After LOCK

by "Ah, Russell, what is to become of me?"

This is a new pastiche inspired by the ending of LOCK:

I woke the next morning and looked at the other side of the bed to find it empty. I rubbed my hands over my face and remembered; breakfast with the Irregulars. Then I looked at the clock and was appalled at the time, 10:00. I had slept many hours. It had been a dreamless and lovely sleep and I remembered curling into Holmes' arms the one time I woke. I called down to the desk for coffee and made my way to the bath.

I was still soaking when Holmes came into the room. I had been enjoying the leisure of the water, thinking about all that had been lifted from me. I truly felt renewed and was wondering exactly what to do with this enlightenment. I listened languidly to Holmes moving about the room and wondered how in the hell he had kept his mouth shut (mostly) these last few weeks with me. I had not been a pleasant spouse for most of the time since we left India. Certainly, I owed the man an apology. Just as I was contemplating what form my apology should take, he came into the steamy bathroom. "Russ, are you in here under all that steam?"

"Umm, yes, enjoyable steam it is." I answered him and he came over and sat on the edge of the bathtub.

"I brought you something to eat."

"Thank you. I'm famished." At this, he smiled and said,

"Glad to have you back, monstrous appetite included."

"I'm glad to be back." I stood up and reached for a towel only to find Holmes holding one out to me with a ridiculous grin on his face. Clearly, he had more than breakfast in mind. I decided to tease him a bit and ignored the grin for a minute, pulling the towel from him and wrapping myself up. Of course, he knew what I was doing, just as he knew everything else about me, but he played along. I asked him, "How was your breakfast with the Irregulars? Did Auberon behave around all those street urchins?"

"Yes and yes; the troops were on their best behaviour and Garcia in particular carried himself with a great deal of deportment. I hope that young man takes my advice and goes back to school."

"They were invaluable yesterday, those boys." I walked over to the coffee table where Holmes had laid the tray he brought up and ate a piece of toast. I did all of this wrapped in my towel but at one point stopped eating long enough to take the towel off and run it over my abbreviated mane. If anything, I had learned over these years of marriage that even Holmes could be distracted from rational thought once in awhile, and I gloried in my ability to do that to him. "I suppose I owe you an apology, husband."

"For what, Russ?" he asked this with a sincerity that confused me.

"I have been horrible to you and horrible to live with and you have been forced to be my nursemaid. I am sorry for all that and feel I owe you at least a good week here in California."

"You don't owe me anything. I am your husband and partner; however I have to admit I am glad to have you back in one psychological piece." With this said, he looked into my eyes to make sure I understood how very much he meant it. Then he looked up and quipped, "But, I assure you, if you feel you need to repay some sort of debt, you can give it a try." With this, his ridiculous grin returned so I relented and went to him. It was a wonderful day; we never left the room until dinner.

After our long day of rest, Holmes and I decided how we would proceed. We would hire a motorcar and drive through the area, stopping to look at the redwoods, visit the graves of my family and then turn towards the Lodge. I had a great desire to share it with him and wanted to return there after the somewhat difficult trip made with Flo and Donny the week before. I felt very differently about my memories now. They were not so tinged with numbing pain. They were, in a way, freed, and I wanted to experience them. I wanted to remember and simply let myself grieve by honouring both the sadness and the joy. It had been impossible to do this before. My guilty conscience had prevented it.

Before we could leave the city though, I had one unpleasant task to accomplish. I needed to tell Flo that it had been her father who killed my family and the others. I knew I needed to relay this to Flo privately. Her mother would learn the truth soon enough but Flo really deserved to hear it from me. Holmes offered to help out but I refused his kind offer. I called Flo and apologized for my behaviour the other day when I took the photo. She accepted my apology grudgingly and asked, "Are you going to tell me what is going on?"

"I am." I replied into the telephone. "Could you meet me here at the St. Francis for lunch today?"

"Of course, Mary, I'll be there at 12:00." She rang off and I could tell from her voice that her opinion of me was not at a high point. She still sounded angry and offended. Oh, but I did not want to tell her who and what her father really was.

I had secured a private table for us in a corner and when Flo arrived I ushered her over. I had decided to begin with the letter my father had written and placed in the box of looted goods. First, I explained how we had found the box and what was in it and then I asked if she would like to read the letter. She nodded and so I handed it to her to read and sipped my coffee while I watched her. She seemed to be interested but when she finished she said, "How does this pertain to me or to the photo?"

"Flo, GF in the letter refers to your father."

"No. That can't be. He told me..."

"I know what he told you; that he was injured saving people. He was not. He was also here the week of the accident."

