The Study of Falling

by Lesley C. Johnson

a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

Chapter 2

Mass and Acceleration

Arriving at the busy port of Southampton, I climbed out of the taxi and made my way through the terminal building, up to the high, enclosed boarding platform and to the festooned walkway leading to the great ship. Halfway along this I spotted Holmes standing at the rail, smiling as he watched me approach. When I gained the ship's deck he reached out for my hand to pull me close and surprised me with a kiss. Tucking my arm in his, he led me outside and we strolled forward to a good vantage place for watching the departure. We looked out over the water, the docks teeming with travellers and workers, and at the impressive rows of moored ocean liners. Holmes stood with his arm around my waist and pointed out over the rail the various working craft in the harbour, of which he clearly had a thorough understanding. And yet his tone was conversational rather than merely instructional -- he sounded like a man looking forward to a holiday.

After the ship had thrown off its mooring ropes and, with the assistance of absurdly small tugboats, sidled out of the harbour for open water, we strolled leisurely around the outer and inner decks, familiarizing ourselves with the provided amenities for entertainment and relaxation.

Holmes had taken advantage of a rare opportunity to book our passage on the magnificent Rotterdam IV, which was repositioning from Southampton to the Mediterranean to start its season travelling from there to New York. Our ship was the ultimate example of the great transatlantic oceanliners. She was some six hundred fifty feet in length, with two stacks and two towering masts fore and aft. She had six decks and a crew beyond counting. These ranged from the ordinary galley and wait staff of stewards and stewardesses to musicians, pursers, engineers and officers (not to mention the hidden denizens of the great engine room who toiled unseen amidst coal, steam, oil and grease). She could accommodate some three thousand and five hundred passengers in total, but on this short voyage only First and Second class passages had been made available, and there were on board something less than the potential one thousand souls.

The ship boasted a magnificent central staircase, finished in wrought iron with polished brass balusters, and leading from deck to deck through spacious Y-shaped vestibules, each with a landing. One could stand in the lower vestibule, lean out over the baluster and look up through six decks to the dome surmounting the uppermost stair landing. This conveyed a dramatic idea of the tremendous depth and height of the vessel.

There was a grand ballroom, luxuriously appointed lounges, a Verandah Café, saloons, social rooms, a writing room, a library and smoking rooms. There were both open and (a new innovation when she had been launched in 1908) glass-enclosed promenade decks. There was also a gymnasium fitted out for those wishing to take exercise, with an instructor who provided assistance with various sporting equipment and apparatus such as rowing machines, stationary bicycles and mechanical horses. As well there were convenient shower baths, a Turkish bath and supplies of clothing suitable for the activities.

However, the ship's most impressive feature was the large dining room that spanned the width of the vessel. This was appointed in a colour scheme of pearl grey and gold and featured impressive columns in carved mahogany rising to an elegant gallery. The walls were adorned with alternating decorative etched glass windows set in brass, pilasters with gilt bronze capitals and panels in bas-relief. The whole effect created a magnificent Empire style neoclassical splendour.

Here, passengers were not only offered the finest French cuisine, but this particular steamer had been the first to introduce a new service -- ordering à la carte, rather than the usual table d'hôte.

Rotterdam IV featured large passenger staterooms that were very much like suites in the best cosmopolitan hotels. Our own First Class cabin would have a sitting room, an inner bedroom with a brass bedstead (rather than the usual built-in berth) and a private bath. (Holmes had laughed at my excited reaction to this piece of information as we had sat comfortably together in the wing-back chair at home studying the brochure -- "No running down the corridor to compete with the other women!")

Also on offer during the voyage were a variety of interesting activities and entertainments including lectures, dances, concerts, progressive euchre or auction bridge, gymkhana games on deck with prizes, and meetings of the Travellers' Clubs, a Camera Club and Musical Club. There were performances by musical trios, quartets and a small orchestra, as well as a pianist on the Steinway in the dining room.

In our rambles Holmes paused outside the door of the Chief Steward's Office to study the documents of the Officer Crew that were displayed there behind a glass case. He seemed to know a great deal about the laws and regulations of seafaring, beyond what I would have thought necessary to his profession (he was even familiar with the careers of some of the ship's officers).

Eventually we made our way to our stateroom.

