Upheaval: A Study in Mourning

Part I

by An Oxford Punter / Her Much Learning Hath Made Her Mad

The telegram was waiting for me when I returned to my flat that warm September afternoon in 1924. It was in my husband's style, brief and to-the-point.

RUSSELL WILL BE TAKING 4:43 TRAIN TO LONDON. MILES FITZWARREN KILLED IN IRELAND. DETAILS WHEN WE MEET. HOLMES

I stood in the wash of sunshine spilling through the doorway with the telegram in my hand and let the import of those few words accustom me slowly, painfully, to the knowledge that one of my friends from the days when we had learned and laughed at Oxford was now a widow.

Miles. Dead. Killed in Ireland. Each word, each phrase tolled in my mind like a church bell, solemn and final. I had known, of course, that they were there, Miles and Ronnie and their two-year-old daughter Sophia. Ronnie--Lady Veronica Beaconsfield at the time we met--had been a friend from my first days at university, when she recruited me to participate in theatrics to amuse the wounded soldiers, and Miles I had met in the course of a subtle and subtly terrifying case which had resulted in, among other things, both their marriage and my own. They had gone to Ireland shortly after the wedding, Miles as a young lieutenant in his majesty's army and Ronnie with him; Sophia had been born there. But now, according to Holmes, Miles was dead, cut down in a land that was not his, in a conflict no more understandable than the one he had fought in before. From what I knew of Major and Mrs. Fitzwarren, Miles' parents, I suspected they would not want him to be buried where he had fallen, but would instead want Ronnie to bring him home to London, to lie beside his sister Iris, killed four years earlier over a promised legacy to Margery Childe's New Temple in God.

Having gotten so far, it was not difficult to explain Holmes' arrival in town; Ronnie had undoubtedly called at the cottage, hoping to reach me there with her news about Miles and had spoken to Holmes instead, who agreed to find me and deliver her message. He would know that Ronnie was going to need all of her family and friends about her to help her get through what lay ahead; beyond that, he was more aware than most of the special bond Ronnie and I had forged over three years ago, a bond born of secrets kept and dangers faced. I glanced at the clock and saw that, if I threw some things into a bag and left immediately, I might just be able to get myself to London in time to meet Holmes' train. I hurried up the stairs to my rooms, conscious all the while of a bitter, biting grief deep in my soul at the irony of Miles' fate. To have survived so much, to have been shot and gassed in the most horrific war known to humankind and still made it home, to have reclaimed--slowly, painfully--his health and his self-respect and gone on to make a life for his little family far from the world's madness, only to have that madness claim him after all, seemed a joke too cruel to contemplate. And now Ronnie and Sophia were alone, only the latest initiates in a vast sisterhood of mothers, daughters, and wives left behind by men gone too soon from their lives, a sorrowful sorority whose membership they had bought with their irreconcilable anguish.

I could not help all those other women, could not ease their suffering or fill the emptiness in their lives for them. Their numbers were legion and inevitably, when faced with so great and deep a need, it was easy to become overwhelmed and ineffective. But Holmes and I could act on behalf of one woman, could stand with her, offer her our support and comfort and, in so doing, perhaps help in some small way to remove her from those swelling ranks of the helpless bereaved. In the end, it might be all Miles would have asked of us if he could, to show Ronnie and Sophia that they could honor his memory best by learning how to live full, productive lives without him.

Holmes' train was late, as it turned out, which was fortunate for so was I. It pulled in to the station with a great blast of steam and noise and, as I watched it come to a halt and people begin to emerge into the arms of those waiting to greet them, I felt suddenly an overwhelming impatience to be in his company again. I had not seen him for nearly three months--a long time even for us, accustomed as we were to regular separations--and I realized this meeting, somber though the circumstances were which prompted it, had been a well-timed thing indeed. It remained a subtle, persistent enemy, this sense that the longer I was away from him and that portion of my life we shared in Sussex, the less I felt its pull upon me. It was far too easy for me to follow my daily Oxford routine of study, research, and socializing day after day without interruption, particularly when I was as busy as I had been of late. I would work and sleep, conscious of the passing of time only peripherally, salving my conscience with promises to call him when I could, to go home as soon as my paper was completed or my final lecture attended. And then I would wake one night and reach for him, only to find myself alone, and I would get myself onto the next southbound train to immerse myself in Holmes and quiet Sussex splendor.