"Mary! No! He could not have anything to do with that! You cannot imagine that! This is my father we are talking about."

"Flo, I am trying to explain all of this to you because he was arrested the day before yesterday (along with his "half sister" who is his wife) and charged with six counts of murder."

"I thought he was dead! What do you mean he is here? What are you talking about?" Flo was looking pale and dreadful and I was wishing I had invited her up to our rooms. Perhaps I should have let Holmes help me with this. So far, I was doing an awful job. I continued in low tones,

"I know this is hard. I just wanted to be the one to tell you so you did not hear it from the police or in the newspapers. Your father cut the brake lines on my family's car. I saw him at the gas station where we stopped just before the accident; I just did not even remember it until day before yesterday when we tracked him down. We have the cut brake rod as proof. He killed Leah Ginsberg and later he killed our servants, Mah and Micah Long. He tried to kill me last week by shooting at me on the street as I went toward the house in the Heights. He shot at Holmes and me in a crowded street the day before yesterday.

Your father is not the man you thought he was. I'm sure he loved you but somehow he became... I don't know... insane." My heart was aching as I said all of this to her. I realized I was killing her father right in front of her eyes. I had not meant it to happen that way. Her reaction was something I should have expected but did not. She stood up, leaned over and slapped me. I did nothing to react but simply stood my ground. When she pulled herself together enough to speak she said very quietly:

"Mary, you are the one who is insane. Coming back here was obviously a mistake for you. Your husband told me you were not well before we left for your Lodge but I really do think he should take you back to England. All you are doing here is causing pain to people who used to care about you. This bizarre story about my father is really too much. I don't want to see you anymore."

After making this remarkable statement, she walked away. I could see she was shaking but I made no move to go to her or argue. It was useless. The damage was done and I knew there was nothing more I could do to soften the blows to come. I returned to our rooms, badly shaken myself and waited for Holmes, who was out hiring our motor.

In the interval in the room I reflected on the conversation with Flo. My mind could not help but replay it. Finally, after the initial shock wore off, I realized what she had said about Holmes. He had been to see her. My God, had I been that far gone? I was not angry with him but I was amazed. He had been really worried. I guess I should not have been surprised. Although he did not say it often, I knew how he loved me.

I had been sitting on the sofa this whole time and was there when Holmes walked back in. "I see it did not go well with Flo."

"No. It didn't. She did manage to tell me you had been to see her." Holmes stiffened as I said this so I added, "I'm not upset; I just want to say thank you for trying so hard. I can't believe I was so far gone as to not know what you had been up to." He came over to the sofa and sat beside me.

"What was her reaction?"

"She slapped me, said I was insane and told me she hopes to never see me again."

"Oh. Sorry about that. She really does seem like a nice young woman. I suppose it was just too much for her."

"I would say so." I looked over at him realizing how close I was to tears. This was so unlike me. I didn't want to cry and certainly would never shed tears over something such as this. Naturally, I knew why she had reacted the way she did. It really wasn't personal. I put my head on Holmes' shoulder and just sat there a moment, willing the tears away. He pulled my chin up and kissed me so hard that I forgot about the tears, forgot about everything. He always did that to me.

"I have a procured something a little sportier than the Morris, Russ. I think you will like driving it."

"When do we leave?"

"Whenever you want; do you need to call your housekeepers at the Lodge and alert them?"

"I have done. The Gordimers will be ready as always."

We left the following morning, decided the redwoods would wait until the end of the week and so drove to the cemetery outside the city where my family lay buried. I had been there once, with Dr. Ginsberg after the crash, but I really didn't remember anything. I had to ask the gatekeeper where the Russell family plot was. When he pointed it out, I vaguely remembered my aunt's snide comments about the fact that there had been some discussion about where to bury them. My mother and brother were Jewish and my father was not so the graves could not all be in the Jewish cemetery. I suppose money solved the issue because they were there together in a massive mausoleum in the gentile cemetery, but the mausoleum sported a Star of David and a cross. I said to Holmes as we walked towards the structure, "I wish I knew who arranged all of this. I have no idea." Once inside the cold building, I stopped. I walked over to the headstones as though in a trance. My hands traced their names, one by one: Mama, Father, and finally, my little brother, Levi, with the pathetically short dates of his life etched there. Holmes was silent but stayed close and came to me as I sat down on the bench and put my face in my hands. The tears came, and they wouldn't stop. He pulled me to him and held me there. Later, when I was empty, I said, "We need some stones." Holmes, who knew a good deal about the Jewish faith of his wife, was surprised by this one.

"What are the stones for, Russ?" he said quietly into my hair.

