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charleygirlTitle: Jack In The Green 8/10
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2953
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: Miss Melville has a tale to tell, and Holmes sets a trap for Prior...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bluebells they are starting to ring-o
And true love it is the thing-o
Love on any other day
Is never quite the same as on the first of May
- Dave Webber, performed by Magpie Lane
“Marry? Good God!” I exclaimed.
“I take it that such a union is not congenial to you,” said Holmes, going to the window and looking out.
“I would never marry him! I would not marry him if he were the last man alive!” Miss Melville cried. “He only wishes to marry me so that he will have this house and Papa’s money; that is why he is doing it.”
“He’ll never get a license on a Sunday,” said Samuel, “Surely he knows that?”
“I do not believe that Mr Prior has been in England long enough to be aware of such things. He will, however, soon discover his error and will no doubt be back before long,” Holmes responded, “with or without a corrupt clergyman in tow. I suggest that we descend to a part of the house that will be more easily defended, should the need arise.”
Miss Melville looked only too relieved to be leaving her prison. I wondered how she had borne it for the several days she must have been there – the tiny chamber was warm and stuffy, with nothing approaching the comforts she must be used to. She was pale and unsteady, and having seen no trace of food in the room I guessed that Prior had been rationing her meals in an attempt to force her to agree to their marriage. On the stairs she stumbled, and Samuel gallantly swept her up into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way.
Sergeant Taplow followed us down, wondering aloud what on earth was happening in the village. “I’ve never heard anything like it in all my life!” he declared.
“Perhaps you should read John’s stories, Mr Taplow,” said Molly, bustling about with cushions and rugs as we reached what must be a back parlour. The room was comfortable and cluttered, and had the air of regular use, unlike the rest of the house. “Such things happen more often that you might think! Poor Miss Smith in the case of The Solitary Cyclist, for example - ”
Miss Melville overheard this part of the conversation as Samuel set her down on a chaise longue. “,i>The Solitary Cyclist,/i>?” she repeated, staring first at myself and then at Holmes. A small hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness! Then you must be - ”
“Here to aid you,” said Holmes with a small bow.
The girl gazed at him, as if trying to reconcile his true features with those which had been given to him by Mr Paget, and in a flash she had jumped up from her couch and thrown her arms around him. “Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes! I thought I was lost, that there was no one who could aid me, no one at all!”
Holmes started, and then stiffened, unused to young ladies hurling themselves at him. He did his best to disentangle himself from her embrace without either offending or harming her. “It is Mrs Foster you should be thanking,” he said, finally managing to extricate his person from her arms. I smiled as I watched him brush down the sleeves of his rumpled jacket and smooth his hair. “It was she who summoned me to investigate. You have formidable watchdog in her, Miss Melville.”
The young lady glanced at Molly, who smiled and nodded. “But Doctor Watson persuaded Mr Holmes to come in the first place, didn’t you, John?” she said.
Before I could answer, there was a pair of slender arms about my neck and I was hugged fiercely by Miss Melville. “Thank you, Doctor Watson! You have saved my life!”
“Surely not,” I said, and then found myself catching her as the days of deprivation caught up and she crumpled. Molly helped her back to the couch, and I examined her while Holmes spoke.
“It is clear to me that Mr John Prior has ruled this household like a tyrant ever since he arrived,” he said. “Your father allowed him to do so because of the intimate relationship between them, a relationship Sir George would rather not have revealed to the outside world.”
Miss Melville nodded. “He has been blackmailing Papa, says he has documents that will compromise him, cause a scandal. Papa gave in to him, rather than lose his honour – he is not a strong man, I am afraid. He allowed him to rule the house, dismiss half the servants, and take what money he liked from the rents.”
“But he would not acquiesce to Prior’s final demand for your hand?”
“No. Papa has wanted me to marry ever since I returned from France, but I resisted.” She smiled. “I had fallen in love.”
