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Adventure in Little Cheatham	By : sweetelysium Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > AU/AR Views: 3669 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: I don’t own the Holmes-verse any more than I own a patent for chicken spectacles. The original characters introduced here-in, however, are mine, as is the plot, as far as I know.

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“That breakfast really was sub par, Holmes. I do not understand how you expect me to exist on dry toast and tea.” We were on a train, headed for the western shore and Somerset.

From behind his newspaper, Sherlock spoke. “Your toast could hardly be called dry after you finished ladling marmalade on it.” He lowered the paper. “And you’ve been reading Nietzsche again. You only call me ‘Holmes’ when you’ve reading him.”

“Oh, but Sherlock, it’s perfect rot -- ‘Let woman be a plaything, pure and simple as a priceless gem reflecting the virtues of a world which is not yet here1.’” In anger, I snapped closed the small volume I had been reading. “How utterly ridiculous; I have done things no man has dreamt of doing and yet some sickly German seems intent on spelling out what a woman is to do. What I am to do.” At a sudden niggling in my brain, I was prompted to ask, “Do you think me a plaything? I do not think I could stand it if you did.” This question was just as, if not more, ridiculous as anything from Nietzsche. My husband, who had been my friend long before, knew me first as an equal and second as an owner of complementary genitalia.

“My darling, if I thought you a plaything, I would not have married you, as you would not have remained in my presence long enough to make a favorable impression. Besides,” he said, returning to his Times, “better Nietzsche’s dangerous plaything than Darwin’s inferior creature.”

“You would bring Darwin into this.” I began idly rummaging through my reticule, looking for a box of mints I knew I had left in there.

“I admire his brain. He goes from what he has observed firsthand and from that derives a theory to explain why things are what they are. There is something admirable in that, don’t you think?” He looked as if were going to say more, but stopped when the letter Lady Loudon had sent fluttered from my reticule. “Curious that,” he said as he stooped forward to retrieve it from where it lay against his boot.

“What is it, Sherlock?” I asked, still scrabbling.

“There are several hairs caught in the sealing wax on the envelope.” He showed me. “The color is quite odd -- almost orange. It hardly seems a natural color at all. I do not know why I did not see it before,” he said, tucking the letter and hairs into the pocketbook he had withdrawn from inside his Inverness.

Having discovered my mints, I sat back, contentedly letting one dissolve on my tongue, while noting the promise of rain the clouds held. “What do you remember of David Loudon, my love?”

“He was short and dark-haired, Roman in appearance. He was dedicated to helping others and was, in fact, destined for the clergy before his elder brother died and he was suddenly heir to his father’s title. Loudon was several years older than I and we spent only a little time together, boxing, before he was called home. I do not remember hearing that he had married, then.”

“Maybe that had happened only recently.”

“Johanna,” he said, deadly serious, “one should never guess. One may form hypotheses from what one knows. Once one begins guessing, there is no telling what paths the mind may take next.”

***
Upon arriving in Little Cheatham, we found that the boy who had waited for our reply had beaten us by several hours. There was a coach waiting for us at the station, even though it was already full dark and the earlier promise of rain had increased from a mist to drops as round and heavy as pennies.

The coachman came forward, cap in hand. Bobbing his head, he said, “Good evenin’, sir, ma’am. I’m Hobbes, coachman for her ladyship. ’Tis dark times that bring the likes of you hereaboot, but it’s proud I am to be meeting someone as grand as yourself and,” nodding in my direction, with a smile, “your lady.”

It is a little difficult to begin to describe the likes of the man we would come to know as Robert Hobbes. Sometimes Rabbie, sometimes, Rob, sometimes even Bert, he possessed an accent that veered widely from northern farmer to highland Scot to country Irish. I have met many Roberts in my life, but never one that could be both Rab and Rob. What more can I say? He was changeable but not mercurial.

I, understandably after a full day’s worth of traveling, was more than happy to play the role of quiescent wife while Sherlock finagled information out of Hobbes. I strained to hear the conversation they had as we walked across the station courtyard, but the wind stole both voices from me. The walk, at any rate, was a short one and I soon found myself being handed up into the carriage. Sherlock remained outside, ostensibly to oversee the loading of our luggage, but mostly to eavesdrop on the footmen and to plumb Hobbes for information.