Such was the case a month ago, but I had ridden that train too late; he was gone from the cottage when I got there. A case had claimed him, or rather two cases, both of them difficult and time-consuming, and his telegram to me was my first inkling that he was once again in Sussex.

Most of the passengers had left the train and I was thinking with more than a trace of disappointment that he had not been able to come after all, when I caught sight of Holmes stepping down two cars ahead of me. In spite of the reason for his presence in London and the gravity of his features, I felt a lift to my spirits which only he inspired. We might have what most people who did not know us well considered to be an unconventional union, but it was a union nonetheless and I could not be away from it--or him--without eventually feeling the lack, like an amputation, in my soul.

I had taken a step forward, already anticipating his greeting after so long, when I saw him turn to claim his bag from the porter, and my joy crumbled instantly to dust.

The left sleeve of his coat was empty.

Flashes of the war just past filled my mind, memories of soldiers returning home with sleeves and trouser legs no limbs would ever fill again. It was a foolish fear, I knew, and gone as quickly as it came, so that I was able to get myself firmly under control by the time I reached his side. If anything that serious had happened to him, I would have heard about it before this (though certainly not from Holmes himself), or read about it in the newspapers. But I was not used to seeing my normally invincible husband incapacitated in any way, and the prospect unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

"That's odd, Holmes," I remarked by way of greeting. "The last time I saw you I could have sworn you had two arms." Gently I pulled back the left side of his coat to reveal the sling he was wearing beneath. "Oh, here's the other one. You haven't lost it at all; you're just hiding it."

"Very amusing, Russell." He pulled his coat carefully back into place; it obviously still bothered him. A wound, therefore, of recent vintage, acquired in Vladivostok rather than Cairo. "May I suggest you apply yourself to something more constructive than venting your anger at finding yourself uninformed about every trifling injury--"

"Trifling--!"

"--done to my person, and bring along my bag? As you have so astutely pointed out, I am hardly capable of managing it myself."

"I didn't mean--oh, never mind." I picked up his bag. "Would you care to tell me how you came by this 'trifling' injury?"

He arched his brows; the very sight was enough to reassure me somewhat. "Later, Russell, if you please. At the moment we have more pressing business; let us first find a taxi--"

"Holmes, I am not moving from this spot until you at least tell me how seriously you're hurt. Should you, for example, be in a hospital?" His quick, sidelong glance alerted me. "Or have you just come from one?"

"I give you my word, oh suspicious one, that I traveled here directly from the cottage. You may call Mrs. Hudson, if you like, and confirm that I was there."

I shook my head. "The fact that you're so willing to have me call her makes it unnecessary. Besides, traveling straight here from the cottage does not preclude the possibility that you were in a hospital somewhere before you returned to Sussex. Knowing you as I do, in fact, I strongly suspect that to be the case. The entire truth now, Holmes, with no prevaricating. Do you need further medical attention? Should we go see Uncle John?"

He sighed impatiently, but relented. "My wounds--"

"Wounds? There is more than one?"

"--are an inconvenience, nothing more. I had hoped to be completely healed by the time I saw you next, but your friend's telephone call made any considerations of the sort academic."

"Worse luck for you." I studied him critically; he was very pale, and fatigue showed plainly in the lines bracketing his mouth. His assurances to the contrary, he was more than inconvenienced by his injuries, and I briefly considered insisting we stop by Dr. Watson's house on our way to wherever we were going, if only to confirm that he was in no danger from his stubborn inattention to his own frailties. But forcing Holmes to do something which he was not inclined to do, especially in matters of his health, often produced far more problems than it solved, and I had no desire to cause him further upset unless or until it became necessary. I made a mental note to continue to watch him and flagged the requisite cab. "All right, Holmes, I am glad enough to see you that I will let you wriggle free for now, though I warn you I fully intend to demand all the details--pleasant or otherwise--from you later. In the meantime, what are our plans now that we are here?"

"Dinner, I believe, unless you have eaten already."

"No, I only just got here myself. Dinner would be very welcome indeed. Will we go on, then, to your brother's afterwards?" In the past we had made use of Mycroft Holmes's spare room when circumstances found us in London together. Holmes shook his head. "No, I think if you are agreeable, Russ, I would prefer someplace quieter and more private. I have been in strange places and among stranger people for too long; I find now that I require a set of walls associated with pleasanter memories."

