Peculiar Pecuniary Points

by "Vestige of Femininity"

I find myself in a bit of a dilemma here. Having made it clear that I wish to keep my mother's sister out of my narratives, I now find it necessary, on the advice of my solicitors, the ever capable Messrs. Gibson, Arbuthnot, Meyer, and Perowne, and my husband, the always prudent Sherlock Holmes, to clarify for the official record certain financial matters as they apply to that vile woman. As I say, it is a dilemma for me, because she was a plague on my house for more than six years and I would like nothing better than to forget her existence altogether. However, I will endeavour to keep my temper in check (that is, I will try to keep from stabbing my pen into the paper with more vehemence than is necessary for punctuation), so that all will know the extent of her embezzlement and vindictiveness.

There is one thing that I refuse to do, no matter what these good gentlemen say, and that is to actually spell out her name. If I have to write about her against my wishes then I will do this as my way of lessening her impact on my thoughts and on my life. I apologise to those who find it tedious to repeatedly read 'she' and 'her' in this discourse, as you will undoubtedly be forced to do. This is entirely an editorial decision completely out of my hands, because although I will never actually write the name she was given at birth, you can be certain that I was never without more, shall we say, colourful epithets for her.

It constantly amazes me that this woman shared the same parents and influences as my own mother. More different sisters one cannot imagine, for although my mother died when I was fourteen in the car accident that also killed my father and my brother, I remember her clearly as the kindest and gentlest of women. Like her namesake, Judith, my mother was also a strong woman, capable of great love and tenderness for her family while still possessing a sharp mind and infectious sense of humour that always disarmed people, even my father. In contrast, her sister was small minded, malicious, petty and an angry shrew of a woman. She never loved nor cared for anyone in her life except herself, certainly not me, who was placed in her charge by the executers of my parent's estate until my twenty first birthday. From the day we moved into my family's cottage in Sussex, she did her best to control, bully and threaten me at every turn.

One of her more subtle ways of doing this was to keep strict control on my intake of food. There were days when I would be forced to go from morning until evening with little more than some bread and tea. This may not sound terribly harsh for an adult, but for a rapidly growing adolescent this was nothing short of abuse and deprivation. With my acquaintance and growing friendship with Holmes, however, this became less effective. I spent many a day at his cottage being nurtured intellectually by him and nutritionally by his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. That wonderful woman kept my body and soul together until I went up to Oxford, and even then upon my return visits she would laden me down with delicious baked goods and delicacies to take back with me. Even when my aunt limited my access to my own funds by granting only a pittance for an allowance, the loan system that Holmes set up for me with Mrs. Hudson basically negated this effort as well.

Of course, these interferences with her plans to dominate my life frustrated her no end. It made her even more poisonous and spiteful (if that was possible) so that she never missed an opportunity to harass and hurl verbal abuse at me, her favourite subject being of course, my relationship with Holmes.

Not that it matters at this late date (after all, we have been married for some time now and this all happened a long time ago), but I would like to make clear that from the day that Holmes and I met when I was fifteen until I reached my majority and we decided (negotiated?) to marry, and in all our unchaperoned excursions together, Holmes was nothing less than the perfect gentleman in every way and nothing untoward ever happened between us. My aunt, however, was never one to let a trivial thing like the truth get in the way of her malignant imagination. Her hateful and despicable little mind filled in details where she thought some advantage could be had by doing so.

