Chapter Forty.
Three months later ...
Sherlock Holmes sat in his favourite chair in his living room at 221B Baker Street, watching with a heavy heart as Mrs Hudson moved around the room, tidying away bits of paper and empty, used mugs and plates, and tried to ignore her pointless prattling, because her incessant voice was grating on his nerves and giving him a nigging little headache.
"I've left you a nice chicken casserole in the fridge, dear. All you've got to do is heat it up."
She was fussing, because she was going away for a few days to visit her sister, and it was the first time that Holmes would truly be alone again since the surgery.
He was way past ready for things to revert to normal and to have his home back, all to himself once more.
He had been grateful for the support of his visitors, Watson, LeStrade, even Mycroft, and of course, Mrs Hudson, but he was well on the road to recovery now, after the excellent care at the hospital, and, at Mycroft's insistence, several weeks recuperating in the country at an exclusive spa hotel and health resort, and was hankering for some peace and quiet and time to himself.
The surgery had been a complete success, although there had been a few small side effects.
A slight weakness and tremor had remained in his right hand, although physiotherapy had soon helped to restore the strength and steadiness.
The headaches had also persisted, but he had been warned to expect that.
Now, thankfully, they were lessening, both in frequency and severity, and were tolerable and controlled with simple over the counter pain relief medication.
Life was getting back to normal, and not too soon for Sherlock Holmes.
He wanted to put the whole business behind him and move on.
He especially wanted some time to himself.
At first, he had been glad to receive the countless troop of visitors who had come to visit him since he had come home, but after a couple of weeks, their need to reassure themselves that he was about to suffer a relapse at any moment had begun to wear thin.
He was getting stronger every day, regaining his stamina, and his lust for work, and he was already growing restless, yearning for a new case so that he could test his mental prowess and assure himself that he had lost none of his sharpness and mental acuity.
He could not do that with everyone looking over his shoulder, waiting to see him falter, or fall.
John Watson was still calling around, indeed, he was due to come to lunch this very day, however, his visits were less frequent, an indication that he knew that Holmes was once again well and able to cope, and he now split his time between his wife and his medical duties, and Sherlock was secretly pleased to see that his friend and colleague prospering in both endeavours.
Yes. Life was getting back to normal.
About time too!
I need my solitude back!
"I've stocked the fridge and the freezer, and there are plenty of cans for you to choose from in the cupboards. You won't starve."
"No, Mrs Hudson, I won't starve. You're only going away for the weekend," he reminded her. "I'm perfectly capable…"
"Of course you are, dear."
"Go away Mrs Hudson. You'll miss your train."
Ignoring the sarcasm in his tone, Mrs Hudson came over to where he sat and gently cupping his chin with her hand, leaned forward and gave him a brief, dry peck on the cheek.
"Good to have you back, dear."
"Good to be back, Mrs Hudson."
It was true.
"Take care of yourself, and try not to burn my bloody house down while I'm gone," she chastised, but there was a soft smile on her lips and a bright twinkle in her eye.
Sherlock was home and all was well in her little world.
Yes, indeed, it was good to be home.
Good to be almost back to his old self.
Mrs Hudson finally stopped fussing and prattling and took her leave around mid morning, and to alleviate the boredom while he waited for John to arrive for their luncheon appointment, Sherlock went through the morning newspaper with a keen eye to anything that might interest him professionally, but he was disappointed as nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention.
All he found, much to his chagrin and irritation was further over the top coverage of what the media were calling 'The Chase Murderer'.
Highly unoriginal and predictable
Most of it was rehashing the evidence to date, the rest, wild speculation, and exploitation of anyone who had ever come into contact with the villain, from teachers from his old schools to people he had lived amongst in the travelling fair, most of whom now proclaimed that they knew that 'there was something wrong with him' or that 'he was a wrong 'un'' although none of them had ever voiced their concerns to the authorities and the rest 'simply couldn't believe it, he was such a nice boy…' and announced that 'he was always so good with the kiddies…'
Adam 'Monty' Montgomery had finally been arrested a month after Holmes had taken the sketches to Scotland Yard, and not before he had killed one last time and they had finally discovered the bodies of Angela Webb and David Salmon, a few yards apart, on Cannock Chase.
Inspector LeStrade had sent him a brief text message with the news, a simple thank you in recognition of Holmes involvement in the case.
It had been a relief for Holmes to know that the man, well, boy really, was no longer at liberty, no longer able to lure innocent babes to their deaths.
Just as Holmes had predicted, Montgomery was little more than a child himself, a boy of barely 19 years with low IQ and a body like Mr Universe, baby faced and innocence personified.