“With Mr Henry Edwards, whom you met on the continent and persuaded your father to appoint as the new schoolmaster,” said Holmes. He leaned against the dresser, regarding us all. “Unfortunately, John Prior was also in France at the same time.”
“Of course – the boots!” I said.
He threw me one of those swift smiles of his. “Precisely, Watson.”
Samuel frowned, and Sergeant Taplow echoed, “Boots?”
“The man who attacked Henry Edwards was wearing distinctive French-made boots,” I explained.
“Which no doubt you will find if you make an examination of Mr Prior’s wardrobe,” said Holmes.
The blood drained from Miss Melville’s face, and she sat up on the couch. “Harry? Attacked? Oh, my – is he all right? He is not - ”
“Shush, darling.” Molly caught her flailing hands and held them tight. “He is being well cared for, don’t worry.”
“But - ”
“There is every chance that he will make a full recovery,” I said encouragingly.
“It was Jack, it must have been. He is so jealous of Harry,” said Miss Melville. “He hates anyone he thinks will keep him from his ‘birthright’, as he calls it.”
“This ‘birthright’ being the hall and the Melville fortune,” said Holmes.
I was confused by this, recalling his earlier comment about blood, water and birth. “Why should he have any claim to the estate?”
He looked at me, surprised, as though I should have worked out the answer by now. “Because Mr John Prior is Sir George Melville’s son,” he said simply.
***
A stunned silence greeted this revelation.
Eventually, Samuel broke it. “His son?” he repeated incredulously.
Holmes nodded, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, yes. A young man brought up with expectations his father believes he has no right to claim. Is that not so, Miss Melville?”
She nodded. “You are quite correct, Mr Holmes. When I returned from France he had been here for some weeks – I recognised him as a man to whom I was introduced at a party at my aunt’s house. I could not like him, for he watched me continually. Whichever way I turned his eyes were upon me. I was horrified when I saw that Papa had allowed him to establish himself in the house, agreeing to his every demand. When I questioned Papa, he would not explain why, and we quarrelled terribly. We have never quarrelled before, over anything.”
“We…” I hesitated, trying to decide how to put the comment tactfully. “We have been told of your father’s…addiction.”
She turned her great blue eyes upon me. “My father is not a drunkard, Doctor Watson, no matter what people may say. Jack has not discouraged the rumours in any way, as he wishes to make Papa suffer, but you must not believe it. I have never seen Papa take more than a single whisky after dinner.”
Holmes looked thoughtful as he exhaled a plume of blue smoke from the cigarette he had just lit, but said nothing, content to watch and observe.
“Drinkers can become very adept at hiding their consumption,” I said, speaking from long physician’s experience.
“My father is a steady man,” Miss Melville told me firmly. “He does not drink to excess. It is not in his nature.”
“Where is Sir George?” asked Sergeant Taplow, and I realised that the absence of the squire had only that moment occurred to me, as well.
“Papa!” It had apparently struck Miss Melville at the same time. “Oh, my goodness – what has he done? Papa! Papa!”
Holmes got to his feet. “Where is your father’s study?”
“Across the hall – second door on the left,” Molly supplied before Miss Melville could speak. She began to stand, but I told her to remain with the young lady. I followed Holmes out of the room, Samuel behind me. Sergeant Taplow declined to rise from the chair into which he had gratefully fallen upon entering the parlour. It did not take long to find the correct door – it stood between a large and dark landscape painting of some unspecified location and a rusting suit of Civil War armour, the lobsterpot helmet tarnished and the buff jerkin beneath running to holes.
Holmes knocked sharply on the door. “Sir George? Sir George, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I would like to speak with you, if I may.”
There was no answer. He tried the handle, but the door would not open, so he crouched to look through the keyhole. “Locked, and the key removed,” he reported, straightening. “I am growing tired of locked doors in this house. Watson, if you would be so kind - ?”
I knew exactly what he was asking, and motioned to Samuel to stand aside. Readying my revolver, I aimed it squarely at the lock.
