I need someone who is a fast reader, adept at the English language, and has a wealthy knowledge of the Canon. Why, you ask? Well, believe it or not, I'm not a perfect writer (gasp!), and I need a fresh pair of eyes to read a chapter before I post it. So anyone interested in being a beta reader, please send me a private message with your qualifications.
Anyways, onto the chapter...
"Got you!" I exclaimed as my hand flew over and captured a ladybird that had been crawling over the gravestone. I slowly swept the insect into my left hand, cupped my hands as I brought it close to me, and then peered inside. The ladybird was larger than ones I had seen before, its shiny body crimson as blood speckled with its trademark black spots. I opened up my hands and it crept along my hand tentatively at first then it made its way towards the top of my index finger, spread its wings from underneath its shiny, protective shell, and flew off into the fresh spring air.
I watched its progress for a few seconds then returned to my original task at hand. My fingers traced the engraving of my father's name on the cold gravestone. Afterwards, I pressed my palms on the stone and felt my breath turn shallow. It was real and unreal at the same time. I had always thought that this experience—mourning at my father's grave—would come when I was much older and at a more appropriate time in his life. He was not ready to leave, he still had so much to accomplish and so much to live for, and simply it was utterly unfair.
"Hi Dad," I murmured as I took away the vase of wilted flowers from two weeks before and replaced it with a fresh vase of gerbera daisies. I arranged them a little before placing them down. "Nothing much has happened really. You should see Anne and Geoff's little Veronica. Cutest little thing that ever walked the earth, I swear."
I rubbed the smooth cut from the wound I had sustained from that knife-wielding brute the previous night. When I had arrived home, I had attempted to cover it up but Mum with her ever-knowing eyes immediately saw something wrong and squealed in fright. She chastised me for walking home on my own at night and praised Holmes for protecting me. It was with reluctance that she allowed me outside today. She was afraid for my safety yet she saw that my willingness to go outside as best for my health. In the end, I argued that I was venturing out in broad daylight and there would be a slim chance that anything would happen to me.
"I don't know what you got yourself into, Dad." I said to the gravestone. "I wish you had told me."
I heard the grass rustle behind me and I instantly tightened my grip on the walking stick. From my peripheral vision, a familiar aquiline shadow fell across the grass and my breath returned to me.
"Did you know that there is a form of fighting called singlestick where the main weapon of choice is a walking stick?" A familiar voice recited in a scholarly tone.
"Perhaps you should teach me then. What are you doing here, Holmes?" I asked in greeting. Using my walking stick, I stood up on my own and turned around to face him. "Did my mother send you after me as a bodyguard of some sort?"
"No, I had walked over to your house to see if you wanted to watch the bumping races on the Isis. Your mother told me that you went to the cemetery and here I am."
"I see," I replied then took one more glance at my father's grave. "Bumping races on the Isis?"
"You need more sun and besides people have been wondering about our lack of outings together." He reasoned as he pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. "They'll think there's something amiss between us."
"Oh, now we can't have that now, can we?" I muttered with asperity. I walked over to him. "All right, then. Off to the races, we go." And with that, I plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stomped it out.
He sputtered angrily, his grey eyes bulging as he growled, "What the deuce did you do that for?"
I merely replied as I began to walk away, "A lady has a most delicate constitution."
He snorted in response. "You only use your femininity when it suits you." He muttered angrily but nevertheless began to follow me, pulling out another cigarette and soon resembled the smokestacks in Manchester.
It always surprises me what human coordination and cooperation can accomplish and there is no finer example of this than the bumping races along the Isis. Holmes led me down to Folly Bridge where many others had already gathered to watch the races from above. Holmes signaled that I go ahead into the crowd first and I budged my way through tweed skirts and wool jackets. I finally found a spot near the edge and felt a bump on my shoulder, indicating that Holmes had managed to join me.
Every March in Hilary term and for a total of four days, the Torpids were a large event for the entirety of Oxford. Almost all of the colleges participated and dispersed through the crowd were flags that corresponded with their college's colors. The gathering was rowdy with many flailing arms and cheers for whatever college.
