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charleygirlTitle: Jack In The Green 7/10
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2751
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Melville Hall at last...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
I says to myself, let’s go to Thame Fair
So I went to the field to fetch the grey mare
Come on, old lady, come off, old lady
We’ll have some fun at the fair
Here away, there we’re off to Thame Fair
- Thame Fair, performed by Magpie Lane
“You are certain of that?” Holmes asked.
Molly nodded. “I now it well. I taught her for eight years, Mr Holmes – I would recognise it anywhere,” she said firmly.
“It could be a skilful forgery.”
“It is genuine. Written under duress, perhaps, but it’s hers all right.”
I looked at the note again. It had been written quickly, in little more than a schoolgirl’s hand, the ink smudged and blotted by what appeared to be tears. A forgery could not have replicated the distress that was evident even in the singed remains.
Holmes took it back from me, examined it again, and strode towards the door. As he reached it, it opened again to admit the local doctor, who had come at exactly the right moment to take charge of my patient. He looked Edwards over and agreed with my diagnosis, sending one of Taplow’s constables running off for a stretcher. It transpired that he had summoned a surgeon from Banbury, and I was happy to leave the schoolmaster in his care.
Sergeant Taplow was inclined to linger, presumably in case Edwards should recover consciousness enough to reveal the identity of his assailant, but Holmes called imperiously from outside the building, in much the same tone he sometimes used to summon Mrs Hudson back in Baker Street. I exchanged a glance with the policeman, and he hurried outside.
“Come along, sergeant, we must hurry!” Holmes announced.
“Where are we going?” I asked, following him almost automatically.
“Melville Hall, of course. That is where all the answers lie!”
***
“Sir George was expected to attend the service this morning at St Peter’s,” Holmes said, leading us along the path that met up with the public lane to the hall. “I take it that he did not arrive?”
“I did not see anyone who might have been him,” I replied. “What were you doing in the tavern?”
“Having a most enlightening conversation with the landlord, Mr Cranleigh. He tells me that Sir George arrived at the Green Man one evening two weeks ago in a most unusual state – he barely seemed to know where he was, exhibiting a worrying confusion. Cranleigh, with all the experience of such things that only a publican of many years’ standing can have, assumed that the squire had been drinking heavily and summoned a carriage from the hall to take him home.”
“But we already know about that. Why should it now be important?”
“Because, Watson, Sir George is apparently a man of an abstemious nature. He is not a frequent visitor to the Green Man and Cranleigh was extremely surprised to see him. Since then I believe that there has been no sign of the squire. He - ” Holmes was prevented from continuing by the sound of running feet ahead of us on the track. A moment later Samuel came into view – he was pale, his face set in uncharacteristic anger. There was a sheet of paper in his hand which flapped in the breeze.
“Sam!” Molly exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?”
“He’s done it, Mr Holmes,” Samuel said, pushing the paper into my friend’s hands, “He’s finally turned the squire against me!”
Holmes hastily read whatever the missive contained. As he did, I saw his lips press together in a thin line. He slipped past Samuel and quickened his pace until he was almost running down the path. “Hurry, all of you!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Whatever has happened?” Samuel called after him.
I filled him in on the details as we chased Holmes. “What was in that letter?” I asked.
“My notice. I found my office shut up, the locks changed and that note pinned to the door. It’s signed by the squire but I know who is really behind it. Mr Jack has been doing his best to be rid of me for weeks.”
Molly threw her arms around him. “Oh, Sam. That wicked, wicked boy!”
We had stopped, and Holmes, realising that we were no longer behind him, came trotting back up the path, impatience writ clear upon his face. “Have you seen Sir George today?” he asked.
Samuel shook his head. “Not since last week, as it happens, and then he didn’t speak to me. It’s Mr Jack who has been dealing with the estate business, and a great mess he’s been making of it, too.”
“I thought as much. You need not worry, Mr Foster. Mr John Prior has no more authority to be giving orders at the hall than does Watson here. Blood may be thicker than water, but in the landed classes birth comes before both.”
I frowned, not sure what he was driving at. “Mr Prior is the squire’s godson, is he not?”
“A godson with expectations, it would seem,” said Holmes. He turned and continued on his way, leaving the rest of us to follow, Sergeant Taplow and one of his constables bringing up the rear.
“Was anything known of Prior before he arrived at the hall?” I asked Molly and Samuel.