"We use them to say that we were here and leave them out of respect for the dead." He rose and went outside and I followed him. We found the stones, six in all and brought them back, laying them on the bench. I stood there a moment, held by the place and said to Holmes, "I'm ready. Let's go find a place to wash our hands. It is what we do when we leave the dead." There was no ceremonial place for hand washing there so I asked the gatekeeper for a glass of water. He gave it to me and I had Holmes pour a little over my hands and I poured some over his. We left in silence.

Once we were back at the motor, I asked Holmes to drive. He eyed me with concern and I said, "I just feel rather tired and don't want to pay attention to the road." He nodded and asked which road I would prefer. The question was of course, loaded, but I said it truly did not matter to me as my only desire now was to reach the peace of the Lodge. Holmes, as I knew he would, took me at my word and we took the Serra beach road and were there by 2:00. Driving around the treacherous curve where the accident occurred was easier this time. I could tell Holmes was wondering if I was going to say anything, but when I did not he simply kept his eyes on the road. As we drove up the drive and Holmes took in the view he said, "No wonder your father built here, Russ. It's lovely." I asked Holmes to run the gauntlet of Mrs. Gordimer's torrent of words and questions, and managed to get away with only a wave in her general direction. I felt guilty at doing this a second time and vowed I would visit with her on this trip.

I opened the door to that place that had been so much a part of the happiness of my childhood, for the second time in ten years, less than one week apart. It seemed natural to be there. There was no trepidation this time. Holmes took it all in and went over each and every inch with his clear eyes before he moved. Finally, he went to the picture window and looked out over Mama's overgrown garden and to the lake beyond. He held out a hand for me to join him. I went over to the window and stood with him. He was quiet for a moment and then said, "Russ, this is very like the place I took you on our wedding night." I smiled because I understood. Actually, in a physical sense, it could not be any more different from Holmes' grandparents' home in Kent. It was no manor house and was not any older than thirty years. But the sense was the same and he knew it instinctively. It was a place that had held a family in safety and love. It was home in a spiritual sense. I put my hands on his chest and looked up at him.

"Yes. You are right. I am glad I could bring you here." I reached up and kissed him and ran my hand over his face. He responded in kind and we stood thus a moment before he broke away and said,

"Let me bring in our things." When he left, I thought again about what I had been contemplating as we drove here; where to sleep? My room was kitted up for one, and a child at that, and the other guest rooms did not seem right either. Now that I was here, the choice seemed an obvious one. This was our house now, mine and Holmes'. We would take the master bedroom and sleep where my parents once had. I no longer felt I might meet them around every corner or that I was breaking some sort of rule. It seemed the right thing to do. When Holmes came in with the bags he asked me where to take them and I led him upstairs to the room with my mother's books and her reading chair, the room that even last week I had beheld with a sort of fear. Holmes raised an eyebrow when we entered but set the bags down and said, "I can tell this was your mother's favourite and would be yours as well. It seems she had the same vice for mind dulling study as you do." I laughed.

"Indeed. This was her retreat when father took us to swim or out in the boat."

For the remainder of that day we did very little but sit by the lake and read. In the evening, we ate the casserole that had appeared in the kitchen whilst we were outside, and I showed Holmes my father's hidden cabinet. He was impressed with father's ingenuity and poured us both drinks from the supply. We went back out into the evening with our drinks and sat on the patio. I brought out the old victrola and we actually danced in the moonlight. As we were dancing I said to Holmes, "I missed you when I was here last week." He held me closer and said,

"I was relieved to have you out of harm's way at that point." I did not reply but felt that now familiar pang of guilt for what I had put him through. I knew there was no reason to apologize any more but it still felt strange to be the cause of concern to anyone, even him.

The next morning we woke to the sound of rain. I turned to curl into Holmes' arm and continue sleeping, only to find he was missing. I called out to him and listened but heard nothing. I wondered where he had gone but was not curious enough to wake up. Instead, I nestled deeper into the pillows on my parents' bed and slept more.

I finally woke when I felt a weight on the side of the bed and a pair of gray eyes looking at me. "Where have you been off to in this foul weather?" I asked the owner of the eyes.

"To the village and back on foot, whilst you slept, young wife," he answered and bent over to kiss me briefly. I responded in kind and said,

"There is nothing in the village of note that I remember."

"Your memories are a bit old, my dear; there are any number of interesting little things there. Not the least of which is a good tobacconist who is a copious consumer of all things local. I had a very informative chat with him."

