Russell's Young Man

Part 4: Homecoming - Holmes

by Brains and Spirit

With the agility of a much younger man, Sherlock Holmes stepped onto the platform at the Eastbourne train station and swung his rucksack over his shoulder. A quick glance around the station indicated that either Mrs. Hudson hadn't gotten his telegram, or the neighbour with the taxi service was unavailable. Ah well, no matter. The afternoon kept fine and he could probably walk over the Downs to his cottage in less time than it would take to negotiate the telephone exchange and wait for the car. Besides, if he was not mistaken, Russell would be down from Oxford this weekend and she might pass him on the road, always presuming that she did not run him into the ditch with her driving.

It would be good, he reflected, to see her. The successful conclusion of a case was always satisfying, but he loathed the days of letdown and lethargy that often followed it. Russell's company, her keen mind and youthful energy, would be just the refreshment he needed. She might enjoy reviewing the details with him, over one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent suppers. The remarkable contents of that peculiar government clerk's flat would be sure to amuse her. This would also provide an opportunity for him to observe Russ carefully and ask a few judicious questions. It might be relatively simple to ascertain just how much truth was contained in that dossier of Mycroft's. Far too much, he feared, for his peace of mind. So. He had always prided himself on his self-command, and the ability to put his personal feelings aside in order to concentrate on the problem at hand. With an effort he banished love, jealousy, and pain back to that compartment in himself where he'd stowed them for the past few days. After a final glance around the platform, the habit of a man accustomed to noting and eluding followers, he stepped off and started walking.

It was a pleasant hike over the Downs, and when he mounted the rise that marked the border of his property he noted a motorcar parked in the driveway near his cottage. She had come early, then, and would no doubt be staying for dinner and perhaps tomorrow as well. The warm pleasure at the thought of her company was undeniable. And when he let himself in by the kitchen door, there she was.

Russell was perched on a stool with Mrs. Hudson kneeling at her feet, pincushion in hand. They were making some adjustment to the hemline on a very becoming frock. He couldn't keep the small half smile from his lips at the sweetly rumpled sight of her. Nor could he entirely suppress a pang from what he supposed must be his heart. How long would it be, until he could never again hope to see her when he opened his door? So soon, for their days together to be drawing to a close.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. Hello, Russell. What's all this, then?"

"You sound just like a constable, Homes, and this is a dinner frock. I believe you've seen one before. "

"Indeed I have, Russell. And if my memory does not fail me, I've seen that particular one before, as well."

"Yes, it's one I wore last year. Mrs. Hudson is helping me to make it over. Or more accurately, she's making it over and I'm trying not to hinder her."

"Why on earth should it need that?"

Two pairs of feminine eyes regarded his male ignorance with bemused exasperation. "Hemlines and sleeves are different this year, Holmes, and I want to look up to date."

Holmes helped himself to a cup of tea and biscuit from the tray on the kitchen counter, and leaned back at his ease. " I didn't think you paid much attention to that sort of thing, Russ."

"I'll pay attention to this sort of thing if given suitable inducement, Holmes. I've been invited to a house party next weekend, where I propose to enjoy myself. I don't want everyone there looking at me like I'm some sort of poor relation. And rather than apply to my aunt for new clothes, I'm taking shameless advantage of dear Mrs. Hudson's offer of help. That is," she paused as Mrs. Hudson got to her feet, "if there might not be something I could do?"

Mrs. Hudson gave her an indulgent smile. "Mary-girl, your plain sewing is a credit to the woman who taught you, it is indeed. But this is satin back crepe with a French rolled hem. Best left to me, dear. Now this looks nice and even and I've just enough time to get it stitched before it's time to eat." Mrs. Hudson headed toward the fireside, sewing box in hand.

Russ looked down at her pin filled hem, silk stockings and high heels in mild consternation. She eyed the distance from the stool to the floor with an expression that reminded him irresistibly of the cat, caught at the top of the copper beech and meowing indignantly to be rescued. He stifled his chuckle, stepped forward, and gravely held out his hand. "If I may?"

"Thank you."

Russ put her hands on his shoulders; he put both hands around her waist. Then he lifted her up and lightly swung her to the floor. And if he chanced to do so with a heightened awareness of her young warmth in his arms and the scent of her hair, surely that was no-one's concern but his own.

"I'll leave you two ladies to your feminine arcana, then. I'll be in the laboratory, Russell."

