A Relative Case of Blackmail

by Maer, aka 'merely a whim'

With many kind thanks to "Say the word 'martyr,' please"
for helping me along the way.

The two years I spent with Sherlock Holmes before going up to Oxford were vastly important ones for me, full of friendship, trust, and life renewed, a restoration of two beings in dire need of a kindred spirit. In so doing we, Holmes and I, ended up saving our own selves and each other from a slow demise brought about by the death of hope, the hope that life would ever get better, a life that seemed to both of us, during those miserable War years, to be the blackest hours of our souls. It was no small accomplishment: I was still recovering from the destruction of my family, even as Holmes was grappling with a dangerous addiction to cocaine. I had no inkling when we met that fateful day on the Downs just how instrumental we each would be in the salvation of the other, yet in the first two years of our association, I received the lion's share of succor in the brilliance of his mind, his erudition and his wit; in the immediate aid of Mrs. Hudson's bank account and of her most excellent cooking. All these vital things I received and more, thanks to Holmes.

So, despite the privations I suffered under my aunt and the obligations I undertook in the form of Hospital or Land Girl duties, to say nothing of cramming feverishly for my Oxford entrance exams under the tutelage of dear Miss Sim, I managed to maintain an equilibrium between the crazy world without and the emotional chaos within. Maintenance was not always easy, the delicate internal balance not always achieved. Occasionally, a ball would be dropped. It was then that my subconscious would exact its revenge.

"I hate you, you pig-headed ass! I wish you'd never been born!" I screamed at my brother at the top of my lungs. My father threw his arm over the front seat.

I clawed my way out of the Dream, away from the fire and the smoke, the terror and the overwhelming guilt, all the way back to Sussex. It was all too familiar: I was alive. My family was dead. I yearned for them and, as usual, was denied. Fully awake and upset now, I savagely shoved the Dream back into its box and slammed down the lid. For one unforgiving moment, I hated absolutely everything, including myself. The cool night air from my open window drifted across my sweaty neck and recalled me to the present. Dreadfully thirsty, I reached for the bedside carafe only to find it empty.

Damn.

That's enough wallowing in self-pity. The bathroom tap is down the hall, just get up and go. So said my father's voice in my head, haunting me. Unfortunately, I could also hear my aunt's voice on the other side of my locked bedroom door, demanding to know what was going on. Her tone did not bode well for me. I put down the carafe and quit my bed.

This certainly won't be pleasant. All right, let's get this over with.

Breathing deeply and adjusting my expression, I opened the door. In swept a veritable tornado of French silk and Valenciennes lace, incongruent attire for a harpy such as herself, all five-foot-aught of her. Her voice, however, was a perfect match, an unlovely screech that could strip the paper off the walls.

"Why aren't you asleep? What is wrong with you, screaming bloody blue murder and waking the household like that? It's not enough for you to destroy Grandmother's crystal butter dish at dinner, but now you've got to destroy everyone's rest, too?" So went the tirade for some time, in which she listed my faults both real and imagined in obsessive detail. Then, in the lighting fast change of mood one normally associates the cunning insane, my aunt paused and ran her hands down her dressing gown, gathering her composure. What came next was said in a malevolent purr. "And another thing, Mary, I think you should finally come to accept the cold hard truth that you're with me now. Your family are dead and sniveling and crying for them in the middle of the night like a snot-nosed brat isn't going to bring them back, not a single wretched misbegotten one of them--," was as far as she got.

"What?" I interrupted her, as the import of her vicious words sank in. Oh dear God, was I shrieking the Dream--aloud--for the whole countryside to hear? The very thought of my aunt being aware of my torment, of being privy to the last memory I would ever have of my beloved family, of her using that knowledge against me was simply too much to bear. I was losing my temper, I knew it, and I did not care. My family was sacrosanct, and no court-appointed, avaricious jumped-up nursemaid with delusions of superiority was ever going to get away with defiling their memory. Not while I still breathed, she wasn't. I filled my lungs and let her have it. "You leave them out of this! You keep your filthy stinking mouth off of them! Do you hear me, Aunt? Don't you dare drag them into this--ever!"

