Fan Fic -- The Basket Chair

The Basket Chair
By: Alice “…the girl with the strawberry curls”

“Holmes, Mrs. Hudson has left a lovely stew on the stove for us. Shall we have a walk before we sup or should I put it into the oven to finish cooking? We could wait, but I think we should eat before we leave. Don’t you?”

We were due to meet the 7:45 train from Dover later this evening, and I preferred having something in my stomach before I negotiated the narrow lanes and roads in my motor. That train was notoriously for its delays, and it could be quite late by the time we returned.

“Oh, and here is her fresh bread, she’s put a loaf aside for us to have with the stew. Ah, she made lemon tarts, also.”

Bless Mrs. Hudson. All morning our nostrils had been tantalised by the aromas wafting up from the kitchen. The temptation to follow our noses down the stairs and into the kitchen to obtain butter laden slabs had been like the pull of a siren’s song, tempting, but fraught with danger (Mrs. Hudson did not countenance interruptions when she was baking), so we had resisted and continued with our work. Holmes and I had been immersed in the chemical analysis of various samples of soil and silt taken from the banks and water of the Thames. Several bodies had been pulled from that river of late, and Holmes felt he might be able to pinpoint a common dumping site using a comparison of soil and silt taken from the clothing of the victims and the samples taken from likely areas along the river. It was painstaking work and it had occupied us both for several days, but now it was complete, the conclusions irrefutable and likely to lead to an arrest. A messenger had collected our written report and was on his way to Scotland Yard, speeding off on a gorgeous motorcycle that reminded me how much I enjoyed riding the machines. The look on Holmes’ face confirmed how much he loathed them.

Giving myself a mental shake I tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

“That will make for a very nice meal, don’t you think, Holmes?” I called cheerily. “Holmes? Holmes, are you listening to me?”

I had ventured into the kitchen to make a pot of tea and had kept up this running commentary that, I now realized, was not eliciting any response. Our good housekeeper was spending the night with a friend in Lewes and we had the cottage all to ourselves – at least until Holmes’ granddaughter arrived. Mrs. Hudson had been quite vexed when she realised she would not be here to greet Estelle (she doted on the child) but her plans could not be broken without offence, so she had stifled her frustration with an orgy of baking and cooking before she took her leave.

“Holmes?” I tried again. Peeved that I was not receiving even a perfunctory acknowledgement to my enquiries, I pulled the kettle onto the hottest part of the stove to come to a boil, and started toward the kitchen door, bent on demanding a response. I had left Holmes, barely five minutes before. He had been pondering his plethora of pipes preparatory to having a smoke. I was, as always, fully prepared to find that in my brief absence my husband had decamped, taken off for Timbuktu, the Himalayas or some island in the South Seas. I certainly wouldn’t be surprise; he had vanished without a word before, and would probably do it again. Such was my life as the partner and spouse of The Great Detective. Although, in this case, it was highly unlikely that Holmes would have mysteriously vanished, as he had been in a high state of anticipation over the arrival of his granddaughter, and nothing (short of a national emergency) would cause him to miss even an hour of Estelle’s increasingly infrequent time in Sussex. I was struck by a momentary wave of guilt, as we had not seen Damian or Estelle in almost a year. Holmes and my life, of late, had become ever more complicated, and this visit by Holmes’ granddaughter was a result of one of those complications. The negotiations with Damian had taken two trunk calls, a note hand delivered by a minor royal who owed Holmes a favour and was renowned as an art patron, and more cleverly worded, chatty letters than I cared to remember. But, eventually there had been an agreement and the formulation of the plan that had Estelle arriving in a few hours.

Such were the thoughts that meandered through my mind as I walked toward the kitchen door. My hand was out to push it open when I was startled by a cacophony of sounds that ended with my husband’s voice letting fly with a string of oaths that were not only imaginative, but seemed exceedingly heartfelt. His voice was sharp with anger, but what caused me to freeze was the fear I heard underneath the anger. Shaking off the momentary shock, I pushed open the kitchen door and hurriedly rounded the corner of the fireplace only to skitter to a stop.