He had operated his grandfather's pathetic Punch and Judy show and other amusements within the travelling fair, sharing the old man's caravan, and had helped out others with their concerns at busy times between shows, and that was how he had come into contact with his young victims.
Satisfying as it was to Holmes to know that he had had a small part in removing this maniac from the streets, it had disappointed and frustrated him that even armed with Cassia Ingram's beautiful drawings, it had still taken the police a further month to finally apprehend Montgomery.
Today, the newspapers were full of speculation about 'what made a teenage killer?', and depressing interviews with his poor, senile old grandfather, who had had not a clue what his grandson was up to when he borrowed his car and disappeared at night. "I thought he was just off trapping rabbits and the like..." the headline proclaimed.
Holmes cast the Daily Mail to one side in frustration, ignored The Sun and The Daily Mirror and opted instead for The Times.
They were leading with an article about the children's homes that the young victims, both orpans, had been in the care of, one of them closed down now and the children relocated to foster parents or other local care homes, the other under investigation following allegations of neglect and abuse, and the outrage of both the Government and the Nation that such appalling things could still be possible in this country, in this day and age, in our 'enlightened society'.
It was all so much hot air.
Montgomery might be under lock and key, but somewhere out there, there was someone else, just as evil and devious, perhaps even more so, just waiting to begin his or her life of cruelty and murder.
It was a never ending cycle.
As it was, so shall it be…
Reading about the case made Holmes think about Cassia Ingram.
There had been little word from her since the day that he had gone to the hospital after leaving her sketches with LeStrade at Scotland Yard, although Watson had informed him that she had visited him several times while he had been in the hospital, after the surgery, but he had been too deeply sedated to remember her visits.
When news of Adam Montgomery's arrest had broken, Holmes had sent Cassia a text, just to enquired as to her health, and she had responded briefly that she was relieved that it was all over and that perhaps she might now get some peace, and that she was glad that he was making a good recovery.
When he had returned to Baker Street, Holmes had sent Cassia another text, but that had provoked no reply.
He had been mildly irritated.
She had, after all, made a promise to him, even though he no longer planned to hold her to it.
He had not thought her the sort of person who would go back on her word.
Mostly, he was disappointed, he realized, because he wanted to see her, just to reassure her, face to face, that he would not delve into her life to reveal her secret, not that he wasn't still curious, but that, upon reflection, he had realized that it no longer mattered, and would only cause her more distress.
He had no desire to hurt her, just to satisfy his own, insatiable, morbid curiosity.
However, it seemed for all intents and purposes, that he was going to be denied the opportunity to try to make amends for his behaviour, for she had disappeared back into her anonymity.
He hated loose ends.
He also hated the fact that he needed to see her, just to satisfy himself that she was well and suffering no ill effects from her homicidal night terrors, and that there were no lingering dreams or visions of Montgomery and his sadistic handiwork.
He had consoled himself with the fact that she had made him a promise, and that, perhaps, some time in the future, when she was ready, she would again seek him out.
He found his eyes being drawn to the new picture on the wall now.
Cassia's final gift to him.
He had found her sketchpad when he had got home from the spa and had not been able to resist a quick peek at the sketches Cassia had drawn of himself and Watson, however, what he had not expected to find was an exquisite depiction of his Grand-mere on the page before the torn sheets he had taken to Scotland Yard.
He had no idea when she had penned the image, but it was breath taking in its accuracy, and his heart had clenched in his chest for a moment as he looked into that wonderfully familiar, kind and loving face.
Cassia had drawn his Grand-mere exactly as he remembered her.
Full of life and laughter and wisdom, and the portrait had brought tears to his eyes, as Sherlock remembered how much he had loved his grandmother and just how much he missed her stabilizing presence in his life.
It was absolutely the most precious gift that Cassia could have given him, because it invoked such happy memories of bygone days.
He had purchased a good frame to house the sketch and placed it in a prominent position on the wall, and every time he looked at it, he found some new detail, a different nuance, and it never failed to make him smile.
It also never failed to make him think of Cassia Ingram, and that sweet, parting kiss.
After perusing the newspapers, Holmes decided to watch the television news.
He had been deprived of all his usual access to the outside world during his stay at the spa resort, limited television time, no computer, and only an ordinary landline telephone to keep in touch with Mycroft and John.
He had almost gone out of his mind with boredom, and so, since getting out of what he had come to consider his prison, he had gone totally overboard with his use of the television, computer, texting and emailing, just for the pure joy of it.