"Really? Fascinating Holmes; I think I will get up and see what sorts of things Mrs. G left for breakfast." I could tell he wanted me to ask about the things he had learned from the village gossip but decided it could wait until I had some coffee. Holmes knew me well enough to let me stumble out of bed and down the stairs to my coffee before continuing. After I poured the coffee and sat down at the table I asked him the question he was waiting for, "So, what did you learn from this sage tobacconist?

"Not much, unless you count his memories of a certain Charles Russell acting as detective for him once;" I could tell he was wanting me to take the bait. I did.

"Not my father, Holmes! What detective work could he have done, and while we were here?"

"I took the liberty of inviting the man to tea. I'm sure he will enlighten you then."

"Well, tell me more now. What do you know?"

"Later. You can wait." He smiled and enjoyed his little joke so I let him. He was like a cat with a plump mouse and I could tell he would play it to death if given the chance.

After breakfast I went down to visit with Mrs. G and to tell her we would require tea for three. She was well versed in making an English tea as my mother had given her careful instructions years before. My visit with her was a veritable trip down memory lane; her memory lane. She remembered everything about me and all I had done or said while here; I didn't. She told me all about Holmes having been down there that morning and what he a nice older gentleman he seemed to be. She mentioned she thought it unusual that he had the same name as that fictional detective who was also from England. I told her the coincidence had been mentioned before. She assured me that the "fictional" Holmes was older even than mine so that could not be possible. I nodded and smiled, having by now become used to this discussion with various people. It always felt sort of surreal. It was. By the time I left the Gordimers' I remembered why my mother had always had short visits with her.

At 3:00 our guest arrived. As soon as I saw the man, I remembered him. How could I forget? I realized I had never thought of him as being a tobacconist as Holmes had called him. He was Artie O' Malley, proprietor general of the whatsit and whatnot shop in the village. His place held far more than tobacco and I remembered looking forward to trips there with my father. Artie sold books and boots and the occasional musical instrument. Whatever interested Artie, which could be anything, eventually found its way into his eclectic little shop. He always had tobacco, cigarettes and cigars and old and new newspapers from all over the world for sale. My father and he had become friendly over the Cuban cigars my father always smoked and frequently ordered through Artie's sources. I realized immediately that the parallels between my father's friendship with Artie and my husband's reason for discovering him were striking. Of course, this was all before I listened to his remarkable narrative and realized just how deep that friendship with my father had actually been.

As I greeted my father's old friend I heard an echo of what Robert Greenfield had said the week before, under very different circumstances, "Good grief, Mary, you look just like Charlie!" He hastened to add "of course, you are prettier than the old man; you got your mother's grace and brains." I laughed and shook his hand.

"It's good to see you, Artie. I had no idea earlier that it was you my husband had invited to tea, promising stories of my father's detecting skills."

"Yeah; I have lots of stories about 'ol Charlie. I have missed the hell out of him these ten years." With this he looked pained and then looked up to see if he had offended me. I noted to myself that I was not offended or frozen as I once might have been. Instead, I warmed to the man and replied,

"Not at all; I know what you mean. But I have absolutely no memory of him solving a mystery any larger than that of my brother's missing blanket. You must tell me."

Holmes broke in and said, "Let's offer him some tea first, Russ." Artie looked at Holmes and nodded.

"Oh yeah, I'm looking forward to an English tea. I have not had but one and it was with your mother and father many years ago, before you were born."

We went over to the family table and I served what turned out to be more than passable scones, good black tea and some lovely strawberry jam. In addition, Mrs. G had prepared cucumber sandwiches and pickle and butter sandwiches with ham. It was lovely and I knew I must brave visiting her again to tell her. As we enjoyed our English tea in the wilds of California, Holmes and Artie told me of their meeting that morning. It turned out that Artie was not labouring under the notion that my husband was a work of fiction. Instead, he had been thrilled to meet him and offered a critique of some of Watson's stories. However, what totally endeared him (eternally) to Holmes was his mention of Conan Doyle's eccentricities and how frustrating that must be for a man of reason. Artie was pleased to make Holmes' acquaintance but not overwhelmed by the aura of fame as so many were. I realized this must have endeared him to my father as well, who was born of such a wealthy and connected family he had always to compensate for it somehow when befriending the "common" man.

After eating, we settled into the deck chairs outside so I could hear this story. I supposed it was a trifle but was surprised by Artie's first statement, "Ironic as it may seem, Mary, Mr. Holmes, I would not be here speaking with you now if it weren't for Charles Russell. That's right. In the summer of 1905, Charlie solved the riddle that threatened to take away all. It was June of that year that your family came to stay at your vacation home. Your father and I were already well acquainted as we had first met some years before he married, when he was actually building this house, log by log. Anyway, in '05 it was all four of you that came, Charlie and his young family. He used to bring you to my store, set you on the counter with a book and visit with me for a couple of hours. You never moved from your spot, except to tell us you needed something else to read. Funny little girl you were. I tried to keep things on the topics that interested you at the moment and usually managed. Even when you were five though, it was a challenge. You may look like him, but you are your mother's girl through and through when it comes to study.

