The Fifteenth Duke

by a bee clinging dopily to his hair
(AKA Peg Erbes)

Between supervising the seemingly never-ending (and certainly never before considered) technicalities of refurbishing my home and the weekly trips to London with Holmes tying up details of the Margery Childe episode, I eagerly anticipated a holiday. While content to spend a portion of this time on planning and bringing off a wedding, I rather hoped I would wake and find myself, while still Mary Russell, also "Mrs. Holmes". It seemed rather a waste of time to produce the same tired scenario as if inviting the stranger to announce "an impediment to this marriage."

Holmes himself showed no signs of rushing off for a special license so he surprised me when, on a visit to Mycroft to thank him for some assistance, he mentioned our intentions. Mycroft colored (as he did frequently in my presence) and offered the briefest congratulations. The conversation then shifted sharply and deliberately to the latest news from France. As no invitation was extended, I felt strange doing so and the subject did not arise again.

Later, at lunch, I brought the subject up myself. "The banns must be called somewhere, I suppose. I see no reason to travel all the way down to Sussex when any anonymous church here in London would do." I broke the crust on the excellent meat pie before me, letting the steam mix with the moisture rising from our drying garments. Holmes knew the barman and we'd been given a table near the fire. Past favors demanded we eat what appeared to be his own lunch (other patrons ate cold sandwiches on this rainy afternoon) with the blessings of the stout cook, his wife.

"Church of England rather than the registrar's office? Or a synagogue? You surprise me." His smile was sincere rather than sardonic, an unusual shift.

"Rather get the thing done in the most conventional fashion," I replied. I didn't add it might be the only conventional thing about the new relationship.

"Then you'd deprive Mrs. Hudson of the pleasure of assembling your trousseau or continuing her exhaustive instruction in the womanly arts. Perhaps you feel you don't need her insights on wifely duties." He buttered one of the rolls smelling of yeast and heaven.

I shuddered, imagining her well-intentioned fussing. Over the years she'd taken on many areas of my education, most I'd yet to master, and the thought of her earnest and enthusiastic explanations was more than I could bear. Mrs. Hudson and my Uncle John Watson were, in many ways, cut from the same sturdy cloth, their reliability and uninspired good works woven into the fabric of the empire.

"Does it bother you, Holmes?" I asked suddenly.

He touched the serviette to his lips and reached for the glass of rich ale. "You must be more specific, Russell. You can't be referring to the loss of my bachelorhood as that, for all practical purposes, I lost six years ago over the problem of painted bees. You've made up your lack of trousseau with a more than ample dowry which, I might add, you're increasingly wearing to good effect."

I shrugged self-consciously. The brown and crimson outfit represented the best efforts of my industrious tailors and did much to enhance my unusually angular frame. I wondered, not at the compliment (though those were scarce enough), but this air of insouciant good humor rare with Holmes which seldom lasted past the first opportunity for sarcasm. Most puzzling was his lapses into what, in another man, might be called contentment. My question served as much to test this peculiar state as to satisfy my curiosity.

It took a year of skirting the issue before deciding to cement our partnership despite the considerable and inconvenient differences in our ages. Not only did we neither presume on the extent of the other's affection but we were both intelligent enough to have some concern for our own comfort. Neither of us possess a traditional or easy view of life. Neither of us allowed (or so we like to think) affection to color facts or sweeten the reality of our sometimes distasteful traits. In short, we got on each other's nerves, sometimes got in each other's way, and were frequently careless with the other's feelings when abstracted.

On the other hand, we'd shown success in our own chosen fields, proving ourselves dependable joists in the other's constructs. This and our ability to work together gave enough incentive to try the house of matrimony with the enduring hope that good companions make good bedfellows. I found his disgusting mood following so shortly on our decision to marry, somewhat embarrassing.

"No, Holmes. Does it bother you that Mycroft seems to oppose us marrying?"

He laughed. "I've never known my brother to welcome pomp, personal celebration or any physical contact, even as inconsequential as a handshake. He knows what would happen if the press involved itself. A man as powerful as Mycroft can't risk even a line of that kind of publicity. It's not you or even us that he objects to. It's the road there. Besides, what difference would it make if he did object?"

"He's your brother."

"Ah," he said softly. "And you feel family a necessary accessory."

"Of course not," I denied as sharp and unexpected tears threatened. He did not, I was thankful to see, offer sympathy. "I'm thinking of the logistics."

"Well, I'm known in London so any ceremony here would certainly cause comment. Unless," he continued, "you wish to appear in the society pages?"

I ignored him. "London is out then and Sussex as well."

"Oxford?"

I paused. "I'd rather not mix business with pleasure."

"As I don't wish to clarify that statement, we'll agree to scratch Oxford. We could go abroad."

I tucked my tongue carefully in my cheek. "What we do, Holmes, we do for England."

He refused to be baited. "North then. Or east."

"Neither pleasant this time of year," I said. A March romp in Scotland did not appeal to a body still under repair from its recent misuse.

"Cambridge, perhaps?"

"Really, Holmes. The university?"

"Actually, I have an acquaintance there I thought could shed some light on a problem I've been investigating. Airborne particles may be caught in the fibers of clothing and later extracted-"

"North is quite acceptable," I said smiling. "I'm sure I can find ways to occupy my time but I'll need a few things for the trip." It seemed I'd been living out of bags, boxes and unlined drawers for an awfully long time.

"Not to excess, I beg you," Holmes cautioned. He had a horror of traveling with more than a single bag though he always seemed to have exactly what he needed to be perfectly turned out. I, on the other hand, usually oscillated between grubby and disheveled despite the best efforts of tailors, Mrs. Hudson, and my own pride. Besides, I refused to take my wedding journey with the serviceable and well-worn under-garments that took me all through college.

"Fine. I'll leave my evening gowns and dancing slippers at home," I agreed sarcastically, remembering the unfinished dress at my elven tailors with a private flush. And we moved on to topics more acceptable to both of us.

I spent the night at my club, the Vicissitude, and the next day in what shopping I felt necessary. I stopped without much hope to see if any of my other clothing was completed and, outside of a glimpse of a smart overcoat on the padded form, came away empty handed. Less than an hour later, I followed Holmes on the search for our seats on the afternoon train to Cambridge.