Other men had their boy toys, fast cars or aeroplanes or speedboats, his boy toys were gadgets that stimulated his brain and kept his mind in prime condition.
That was another reason why it was good to be home. No one could take his toys away from him.
Their attitude had been that he was there to rest and recover, but his argument was that it was his body that needed the rest, not his mind, and that boredom on his part would result in his shooting someone, however, as he didn't have access to a weapon, it was an empty threat, and they had known it, so, he had had to acquiesce to their stupid rules, and vegetate.
Now, sitting in his living room, he had the computer fired up ready to use, his mobile close to hand and the television soon blaring out.
He negotiated around the various news channels, SKY, BBC, ITN, even CNN were all covering fresh speculation that the 'Chase Murderer' may have claimed even more victims in his murder spree, and that if he had, they might never be found. He was refusing to co-operate with the Police, so they might never know for sure.
Yesterday the headlines had been about the fact that whilst on remand, he had been beaten to within an inch of his life by another inmate and had now been put on suicide watch in solitary confinement.
Holmes had no pity for the man.
What goes around comes around.
Child killers always suffered at the hands of other prisoners in jail. Their peers exacting the kind of revenge that parents, not the law, sort in retribution for the loss of their loved ones' lives.
Holmes also knew that there were no more bodies to be found.
Well, he was a sure as he could be, for if there were more young victims, surely Cassia Ingram would have come forward to tell him so, because she would want them found so that they could be given a decent burial.
No, they had been fortunate and stopped Montgomery early in his murderous career, thanks in the main to Cassia Ingram and her persistence to make someone believe her.
Cassia Ingram.
Whomever she might be, had remained silent and elusive.
At noon, Holmes went to the kitchen and put the casserole that Mrs Hudson had kindly left in the fridge for he and John's lunch into the oven on a low heat, and then made himself a cup of black coffee with two spoons of sugar and filched a chocolate biscuit from the cupboard and then carried both back into the living room and went to the table and his computer so that he could check on his website and Watson's blog.
Just before 1pm, Holmes heard the street door downstairs open and close and then familiar footsteps on the stairs.
"Sherlock? It's only me," John Watson called out, somewhat unnecessarily, Holmes thought to himself, as heard Watson climb the stairs; however, as he listened to the stairs creak, Sherlock was instantly aware that his friend was not alone.
The second set of footfalls was light and soft.
A woman, not a man.
"Look who I found on the doorstep," Watson entered the living room, a broad smile on his face, and behind him, Holmes espied another familiar, and to his surprise, much welcome face.
Cassia Ingram.
To Holmes, it was almost as though his earlier thoughts of her had finally conjured her up for him.
She looked well, he noted immediately, his eyes feasting upon her lovely face and sparkling green eyes.
She had lost more weight, but not through illness, he deduced, for her complexion was healthy, delicate English roses in her cheeks, her eyes bright, the gold flecks around the irises glowing.
She looked younger too, and he realized that he might have to revise his estimate of her age, considerably. Downward.
She looked good.
So good.
Healthy and well rested.
The weight of the world obviously lifted from her shoulders.
Holmes was both relieved and pleased.
She was much as he remembered her, but gone now were the haunted, weary eyes and the anxious demeanour.
Now that the weather had turned chill and autumn was definitely in the air, she had chosen her outfit accordingly.
She had donned a dark chocolate brown corduroy skirt that fell almost to her ankles, a plain cream blouse with delicate pearlised buttons, which she had paired up with a matching chocolate coloured canvas jacket over the top, and for today's footwear she had selected a pair of soft leather tan coloured ankle boots.
Her long hair had recently been trimmed and highlighted and was captured in a plain silver barrette in the nape of her neck, and just as he remembered, she wore no make-up and no jewellery, save for the same simple inexpensive watch that had always adorned her left wrist.
"Hello, Sherlock."
She made no attempt to enter the room, but she did greet him with a warm smile, remaining just inside the doorway.
"You look well."
"Indeed, I am. So do you."
"Thank you."
"Please, do come in and make yourself comfortable."
He indicated to the comfortable armchair opposite his own seat, while Watson shrugged out of his jacket and slung it casually around the back of one of the dining chairs at the table.
Holmes deliberately avoided calling her by name, which she did not fail to notice as she finally came into the room and made her way to the seat that he had indicated.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" Holmes asked as she sat down and tidied her skirt around her legs, crossing her booted ankles neatly, as she made herself comfortable.
"Yes, thank you. Tea would be nice."
"I'll see to it," Watson offered, aware that perhaps the two of them might appreciate a moment of time alone together.