"It was that summer and during one of those visits that I told Charlie about the break-ins that had been occurring at the store. They were so small as to be almost unnoticeable but it kept happening and happening over a period of months. I would dust the shelves and find one box of my best cigars missing or a lady's broach I had taken on trade or a leather bound book. Whoever it was had expensive tastes. The damned thing was, I could not fathom who it was, when it happened or how they got in and out of the store. At that point, the problem was expensive and frustrating but essentially harmless. I told Charlie and he asked me some questions. I teased him about trying to be like Sherlock Holmes and he said, 'well, actually, he is our neighbor on the Downs in Sussex. I do admire the man and try to study his methods with whatever talent or skill I may have.'"

At this point in the narrative I laughed aloud. "You are teasing me!" My father did read Watson's stories but I had no idea he was even aware Holmes was our neighbor."

Holmes put in, "Well Russ, obviously, your father was a man of intelligence and discernment." He raised an eyebrow at me, "maybe that is why he raised an intelligent and discerning daughter. Pray, let our guest continue." With this he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and steepled his long, sensitive fingers together.

"Those were the exact words he said," Artie continued. "I remember it well because I was intrigued by the fact that your farm in England was so near that of the famous detective. Anyway, Charlie seemed to see something more sinister in these little break-ins than I did. He wanted me to write down all of the dates and what was stolen. I had never told the police, you see, because they don't like me much. I am too foreign for them... too Irish and too Catholic, I guess. Your dad never seemed to care one whit about those kinds of things. I guess that was obvious in his choice of a wife and in his Chinese friends in the city. Charlie was a man who could look you straight in the eye and tell what was in your heart, and that was what mattered to him. Well, I'm straying from the story, sorry. I wrote it all down and we (or he) discovered a pattern to the dates. It had been between the first and the fifth of the month for the last five or six months. He also asked to look through all my correspondence and quizzed me about it. I really could not remember anything remarkable until he peppered me with all those questions. I had received a letter from an old acquaintance from Boston (my home town just like Charlie's) around the first of that year. It was unusual for me to receive post from home as there was virtually no one there who even knew if I was alive or where. Anyway, the letter had mentioned the death of a man we had both known and despised, Mr. James O'Brian. O'Brian was a ward boss who ran a ring of Irish lightweight boxers. The lads were kept like a stable of young stallions and brought out to fight when he had "arranged" an appropriate match. The matches were rigged and the betting was heavy. These were kids who were usually fresh off the boat from the old country and were in sore need of cash. O'Brian promised them riches beyond their wildest dreams if they would just win and keep their mouths shut. Many of the boys did just that. One of the matches though, it went bad. O'Brian told his lad to fight this Italian boy who was not right in the head. The lad refused to take advantage and win the fight and line O'Brian's already stuffed trousers. The long and short of it was that O'Brian murdered the boy by having him beaten to death for his disobedience. He meant to use him as an example. The death of course went uninvestigated by the police who figured it was just one less Paddy to deal with. Well, my buddy, Tommy Conan and I were there the night of the fight. We were both of us sick of seeing O'Brian and his cronies run the ward. We were ready for a change and decided maybe we could use this murder to make things too hot for him. We went to the streets and tried to garner support with the people he was busy squeezing. I mean, in those days, if you did not pay the ward boss or do what he said, you could not get work at all. I guess me and Tommy thought we could change the whole system. The long and short of it is we couldn't. O'Brian's connections ran deeper and wider than either of us understood. He had ties to other ethnic groups and organized crime. He also had a line of support at City Hall. In the end, it was the two of us that found it too hot to handle. We had to leave town or face a thug around each corner, one ready to deal with us much as the boy himself had been dealt with.

"All of this meant that when we left town, Tommy and I went separate ways, changed our names and became dead to our families. This was not an easy thing. I had a wife and two young kids. My wife was so mad at me for the whole thing she divorced me and remarried a man who knew how to mind his own business, as she said. Tommy had an elderly mother. It didn't matter. We had no choice. I changed my name and moved out here. No one ever knew of my past at all until your father became involved in this mess. I always thought one day they would find me or something but when the break-ins started it was the last thing I thought of. I figured their style would be more direct if you know what I mean. Besides, after so much time had passed, I left Boston in '88, I just figured no one cared anymore.

