A Study in Satin

by Tigger
© 2000, all rights reserved

 

Part I: Semper Cogitus

Chapter 19. Escape!

 

The hansom cab clattered to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street just as the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Jenny Deavers paid the driver and hurried inside to escape the chilly, damp February night. Things had not gone as well as they might have done this day, and she felt the need to be with Sherla to support her just then.

As she removed her muffler and bonnet in the downstairs foyer, Jenny heard a soft, sad, but almost-sweet sound issuing from the upper rooms. She stopped to listen for a moment, trying to put a name to source of that sound. She was halfway up the stairs when a particularly sour note intruded on the otherwise haunting tones. A stern "Damn!" followed that note, whereupon the music, for that is what Jenny realized it was, resumed.

Violin music, but not any composition Jenny recognized, and she considered herself something of an afficionado of such things. It was a taste she'd developed as a gentleman's mistress. Going to the symphony had been one of her great pleasures in those days gone by, and music continued to be something she greatly enjoyed now that she was a modiste.

Jenny let herself into the Holmes establishment and immediately saw the source of the music. There, seated in the large comfortable chair, feet pulled up in front of her, was Sherla playing on an obviously fine and expensive violin. Her eyes were closed and there was as soft, utterly sensual smile playing on her full, angel-bowed lips. Jenny could almost forgive the girl her grossly unfeminine posture for the lovely sounds she was making with that beautiful instrument.

Another sour note broke the spell and was followed by another "Damn!" Sherla opened her eyes and stared at her left hand poised over the throat of the instrument. The look would have frozen water and Jenny wondered how those fingers would DARE misbehave in such a manner ever again.

"Ahem!" Jenny called out.

Sherla's head came up in surprise. "Jen. . I mean, Mother!" she said with a smile of welcome, "I did not hear you enter."

"Obviously, or you would be seated like a lady in that chair instead of looking like one of the apes on display down at the Tower of London."

Sherla managed a creditable blush, but hurriedly put her feet down on the floor, stood up to shake out her skirts, and then reseated herself with the grace and care Jenny had taught her that morning. "I've been practicing," Sherla said with a gamine grin that surprised Jenny almost as much as the music.

"Not enough if that is how I find you when I get home," she said trying to be stern, but in the end, her curiosity got the better of her. "How long have you played? What was that beautiful, haunting melody? Where did you get the violin - it is beautiful."

"It is a Stradivarius," Sherla replied as she rubbed her tender fingertips together. *Hmmm, I seem to have lost my playing callouses as well.* "It belongs to me. . .I mean, it belonged to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have played since childhood. The melody, that I was not playing very well thanks to fingers that are smaller than I am used to playing music with, is not really from any known work. I was simply playing to try and help me think."

"I see," Jenny said quietly, "About what?"

"Options," Sherla replied, "and how few of them I have. I looked up the paper-aging process in my chemical monographs today, Mother. It takes a minimum of twenty four hours. I cannot leave until all the documents are completed and where they belong. That delays my start for the Continent another day. Time is running out for me and Moriarty will win, damn his black soul."

"There is no hope for more of the drug, or better yet, an antidote?" Jenny asked

Miss Sherla Holmes shook her head. "None. I have no idea what the ingredients are, and therefore, no way of attempting to concoct an antidote. By the time we can leave here, day after tomorrow, I will be down to approximately four doses, perhaps five if I can stretch the drug a bit, but no more."

"So what were you thinking of so musically, dear?" Jenny asked gently.

"I've been racking my brains, ever since I returned to Baker Street from my oh-so-fruitless trip to old Moriarty sites, to come up with the name of a man, *any* man to whom I could give the onerous task of stopping that Napoleon of Crime.

"And you can think of none?"

"Nary a one, Mother. I have heard some very positive reports about one or two fellows, but I have never met them to assess their mettle to my own satisfaction. And while I have met several very good, honest policemen in my years of consultation, I have never met one with the brilliance to stand a chance even against an age-diminished Moriarty. Not that I can safely assume that he is or will be all that diminished.

Jenny sat quietly for a long time, saying nothing, her eyes focused on something far away. Finally, she spoke. "And I don't suppose, that in all of your years, you ever met a woman who might have such capabilities?" Jenny shook her head angrily. "Of course you haven't. Not only does Society frown upon intelligent, powerful women, other than Queen Victoria, of course, but you as Holmes would not have recognized such attributes in a mere woman."

Taken aback by Jenny's outburst, Sherla sat back in the deep cushioned chair. "I recognized them in you, Jenny," she eventually said, then her own eyes became unfocused. "Come to think of it, there was another - Irene Adler."

"Who?" Jenny's head perked up.

"An opera singer with a talent for investigations. At least twice that I know of, she bested me in a battle of wits."

"She was a criminal?" Jenny was clearly appalled that a woman, an EVIL woman, might have defeated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

A chuckle relieved her fears. "Nothing like that. In both cases, it was only honorable that she overcome, and well done of her to have done so. Still, she did best me. . . I wonder. . "

The violin came back to her chin and soon, the eerie, sweet music again filled the rooms. Jenny was content to listen, and watch her friend submerge herself in the joy of playing the violin. This went on for nearly a half hour when, quite suddenly, the music changed to something that sounded very much like an Irish jig.