Foster looked horrified. “No, John, you can’t!” he cried. “Think of the damage - ”
“There has been enough damage done to this household,” Holmes told him, “One lock will make little difference. Quickly, Watson.”
I pulled the trigger. It took two shots, but after the final bullet the door creaked open and Holmes, waving away the resulting cordite smoke, darted through the gap. The room beyond was even darker than the others I had entered, being at the back of the house and away from the morning sunlight. The heavy panelling and sturdy furniture was oppressively masculine, as were the hunting portraits that covered the walls. It was clear that no woman ever spent time in here. Holmes stood by a slumped, white-haired figure in an armchair – he stood aside to allow me to examine the man who could only be Sir George Melville, baronet.
He was semi-conscious, his eyes vague and glassy, unaware of his surroundings. I was pleased to find a strong, steady pulse, but observed none of the usual signs of the heavy drinker – there was no ruddy complexion, no broken veins about the face, and I could smell only the faintest trace of alcohol upon his breath. I could, however, smell something else that made me suspicious, and this led me to pick up the glass that stood on the table at his side. I sniffed the contents, and then did the same to the decanter on the desk.
Holmes had been watching me with sharp eyes. “Your diagnosis, Doctor?”
“This man has been drugged. There are distinct traces of opium in both the glass and the decanter,” I replied. “It would appear that Sir George may have been fed a steady dose of the drug over a period of time, resulting in - ”
“ – an unconscious addiction,” he finished for me. “Hence the scene in the Green Man – it was opium, not alcohol, which caused him to behave in an uncharacteristic manner.”
“That is monstrous!” exclaimed Samuel, appalled at the sight of his employer in such a condition. Sir George moaned slightly and moved his head, looking about him. I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and passed him a glass of water. The effects of the drug would take a little time to wear off, leaving him weak and shattered for a time before the craving for the next ‘fix’ set in. It would take some while to wean him from the dependency that had been created, as I knew only too well from my own experience with Holmes’s addiction.
“This man Prior is extremely dangerous,” Holmes said. “Can you do anything for Sir George, Watson?”
“Only offer reassurance,” I said. “He will need constant attention from his own doctor. What now, Holmes?”
There was a moment of intense concentration, when Holmes stood stock still, one finger pressed to his lips like an exclamation mark, before he abruptly strode to the door. “Sergeant!” he shouted across the hall, and then bellowed even louder when the call provoked no reaction.
After a long moment, Taplow appeared from the parlour, puffing from the unaccustomed exertion. “Mr Holmes?”
“I want you and your constable to go down to the servants’ quarters and keep a watch on the kitchen door. Have your guns at the ready – we do not know precisely what we may be facing, and the dog is still loose somewhere. Mr Foster – please take the ladies back to your home and wait for us there. It will be safer for them.”
Miss Melville had followed the sergeant, and heard this suggestion. “No!” she cried. “I will not allow that man to force me out of my home! I will stay, and so will Molly.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Molly said approvingly.
Holmes looked momentarily exasperated in the face of two so obviously stubborn women. “It is for your own safety, Miss Melville,” he told her. Though he did admire women with pluck, there was absolutely no sense in the young lady putting herself in danger. She had gone through enough already.
“Nevertheless, I shall stay, Mr Holmes. You may need me. And I wish to see Mr Prior brought to account more than anyone – he has done his best to destroy my family, and I will not let him finish what he has begun.” Her eyes strayed into the room beyond us, and the barely alert figure of her father by the fireplace. For a moment I thought she might faint, but despite her days of deprivation is was clear that she was made of stern stuff. She swallowed hard, and set her jaw defiantly. “What do you wish us to do?”
***
There followed an almost interminable period of waiting.
Holmes stationed me behind one of the great oak pillars which supported the high ceiling of the great hall, my revolver at the ready. He was insistent that I should not move, and that I keep my gun trained upon the front door. Samuel was with the ladies in the study, and Sergeant Taplow and his man below in the kitchen passage. Holmes himself had slipped off to goodness knows where. I would have liked to remain with my patient, as Sir George was exhibiting disorientation and thirst as he came out of his opium-induced stupor, but my friend would not hear of it.