As we entered our compartment, a superbly dressed head growing from the wealth of furs piled on her shoulders turned in our direction. "Occupied," it said in a stiff, refined voice before turning to a further perusal of the station.

"Pardon me, Madam," Holmes said. "These are clearly our seats." Such was his conviction that I didn't bother to check the tickets resting in my handbag.

"Certainly not," she snapped. "I took the entire area for my own use. If I'd wanted to share," the word oozed contempt, "I'd have traveled coach. Summon the conductor if you don't believe me."

Holmes went for that traveling bastion of authority leaving me to stand braced in the doorway, our bags at my feet, as the train jerked forward. "You may as well sit until they find where you belong," she said ungraciously with a negligent flip of her gloved hand. My clothes and Holmes age both earned me the seat as well as saving me from further patronage.

I placed her about fifteen years older than myself. She held her back, a miracle of erectitude, a full six inches from the back of the seat as if its plump plushness did not exist and yet somehow made it look natural. She'd even arranged her hair stiffly, every tendril obedient. For all that, she was a handsome woman, wearing her stylish clothes and severe attitude with the grace of nobility.

"I'm so sorry, Madam," the obsequious conductor whined. "It seems they didn't hold all the seats for you and, in fact, sold two to this lady and gentleman. I don't know how it could have happened."

"You must find them a place elsewhere. I don't have to tolerate this inefficiency."

"There are no other seats, Madam. Surely you could share for a few miles or else these people have got to stand in the corridor all the way to Cambridge."

"Oh, very well. Just see I'm not disturbed further. I have a beastly headache."

As we settled ourselves, I noticed she did look ill. Lines of stress or temper ran from her nose to the down-turned corners of her mouth. >From experience, I knew that strangers seldom improve the disposition, and opened a book as Holmes scanned the front page of the Times. We read in comparative quiet as the train rattled across London.

"Oh this is intolerable," she said, suddenly, looking wildly around.

"Can I call someone?" I asked. "You don't look well. Perhaps something you contracted abroad."

"What can you know about it?" she asked suspiciously. "You sound like that story book character with the peculiar name, always pretending to know things." The Times rustled ominously. "My husband was always taken in by that foolishness and that ridiculous author..." Her face lost what color it had as she tightened her lips in anger.

"You are ill. I'll call the conductor," I said, rising.

"No." The word rapped out as her finger plucked at the velvet arm covers and she continued, sotto voce. "He wasn't content to trick the general public with those preposterous tales, he has to ruin the good name of a respected man, a successful marriage, a son's reputation. That Doyle's a menace."

I've noticed when Holmes is about to deliver one of his more scathing observations, his normally high voice achieves a level of nasal whine impossible to reproduce. With the look of utter boredom, he lowered his paper. "Madam, while I sympathize with you over your failing marriage and applaud you taking time to consider persevering in it, I hope your solicitor's advice is better than his punctuality. While this may explain your ill-humor, it does not excuse it."

"You've been hired to follow me," the woman said, rage carefully tucked beneath her well bred calm. "Not Gerald. It would never cross his mind. He probably hasn't missed me."

I reached out reassuringly, stopping short of actually touching the rich wool of her coat. "My partner merely observed by your wardrobe you reside in the country but lately sought legal advice in the city. You've been south, France perhaps though your scent could easily have been purchased earlier."

"No, Russell. It is new and from the House of Chanel."

"So, Paris, and probably the south of France. There's no lighter skin beneath your ring, telling him you removed it before getting tanned. Now the skin around the ring is irritated and somewhat swollen as if you've been twisting it in thought of your marriage. As to your solicitor's sense of time, only the need for haste would make a woman fail to remove every trace of ink from her hands before boarding a train."

She glanced down at the traitorous fingers. "It's all perfectly obvious when you tell it like that, " she said peevishly. "Why did he try to make such a mystery of it?"

"It's my job to do just the opposite," Holmes replied. "And the only reason I've bothered clarifying anything is because I am curious as to your antipathy towards an acquaintance, Conan Doyle. I, Sherlock Holmes, have a vested interest as he holds my reputation as a detective in his rather unreliable hands. I assure you, Madam. Sherlock Holmes is no myth."

"I suppose I might as well tell you," she sighed as if granting a long requested favor. "I've nothing to lose." Her left hand strayed across her lap once more to fiddle with the wedding band as well as the more opulent rings keeping them company.

"It was around Christmas when he first started seeing him. I thought it was the port along with that absurd family nonsense about Lady This and Lord That floating about the place. He said he'd gotten a good tip and it paid off. An investment tip from the ghost of his father - ludicrous. His friend probably gave him the exact same information the week before and he simply forgot."

I raised an eyebrow. "His father is dead?"

"For donkeys years," she said. "I'll admit my husband didn't inherit his head for business but I doubt my father-in-law's talents lasted beyond the grave! Oh, it was all Gerald could talk about and every night he'd go through the same routine, hoping he'd appear again. Then he started hearing his voice. I told him repeatedly it was all stuff and nonsense. He's as much of a child as the one I have in the nursery."

Somehow, this didn't surprise me.

"After a few weeks it seemed to stop. When I enquired, he admitted I'd been right all along- it had been just his imagination. I was a fool to believe him. Shortly thereafter, my maid Agnes told me the visitations, as he called them, continued. The staff was, of course, in an uproar, worried about apparitions popping out of closets and leaving, what do they call it?, ectoplasm about .

"I spoke to Gerald quite forcibly then. Once the servants start talking, the whole neighborhood knows and, in our case, the entire of society. His attitude left me no choice but to leave at once, hoping the shock would shake some sense into him."

I bit my cheek and refused to look at Holmes. Amazing she didn't hear her husband's cries of jubilation all the way to London. Or perhaps I underestimated him.

"How did Agnes know?" Holmes asked, his eyes closed, one hand splayed across his face.

She stopped, obviously irritated at the interruption. Then the novelty of considering her staff's social contacts sent her down the path of back stairs interactions.

"I suppose she spoke to Alice," she answered thoughtfully. "She works in the nursery so naturally hears what my governess thinks. Although Catherine is a rather quiet woman, she'd surely have something to say about shades in the library. Gerald should know better than to involve our staff in these things."

"Involve?"

"I can never remember what they call it but at least three glasses have had their rims chipped. Such an expense for something so silly."

"Table-tipping? A seance?" Holmes said the words distastefully.