My cousin shook her head. “We were not even aware that Sir George had any godchildren. As far as I know, he has no relatives living except Miss Charlotte, and therefore is the last of the Melvilles. He does not encourage friends, and the hall was a quiet place when I lived there – we never had house parties, or even gatherings for the shooting season.”
“That sounds most unusual for a man in his position. Does he not even exchange visits with his neighbours?”
“He is a reticent man, John, and solitary,” said Samuel, “He is quite happy with his own company.”
“I suppose that is why he has never married. To whom would the estate pass if anything happened to Miss Melville?”
They looked at each other. “The estate is not entailed,” Samuel said, “That is why Sir George was able to name Miss Charlotte directly as his heir, rather than any sons she might have. But as to where else it might go…I do not know of anyone who could inherit.”
“If Miss Melville will inherit everything, I wonder at her father’s haste for her to marry,” I remarked. “Surely there was no hurry?”
“There are more reasons for marriage than simply dynastic concerns, or even love, Watson,” said Holmes, having naturally overheard the conversation despite being several paces ahead of us. “Protection is provided by marriage, and it is quite possible that Sir George believes his daughter to be in need of the protection a husband can give her.”
“Protection from what? Or whom?”
“From Mr John Prior, of course. Who else?”
***
Melville Hall, when we reached it, was eerily quiet.
From the path it seemed almost to be uninhabited, its magnificent windows presenting a blank face to the world. I glanced up at the attic gables, but, as it had done the previous morning, the sun reflected with blinding intensity from the glass, hiding anyone who might be standing there with its fiery glare. From somewhere within I heard a dog barking, and my hand went instinctively to my pocket, only to find it empty. I had left my revolver back at Molly’s house, it naturally not being the done thing to take a firearm to church.
Holmes reached the front door first, and tried the great iron handle. It refused to budge. “Have you a key?” he asked Samuel.
“I don’t have that privilege,” Foster replied. “The front door is rarely used these days.”
“A side door, then? We could possibly break it down, but I would prefer to avoid alerting Mr Prior to our presence if at all possible.”
“The kitchen door. It’s always unlocked during the day,” said Molly before her husband could answer.
“Excellent! Lead on, Mrs Foster!” Holmes declared.
This she did, taking us round the side of the house and through a wrought iron gate into the walled kitchen garden. Here, amongst the vegetables and the glasshouses, tools stood in neat rows against a low shed, as though awaiting an invisible workforce. To my surprise, there was no sign of anyone, not even a single gardener tending his crops.
“Where are the staff?” I wondered.
“There’s a May fair over at Tatworth,” said Molly, looking around her with a frown. “The squire sometimes gives permission for the household to go, though never all on the same day.”
“This is starting to look sinister, and no mistake,” said Sergeant Taplow, mopping his forehead with a huge red handkerchief. “Servants given leave of absence for the day, missing young lady and no sign of her father…something’s brewing.”
“Almost like…” I faltered, not sure whether to voice the memory that had suddenly made itself known in my mind.
“What is it, Watson?” Holmes asked.
“Well, you remember that I was reading the article about the tragedy of Cumnor Place a few weeks ago?”
“I recall something of it, yes. Lord Robert Dudley, was it not?”
“Cumnor Place?” repeated Taplow, his face creased in confusion.
“The house in which Lord Robert’s wife, Amy, was living - back in the sixteenth century, when Queen Elizabeth was first on the throne,” said Molly, who evidently knew the story as well. The teacher in her came to the fore. “One Sunday she gave the servants leave to go to the fair - insisted that they all go, without exception, even though they objected. They eventually capitulated, and went, leaving her alone in the house.”
“When they returned, they found her lying at the foot of the stairs, her neck broken,” I added. “There was an investigation, and an official verdict of suicide, but the suspicion of murder haunted Dudley - and Queen Elizabeth - for years afterwards.”
Holmes had become very still while we spoke. I glanced at him and met his eyes – the next moment he fairly leapt towards the kitchen door. He tried the handle but it did not move, locked just as the front door had been. A howl sounded from within the house, though to my ears it sounded more mournful than savage. Holmes rattled the handle. “We must get this door open!” he exclaimed.
Molly came to the rescue, discovering a key under a flowerpot by the shed. We crept through the door and down the cool stone passageway, past the kitchen with its gleaming copper pans and enormous fireplace, past the scullery and the pantry and half a dozen other service rooms, all as empty as the garden had been. At last we reached the staircase which led to the main body of the house and filed up it, Holmes in the lead and Taplow’s constable watching out for the dog behind us.