"A very secret set of walls, no doubt." I smiled, knowing the place he meant. "Are you certain you can manage the ladder?"

"If you can manage the bag."

"Then I would suggest we go straight there from here, unless of course you haven't had the chance to replenish supplies lately--"

"My dear Russell," he remarked, at his blandest, "you cut me to the heart with such doubts. Rest assured the destination in question is quite ready to receive your discerning presence. I visited each of the bolt-holes in London on my way to Cairo and made the additions you suggested."

"Of course you did, Holmes. Silly of me. Forgive my weak, womanly doubts." I ignored his bark of laughter and stepped into the waiting cab. "Let's be off, then."

Holmes instructed the cabbie to let us off in a part of town that made the poor man look at us as if he seriously questioned our sanity, and we went together through streets and alleys, up and across a roof and down again, through the department store crawl space to a certain wardrobe located in a certain office. The use of Holmes' key gained us admittance through the secret door at the back of that wardrobe, and we stepped into the bolt-hole beyond. As Holmes flicked on the electric lights, I let the warmth of memories enfold me. It was here I had first begun to suspect that Holmes could be infinitely more to me than just my mentor and friend. It was here we had come together to pass our wedding night. Yes, this was where we needed to be, each of us to spend time in the company of the other, so that we might stand as one for Ronnie's sake when the time came. As Holmes hung up our coats and set about lighting a fire in the fireplace, I wandered the small rooms, seeing traces of his handiwork of the month before. Here was a selection of books which included theological texts amongst them, and writing materials laid out ready for use on the desk; there on a counter top was a collection of dusty bottles which I knew to be honey wine of his own making, and some cheese. I saw a very nice comb and hairbrush set, some tasteful, elegant pieces of clothing--the work of the elves--hanging on racks alongside components of disguises and two of my dead father's suits which I habitually wore. Finally, across the foot of the bed in a blaze of color, stretched the red robe with its Mandarin collar, delicate embroidered flowers and exotic birds which I had wrapped around myself on our wedding night before giving myself over into his loving care. Old friends all, included by my husband to make this refuge mine as well, as he had opened his life to include me.

Gratified, I went to join him in the tiny kitchen to prepare dinner. We worked in silence that progressed gradually from slightly awkward to comfortably companionable. Holmes confined himself to the tasks he could manage one-handed, but they were few and far between, a fact which threatened to shred his already-strained patience. It became so bad that I was finally forced to order him to seat himself somewhere and make himself agreeable by entertaining me while I finished. He obliged by giving me the details of his case in Cairo, an intriguing story full of stolen artifacts and secret sects which lasted through dinner and into coffee afterwards. As he talked, I could hear the siren song of clues, excitement and danger calling to me, and it was with genuine regret that I left the table to fetch a bottle of wine for what lay ahead. Pouring him a large glass, I handed it to him.

"All right, Holmes," I said, "drink up and then let's go into the other room so you can show me these 'trifling injuries'."

He eyed me from under frowning brows for a moment, then followed me into the bedroom. Slowly, carefully, I eased his arm from the sling, then helped him out of his vest and shirt; an alarming amount of white gauze greeted my eyes. At my bidding, he stretched out on the bed and I knelt on the mattress beside him, the better to remove the dressings and tend what they covered.

It was clear enough to see, from his wounds, what had happened. His upper arm was most serious; the blade of a good-sized knife had impaled itself in the muscles with some force, judging by the dark bruising around the entry. That certainly explained the presence of the sling; any use of his arm must cause him tremendous pain, to say nothing of the blood loss he must have suffered. My simple examination of it dewed his forehead with perspiration and he drank most of the wine in the glass when I passed it to him.

But it was the second wound, even though relatively superficial, which caused my hands to shake as I cleansed and prepared to fit fresh dressings over it. His assailant, realizing he had not dealt a death blow on the first attempt, had evidently withdrawn the knife quickly and tried again, going this time straight for Holmes' heart; a long, shallow, jagged cut began just to the left of his sternum and went skittering down his left side, skimming ribs as it went.

"Well," I said quietly, tracing the path of sutures with my eyes, "you have been busy indeed, husband. How did this happen?"

"A small contretemps in an alley in Vladivostok." I could feel his eyes on me, trying to gauge my reaction to his disfigurement. "The owner of the knife knocked me backwards with this one--" he indicated the wound high up on his arm, "--and then hacked at me again as I fell. Fool; he should have waited until I was on the ground. He might have had me then like an insect on a mounting pin."