"Yes, that's it. You see, Catherine is the great granddaughter of, well, we are connected some generations back. Normally I would hire someone with a trifle more formal education but she will do for my daughters when they come along. It's been difficult since the war you know. Or maybe you don't."

I thought of the Q and Mrs. Q, the closest I'd gotten to hiring domestic help, knowing I wouldn't be this dry, pampered woman for anything.

"And what brought you back?" Holmes asked, relentlessly holding to the topic.

She had the good grace to look abashed. Money, I thought. How often it comes to that, even in a marriage. She'd probably come from wealth herself, married into it of course and now, her life spoiled by it, she returns to a gullible man on the path of destruction rather than make her own way.

"I had a letter that he'd invited that man, Doyle, up to investigate. He's shameless and will not hesitate to bring us all down. Besides," she added grudgingly, "Gerald and I have known each other since childhood. Divorce is unthinkable, even today. How would he get on? He's such a fool and misses the most obvious things; he'd be dead in a year without someone to manage for him." She folded her lips as if to hold back the final, damning rationale. "I'm rather fond of the idiot, after all." She looked up defensively.

Reasoning ahead of the facts. Not greed but a very real affection, embarrassed at itself but there nonetheless. I looked at Holmes, wondering if our own natural reserve could ever appear this way.

He leaned forward. "Although I'd agree Conan Doyle is a fool, misguided by grief and an all too-common assumption that spirituality obviates the need for reason, I don't feel he's criminal. Perhaps in the effects he creates but I believe they're unintentional. Nor do I think the man would skulk to the home of a stranger and manufacture manifestations to back his claims. I caution you to seek professional assistance in this matter."

For a full twenty minutes she appeared to stare at a spot some distance past the compartment. No sign of the internal battle showed on her face unless it was in the slight tightening of the muscles of her jaw which only served to accentuate the leanness of her profile. She's gone back to the absent twirling of her rings, moving them freely between the knuckles. Holmes had gone back to his paper, leaving me to observe her struggle.

"I suppose there's no help for it," she said at last, petulantly. "I shall employ you to find the persons playing this trick on my husband and force him to see reason. You can behave discretely I'm sure." She smoothed the fur on her cuff.

Braced for an outburst, I watched Holmes lower the Times. He merely smiled. "You may have heard I am retired, Madam. I don't take on private cases and have no need for 'employment'. My colleague and I have business to attend to," here his lip twitched slightly, "and have no intention of pursuing concerns of this sort. Forgive me if I seem indifferent to your distress."

From my vantage point, I saw he had every intention of pursuing the problem, not that the exposing of supernatural stunts held any great challenge but because any foe of Arthur Conan Doyle's was necessarily a friend of his. Since Watson first acquainted me with Doyle's preoccupation with fairies and other things otherworldly, I'd only to refer obliquely to the man to have Holmes fall into a rage. To his mind, psychic phenomena were less sacrilegious than a slap in the face of science. As Watson's sponsor, the public linked Doyle closely to Holmes, even supposing him the actual detective, a fact which horrified him. Accepting the case would be a step in the right direction. However, knowing Holmes, he'd only conduct the investigation on his terms.

I watched her face, hoping she'd not make the mistake of offering him more money. Her look of astonished indignation slowly altered to one of consideration. "Then perhaps, after your business is concluded, if we all survive, you'd consider a visit."

"Russell, it's up to you to determine the importance of our engagement," he said smiling, leaning back against the seat.

I looked at him, suddenly angry that he would cast me in the role of social secretary, force me to view our relationship as an entity separate from our work together. "It's for you to decide," I said through clenched teeth. "After all, neither of us are married to our work."

He laughed then, dissolving the tension by saying, "I believe I'll enjoy this even more than I expected. Come Russell, it's a simple question from a keeper of bees to the theologian. Shall we accept this problem together or be on our way? Please be mindful that I am used to making these choices without regard for anything but the merits of the problem itself. Consider this a chance to set precedent."

I relaxed, grinned and crossed my legs, conscious again of the elves' attention to detail which allowed legs such as mine to be stretched gracefully. "I accept your spirit of generosity if not the logic behind it," I told him graciously. "As I said, one place is as good as another for the reading of the, er, necessary documents. Besides, I could hardly expect you to pass up an case with such interesting aspects."

"Well Your Grace," he said to the woman. "It seems I can accompany you after all to see to the Duke's little problem."

Damn the man. His incessant reading of every newspaper of course included the infinitely dull society pages and well-acquainted him with the faces of the peerage. I'd had no idea our companion was Helen Wimsey, the Duchess of Denver and irrationally blamed Holmes for his knowledge. In fact, I refused to look at him the rest of the way to Duke's Denver.

Our rooms were located at the back of the house overlooking the terrace. Several peafowl stood shivering in the shrubbery, their complaints regarding the atrocious weather audible through the glass. Not up on avian habits, I hoped they were diurnal. I'd bathed the journey from my body and now stood, wrapped in a thick robe I'd found lying out on the bed, watching the grounds.

"Did you wish to dress for dinner, Miss?" She'd unpacked my bag before I could stop her so knew full well it contained a quantity of flimsy silk and nothing whatever appropriate for dinner at a ducal residence. Her thoughts on my intentions were undoubtedly completely correct but I blushed anyway.

"Our visit was unexpected," I said, playing along. "Any suggestions on how I can get by?"

"Although you and her ladyship are both slender," she began tactfully, referring to two figures less generously endowed than her description, "you are much taller." (Visions of elegance made ridiculous by jutting arms and legs.) "If you wouldn't be offended, the Viscount's governess is not much shorter. My usual duties are in that area so I know her wardrobe. She has a number of nice things so I'm sure she'll be happy to lend you something."

"You must be Alice," I said.

"Why yes," she said, pleased, her long fingers quickly arranging my toiletries on the dressing table. "Have you met Catherine then? Did she mention me?"

"The governess?" Times had changed indeed for a maid to address that position so familiarly. "No, the Duchess told us about you when she described the Duke's, ah, visions. Catherine saw or heard something I understand."

"Yes she did, heard the old Duke absolutely saying all sorts of things. I don't remember exactly what because Catherine was confused but she's positive sure she heard him that way as clear as day."

"She knew him? Recognized the voice?"