"You should learn better manners, Mary dear." She said, eerily calm. "Really you should."

I should have seen it coming but my skin had barely time to crawl in warning when she struck my face with an openhanded slap that spun my head right around and, as I came upright, she laid the back of that hand flat out across my other cheek.

In all the rows we'd fought since my arrival, this was the first time it had come to blows. Incredulity over this new development collided with my fury and together they blazed Roman candle-bright inside me. I so very much wanted to answer back in kind. But even with the shrill bloodlust for reciprocity singing in my veins, I knew that should I actually hit back with all my strength, my aunt would most likely be laid out not just on the floor, but on the doctor's examination table in the Village. Pure hatred, hot, acute, and deadly bloomed unexpectedly within me, and I knew then that I could not stay in that house another minute. If I did, with she in her state and I in mine... I didn't dare risk it.

My only alternative was to run.

I drove my elbow into her expensively clothed side and shoved out of my room before I could give in to the urge to pound the woman into the floor like a tent peg. Past the white faces of the servants crowding the hall, down the stairs, out of the house and into the night I ran, heedless of safety or direction or of anything else but the absolute necessity of escaping her malignant influence.

My desperation faded upon reaching the outer limits of the Farm but sheer stubbornness kept me going for nearly two miles before fatigue and a misstep into a small hole flung me full length onto the grass. I raged then, prostrate and pouring out my anger in some anonymous cow pasture as the full moon westered toward dawn. I howled, I swore, I tore up the greenery, and generally indulged in a tantrum of spectacular proportions before I wound down, thoroughly exorcised, cold and wet and alone. Common sense dictated that it wouldn't be long before my aunt dispatched her servants to find me. I knew I would eventually have to go back to that house and pay the consequences, but I adamantly refused to go like this, with grass in my hair and manure on my nightgown, standing barefoot and besmudged with dirt. I had enough remaining self-respect that I steadfastly refused to grovel, but to face my aunt on my own terms I would need help. The irony of it was bitterly galling to my wounded adolescent pride, but I got to my feet, got my bearings, and turned my steps towards Holmes' cottage. I measured the moon's position with a critical eye: if I walked quickly, I could make it to his place before sunrise.

I prayed to God he would be there.

"Great Scott, Russell! Are you hurt? What happened to you?"

The sweet words washed over me much like the warmth from the sitting room fire flowing softly out his cottage door. Holmes wasted no time lingering on the threshold, but pulled me in, checking the countryside behind me for trouble. In a trice I was ensconced in a comfortable hearthside chair, in a clean nightshirt and robe, with a rug about my shoulders and my icy feet encased in carpet slippers and toasting on the fender.

Holmes, meanwhile, had put up the Stradivarius (he'd been playing something melancholy and vaguely Russian) and, moving quietly to avoid waking Mrs. Hudson and precipitating the fuss she'd inevitably make on seeing me in this condition, Holmes threw together a fresh pot of tea and a plate of day-old cakes to put in front of me. He presently sat in the opposite chair, his keen grey eyes assembling the evidence writ large across my person, doubtless missing nothing. I, with some embarrassment, could discern with the familiarity developed by close association over these past many months that he was restraining his intense curiosity by sheer dint of will and ingrained good manners. I also could see he was furious at whomever or whatever had brought me to such a pass.

Being at once pathetically grateful and deeply ashamed to accept his care and compassion under such circumstances, upon my arrival at Holmes' cottage I dithered outside for a full fifteen minutes, listening to the violin and screwing up the courage to tap on the window glass, unsure of my reception, undesirous of a scene. Yet there was no one else to whom I could turn. I had no choice but to come here. So I swallowed my pride and let Holmes take me in, let him sit beside me as I downed his larder's bounty. For his part, he simply watched me without comment or interruption, and when I put down my fourth cup of tea, he sank lower in his chair, steepled his fingers and said:

"Tell me."