"After all, I figured the whole thing had been a waste. We ruined our lives for nothing. I was a bitter man when I got here. In fact, your dad was the first friend I had after it all. He and his crazy friend Greenfield brought me out of myself. Sorry, I am straying off topic again." By this time I noted Holmes still had his eyes closed and was leaning forward. This meant he was very engaged in the story. Poor Artie was sweating and kept mopping his brow, although the temperature was quite pleasant. Clearly, this was not an easy story for him to tell. He paused to take a long drink from the aging whiskey Holmes had poured for him and continued.

"Your father insisted that we dust the shelves for fingerprints. There were none to be found but we did find some hairs and a button, as well as some tobacco pieces that Charlie claimed did not come from anything I sold in the shop. He said he had read some monograph on tobacco that Mr. Holmes wrote! Imagine that? He identified the tobacco as being from an Irish maker. He also said that the button was from a suit of quality and looked similar to one he had on a tailored piece from Boston. The hair, by the way, was red, much the same color as mine used to be. So, Charlie was pretty clear that our man was Irish and from Boston. I could not fathom exactly who and furthermore, why anyone would be bothering me now, now that O'Brian was dead.

"We wrote to my friend only to find that the letter was returned to sender. There was no one by the name on the letter, which I thought I knew, or at that address. Charlie had decided the letter was bait to draw me back to Boston and that our investigation would be best carried out there incognito. He offered to take me there with him. I refused and I argued with him for going. He was on holiday with his family and I did not want him to go to any trouble on my behalf. He assured me it was no trouble and to take precautions if I insisted on staying in California. I did take precautions. I closed the shop and went to L.A. for the two weeks until Charlie came back. It's a good thing I did. Shortly after I left, my store was burned to the ground, along with my living quarters, which were above it in those days.

"In the meantime, Charlie took the train all the way to Boston and reassured me he had some business to attend to there anyway. It is odd you don't remember any of this, Mary. Now that I think of it, you went with him. He kept calling you his "apprentice."

With this, Holmes arched another eyebrow in my general direction and Artie continued, "Back in Boston all I know is that Charlie and Mary dressed as workers and went to the Irish quarter. Charlie told me later that Mary was the perfect partner. She knew when to be coy and cute and when to stay quiet. They tracked down the current ward boss and kept their ears to the ground. Mary, you told me when you got home here that your father had taken you to what you called a "fleabag hotel" and dragged you into bars. I don't know as Mrs. Russell ever knew the extent of their adventures.

"Charlie even found my ex-wife and spoke with her. He also found my son. Unfortunately, that same son was currently working the boxing rings as a manager. His boss was none other than O'Brian's boy. My son had been raised by a stepfather who was not only more complacent with the old system than I, he was part of it. This is something I never knew of and it of course made me angry. However, I did not even begin to suspect my son was behind this, but he was. Charlie insinuated himself into that circle by appearing as himself; basically a wealthy man from the better side of the tracks. He attended the boxing matches, he bet on them, and he let it be known he liked young Irish girls. I believe he left Mary home with his parents at that point."

"Wait!" I interrupted. "I remember! I was angry that father left me while he went on. My grandmother always treated me as a child. When I asked for books, she gave me dolls. When I asked to go out, she said the air was bad. When she had the maids plait my hair, I remember I pulled it out to annoy her. She was an awful woman... straight out of Jane Eyre's boarding school." I stopped and caught my breath, aware that the two men were staring at me. "Sorry Artie. I just have not been able to remember much and that just came flooding back all of a sudden."

"It's all right, Mary. I am sure you have had good reason to forget. I know how that works." With this he gave me a very deep smile and I returned it. We understood each other well, Artie and I. I noted that Holmes' eyes had flown open at my outburst. There was a hint of amusement there and around the corners of his mouth that I could not fathom. It was not mocking, of that I was sure, so I let it go. "Please continue, Artie." I said.

"Well, Charlie managed to find out who might have been out of town on some of the dates that coincided with the little thefts at my store. The first date was dead on with my son's absence for a week. He had taken a train, of that Charlie could be certain. After a little looking and no doubt lining the pockets of certain officials, he found that Robert's (that's my son) ticket had been a round trip to California; But what of the other break-ins, and the fire? For those, Charlie felt the trail led back to California and to the Irish community there. He found out who the bosses were in L.A. and tailed one of them for three days, after he brought Mary back to San Francisco and her mother. Finally, he saw the connection. My son had been to see the man, the ward boss in L.A. His underlings were the bosses in the relatively small community in San Francisco. Robert had made it known to these people that there was a debt to be settled with a man near Serra beach. I was to be frightened but not killed, and to be brought back to Boston; this is what the man Charlie shook down said. The whole thing I kept wondering is, why? Why my own son? Why had he been able to find me? Why did he want to do this?