“The ladies can take care of Sir George, and Mr Foster can protect them. He is an unknown quantity, and I can rely upon my Watson,” he said before he disappeared. I was flattered, as he did not often say such things, but after what must have been two hours crouching behind a pillar I began to wonder whether I could not be rather more use elsewhere. I very much doubted that our quarry would return to the house through the front door – his dismissing of the household for the day suggested that he wanted no more than the legally required witnesses to the ceremony he intended to perform.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to relieve my aching old wound. For the past two hours I had been turning over the information Holmes had revealed in my mind, trying to work out exactly when he realised that Prior was Sir George Melville’s son. Eventually my train of thought became so hopelessly tangled that I was forced to abandon the attempt.
Standing like this in one spot was putting strain upon my leg, and I glanced around the hall for something upon which to sit for a few moments. My eye alighted upon a small, straight-backed chair arranged along the wall with several of its fellows. It was not far from my cover, and I looked about me for any movement before I slipped from behind the pillar and pulled the chair towards me. As I did, I distinctly heard a footstep on the stone floor.
“No sign of him, then?” I asked, automatically assuming it to belong to Holmes. My heart skipped a beat as a vaguely-familiar voice said coldly,
“He is here, Doctor Watson, and I suggest you remain very still. I am a crack shot, and could drop you where you stand from fifty paces, but I would rather not have your blood disfiguring my hall floor if I can help it.”
I froze. “Mr Prior.” How the devil had he got past Holmes and the policemen?
“The very same. Perhaps you would care to explain how I come to find you trespassing on my property a second time? I warned you yesterday, did I not?”
I began involuntarily to turn, but stopped when I realised that the growling I had heard earlier deep within the house was now in the room with me. There was a gruff bark, and claws scraped on the stone floor. Prior had not come alone.
“You have ten seconds, Doctor, or I release Khan. I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance…”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2953
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: Miss Melville has a tale to tell, and Holmes sets a trap for Prior...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bluebells they are starting to ring-o
And true love it is the thing-o
Love on any other day
Is never quite the same as on the first of May
- Dave Webber, performed by Magpie Lane
“Marry? Good God!” I exclaimed.
“I take it that such a union is not congenial to you,” said Holmes, going to the window and looking out.
“I would never marry him! I would not marry him if he were the last man alive!” Miss Melville cried. “He only wishes to marry me so that he will have this house and Papa’s money; that is why he is doing it.”
“He’ll never get a license on a Sunday,” said Samuel, “Surely he knows that?”
“I do not believe that Mr Prior has been in England long enough to be aware of such things. He will, however, soon discover his error and will no doubt be back before long,” Holmes responded, “with or without a corrupt clergyman in tow. I suggest that we descend to a part of the house that will be more easily defended, should the need arise.”
Miss Melville looked only too relieved to be leaving her prison. I wondered how she had borne it for the several days she must have been there – the tiny chamber was warm and stuffy, with nothing approaching the comforts she must be used to. She was pale and unsteady, and having seen no trace of food in the room I guessed that Prior had been rationing her meals in an attempt to force her to agree to their marriage. On the stairs she stumbled, and Samuel gallantly swept her up into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way.
Sergeant Taplow followed us down, wondering aloud what on earth was happening in the village. “I’ve never heard anything like it in all my life!” he declared.
“Perhaps you should read John’s stories, Mr Taplow,” said Molly, bustling about with cushions and rugs as we reached what must be a back parlour. The room was comfortable and cluttered, and had the air of regular use, unlike the rest of the house. “Such things happen more often that you might think! Poor Miss Smith in the case of The Solitary Cyclist, for example - ”
Miss Melville overheard this part of the conversation as Samuel set her down on a chaise longue. “,i>The Solitary Cyclist,/i>?” she repeated, staring first at myself and then at Holmes. A small hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness! Then you must be - ”
“Here to aid you,” said Holmes with a small bow.