I was thunderstruck by the absurdity of what I saw, and for just a moment I stood gaping. My heart had been pounding with fear and now I felt a bit light-headed. It was all I could do to keep from sitting down and dissolving into giggles of relief and amusement. My next thought was to make sure those oaths, that were continuing to flow from my oddly contorted husband, were more from the situation than any real injury or pain. This would need delicate handling. Finding Sherlock Holmes in an impossibly ridiculous position – seemingly helpless, certainly distressed – was like walking up to a ticking time-bomb and giving it a great shake, one had to be ever mindful that at any moment it might explode in your face.

“Are you injured, Holmes?” I enquired, pleased that my voice betrayed no hint of the laughter I was manfully suppressing.

“Dammit, Russell, what do you think? I’m stuck, and my ankle and calf have been scraped by these sharp broken ends.” He paused and seemed to struggle to gather himself under tight restraint. I was not the only person in the room fighting for mastery of my emotions.

“I think you have gotten yourself into a right mess, Holmes. How did it happen?” I knew he would explode at this supercilious enquiry, but he needed to lash out at something and it might as well happen now, when he was…well, confined…as later where the knickknacks and crockery would be at risk.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Russ, it doesn’t become you. You have eyes…you can see what happened.” He blurted out, and then softening his voice to menacing velvet, he continued, “I stood on the basket chair to reach a book on the highest shelf, the cane broke under my weight and my ankle is scraped and my leg is wedged. Now, give us a hand, Woman, before someone else sees me in this humiliating position.”

Holmes did look silly. His left leg was pushed through the cane seat of his beloved basket chair, and he was trapped just below his knee, his left foot inches from the floor and not providing any support. Jagged tears were plainly visible in the fabric of the left leg of his favourite grey trousers. His right leg was still on the wooden rim of the chair’s seat contorting him into what must have been an extremely uncomfortable position. Holmes was in essence wearing the chair.

“Right. Well, if I lend you my shoulder do you think you could extricate your trapped leg?”

“Not likely, the cane has closed over the leg, and removing same would further endanger my skin. You will have to cut some of the cane away to free the leg.”

“Pity. That chair has survived so much – your life on Baker Street, the journey to Sussex and all these years in this cottage – now it has given its life in such an embarrassing way. So sad.” I pronounced the last two words with a weary singsong voice.

“Russell!!” He was on the edge of shouting at me, but thought better of it and when he had calmed sufficiently he continued in his usual sardonic tone. “I’m so pleased you find my discomfort amusing, but a hand would be appreciated. I believe you took a vow to comfort me in my time of need, Wife. I am in need of comfort and your knife blade cutting away the cane. Now…please.” He gestured to the trapped leg, his eyes ablaze.

“Oh, well, if you put it that way.” I moved to his side and pulled my knife from my trouser pocket releasing the sturdiest blade. “But point in fact, I did not vow to comfort you in your time of need, merely comfort you. Besides you had just given the same vow as I recall. You vowed to love me, comfort me, honour and protect me, and forsaking all others, to be faithful to me as long as we both shall live. Then, and only then, did I give you the same vow. Stop moving, Holmes, I am using a sharp blade near some rather delicate parts of your anatomy.”

“I gladly gave you those vows, Russ, and was pleased to have them given to me, in return. But – have a care with my trousers, Woman – I must admit, I did not envision a situation quite like this one.”

“Your trousers may not be salvageable, Holmes. There is considerable damage. But, there, that should free you if I remove your shoe. Now lean on me and pull your leg out.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Russ, that is much better. My old bones are not up to such contortions, I’ll be sore for days, I fear.”

“If you fear for your bones, then consider a ladder in the future, really, standing on that old chair. Let me see the leg.” Acting more contrite that I knew was the case, Holmes gingerly hiked up the ripped fabric and displayed his much-abused appendage.

“You need some Mercurochrome on those scrapes. Sepsis caused by a broken chair seat would be an ignominious end for the great Sherlock Holmes.”

That did it; Holmes threw back his head and laughed, great barks of laughter that had me giggling, then dissolving into helpless laughter that brought tears to my eyes and caused my sides to hurt.

“Good job Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here to see this, Holmes, she would have been quite distraught. You eaten by your favourite chair, how would she explain that to all her friends. She would not be able to show her face in the village.” I finally managed to say, which only exacerbated the situation and sent both of us into further gales of laughter at this possible scenario.