"By Jove, Mother, you are in the right of it. I must go to Paris, find Irene, and task her to the stopping of Moriarty. By Heavens, it is perfect. If he uses the same potion on her, he will only be creating his own worst enemy. Irene is magnificent as a woman, but were she to be changed into a man - a YOUNG man - she would be practically be equal to me at my best!"

Still not certain she trusted a woman who had found it necessary to "best" Mr. Sherlock Holmes (and not really entirely convinced this opera singer actually could have done so), Jenny's response was obviously lukewarm.

Sherla heard the uncertainty, and quickly gave Jenny the particulars on the Bohemian King case during which, Holmes had met Irene Adler.

"And she dresses in men's clothing?" she asked incredulously. When Sherla nodded in the affirmative. "Lord, that is something I always wanted to do, but never quite had the courage to try in my youth."

"Odd you should mention that, Jenny. Day after tomorrow, I have a task for you as part of my plan to escape.

"Oh really? Aren't you going to tell me what that task is?" Jenny asked, only to smile when she got the expected negative response from her foster daughter. "Oh very well, then, be that way. Then you might as well deal with these," she added, tossing a small bundle to Sherla. "Those are the papers you asked me to procure for you from my friends and contacts."

Sherla quickly scanned through the various documents, a smile forming that quickly grew radiant. "Well done, Mother. Thank you. I will start aging these while you prepare dinner.

~-----------------~

The morning after next, Sherla exited the Baker Street lodgings dressed in her "Nurse Hanks" uniform and was met by a pale, thin young man in an ill fitting uniform of London cab driver. Miss Holmes smiled at the nervous man and inspected the landau carriage he had driven to her home. After a few moments, she nodded. *It will do adequately enough,* she thought. Actually, she had wanted a four horse team, but the need for secrecy had forced her to use the young medical student as her driver. Controlling a "four-in-hand" was simply beyond his skill as a driver.

For all his inadequacy as a driver, using him in that role did provide additional protection for the mission's secrecy. The would-be doctor had a great deal riding on the successful outcome of this mission. Jenny now had written authority to withdraw the Holmes Estate's financial support that would put the young man through medical school in some degree of comfort. If he talked imprudently about this little adventure, his dreams of a medical career might as well go up the nearest chimney as smoke.

"Everything is in readiness? All three special cargos are here?" Sherla finally asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," the young would-be doctor replied. "Two in the back and the other thing in the main compartment. Good thing it's chilly, though, Ma'am."

"True," Sherla might have said more, but just then the Baker Street door opened again to allow a very old, bent man to make his painful way up to the landau. Sherla, as nurse, hurried to assist her patient into the carriage. "Let us be on our way," she ordered as she herself ascended into the cab, "I wish to be at the way-station by noon."

~------------~

They arrived at the way station about a half hour past noon, but fortunately still before the normal mid-day meal hour. The driver drove the landau over to a space behind the outdoor facilities, and hopped down to help his passengers disembark. Sherla had chosen this place because she remembered how well sheltered the outdoor privies were from prying eyes by their own construction and by the nearby woods on the side opposite the main inn.

The suddenly spritely old man hurried into the mens' room while Sherla went into the ladies' convenience. They met outside but a few moments later. "All clear," they both said simultaneously. Quickly, the three opened the after baggage compartment. Working together, they strained to remove two long, narrow and relatively heavy bags from within the baggage compartment whereupon the two "men" carried one bag into each of the two restrooms while Sherla kept watch.

Each bag was then perched upon one of the seats provided inside the outdoor facilities. Then Sherla opened her portmanteau and removed a large paper-wrapped package with a clock device affixed to the top of it. The box was set immediately in front of the larger of the two bags in the men's side of the privies. In the meantime, the driver and the "old man" carried in the "third package", a costume-dummy dressed in women's clothing. Quickly, the "old man" stripped off the clothing and the makeup to reveal Jenny.

Sherla helped Jenny don the dummy's more normal feminine attire. "You are sure everything will burn," Jenny asked one last time.

"Yes, the explosive includes substantial portions of white phosphorous and magnesium. The explosion will become incendiary almost immediately, and there is nothing known to science, short of allowing it to burn itself out, that can extinguish that type of fire. The dummy was specifically constructed of particularly flammable materials and these old buildings are redolent with highly combustible hydrocarbon compounds. This place, and everything in it will be reduced to ashes within minutes. Now, you and the driver must go to the inn and demand meals for four. I will give you two minutes to get inside the inn, and then I will set the timer for two minutes and go hide in the woods as we planned."

"As YOU planned, Miss," Jenny said caustically. "I still believe I should accompany you - young ladies, such as you are *now*, are expected to travel with companions to protect their virtue."