Holmes opened our cabin door, ushered me in, dropped his hat and overcoat on a chair and locked the door. He stood leaning his back against it. I shed my coat and hat and, after a cursory glance around the well-appointed room, gave in to the persistent new gravitational force that unrelentingly pulled me close to him. (After all, we were still newlyweds.) We embraced more than a little affectionately and after some moments I was able to speak.

"Hello Holmes. You look remarkably well today." I breathed into his neck.

"Hello Russell. That is a new scent you are wearing. Very enticing."

I was pleased he had noticed the new scent. It had been an indulgence purchased with some soul-searching.

"Your journey was uneventful?" I asked, pulling the silk scarf from his neck.

"Entirely. And yours?" He slipped my eyeglasses into his jacket pocket.

"Nothing to report."

I saw Holmes' gaze travel beyond my ear consideringly to the inner room and the distant bed, but just then one of the ship's ubiquitous crew passed by on the other side of our door, moving along the corridor with his oh so subtle dinner chimes.

"Damn." he murmured into my ear.

"Damn." I replied, smiling.

"Are you terribly hungry just at this moment?"

"Ravenous." I said, calmly undoing the top button of his waistcoat.

"When did you last eat?" he asked, glancing down at my fingers with a mixture of interest and mild alarm.

"Oh, Tuesday, I think." The second, third and fourth buttons.

"...And yet, as you well know, one can survive many days on as little as a mash of cold lentils."

"True." Waistcoat opened, I unfastened his tie stud.

"Of course, there will be refreshments served later in the evening." He loosed my hair from its prim kirby-grip clasp.

"A substantial fare, I should think." Undoing the knot of his tie.

"The devil take dinner, then!"

Sometime later as we lay entangled in the sheets, Holmes, staring fixedly up at the ceiling, spoke in a low and somewhat uneven voice,

"That was most... unexpected, Russ. How did you...? Or rather, that was very surprising -- but -- Good god, Russ, how on earth did you learn to do that?"

I smiled, running a finger along his clavicle.

"Oh, it was ...something I had heard about... recently... girl talk, you know. Mostly it was pure instinct."

"I see." He glanced at me. "In my innocence I thought you had spent your time studying in the library."

Laughing, I hid my face in the pillow. In this aspect of marriage Holmes had, of course, taken the lead, 'due entirely to his greater experience.' Now I had contributed something of my own initiative and his very favourable reaction had made me feel somehow immensely powerful.

I watched his profile and continued to chuckle while he, still gazing at the ceiling, said thoughtfully, "However, Russell, clearly one must never discount the importance of oral tradition in the dissemination of knowledge and learning."

It was some moments before I could regain my composure. Then he turned to me, swept back my tousled hair and pressed his forehead to mine,

"If this is only one of the benefits of advanced education for women, Russ... then I am an even more enthusiastic proponent of the cause than before."

After eight that evening we entered the boisterous saloon, in suitable semi-formal attire, and surveyed the room. We greeted several smiling but as yet unfamiliar faces and then retreated to a quiet corner with our drinks. The small orchestra struck up with "Lady of the Nile," one of those annoyingly frivolous dance tunes that were becoming so popular.

Holmes and I frowned at each other in pained mutual dismay, and just at that moment I was startled when a voice called my name from some distance across the room. I turned to see a couple advancing on us. The young man was my age or a year older, of middle height and pleasant-looking in a bland way and I recognized him as an Oxford undergraduate in History. The girl was, I believed, reading English. I had seen her around the university and at various social events. She seemed a perfect match for the young man, small, pretty and, as I recalled, always agreeable.

"Mary, are you with our group? I didn't see your name on the list. How marvellous! Do you know my fiancée, Mavis Smithfield?"

I didn't even know his name. How to do the introductions? Luckily Mavis stepped in, although unknowingly.

"I was just saying to Johnny," (Johnny? Oh, wait -- John Kempling, that was it.) "I didn't know any of the dons were joining us..." She looked up at Holmes expectantly.

Oh dear.

"Mavis Smithfield, John Kempling, this is my husband, Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes had the grace to ignore their assumption, and now the near gawping that accompanied their surprised congratulations, and shake hands with them both.

"And no, I'm not with your group. What's going on?" I asked as I was released from Mavis' happy embrace.