“The attics, Mrs Foster,” said Holmes once we were standing in the great hall. “Do you know at exactly which window Mr Edwards saw Miss Melville?”
“The third along, at the very top of the house. The box room!” Molly replied immediately.
“Then that is where we will gain our answers. Onwards and upwards!” Holmes cried, starting up the wide staircase towards the first floor landing, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
The house had a curious, unloved feel, I thought as I forced my by now rather sore leg up the stairs. Despite its quantity of no doubt expensive glass, the interior was dark and cold. Portraits of Melvilles past, themselves covered with a layer of dirt, watched us as we made our way through the house, the spaces between them punctuated by the heads of forlorn-looking stags and foxes. I tried to ignore the ridiculous notion that their eyes followed me as I hurried as quickly as I could upwards after Holmes.
On the landing I caught sight of a splendid full-length portrait, better cared-for than the others, of a young woman in fancy costume, a large broad-brimmed hat trimmed with ostrich feathers tilted coquettishly to one side of her head. The colour was brilliant, though dimmed by age, the brushwork applied with exceptional delicacy. Holmes saw my attention and smiled slightly.
“No doubt that is the sub-standard Gainsborough we were told about,” he murmured. “It would seem that Mr Prior’s appreciation of art leaves something to be desired.”
“Mr Holmes! John!” called Molly from the floor above us, having neatly slipped past Holmes and taken the lead. “Up here!”
I did not relish climbing yet more stairs, but I pushed myself onwards, only a few steps behind Holmes, trying to control my rather laboured breathing. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that I was getting to old for this sort of thing, but, I reflected, I was in better condition than Sergeant Taplow, who came after us, wheezing like a grampus.
“I hope…that dog…isn’t up here…” he gasped.
As did I. There had been no sign of the mastiff since we entered the house, but I knew from the sounds I had heard that it must be there somewhere. I was mentally bemoaning the absence of my revolver when I felt something heavy and metallic pressed into my hand. Looking down, to my amazement and gratitude I saw that Holmes had brought my faithful old Webley with him. He gave me a quick smile before starting up yet another staircase, this one smaller and less sturdy than the others. Every step creaked as we ascended, and I held my gun at the ready, seeing Holmes take a tighter grip on his stick. It might look innocuous, but I knew that there was a blade concealed within the hollow shaft, and that my friend was an expert swordsman. If Mr John Prior were to make trouble, we would be ready for him.
We reached the attics, small rooms leading from a low-ceilinged passageway. The roof sloped above our heads, and Samuel and Holmes were forced to stoop in the confined space. Molly knocked upon the third door along – we all waited, but there was silence from behind the wood. She glanced at Holmes in an unspoken question, and he nodded. She knocked once again.
“Miss Charlotte? Miss Charlotte, it’s Molly. Are you all right?”
There was a pause, and then a strained young woman’s voice said, “Molly? Is that really you?”
My cousin appeared ready to cry with relief. “Yes! Yes, it is! Oh, thank God!”
Holmes tested his weight against the door. “Watson, Mr Foster – if I might have your assistance?”
The three of us put our shoulders to the panelling while Molly called to Miss Melville to move out of the way.
“Sergeant, keep a look out for that dog!” I told the hovering policeman. He jumped and barked the order to his constable, who was standing below us on the staircase.
Holmes looked over his shoulder at me. “Ready, gentlemen? On the count of three: one…two…three!”
We brought all of our combined weight to bear upon the door. It took three concerted attempts before there was a loud creak and then an even louder crack, and I quite suddenly found myself pitching forwards. Someone caught my arm, preventing me from falling into an undignified heap on the floor, pulling me upright. Before I could gather my wits enough to see what was happening around me, a small figure flew past into Molly’s outstretched arms.
“Molly!” she cried, clinging to my cousin, “Oh, Molly, dearest! I thought I might never see you again!”
“It’s all right, it’s all right, my angel, you’re safe now,” Molly told her, stroking the girl’s long fair hair. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”
Holmes paced about the tiny room. There was little to examine. The chamber was bare but for a truckle bed and some packing cases, a few female effects scattered about. It had the look of what it was: a prison cell.
“Miss Melville, where is Mr John Prior?” Holmes asked.