"If you are wondering," Holmes said into my ear. "The blade colors for Christ Church are plain navy blue. Balliol is navy blue with a streak of red along the loom, Oriel is navy with two white stripes running vertical towards the end of the spoon…"
Holmes continued his description of the blades for a while and when I had identified each boat, I was content to simply watch the skill and strength of the rowers. It seemed from my eyes that Oriel was currently in the lead.
"Fancy seeing you here, Charlotte!" A familiar voice emerged from behind me. I turned and saw that it was George, Katie's beau.
"George!" I cried as he moved next to me. "Shouldn't you be down there, rowing with the others?"
"Can't," was his simple answer. I asked why not and it was Holmes that answered.
"George and his team are competing in the Boat Race between Cambridge and Oxford hence he is not allowed to compete in the Torpids."
"Well, that's bollocks," I muttered without thinking and then felt myself blush. "Pardon my language, George."
"Oh, that's all right. One of the lads had said the same thing about that." He replied with a grin.
We watched for the better part of two hours where Christ Church attempted to bump Trinity while Oriel had a fair lead over Exeter. Amidst the shouts of coxswains ordering their boats to victory—Bow, take a stroke! Push for ten! GO!—George glanced at his pocket watch then turned to us.
"Sherlock, why don't you and Charlotte join Katherine and me for lunch?" He asked.
Looking at Holmes and knowing him as well as I do, I thought that he would say no and invent some sort of excuse not to go. Much to my surprise, however, Holmes actually agreed.
"Excellent then," George said with a smile. "How does half past twelve at the Eagle and Child sound?"
"Satisfactory," Holmes agreed. "We shall see you then. If you'll excuse us, George, we have some business to attend to." And with that, we began to move our way back through the crowd.
It seemed that as the day progressed, more and more spectators had gathered around Folly Bridge and the banks along the Isis to watch. It made it much more difficult to maneuver through the crowd. As I moved through, I felt a hand grip my upper arm tightly.
"Don't turn around."
The voice did not belong to George or Holmes or anyone I knew. I felt a shudder run through me though the air was fairly warm. The voice was familiar yet I could not place where I had heard it before. I wanted to scream out for help but the grip tightened almost painfully, causing my voice to leave me.
"I'm not gonna hurt you but don't turn around. What I have to say is important so listen to me: Papers are in London. Guard them. Protect them."
My mind was ablaze with this information. "What papers? What are you talking about? Who are you?"
"Just listen to me and remember. The papers are in London. That's all you need to know." And with that, the iron grip on my arm released. I whirled around and saw no one there.
My mind felt like it had been knocked senseless for the second time in a week. The previous night, I had been nearly killed over papers and now a seemingly disembodied voice was telling me that these papers that I was nearly killed over are in London. I caught my breath, realizing belatedly that I had not inhaled since that encounter. I then realized that Holmes was probably waiting for me outside of the crowd. I plowed through the rest of the crowd and looked wildly around for Holmes.
He was towards the end of the bridge and I ran over to him. As I came closer, he saw the look on my face and like the greyhound that he was, he quickly picked up on the scent.
"Something happened?"
"Yes, but I shall tell you when we reach the Eagle and Child. I am famished and I do not think it safe to talk out of doors."
"Then let us walk quickly." He said decisively and off we went to the Eagle and Child.
Oxford is my terra firma. The moment I step out of my house, I breathe in that cool air that is filled with the essence of intelligence and perseverance. I was born in Radcliffe Infirmary here and was raised with the bells of the Church of St. Mary Magdalen as my lullaby and the Botanical Gardens as my private playgrounds. The Isis and the Cherwell were akin to what the River Ganges means to the Hindu population in India. Walking throughout the streets, I could feel the numerous souls of the past that had traversed before me. Amongst the emerald knolls and cloistered ceilings, there was no other place in the world that summed up the meaning of home to me.
From Folly Bridge, we made our way up St. Giles' Street and my eyes soon saw the familiar sign of the eagle carrying a child bundled up in cloth from its claw. The ever popular Eagle and Child (alternatively known as the Bird and Baby) was a narrow and small pub that was normally filled to the brim with university students socializing or drinking their troubles away. When Holmes and I entered the pub, it was a rather sedate atmosphere considering that it was not yet lunchtime and nearly everyone was outside watching the Torpids.