"Yes. Stupid of him." I didn't care at all for his clinical assessment of the attack. "He certainly seemed anxious enough to add you to his collection of kills. Why didn't he come at you again?"

"Oh, he did. I kicked out at him before I lost consciousness and fractured his kneecap. Fortunately, he dropped like a stone or we would not be having this conversation now and he would not be awaiting trial in his own country with his leg in a cast." Holmes indicated the glass of wine and I passed it to him again. "A hellish business, Russ. One of our party died that night, and I was not the only one to escape with injuries. I tell you frankly that, considering the career I chose, there have been relatively few instances where I have considered myself to be in serious danger of losing my life, but that little war in a Vladivostok alley was one such instance."

"May you never need to go back." Taking the glass of wine from him, I raised it in a toast and sipped. To hear him admit how close he had come to death chilled me to the core. I could have lost him in that wretched alley, could have lost him to some nameless, faceless thug with a knife half a world away. And while he had been fighting for his life I had been--where? At the Bodleian? Bent over my books at my flat? Laughing with friends at the pub over a pint and a game of darts?

The thought was appalling. I might have lost him even as Ronnie had lost Miles; he would have died alone, in pain and blood, without me. I would never have seen him again, never made him laugh, never lain in his arms at night. He would never have brushed my hair or listened to my chatter about my studies, would never again have brought me tea in the morning. I would have stood at his graveside and watched him lowered into the earth, and I would have left him there and returned to the cottage.

Alone.

Altogether, a horrifying vision, and I hated its brutal truth even as I stared it in the face. Yes, I would have Mrs. Hudson still, and my sweet Uncle John, and Holmes' brother Mycroft, my work and life at Oxford. But I would not have Holmes to weave all of them together into the fabric that had become my life. I might surround myself with people, might spend my days in frantic activity, might learn to laugh and live a life apart from what it had become with him, but without Holmes I knew I would inevitably be alone.

Again.

"Well, these seem to be healing well. I don't see any signs of infection." I tuned away to put the medical supplies back in the box so he would not see my despair. "You'd better start exercising that arm as soon as you can or you'll never be able to pick up your violin again."

"Yes, I know." He made a fist with his left hand and winced. " Low-class brute with no talent and no imagination; if I've lost my violin because of him, by God I'll go back and trounce him again for the sheer pleasure of it."

"No you won't." His offhand irritation made me smile even while my eyes prickled with tears at his unassailable courage. "I think one trip to Vladivostok has been quite memorable enough."

He nodded, and indicated his vest so he could fish out his cigarettes and box of matches. "As you say. But come, Russ." Propping himself up with pillows at his back, he smiled at me. "Tell me what you have been up to while I was away." Never one to linger conversationally anywhere for very long, he had already put aside his brush with death as a matter of no consequence, asking now instead about my activities at Oxford. Drawn out in spite of myself by his questions and comments, I discussed problems and accomplishments, new discoveries, new avenues of exploration. It had been a long time since I had taken him so far into my world of religious academia and I reveled in it, knowing he didn't often allow himself to be led there. I suspected he was trying to atone, in some small way, for not informing me of his injuries sooner, or perhaps he had seen my distress and was attempting to turn my mind from it. Whatever his reason, I took shameless advantage of it, and we spent a pleasurable hour in complex theological conversation.

It was only when we were preparing for bed that he at last approached the reason why we had come together in London. I had unbraided my hair preparatory to brushing it for the night when he rose, held out his hand for the brush, and began to pull it slowly, gently through the heavy lengths. I knew he was especially fond of my hair and that brushing it pleased and relaxed him as much as it did me. So I sat quiet beneath his ministrations and after a time his long, gentle fingers had replaced the brush, twining themselves in my burnished locks.

"How did Ronnie sound on the telephone?" I asked quietly.

"Composed. Competent." He considered his conversation with her. "She seemed to feel she must be strong for Lieutenant Fitzwarren's parents' sake."

"Oh, not much need to worry about the major," I remarked, "but she could be right about Miles' mother. Since Iris's death, he's been their only child. Now he's gone, too. When is the funeral? Did she say?"

"Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. There will be a gathering afterwards at the home of Lieutenant Fitzwarren's parents." He left me and settled himself once more in bed. "We ought to be able to spend some time there, if you wish, before we have to catch our train to Sussex, unless your plan was to return to Oxford."