"This is where I took over. I contacted Robert directly. I had nothing left to hide and at that point did not care what they did to me. He was startled, of that I am sure. He came back out here to see me after I sent him a letter explaining in full the circumstances of my departure from his life. Robert had been told by his stepfather a story that did not even partially resemble the truth. He had been led to believe that his father was a killer. According to Bill, the stepfather, I had brought about the demise of Darren Kelly. Darren Kelly was O'Brian's right hand man in the late eighties and early nineties and was related to my wife on her mother's side. I guess the storm Tom and I stirred up did cause some sort of change. Kelly was brought up on racketeering charges and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. I take it he was the man O'Brian let fall in his place. It seems Kelly died before he ever went to serve his sentence. O'Brian let it be known that I had carried out the killing, it had all been arranged to look that way, and that is why I had skipped town. I don't know how O'Brian managed it but somehow he came out smelling like a rose while Kelly was dead and I was run out of town and blamed for the murder. A price was put on my head and it was my son's secret desire to be the one who brought me into the bosses. He had arranged the thefts at the store to let me know that he had found me and that my time was up. I don't understand the logic of it, really. As it was, I did not connect the two until Charlie did it for me.

"The amazing thing is that out of all this I actually did go back to Boston, reconcile with my son and my daughter and clear my name of murder. It seems there was finally an amount of acceptance that all I had done was attempt to stop something that was wrong. They (the thugs that ran the boxing ring) had risen to higher types of business and no longer wanted to be associated with cut throats and murderers. They were trying to clean up their image. O'Brian's son lifted the price from my head if I swore to never return. That promise was of course no sort of hardship as I had no plans to. I guess it was my son's influence that got me cleared. Once he understood I was not a murderer and that his step father had lied to him all those years, his attitude towards me was not exactly friendly but was no longer hostile.

"So that is my story. Except for one more important detail; your father loaned me the money to re-build my store and a place to live. I paid him back in small payments each month until 1914. Since then, I have written out a check each month and saved it for you. I did not know exactly where to send them. I tried to contact your father's lawyer but he had no idea what to do about such a small sum. Anyway, here is a check for the rest of the amount owed."

Artie handed me a check for $1,500 and I accepted it grudgingly. I was stunned into silence and Holmes could tell. He picked up for me, "Well, Mr. O'Malley, that is an interesting story indeed. I am sure we appreciate you being so prompt on your debts but you know the estate was quite large. I feel certain Russ, I mean Mary's, father, would want you to re-invest the money somehow. I happen know of a coffee plantation in Kenya that is looking for investors. It might be just the thing." I looked quizzically at Holmes; coffee plantation in Kenya? I never got his depths.

Artie smiled at Holmes and said, "I'm sure you are quite right about the investing and all but I couldn't. No. You must keep the check. It makes me feel like I've done right by a friend I miss a great deal."

Holmes nodded and said, "Of course, we understand and thank you."

Both men looked at me expectantly. Clearly it was my turn to speak. I was trying to organize myself to say something but all kinds of memories that had been swirling just below the surface of my mind and now they were coming up for air. I could remember my father so clearly; his voice and the way his pressed shirts smelled. I suddenly knew what it had felt like to be his daughter. I remembered Mama too; her bright eyes and her sparkling laugh. I thought of her standing in the doorway to this house, smiling as father and Levi and I came in. And Levi; I remembered him running from me near the lake. I had caught him up and we tumbled on the grass, laughing. I loved him. He was my comrade in arms and the one I had held farthest from memory out of guilt. It all came rushing in at me and I could not get my breath for a moment. Finally, I was able to speak, "Thank you, Artie. Thank you for everything. I am glad Holmes went out in the rain this morning and found you. It is like a homecoming to hear you talk of your adventures with my father. I remember much more now. Thank you." I must have sounded fairly on edge or just strange because Holmes responded to me,

"What is it, Russell?" and he did something completely uncharacteristic, he reached for my hand in front of another person, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. I found myself embarrassed almost, but gladly let my hand rest in his. Public display of any kind was almost unknown between us.

Artie broke through and saved the situation by saying, "Well, I think I should head on back. There is a poker game that starts at nine and I am the host this week. You are welcome to join us Mr. Holmes. Sorry, Mary, I am afraid it is a man's game."

"No, thank you Artie," Holmes answered, "I am a very poor hand at poker (this was an untruth) but appreciate the offer. Did you drive over?"

