Chapter 5: People!
Sherlock was dressed and out the door of 221B by eight the next morning, intending to call upon the Watsons immediately. With two young children in the house they were unlikely to have had the opportunity to linger in bed and he was hopeful that they would not only have information that might lead to Molly's whereabouts, but would give him some breakfast, and that Watson would take a look at his shoulder, which was giving him some trouble this morning. But the cab that he'd thought he was flagging down turned out to contain an occupant, and not a welcome one.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed, not bothering to conceal his disapprobation as his brother's tall form emerged from the cab.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft returned in more or less the same tone. "I was told that you had returned to London last night."
"Were you indeed?" Sherlock returned, his annoyance increasing. He knew quite well that his brother kept him under a somewhat casual but informative surveillance, but it never ceased to rankle. "And couldn't wait to see me, I collect?"
"Yes, well, I was hoping to discover how you fared in France."
"Oh, that." Sherlock hadn't given the previous two and a half weeks a thought since he'd discovered his wife's absence and read her disturbing letter the previous evening. A thought occurred to him. "By the by, speaking of your cursed spies and apparent need to poke your nose into my affairs at every turn, were you aware that Molly has gone out of town?"
"Why yes. It was my understanding that she left with your permission, to return the wayward Lucinda to the bosom of her family for the impending birth. I had wondered when you were going to dismiss the wench. You certainly took your time about it."
"You knew she was with child?" Sherlock asked in surprise.
"And you did not? Your powers of observation seem to be slipping, brother mine."
Sherlock ground his teeth a bit, then snapped, "Come upstairs, we can't stand here speaking of such things in the street."
"Very well. And perhaps we might take a moment to discuss your recent holiday in France as well."
"Yes, alright." Sherlock held the door open for his bothersome sibling.
Mycroft walked in with his usual quiet dignity. "Is Alphonse here? A little breakfast certainly would not come amiss."
"That's why you came so early, isn't it?" Sherlock sneered as he closed the door, but he nonetheless immediately strode down the hallway to the kitchen.
He found Alphonse perched upon a tall stool at the table, reading a newspaper, and sipping from a very small cup of coffee. The chef looked up, quite prepared to be outraged at the intrusion, but his expression eased considerably when he saw that it was the source of many a generous douceur who'd invaded his lair.
"Monsieur Holmes! You are returned!"
"As you see. And my brother is now here as well, demanding breakfast."
Alphonse set down his cup. "I will bring a tray up à l'instant!"
"You have my thanks. Oh, and Alphonse?"
"Oui, monsieur?"
Sherlock hesitated, then said carefully, "My wife… er… Madame Holmes… she didn't happen to speak to you about her plan to go out of town?"
"But no! ! I did not learn of it until after she and Lucinda had departed. I did wonder that you were well with such a scheme. It would not be considered at all convenable in France. Madame may be a married woman, but still she seems to me very much la jeune fille. And that Lucinda - bah! She has no more sense than un navet! But women in England are given such license. Incroyable!"
Sherlock opened his mouth at this impertinent speech, but then shut it again. Finally he said, "Never mind. Just bring some breakfast up, quick as you can."
Alphonse bowed, a lingering look of concern in his black eyes.
The encounter did nothing to lighten Sherlock's mood.
Mycroft was seated in Dr. Watson's old chair by the grate.
"Alphonse will be up with our breakfast presently," said Sherlock. "Now what did you want to know about France? It went off perfectly well, in spite of a few unforeseen complications."
Mycroft asked a number of penetrating questions, and Sherlock's distracting wifely worries were momentarily set aside as he replied at length. However, they were nearly at the end of the debriefing when Alphonse appeared with a laden tray, and after the chef had arranged all on the little dining table and taken his leave, Sherlock's thoughts once again turned to his errant spouse.
After mechanically eating half of his Buttered Eggs, ham, and toast in relative silence, he suddenly asked Mycroft, "You knew she was frequenting Celeste's?"
"Yes. Part of the community service required by her school, I take it. She was observed with an adviser, and one or two other students, most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Yes." Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock, what has been transpiring in your marriage? From the way you speak you seem to have been unaware of her movements."