The male voices blended with the rain to a drowsy hum within the snug coach. I let my head rest against the seat and began to contemplate reasons a man could die -- any man. There are natural causes, war, accidents, suicide, and murder, the one my husband and I keep seeming to run into. Oh, and the motives for murder! Revenge, self-defense, love, money . . . always coming back to money. What will be the case here? I asked myself. Will it be a simple apoplectic fit gone the worst way or a well-placed belladonna capsule?

Such morbid but provocative thoughts.

I was shaken out of my reverie by Sherlock climbing into the coach while saying, “Yes, thank you, Hobbes. I am glad the ride is a short one.”

“Well,” I said through a yawn, “What have you discovered?”

“Several things of interest and maybe a few of note. Our host, Lady Samantha, is young -- no more than twenty-two. Furthermore, there was quite a scandal when Loudon married her. She’s not of the ‘privileged’ class and he was at least fifteen years older than her. Lady Samantha has also made herself known for having a temper -- a ‘ravin’ madwoomon’ as Hobbes put it.”

Leaning drowsily into his shoulder, I said, “But what is of importance and what of note?”

“That, my dear, will become clear with time.” And we rode in silence until passing through the gates.

***
The drive of Loudon Hall curved between copses of mixed woods -- pine, oak, and beech. There were also a few maples and other showy autumn trees present, still clinging doggedly to their now tattered foliage. The lamps of the carriage cast light oddly on these shabby trees, the shadows moving rapidly and twisting into silhouettes evocative of many things before leaping back into charcoal blurs. There was a certain fey quality to all of this -- the shadows, dashing around the weathered stones that reared between the trees, could have been faerie queens and kings bent on causing mischief for those mortals unlucky enough to be about on this dark night.

Absurdity, I know, but the day seemed dedicated to it.

Suddenly, very close to the road, I saw the figure of a man. He was solid, no mere blocking of the light. The skin of his face, very white, shone by itself, the carriage lamps causing hard highlights to gleam at brow, cheeks, nose, and jaw. Dark hair swept down either side of his face and curled under his jaw, so as to cause his face to dissociate from his body, his tall collar and hair blending into one. The details of the rest of his appearance were lost in the dark, but he was tall and his coat buttoned loosely with large buttons, which caught the light in much the same manner as his face. This chiaroscuro presence seemed at once flat and too sharply perfect to be merely three-dimensional. All this in a moment and yet the image is still lodged in my brain.

Brought forcefully out of my drowse, I jabbed Sherlock perhaps too enthusiastically in the ribs and hissed, “Did you see that? The man, did you see him? Have I gone mad?”

“No, no,” he assured me, as fully awake as I, “I saw him. Tall, white-faced?”

I nodded. Precisely. It was not my thoughts of faeries, then, that brought this figure into my mind.

“There is a perfectly reasonable answer to all this,” he said, determined to be logical. I, however, was shaken and placed my fingers on his lips. His hand followed and wrapped around my wrist. His hand held a tremor.

“Let us not speak of it until we reach our room. The dark does me no favors when it comes to thinking. And I am tired. My stockings and skirt hems are damp. Let me be warm again and we will speak of it.”

By this time, we had arrived at Loudon Hall.

1Nietzsche, Friedrich. “Woman as a Dangerous Plaything”. History of Ideas on Woman. Editor: Rosemary Agonito. NY: Perigee Books: G.P. Putnam and Sons; 1977. pp. 267-269
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Sorry about the references to Victorian philosophers in here. (I know, I know, Darwin’s not really a philosopher, but his description of the origin of the differences between the sexes . . . I see it as a justification of the view of women as the weaker sex.) Nietzsche seems almost to have a fear of women -- dangerous playthings, indeed. I’m sorry to say, but Dr. Watson acts as a vessel for my own opinions on those particular thinkers. If I could have figured a way to get Engels in there, I would have; I loves me some Engels. And Emerson too! They wouldn’t even have been in there if Mom hadn’t given me a book called “History of Ideas on Woman”. It’s awesome, quite frankly. And reading Nietzsche seemed a suitable middle-class Victorian thing to do, especially for someone as forward thinking as a lady doctor.

To those who have bitten the bullet and reviewed, I salute you! Your blessings are in the mail.
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Adventure in Little Cheatham