To regain a small modicum of composure I turned and raced upstairs to fetch the first aide supplies and returned with my laughter replaced by what I felt was an appropriate look of wifely concern. Only to be caught off guard by the vision of Sherlock Holmes nonchalantly standing in his drawers before the fireplace, calmly smoking his pipe.

“Holmes???” was all I could say. I just stood there pointing at my husband as if I had never seen him in his drawers before, which of course I had, we were married after all, but I’d never seen him standing before our fireplace in stocking feet, seeming for all the world as if being in that state of undress, in that location, was the most natural thing for him to be doing.

“Yes, Russell?

Like some fool I continued to goggle. I seemed to have lost the capacity to construct an intelligent sentence. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open but I couldn’t think how to shut it, my mind had gone totally blank.

“Oh, my lack of attire,” he finally commented, waving his hand in a manner that suggested a phenomenal lack of concern. To my utter relief Holmes’ attitude caused my brain to clunk into gear and I could once again think.

Staring at my husband, I answered, “Yes, Holmes, your lack of attire.”

“Well, if you are going to practice your nursing skills on my scraped leg I thought it best to give you an open field…so to speak. Besides, as you said, the trousers are beyond mending and a pity too, I was rather fond of that pair.”

“Jigger the trousers, Holmes, let me see your wounds.”

The leg was in quite a state; there were numerous scrapes, and four long parallel gouges, one of them so deep that it must have hurt like the devil. The sting of the Mercurochrome was going to add another dimensions to the pain, I thought. “Shall you tell me a tale to divert your mind while I attend to these?”

“That will not be necessary, a mind that can’t control…”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Kindly control your flinching or you’ll have the sitting room splattered in this stuff,” I waved the bottle of antiseptic toward him, “and then how will we explain that to Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes resolutely stopped pulling away as I painted his leg with the mixture that stained his skin, bit at the nostril with its sharp smell, and stung with every swipe. The glass wand dipped into the bottle then delivered the medicine to his leg over and over until I had treated every inch of the scrapes and cuts, leaving his leg looking quite festive with circles and stripes of the Mercurochrome.

When I finished I stepped back and admired my handy work and found I had to squelch another bout of the giggles. It really was too much to take in, and Holmes was playing the situation for its burlesque nature. He stood elegantly before his fireplace attired only in his drawers and a dress shirt, his favourite pipe clutched in his teeth at a jaunty angle, both hands on his narrow hips, one long bony leg festooned with medicine.

“Thank you, Russell,” he commented dryly, “I believe I might escape infection now, but my chair may not survive.” He turned his back to me and stood looking down at what remained of his beloved basket chair. I joined him and slid my arm around his waist to signal my understanding as we both gave the chair a moment of silent contemplation.

“It seems the passing of an age somehow. That chair has seen a great deal in its years, and now has come to such an inglorious end,” Holmes spoke as if delivering a eulogy, and then gently squeezed my shoulder where his free hand had come to rest.

“We could take it out back and shoot it if you think that would give it some measure of dignity,” I ventured dryly, my mouth twitched into a grin.

“Or we could construct a funeral pyre to see it off,” Holmes added.

“Not if you expect me to throw myself on the flames, Holmes. I’m not the one attached to the blessed thing.”

“True. No, that would not do at all,” Holmes answered.

“It can be repaired, Holmes. Frankly it is a wonder it has survived this long. We can take it to Mr. Garry in the village. He does excellent recaning. It will be as good as new in no time.”

“What would I do without you, Russ?” Holmes said as he brushed my temple with his lips. “You saved me from the chair and the chair from the rubbish pile. A woman for all seasons – the perfect partner.” Sometimes verbal communication is not necessary, so I put my head on my husband’s shoulder to convey my appreciation of his compliment, and felt his arm come off my shoulder and around my waist in acknowledgement.

We stood like that for a few minutes, each lost in our own memories, and then we heard the “Ahuumm.”

It was that throat clearing sound everyone makes when they want to catch someone’s attention, and it was coming from behind us – from the direction of the front door, to be exact.

Holmes and I separated and turned as one to confront our intruder only to find a beautifully dressed young woman staring at us.