"Luncheon won't be long, if you would care to join John and me?"
Sherlock waited until Watson had disappeared into the kitchen before offering the invitation.
"It smells wonderful."
"A simple chicken casserole, courtesy of Mrs Hudson."
"However, I really can't stay. Regretfully," she gave him a genuinely regretful smile. "Another appointment. The other reason I'm in town today. I really just came because I made a promise, and I owe you an explanation."
"There really is no need. Upon reflection, and, I have had much time to do that lately, I realized that you were right. I have no right."
"No, Sherlock. I made you a promise."
"Which I now release you from."
"That's very magnanimous of you, a noble action, but if it's all the same to you, I'd still rather just get it over with."
"You paid the piper, now you have to dance for the devil," Holmes intoned sarcastically. "It really is not necessary," he reiterated in irritated tones.
"Yes it damn well is, for my peace of mind, Sherlock, so please, just shut up and let me get on with it. Forgive my cynicism, but I need to be certain that when boredom sets in, you won't entertain yourself by pursuing my so called secret."
"You have my word."
"Sorry, not good enough," she gave him a humourless smile now. "I trust you. I even believe that you mean it, now, this minute, Sherlock, but what about a year from now? Two? Ten?" she gave him a speculative look.
"No, I can't live like that, and I won't. I would always be worrying about what you were up to; I'd always be looking over my shoulder. I'm sorry if it offends your delicate sensibilities, Sherlock, but that is how it is. It's not that I don't trust you. I do. I'm about to trust you with the singularly most important facts of my life. It's human nature, I suppose. Uncertainty. So, if I tell you everything, lay your mind at rest and tell you all that there is to know, you will have no further need to concern yourself and to go digging around in things that you shouldn't, and therefore we will both rest easy in the future."
"Very well," Holmes acquiesced, although he did not appreciate the fact that she would not simply take his word. Normally, his word was his bond and everyone he dealt with accepted that.
However, he realized that he should have expected nothing less from her, and he understood her reasoning, even if it left him wondering about the possibility of their paths crossing again in the future.
Now why should that bother him so much?
Now that the case was settled, and once this visit was over, there would be no need for them to see each other again.
It shouldn't matter to him in the slightest, but, somehow, it did.
"You are no longer under any obligation to me, but I understand your motivation, so, whatever you choose to confide in me, here today, will remain within these four walls. You have my word."
"Thank you."
From the kitchen they could hear the sounds of John Watson making the tea, both of them aware that in his less than subtle and tactless way, he was keeping busy and allowing them time to talk, however, by mutual silent consent, they decided to wait for him to join them.
The tea made and biscuits passed around, Cassia Ingram drew in a long, steady breath and fixed her green gaze on Sherlock's expectant face.
"So," she began. "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away," she spoke in slightly sarcastic tones, a wry half smile on her lips now. "When I was just embarking on a normal, hormonal teenage life, doing what teenage girls do, working hard at school, worrying about zits and when I would get boobs and lusting after the latest boy band or hunky Hollywood heart throb, you know the sort of thing."
Holmes, of course, did not, having never been a teenage girl, or even a normal teenage boy himself, but he made no comment, sensing that she just needed to talk and that now that she had begun, it would be unwise to interrupt her.
"I was an ordinary kid growing up in an ordinary family, or so I thought. Of course, the older I got, the more I realized that they were far from ordinary. My father was an important man. He had a title and sat in the House of Lords, advising the Prime Minister, on what I know not, but I know that he was important," She explained in neutral tones.
"I also realized that we must have had money. All the girls at my school had rich parents, so it naturally followed that mine must be rich too. I never thought of us as being rich, but I never wanted for anything and we always had nice things and a big house in the country, and a big flat in London," she continued.
"So, we had money and privilege, and I was going to one of the best schools, making influential friends, rubbing shoulders with royalty, our own and foreign princesses, being groomed to make a good marriage, but I never thought anything of it, it was just normal to me. I'd never known anything else."
She paused to take a sip of her tea, and then draw in a soft breath before continuing.
"I had an older brother and sister. My brother was in his final year at Eton and my sister was a couple of years older than me, in the 5th form at the same school. My brother was heading for Oxford after Eton, and that summer, everyone was excited or anxious because we knew that he was going away."
"My mother was also from a good family, if more modest means. She became something of a society beauty, and enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful with Daddy's money, supporting every charity known to mankind and rubbing shoulders with the brightest and the best."
Again she kept her tone neutral, her gaze steady on Holmes' face.