Russell divested herself of her finery and joined him in the laboratory. She reviewed the notes on his latest experiment with her usual calm efficiency and made some suggestions for the final titration. He promised to try her approach and write up the results for later comparison, and they worked companionably until Mrs. Hudson announced the meal.

Dinner was a pleasant, convivial interlude. Mrs. Hudson's had prepared several of Russell's favorite dishes; succulent roasted chicken, glazed carrots, and mashed potatoes. As usual, they found much to say over the delicious meal. And as he had suspected, Russell found some aspects of his recent case cause for much merriment. She was enthusiastic about her work at Oxford, and teasingly informed him that she had a new Maths tutor, a respected Don come out of retirement due to the postwar influx of young men. Unlike Miss Donleavy, however, Professor Soames appeared to have no homicidal intent. "Though I may be developing one, what with the exercises he sets me," Russ added, laughing.

Over dessert (Russ' favorite lemon tart) Mrs. Hudson joined him by Russell's request. The conversation turned to Russell's upcoming house party. Mrs. Hudson brought the topic up, Holmes realised, because like Mycroft, she wanted be sure that he knew.

Russell, seemingly oblivious, waxed enthusiastic about her clever high-spirited friend, Alexandra Bonham-Pryce, and shyly mentioned Alix's brother, the War hero, who had been spending quite a bit of time at Oxford. Had he ever, Holmes wondered, even as a lad or young man, caused a young woman to bite her lip and colour prettily when his name was mentioned? He rather thought not. Odd, he hadn't seen this as a failing until now.. Perhaps Russ was indeed embarking on the obligatory family visit that usually preceded a marriage proposal. And it was to be next weekend. So, if tonight was to be their last time together as friends and partners, he knew what he must do. He would bid her goodbye in the same way he'd welcomed her into his life all those years ago.

After dinner he walked her out to the car, their footsteps crunching on the gravel in the drive. "Safe journey, Russ." he said. "Take care of yourself." But instead of shaking her hand, he took it in his and brushed it lightly with his lips, as he had done on their first day together. "Goodbye." he said as she got into the Morris, then he turned away. But as he walked back to his door, his lips formed another word. "Adieu," he whispered, "to God"; the French farewell to someone who would not return. He walked quietly into the cottage, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him so he would not have to see her go.

Interlude - Holmes

She had been gone for seven days. He had finished his experiment. The violin, usually his companion in times of melancholy, had proved unsatisfying. Sleep, he knew, would elude him for some time yet if it came at all. So he sat beside the fire and smoked, book open and unread on his knee. Without the distractions of the daytime his thoughts returned to Russell. He had spent the better part of this last week trying to lock his memories of her away in his brain-attic, but they had refused to stay banished there. Stubborn as the woman herself, those memories.

He glanced up at the mantel clock. Eleven-thirty. Russell's party would be at its apex about now, fueled by enough alcohol and music to engender gaiety. Perhaps she had already accepted her handsome young captain's proposal, and was standing by his side, flushed and smiling, to receive congratulations and show off a glittering ring. Best not to dwell on that, Holmes... Russell's femininity often surprised them both but it was still very much a part of her. And if this was what she wanted, who was he to stand in her way? In the final analysis, he was just an old man who had no right to speak to her of his feelings, an old man she was leaving behind, an old man who loved her... Perhaps he should go to London tomorrow, for some welcome distraction from these musings, and to escape from the cottage where he met her ghost at every turn. There was a milk train leaving Eastbourne at 4:45. Well, then. He would pack up a few things, leave a note for Mrs. Hudson, and walk across the Downs to meet it.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and started rummaging in the wardrobe for his rucksack. As he passed the window, a light on the upper turn of the drive caught his eye. It appeared to be moving. A second look revealed that the light was attached to a motorcar, speeding down the twisting country lane with the ease of familiarity. A small car, being driven fast. Russell's Morris? His throat tightened. Absurd, such gladness at the thought of seeing her. There was a squeal of brakes, a splatter of falling gravel, and then silence. He went back down to the kitchen and opened the door. It had to be Russell, he was sure. Only one set of tyres made that particular sound and only one person he knew could take that last turn hell-bent-for-leather and pull up short at that precise point. But there was no sound of a door opening and he heard no footsteps. Clearly, something was wrong. He fished a torch out of a kitchen drawer, and went outside to determine what it was.