"Of course not. He's been gone a lot longer than we've been here. We came close together just a few years ago but we've seen his portraits hanging up in the corridors so we all know what he looks like." She wrung her hands, a little dramatic for one who'd seen and heard nothing herself. She was quite tall though made an effort to shorten herself by slumping. Apparently tall domestics were not the rage.

"So there was nothing to see?"

"She did say she saw something rising from the table, like a person's soul, all shimmery and transparent. We didn't blame the Duchess at all for being afraid and leaving, not when Catherine told us that. The Duke's friends left the day after the first seance, even that silly Lady Mortimer who suggested it in the first place. And I've heard there's been messages and omens and signs all over the house." Her hands trembled, knocking over my sole bottle of scent.

"So these friends saw the same thing?"

"Must have if they left so quick. I'd leave myself but it's not so easy to get a good position in a big house like this."

"Who else makes up the household?"

"The young Viscount St. George but he's only a boy. The Dowager Duchess is away in India with her daughter and isn't expected to return for at least a month. The Duke's brother lives most of the time in London now and has been sick they say so the only other family is Cousin Matthew who does something in the library, organizing I think. He attended too but is half blind and deaf so probably couldn't tell you much."

"I see. What made you think the Duchess is afraid? I expect she just took a routine, planned trip and everyone got the wrong idea."

"Well, if she wasn't afraid then, she is now. A piece of wood or something fell right from the hall ceiling and missed her no closer than this." She held her fingers a bare two inches apart though she surely exaggerated. "And they say," she confided," that the old Duke that was wanted nothing to do with her marrying his son."

"The conclusion being that the spirit of the old duke now wants the daughter-in-law dead?"

"That's right, miss. That's what they're saying."

Interesting. This twist didn't fit into the theory only vaguely formed in the back of my head.

"Excuse me, Miss. Did you want me to put these in the gentleman's room?" She held one of my father's remaining suits over her arm, brought with the thought it was more likely Holmes would have me tramping fields or alleyways than waltzing through ballrooms.

"No," I said. "They're my father's and I sometimes wear them for rough walking. Or disguise." This last looked for a reaction but got one I hadn't expected.

"Get on with you Miss. They told me you came with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I wager he's not half pleased that the real detective, Mr. Doyle, took his name and wrote down all his own adventures with it. You don't have to go pretending here."

I stood open-mouthed, beginning to think perhaps Holmes was right about him after all.

"I hear Mr. Doyle is coming to see our ghost for himself. I'm sure your Mr. Holmes will be interested in seeing how it's done." She straightened her uniform. "I'll just see that to dress then."

"Indeed. Thank you Alice." I dressed and went in search of Holmes.

I found him readily enough in the hall, poking at a box of shattered plaster work with one long finger and talking with a short non-descript gentleman in a smoking jacket.

"Here she comes now," Holmes said as I descended the stairs. Your Grace, my assistant, Miss Russell. Russell, permit me to introduce our host, Gerald Wimsey, the 16th Duke of Denver."

The Duke smiled vaguely, the marks of well-bred stupidity writ in everything from his oddly uncoordinated handshake to his good-natured bumbling conversation.

"Assistant, what? Prettier than my brother's man and a damn sight easier on the eyes, beggin' your forgiveness."

"You mistake me, sir, " Homes corrected. "Better to say she's my partner. We work together," he added, reducing it to its simplest form.

"Fine, fine," he said. "Followin' in the footsteps of that detective. My brother's a bit into that line himself so it doesn't surprise me that even a woman snoops around for a livin'. Seems perfectly natural, don't you know?. I always say there's nothing a woman can't do if they set their minds to it."

"I hear Conan Doyle's coming for a visit," I said quickly, feeling Holmes start to quiver with indignation next to me.

"Just the fellow to get to the bottom of this, what? Clever man. Read some of his stories. I say, do you suppose he'll be able to set this right? I can't have bits of the house comin' crashing down like this, can't have old Helen peggin' out, mashed in the skull with a piece of who-ha. It's got to be set straight."

"The Duchess asked if we could provide a little preliminary footwork for Mr. Doyle - look for clues, that sort of thing." I snuck a look at Holmes. Only the Duke's interest in the plaster box kept him from alarm over my partner's wild eyes, the distended veins on his forehead, and the fists, rolling at his sides. Often when speechless, Holmes has the most to say.

"Quite so. Think that's an excellent idea. Can't have too many heads on a problem, 'specially one with lumber flying about. Someone could get hurt." Sincere concern warred with his obvious desire to be joined to a good cigar and a glass of wine.

"We have a bit of time before dinner. Holmes and I could take a look at the, er, scene."

"Where the old pater walks? In the library though I'm damned if I know why. Spent more time playin' billiards or hunting. Maybe because Helen hung his portrait there. They never did get on well, you know."

"Thanks." I put my hand on Holmes' sleeve and tugged in the direction the Duke indicated, alternating dragging and shushing until we reached the desire room.

"Russell," he said reproachfully, resetting his cuff. "Do you think me incapable of keeping my temper? He can't help thinking that Conan Doyle, a man who'd be lost in 95% of London, who's about as incisive a thinker as Watson, is the real detective while I, Sherlock Homes, am relegated to the position of apprentice. Just because he is a fool is no reason why we shouldn't look for "clues" while that charlatan points at pixies!" He threw himself into one the chairs in disgust, then looked up at my grinning face and began to laugh himself. "So be it, then."

It took about an hour to examine the poorly organized pile of trash and treasure comprising the Wimsey collection. Several times only the titanic rumblings of Holmes' throat dragged me away from a fascinating bit of written antiquity. Finally, dusty and traced with faint cobwebbery, we gave up and sank into the two chairs flanking the cold fireplace. The 15th Duke stared down at us fretfully as if pleading for leave to return to whichever final reward he'd earned.

"Outside of ash from cloth burnt in the fireplace, I can find nothing of interest here," Holmes said in disgust.

"Part of the spirit costume?"

"Possibly, yet I wonder why the fire's not lit now. It doesn't pay to let damp get into a library as several monasteries can attest to."

I agreed with him about the damp and then told him what I'd learned from Alice.

"So you're to wear bombazine, Jane, while the governess wears what? I look forward to meeting this Amazonian woman with the extensive wardrobe. Perhaps she can teach us something."

"I suppose you have a dinner jacket?" I enquired waspishly.