"The older I got, the more I realized that it was far from an idyllic life, but mostly, I was happy. Relatively happy," she clarified, although there was now a hint of sadness creeping into her voice.
"I was away at boarding school much of the time, but when I was at home during the holidays, I was aware that my parent's marriage wasn't the happiest of arrangements."
Holmes was listening carefully, silently searching his memory for some scandal from the recent past that he might be able to link with her, for it was fast becoming obvious to him that something of that nature had happened in her life, and, he deduced, that that was what had caused her to go to ground and lose herself.
However, he decided to allow her to continue without interruption.
"There were nasty atmospheres, rows, tantrums and violent outbursts, mostly about money, or other suitors, and my father's gambling. He loved to throw money away at the gambling clubs and casinos, when he wasn't running the government. While he indulged himself; my mother alleviated her boredom by taking a string of less than discreet lovers on long foreign holidays. The rows were about her flaunting them under my father's nose, and the bills she racked up on gifts for her men friends."
"My brother and sister shielded me from the worst of it, of course, and much of the time I was oblivious to what was really going on. It all came out later."
She let out a hefty sigh now and adjusted her position in her seat, crossing her ankle over the other foot and she wriggled in her seat briefly.
Holmes deduced that her discomfort stemmed more from the details that she was revealing about her former life than from the chair she was sitting in.
He could think of several scandals amongst the aristocracy and Government Ministers in the last twenty years, but thus far, he did not see how any one of them might be connected with the young woman sitting opposite him.
"My mother's family eventually disowned her, tired of the speculation and the rumours, besmirching their name, or, I should say, one member in particular. Her father was a simple man, loving and kind, but he had no money or influence, whereas, his older brother did, and he saw to it that my mother had no contact with her parents, and that meant that neither did we children. My father's parents were both dead by this time."
She paused todraw in a steadying breath now.
"That summer it all came to a head."
She paused, swallowing, giving herself time to build up the courage to continue and to organize her thoughts.
"As soon as I came home from school, I knew there was something different. The Government had changed that spring, and my father had lost his privileged post, and along with it his salary and his access to the people he relied on to help him out when he needed money," she explained.
"He was devastated. He started drinking heavily and taking out his frustrations on my mother and my siblings. My brother was desperately unhappy. His future at Oxford was in jeopardy, and he was feeling the pressure, as the heir apparent, pressure to do well at school and to make the right kind of friends and to find the right kind of bride."
"As my father's only son, he was under pressure to present a certain image to the world, an image of success, money, power and influence, but he was struggling at school, his grades were dropping and his attendance was poor. My father found out at the end of the term that he had been skipping classes."
"Poor Charlie, we didn't know it, but he was failing. He was weak, mentally and emotionally. He turned to drugs and alcohol for comfort, and unfortunately, he over indulged. He died from a massive overdose of heroin when he realized that he was going to fail most of his exams. That was when it all hit the fan. I was 13 years old. the summer of '97, when 'things could only get better..." she sarcastically paraphrased the song that had been popular at the time of the change of government.
Sherlock Holmes nodded solemnly, beginning to realize now that he recognized some of the facts that she was laying out for him.
It was coming back to him, slowly, and as it did, he began to realize the enormity of it.
"My father was Sir John Glazzard, the 11th Earl of Widham."
"Ah ..."
Yes.
Indeed.
As soon as he heard the name, Holmes recalled the case clearly now, although he had only been a teenager himself at the time.
Naturally, it had been all over the newspapers and television news for months after.
A proper, very British scandal.
The errant Earl had gunned down his whole surviving family. His beautiful, unfaithful wife, and both daughters, and then, he had burned the Ancestral home down before finally shooting himself in the head, presumably tipped over the edge by the loss of his government position and the death of his only son to drugs, coming so close together.
"I see you remember the case."
There was sorrow, and resignation in her voice now.
She had never for one minute doubted that her family's scandal might have passed beneath his radar.
"Yes," Holmes frowned. "But my recollection of the facts as they were reported is that the whole family died."
"Indeed we did."
"But..."
"Well, obviously, I survived. Unofficially, of course."
She smiled patiently then.
"When the police arrived, I was still alive, barely, so they sent me off to hospital, and my mother's family were advised of the situation. My mother's father had no means to pay for my care, which was going to be a long, expensive process. I had been shot in the chest, the bullet lodging in my aorta, and there were to be many dangerous and complicated, not to mention exspensive surgical procedures to follow over the nexst few years."
She paused suddenly, as though the memory of it still caused her pain and anguish.