"Oh, no; I don't keep a car. The damned things always break and seem to want money. I only learned to drive because Charlie insisted on showing me. He loved cars." I piped up in a semblance of normalcy and said,

"I do too. Holmes hired us a lovely Mercedes for the trip out here. I would be glad of the chance to drive you home in it. "Artie laughed and said,

"Well of course, I would not pass up a trip in a Mercedes driven by Mary Russell for the world!"

Holmes went along and we took Artie back to his place in the village. As we parted we planned to see each other again later in the week. Artie promised to take us on a tour of the area and said he looked forward to seeing if we English were in any kind of shape to keep up with him on a climb. Of course, we accepted the challenge and felt it might very likely be a situation where we had to wait up for him but did not say so. We probably both looked a little more tired than our usual selves.

After we got back to the Lodge, and divested ourselves of scarves and the like, Holmes went bounding upstairs and disappeared for a bit. I was used to such things and so settled myself down in a chair with a book brought from Mama's collection, earlier. I could not concentrate. My mind kept turning back and going over Artie's story and the amazing experience of memory I had had following it. I tried to grasp back that sense. It had been almost as though time dissolved and I saw and felt those images from the past. It was very powerful and I was seduced by it. If only I could bring myself to that state again. Perhaps I could see them, hear them, and know them as they were. In that little space of memory we could all be together again. I roused myself with a start. This was not a productive way to think. I needed to pull myself together. I did not want Holmes to notice or think I was going off the deep end again. But still, I wondered, what had happened?

As I was thinking more rationally, Holmes reappeared with something in his hands. It was a little book tied together with ribbons; my mother's journal. She had kept a separate set of journals here and faithfully recorded our time here together. He looked at me with a questioning sort of look and asked, "Do you want to tell me what happened when your family friend finished his narrative earlier?"

"I don't know. I can't exactly explain it in rational terms."

"Well, then, try irrational terms."

I told him as best I could of the images and the smells and the sense of just being in the memory of my family and of how tantalizing it was. He nodded as though he understood and I asked, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No. I think you are healing. I am no psychiatrist but I would say that what you are experiencing is like a waking dream."

"Yes! That is exactly what it felt like. I just don't know why or how."

"I don't either, but I can see that it was comforting in a way. You are letting go of all that guilt and finally grieving in a more normal way." With this he sat down near me and his voice dropped a notch, "I dreamt often of my mother in the years after she died. It was comforting to be with her even if it was just in dreams."

"You did? Were you with her when she died?"

"No. I was too stubborn and willful to come home from school. I did not want to see my father so I missed seeing her when she needed me most."

"I'm sorry. That must be a hard thing to carry."

"Yes. But it is as I told you long ago; guilt is a poor foundation for a life. And you have taught me that there was far more left to life than I could have ever guessed at that age. I mistakenly thought work would be the only passion I would ever know. When that lost its luster I was ready to give up. And then you came along and tripped over me on the downs." He smiled and reached for my hand. I held his close to my heart and kissed it.

"I would have become a bitter and angry woman like my aunt if it had not been for tripping over you."

We finished out what became a full fortnight at the Lodge in quiet pursuits. We did hike with Artie. He took us high up to a favorite spot of his and we shared a picnic there. The whole time we talked with him was like a homecoming to me. I felt more relaxed and at peace than I ever had during that time. Holmes seemed to enjoy the respite too. For once, the aftermath of a case did not lead to the inevitable ennui. Instead, there had been so many cases and so much activity for so long we just sank into calm and welcomed it. I knew the boredom would return to find us somewhere, it always did, but for now it seemed to respect our need to be quiet and together.

Our marriage relationship had been strengthened by all that had gone on this last month or so. Sharing parts of my past I had not even known of and seeing Holmes deal with me during that difficult time had made me profoundly grateful to him. I realized how fortunate I was and tried to express that a bit more openly. He seemed to be different somehow as well. I think the prospect of losing me had frightened him and he was more attentive to me than ever he was at home. It was a golden time there at the Lodge.

The day before we left, we discussed whether or not to sell the property and the possibility of returning there. We both felt it was a home more than the house in San Francisco ever could be. To honour that sense of home, we decided to keep it for the time being and to make a concerted effort to return within the next couple of years. That place was too important to just let it go.

Finally, though we were reluctant to go, we headed back towards the city. We made a detour to the redwoods and Holmes spent a great deal of time simply walking among them. He said they reinforced his growing sense of how quickly our lives pass. I did not really like hearing that so I did not answer.

After two days at the St. Francis which included time with Norbert the lawyer, we took a train to New York. We conducted a little business in that city and then boarded a ship for England, for home.