Holmes seemed like a familiar fixture in this institution for as soon as he approached the bar, the barman immediately put down everything and nearly jumped over the bar to shake hands with him.
"Young Sherlock Holmes! What can I do you for, my boy?" The barman greeted him jovially, his accent thick Oxfordshire.
"A pint for myself and…what would you like, Charlotte?"
"I'd like a pint as well, please." I answered mildly.
The barman stole a glance at me then continuing in that jovial tone, "I don't believe you've introduced me to this very lovely young lady."
I could not help but roll my eyes discreetly while Holmes introduced me. "This is John Buckland Earl, the owner of this fine establishment. Mr. Earl, this is my good friend Charlotte Andrewes."
Mr. Earl bowed chivalrously and briefly held my hand in his whilst bearing a yellow toothed grin. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Andrewes. I must say that it is nice to see Sherlock here with a beautiful young lady such as yourself," Holmes in response merely fixed a forced smile on his face. "Anyways, my dear, welcome to the—"
His welcome was cut short when his eyes traveled down to my walking stick. Instinctively, I began to inspect the much worn wooden floor while my face burned a dark shade of crimson. Mr. Earl seemed like he was about to ask after my walking stick when Holmes interrupted him.
"Mr. Earl, our drinks are all we ask, if you please." He stated in an icy cold voice that resembled the chill of the wind outside.
"Right you are," Mr. Earl assented as his eyes quickly shot back to Holmes and he went about fixing our drinks.
We then seated ourselves and received our drinks from a young barmaid shortly after. When she placed my drink down, her eyes flicked over to my walking stick, which was leaning against the table. I cleared my throat and she smiled…piteously? I do not know. I immediately downed half of my pint after her leave and cursed underneath my breath. Holmes took a sip of his brew and then began to ask me about what had happened on Folly Bridge.
"The voice you heard was familiar to you? Familiar as in someone that you know? Also, was the owner of this voice, what would you consider his minimum age?"
"Familiar in the sense that I've heard it before." I explained, feeling slightly dizzy from the alcohol I had just consumed. I removed my tweed coat as the alcohol began to warm me up, rubbing my temples as I spoke, "He did not sound like an old man…I'd say he sounded around James' age or perhaps slightly older. I know that voice and it will drive me crazy until I find out where it had come from."
Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "There is no use focusing on that now if you cannot remember. Store it in the back of your mind and we shall return to it when the time comes. Now, which arm did he grab: right or left?"
"Left," I replied.
"Considering your malnourished state and the strength of his grip, it is quite probable he left bruises on your arm. Pull up your sleeve for me and let me examine your arm." Holmes directed me.
I hesitated to say the least. My entire wardrobe consisted of long sleeved blouses and other clothing for this single reason: my left limb. It was withered with very little muscle on it. It resembled a bone covered haphazardly with skin. Unconsciously, I began to rub my left arm.
"I have seen your left leg, Charlotte." Holmes said delicately. "I know the extent of damage that the disease wreaked on you."
He was right. I sighed then began to unbutton the sleeve. I folded the sleeve up a little bit then offered Holmes my arm. He gently took it in his hands as though my arm were made of glass and pushed the sleeve all the way up to my shoulder; my arm became quite sensitive and aware of his touch. I caught a glimpse of my withered arm as he pushed up the sleeve and turned my head towards the other direction. He then slowly turned my arm in his hands.
"Sure enough, there are five distinct bruises on your upper arm that resemble fingertips." He said as his own fingertips brushed against the skin of my arm. He inadvertently poked at one of the bruises, causing me to jump slightly in pain. "I apologize; I was attempting to recreate the grip of your mystery person. From what I can judge, the man is very strong and tall; at the minimum, he stands over six feet at the minimum. He is a large and muscled individual since his hand basically consumed your arm in his hands." He then said more to himself than to me, "If only I could have seen him myself…"
He then unfolded my sleeve then pushed it back down to its proper length and buttoned it back up. I glanced in his direction and saw that he was looking back at me with that ever familiar look of curiosity on his face. There was a question hidden behind that bony face yet I knew that he was biting his tongue for my sake. I decided to answer his hidden question.