Startled into action, I grabbed the throw off the back of the sofa and stepping in front of my husband handing it to him from behind my back. “Estelle, we were not expecting you for hours. Why didn’t you call from the station, we would have come to pick you up,” I babbled to try to distract her.

“I took an earlier train, the weather over the channel was turning…” she paused and I realized she was searching for the correct word in English. French was the language she had spoken since childhood – I often forgot Estelle’s English was reserved for visits with us, as she had the fluency of a native speaker. Seeming to find the proper descriptor she continued. “…vile and Papa wanted me safely here before the storm.” This was said very matter-of-factly, no emotion, her chin up and her face serene and unreadable. She was a Holmes through and through. Only her grey eyes hinted of some strong emotion below the surface of her polite demeanour.

In an effort to allow my scantily clad husband a moment to sort out his state of undress, I crossed the room, throwing my arms open to greet my step granddaughter. She received my very French peck on each cheek with equanimity, while her eyes warming with amusement.

“Did you take a taxi, Estelle?” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Holmes as he was wrapping himself in the rug. It was not meant to be a sarong, therefore it fell several inches short of his ankles, giving him an appearance oddly like that of an Indian holy man. As if reading my mind Holmes stepped sideways until he was partial hidden by the sofa back.

I notice Estelle took great care not to look in the direction of her grandfather as she answered, “Yes, Papa gave me money, English money. I thought I would surprise you…and it seems I have.” The amusement grew in those silvery eyes but her face remained neutral.

“You certainly did. I didn’t hear a motor come down the drive. I suppose you walked from the lane. Was the taxi driver in too much of a hurry to drive you to the door, Estelle?”

“He was on his way home and I didn’t mind walking down the drive.”

“And when you entered the cottage there wasn’t a sound from the latch or hinges on the front door. Now why?” I pondered.

“The latch worked noiselessly and the door opened on silent hinges. There was an odour of oil as I entered the cottage.”

“Mrs Hudson, of course. She has been oiling that door again. The woman hates a squeak and no matter how often we tell her the sound is useful she oils the latch and the hinges.”

“I suppose I should have knocked and given you warning since I wasn’t expected this early.”

“Certainly not, Estelle, you are always welcome and there is no need for you to knock. Hopefully in future you won’t be met by a…well, by anything untoward.”

Holmes was still standing behind the sofa and I thought I heard a particularly florid Arabic curse come from his direction, but it might have been my imagination. Estelle reacted not.

“Well now, Estelle, why don’t we get you settled and leave your grandfather to retreat upstairs and don some trousers. When he is properly attired he can greet you.”

This statement solicited a grumble from Holmes and a quiet giggle from Estelle. Satisfied, I picked up the child’s valise and stepped back to take in the sophisticated and decidedly à la mode cut of her coat. The garment was deep blue wool, exquisitely tailored, with black velvet at the collar and cuffs, the perfect compliment to her colouring. The flawless pale skin, and raven black hair that fell just below her shoulders – the sides expertly swept up, rolled, and held by small combs – were the ideal frame for those remarkable almond shaped eyes, exotic and all knowing. Estelle’s eyes were the single betrayer of her mixed heritage, a pleasing combination of her French/English father and her Chinese mother. Examining her more closely I noted how the combination of the coat, the hair and the subtle makeup (powder and a hint of lipstick) made her look five years older than her true age of fifteen. Something was afoot, but I would have to tread carefully. Fifteen was a very vulnerable age, not child, not woman, a foot uncomfortably in both camps.

“Estelle, your coat is lovely, is it from Paris?” I asked as I wrapped my free arm around her waist and started her toward the guest suite.

Her eyes twinkled as she explained how she had convinced her father to have the coat made in the very latest fashion, adding that she had persuaded him with the argument that she was now a young lady and needed proper clothing.

“And your father agreed with this logic?” I asked a bit dubiously.

“Well…he wasn’t exactly happy. Fathers want their daughter to remain little girls forever. I told him he was being selfishly trying to keep me a child.”

“Estelle, that was underhanded.”

“Not so underhanded, because it is the truth. It was only a partial success as an argument though; Papa didn’t agree to everything I wanted. He never does,” she added with just a hint of adolescent frustration. “He wouldn’t allow me an evening dress, or the very smart suit that made me look almost twenty…well, at least eighteen if I put my hair completely up.”

