The Marriage of Mary Russell Read Online Free Page A

for a fancy-dress party.”
    I tried to envision his head—particularly in its current bedraggled condition—topped by a cricket cap; those piercing grey (and somewhat bloodshot) eyes looking out from under that diminutive little brim. I failed. Worse than the deerstalker with which the public mind had cursed him.
    “Ah well,” I said. “We’re sure to find out eventually. Are those scones done yet?”
    (In fact, I should note here, we never did—at least,
I
never found out why he needed cricket clothing that day. One of the many unsolved mysteries of Sherlock Holmes.)
    When Mrs Hudson had stuffed as many scones into me as she could—to my complete lack of argument, since among other things, this past month had seen me locked in a dark cellar on a bread-and-water diet—I finally pushed away my plate, drained my final cup of tea, and asked if she would like me to carry the last few in the basket home to Patrick.
    “Oh, Patrick’s away, dear.”
    “Away?” One might as well say the roof had gone missing. “Patrick’s never away.”
    “Something about a horse. Buying one? Taking one of the mares to one? I can’t remember.”
    At this last claim, I frankly stared: Mrs Hudson remembered everything. She blushed faintly. “He caught me when I was washing my hair,” she said. “We spoke through the bath-room door.”
    Modesty, thy name is Hudson—particularly, I thought, if Patrick had said he was putting one of the mares to a stallion. I pushed down a smile. “I see. But, why didn’t he tell me?” He lived a stone’s throw from my house, yet several miles away from this one.
    “Oh, he’d just decided. Spur of the moment, I’d say. He was here to pick up something I had for Tillie. Are you sure you want those, dear? They’ve gone quite cold. It’ll take no time at all to make a fresh batch, if you’d—”
    “Good heavens, no, you mustn’t make any more just for me. I can barely walk as it is.” I watched her wrap the remaining three golden treats into an old napkin, and as I put out a hand for it, a belated thought occurred. “But, that leaves you with none. And you must have been making them for yourself.”
    “Make scones for myself? Never. I sometimes bake just because my hands feel like stirring. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d have taken them to the rector. His wife means well, but she’s a bit absent-minded when it comes to the oven.”
    I allowed myself to be convinced, and tucked the still-warm parcel into my pocket, to supplement my supper. But as I arranged my hair beneath my woolly cap (wincing a touch at the still-tender knot on my skull), I saw from the clock that it was barely three: so much of the day left, then another day to get through…
    “Mrs Hudson, would you like to do something tomorrow? Go to the cinema, perhaps? Tea on the Front, in Eastbourne?”
    She looked surprised—and something else. Apologetic? Evasive? “Oh, Mary, I’m sorry, I have things to do. While Mr Holmes is out. You understand.”
    “Oh, absolutely,” I hastened to say. “No, really, I have a hundred tasks myself, what with spending the last month in London, and everything there, and, well…” What with recent trauma and abandonment and a loathing of darkness that might have me sleeping with lights on for the rest of my life…“I just thought you might be, that you’d—I’ll go now.”
    And I did.
    When I reached home, the house was dark, the kitchen empty. A lone saucepan stood on the sideboard, with a note propped up against it from Mrs Mark: stern instructions on how to heat up the soup without ruining the pan.
    I ate it cold, along with the single scone I had not consumed on my walk home.
    Perhaps I should go up to Oxford tomorrow after all.
    —
    Habit kept me in place: habit, and a determination not to run from discomforts. Also the knowledge that Thursday was approaching and Holmes was sure to appear at some point to let me know what he was up to. Probably not until five minutes to