"Of course, Russell. I've found it considerably easier to substitute a dinner jacket for a Burberry than the opposite."

I sighed, looking down at the nails I'd cleaned that morning in London which now looked like I'd picked through every dustbin between there and here and the skirt which had attracted, among other things, a portion of the library's wildlife. I brushed the spider from the hem and looked at Holmes. "And you've discovered..." I prompted.

"That the Duke is an excellent father and takes his son along on weekends rather than leave him home alone with his nanny. He only does this, of course, when his wife is away."

"How paternal," I said, sarcastically.

"Strangely so," he said, unperturbed. "I've also learned he took quite a number of his staff last November when he visited the Smythe-Worthington's, that the chimneys need cleaning and that the mail is always prompt including the newspapers and magazines. They are also, I might add unnecessarily, seldom read by any but the servants."

"Which explains why Alice knows exactly who's been invited to investigate."

"It explains many things but not me having to take on a case solely to protect the reputations of two men who are doing their best to ruin it themselves. The sole connection between Doyle and myself is Watson's stories yet the public perception of my work rests on preserving Doyle's skin and the Duke's along with it. If I allow Doyle access to this case, 'proof' of the afterlife will haunt the pages of the newspapers for weeks. It's galling. Yet, the case has it's points, does it not Russell?" He held a match to the pipe's bowl.

"Someone wants to discredit the Duke and, I'm afraid, drag you into it too. But how did they know we'd take that particular train or was that just a happy coincidence for them? Were we simply to hear about Doyle's involvement and fly to his rescue? "

The match burned down in my future husband's fingers and he shook it out, staring at me.

"My tutor almost succeeded in destroying you. Her father's organization didn't disappear when he died; why should we suppose her's did? Perhaps they want to finish the job?"

"I hadn't considered that angle," he said, turning to the long, leaded window overlooking the front of the house. "Why here? I must weigh the possibility I suppose."

He'd never fully realized the impact of Watson's writings, the admiration of society for his incisive methods. He reserved his arrogance for his work and refused to understand and acknowledge the adulation of the reading public, particularly the women. However, I'd never before known him to underestimate the acknowledgement of his work by the criminal element and to protect himself from the hatred and fear it engendered.

"Holmes?" I asked. "What else could it be?" But he merely waved his hand in abstraction as he'd done so many times when working on a puzzling problem. I shrugged and went back to a particularly interesting volume on the medieval voucher system and then, shivering in the unheated room, went back upstairs to change.

The frock Alice left for my use was, at first glance, exactly what I expected - practical and functional. However, once I slipped the simple black dress over my head and tugged it down over my practical, functional body, I realized I owned few such garments myself but would certainly seek to correct the deficiency as soon as possible. The stuff, a silk crepe, fell from neck to ankle in a lover's caress, leaving all and nothing to the imagination. It was at the same time the most demure and the most obscene garment I'd ever worn, making, in comparison, my face, my hair, and the skin of my hands look indecently exposed. Staring at myself in the mirror, I was less concerned with Holmes' reaction to me than to the mysterious Catherine.

Alice thought to leave shoes, strapped sandals which fitted where slippers would have pinched. Then, with no adornment but my spectacles and courage, I went to dinner.

I had a moment to survey the small gathering before entering the drawing room myself. Holmes, almost handsome in his usual impeccable dress stood a full seven inches above his host and almost a foot over the rather bent gentleman holding a sheaf of papers. The Duchess, elegant in green with a neat fur trim, looked irritated though it was hard to tell if that wasn't her expression by default. She smiled warmly enough as I entered, noting the Duke's look of surprised appreciation. Holmes barely glanced at me, his eyes taking in the dress, then sliding away to narrow speculatively at something behind me.

I saw immediately why Alice went to Catherine's closet to outfit mine. She was tall, blonde and slim but there the comparison ended. I don't consider myself a vain woman and in the little time I spend in front of a looking glass, I concede my features are slightly more blurred than my myopia or the current standards of beauty would warrant. Catherine's loveliness impacted every person in the room and the greatest tribute to her beauty was she didn't seem to notice. The Duchess introduced us and Holmes bent to kiss her hand, his gaze lingering on the gown so deep a burgundy as to be almost black. He offered her his arm while I took the Duke's. The Duchess walked in with the harmless Uncle Matthew and took her place at the table.

The meal, although excellent, passed without significant discussion. The magnificent Catherine said little, her large calf-like eyes drifting from face to face with the desultory conversation. They lingered on the Duke's but then, they also fastened for long periods on the plate of mutton and stone pudding, maybe indicating no more than a preference for bland. She met the Duchess's occasional question with smiles and vague answers leading me to believe her poor education resulted from lack of wits rather than lack of funds.

Holmes also tried to draw her out, using his considerable charm (more, I thought, than strictly required for the task) and even enquired about the spirit appearances.

"Yes, I saw him," she said quietly with a peculiar lisping quality to her voice. "The library was dark but even so, I saw a form and his face. It was very frightening."

"I see," Holmes said sympathetically. "And he spoke?"

"Yes, then, and on many later occasions."

"She understands him better than I do myself," the Duke said, smiling at her affectionately. "Hears him better, too."

"All regular chatter boxes, I hear," the Duchess interrupted and shifted talk to some play she'd seen in town.

Near the end of dinner a footman slipped in, informing the Duke of his brother's arrival and asking if he should be shown someplace to wait or conducted in to dinner."

"Peter is so impulsive and inconsiderate of the kitchen," the Duchess said. "Why couldn't he get something earlier is beyond me. Yes, bring him something to eat or I'll never hear the end of it."

I've known Peter Wimsey for decades now and the dissimilarities between him and his family, particularly his brother, never fail to renew my admiration for the vagaries of genetics. A classical education (a first in history I believe), a love of books to rival my own, money and position, and a horrifying war experience to put them all in their proper slots, freed him to gaze at the inter-workings of human hearts and minds, particularly those that had rationalized wrong doing. It took some time to get past the peculiar aristocratic trappings he deliberately retained and appreciate the truly unique mentality it sometimes concealed. He and Holmes had met over some small service for Peter's mother so merely became reacquainted.