"And female though I am *now*," Sherla retorted with a gentle smile, *I am not traveling as a Lady, Jenny, but as an underpaid companion on my way to France to meet with an English lady living abroad who wishes to hire me. Such women as I will purport to be *do* travel alone. In fact, it might raise suspicion if I were *not* traveling alone." Sherla saw her arguments were having as little effect on Jenny as the last time they had this . . . "discussion". "Mother," she finally said in a very quiet voice. "This could be dangerous. I cannot do what I MUST do if I am worried about you. Please," she finally added.

Jenny stared at her for a long moment, and then swept the girl into a fierce hug. "You damn well come home safely, girl!" she ordered intensely. "I don't want to lose the daughter I have always yearned for just days after I finally meet her."

"God speed, Mother," Sherla said.

"God speed to you as well, daughter," Jenny said before she stepped out of the room.

Sherla heard the springs of the landau creak, and the horses' shod feet clank against the stone drive. She mentally counted off one hundred twenty seconds while she made one last check to ensure no one was approaching the privies, and then set the timer on her explosive device. She snatched up her portmanteau, and hurried into the woods, away from the Inn. *Thankfully, there isn't any snow and this stone will not give the local police any footprint clues.*

One hundred twenty seconds later, the outdoor privy building exploded in a blaze of white light, red flames and black smoke. As Sherla had predicted, in less than five minutes, the walls of the building collapsed under the hellish heat. By the time anyone from the inn arrived on the scene, there was little left but ashes.

However, a high pitched feminine squeal told Sherla, that perhaps something recognizable might have survived from the two cadavers the medical student had procured and helped them plant on the scene. *Good bye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and unknown nurse,* she thought grimly. *Rest in peace.*

Without a backward glance, Miss Sherla Holmes turned away and started walking parallel to the road towards Dover. She'd flag down the next packet along the way. With any luck, she'd be in Dover by nightfall.

~--------------~

London Times, Morning Edition,

February 16, 1911.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, well known consulting detective of yesteryear, was evidently murdered yesterday at a small traveler's way station south of London on the Dover Road. According to Chief Inspector Harley Quinn of Scotland Yard, an explosive device of great power was placed in the men's outbuilding necessary while Mr. Holmes was inside. According to Inspector Quinn, the device was purpose-designed to act quickly under such conditions. "The explosion is the most likely cause of death, but like as not, we won't ever know," the Chief told this correspondent, "The fire was so hot, there was precious little left of him for the coroner to examine. Even his bones began to burn."

There were no eye-witnesses, but the driver, a Mr. David Thomas, and a fellow passenger, a Miss Jenny Deavers, said that Mr. Holmes did not appear to be well at the time of the incident. In fact, Mr. Thomas had been forced to help Mr. Holmes' nurse to carry him into the men's facility. "He was like dead weight," Mr. Thomas said, "Never said a word to me after I helped him inside, either."

In addition to Mr. Holmes, an as-yet unidentified young woman - small in stature according to what little the coroner has been able to deduce from the few bones left undamaged, died in the same explosion and fire. She was trapped in the women's necessary when the explosive device went off. Chief Inspector Quinn speculates that this may have been the Nurse. No name is available at this time.

Mr. Holmes is not known to be survived by any living relatives. His home at Baker Street has been sealed by officials pending a review of his records and effects before the reading of his will.

 

~----------------~

Moriarty smiled as he reread for perhaps the tenth time the article from the Times, as well as obituaries from several other prominent papers. So, Holmes had finally decided to take the easy way out. Too bad in a way, Moriarty mused, for it would have been quite delightful, once his drug was perfected, to have a female Holmes at his youthful mercy. What a triumph it would have been, to force her to accept him as a woman accepts a superior man.

Well, he had anticipated this. Holmes, like Moriarty himself, was a creature of pure intellect. Eventually, the creeping consumption of femininity had eaten away at that magnificent mind, slowly destroying its power and reason. Naturally, Holmes must have reached the point where he could no longer tolerate such a diminution of powers, and had elected to end it all. Much as he had planned to do before Moriarty had inadvertently interfered. A chuckle broke the silence. That merely delayed the death, and it meant Holmes had been forced to deal with his loss while trying to come up with a means to carry to fight to Moriarty.

So, in the end, the great Sherlock Holmes had failed, and the Professor had won. He looked down and read the article once again. *I wonder how Holmes managed to get the male body to burn? The driver's comment about dead weight is a dead give away. Holmes must have set the explosive device himself, and then went to the women's facility to make it look like an accident,* Then, another thought struck Moriarty. *It would appear that it is just as well that I resisted the temptation to leave any clues or false trails to tease Miss Holmes. Waste of time I did not and still do not have. Most particularly if doing so would not have added substantially to Miss Holmes' feelings of ill use and torment.*

Moriarty raised his glass in toast. "To Holmes, my old enemy. Even in your madness and in the method of your death, you were brilliant. You were almost a matchless foe, but I am Moriarty. Ultimately, it had to end this way." He finished his drink and threw the glass into the fireplace. "Good Riddance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

 

 

 

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© 2000 by Tigger. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.