Sherlock said, warily, "I knew she was doing community service."
Mycroft lifted a brow. "But not, perhaps, at Madame Celeste's establishment?"
Sherlock hesitated, then said angrily, "No." His brother waited expectantly. Sherlock sighed. "I had told her that I did not think it fitting that she visit Celeste. It was something we had originally spoken of the day after our wedding, but after our return from Italy I told her I'd thought better of the plan."
Mycroft stared, and then slowly smiled. He said, teasingly, "I take it the wedding night went well."
Sherlock felt himself flushing, and inwardly damned his brother's perspicacity.
But then Mycroft shrugged. "What's sauce for the goose should by rights be sauce for the gander. Is that why she disobeyed your decree?"
"So I am led to believe. Well," he said, with a bitter laugh, "I have direct evidence of it. But it was only one of three organizations she visited as a student of the medical school. I assumed that wretched girl Lucinda was from some girls' institute to which Molly was also assigned."
"Ah. And once begun, Molly would have found it difficult to end the deception with another's welfare at stake."
"Are you taking her side?" demanded Sherlock.
"Not at all," Mycroft replied. "I'm merely stating the facts as I see them. But you, brother mine, need to keep a much closer eye on your bride. She is no Milk-and-Water Miss, nor is she a saint, as you seem to have assumed."
"I never assumed any such thing!" Molly's spirit and independence had been evident from the start - and yet, she was a good little thing, too, biddable in many ways - as long as her wishes and opinions aligned with one's own. Which fortunately they did, most of the time.
Mycroft said, "Well, I expect once she is returned you will know better how to go on. Where is she? Did she say in her letter?"
"How did you know there was a letter?"
"There is always a letter, Sherlock. You will note that I do not go so far as to call my sister-in-law a cozening little slyboots in want of a sound thrashing; I presume that her motives have been pure from the outset - or relatively so - and that she merely strayed more and more from the straight path. But above all, she loves you to distraction - it's been quite obvious these many months - and she would not leave in this way without giving you some word of reassurance."
Sherlock gave a snort that was only vaguely reminiscent of laughter. "She says she has gone to some haven. An old friend, I take it, but there is not the least clue as to who or where. I was on my way to ask the Watsons if they had any notion of where she might have gone when you arrived."
"The Watsons. Yes. It's possible she's confided in Mary. And the good doctor has known her since she was a child."
Sherlock shoved his chair back and stood up. "I must go," he said, abruptly. "You can see your way out."
Mycroft nodded calmly, and as Sherlock fetched his coat and hat, mused, "I believe I'll have another slice of toast before I go, and more of this perfectly brewed coffee. Alphonse really is a treasure. But Sherlock, if the Watsons fail to come up with the answer to the riddle, you may need to steel yourself and make the journey to Bath."
"Good God," Sherlock groaned, realizing this was true. No one would be more aware of who might qualify as a haven than Molly's execrable family: the boorish solicitor who was now Sherlock's brother-in-law; the sister who'd done her best to frighten Molly and spoil their wedding night; her ridiculous mother; and the four children, the oldest only seven years of age - hopefully all of them still imprisoned in the nursery.
Mycroft spoke again, amused. "I feel your pain, brother. And remember, you must be discreet: the mother and sister have proven to be the most unconscionable gossips in the past, and if they learn that Molly has misbehaved in such a way I shudder to think what the consequences might be. You were, if you will remember, forced to marry because of their loose tongues and the sharp ears of the trustees at Molly's school."
"Forced to marry," Sherlock repeated, examining the words. Then he looked up at Mycroft. "And even now it seems the best work of my life." And he tipped his hat to his brother (not entirely in mockery) and, without further ado, strode out the door.
o-o-o
Dr. Watson's disapproval was patent.
"Then she did not journey to Yorkshire with your permission as Mrs. Hudson informed us! I must say that I am relieved in one respect: I had thought you must have taken leave of your senses, allowing her to embark upon such a journey with only that young kitchen maid to accompany her. But that Molly should leave for a destination entirely unknown in this way, lying to Mrs. Hudson-"
"She did not lie, precisely," Sherlock objected. "She merely said I would not mind her accompanying Lucinda, and that might very likely have been the case, provided her assertion that their destination was one of safety is proven accurate."