The girl gazed at him, as if trying to reconcile his true features with those which had been given to him by Mr Paget, and in a flash she had jumped up from her couch and thrown her arms around him. “Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes! I thought I was lost, that there was no one who could aid me, no one at all!”
Holmes started, and then stiffened, unused to young ladies hurling themselves at him. He did his best to disentangle himself from her embrace without either offending or harming her. “It is Mrs Foster you should be thanking,” he said, finally managing to extricate his person from her arms. I smiled as I watched him brush down the sleeves of his rumpled jacket and smooth his hair. “It was she who summoned me to investigate. You have formidable watchdog in her, Miss Melville.”
The young lady glanced at Molly, who smiled and nodded. “But Doctor Watson persuaded Mr Holmes to come in the first place, didn’t you, John?” she said.
Before I could answer, there was a pair of slender arms about my neck and I was hugged fiercely by Miss Melville. “Thank you, Doctor Watson! You have saved my life!”
“Surely not,” I said, and then found myself catching her as the days of deprivation caught up and she crumpled. Molly helped her back to the couch, and I examined her while Holmes spoke.
“It is clear to me that Mr John Prior has ruled this household like a tyrant ever since he arrived,” he said. “Your father allowed him to do so because of the intimate relationship between them, a relationship Sir George would rather not have revealed to the outside world.”
Miss Melville nodded. “He has been blackmailing Papa, says he has documents that will compromise him, cause a scandal. Papa gave in to him, rather than lose his honour – he is not a strong man, I am afraid. He allowed him to rule the house, dismiss half the servants, and take what money he liked from the rents.”
“But he would not acquiesce to Prior’s final demand for your hand?”
“No. Papa has wanted me to marry ever since I returned from France, but I resisted.” She smiled. “I had fallen in love.”
“With Mr Henry Edwards, whom you met on the continent and persuaded your father to appoint as the new schoolmaster,” said Holmes. He leaned against the dresser, regarding us all. “Unfortunately, John Prior was also in France at the same time.”
“Of course – the boots!” I said.
He threw me one of those swift smiles of his. “Precisely, Watson.”
Samuel frowned, and Sergeant Taplow echoed, “Boots?”
“The man who attacked Henry Edwards was wearing distinctive French-made boots,” I explained.
“Which no doubt you will find if you make an examination of Mr Prior’s wardrobe,” said Holmes.
The blood drained from Miss Melville’s face, and she sat up on the couch. “Harry? Attacked? Oh, my – is he all right? He is not - ”
“Shush, darling.” Molly caught her flailing hands and held them tight. “He is being well cared for, don’t worry.”
“But - ”
“There is every chance that he will make a full recovery,” I said encouragingly.
“It was Jack, it must have been. He is so jealous of Harry,” said Miss Melville. “He hates anyone he thinks will keep him from his ‘birthright’, as he calls it.”
“This ‘birthright’ being the hall and the Melville fortune,” said Holmes.
I was confused by this, recalling his earlier comment about blood, water and birth. “Why should he have any claim to the estate?”
He looked at me, surprised, as though I should have worked out the answer by now. “Because Mr John Prior is Sir George Melville’s son,” he said simply.
***
A stunned silence greeted this revelation.
Eventually, Samuel broke it. “His son?” he repeated incredulously.
Holmes nodded, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, yes. A young man brought up with expectations his father believes he has no right to claim. Is that not so, Miss Melville?”
She nodded. “You are quite correct, Mr Holmes. When I returned from France he had been here for some weeks – I recognised him as a man to whom I was introduced at a party at my aunt’s house. I could not like him, for he watched me continually. Whichever way I turned his eyes were upon me. I was horrified when I saw that Papa had allowed him to establish himself in the house, agreeing to his every demand. When I questioned Papa, he would not explain why, and we quarrelled terribly. We have never quarrelled before, over anything.”
