and rather a long drive, but she did not chose to shorten it by means of conversation. SNAP! Went the buckles of the valise, and she avidly browsed its contents, issuing small cries of pleasure now and then. He glanced over her shoulder, and, beholding the romanticist and gothic literature his friend had chosen, smiled a little to himself. Watson was incorrigible.
When the driver drew up in front of a building whose facade bespoke neglect caused by limited means, Fanny raised her head bemusedly. „Are we there awready? I had better put everything back, then." Rearranging the contents of the valise and fastening the buckles, she set out to drag it out of the cab door herself, but he forestalled her.
„May I? It's too heavy for you."
He sensed her wince from his helping hand, unsure whether to accept his further assistance or to enforce her claim to independency.
„Thank you", she said, hesitatingly. „This way, please."
Her key unlocked the door into a staircase which, once magnificent with a broad, spiraling flight of steps, had fallen into decay some time hence. Dirt accumulated in the deep fissures in the stone of the steps, and the light bulbs in the wall sconces were mostly broken. In one place, water dripped down the wall.
„It's all the way up the apples", she apologetically called over her shoulder, and the sound of the familiar idiom seemed to twist his stomach. „Right beneath the roof."
He would seem a very old man, if she took the precaution to warn him of the fatigues. He chuckled ironically, and with light, quick steps ascended the spiral, the heavy valise firmly in hand. She arrived a full minute later to insert her key into the keyhole. At least so far he could rely on his abilities, he thought and quirked a sardonic eyebrow.
She flung open the door, and an actual smile invited him to step in. „Right over here, Mr. `olmes. Thanks e'er so much."
Frances flat, formerly the garret, he mused, was small, but snug and charmingly furnished. It possessed a tiny kitchen with herbs in pots on the outside sill. She at once busied herself over there, clattering with kettle and crockery. As soon as her hands were free, she turned around and reached up to remove her hatpin and hat.
„I am makin' tea, Mr. `olmes. Would ya like…."
He interrupted his rapid survey of the place, and pretended looking for the best spot to set down the valise. „Yes, thank you, Frances."
She passed him by to lay down her broad hat on the bed beneath the pitch of the roof. It made him feel excessively uncomfortable to have her so close by, her red hair, released of the hat, tumbling down far enough to touch the duvet. Straightening herself, she pushed it on one side, and that even increased the likeness to her late relative, who invariably had worn her hair like this.
To make sure he did no stupid thing, he folded his hands behind his back and nodded his chin at the window above the bed. „That shutter seems to be jammed", he observed neutrally, while Frances, back at the kitchenette, spooned tea out of one of the large glasses that stood in a row on the counter. For the purpose, she used some quaint implement made from bamboo.
„I know. It is very irksome, especially as the window points East, and the light wakes me early every morning. I always wanna have it fixed, and then I forget", she explained lightly.
During the time that it took her to prepare the tea, Holmes took off his frock and shoes, and, stepping on a low footstool, examined the problem. It looked as though a spring had broken in the rewinder, because the belt was hanging from it loosely. However, without the required tools, he could not see a way to fix it.
His thoughts were pleasantly interrupted by Fanny serving tea and madeleines. „Black tea is right, innit, Mr. `olmes?" She enquired solicitously. „I got this, and chamomile, and Madame Zhao's awful green tea."
He slowly stepped down from the stool. „Much as I would have enjoyed Madame Zhao's awful green tea, this will be perfectly good, thank you Frances. However -„ he reached for his overcoat and inserted his hand into the lining, „ - when I said I had presents for you, I was speaking in the plural. This is a small something for you by my Sussex neighbour, Miss Mildred. I don`t know -„
He hesitated. Fanny and Mildred had been inseparable for one long summer when they were both children, but that was a long time in the past. Maybe she had forgotten.