The poor girl had her head on Molly’s shoulder, tears of relief spilling from her large blue eyes. Despite them, I could see a fire there when she looked up at us, a determination. “He has gone to Banbury,” she said, “for a special license. He plans to marry me this evening.”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2751
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Melville Hall at last...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
I says to myself, let’s go to Thame Fair
So I went to the field to fetch the grey mare
Come on, old lady, come off, old lady
We’ll have some fun at the fair
Here away, there we’re off to Thame Fair
- Thame Fair, performed by Magpie Lane
“You are certain of that?” Holmes asked.
Molly nodded. “I now it well. I taught her for eight years, Mr Holmes – I would recognise it anywhere,” she said firmly.
“It could be a skilful forgery.”
“It is genuine. Written under duress, perhaps, but it’s hers all right.”
I looked at the note again. It had been written quickly, in little more than a schoolgirl’s hand, the ink smudged and blotted by what appeared to be tears. A forgery could not have replicated the distress that was evident even in the singed remains.
Holmes took it back from me, examined it again, and strode towards the door. As he reached it, it opened again to admit the local doctor, who had come at exactly the right moment to take charge of my patient. He looked Edwards over and agreed with my diagnosis, sending one of Taplow’s constables running off for a stretcher. It transpired that he had summoned a surgeon from Banbury, and I was happy to leave the schoolmaster in his care.
Sergeant Taplow was inclined to linger, presumably in case Edwards should recover consciousness enough to reveal the identity of his assailant, but Holmes called imperiously from outside the building, in much the same tone he sometimes used to summon Mrs Hudson back in Baker Street. I exchanged a glance with the policeman, and he hurried outside.
“Come along, sergeant, we must hurry!” Holmes announced.
“Where are we going?” I asked, following him almost automatically.
“Melville Hall, of course. That is where all the answers lie!”
***
“Sir George was expected to attend the service this morning at St Peter’s,” Holmes said, leading us along the path that met up with the public lane to the hall. “I take it that he did not arrive?”
“I did not see anyone who might have been him,” I replied. “What were you doing in the tavern?”
“Having a most enlightening conversation with the landlord, Mr Cranleigh. He tells me that Sir George arrived at the Green Man one evening two weeks ago in a most unusual state – he barely seemed to know where he was, exhibiting a worrying confusion. Cranleigh, with all the experience of such things that only a publican of many years’ standing can have, assumed that the squire had been drinking heavily and summoned a carriage from the hall to take him home.”
“But we already know about that. Why should it now be important?”
“Because, Watson, Sir George is apparently a man of an abstemious nature. He is not a frequent visitor to the Green Man and Cranleigh was extremely surprised to see him. Since then I believe that there has been no sign of the squire. He - ” Holmes was prevented from continuing by the sound of running feet ahead of us on the track. A moment later Samuel came into view – he was pale, his face set in uncharacteristic anger. There was a sheet of paper in his hand which flapped in the breeze.
“Sam!” Molly exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?”
“He’s done it, Mr Holmes,” Samuel said, pushing the paper into my friend’s hands, “He’s finally turned the squire against me!”
Holmes hastily read whatever the missive contained. As he did, I saw his lips press together in a thin line. He slipped past Samuel and quickened his pace until he was almost running down the path. “Hurry, all of you!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Whatever has happened?” Samuel called after him.
I filled him in on the details as we chased Holmes. “What was in that letter?” I asked.
“My notice. I found my office shut up, the locks changed and that note pinned to the door. It’s signed by the squire but I know who is really behind it. Mr Jack has been doing his best to be rid of me for weeks.”
Molly threw her arms around him. “Oh, Sam. That wicked, wicked boy!”
We had stopped, and Holmes, realising that we were no longer behind him, came trotting back up the path, impatience writ clear upon his face. “Have you seen Sir George today?” he asked.
Samuel shook his head. “Not since last week, as it happens, and then he didn’t speak to me. It’s Mr Jack who has been dealing with the estate business, and a great mess he’s been making of it, too.”
“I thought as much. You need not worry, Mr Foster. Mr John Prior has no more authority to be giving orders at the hall than does Watson here. Blood may be thicker than water, but in the landed classes birth comes before both.”
I frowned, not sure what he was driving at. “Mr Prior is the squire’s godson, is he not?”
“A godson with expectations, it would seem,” said Holmes. He turned and continued on his way, leaving the rest of us to follow, Sergeant Taplow and one of his constables bringing up the rear.
“Was anything known of Prior before he arrived at the hall?” I asked Molly and Samuel.