"No." I rose and put away the brush. "After tomorrow I think I shall need to be home with you. I've been too long away, husband. Sussex calls to me."

"I know." He lit another cigarette and exhaled slowly. "I will be glad to have you there again. Mrs. Hudson grows daily more certain that we have decided to separate after all. Three years have evidently not diminished her conviction that we married on sufferance and are likely to chuck it all at any time--an occurrence, I might add, for which she appears to hold me solely responsible. I have not had a moment's peace."

"Poor dear." I smiled. "I will be sure to tell her otherwise when I see her."

"I would greatly appreciate it. This evident lack of faith she exhibits in me is disquieting." He smoked silently for a time and, when he spoke again, his voice was quite different. "It will be a difficult thing, this funeral."

"Yes, I know." I sighed. "I've been able to think of little else since your telegram arrived. I find myself dreading it, if for no other reason than for the memories it will call up."

"An occasion such as this always calls forth one's own experience with similar occasions," he agreed quietly.

I thought about my friend. "I know what Ronnie is thinking now; I know what she's feeling. The sense of aloneness, of abandonment, is so powerful and so overwhelming it seems as if it can't possibly have an end, that it will go on forever and that there will never be any happiness again. But that is nothing, of course, compared to the anger at those who have gone, an anger with no release because the object of the anger is forever beyond the granting of absolution." I remembered old pain. "It does all get better, of course, with time. But it never goes away, not completely. It comes back, fresh and feral, with every graveside vigil. Those of us scarred by the brush of death wear its marks like brands until it comes at last for us. There is no escape."

He had listened to me in silence which lingered long after I had finished speaking. At last he cleared his throat. "If you wish, Russ, I shall go to the funeral alone. There is no reason for you to attend. I am certain your friend will understand when I apprise her of the situation."

"Holmes," I looked up, startled, "you must think me weak indeed to even offer such a thing."

"Quite the contrary," he replied. "I know that you are not. There is nothing else about you of which I am surer. But you have seen a great deal of death already, my young wife, and I would spare you seeing more of it if I could. It is not necessary that you go tomorrow; I could just as easily represent us and no harm will be done."

"No harm except to my friendship with Ronnie."

"If she is truly your friend she will understand," he pointed out, "knowing something of your particular history as she does."

"She may understand. But she may not forgive. I'm not certain I would, if our positions were reversed." I shook my head. "Ronnie needs me, Holmes. She needs me not only because I'm her friend, but because I have been through the things I have. I can understand her sorrow as few others around her will. That is why I must--and shall--go. To do any less would be to fail Miles, and I know you well enough to believe that, in my place, you would not allow that to happen."

He nodded, as if my words only confirmed what he knew I would say. "Come to bed, then, Russ. It is getting late, and we shall need all our wits about us tomorrow."

"I suppose so." As I rounded the corner of the bed, my foot struck something and I glanced down. "Well, here it is. What is in this bag you insisted on lugging all the way from Sussex, wounds and all?" I reached down and retrieved it. "I don't suppose you brought me anything appropriate to wear tomorrow."

"My dear Russell, four years of marriage to you have managed to drum one or two things into my skull concerning the treatment of women. You will find raiments suitably solemn and conservative, as befits a young emancipated matron sure of herself and her place in the world."

I explored the contents of the bag and withdrew suits both for him and for myself, exactly as he had said. "My apologies, Holmes," I remarked, unfolding the skirt, blouse, and jacket and laying them flat upon the bed. "This is precisely what I would have chosen. It seems you can teach an old detective new tricks."

He smiled. "Before you outdo yourself congratulating me, I ought in good conscience to point out that it was Mrs. Hudson who selected those items. She vehemently berated me for my first several choices."

"I see. Well, it's the thought that counts, I suppose." I was not entirely sorry Mrs. Hudson had seen fit to intervene; in that way I could be certain of having everything in the way of undergarments I was likely to need. I pulled them forth, then happened on something else. "What the devil--"

It was my most special nightgown, lacy and delicately white, Holmes' favorite because of the row of tiny buttons down the front and its silky, diaphanous texture. It slithered and shimmered with promise between my hands as I looked up, startled. "I didn't realize Mrs. Hudson knew where I kept this."

"She does not." Holmes blew a negligent smoke ring into the air. "That was my contribution."