"My grandfather was just a lowly vicar with a small parish in the country, so, he had no option but to turn to his older brother, the Archbishop of York, for help. Grudgingly, he agreed to pay the medical bills, but only on two conditions, that my name be legally changed and the girl I had been up to that point be declared legally dead, and that neither I nor my grandfather ever had anything to do with him again. I was to be disowned too."
Again she paused, allowing Sherlock and John to digest what she had just told them.
"Naturally my grandfather agreed. I don't know how they swung it, legally, but, Lady Felicity Marie Glazzard died, and plain Jane Smith was born."
"Jane Smith," Holmes savoured the name, and smiled softly.
He realized that she had told him the truth when she had said that she was exactly what she appeared, and he had been mistaken when he had told her that everything about her appearance was a lie.
She did indeed look more like a Jane Smith than a Lady anything.
However, now that he knew the facts, the contradiction seemed natural. After all, for the first thirteen years of her life, she had been raised as an aristocratic Lady, and no matter how she might try to conceal it, or deny it, her true nature would always be there, just below the surface, at odds with the facade she now presented to the world.
"Pleased to meet you, at last."
Jane smiled softly, before continuing, realizing that Holmes finally understood.
"So, there I was, with no control over my life, everyone I ever cared for gone, along with my inheritance and my history. They were dark times for a while there."
She grew wistful for a moment, and then she drew in another breath and carried on.
"Actually, my Uncle did me a favour. I was able to live a pretty normal life, once I was over my injuries, and I loved living in the country with my grandfather. We had a chance to really get to know each other, a chance I might never have had otherwise. We had no money, but it didn't matter because we had each other."
"I went to a local school, an ordinary secondary school, made a few friends, and then from there, college. My grandfather was very proud of the way I got on with my new life."
Her smile grew stronger, briefly, and then she again grew sad.
"However, just before my fifteenth birthday, my grandfather had a series of strokes, mild ones to begin with but they grew progressively worse, and eventually he died."
She paused to draw in a breath, and Holmes noticed the change in her demeanour then, something making her back straighter and her facial expression harden.
"That was when my Uncle, the Archbishop was forced to step in and become my guardian. He was single. A strict disciplinarian and a man embroiled in his religious convictions and the politics and power struggles within the Church of England," she explained in a cold voice.
"Grudgingly, he took responsibility for my material needs, and I had no choice but to stay with him during school holidays, enduring his endless Bible bashing and scathing criticism of my parents and siblings, their pettiness and selfishness, forced to listen to his endless self pity about the position the scandal had put him in at the time."
"Unfortunately, it was around this time that my psychic ability began to manifest its self, firstly in dreams and nightmares and then in waking visions. At first I thought I was going mad. Needless to say, the Archbishop almost lost the plot. Not only was his only surviving relative the child or a whore and a murderer, she also had visions and heard voices. I truly was to him the Devil's Spawn."
She gave a bitter little laugh then, and from across the room, John Watson let out a snort of outrage.
"He was totally unsympathetic or even tolerant, and he tried to have me committed to a mental hospital, but fortunately, the doctors didn't think that I was actually mad. They treated me for grief and depression for a while and I learned to keep my mouth shut about the dreams and the visions, and finally they sent me back to the poisonous old Archbishop to endure more of his rage and hypocrisy."
She emitted a ragged sigh now.
"Eventually I turned eighteen and he kicked me out, cut me off without a penny, and sent me packing. Fortunately, my grandfather had left a small inheritance for me, in a trust, so I set out to make a life for myself, as best I could."
"However, before he severed all ties with me, my ever loving Uncle, made me sign a legal document, a contract, to the effect that I would not bring about any more shame or scandal upon his name, that I would not flaunt my wicked curse, after all, he was a man of God, with an important position in the church, and he had ambitions to go higher up."
"The document forbade me to publically associate myself with him, for any reason, good or bad, and if I ever got myself into any trouble in the future, I could not rely on him to bail me out."
"If I ever went to the press to try to sell my story, he would deny me, and prove me an imposter, and, if I ever used my gift to make money, he would do everything he could to denounce me, or, as my only blood relative, have me declared mentally incompetent."
She paused, glancing up briefly at Holmes before continuing.
"In other words, if he ever heard my name in public, he would see to it that I remained penniless and discredited for the rest of my life. Naturally, I needed money. I needed to feed and clothe myself. I was a pretty good artist, but it had only been a hobby until that point in my life. I had only used it for my own enjoyment and that of my grandfather. It never occurred to me to make a living from selling my work, but I did believe that I might be able to get a teaching degree and use my art to help disabled children," she explained, and Holmes noticed immediately that she was growing more relaxed once more.