“We…” I hesitated, trying to decide how to put the comment tactfully. “We have been told of your father’s…addiction.”
She turned her great blue eyes upon me. “My father is not a drunkard, Doctor Watson, no matter what people may say. Jack has not discouraged the rumours in any way, as he wishes to make Papa suffer, but you must not believe it. I have never seen Papa take more than a single whisky after dinner.”
Holmes looked thoughtful as he exhaled a plume of blue smoke from the cigarette he had just lit, but said nothing, content to watch and observe.
“Drinkers can become very adept at hiding their consumption,” I said, speaking from long physician’s experience.
“My father is a steady man,” Miss Melville told me firmly. “He does not drink to excess. It is not in his nature.”
“Where is Sir George?” asked Sergeant Taplow, and I realised that the absence of the squire had only that moment occurred to me, as well.
“Papa!” It had apparently struck Miss Melville at the same time. “Oh, my goodness – what has he done? Papa! Papa!”
Holmes got to his feet. “Where is your father’s study?”
“Across the hall – second door on the left,” Molly supplied before Miss Melville could speak. She began to stand, but I told her to remain with the young lady. I followed Holmes out of the room, Samuel behind me. Sergeant Taplow declined to rise from the chair into which he had gratefully fallen upon entering the parlour. It did not take long to find the correct door – it stood between a large and dark landscape painting of some unspecified location and a rusting suit of Civil War armour, the lobsterpot helmet tarnished and the buff jerkin beneath running to holes.
Holmes knocked sharply on the door. “Sir George? Sir George, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I would like to speak with you, if I may.”
There was no answer. He tried the handle, but the door would not open, so he crouched to look through the keyhole. “Locked, and the key removed,” he reported, straightening. “I am growing tired of locked doors in this house. Watson, if you would be so kind - ?”
I knew exactly what he was asking, and motioned to Samuel to stand aside. Readying my revolver, I aimed it squarely at the lock.
Foster looked horrified. “No, John, you can’t!” he cried. “Think of the damage - ”
“There has been enough damage done to this household,” Holmes told him, “One lock will make little difference. Quickly, Watson.”
I pulled the trigger. It took two shots, but after the final bullet the door creaked open and Holmes, waving away the resulting cordite smoke, darted through the gap. The room beyond was even darker than the others I had entered, being at the back of the house and away from the morning sunlight. The heavy panelling and sturdy furniture was oppressively masculine, as were the hunting portraits that covered the walls. It was clear that no woman ever spent time in here. Holmes stood by a slumped, white-haired figure in an armchair – he stood aside to allow me to examine the man who could only be Sir George Melville, baronet.
He was semi-conscious, his eyes vague and glassy, unaware of his surroundings. I was pleased to find a strong, steady pulse, but observed none of the usual signs of the heavy drinker – there was no ruddy complexion, no broken veins about the face, and I could smell only the faintest trace of alcohol upon his breath. I could, however, smell something else that made me suspicious, and this led me to pick up the glass that stood on the table at his side. I sniffed the contents, and then did the same to the decanter on the desk.
Holmes had been watching me with sharp eyes. “Your diagnosis, Doctor?”
“This man has been drugged. There are distinct traces of opium in both the glass and the decanter,” I replied. “It would appear that Sir George may have been fed a steady dose of the drug over a period of time, resulting in - ”
“ – an unconscious addiction,” he finished for me. “Hence the scene in the Green Man – it was opium, not alcohol, which caused him to behave in an uncharacteristic manner.”
“That is monstrous!” exclaimed Samuel, appalled at the sight of his employer in such a condition. Sir George moaned slightly and moved his head, looking about him. I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and passed him a glass of water. The effects of the drug would take a little time to wear off, leaving him weak and shattered for a time before the craving for the next ‘fix’ set in. It would take some while to wean him from the dependency that had been created, as I knew only too well from my own experience with Holmes’s addiction.
“This man Prior is extremely dangerous,” Holmes said. “Can you do anything for Sir George, Watson?”
