Read Online The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan by Nancy; Springer - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy; Springer
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indeed, I saw no sign of him. As before, gas-jets ranged around the outside of the house lit up the environs—what a reckless expenditure!—and I waited several moments, expecting the dog to appear out of some shadow, but he did not.
Hmm.
Might he be sound asleep in his lair?
I mistrusted such good luck, but saw no alternative except to continue. Softly I made my way to the corner of the fence behind the carriage-house, where the friendly shadows gathered thickest, and there, hanging my carpet-bag from my belt and knotting my skirt above my knees, I climbed.
No stable-boy shouted as I let myself down the fence’s inner side. No watchdog barked. No alarm of any kind sounded.
Rather than soothing my apprehensions, however, the silence worried me. It seemed too lucky. As if I might be entering a trap.
Yet I felt there was no choice but to go on.
And next, I had to find a way across the sunk fence.
Before moving out of the shadows, I got down close to the ground, because I knew, from my childhood experience of country life, that this was what poachers did in order to make themselves less likely to be seen when venturing across open expanses of forbidden land. Crawling, therefore, I crept towards the edge of the ditch, alert in every sense for any disturbance in the night. Even my skin and the roots of my hair seemed to hearken.
I heard the distant rumble of wheels and clop of hooves on cobbles, the equally distant creak of some privy door swinging on its hinges, and high overhead, beech leaves rustling in a light breeze. Nothing more.
Until a voice spoke from somewhere quite nearby, shocking me rigid.
In a pent whisper it said, “Confound the entire wretched business.”
A man’s voice.
“I shall be a laughingstock,” he whispered on with the fervour of one who vocalises merely to rid himself of unruly emotion. “How could I fail to foresee a device so childishly simple?”
He spoke, I realised, from the depths of the ha-ha.
His was a voice I had heard before.
Somehow my body recognised it in advance of my mind, which still lacked proper function due to shock and terror. But my skin and my limbs felt no fear. Quite the opposite. They hurried me forward, still crawling, until I could look over the edge into the ditch.
Ten feet from me, at the bottom of that dark abyss, the midnight mutterer had lit a match in order to study his predicament, so I saw him clearly. He wore black clothing, a black cap, and he had darkened his face with soot, but I knew him readily enough.
My brother Sherlock.
C HAPTER THE N INTH
M Y EMOTIONS MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN A STAMPEDE of wild horses, they knocked me so witless. Yet, I must admit, one of my numerous feelings ran clearly and triumphantly in the fore: sheerest glee.
How the mighty had fallen.
The match-flame had travelled down the stick until it burned Sherlock’s fingers. Dropping his light, he said something unrepeatable, and from the darkness above his head I told him, “Shame on you.”
Even as the match went out, I saw him startle in a most satisfactory manner. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice reaching skyward.
“Shush,” I whispered, glee running away and terror taking its place. “You’ll rouse the mastiff.”
“Who is it?” His tone softened, yet sharpened. “Bridget?”
“Do I sound like an Irishwoman?” My wits had begun to rally, and mental functions to take hold. “What have you done with the mastiff?”
“Fed it chopped beef à la bromide.” He lit another match and held it high, trying to see me—yet he did not rise to his feet. I saw that he had taken his right boot off, and his foot stuck out before him, quite swollen within its stocking, either sprained or broken.
Instantly overrun by concern, I forgot all else. “You’re hurt!”
At the same time he yelped, “Enola?” Apparently he recognised, if not my shadowy face, then my unfortunately distinctive voice.
“Do hush. I’ll get you out.” Already
Hmm.
Might he be sound asleep in his lair?
I mistrusted such good luck, but saw no alternative except to continue. Softly I made my way to the corner of the fence behind the carriage-house, where the friendly shadows gathered thickest, and there, hanging my carpet-bag from my belt and knotting my skirt above my knees, I climbed.
No stable-boy shouted as I let myself down the fence’s inner side. No watchdog barked. No alarm of any kind sounded.
Rather than soothing my apprehensions, however, the silence worried me. It seemed too lucky. As if I might be entering a trap.
Yet I felt there was no choice but to go on.
And next, I had to find a way across the sunk fence.
Before moving out of the shadows, I got down close to the ground, because I knew, from my childhood experience of country life, that this was what poachers did in order to make themselves less likely to be seen when venturing across open expanses of forbidden land. Crawling, therefore, I crept towards the edge of the ditch, alert in every sense for any disturbance in the night. Even my skin and the roots of my hair seemed to hearken.
I heard the distant rumble of wheels and clop of hooves on cobbles, the equally distant creak of some privy door swinging on its hinges, and high overhead, beech leaves rustling in a light breeze. Nothing more.
Until a voice spoke from somewhere quite nearby, shocking me rigid.
In a pent whisper it said, “Confound the entire wretched business.”
A man’s voice.
“I shall be a laughingstock,” he whispered on with the fervour of one who vocalises merely to rid himself of unruly emotion. “How could I fail to foresee a device so childishly simple?”
He spoke, I realised, from the depths of the ha-ha.
His was a voice I had heard before.
Somehow my body recognised it in advance of my mind, which still lacked proper function due to shock and terror. But my skin and my limbs felt no fear. Quite the opposite. They hurried me forward, still crawling, until I could look over the edge into the ditch.
Ten feet from me, at the bottom of that dark abyss, the midnight mutterer had lit a match in order to study his predicament, so I saw him clearly. He wore black clothing, a black cap, and he had darkened his face with soot, but I knew him readily enough.
My brother Sherlock.
C HAPTER THE N INTH
M Y EMOTIONS MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN A STAMPEDE of wild horses, they knocked me so witless. Yet, I must admit, one of my numerous feelings ran clearly and triumphantly in the fore: sheerest glee.
How the mighty had fallen.
The match-flame had travelled down the stick until it burned Sherlock’s fingers. Dropping his light, he said something unrepeatable, and from the darkness above his head I told him, “Shame on you.”
Even as the match went out, I saw him startle in a most satisfactory manner. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice reaching skyward.
“Shush,” I whispered, glee running away and terror taking its place. “You’ll rouse the mastiff.”
“Who is it?” His tone softened, yet sharpened. “Bridget?”
“Do I sound like an Irishwoman?” My wits had begun to rally, and mental functions to take hold. “What have you done with the mastiff?”
“Fed it chopped beef à la bromide.” He lit another match and held it high, trying to see me—yet he did not rise to his feet. I saw that he had taken his right boot off, and his foot stuck out before him, quite swollen within its stocking, either sprained or broken.
Instantly overrun by concern, I forgot all else. “You’re hurt!”
At the same time he yelped, “Enola?” Apparently he recognised, if not my shadowy face, then my unfortunately distinctive voice.
“Do hush. I’ll get you out.” Already
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