“Now where would you wear an evening dress, Estelle?” I asked with some trepidation.

“Nowhere it would seem, as I don’t own one,” she said nonsensically, but with an attractive pout to her lips, “but if I did, I might go to an embassy ball or a nightclub, girls my age do you know.”

“Girls your age should not frequent either balls or nightclubs, as you are well aware, Estelle. Time enough for that in a few year.”

“You sound just like Papa.”

“Do I? Well, we can’t have that now can we?” I gave her a playful squeeze and settled her valise on the bench at the foot of the guest bed.

Estelle took off her coat and very carefully hung it in the wardrobe. It was obviously a precious object and worthy of her closest attention. I settled on the bench beside the valise and watched her pull out her things and either place them carefully in the drawers, on top of the dresser, or hang them properly, and with great ceremony, in the wardrobe. I was struck by the truth of her statement – she was no longer a child. She was taller, her body rounder and decidedly female, her face more mature and less childlike. No, no longer a child at all.

I sat contemplating these changes while Estelle disappeared into the bath, and after a few minutes of running water, returned, her face freshly washed and with no hint of makeup. She had also taken the time to redo her hair into a more age appropriate style. Interesting, I thought.

“Let me see, when I was fifteen I don’t believe I ever wanted to go to balls or nightclubs,” I mused, to continue our previous conversation, “but I do remember wanting to be treated as if I were older, thought of as mature and no longer a child.”

“Papa can’t understand that,” She exclaimed, with more than a little exasperation in her voice. “I wasn’t sure if you and Grandpapa would. You haven’t seen me for such a long time. I didn’t know what to think.” Then added, somewhat wistfully, “I have missed you.”

“Oh, my dear, we have missed you, also. How could we have allowed so much time to pass without visiting? I’m so pleased your papa allowed us to steal you away for the summer. It will give us the time we need before you grow up completely and no longer want to spend time with us,” I said, my heart giving a squeeze of pain at what I saw on her face.

“I wanted to come…only…”

“Only, what?”

“I know what is happening, Mary, I figured it out.”

Sitting up taller I asked in a calm voice, “What do you mean, Estelle?”

“My two best friends were English. Both had fathers in the diplomatic service. I liked practicing my English with them and they used their French with me. Then…then their families suddenly packed up in early May and left. The school term wasn’t even over, and Hilda and Emily both were crying. They weren’t expecting to leave so soon.”

“That must have been hard for you, Estelle, but that doesn’t signify anything sinister, surely. Families in the diplomatic service are moved all the time.”

“I read the newspapers, Mary. I see what Germany and Italy are doing and I know… but Papa won’t talk to me about it.”

“Your father probably doesn’t want you to worry, that is all, Estelle.”

“He thinks I won’t understand, that I’m too young to understand. I was so angry with him last night…we fought. We don’t often fight, Mary, but last night we did. I put on the makeup this morning to look older, to show him I am not a child, and I wouldn’t take it off when he ordered me to. We parted in anger. I am sorry now.”

Ah, that answered a few questions. “Here now, we will put a trunk call through to your father. It can take a while to make the connexions, so you will have time to greet your grandfather,” I said to soothe. “When the call comes through, you and your father can take the time you need to clear the air. Sometimes it is easier with distance. Do you think you can do that, Estelle?”

“Yes, thank you, Mary. I think, maybe, you do know what it is like to be fifteen.”

“I have a strong memory of that time in my life,” I said with a small smile on my face. My mind wandered back over the years but was jolted back to the present by the concern I heard in Estelle’s voice when she said,

“Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Will you promise to answer my questions – to not treat me like a baby?”

I hadn’t anticipated this, but remembering what it was like to be fifteen and because I owed her honesty, I answered, “Yes, I will.”

“Things are getting bad, aren’t they? You and Grandpapa have been gathering information for Uncle Mycroft, that is why you didn’t come to see me for so long.”

Oh dear, she was far too astute for her own good. “Have you talked with your friends about us, about Uncle Mycroft? Mentioned our connexion to the British government in any way, Estelle?” I asked holding my breath.