Steadied by the warmth, the food, and the sure knowledge that I was safe among friends, I told him everything--save the nature of the Dream--and when I was through he was quiet for some time. The crackle and hiss of sap in the burning firewood sounded unnaturally loud in the relative silence of the sitting room. I sat and nursed my cup of tea while Holmes' hooded eyes, staring abstractedly into the fire, gleamed in the flickering light as he organized his thoughts.

"Has this happened before?" He quietly asked.

"The nightmares?"

"The... physical abuse."

"No. Never. Just the usual."

"Ah." He said, saying volumes with that one short syllable as only an Englishman could. He rose halfway from his indolent pose and put his elbows on his knees, his long sensitive fingers laced loosely in between. He studied his hands and continued with some delicacy: "You realize, do you not, that you have sufficient grounds to petition your executors for another guardian? Your face, being so fair in complexion, shows the marks of the blows rather well. No one seeing you now would disbelieve your statement in any official investigation. While I realize I may be overstepping the proper bounds of friendship, Russell, and I assure you on my honor I have no wish to pry, I extend to you my full and unconditional assistance should you choose to bring charges against your aunt. No one should stand by and do nothing when confronted with a case such as yours. However, as you are an independent and highly intelligent young woman, you shall have to decide: What would you have me do?"

He looked up at me then, the expression in his eyes carefully neutral.

What would you have me do?

What, indeed? As incredibly tempting as it would be to be rid of my aunt and to be left to my own devices, I knew the law would never allow it. Until I reached my majority, someone of legal age had to be responsible for me. I knew Holmes would take up the role of guardian in a second, without scruple or regret. But I could not so ruin his reputation. Even if Mrs. Hudson herself stepped forward to take up the position, tongues would wag, fingers would point, and the matter of our friendship--close and eccentric--would be mercilessly exposed without a shred of pretense or appearances to lend it any social legitimacy, regardless of any paperwork to be signed. It would be known throughout the countryside before the ink had dried. Despite the current diminution of the old standards of propriety, this would well and truly finish him.

"As much as I loathe it, I must go back. There's no honorable or legal way around it, is there?"

"Indeed." So saying, Holmes launched himself out of his chair and fairly catapulted up the stairs. I followed him, trailing the rug like some homespun court train on an equally unlikely gown. Clattering and clinking from the laboratory revealed Holmes breaking out the camera and developing equipment. He worked quickly, setting the stage for the photographs, getting the lighting and focus just right. He had me face forward, left, and right, blinking spots from the flashes. He straightaway set to developing the plates and shooed me out into Mrs. Hudson's care (who'd been awakened by all the thumping about overhead) when the time came to make the prints.

Steam wafted down the hall from the bath she'd drawn and I suffered Mrs. Hudson to cluck and cry over me until I felt she'd done enough; then, gently shutting the door on her with reassurances I wouldn't drown, it was with some relief that I sank up to my chin in that warm liquid heaven. I spent the better part of the next hour soaking and scrubbing the outward effects of the night away. At one point I thought I heard Holmes descend the stairs and shout down the telephone for a London connection, but any of the ensuing conversation was lost in the bustle of Mrs. Hudson returning with clean towels and proper clothing. When I came down fully revived and cleansed, decked out in a borrowed shirtwaist and matching skirt, with my freshly washed hair combed and drying, Holmes was back in his customary basket chair, in his customary pose: slouched down with his legs stretched towards the newly stoked fire.

As I came off the last step, he politely rose and waved me to the battered wingchair across from him. He saw me seated, resuming his chair after I had settled. Then he leant across and with a feather-light touch under my chin, tilted my face toward the growing daylight from the sitting room windows.

"Your face, does it hurt?" As I looked at him askance, he continued. "The pictures have come out exceedingly well, preserving the moment of impact and the immediate aftermath. However, I might advise against looking into any mirrors for the next few days, Russell, as the bruises are going to purple quite alarmingly before they're through."

