The Mary Russell Companion (27 page)

Whistling, I went to finish my coffee and leave the house, on what promised to be a perfectly lovely May-Day morn.

13.

May-Day in Oxford is an ancient ritual, practiced with such enthusiasm that it has been suspended at various times over the centuries due to excessive unruliness. The celebration begins well before dawn, when from all directions people trickle into the high street, making their way in the direction of the Magdalene College tower.

As the sun hits the spires (or, illuminates the drizzle), choir-boys raise their voices to the day, a sweet, high chorus that trails across a packed High street, touching the families and homeless men, passing tradesmen and beer-sodden undergraduates, antiquarians and tourists.

William Holman Hunt, May Morning on Magdalene Tower

Participants of the previous night’s college balls, held upright by the press of the throng, pass around half-empty bottles of cheap champagne, most of them bedraggled, tieless, sometimes shoeless, and often sodden from the puzzling ritual of leaping out of punts or off of bridges in their evening dress. When the snatches of song finish drifting down from the tower, the crowd shakes off its attentive silence, gives a noisy pulse, and reverses its progress, out from Magdalene College. Morris dancers bounce and rattle on the paving stones surrounding the Radcliffe Camera, Hobby horses give the kiss of fertility to doomed young women, odd foodstuffs are sold, the manifold clergy of the town looks on fondly at the pagan frenzy, and the rites of spring are officially ushered in.

When the sky was still dark overhead, Holmes and I let ourselves out of the gate and joined the trickle, soon stream, of May Day celebrants.  Before the Magdalene choir had finished, we were spotted.

14.

I do not know if our American pursuers were actively watching for us, or if they had decided to make the best of their visit and take in the May Day festivities while waiting for us to emerge, but at the corner of the Botanic Gardens, where Rose Lane comes into the High, the music drifting from on high was shattered by loud American accents: “Hey! There he is!”

And the hunt was on again.

I spoke in Holmes’ ear, ordering him to abandon me. He hesitated, being neither cowardly nor disloyal, but even he could see the logic in my suggestion. He bent down enough to vanish in the crowd, while I appropriated a nearby furled umbrella (in any English crowd, there will always be a man who doubts the clear sky overhead) and tripped one attacker, jabbed the second in the stomach, and propelled the third into the embrace of a large, intoxicated Rugby player.

With that trio temporarily disposed of, and making certain they had seen me, their unlikely assailant, I pushed into the crowd, crossing the High and making for Magdalene Bridge.

Halfway across, I ducked down to make my way back up the human stream, dodging into the grounds of the Botanic Garden towards the Cherwell beyond.  Holmes had located a punt, worked its anchoring pole out of the bottom, and was waiting for me. I heard a shout behind me—English, not American—and tumbled into the boat. He pushed off, and I turned to face the boat’s irate owners.

“Terribly sorry,” I called to them. “There’s a trio of Americans just behind you who said they’d be happy to repay you for the hire cost. You take it up with them, there’s a good lad.”

A sweet old lady in a boat; how could he argue with me?

15.

Had our pursuers been familiar with Oxford, they could have caught us up several times over. As it was, by the time they extricated themselves from the young man whose boat we had stolen, then consulted their maps, we were away from the river-side path in Christchurch meadow—by this time, I was punting—and down the new cut to the Isis proper.

By the time they had located the Thames path, gone back up to Folly Bridge, and crossed the river to get to the towpath, the current had moved us briskly downstream. The fleet-footed leaders nearly caught us up at Iffley, when the lockkeeper protested about working the locks for one solitary punt, but a few coins changed his mind, and we were away.

The day was warm, the cushions were comfortable, and the merest touch of the pole kept us moving in the right direction. We stopped from time to time to take refreshment. And at one such stop, I bought an antique post-card, thinking to amuse Ms King in California.

When evening came upon us, I changed into raiment that would draw less notice than trousers on a woman my age, and we abandoned our vessel. In a fit of whimsy, I left the day’s clothing folded in the boat, with my secondary pair of spectacles, since every reader of crime fiction knows that suicides always remove their spectacles.

Thus, the explanation of how Ms King came to possess my memoirs. I may at a later time recount the story of our subsequent communications: What I meant by the antique postcard that she read as, More to follow; why we were in Utrecht when I sent it; and why, most puzzling of all,
The Times
did not publish its account of the punt washed up in central London for an entire three years.

Is it not satisfying to know that there is always more to any tale?

A Case in Correspondence

The Twenty Documents

in the Case

(With transcriptions)

The people involved in this correspondence are:

Mary Russell

Sherlock Holmes

William Mudd
(
Billy
): a former Baker Street Irregular and page-boy, now owner of an investigations agency in London

Mrs E. Hudson
: Housekeeper, married to the original Mrs Hudson’s great-grandson

Dr. Watson-Scopes
: Granddaughter to Dr. John Watson

“
M
”: Successor to Mycroft Holmes, in the government secret intelligence division

Mrs. L Delaney
: Either the original or the daughter of the Memoirs’ “Lulu”

Laurie R. King
: Agent and granddaughter of a friend from Russell’s childhood

3 May 1992

Holmes—I trust you reached home without difficulty, following my crass abandonment of you on the banks of the Thames.  As I expected, I had no problem creating the façade of aged and infirm old woman—one of my rescuers even insisted on pressing a £5 note into the cabbie’s hand. I will be here at the Vicissitude for two or three days, completing that research the Americans interrupted.  If you wish anything from Town, a note will reach me in the usual way. R

PS. I discovered a box of ancient postal cards behind the shot-gun shells in the Brompton Road bolt-hole, which I am appropriating for the purpose.  Do you never clear anything out?

Mrs Mary Russell-Holmes

The Vicissitude Hotel for Ladies

Altamont Close

London W2

4 May 1992

Dear Mrs Holmes, I opened the envelope containing your post-card, but I regret to say that Mr Holmes has not returned. Could he have gone to his brother’s old flat? Quiet has returned to the farm, following the excitements of the previous week. The wireless reports that we are to expect rain, so when you find Mr Holmes, kindly remind him to carry his umbrella.

Yours, Emma Hudson

5 May

Hello Billy, I hope you and the family are well?  I’ve lost Holmes again—I don’t suppose you have seen him since Friday?  I put him into a taxi that afternoon at Kew, having a punt to dispose of (long story), and I expected him to return to Sussex.  However, I have just learned that Mrs Hudson has not seen him.  Ring me at Mycroft’s old number if you have news.

Russell

P.S. The last time I looked in, your namesake grandfather seemed much better.  We had a long chat about the Robert Goodman case—one which no doubt you have heard about in endless detail, due to its repercussions.  You may even know why I chose this card.

Ms E. Hudson

The Villa

Nr. Beachy Head

Sussex

5 May

Dear Ms H, (It is amusing how, even though we’ve had you as THE Mrs Hudson in our lives for a decade now, there persists a moment of astonishment as my mind’s eye attempts to link your name with the face of your husband’s great-grandmother!) I am glad to hear that the American invasion of Sussex has ceased—no doubt they are still quartering Oxford in hopes of finding our scent. If they reappear, do not hesitate to call on Patrick for assistance. About Holmes, please don’t concern yourself, no doubt he thought of some urgent business in Town, I shall let you know when I find him.

—M.R.