"Because of the paralysis in my left arm, the muscle atrophied…just like my left leg." I told him in a low voice.
He nodded gravely. "I figured as much but I am wondering about your left leg. When one is inflicted with polio, one usually sees deformities in the hips or ankles—" Holmes began to say when I interrupted him.
"Yes, I know. My father was friends with Dr. Hugh Owen Thomas and he asked if Dr. Thomas could make a special brace for my leg to keep it straight. My father took leave of his teaching when I got sick to find different treatments. Some were complete bunk while others had some merits. He heard of a nurse in Australia who suggested that my limbs be massaged and exercised to prevent the muscles from atrophying too much. This actually worked really well…but anyways…I suffered through total body casts and much worse."
My eyes flicked toward my walking stick leaning forlornly on the wall.
"You cannot let it run your life, Charlotte." Holmes said as his eyes followed mine.
I chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, it is easier said than done, Holmes. Do not get me wrong, I have acted bravely—stiff upper lip attitude and all that. It's made me extremely admirable in many people's eyes." A humorless chuckle resurfaced. "Yet there is only so much that one can take…the pitiful stares, hushed voices synchronized with my arrival, rosary wielding old ladies telling me that they'll pray for me…" I slammed my palms against the table, causing the few patrons to turn in my direction. Why did it have to be me? What did I do to deserve this? What is wrong with me?
I had unknowingly given voice to these last thoughts and Holmes answered in a bittersweet tone, "Life is incredibly harsh and treats us rather poorly. Still it is what we do in reaction to our ill treatment that makes us what we shall be."
"And what will I be, Holmes?" I asked with a wry smirk.
He did not answer—rather he was unable to provide one—as George and Katherine walked over to us. Straight away, the serious atmosphere fizzled into a cheery situation. I greeted Katie with a hug while Holmes and George briskly shook hands with each other. We then ordered our lunch and proceeded to talk about each other's various activities and whatnot, settling into a social ease.
I returned home at half past two and when I walked through the door, Josephine immediately rushed towards me with fright and concern etched into her elderly features. Her heavy bosom was heaving and sweat glistened on her face.
"Burglar! There was a burglar!" She cried.
My mind immediately went blank at the shock of these events. First a cryptic message on Folly Bridge and now my home was burglarized. As Josephine kept babbling, I slowly returned to reality and asked the first question that came to mind.
"Where's Mum?"
"She stepped out to have tea with Mrs. Oxley." Josephine said. "It was lucky that there was no one in the house. Cook was off visiting her mother in Leeds, I was out shopping, while you and your mother went out. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Charlotte?"
"Yes, Josephine," I answered mindlessly, trying to grasp all of this information. "What was stolen?" I then looked around the parlor and the living room, which looked as impeccable as I left it. My brow wrinkled in confusion. "Did you clean it up or…"
"No, Miss, it's the strangest thing. The only room that was burgled was your father's study."
Since his death, Dad's study had been locked up. Nobody entered—not because it was not allowed, rather nobody wanted to. The place clearly had my father's stamp all over and that was much too painful for anyone to explore at the moment. Hence, it was locked up a day after his funeral. Mum kept the key with her at all times.
Josephine led me towards his study and found that the doors had been wrenched open. I felt my heart breaking as my eyes took in the remains of his beautiful study. The numerous bookshelves had been knocked over. The drawers of his desk were pulled out while his papers littered the floor. For the first time in months, I stepped inside the room. Immediately, I was assaulted by the sound of his voice, my memories of my father in this room. I bent over and covered my ears, then took a deep but shaky breath.
"Did you notice anything missing, Josephine?"
"I did not look yet, Miss." Josephine said from the threshold, clearly reluctant to step foot inside the study.
I picked up some random books, rifled through some papers on his desk and then I stopped. Next to the gas lamp (which was now lay in shards several feet away), there was a beautiful medium-sized wooden box made of ebony and ivory, decorated with a lovely geometric pattern, and locked. I remembered it because it seemed incongruous with the entire room. I had lifted it once and noted how heavy it was. When I had asked my father what was inside, he merely replied that it was something special…nothing more and nothing less.
That ebony and ivory box was what was stolen, solving one mystery.
The reason why it was stolen was another more difficult question entirely.