"Consider it a future subject for another monograph, Holmes." I grinned at him to show there were no hard feelings. "And no, nothing really hurts. Thank you for asking."

"Excellent!" He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "All that remains is to have breakfast while we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"All in good time. Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This looks most appealing."

"This" happened to be a tea trolley loaded down with scones both savory and sweet, bacon still sizzling on a heated plate, and soft-boiled eggs gently steaming in their porcelain cups. A wedge of cheddar and sliced fruit in season rounded out our repast, which we washed down with a bottomless pot of tea. Holmes invited Mrs. Hudson to join us. She sat down to pour and Holmes gleefully attacked his egg, sending its top flying across the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson just rolled her eyes. Holmes regaled me with news of this and that, with Mrs. Hudson adding her remarks whenever he paused to eat and swallow. Basking in the shared conviviality, I found last night's episode losing its jagged edges within my mind, and when Mrs. Hudson surprised us all with a rather amusing anecdote involving a certain marmalade cat and an errant tea cozy, I was able to enjoy myself and laugh. I caught a fleeting expression behind Holmes eyes at that moment, an easing of worry, perhaps, or tension. I blinked, and it was gone.

We continued with breakfast, which had very nearly taken on the air of an impromptu party, until every last scrap of scone and strip of bacon had been consumed. Mrs. Hudson then made off with the debris and the dishes, rather pleased over how much Holmes and I had eaten.

I had just brushed the crumbs from my lap and thrown them into the grate when the bell of a messenger's bicycle rang outside, followed closely by a car's tires on the gravel drive. Holmes, who had by degrees during breakfast acquired an air of expectation, and that by the end of which had left him almost quivering, fairly made the carpet smoke in his haste to get the door. I heard some murmuring and the musical clink of money changing hands. Then Holmes shut the door with a thump and a sharp delighted cry.

"Russell! Don your coat and let us go. Your carriage awaits, my lady."

With a parting hug and kiss for Mrs. Hudson, I boarded the taxi with Holmes and went to face my aunt. As the sun rose higher over the Downs, Holmes leant closer and said quietly so the driver would not hear: "Watch and follow my lead, Russell. Should this play out as I expect, you should have a great deal less trouble from your aunt. Especially on any sore points she may have with regards to myself." He quirked a sardonic grin at me. "Don't think I haven't been aware of the nature of her grievances. I've known for some time she has tried to stir up trouble in the Village, all for naught. For some reason, her whispered campaigns have never quite taken hold. She evidently has rather underestimated the common sense and loyalty of our fellow neighbors. And I should greatly enjoy seeing her try her tricks in overcoming this--," and here he eased the corner of an envelope from his inner breast pocket, a subtle gleam of expensive cream paper with copperplate script gracing its front. Then it was nestled back into place. He breathed deeply, nostrils flaring in anticipation. "Just be yourself and stay silent--however hard that may be, I know! Listen and watch. Everything will turn out right."

Personally, I thought the envelope must be quite the trump card for it wasn't often I saw Holmes so convinced of the outcome. Then we were pulling into the Farm's driveway and towards the main house. Watchers must have been set for our arrival, or perhaps Holmes had Mrs. Hudson call ahead, for the entire household down to the lowest farmhand stood turned out on the front steps to greet us, my aunt centered amongst them. I heard Holmes make a pleased anticipatory sound. The man was positively looking forward to the coming battle. His mood, I might add, was contagious. The internal process begun in me over breakfast was now complete: the final niggling bit of unease from last night's incident fluttered and died. Thus reassured, I regained my old self-confidence. I knew now I could face whatever my aunt had planned and that whatever happened here today it would not be dull. I ventured I might even come away amused.

To her credit, my aunt did make a big showy business of welcoming me home. Anyone who did not know her would have thought her overjoyed to have me back. She made much of Holmes coming to my rescue, and admonished me (as I had not been since a rambunctious three year old) for "running off and frightening her to pieces." I kept my mouth closed on any number of comments I could have made concerning her patently false performance and simply hung my head where appropriate. Stealing glances at Holmes from under my lashes, I could see he was not deceived, either, and his lips twitched in an effort to keep from laughing and giving the game away. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never have tolerated this sort of reprimand; but with my friend at my side I could sit back, as it were, and enjoy the show.