"You're not with us? Well, there are nearly twenty of us travelling to Palermo for a conference, and then we're all making a holiday of it." Kempling explained.

"It will be such jolly fun! And where are you going?" Mavis asked over her drink, still eyeing Holmes doubtfully.

(Bloody hell, I thought, we're all on the same ship -- where do you think we're going?)

Holmes answered.

"Also to Palermo, Miss Smithfield. Where will you all be staying?" (Wise question.)

Johnny answered.

"We have almost half an entire floor of the Grand Hotel. The conference will meet at the University, of course. George Kennington and Algie Caldecott are presenting papers."

After a little more chitchat they moved on. I turned my back on the room and looked at my husband.

"Oh dear. I am sorry Holmes. I had no idea. I never do read the notices on the bulletin boards. Otherwise I might have..."

"Not at all, Russell. Is it likely that all twenty of them will require your company?"

"I should hope not."

I had scarcely recovered from the discomfiture of that encounter when I turned and found myself nearly face to face with another Oxford acquaintance. She seemed more startled than I was.

"Mary Russell. Well... what a surprise to find you here. You haven't been seen in the usual circles for ages." She glanced up at Holmes. "And is this --?"

I cut her off before she could make some unfortunate presumption, and spoke clearly to be heard over the noise of the revellers.

"Caroline, this is my husband, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, this is Miss Caroline Dunworthy. Caroline is also at Oxford, reading, er -- History."

Caroline had been one of the members of the group of students I associated with in off-hours. We had begun a promising friendship at first, but she had drifted away from the circle and I had not seen her in quite some time, perhaps nearly two years. She stared up at Holmes, and I thought her expression of surprise bordered almost on shock.

"Your husband?"

Holmes extended his hand politely, though I thought more coolly than on the previous introduction.

"Miss Dunworthy, how do you do?"

"Er, how do you do, sir." She took his hand, then pulled her eyes from Holmes to look at me. Her disturbed air and effort to appear nonchalant were as palpable as they were puzzling.

"Well, that explains why we haven't seen you, Mary. You have been busy. Is this a recent event? -- No one seems to have known anything about it."

"Yes, it is quite recent." Her blatant curiosity made me reticent. She seemed to recognize this and changed the subject. But now there was an odd coldness in her manner.

"And... are you with our group for the conference, Mary? Or have you entirely abandoned your... academic pursuits for the time being?"

I could not understand her unfriendly tone, but managed to smile and reply civilly enough,

"No, Caroline, we're simply on holiday. I hadn't heard of this conference at all, actually."

"Well, it may be too late to join us. But George Kennington organized the whole thing. He'd be the one to ask."

"No. Thanks Caroline, but we have other plans."

"Pity." She said insincerely, and turned her attention to my husband.

"Mr. Holmes, don't you write for The Strand or something?"

He had been observing, over her head, a bored young man leaning against a pillar. Now he looked down earnestly into her face.

"Miss Dunworthy, has your brother quite recovered from his unfortunate injury on the polo field?"

Now she was gawping at him in uncomfortable surprise.

"Er, yes he has, but... how did you --?" She turned to look at the boy behind her, then back at Holmes. "Was it mentioned in the papers?"

"I don't believe it was," he said lightly.

As he offered no other explanation, she mumbled some incoherent pleasantries and then rejoined her brother and moved on with the flow of circulating bodies.

I seized the opportunity and my husband's hand.

"Holmes, let's walk!" I pulled him determinedly through the crowd and outside to the promenade. When I turned to him he was, in stark contrast to my mood, smiling good-humouredly.

"For god's sake, will we have a moment's peace? I cannot believe this." I fumed silently for some minutes. Holmes calmly filled and lit his pipe.

"Russell, don't distress yourself. We cannot expect to have the entire ship to ourselves, nor can we expect to remain unmolested by our fellow travellers. Look upon this little voyage as an opportunity to study the dynamics of social congress."

I was not used to such equanimity from the man; it was unnerving.

He squinted at me through the swirling haze of tobacco smoke,

"A learned man once said, 'A ship in the harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for. '"

Barely concealing my exasperation, provoked not only by the behaviour of my peers but now by this pithy remark, I hooked my arm in his and set off briskly down the promenade. Holmes hung back somewhat and then actually pulled me up short like some fractious carthorse.