"So, I enrolled in college and did an art course, then I got a student loan and put myself through University, here in London, doing a combined art and teaching degree. It was there that I met Maddie. She comes from a good family too, and we were very much alike. She is titled and privileged, and rolling in money, and I had grown up around those kinds of people, so we related well to each other. She is also the most down to earth person I know, and I have come to love her like a sister."
Now there was a genuinely warm smile on her lips.
"I was happy. Maddie and I shared a flat, and eventually I began to trust her enough to tell her my story. She has kept my secret all these years. She has helped me out with a place to stay and money when I have needed it, and we have laughed together and cried together over the years. When I finally graduated and got a teaching job at a small specialist private school for disabled children, I gave Maddie one of my paintings, as a gift, a thank you for everything that she had done for me over the years, and, as luck would have it, one of her friends saw it and raved about it."
"And Luca was born."
"Yes. At first I was appalled. I knew there might be a fuss, if people liked my work and I became successful, and that would put me in breach of my contract with my Uncle. I fought Maddie for a very long time, but then I realized that it was a pity not to share my work. It's not about money, Sherlock. It never has been for me. The whole point of any kind of art for me is to give pleasure, and my work wasn't doing that covered in sheets in my studio."
Holmes nodded in understand, art, like music, was meant to be shared and enjoyed.
"It was Maddie who came up with the idea of a pseudonym, like writers use pen names. A lawyer friend of hers also suggested using an intermediary as my advocate, a buffer between me and the rest of the art world, so I could maintain my anonymity."
"It worked very well."
"Yes, it did."
"And now that Luca is out there, in the public domain, you fear that your new identity is at risk. That is why you don't want me meddling."
Holmes spoke matter of factly.
"Exactly. I like my life just as it is, Sherlock. I no longer feel like I am hiding, but I also don't want to live my life worrying that someone might slip up and say something that leads the press straight to my door. The fewer people who know the truth, the better."
"And all this is because you fear what your Uncle might do?"
"In a nutshell, yes."
She grew solemn now.
"You can imagine what would happen should the old man get wind of what has happened, if he ever found out, and decided to tell the world about his accursed great niece's affliction and her family's wicked secrets. The press would have a field day and my benefactors and sponsors would all disappear into the woodwork, fearing that they too might be tarnished by my shame."
"Then they wouldn't be worth having in your life, Jane," John Watson intoned.
"I have certain responsibilities to them, John, and I have been grateful for their support. It wouldn't be a very nice way to repay their trust and their kindness."
She smiled at him.
"I have a simple life, a good life. I am content. I don't want to spoil the status quo. I couldn't cope with it. I just want to be left alone. Do you understand, Sherlock?"
"I understand your fears, Jane, but in truth, I doubt that your Uncle has anywhere near the power that you credit him with. I doubt very much that he would be able to enforce the contract between you," he pointed out.
"For a start, he would have some serious explaining to do about his actions back then, himself. Besides, you must surely be making a good income from the sales of your artworks, I've seen the reviews, and some of the figures quoted, so he would no longer have any power to influence your financial situation."
"But he could ruin my reputation. You of all people know how the press can turn on someone. One minute you're flavour of the month, the next you're up there with Osama Bin Laden, public enemy number one."
Holmes made no comment, but he knew that she was right.
He had had a taste of how the press worked himself and had not come out of it looking very good.
"He will bring me down, if he fears that his reputation is being threatened, and in his twisted mind, my very existence, who and what I am, what I am able to do, the very fact that I draw breath, is a threat to him. I know the kind of man he is, how ruthless he can be in pursuit of his own ambitions, and I have no doubts that he will do whatever has to be done to protect him self, and throw me to the wolves, with no regrets."
She was very persuasive in her argument, a further indication to Holmes of just how real she felt the threat to her from this vindictive old man was.
"I never asked that he love me, or even care for me, but he is all that I have left in the world, the only thing that I have that ties me to my family and their history. I respect his position, even if he is a bigoted hypocrite. It's no longer about faith for him. It's about respectability, reputation, appearances, power and position. They are the things that he lives for now. His love, if he ever had any, has turned to bitterness, disgust and hatred. He has reached a certain position within the Church, and he will die before he lets anything ruin that."
"Your work would speak for its self, Jane."