“Only offer reassurance,” I said. “He will need constant attention from his own doctor. What now, Holmes?”
There was a moment of intense concentration, when Holmes stood stock still, one finger pressed to his lips like an exclamation mark, before he abruptly strode to the door. “Sergeant!” he shouted across the hall, and then bellowed even louder when the call provoked no reaction.
After a long moment, Taplow appeared from the parlour, puffing from the unaccustomed exertion. “Mr Holmes?”
“I want you and your constable to go down to the servants’ quarters and keep a watch on the kitchen door. Have your guns at the ready – we do not know precisely what we may be facing, and the dog is still loose somewhere. Mr Foster – please take the ladies back to your home and wait for us there. It will be safer for them.”
Miss Melville had followed the sergeant, and heard this suggestion. “No!” she cried. “I will not allow that man to force me out of my home! I will stay, and so will Molly.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Molly said approvingly.
Holmes looked momentarily exasperated in the face of two so obviously stubborn women. “It is for your own safety, Miss Melville,” he told her. Though he did admire women with pluck, there was absolutely no sense in the young lady putting herself in danger. She had gone through enough already.
“Nevertheless, I shall stay, Mr Holmes. You may need me. And I wish to see Mr Prior brought to account more than anyone – he has done his best to destroy my family, and I will not let him finish what he has begun.” Her eyes strayed into the room beyond us, and the barely alert figure of her father by the fireplace. For a moment I thought she might faint, but despite her days of deprivation is was clear that she was made of stern stuff. She swallowed hard, and set her jaw defiantly. “What do you wish us to do?”
***
There followed an almost interminable period of waiting.
Holmes stationed me behind one of the great oak pillars which supported the high ceiling of the great hall, my revolver at the ready. He was insistent that I should not move, and that I keep my gun trained upon the front door. Samuel was with the ladies in the study, and Sergeant Taplow and his man below in the kitchen passage. Holmes himself had slipped off to goodness knows where. I would have liked to remain with my patient, as Sir George was exhibiting disorientation and thirst as he came out of his opium-induced stupor, but my friend would not hear of it.
“The ladies can take care of Sir George, and Mr Foster can protect them. He is an unknown quantity, and I can rely upon my Watson,” he said before he disappeared. I was flattered, as he did not often say such things, but after what must have been two hours crouching behind a pillar I began to wonder whether I could not be rather more use elsewhere. I very much doubted that our quarry would return to the house through the front door – his dismissing of the household for the day suggested that he wanted no more than the legally required witnesses to the ceremony he intended to perform.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to relieve my aching old wound. For the past two hours I had been turning over the information Holmes had revealed in my mind, trying to work out exactly when he realised that Prior was Sir George Melville’s son. Eventually my train of thought became so hopelessly tangled that I was forced to abandon the attempt.
Standing like this in one spot was putting strain upon my leg, and I glanced around the hall for something upon which to sit for a few moments. My eye alighted upon a small, straight-backed chair arranged along the wall with several of its fellows. It was not far from my cover, and I looked about me for any movement before I slipped from behind the pillar and pulled the chair towards me. As I did, I distinctly heard a footstep on the stone floor.
“No sign of him, then?” I asked, automatically assuming it to belong to Holmes. My heart skipped a beat as a vaguely-familiar voice said coldly,
“He is here, Doctor Watson, and I suggest you remain very still. I am a crack shot, and could drop you where you stand from fifty paces, but I would rather not have your blood disfiguring my hall floor if I can help it.”
I froze. “Mr Prior.” How the devil had he got past Holmes and the policemen?
“The very same. Perhaps you would care to explain how I come to find you trespassing on my property a second time? I warned you yesterday, did I not?”
I began involuntarily to turn, but stopped when I realised that the growling I had heard earlier deep within the house was now in the room with me. There was a gruff bark, and claws scraped on the stone floor. Prior had not come alone.
“You have ten seconds, Doctor, or I release Khan. I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance…”
TBC