"Hullo, old things. Helen, you're looking chipper. Mother's always right about you, y'know. Classic, she says, like the woman on the wall or that patent tonic that tastes so beastly, though of course you're a tonic to any man's nerves. Gerald old bird, glad to see you. Ah, a bit of what baas, what? Are these Billy's sheep? The ones who try to kill themselves in front of my car on the lane? Serves them right. And Holmes, oh master of my heart, oh teacher of my desires, has Mama lost her carbuncles again?"

This trail of tomfoolery went on for a full five minutes with no sign of winding down. The Duchess excused the women and we went, much like Billy's charges, single file from the room. Leaving the men behind to their port and cigars gave the Duchess her opportunity to arrange the drawing room for cards. A surprisingly keen bridge player I deduced, her nightly ritual when home was to force her husband, cousin, and employee into a game in which she effectively played all the hands. Holmes and Lord Peter entered in about 20 minutes, declined her invitation to participate, and continued their conversation. Peter (as he soon invited us to call him) is one of the few individuals outside of myself capable of completing Holmes's sentences.

"So you're free to go to Hertfordshire tomorrow?' Holmes asked.

"And take Helen with me though it's a sacrifice I do because I fear the loss of heaven rather more than the pains of hell. She'll distract Lady Mortimer leavin' me free to sleuth about with the servants never mind Mortimer himself, the irritatin' windbag."

"I'll wire Essex and anyplace else I can think of."

"Holmes," I asked plaintively (though much mollified by Peter's appreciate stare and Holmes' grimace when they first saw me standing near the windows), "Aren't we contacting Doyle? Perhaps a simple warning would buy us time?"

"No one has shown as much concern for my old hide in some time, Russell, and I thank you for it but this case was never about me. Doyle or the threat of Doyle is only a tool in the hands of a rather clever manipulator. Perhaps your concern indicates your recent state of mind which, I've noted, seems complacent if not disturbingly self-satisfied."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed affronted. "Facts point to..."

His hand closed over mine, halting further comment. "I too have been distracted," (an admission more potent than sonnets, laid out for public display) "but the target of this charade is considerably less able to protect herself than I."

"The Duchess then," I said as the woman herself shrewishly corrected some mis-play.

"Tongue like an adder," Peter said, a fading twinkle the only indication our exchange had not been lost on him. "But, if there's killing to be done, as her brother-in-law, I feel I've got dibs. She puts up with a lot with old Jerry though. He's not nearly as stingy with affection."

"Catherine?"

"One in a string," he agreed pleasantly, nodding to the lady in question. "She longer than most. Prob'ly because it's difficult to find one with the proper level of intelligence."

"And the connection provides the bloodline," Holmes finished.

"He conducts this affair under his wife's nose?"

"Certainly not!" Lord Peter said indignantly. "Helen travels and my brother is quite fond of her in his own way."

He went on to extol the Duchess's virtues but my attention was drawn by the faint rocking of a Dresden lamb, a drift of dust, a soft creaking. I blame the dress and the strange shoes which always throw off my balance but there was also no denying that the large wooden unit above the Duchess detached itself from the wall, mirror imploding as it went, with me doing nothing to prevent it. There was also no denying the two arms across my chest, keeping me from moving. I slapped them aside, only peripherally aware that one belonged to Lord Peter and rushed to the bridge table where all four sat bleeding and stunned.

The Duke, a rising lump on his forehead from a flying crystal vase, leaned over the Duchess, miraculously unhurt but furious. The governess stared stupidly at a series of small cuts on her arm which Cousin Matthew dabbed with his jacket sleeve. Pieces of a generations-old china collection lay scattered and the staff, once told there were no serious injuries, began clearing them up.

"Leave that," Holmes and Lord Peter roared together.

"Pardon me," Lord Peter said stepping back. "Your investigation."

"Your family," Holmes returned considerately.

"Oh for pity's sake," I said crossly, feeling what I can only call a twinge of professional jealousy. I instructed everyone to leave, encouraging brandy for the injured and restraint from the housekeeper. We then went over the twelve foot painted shelf carefully. The marks of the wedge were obvious as was the almost invisible wire that sent it crashing. Someone worked its fall from outside the window but oddly, no footprints existed in the perfectly welcoming mud.

"From upstairs then," I said but both men were already on their way to the unoccupied guest bedroom above the parlor. Grinding my teeth I followed, mincing steps keeping me back until they'd seen all there was to see. Nothing.

Holmes and I returned to the drawing room while Peter checked the invalids. I pushed the detritus around with one foot, rolling a small bust of Shakespeare, nose irreparably damaged. Holmes lit his pipe, abstracted though clearly enjoying himself.

"Why would someone wish to harm the Duchess?" I asked. "Why frighten her away only to call her back to kill her when the whole thing could have been done with no fuss, no staged supernatural events, and no detectives on the scene? And Holmes," I added sarcastically. "Bedazzled I might be but I've retained enough wit to recall our presence usually kicks up this kind of desperate activity."

"Go back a step. Who would want the Duchess out of the way? That will answer the 'why' I believe."

"Catherine? I refuse to believe the Duke would threaten his wife merely to carry on an affair peacefully. Outside of the absurdity, neither of them seem to have the brains to pull it off."

"Cousin Matthew?"

"Will he lose his meal ticket if the status quo changes?"

"Possibly but, more to the point, would he think so?"

"And why stage spooks?" I asked, scrubbing my face. "God, I'm tired,"

Holmes looked troubled. "Why stage them indeed?" he asked softly.

"What's wrong, Holmes?"

"I need to consider all the facts before casting you into the unenviable role of Horatio, Russell. And some of those facts are still missing."

Lord Peter strolled into the room then, hands in pockets, each step springing from the toes. "Went to bed with a bump on his head and won't be up 'til morning," he said cheerfully. "And Helen, bless my immortal soul, agreed to come with me tomorrow so that's alright. Best of all, here's the coffee and spirits - the practical kind I might add - to warm the wicked."

"We've been looking at the whys and whos, figuring the hows have taken care of themselves," I said, responding to his mood.

"One of my favorite things," he said. "But I wonder some about those hows, sneakin' in on ghostly feet." He looked significantly at Holmes who shrugged, looked uncomfortable, and turned away. "Growin' up attached to family, dead and alive, has it's advantages. I see."

With this cryptic statement he passed around the refreshments, turning the conversation to lighter and infinitely more amusing topics as the cleaning crew did their work.