But her eyes, wide open in wonder and delight, told him she had not. „Oh, yes! Mildred!" Her smile was broad when she accepted the small parcel. Full of pleasurable anticipation, she unwrapped it carefully. Out came a booklet, whose every page had been pasted with small dry flowers - bearbind, archangel, periwinkle, lady's finger. The blossoms of the Downs.
Fanny stood quite still as she looked down on the pages of the tiny book. Her chest heaved, and her head was inclined so much that her face could hardly be seen through the curtain of her flaming hair. With an inhalation that betrayed an effort, she suddenly raised it again and gave a tight smile. „Dear Mildred. `ow kind to think of me. You must give `er me best on your return `ome, Mr. `olmes."
With which words she turned abruptly away, and set to pouring the tea in a cumbersome fashion. She had a small table for the tea things, but only one chair to sit at it, so that she invited him to take a seat there, and lowered herself onto the edge of her bed. He found her looking forlorn….between the two mannequins that flanked the bed, she seemed like a girl too old to play with dolls, and very sad about it. She sipped at her tea, and was silent.
„I know what grudge you bear me", he brusquely said. „I know and understand it well. Let there be no misunderstanding between us, Frances. I accept your opinion of me, yes, I even find it justified. But it must, and shall not, interfere with the way we are conducting this investigation. Do you agree?"
He said we with an idea that it might make her feel more involved, more prepared to divulge whatever knowledge she harboured. The book she had pinched at the flat of Madame Zhao was lying open on her bedside table: La vie de St. Lazare.
The girl lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. Her eyes were immeasurably sad. „Do you?" She asked quietly. „Can you understand?"
Her mournfulness was more than he has bargained for. All he tried to attain was a level of impersonality, where one might meet and cooperate without any resentments and secret animosities. But her question appeared to ask for something more. He would have to atone, and he knew he owed her atonement.
„Yes, Frances. I am responsible for the death of your beloved aunt as I am for that of her child, and if you must hate me for it, then do. I myself -„
He looked away quickly, then back at her face, and gave her a spasmodic smile. „I have detested and abhorred myself for a long time. I have done penance in many ways - you can believe me if I say so. If you can't forgive, I have no right to ask it. The only thing I ask is that you will not hinder my proceedings in this case by any active or passive means. It is not just me you are thus capable of helping: Always remember that your friend's life is more valuable than your revenge on me. We have the best chance of finding her if we unite our efforts, and find her we must, soon."
She said nothing, but continued looking sad and a little disappointed. He grew impatient. For heaven's sake, what did she expect of him? Did she want him to drop on his knees and ask her pardon?
„Do you understand?" He insisted.
She cast down her eyes to the hands she had clasped in her lap. „Yes, Mr. `olmes."
„You will not work against me, then?"
Large, honest grey eyes opened at him, eyes whose duplicity angered him. "Of course not, Mr. `olmes. I never considered doing such a thing."
He felt his stare become hard. „You will neither hinder my proceedings by refusing your cooperation, withholding information or even direct action?"
That made her falter. „Why, what do you mean?"
„That I want your unrestricted trust and assistance - even if it seems much to ask in such a constellation as the one we find ourselves in."
„You have that, Mr. `olmes", she acquiesced.
It was hopeless. He was not making any progress with her. For a moment he considered if he had been mistaken…but if she did not keep a secret, why smuggle that book out of the flat under his very eyes? There was something, something she would not tell.
He probably deserved no better.
Holmes thanked her for the tea, and took his leave. On his way back to the hotel, he wondered what it might be that she withheld, and why she did it. He had felt no positive hatred directed at him, not any more. She would not have allowed him into her flat if she feared or hated him.
Could it be that Frances did not recognize the importance of whatever morsel of information had come into her possession?
Hi ppl!
Where are you all? Come, come back from the lake or seaside and read diligently! The summer is very beautiful, but fanfiction also is a fun part of life. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and have a lovely residual August!
Oh and BTW sorry for any typos that may have occurred here and there. My Mac is quite new and his autocorrection and I still have not agreed as to who shall have supremacy over the spelling. So we fight.
All the Best, Mrs. F