At last the motion was made to go indoors and after the servants were dismissed to their ordinary duties, we found ourselves closeted with my aunt in the library. The gloves came off the instant the door was closed and the curtains drawn. My aunt whirled to face me and let loose her tongue.

"How dare you put me through that! Worrying all night not knowing if you were alive or dead, not knowing whether to drag the sea below the cliffs for your body or to send the police to comb the hills. After everything I've done for you, you attack me like an animal and--."

"And here she is! Safe and sound in mind and body, and none the worse for wear," exclaimed Holmes, interrupting her with an elegant gesture toward myself, rather like that of a stage magician pulling a dove from thin air. He gained control of the floor with practiced ease and his voice turned steely, brightly shining and sharp.

"Before you say anything more, Madam, let me make a few things perfectly clear. Clearly Miss Russell has been treated in a very shabby fashion, and if she 'attacked' you as you claim, she has had more than enough reason to do so. One only needs eyes to observe how, in the months immediately she arrived, her clearly well fed frame had wasted away to a shadow of its former self. Clearly she was being deprived of the basic minimum to maintain her physical needs. Clearly the lack can be traced solidly back to you. I have statements from several former servants in the Village to that effect. It is an affront upon the laws of England and the laws of common decency that a young lady of Miss Russell's breeding should suffer starvation and abuse in the care of someone so clearly unable or unwilling to perform her duty as guardian."

"All hearsay." My aunt dug in her heels. "You cannot prove anything."

"But I can, Madam. Observe!" Holmes drew back the curtains and flooded the library with light. He was back at my side in two quick steps and as he had in the cottage, turned first one abused cheek then the other towards my aunt's reluctant gaze. "This girl's face has been struck by a woman's right hand, a hand wearing an Irish Claddagh ring bearing a two and a half carat stone faceted in the Victorian fashion. A ring on which one prong is bent ever so slightly awry, a ring whose setting has been clearly--and with considerable force--impressed into Miss Russell's flesh. A ring, Madam, I observe you still wear on your right hand. A ring that is perforce, given the rarity of the stone therein, duly recorded as part of the estate overseen by Miss Russell's executors and the lack of which would be noticed should it somehow come up missing."

Holmes paused to let this sink in. His voice and mien, so unfailingly professional, so impeccably polite, was positively frigid as he pulled the cream envelope from his pocket and presented it to her using only the tips of his fingers.

"As to the rumours concerning my association with Miss Russell, the aim of which is obvious to everyone present, I believe this will serve as a refutation and a warning, Madam, should such rumours persist in circulating about the District. You may care to note the address." Holmes gave my aunt time to peruse the contents. The scarlet wax seal, the heavy paper with its elegant writing, and the signature in combination made for a potent missive, one that sent my aunt's eyelids towards her hairline and her jaw towards the carpeted floor. When she finally looked up from what she held in her hands, Holmes gave her the barest of smiles.

"Madam may choose to believe the letter to be bogus, the seal stolen, the signature forged. I assure you it is genuine. As is my intention to provide the originator of that letter a full statement--complete with photographs--of Miss Russell's mistreatment by your hands should she ever again appear before me bearing... sufficient cause. I trust I have made myself perfectly clear."

That letter (and Holmes' veiled threat to indict her for the abusive fraud she was) silenced my aunt for eighteen months. And while I later had to trace her secret bank account to bring her to heel, she never again laid so much as a fingertip on me. My immediate future thus secured from her vicious interference, I was able to continue my association with Holmes unhindered and undiluted until I went up to Oxford the following year at the beginning of fall term. Yet no matter how many years separate me from that day he so neatly thwarted my aunt, I shall ever remember Holmes' response to her outraged cry of blackmail.

He merely smiled a frosty little smile and said, "So it is."

The End