In her efforts to limit my time under Holmes' roof and his influence, she would try to upset me with innuendo about what she believed went on in 'that house.' However, when I would ignore this, it would progress to threats to tell the upstanding citizens of this county the 'facts' that she knew to be 'true.' If this was met with further silence, and before I recognized the pattern to her campaign it often would, her tirades would get louder and more threatening (To get the flavour of these conversations, and I use the word facetiously here, one must understand that such terms of endearment as 'trollop,' 'slut,' and 'whore,' were sprinkled liberally throughout her invective.). When it got to this point, usually I was able to meet her head to head (actually her head came to about my shoulder) and shout her down with equal vehemence. And sometimes I was able to shut her up with my own threats of having the executors do an audit of the household books. At one point when I thought that she just might carry through with her threats, Holmes had Mycroft write, or as I suspect, Mycroft had caused to be written a letter to her on letterhead that left no doubt in her mind who she would be up against should she decide to carry out such actions. I never saw that letter, or even knew who had written it, but I found it rather amusing to see the way her eyes narrowed at me whenever I entered the cottage in the two weeks following her receipt of it. For about eighteen months after that there was a blessed hiatus of sorts. However, all good things usually come to an end, and this was no exception.

She started in again about a year after the letter, and it was only one incident, but the nature of this threat chilled me into action. If she had kept her abuse to hurling insults and threats at me, and even if she had actually started or encouraged rumours in the village as to my virtue, it would have been inconvenient, I have no doubt. But I was just Mary Russell, a young nobody and I could have withstood it. However, when she started to focus her perverted railings on Holmes, I knew that something more permanent had to be done.

Sherlock Holmes, while known as a gentleman to all his acquaintances, is also a well-known name and literary persona, thanks to Watson and his agent Conan Doyle, and is therefore fair game for the more lurid press and their own brand of fanciful imaginings. I knew that Holmes would scoff at my worries about his 'reputation.' Indeed, when I finally did tell him the details that I am about to relate to you now, he laughed and rather flippantly claimed that it might have been a good excuse for him to take up residence at his mother's estate in France. However, when I drew his attention to how such rumours might even have affected Mycroft's position, he sobered considerably and after some thought said that I had done the right thing. The particular ranting that prompted my investigations into her finances (the one area I knew would truly catch her attention), were spoken one evening in the spring of 1918, the week after I had returned to my cottage from Oxford for the spring holiday.

After having spent the better part of that day, and indeed that week, at Holmes' cottage involved in some complex experiments with him in his laboratory, I slipped into my darkened cottage as quietly as I was able, removing my boots before entering. It had been a very intellectually stimulating but tiring day, interrupted only by the sumptuous and delectable meals that Mrs. Hudson had insisted that we eat (no arm twisting was necessary on my part), and having availed of our local taxi services, my only wish as I climbed the stairs to my small room, was for my bed and sleep. However, this was not to be. Her voice cut through the quiet of the cottage, like a nail scraping chalkboard.

"Sneaking in again, I see."

The words were slightly slurred, and indeed when I turned toward the sound of her voice, I could make out her diminutive form leaning against the doorframe of the sitting room, drinking thirstily from a heavy crystal glass. I casually dropped the boots I was carrying and let them tumble noisily over the steps.

"There. Does that announce my arrival to your satisfaction?" I scornfully turned to resume my assent and then immediately regretted my impulsive act.

"Where did you get those boots?" her bleary eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Damn! I had hoped to get them more worn looking before she had a chance to see them up close. As well, there had been little rain to speak of this week, so there was no mud to hide their newness. I had purchased this new set of footwear through Holmes' loan system when my aunt refused to buy me new boots. Refusing to buy the necessary apparel for a growing teenager was also common with my dear aunt. This time, it was not that my feet had grown again, as it often was in the past, it was just that with all my traipsing through the countryside with Holmes, my old ones had simply fallen apart.

I descended the stairs and scooped up my boots. "What do you care, where I got them?" I asked in irritation, more at myself for my thoughtless lapse, than at her.

"Where would a child with your limited allowance get the funds to purchase such expensive shoe leather?"

"I borrowed it from Mrs. Hudson, a lovely and generous lady." The latter part was certainly true and the former was only partly a lie.