"Holmes, don't be absurd," Watson said impatiently. "Molly has done very wrong in leaving you in the dark like this, very wrong indeed. I fear I am much to blame."
"You!" Sherlock stared. "How on earth are you to blame?"
"It was I who introduced her into your household! She had always seemed to me a most well-behaved girl, demure, conformable - well, save for her determination to pursue a medical career, which, though admirable in some ways, is decidedly eccentric for a gently reared female. But obviously I was mistaken. Little did I suspect-"
"Watson," Sherlock said, a warning in his voice, "I advise you to keep your criticism of my wife to yourself if you do not wish to fall out with me. Molly has, perhaps, surprised us both in this instance, but I assure you my attachment to her is unimpaired and I only wish to determine her location so that I can be reassured of her safety. Will you cast your memory back and tell me if you know of some old friend who would offer her refuge?"
"Refuge! What refuge should she need other than the home you have provided for her?" Watson narrowed his eyes. "There is more to this tale than the little you have shared with me, I'll be bound."
Sherlock sighed and glanced over at Mary, who was seated by the fire nursing Edward. He was somewhat startled when she looked up at him with raised brows and speaking blue eyes.
She then said to her husband, "John, would you be so kind as to go upstairs and fetch my shawl?. It's a bit chilly in here today, even so near the fire!"
"Of course, my dear," said John, and immediately left the room.
Sherlock went swiftly over and sat down near Mary.
She said quietly, "I know about Lucinda, and about Madame Celeste's, but no more than that. Molly did not confide to me her plan to leave London. I do know that she came to deeply regret the deception - that what had, at first, seemed mere mischief had become such a complicated imbroglio. I think if it hadn't been for Lucinda's situation she would have confessed the whole to you months ago."
"I daresay. I did get that impression from her letter. If only she had shared her destination with me I would be…. not content. But certainly less anxious."
"I know," Mary smiled sympathetically, then looked up at the sound of John's footsteps coming back down the stairs. "Do not tell John! He will only believe she is entirely lost to depravity and you and I know that is not at all the case."
Sherlock smiled grimly and squeezed her hand, then stood up as John came back into the room.
"Here you are, my dear," the doctor said, going to his wife and arranging the shawl around her shoulders. But then he straightened and addressed Sherlock. "I have thought of one person to whom Molly may have applied: her old governess. But I've had no success in recalling the woman's name - Beacham? Bingly? No. I never had much to do with her when I was living with the Hoopers in my time as a medical student. And I know she retired after Molly left the schoolroom, but I doubt I was ever told where she settled."
Sherlock sighed. "That information is certainly a help, but I see that I will not now be able to avoid a visit to Bath and Molly's family."
John gave a bark of laughter. "Well, if the rest of this affair has not earned Molly a severe reprimand from you, that necessity surely will do so!"
"You may be right," Sherlock murmured, and met Mary's laughing eyes for a moment before he took his leave.
o-o-o
Two days later, at approximately eight o'clock in the morning, Sherlock woke in his hotel room at the Royal George ("...conveniently situated in the heart of the historic City of Bath in Somerset…") and was immediately assaulted with two dismal facts: it was still pouring rain, as it had been for the last thirty-six hours; and he had failed in his mission to pry from his in-laws the information he was so very anxious to acquire.
It was not entirely his fault.
He had, on the train, come up with a not altogether unreasonable premise as to why Molly had left him so precipitately and with such cryptic clues about her destination. Quite worn down by the end of her third year of medical school; left a loving note but absurdly forgot to include the name and direction of the friend she meant to visit; exigencies of life in London, combined with the herculean effort needed to achieve top marks had, perhaps, turned her brain a little. (He had smiled wickedly at that last element, she would be mad as fire that he'd told her family such a thing.)