My cousin shook her head. “We were not even aware that Sir George had any godchildren. As far as I know, he has no relatives living except Miss Charlotte, and therefore is the last of the Melvilles. He does not encourage friends, and the hall was a quiet place when I lived there – we never had house parties, or even gatherings for the shooting season.”
“That sounds most unusual for a man in his position. Does he not even exchange visits with his neighbours?”
“He is a reticent man, John, and solitary,” said Samuel, “He is quite happy with his own company.”
“I suppose that is why he has never married. To whom would the estate pass if anything happened to Miss Melville?”
They looked at each other. “The estate is not entailed,” Samuel said, “That is why Sir George was able to name Miss Charlotte directly as his heir, rather than any sons she might have. But as to where else it might go…I do not know of anyone who could inherit.”
“If Miss Melville will inherit everything, I wonder at her father’s haste for her to marry,” I remarked. “Surely there was no hurry?”
“There are more reasons for marriage than simply dynastic concerns, or even love, Watson,” said Holmes, having naturally overheard the conversation despite being several paces ahead of us. “Protection is provided by marriage, and it is quite possible that Sir George believes his daughter to be in need of the protection a husband can give her.”
“Protection from what? Or whom?”
“From Mr John Prior, of course. Who else?”
***
Melville Hall, when we reached it, was eerily quiet.
From the path it seemed almost to be uninhabited, its magnificent windows presenting a blank face to the world. I glanced up at the attic gables, but, as it had done the previous morning, the sun reflected with blinding intensity from the glass, hiding anyone who might be standing there with its fiery glare. From somewhere within I heard a dog barking, and my hand went instinctively to my pocket, only to find it empty. I had left my revolver back at Molly’s house, it naturally not being the done thing to take a firearm to church.
Holmes reached the front door first, and tried the great iron handle. It refused to budge. “Have you a key?” he asked Samuel.
“I don’t have that privilege,” Foster replied. “The front door is rarely used these days.”
“A side door, then? We could possibly break it down, but I would prefer to avoid alerting Mr Prior to our presence if at all possible.”
“The kitchen door. It’s always unlocked during the day,” said Molly before her husband could answer.
“Excellent! Lead on, Mrs Foster!” Holmes declared.
This she did, taking us round the side of the house and through a wrought iron gate into the walled kitchen garden. Here, amongst the vegetables and the glasshouses, tools stood in neat rows against a low shed, as though awaiting an invisible workforce. To my surprise, there was no sign of anyone, not even a single gardener tending his crops.
“Where are the staff?” I wondered.
“There’s a May fair over at Tatworth,” said Molly, looking around her with a frown. “The squire sometimes gives permission for the household to go, though never all on the same day.”
“This is starting to look sinister, and no mistake,” said Sergeant Taplow, mopping his forehead with a huge red handkerchief. “Servants given leave of absence for the day, missing young lady and no sign of her father…something’s brewing.”
“Almost like…” I faltered, not sure whether to voice the memory that had suddenly made itself known in my mind.
“What is it, Watson?” Holmes asked.
“Well, you remember that I was reading the article about the tragedy of Cumnor Place a few weeks ago?”
“I recall something of it, yes. Lord Robert Dudley, was it not?”
“Cumnor Place?” repeated Taplow, his face creased in confusion.
“The house in which Lord Robert’s wife, Amy, was living - back in the sixteenth century, when Queen Elizabeth was first on the throne,” said Molly, who evidently knew the story as well. The teacher in her came to the fore. “One Sunday she gave the servants leave to go to the fair - insisted that they all go, without exception, even though they objected. They eventually capitulated, and went, leaving her alone in the house.”
“When they returned, they found her lying at the foot of the stairs, her neck broken,” I added. “There was an investigation, and an official verdict of suicide, but the suspicion of murder haunted Dudley - and Queen Elizabeth - for years afterwards.”
Holmes had become very still while we spoke. I glanced at him and met his eyes – the next moment he fairly leapt towards the kitchen door. He tried the handle but it did not move, locked just as the front door had been. A howl sounded from within the house, though to my ears it sounded more mournful than savage. Holmes rattled the handle. “We must get this door open!” he exclaimed.
Molly came to the rescue, discovering a key under a flowerpot by the shed. We crept through the door and down the cool stone passageway, past the kitchen with its gleaming copper pans and enormous fireplace, past the scullery and the pantry and half a dozen other service rooms, all as empty as the garden had been. At last we reached the staircase which led to the main body of the house and filed up it, Holmes in the lead and Taplow’s constable watching out for the dog behind us.