"That woman would not have the capital for such extravagance, even as a loan." I doubted if this was the case, for I knew that Holmes paid Mrs. Hudson handsomely, but I also knew that it would be useless to point this out to her once she was launched on her path of harrassment. And indeed, I recognized the beginnings of a new attack in her campaign for control in this little altercation.

Her eyes narrowed, "You're taking money from him, aren't you? Well, well, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, does it? Your dear mother was as big a slut as you are. I tried to tell Mama and Papa about Judith and that bastard of a father you had. But they wouldn't listen to me. No, she was always the perfect one. She could do no wrong in their eyes." She spat out spitefully, "'Dear sweet Judith is just a spirited young thing.' they said." She gulped down another mouthful from the glass. "They should have locked her in her room, they should. Just as I should have you locked in your room!"

I truly hated it when my aunt spoke of my parents. When she even referred to them or spoke their names, it truly grated on my nerves. But when this loathsome harpy purposely defiled their memory in this way it immediately stirred me to anger. Looking back now, I realize that my aunt was well aware of this and was merely employing one more weapon in her vindictive arsenal against me. However, this time for some reason, I was able to hold myself in check.

I crossed my arms and said, "All right, I know you're working up to another of your little tirades in this never ending campaign. I know that it would be useless to try and explain to you that Holmes is an honourable man and a good friend and mentor, but," I paused for emphasis, "I would like to remind you that there's nothing that you can do to keep me away from him if I choose to spend time with him."

"Hah!" she doubled over in drunken laughter spilling liquid from her glass. When she came up for air, she pointed a stubby finger at me and still chuckling said, "Why, I think our little Mary is in love with the old beekeeper!"

I ignored this silly statement and kept my voice under control. "I would have thought that even a creature with your limited mental abilities could understand that if you try to stir up trouble to prevent my association with Holmes, whoever sent you that letter is capable of making your life very difficult." No explanations were necessary concerning 'that letter,' since I knew it was never far from her thoughts.

To my surprise she did not react to this as I expected. She did stop laughing, but her reply was much too calm and assured. "Well, Miss high and mighty, while you've been out whoring with that senile old goat of yours, this mental deficient has been reviewing her options here," she raised her near empty glass shakily in salute and drained what was left into her mouth. "And it occurs to her that if a few select rumours got around, it would be exceedingly difficult to trace them to their source. If certain higher ups were to connect them with her and decided to take action against her, then she could make it very messy for all involved." She added with resolve, "If they make life difficult for me, I'm not afraid to fight, you know."

As I said, she was suspiciously composed. Usually by this time her voice would be an octave higher and she would be standing with both hands on her hips shrieking at me like a fishwife. It seemed the alcohol was having an anaesthetising affect on her typical deportment. I didn't respond, but continued to stand there with my arms crossed waiting for her to get to her point so we could have done with this latest round.

"I've been pondering this Mr. Sherlock Holmes of yours,"she turned and walked unsteadily into the sitting room, where she paused by the sideboard and poured more liquor from what looked like the Scotch bottle into her glass, slopping over the edge as she did so. She continued, "and it seems to me that the man has some rather odd proclivities."

I almost laughed at that. Most people with as narrow a mind as my aunt would interpret many things that Holmes did as odd. She stumbled over to the chair by the dying fire and sat, savouring the words maliciously, "Yes, very odd, indeed." She looked up at me then with an evil smile. I didn't know what she was leading up to but she had my attention.

"Don't you think that this penchant of his for associating himself with children is rather curious? I mean, my dear child, an older unmarried man, taking up with a teenage girl in a lad's attire? Wouldn't that sound rather peculiar to most people?"

She couldn't seriously be -

"And what about those Irregulars described so well by that Watson person? Young orphan boys, mostly I'm sure. Does he like orphans the best, do you think? Easier to deal with, I've no doubt. Does he like girls as well? Or is that why you dress up like a boy all the time?"

My first thought was to laugh; of all her harangues and threats over the past few years, this had to be the most preposterous she had ever come up with! But when I looked at her I knew she was completely serious. I remember my mouth went dry and I stared at her unbelievingly for some seconds.