"I know, but I'm not talking about my artwork. I'm talking about my teaching job, and the fact that my employers would feel that I have lied to them all these years. I love teaching, Sherlock, and I won't do anything to jeopardize that. I love my art, but I would give it up in a heartbeat if I thought that there was any chance that someone might discover my true identity and rake up the past. I am a Pariah, Sherlock, the fruit of the poison tree. There would be no peace, no security. The media would hunt me down, hound me, and I simply cannot bear that thought, or what it would do to the fragile, special children I am charged with taking care of. I want to let sleeping dogs lie, Sherlock. Do you understand?"
"I believe so, although I feel that your fears are unfounded. Your parent's shame is not on you, Jane. You are not to blame."
"I know that, but the old man doesn't think like that. He has tarred me with the same brush as my father and mother. Their blood is in my veins, and one day, blood will out, as far as he is concerned. He has influential friends too. The kind of friends who can make someone legally dead at the drop of a hat, the kind of friends who could make my life, and that of anyone close to me very miserable. I just can't take the chance."
"Just who the hell is this man, anyway?" Watson demanded, outraged that anyone could hold so much power over another.
"The Most Reverend Andrew Considine, The Archbishop of Canterbury."
"Bloody hell..." Watson exclaimed.
"And a man who should know better. But I see what you mean about position and rank and power," Holmes sighed deflatedly.
"Fortunately, although I can't choose my family, I can choose my friends. I would like to be able to think of the two of you as my friends, amongst those I trust most in my life."
"Thank you," Holmes spoke sincerely, on behalf of both of them. "John and I would count that an honour."
"And you'll keep my secret?"
"Of course we will, Jane." Watson confirmed.
"You need have no doubts or fears on that account."
"Thanks."
"As for the money, you're right, Sherlock. It's akin to a King's ransom. More money than I could spend in several lifetimes, so I have been able to use much of the money to fund some of the projects at the school where I work, through Maddie, and her friends of course. I can't afford for the staff there to even suspect that the money comes from me, and I donate to other charities too. That's why I'm in town today, to sign several cheques for my favourite charities."
She smiled softly then.
"So, you see, Sherlock, it's not a skeleton in my closet or dirty laundry that makes me lie about my identity. I just can't run the risk of publicity. It would be hard to explain why I've been 'dead' all these years. I assume you have some experience with that yourself."
"Indeed."
"I have a pathological need to keep out of the spotlight and to keep under my Uncle's radar. Besides, I rather like being Jane Smith. Plain Jane, a nothing little nobody from nowhere, and that's just the way I want it to stay."
"You're none of those things," Watson interjected, but he underestood what she was trying to say.
"Your Uncle, he has no idea?" Holmes enquired, casually.
"None. Why should he? We haven't spoken for a dozen years, and that suits both of us. As long as I stay invisible, I'm safe."
"And he calls himself a man of God," John Watson scoffed.
"He can't live forever, Jane," Holmes pointed out, recalling that the present encumbent of the title of Archbishop of Canterbury was a man in his late eighties. "One day you will be free to step out from his shadow."
"In many respects, Sherlock, I already have, but I know what you mean. I will be able to face the world and perhaps change how the world thinks and feels about my family and their name."
"They couldn't have been all bad, Jane," Watson interjected.
"Indeed. They created you," Holmes added, with a gentle smile.
"Thanks. Anyway, I had better make a move. I'm expected for lunch with Maddie and my lawyer."
"And I'd better check on that casserole …"
Watson excused himself rising from his chair and disappearing into the kitchen as Holmes and Jane rose and looked at each other with gentle eyes.
"Will I see you again?" Holmes asked unexpectedly. "Or are you never to darken my doorstep again?"
"Never is a long time, Sherlock," Jane smiled sweetly up at him, reaching out to capture one of his hands in her own, and again, Holmes experienced that jolt, like a bolt of lightening slamming through his whole body.
"And I have it on good authority that whilst you night think you are the smartest thing since sliced bread, you can't solve every thing on your own. If our paths are meant to cross in the future, Sherlock who are we to disagree with those older and wiser than ourselves?"
She rose on tiptoes and quickly closing the gap between them, planted soft, sweet lips against Holmes' in a brief, tender, bittersweet kiss, and then she drew away again just as quickly, a big grin on her face.
"Take care of yourself, wise guy. Remember, you need the transport every bit as much as you need that noggin of yours. Try not to get into too much trouble, and you might consider trying to be a little bit nicer when dealing with the general public. A good reputation for your work is one thing but a reputation for being a good man, a kind and thoughtful man would be a better thing."
And with that she turned away from him, and Holmes made no effort to stop her as she made her way out of his living room and down the stairs, calling a final, cheery goodbye to both Watson and Holmes as she exited the street door of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes life, at least for the time being.
He found himself fervently hoping, with a soppy grin on his lips.