“The attics, Mrs Foster,” said Holmes once we were standing in the great hall. “Do you know at exactly which window Mr Edwards saw Miss Melville?”
“The third along, at the very top of the house. The box room!” Molly replied immediately.
“Then that is where we will gain our answers. Onwards and upwards!” Holmes cried, starting up the wide staircase towards the first floor landing, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
The house had a curious, unloved feel, I thought as I forced my by now rather sore leg up the stairs. Despite its quantity of no doubt expensive glass, the interior was dark and cold. Portraits of Melvilles past, themselves covered with a layer of dirt, watched us as we made our way through the house, the spaces between them punctuated by the heads of forlorn-looking stags and foxes. I tried to ignore the ridiculous notion that their eyes followed me as I hurried as quickly as I could upwards after Holmes.
On the landing I caught sight of a splendid full-length portrait, better cared-for than the others, of a young woman in fancy costume, a large broad-brimmed hat trimmed with ostrich feathers tilted coquettishly to one side of her head. The colour was brilliant, though dimmed by age, the brushwork applied with exceptional delicacy. Holmes saw my attention and smiled slightly.
“No doubt that is the sub-standard Gainsborough we were told about,” he murmured. “It would seem that Mr Prior’s appreciation of art leaves something to be desired.”
“Mr Holmes! John!” called Molly from the floor above us, having neatly slipped past Holmes and taken the lead. “Up here!”
I did not relish climbing yet more stairs, but I pushed myself onwards, only a few steps behind Holmes, trying to control my rather laboured breathing. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that I was getting to old for this sort of thing, but, I reflected, I was in better condition than Sergeant Taplow, who came after us, wheezing like a grampus.
“I hope…that dog…isn’t up here…” he gasped.
As did I. There had been no sign of the mastiff since we entered the house, but I knew from the sounds I had heard that it must be there somewhere. I was mentally bemoaning the absence of my revolver when I felt something heavy and metallic pressed into my hand. Looking down, to my amazement and gratitude I saw that Holmes had brought my faithful old Webley with him. He gave me a quick smile before starting up yet another staircase, this one smaller and less sturdy than the others. Every step creaked as we ascended, and I held my gun at the ready, seeing Holmes take a tighter grip on his stick. It might look innocuous, but I knew that there was a blade concealed within the hollow shaft, and that my friend was an expert swordsman. If Mr John Prior were to make trouble, we would be ready for him.
We reached the attics, small rooms leading from a low-ceilinged passageway. The roof sloped above our heads, and Samuel and Holmes were forced to stoop in the confined space. Molly knocked upon the third door along – we all waited, but there was silence from behind the wood. She glanced at Holmes in an unspoken question, and he nodded. She knocked once again.
“Miss Charlotte? Miss Charlotte, it’s Molly. Are you all right?”
There was a pause, and then a strained young woman’s voice said, “Molly? Is that really you?”
My cousin appeared ready to cry with relief. “Yes! Yes, it is! Oh, thank God!”
Holmes tested his weight against the door. “Watson, Mr Foster – if I might have your assistance?”
The three of us put our shoulders to the panelling while Molly called to Miss Melville to move out of the way.
“Sergeant, keep a look out for that dog!” I told the hovering policeman. He jumped and barked the order to his constable, who was standing below us on the staircase.
Holmes looked over his shoulder at me. “Ready, gentlemen? On the count of three: one…two…three!”
We brought all of our combined weight to bear upon the door. It took three concerted attempts before there was a loud creak and then an even louder crack, and I quite suddenly found myself pitching forwards. Someone caught my arm, preventing me from falling into an undignified heap on the floor, pulling me upright. Before I could gather my wits enough to see what was happening around me, a small figure flew past into Molly’s outstretched arms.
“Molly!” she cried, clinging to my cousin, “Oh, Molly, dearest! I thought I might never see you again!”
“It’s all right, it’s all right, my angel, you’re safe now,” Molly told her, stroking the girl’s long fair hair. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”
Holmes paced about the tiny room. There was little to examine. The chamber was bare but for a truckle bed and some packing cases, a few female effects scattered about. It had the look of what it was: a prison cell.
“Miss Melville, where is Mr John Prior?” Holmes asked.
The poor girl had her head on Molly’s shoulder, tears of relief spilling from her large blue eyes. Despite them, I could see a fire there when she looked up at us, a determination. “He has gone to Banbury,” she said, “for a special license. He plans to marry me this evening.”
TBC
