Saturday morning, I found myself up early with the sun and on my way to the nearby market. It was a bustling little place, crowded with vendors, and full of interesting smells – some pleasant, some not so much – but it was a rare moment for me to venture forth into the world, so I relished the time there.
I was standing at a fish stall when a familiar voice sidled up next to my ear. "May I join you?"
I startled, surprised to see James standing there with sackcloth swung over his shoulder.
"Um," I stammered, handing the coin over to the stall girl and accepting the newspaper-wrapped bundle of fish. "Of course."
He noticed how flustered I was. "I wasn't following you, Mary," he laughed. "I'm here to sell." He patted the bag.
I moved away from the stall, and he fell into step with me into the busy crowd.
"Oh, I didn't know you sold your game."
"Mmmmm." He nodded proudly. "I've been saving up. I have my eye on a little farm a few towns over."
"Indeed? What a lovely thought. I suppose it would be nice to be your own man."
He hummed in agreement and sidestepped a family crowded around a stall selling cloth dolls. "A bit frightening too," he admitted. "The Holmes have been generous with me. Though Master Holmes is certainly an interesting person, he is one that creates no little amount of stress wherever he goes."
"How long have you known the family?"
"My whole life. My father was the gamekeeper before me."
I looked up at him, surprised. "I was not aware of that. So you've known Jane and the boys since they were little?"
"Not Jane," he corrected. "She has only lived here recently; she came to Yorkshire roughly five years ago. So I've known the two boys since childhood. Mycroft, whom you have yet to meet, is the older one."
Mycroft, I thought. What an odd name. "What was he like?" I asked, failing to keep the curiosity from my voice. I had heard a bit about this elusive older son but nothing concrete.
James seemed to weigh his words carefully. "An oddity. Unbelievably intelligent even as a boy. Studious and … still, I suppose is a good word. I don't believe I ever saw him play or cavort like young boys do. Of course, he was 10 years my senior, so this may colour my memories of him. The younger one was much closer to me in age. We even played with each other for a bit before his father put a stop to that."
"He was worried about his public image?"
"No. I think he just enjoyed isolating his son."
"Why?"
He hummed again. This time the sound was evasive. "Why indeed?" he murmured.
I looked sharply at him. "Do you know why Mr. Holmes and his son seem so in conflict with one another?"
He glanced around as if to make sure no one we knew was nearby to overhear our gossiping. "Mr. Holmes is a man of complicated beliefs. One may even say, delusions, at times. Once he has made up his mind about something, it is hard to disavow him of said beliefs, no matter the evidence to the contrary."
We walked on for a bit, weaving through the crowd. At last, I was forced to admit, "I'm sorry. I do not follow your meaning."
"A moment." He stopped and spent some time with the meat stall, emptying his bag of his game and trading it for a pouch of coin. Despite the time it took, he picked up the story as soon as we were on our way again, this time through the crowds to the fruit vendors.
"Let's just say he believes he has no real obligation to provide for the younger son," he whispered, careful to make sure he was not overheard by anyone passing close by.
It took a painful moment for me to realize what he meant, and I drew up short, causing a woman behind me to run into my shoulder. I hardly noticed, staring up at James agape. "Why would he believe such a thing?"
He waved his hand. "Why does he believe any of the things he believes? He is not well. He had a violent temper too," he mused ruefully as he remembered something unpleasant. "He once almost struck me for laying a trap wrong. If my father hadn't been there, I'm afraid it may have gone much worse for me." My stomach rolled at the thought, but he continued on, "The only reason he hasn't caused more of a scandal with his accusations is that he knows public knowledge would embarrass him as well."
I fell silent, digesting this new, unsettling information and all it implied. James noticed my distress and looked remorseful.
"I'm sorry. We should not be discussing such things." His bag was empty, but he cocked his head at me. "May I continue to escort you? I would like to tell you about my farm."
I laughed, trying to shake off my unease. "Of course. I would love to hear about your farm."
When I returned to the house, I packed away the food and took my mending into the sitting room. The family hardly ever entertained visitors, and they never sat together, so the place was usually empty except for perhaps the son, but we had fallen into a comfortable company with each other.
This time, he came in shortly after I had settled down and perched on the edge of the seat next to me, tucking his violin under his chin and playing a few strings. I suspected it was a pretense, however, as it did not take him long to strike up a conversation with me.
"Did you have a pleasant time at the market?" he asked idly.
I glanced up at him, narrowing my eyes in mistrust. "I suppose."
"Must be refreshing to get away from the grounds every once in a while-"
"Sir-" I interrupted. It was clear he had some other objective in mind. It seemed unlike him to beat around the bush in such a graceless manner.