“Certainly not. I am not foolish, Mary. I know how dangerous it is to talk about these things. Anyone could be a spy.”

Clever girl. “Yes, that is true. I’m pleased that you know to be cautious.”

“Even though Papa and I have not talked about what is happening in Europe, I have overheard him speaking to friends. He feels that war with Germany is coming. I’m afraid he will be in trouble for what he says too freely. I think he is worried also. He sent me here to be safe, didn’t he? I won’t be going back to France, will I, Mary?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, then answered, “No, Estelle, I’m sorry we weren’t open with you about all this. I’m afraid we envisioned the child we last saw, not the strong and knowing young woman you have become. Your father, it would seem, has overlooked what an intelligent daughter he has raised.”

“Papa still thinks I am a child, and dismisses the idea that I understand things, besides, he is at a disadvantage, he never spent time with Grandpapa analysing clues. I did.”

“No, he didn’t and that is a pity. What clues were there, Estelle?” I asked hoping they weren’t so obvious others might have observed them and therefore put Damian in danger.

“It is all right, Mary. They were little things, not something most would take notice of as I did. There was the talk of war, but many are doing that. It was more things like Papa giving me far too much money for this trip. Also the way he allowed me the new clothing and then told friends he would be shipping a trunk later with all the additional things I said I needed and laughing that girls always wanted far more than they could pack in one valise when they travelled. He made a great jest of it, only I never asked him to send anything.”

“Was there anything else, Estelle?”

“Yes, the way he pressed for this early September exhibition of his work in London. He tried to convince me that it was just a way to…what is the expression…kill two things at once.”

“Kill two birds with one stone,” I offered.

“Oui…yes. He told his friends he would come to England to visit his family and to escort me back to France and because he was already making the trip he might as well have a London showing. His agent was thrilled and it was all arranged quickly.” Challenging me with those eyes so like Holmes’ she continued, “We are not going back, we are moving to England…are we not?”

“Briefly,” I admitted. Then taking a deep breath and offering up a prayer, I continued. “Your father has relatives in America, Estelle. He has made enquires about doing a show in New York before Christmas. He wants you safe, as do your grandfather and I. We want you both safe, so we can do what needs to be done now, and later if there is a war. I hope you understand this in no way indicates that we don’t want you near us, we do, but we may be a danger to those we love if war comes.”

She threw her arms around me and said, “Thank you for telling me, Mary.” She pulled back and earnest grey eyes filled with tears as she said, “I will miss my home. I don’t want to go, but I understand there is a need for it. I must act like a grown woman if I expect to be treated as one…so I understand.”

“Oh, my dearest, Estelle, we underestimated you and for that I am sincerely sorry. Your father and grandfather will be very relived to find such a mature young lady where they thought they might have a balking, petulant child.”

“I am grateful we will have this summer before I must go.”

“So am I.” I crooned as I touched her cheek.

“Mary, I know this will sound strange after I declared I want to be treated as an adult, but…may I be a child with Grandpapa for a few days? Just a few before you tell him I know everything. I would like that, to be his little Estelle, and solve puzzles and walk the downs and have him tell me things. It will be the last time we will be so.”

Kissing her forehead I said, “Yes, you enjoy your time with your grandfather, I won’t say anything unless, that is, he asks me directly, then I will tell him to speak to you. Does that suit?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose you think I am…what is the word, ah, flighty…wanting to be treated as an adult one minute, and now asking to be treated as a child,” she said.

“Actually, no. I understand all too well, Estelle.”

“You do?”

“Certainly, your life is changing so quickly I should think it would be comforting to return to the carefree life of a child. A normal and, I suppose, healthy response to everything being in turmoil.”

“Yes, that is it exactly.”

“Good. You take all the time you need, Estelle. But for now, I had better see to the dinner Mrs. Hudson has left for us and place that trunk call. Oh, heavens,” I exclaimed. “I put the kettle on eons ago, it will have boiled dry by now. Come, Estelle.”

We walked into the kitchen together and found a properly clad Holmes, who after rescuing the kettle from the hob, had gone about the business of making a pot of tea.

“Grandpapa, may I greet you now that you have on your trousers?” Estelle asked.