I returned soon after to my room, leaving the men to inspect the remnants of the debris and before the effects of caffeine and alcohol wore off which would, I knew, leave my limbs as fluid as the dress I tossed on the bedroom chair. I'd just climbed into my robe when Alice, the nursery maid, came in.

"Can I help you with your hair, Miss?" she asked, carefully putting the dress on a hanger, latching the hooks at the waist. "I'm good at it, I'm told."

Although it's infinitely easier to do it myself, I allowed her to loosen my plaits and draw the brush through the tangles.

"I thought Catherine should have the doctor, her arms are that bad. The Duke thought so, too, but not the Duchess. Said it was only scratches and she was the one who should be dead. But she's not and Catherine's in pain and it could turn to blood poisoning. Don't you think the doctor should see her?"

"The injury looked superficial to me. Perhaps tomorrow if she's not better," I answered, relaxing under the hypnotic sweep of the brush.

"They say the Duke is planning another seance tomorrow night, sort of a rehearsal for the great detective. Maybe he'll try to tell him to stop hurting people."

Through my fatigue, I finally recognized the "they" as Catherine. She undoubtedly had the Duke's confidence and immediately repeated it to her best friend, waiting for her in the nursery. Where was the Viscount St. George through all this, I wondered? There was definitely something there but I needed sleep before working it through. She left as I started nodding and I crawled into bed.

I awoke after eight the next morning and broke my fast alone with multiple cups of over cooked coffee. Those spaces in the brain so convenient for creative thought seemed clogged with the combination of rich food, late night spirits (the drinkable, not the spectral) and the unexplained occurrences the day before. Lord Peter, on enquiry, left with the Duchess shortly after dawn and Holmes, having used the telephone extensively, asked to borrow a car but instead (to my relief) retained the chauffeur for the day. All three were expected back for lunch.

With the luxury of time alone lying heavy in my hands I wandered to the library, selected a novel and curled my inches on the chesterfield. Alice found me there mid-morning and, reading certain signs in my heavy lids, suggested a nap in my room. I refused, preferring to be available on Holmes' return. She brought me tea then, heavy sweetened which was welcome in the room's chill. Between the author's sloppy syntax and the cumulative effects of the past few months, I nodded off.

Holmes swore ever after the tea was drugged while I insisted I was certainly able to identify all the easily obtainable soporifics and it was only the smoke which stunned me. Either way, I missed the fire, the clang of the trucks, the careful preservation of book and papers, and only awoke when Holmes dropped me (though he insists he placed me tenderly) on the wet west lawn.

"My carelessness will be the death of you yet, Russell," he said, fingers at my wrist.

"I say, is she alright?" the Duke asked, his pale face peering around Holmes' shoulder.

"She's fine," he responded as I struggled to my feet. "The fire is out?"

"Oh yes, just a chimney fire they say. And we were to have had the sweep this week."

"Ah, the sweep! How I do love a sweep," said Lord Peter, arriving with the Duchess after picking their way across the wreck of the grounds. "Have we laid hands on the ghostly visitor?"

"No, but we interrupted her restaging of the apparition. The fire chief will find, Your Grace, a rolled up quantity of rags in the flue, calculated to cause a poor draw. Unfortunately, I'd foreseen this and placed a quantity of the material in the chimney myself. I'd hoped to beat it at its own game, having no idea the test would be so early."

He looked across the lawn at the tow-headed boy watching the excitement, only nominally in the charge of his governess. Lord Peter followed his gaze.

"It's my nephew, Pickled Gherkins," Peter exclaimed. "Looking a bit pallid around the gill slits, don't you think, Helen? I'm sure Holmes and Miss Russell will understand you calmin' him down and all that in his own rooms."

"Certainly, Madam," Holmes said. "I'm sure your son would be reassured by your attention."

"Catherine is getting altogether too lax with the boy, allowing him out with this dangerous equipment ," she agreed, hurrying off.

Lunch was a curious affair. Holmes' attention to the food told me he'd finished the case with all the details settled to his satisfaction. Peter too seemed content and ate efficiently, like a sleek cat, assured of cream to follow. The Duke simply satisfied his hunger. Finally, the table cleared, Holmes looked at the Duke. "You said yesterday that, since the war, women feel any work opportunity is open but some women still lust after traditional roles no matter how preposterous. A commoner sets her cap for royalty. A servent looks to become the mistress." The Duke started in his chair. "After a taste of your generosity, particularly the clothing you gave her sister, your wife's so-distant relative decided her family had as much right to you as the Duchess."

I should have known. The concern and familiarity were there too plainly.

"Sister? What's her sister got to do with it even if she's got such an animal? Catherine's the only one I gave anything to. And where's the problem with me bein' a bit affectionate toward the poor girl? "

"'Poor' being the operative word, I believe," Lord Peter added.

"Indeed, church mouse poor. The family still lives in a rundown old vicarage and were quite happy to share with me the prospects of their elder daughter, Catherine, who was to marry quite above her station." Holmes placed his hands on the table. "Much was made of the second daughter, the 'bright one', who'd engineered the thing."

"I see," I added. "Alice read the fairy article last Christmas in the Strand and overheard the Duchess's disgust with it all. She felt, I suppose, that destroying the Duke's credibility in society would drive his wife away."

"I ran down to to Hertfordshire to talk to Lady Mortimer," Lord Peter contributed. "She was here when the original 'sighting' took place though she didn't see it herself. In fact, she didn't actually see or hear anything at all. The only active element was busy little Alice, flittin' here and there, tellin' her stories where they'd do the most good. I hope I find a wife some day who can play a staff as well as Alice played this household."

"But I saw the old boy, I'm sure of it." the Duke looked distressed as well he might.

"What you saw, old brother mine, was the smoke from the fire risin' up around father's portrait. Alice simply hid on subsequent nights and mumbled. Catherine, undoubtedly coached, supplied innuendo and any actual facts. I expect the 'tip' actually came from Freddy. Your subconscious did the rest. Considerin' what you drink, old chap, it's not surprisin' you don't see pixies and fairies too."

"Beastly thing, these cocktails but you've got to have them you know. So I never saw the old fellow at all?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit for that, assumin' you mind your Ps and Qs."

"What you need to consider now is how you'll deal with the sisters," Holmes said. "A criminal complaint will entail the police, an explanation of your relationship with the girl, and a rehash of Doyle's fairy-girls at the least."