He dropped the pretense and stood, starting to pace. "Did you speak to anyone?"
"Is there someone, in particular, you hoped I'd speak to?" I wondered if he had gotten wind that I had spent the morning with James. Surely, there was nothing wrong with traveling the market with another. It was not as if we were alone.
Evidently, the company I kept was not his concern. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his face creased in concentration. "There is a young maid who works for the Carey home. Mabel. She's about your age. Her hair is a relatively unique shade of blonde. Covered in freckles." He made a circling gesture around his own face.
I let my mending drop into my lap. "Your meaning, sir?" I asked even though I already knew where this was heading.
"I wish to speak to her, but an intermediary may be more beneficial than attempting to meet her myself."
Despite my irritation, I felt a pang of sympathy for him. This was obviously something that he could not let go of. "This is about your friend?"
"Yes," he nodded tersely, still pacing with the most abstract look of concentration on his face. "The most effective way to administer poison is in one's drink or food. Warren often carried a small flask with him. The police have informed me – quite rudely – that they see no merit to my theory and therefore have not tested the flask, or less likely but still possible, any of the other drinks and food items in the home."
"And you wish to ask this girl to secretly bring you her deceased master's flask so you can examine it?"
"Yes, a small favor."
"Is it?"
"An important favor," he amended cooperatively.
I made a few stitches, considering. He waited patiently for me. Finally, I sighed. "You said her name was Mabel?" At his nod, I peered distrustfully at him. "Are you on a first-name basis with many of the servant girls in the area?"
He tipped his chin upwards in a haughty manner. "I'm on a first-name basis with a great many people from a great many walks of life. I'm generally quite proud of that fact." Seeing how unimpressed I looked, he sobered. "I helped her with a small matter when we were younger," he clarified softly.
"A small matter?"
"It's no euphemism, Mary. It was indeed a small matter. A misplaced item that may have resulted in her being turned out. I helped her find it. She's an honest girl, and I believe she would readily help me if you would ask."
"I'll consider it."
He smiled as if the matter was settled and raised his violin once more, providing me with a very nice concerto as I mended.
After a while, he dropped his arms and peered curiously at me before offering me the instrument.
"Would you like to try?"
I nearly dropped my needles. "Me? Oh, no, sir."
He seemed to think I was merely being polite and pressed the instrument into my hands, forcing me to untuck my legs and sit straight up. "Here," he commanded, guiding my movements. "You place it under your chin like so. The bow like this." He maneuvered my fingers to the strings in what I guessed to be one of the simpler chords. "Now, slide it gently across." I was nervous and shaking, but I obeyed. The sound was screeching, so I took another breath and tried again. Each time, it grew a little less discordant, but I marveled at how anyone could play such an instrument.
I finally dropped it into my lap. "You must move your fingers very quickly to make music," I observed.
He was leaning in front of me, his hands braced on his knees. "With practice, your muscles memorize the movements. You can complete a series of complex shifts without consciously thinking about them."
"How long have you been playing?"
He straightened up to his full height. "Since I was ten years old, but I've only taken it seriously for about four years."
"You play perfectly."
He colored at my words, though his eyes stayed stoic and unexpressive.
"You exaggerate. I have many technical flaws that you are simply not aware of," he said, his usually strident voice softening.
I stared up at him, the light from the window outlining his form. "Even your flaws sound perfect, though."
I could not read his stare. It lasted longer than I knew he would have liked, but an appropriate response to my statement was obviously difficult for him to muster. He appeared genuinely flustered by my compliment.
"You do not know all my flaws, Mary."
"I wish to know . . . everything." I hadn't meant to pause- it added a meaning to my words that I didn't quite understand at the time, though my pulse sped up alarmingly.
His face hardened as though he was in deep consternation. The sun shifted in that heavy moment and waves of light fell on his expression. He leaned forward so that his face lingered a few inches in front of me and his grey eyes met mine. I forced myself not to look away, or let on that my toes and feet had begun tingling.
His mouth opened and my gaze focused on it, in high-strung expectation of whatever intimate part of himself he was about to reveal to me. I was shocked that he was responding at all; that he hadn't simply demanded that I explain myself, or reprimand me for being so forward. But his eyes were warm, open. He knew I did not mean to sound so reckless. His confidence in my innocence calmed me at the same time it caused a prickle of irritation to form on the back of my neck.
He smirked and his eyes crinkled around the sides - that tickle of irritation turned into something else, something deeper.
He finally answered, "I am a terrible dancer. Two left feet, as my mother says." He winked.
I let out a shaky breath as he now moved around the room, shutting the windows to block out the sun.
I wondered what had just changed between us.