But it hadn't worked, and for two reasons: 1) the Cavanaughs' butler, who had (probably quite deliberately) allowed Sherlock to walk in on a family scene that was akin to something out of Drury Lane- or Bedlam (antique vase shatters; obviously culpable progeny deny involvement; livid father bent on retribution; vociferous mother and grandmother vigorously opposed to same); and 2) his mother-in-law's rather shrewd but nonetheless nonsensical mistrust of his veracity. To be sure, she had been virtually prostrated by the threat that still overshadowed her grandchildren (I'll see to you later, all four of you!, Cavanaugh had roared as the nanny bundled the sobbing urchins out and back to the nursery), but to accuse Sherlock of being just as bad as James was the outside of enough.
"If Molly has gone mad I have no doubt the blame lies at your door!" she had exclaimed with quavering vehemence. "Philomena, I forbid you to tell him anything at all! And you may do your worst, Mr. Holmes, but my lips are sealed. Sealed, I tell you!" And then she had fallen into strong hysterics and was subsequently escorted from the room by her daughter.
Which had left Sherlock alone with Cavanaugh.
His brother-in-law had looked him up and down. "So she's left you, eh? Hah! Not so easy being a married man, is it Holmes? But you've made your bed and now you must lie in it."
Sherlock had replied acidly, "It is my fondest wish to be able to do just that!"
But Cavanaugh had sniffed. "I don't know her old governess, never paid attention. Thought she'd inherited, though, and moved away, little place in Sussex, or Winchester; some place near the coast. But that was years ago. Can't be expected to remember such trivia after all this time."
Sherlock had barely refrained from giving an impatient roll of his eyes. "I shall leave you, Cavanaugh. My sympathy to your children: it is once again all too apparent that they have much to overcome."
"And what the devil do you mean by that?" Cavanaugh had demanded, but Sherlock had ignored his blustering and strode out the door, aware that family harmony would hardly be promoted by another turn-up with the man who was now his brother-in-law - the black eye and broken nose Sherlock had given him more than a year before seemed to have taught him nothing.
No, the failure of this vital mission had not been entirely his fault. Nonetheless, it had failed, and he now feared he might be facing weeks, if not months, without his wife, a prospect which he found to be insupportable.
It was in an uncharacteristically despondent mood, therefore, that he rose from the bed and set about preparing to depart a city that had, for all its historic beauty, one fatal flaw: the Cavanaugh family.
Still, as he washed, shaved, and dressed, he noticed that the rain was letting up at last, and as he finished packing his bag for the journey home, golden sunshine broke out and came streaming through the window. Finally, when he had picked up his bag and was about to depart, there came a knock on the door.
He opened the door to find his sister-in-law standing composedly before him.
She smiled. "Hello, Sherlock. May I come in?"
Sherlock, a thrill of hope leaping within his bosom, nevertheless said, "I'm not sure that would be wise, ma'am. Will you come down to the breakfast room with me?"
"Oh! Yes. Very well. I suppose visiting you here, in your hotel room would hardly be discreet."
"I expect your husband would think it most improper, should he be informed of it," Sherlock said dryly.
But Philomena only chuckled at that idea.
A very few minutes later, the two of them were seated in a quiet corner of the breakfast room of the hotel, and had put in an order for coffee and breakfast for Sherlock - "...for I had porridge with the children not an hour ago," Philomena had said, blithely, causing Sherlock to shudder within.
A discussion of the weather ensued, until the coffee was brought to the table. Then, as he poured out a cup for each of them, Sherlock said, "Now, what can I do for you, Philomena?"
"It is more what I can do for you." she said. "I believe my mother was mistaken about you, and I also believe she will come to admit that soon enough. That being the case, I will be so bold as to ignore her demand that I keep from you the information that may be so vital to your interests. But tell me first, is Molly in some kind of trouble?"
Sherlock replied, hesitantly, "I fear you have guessed correctly. Yet the details of the affair have not been shared with anyone else at this point, and I am determined to keep it that way if at all possible. I can assure you, however, that she did not leave me in this way due to any animosity toward me or any perceived threat to herself. She did it to protect another from forces that she felt might have proved harmful. You must believe me when I tell you that I only want to see that she is safe, and help her in any way I can."