"They'll have to be dismissed, of course," the Duke said, shaking his head sadly. "I don't know what I'll tell Helen."

"I think you'll find Helen, though lackin' in imagination, ain't lackin' much in sense," Lord Peter said. "After spendin' the day with her, I think your latest conquest was on her way out anyway. I'm sure Alice would've left with her."

Alice was defiant while her sister wept. She denied it all, demanding proof. Then she rejected the proof. She knew well enough no family wants a public scandal.

There's no law against a bit of sleight of hand to drive away an inconvenient wife but the law balks at attempted murder. Alice finally admitted prying off a bit of the woodwork, tossing stray objects, and even tipping the shelving but insisted it was all intended to frighten the Duchess. That any of the accidents could have easily killed was immaterial and, although Holmes urged medical if not legal intervention, the family wanted it dropped. The only thing everyone agreed on was canceling the visit of Conan Doyle.

The sisters left together in the night, bound by ambition and guilt as much as by blood. There was no question of prosecution. The Duke moved on to find further ways of making a fool of himself, wrapping the frail cellophane of aristocracy around his sad collection of personal foibles. The Duchess I think in the end held a grudging respect for the girls who, though not successful, wielded the same tools for the same purpose as she did herself. They all saw marriage as a contrivance, a means to an end.

Holmes and I walked the next morning, allowing the household to pull together and reset itself. There was occasional mist of course, normal for Spring, and we kept to the paths.

"I still miss my parents," I began as if continuing a discussion started long ago, "though I realize I knew them as a child, not appreciating their adult selves. And my brother I mostly found an irritant. He was the brighter of us for all he was younger by several years, you know, and delighted in rubbing my nose in it. When we started our study of Greek he outstripped me quickly, leading to a bout of tedious bickering. My father tried to be fair but I was adolescent and, I'm afraid, rather common next to my brother."

Holmes snorted. "Rather like skipping the meal because the wine's vintage is rare."

I smiled. "Not to mention all Freud had to say on sibling rivalry. It took a long time after that decisive moment on the highway before I understood the foolishness of it all."

We continued in silence. I wondered if Holmes thought of his relationship with his own brother, certainly a man capable of savoring both the wine and meal provided it was a dinner for one.

"It's rather painful to think of what might have been. And pointless."

"Never pointless, Russell, if you are honest and look at every possibility. Consider that family will betray as often as sacrifice for each other or take loyalty to stupid extremes. Alice was willing to kill simply to advance her sister. Your tutor sealed her relationship in revenge. Some of the Inner Circle, Margery's 'sisters', supplied information leading to three deaths."

"And her husband betrayed her, too."

He smiled. "Playing the averages, you had only a one in five chance of having a non criminal connection with anyone in your family."

We walked on, my hand now on his arm, as I looked at these real possibilities for the first, and last, time.

"You know," he said after a time, moving from personal to professional, "the shelving should have killed the Duchess. The heavy wood, the large piece of china, not to mention the Bard's marble bust, all should have crashed down around her head. Instead, the mirror chose to break away from the cabinet in just the place she was sitting, the books and gewgaws flying in a pattern all around, and yet not one thing touched her. I examined the shelf. Where I can clearly see Alice at work, I fail to see any combination of coincidences that should have spared the Duchess."

"Alice couldn't have splintered the wood and rearranged the objects before we entered? Perhaps she truly didn't mean to injure anyone and unconsciously tried to prevent disaster." I searched for an explanation and came up cold.

"For once I have no theory to cover the facts and, as you know, I don't believe in miracles. If Wimsey hadn't seen her too, I'd doubt my senses."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've undoubted noticed her portrait, the acerbic lady in ruff and lace on the landing. Lady Sarah married into the family many generations back, whipping it into financial shape after the previous Duke squandered a goodly portion. Wimsey tells me she's been seen and would sympathize with the Duchess's position if not her personality."

"Holmes, you amaze me."

He looked nonplussed. "When everything else has been eliminated..."

We continued in silence until reaching a patch of young grass eking out its living through the rock on the side of the lane. Holmes settled himself, leaning against a convenient stone. I took a position slightly above him and found my own back rest.

"Could you find things to do at Ducis Denver for a few weeks? There were several manuscripts that appeared to interest you in the Wimsey collection if you're willing to brave Cousin Matthew? The family extended an invitation this morning."

"Certainly, Holmes," I agreed, shivering in the thin Spring sun. "A little digging thorough the stacks would be relaxing. And you?"

"Lord Peter requested some of my time for a tutorial."

I wrapped my arms around myself. "He's old for an apprentice."

"Old and passing the master in some areas." He looked up at me. "Your position, or should I say former position, is safe."

"Really Holmes," I said with asperity. "His maturing experience in the trenches is one I'd rather pass. I don't see Peter as a rival for your talents or affections."

"Good," he said. Taking my foot and, using my own body weight to shift me handily three feet down the slope, he tucked me under his cloak. I rested my cheek on his shirt front and listened to the reassuring pulse of his heart.

"He knows the mechanics of the trade and has a steady, methodical assistant. His nerves are healing from his lesson in the effects of the impersonal evil of the war. He understands that outrage all too well. He knows evil philosophically, much as you did before facing down the barrel of Miss Donleavy's pistol. Perhaps I can teach him a little of that rot which gnaws and digests the individual soul, leaving behind madness but never humility or humanity. If he doesn't learn to recognize it and protect himself from it, he'll be destroyed."

I put my palm to his chest and through it felt the interweaving rhythm of our heartbeats.

"You know my methods, Russell." I sensed rather than saw his smile. "But methods change to adapt to the times. It will be that greater evil this century will have to deal with - one I will personally most gratefully miss."

He rested his chin on my head and stroked my hair gently until both our hearts slowed and beat in unison.

"Russell," he said, tripping me just at the brink of dozing. "We have a good two and a half miles back to the house and I'd still like to make a stop."

We walked past the next bend and he pointed out the steeple. "If you haven't changed you mind on the Church of England, I thought this might be as good a place as any."

Three weeks later, in a simple ceremony, Lord Peter Wimsey at his side, I wed Sherlock Holmes in the old church tradition. My attendant, resplendent in the same rich wool suit she'd worn on the train, was Helen, Duchess of Denver whose name on the certificate always reminded me of perseverance. The only other guests were her husband, the Duke, and the carved cats crouching on the Wimsey pew.