"Nobody would believe such utter - "

"They wouldn't have to believe, now would they? Just the suggestion, is all that's really needed isn't it? You know, 'Did you hear about that Holmes fellow? Damned odd sort of goings on, don't you know. Can't say how true it is, but just the same...."

If I had been standing next to the poker, I swear my hand would have reached out of its own volition and wiped that smile off her face once and for all. The satisfaction of obliterating that hateful countenance would have been more than enough compensation for the consequences of my actions. But then, a cold, hard fury took hold within me and I felt myself go completely rigid with controlled rage.

My voice was low and filled with loathing as I looked into her increasingly unfocussed gaze, "You revolting, odious little - My God, is there no end to your venom? You would purposely set out to ruin the name of a good man, just to gain some control over me? What is the matter with you?"

She drank deeply from her glass, waved it drunkenly in the air and said sweetly, "Why Mary love, I'm just a guardian concerned for the welfare of my charge, and indeed, for the other poor unsuspecting children in my community. Nobody could fault me for that, now could they?"

"What can you hope to gain from this? Even if I agree to stay away from Holmes, it will not be forever. When I reach my majority, I will throw you out on your ear and befriend the devil himself, if I so choose! Why are you so hell bent on - "

She seemed to be losing interest in me, for she waved her free hand at me in irritation, closed her eyes and settled back into the chair. "Go way now. Ahm too tired to talk."

My control nearly snapped then and the urge to put my hands around that scrawny neck was almost overwhelming. But I stopped, and regarding her more closely, I realized that the cumulative intake of alcohol was starting to take its toll. She seemed very drunk indeed, and a closer examination of the bottle confirmed this. This gave me a glimmer of hope, for there was a chance that she would not remember most of this evening's slanderous insinuations when she finally awoke tomorrow (with one vicious hangover, I thought with some relish). She was not used to strong drink, at least before this incident, she had not imbibed large quantities in my presence.

I snatched up the glass as it tipped out of her hand and looked down in abhorrence at her as deep breathing gave way to short faint snores. What kind of person would want to destroy another's reputation just for some very dubious short term gain? What kind of mind sat up nights like this thinking of ways to make life miserable for others? I had studied detection and criminal investigation with Holmes now for three years and I had gained some knowledge into the mind and motivations of various felons and lawbreakers of all sorts. But this woman was beyond anything that I had come across in my studies with him.

I suspected it was nothing more interesting or dramatic than human envy. I think she saw something of my mother in me and this brought back memories of constantly being in her younger sister's shadow. I knew from various references that she brought up, and indeed I remember some stories that my father told me, how my mother was the more intelligent, more beautiful, the more spirited and popular of the Klein sisters. She was also the favourite child and my grandparents were always more indulgent with her. This, no doubt led to much resentment on my aunt's part. It was an old and not very original story. But now, with her sister dead she did her best to eke out her revenge on the sister's surviving daughter. I thought wryly that Dr. Ginzberg would be amused at my attempts to psychoanalyse my tormentor.

It was interesting, though, that I could coldly and lucidly stand there and think these things about her without actually wringing that neck. Maybe it was Holmes' training or maybe I was just growing up, but it was this control and objectivity that allowed me to think clearly and make plans for what had to be done. I was quite sure that, even if she did not remember this specific incident tomorrow, this newest seed was planted somewhere in that depraved little mind of hers and it would come up again at some point. And I must be ready to stop her.

I knew that I was in no position to ferret out financial information from the necessary banking institutions, or if I did, it would require more planning, much role playing and more time than I could give it at that point in my life. Holmes' brother Mycroft was the obvious one for this. I did not actually meet Holmes' phlegmatic older brother in the flesh, so to speak, until sometime later the following year but I knew of his powerful connections as demonstrated by the letter and through what Holmes had told me. I knew that if I laid the facts before him he would undoubtedly want to help, as he had before, especially if this time there was a good chance that the woman would be silenced once and for all.