Philomena nodded. "You know, when we visited you in Baker Street last Christmas, and in the few letters she has written to me since you married, Molly… well, she did not confide in me, precisely - sadly we do not communicate upon such terms - implied, perhaps, is a better word. Implied repeatedly. That her life with you has been little short of paradise in every respect, and that you were a paragon among men. It has been difficult for me to fathom, since my own experience of marriage has been very different. James is a good man, and I do love him, but… well, I believe our relationship is far more prosaic than the one Molly enjoys with you. I cannot help but be a little envious, but I assure you I am also deeply happy for you both. Sherlock, I do trust that you will be able to untangle this difficulty and return Molly - and yourself, I now collect? - to that state of bliss the two of you have, until recently, enjoyed."
Sherlock gave a crooked smile. "I am certain I will be able to smooth things over, if only I can find her. As for that state of bliss… I can only promise to do my best."
Philomena returned his smile warmly. "It is very well. So. Our governess was Miss Emily Beaufort, and she now lives in Bognor Regis, on a small property she inherited shortly before Molly left the schoolroom. Both Molly and I maintain a regular correspondence with her, and I am certain that Miss Beaufort would welcome a visit from Molly. She has many times reiterated to Molly, and to myself, her kind invitation to holiday with her."
As this speech concluded, and Sherlock's tension ebbed in a way that almost left him reeling, breakfast arrived on a laden trolley. Sherlock maintained his usual facade of equanimity as it was arranged on the table, yet it was in a state of considerable elation that he began to engulf bacon, eggs, and several pieces of toast spread with butter and marmalade. Philomena indulged herself with a warm scone spread with clotted cream and raspberry jam, and had a second cup of coffee, "... for I have a great deal of shopping to catch up on, now that the weather is finally clearing. Sherlock, I do not presume to tell you your business, but indeed, it is unhealthy to eat so quickly, and in such large bites. You will not arrive in London any sooner for your haste."
"Yes, sister," he said wryly.
She gave him a prim smile.
Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside the door of the hotel, and Sherlock took his sister-in-law's hand in his. "A good day's work, Mena, I promise you."
"I am counting on it," Philomena said, and gave his hand a squeeze. "Give Molly my love, if you please, and tell her she is a very lucky girl."
And Sherlock laughed, his heart light.
o-o-o
A few hours later, after a swift train ride through the rain-washed countryside and a very slow cab ride through the congested London streets, Sherlock walked through the door of 221B Baker Street to be greeted exuberantly by Archie.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes!"
Sherlock could not help but be pleased. "Hello, Archie! Are you returned from your aunt's? How did you fare?"
"Pretty well, but I'm glad to be home," Archie said with a cheeky grin. "But Mr. Holmes, there's a gentleman upstairs to see you. Mrs. Hudson put him in your parlor and took some tea up to him. She said you'd be wishful to see him as soon as you arrived."
"Indeed? How long has he been up there?" Sherlock said with a frown.
"Couple of hours, but I've been keeping an eye on him, off and on. Mrs. Hudson told him you'd be here by half past two if you was coming at all today."
"Were coming at all," Sherlock corrected, absently.
"Oh, yes. May I take your bag up, Mr. Holmes?"
"No, I'll do it. If Alphonse is in, tell him I'd like some lunch, if you please."
"Right away, Mr. Holmes," Archie said, and skipped down the hallway while Sherlock climbed the stairs.
But as he reached the top of the stairs, a tall, thin figure emerged from the open doorway of his flat and spoke: "Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"I am," said Sherlock, gaining the landing and giving the man a swift appraisal. He was fashionably attired and quite young, perhaps his early twenties, and darkly handsome, though just now his countenance was pallid, his expression gravely troubled. "What can I do for you, Mr…."
"Ashworth," the young man supplied. "I am Bertram Ashworth, and I understand that you may know where I might find my… my intended wife."
"Bertram!" Sherlock repeated. "And Ashworth - are you Lord Ashworth's son?"
"H-his fourth son," Bertram replied.
"And are you… when you speak of your intended wife, can you be referring to Lucinda?"
"Yes! I… oh, Mr. Holmes, if you will but allow me to explain!"
"Certainly I will, Mr. Ashworth. Come in, come in! I have ordered a late luncheon to be brought up, and we will eat while you tell me your story. You will forgive me for saying so, but you look as though you would benefit from some sustenance."