Read Online The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan by Nancy; Springer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy; Springer
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with a lamed foot?”
I fear my tone rather inflamed him. “Whatever my mischance, your place is not here. Go home, girl, where you belong.”
A comment quite unworthy of him, I thought, and not deserving of a reply. Giving none, I turned my attention to opening my carpet-bag.
“For the matter of that, Enola, do you have a home?” he continued in heightened tones. “Where are you living all this time, and how?”
Ignoring him, I extracted the rope from the carpet-bag while I mentally enumerated the latter’s remaining contents: curling-irons to drive into the ground were it necessary to fasten the rope to something, a cast-iron meat tenderiser by way of club, a truncated croquet mallet, and some other tools. I hefted the bag to be sure: yes. Weight enough.
“Does any respectable and responsible older person have a care for you?”
Closing the carpet-bag, I tied one end of the rope firmly to its handle. The rest of the rope I laid out upon the ground until I was sure I had provided sufficient slack, and then I tucked a loop of its remaining length into my belt in such a manner that I would not lose it, yet could yank it free at a moment’s notice.
“If not, then you cannot possibly be safe; any female dwelling alone is a magnet for crime.”
Turning my back on him, I rose, and with rope trailing behind me like a tail—two tails, actually, the one to the carpet-bag and the other loose end—I strode to the nearest tree, embraced its trunk, and began to make my way upward.
I strained my every nerve and fiber in order to do so. The beech is the most difficult of all trees to climb, for the trunk is straight and exceedingly tall with smooth silver bark as glossy as satin. Only the utmost necessity—and, I admit, a great deal of petty pride; I would show the great Sherlock Holmes who needed to have a care for whom—only extremity drove me to attempt my ascent.
Gritting my teeth, wasting no breath on naughty words that came to mind, I crept upward, clinging, from time to time slipping back despite my best efforts, fervidly wishing that the blood of Darwin’s monkeys ran a bit stronger in my veins as I grappled and clawed with hands rubbed raw, tried to grip with the soles of my boots—if only I could grasp with my feet, like a chimpanzee! Still, I persevered, every portion of my personage stinging with exertion, until I attained a height of perhaps twenty feet above the ground, sufficient so that I could look down on the ditch, and although I could not see into it, I felt sure that my brother, looking up, could see me—
And just as I triumphantly thought this, my head struck something.
Metal.
What in the name of the devil—
Diabolical, indeed, I discovered as I looked up to study the obstacle. Just below the point where the beech trunk began to branch, someone had placed a steel collar, the sort of thing one might use to try to keep squirrels off a bird-feeder, only much larger of course.
No wonder any villains in residence here felt safe allowing copper beeches to overhang their sunk fence. I could climb no farther.
And I fear I then whispered something quite unforgivable, for I had hoped to gain the security of the branches before I deployed the rope.
Ye gods. Ye gods in dirty breeches. Ye gods with great hopping fleas!
But I refused to admit defeat. Wasting no more breath on useless commentary, gripping hard to the beech trunk with three of my limbs, with the fourth I took the rope from my belt and began to pull up the end attached to the carpet-bag.
I required the assistance of my teeth to hold the rope each time I shifted my hand. If I should lose my grip—the consequences were barely thinkable. Meanwhile, all my limbs had begun to tremble and weaken, placing me in extreme danger. It seemed an eternity before I had it—the carpet-bag—swinging within a few feet of me. I knew I could not cling to the beech trunk much longer without falling; I needed to take aim and throw without fail, for I
I fear my tone rather inflamed him. “Whatever my mischance, your place is not here. Go home, girl, where you belong.”
A comment quite unworthy of him, I thought, and not deserving of a reply. Giving none, I turned my attention to opening my carpet-bag.
“For the matter of that, Enola, do you have a home?” he continued in heightened tones. “Where are you living all this time, and how?”
Ignoring him, I extracted the rope from the carpet-bag while I mentally enumerated the latter’s remaining contents: curling-irons to drive into the ground were it necessary to fasten the rope to something, a cast-iron meat tenderiser by way of club, a truncated croquet mallet, and some other tools. I hefted the bag to be sure: yes. Weight enough.
“Does any respectable and responsible older person have a care for you?”
Closing the carpet-bag, I tied one end of the rope firmly to its handle. The rest of the rope I laid out upon the ground until I was sure I had provided sufficient slack, and then I tucked a loop of its remaining length into my belt in such a manner that I would not lose it, yet could yank it free at a moment’s notice.
“If not, then you cannot possibly be safe; any female dwelling alone is a magnet for crime.”
Turning my back on him, I rose, and with rope trailing behind me like a tail—two tails, actually, the one to the carpet-bag and the other loose end—I strode to the nearest tree, embraced its trunk, and began to make my way upward.
I strained my every nerve and fiber in order to do so. The beech is the most difficult of all trees to climb, for the trunk is straight and exceedingly tall with smooth silver bark as glossy as satin. Only the utmost necessity—and, I admit, a great deal of petty pride; I would show the great Sherlock Holmes who needed to have a care for whom—only extremity drove me to attempt my ascent.
Gritting my teeth, wasting no breath on naughty words that came to mind, I crept upward, clinging, from time to time slipping back despite my best efforts, fervidly wishing that the blood of Darwin’s monkeys ran a bit stronger in my veins as I grappled and clawed with hands rubbed raw, tried to grip with the soles of my boots—if only I could grasp with my feet, like a chimpanzee! Still, I persevered, every portion of my personage stinging with exertion, until I attained a height of perhaps twenty feet above the ground, sufficient so that I could look down on the ditch, and although I could not see into it, I felt sure that my brother, looking up, could see me—
And just as I triumphantly thought this, my head struck something.
Metal.
What in the name of the devil—
Diabolical, indeed, I discovered as I looked up to study the obstacle. Just below the point where the beech trunk began to branch, someone had placed a steel collar, the sort of thing one might use to try to keep squirrels off a bird-feeder, only much larger of course.
No wonder any villains in residence here felt safe allowing copper beeches to overhang their sunk fence. I could climb no farther.
And I fear I then whispered something quite unforgivable, for I had hoped to gain the security of the branches before I deployed the rope.
Ye gods. Ye gods in dirty breeches. Ye gods with great hopping fleas!
But I refused to admit defeat. Wasting no more breath on useless commentary, gripping hard to the beech trunk with three of my limbs, with the fourth I took the rope from my belt and began to pull up the end attached to the carpet-bag.
I required the assistance of my teeth to hold the rope each time I shifted my hand. If I should lose my grip—the consequences were barely thinkable. Meanwhile, all my limbs had begun to tremble and weaken, placing me in extreme danger. It seemed an eternity before I had it—the carpet-bag—swinging within a few feet of me. I knew I could not cling to the beech trunk much longer without falling; I needed to take aim and throw without fail, for I
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