The child knew exactly how to tug at Holmes’ heart. “Come here, child,” he said as he laughed and enfolded her in an embrace – warm, heartfelt and something he shared with few people.

“You two take your tea into the sitting room,” I suggested after a few moments. “I’ll get the dinner heating and join you.”

It was only the work of a few minutes to put the stew into the oven and to slice the fresh bread. Would I ever master slicing bread? For all the instruction Mrs. Hudson has given me over the years my slices are still uneven and too thick. Oh well, slathered with fresh butter they might not appear uniform, but the taste would be perfection.

I looked at the cup of tea that Holmes had left for me and decided the occasion called for something different. Rummaging in the pantry I found what I wanted and grabbed three delicate, and often used, glasses before joining my husband and Estelle in the sitting room. When I entered they had their backs to me and I immediately recognized the set of Holmes’ shoulders, he was about to pose an examination question.

“So, Estelle, using your eyes tell me what happened here.”

“I see the chair was recently moved, by the indentations in the rug, there, you see? It was moved nearer to this wall of books…um, bookcase. I see one book on the highest shelf has been pulled forward more than the others. Yes, there is a scuffmark here on the wood of the seat of the chair. Grandpapa, you wanted that book on the high shelf, pulled the chair closer to the wall and stood on the wood…here…with your right leg, then you put your left…here in the middle of the seat and when you leaned over to grab the book the seat gave way and you were trapped by the broken ends of the cane.”

“You saw the scrapes on my left leg so that is more observation than deduction, but why say I was trapped?”

“Here, on the floor,” she bent down and picked up an object holding it flat on her palm as she explained, “pieces of cane that have a broken end and a cleanly cut end. You must have cut them, no…let me see…no you did not use the jack knife from the mantle, besides, you would have had difficulty reaching…so, it was Mary’s knife, she used her blade to free you.”

“Why didn’t we use the jack knife, it is readily to hand?”

“Oh, Grandpapa, that is too easy. I can see it is dull, not sharp enough to make this clean cut. It has been there forever, exposed to the sea air. You really should take the time to sharpen it. It is developing rust…see.” She gestured toward the venerable blade, which, as she had pointed out, was quite dull and showing fleck of rust.

“Oh, well done, Estelle, Very good, very good indeed.” He pulled her toward him in an affectionate embrace and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “It is a pleasure to have you with us again. I have missed you, child.”

“I have missed you too, Grandpapa.”

“Well, I believe Estelle earned an alpha on that exam,” I interrupted. “That gives us another reason to celebrate. Holmes, will you open the wine? I need to place a trunk call to Damian.”

“No need, we have already attended to that. It may be an hour before a line is available,” Holmes said, as he took the bottle from my hands. Opening it with ease, he then pour some of the golden liquid into each of the three glasses and handed one to me and one to Estelle who, being French, had been raised on wine, but had never before sampled her grandfather’s honey variety. She held up the glass and examined its colour.

I raised my glass and called for a toast, “To the solution of ‘The Case of the Broken Basket Chair.’”

We all drank. Then Holmes became a bit pensive as he looked at the wine in his glass.

“This is from last summer’s batch,” Holmes declared. “I believe it is as fine as that first bottle we shared in 1915, Russ.”

“You shared the wine with Mary so many years ago, Grandpapa?”

“Your grandfather has a long history of giving his honey wine to very bright, very inquisitive, fifteen year old girls, Estelle.”

“Really, Mary?” Turning to Holmes she asked, “Is that why you shared your wine with her, Grandpapa?”

Holmes grinned and only nodded his head as he sipped his wine.

“You have heard the tale of how I almost stepped on your grandfather the first time we met, have you not?” I interjected.

“Grandpapa did tell me something about that when we were on a walk once, but I’ve never heard the whole story.”

“Well, in that case it is time that you should. Let me see…where to begin. Yes, at the beginning, of course…I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and…”

The End

Getting Started

I've decided to open a blog where, if I want, I can post some of my Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes fan fiction stories. They currently are archive on The Hive (the four earliest) and on The Letters of Mary Yahoo group. I'm told this isn't enough as people actually have to join the Yahoo group to read the stories archived there, which means it stops some from going that step of actually joining the group, so I plan to put some of the storie here and see what happens.