The following morning while my aunt was still unconscious, I wrote a long letter to Mycroft telling him the dilemma that I faced and appealing for his help. However, I made it clear that I did not want Holmes informed of the situation, at least not yet. I'm not sure why I did this. The only explanation that I can think of is that the whole thing was rather awkward and it was easier to write the messy details to a relative stranger that I couldn't even put a face to, than it was to tell Holmes in person. And I did have to explain everything so that Mycroft would understand the urgency of the matter.

I wrote that in the interest of time, rather than looking into all her affairs since we took up residence in Sussex, concentrating his investigations on her dealings for the past year would undoubtedly uncover sufficient incriminating evidence for fraud and embezzlement. I also made it clear that I was not concerned with such trifles as her overspending on the groceries, as I knew she did rather lavishly (though I never partook of the feasts that she had the cook prepare for her friends.). My main interest, and I thought the most likely to be of interest to a judge, were the large sums that I felt sure were making their way from the household accounts and my own support accounts into her own.

I asked Patrick to post my letter on his way into the village and to please keep an eye peeled for a reply postmarked London that I did not want my aunt to have any knowledge of. I knew I could trust Patrick with this confidence because he was well aware of my antipathy towards my aunt and although he would never say, I believe he disliked her almost as much as I. Without asking any questions, he smiled conspiratorially and said, "Right then, Miss Mary."

On the way back from Holmes' cottage the following afternoon, Patrick hailed me before I reached my door and placed an envelope in my hands with a tip of his hat and a gesture that looked to be perilously close to a wink. The envelope and the paper within were standard, inexpensive office stationary with no letterhead or any other identifying marks (the Holmes brothers were definitely of the same mind, it would seem.). Its small, neat handwriting read:

My Dear Miss Russell,

In reply to your recent request, I would be more that willing to confidentially assist you in any way that I can. I had known something of your aunt's unscrupulous nature from our last efforts. However, I never realized the depths to which she would lower herself.

Such an investigation should not present too many difficulties. Be assured that I will give the matter my personal attention and all her financial transactions will be uncovered as quickly as possible. In the meantime if you could provide me with any pertinent information as to where or with whom she is likely to have transacted business in the past year, it would speed our investigations along considerably.

Yours, very truly,
M.H.

A very satisfactory reply, I thought. Succinct and straight to the point. Obviously to his mind, this was first and foremost a sensitive but straightforward matter that had to be handled with discretion and delicacy, something with which he was well familiar.

While Mycroft (and no doubt some very competent, discreet clerk) worked at finding where my aunt's accounts were held and traced the sources of all deposits made to them, I fed him all the information that I could gather from letters and packages that came to the cottage. Any envelopes that even vaguely looked to be from banks or solicitors; any bills that were not directly related to household spending; any correspondence at all that I didn't recognize, I carefully noted the return addresses and sent them on to Mycroft (I got quite adept at steaming open letters that did not reveal their origin on the outside). Even when I returned to Oxford for Michaelmas term I managed to continue my financial sleuthing by enlisting Patrick's help, who immediately connected this little bit of domestic espionage with the original letters. Again, he required shockingly little encouragement and only a minimum amount of explanations.

In November I received another letter from Mycroft, this time to my rooms at Oxford, informing me that all my aunt's accounts had been traced and documented satisfactorily and that he was in possession of, as he put it, 'some very peculiar pecuniary points.' I smiled and thought that I would truly would like to meet this man. He further wanted to know how I wanted to proceed with the incriminating information. I thought it wise that he make a copy of the documents and keep both with him. I wanted to keep them 'under wraps,' to use the American vernacular, until such time as they were needed. These documents were our insurance for the next time that my aunt opened her foul mouth and I could not think of a safer repository for them.