"Have you a bus to catch, Russell? Or are you merely in training for some collegial footrace?"

"Sorry, Holmes. Sorry. I don't know, I feel rather off-balance somehow."

"So I see. My steadying arm is always here for you Russell, provided you don't intend to wrench it from my shoulder and use it to beat someone senseless.

"Come, come, surely we can manage to eat a late supper together amongst the throng. Practice a little forbearance."

I heaved a sigh and settled my ruffled feathers. "Of course. I am ready."

Holmes took my arm again to lead me back into the fray, but with a conscious smile and in a tone of offering helpful advice, pronounced,

"The angry man will defeat himself in battle as well as in life. "

"Oh, do shut up Holmes."

Late diners were being accommodated so we did succeed in having our supper, which was very good. The immense dining room was arranged in such a way that passengers had a choice of comparative privacy at intimate small tables, or camaraderie at larger tables for four, six or more. We chose a table for two and enjoyed a main course of canard à l'orange avec petit pommes de terres et les haricots vert, followed by a cheese and fruit selection. We both declined dessert, but over a post-prandial cognac Holmes pronounced the meal and the wine to have been excellent, and my mood had been restored to a buoyant anticipation of new and enjoyable experiences.

However, as we made our way back through the saloon we were intercepted by the mastermind of the undergraduates' group, George Kennington. I had watched Kennington at Oxford. He was a clever man, capable and humorous, and I had formed a reluctant admiration for his intelligence. He was reading Classics. We had met in various settings and groups, but I had been put off by the undertone of cruelty in his attitude. While I believed there was undoubtedly some dark secret behind his cutting sarcasm, at the same time I felt that no one should forgive or excuse him for it. Generally I had avoided him.

"Mary Russell, what a delight to see you here of all places. Or should I say Mrs. Holmes, as Caroline has just informed us?"

"Hello George. Holmes, this is George Kennington -- my husband Sherlock Holmes."

"I say... are you actually that detective chap whose stories are written up in The Strand?" He said in an amused drawl.

"How do you do, Mr. Kennington."

"Did you have a hand in the 'Ripper' case?" He moved in close and faced Holmes squarely. "It was never clear how that ended, really, was it? Not conclusive either way -- the upper class doctor or the grubby little foreigner or -- someone else unknown, eh?"

Holmes merely raised his eyebrows at these conjectures.

"Caroline tells me that you guessed about her brother's polo tumble straight away. What tipped you off? The limp? Or the bruises on his jaw? And how could you be sure they were the result of a polo accident, rather than something else --?" Kennington raised his hand and pushed against Holmes' shoulder in an odd gesture that was almost a challenge. Warming to his topic, he went on.

"That's what always strikes me as doubtful when I read about those cases of yours. The clues could have resulted from any number of circumstances, really, and yet the stories suggest there was no other conclusion possible.

"But then, the reader doesn't have the use of those 'little grey cells,' does he?"

I choked on the swallow of wine I had just sipped while attempting to barricade myself behind my glass.

Holmes had listened to his comments with a placid though watchful calm, but at this last remark, where I would have expected him figuratively to lay the boy out on the floor with a sharp rejoinder, he actually put his arm around Kennington's shoulder and firmly led him off in a conspiratorial tête-à-tête. I was left to wait and watch them.

Holmes stood the boy where they could both observe the polo captain in question from a discreet distance. With minute gestures he pointed out to Kennington the small but telling features of the boy's stance, the particular development of his musculature, the shape of his hands and the turn of his foot and all the other evidence (including the limp and the bruises) that Holmes had combined to form his deduction.

Kennington began to look very serious as he listened and followed the process of observation. When Holmes excused himself to return to me, Kennington shook his hand with a sincere and respectful appreciation.

I was similarly impressed by his tactful handling of the boy, and could only smile at him wonderingly as we continued through the saloon to take some air out on the promenade deck.

"Holmes, that was a rather brilliant way to deal with the boy."

"He is an intelligent young man, but has, as you Yanks like to say, a 'chip on his shoulder.' Perhaps you should try to find out why.

"But in any case, Russell, as a wise teacher advises,

'The good man does not grieve that others do not recognize his merits. His only anxiety is lest he should fail to recognize theirs. '"

Where was he getting all these aphorisms?