Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche by Nancy Springer

Author:Nancy Springer [Springer, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250822956
Google: ocsbzgEACAAJ
Amazon: 1250822955
Publisher: Wednesday Books
Published: 2021-08-29T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter the Eleventh

We stayed for the remainder of the night at the inn—the very same inn that had so rudely turned me away when I lacked a brother—and in the morning, after only a few hours of sleep, we prepared to visit the registrar, unwilling to delay lest Lord Cadogan create some sort of unpleasantness after all, once he had finished his breakfast.

I experienced some difficulty regarding my costume. My green dress was once more and yet again ruined. Necessarily I wore my other one, which was buttercup yellow. However, as a female past the liberties of childhood, I could not be seen in public without a hat, and as I had only my battered one with the green ribbons, I chopped away those ruined trimmings then plopped the hat on my head in a shockingly shabby and unadorned condition, assuring myself that I could resume being fashionable when I got back to London.

Which turned out to be sooner than I expected, because of what the registrar dredged up from his records for us. Corpulent king of his paperwork empire, he responded to our requests—Sherlock’s for the marriage and death records of Myzella Haskell Rudcliff, mine for the same for Felicity Glover Rudcliff—he produced the documents sluggishly enough to show us that he, and not we, ruled here in Threefinches.

No matter. In his own good time he handed them over. Judging from what I could see, marriage was recorded in a squarish format on creamy paper with quite a florid border, while death came on long and narrow paper that was dark grey and engraved more grimly.

While Sherlock stood looking over Myzella’s records, I sat on the registrar’s hard bench and studied Flossie’s, making notes—the name of the clergyman who had married her, date, et cetera—but I felt much more interested in her supposed demise. The record of death told me that her unfortunate end had been reported by her husband, whose occupation was noted as Earl of Dunhench and hers as Wife; she had been twenty years old, and the cause of her death had been fever. The informant (Caddie) was described as lordship in apparent good health, not yet of middle age, composed and condescending in manner while his residence was dealt with more briefly: Dunhench Hall. Then, as required by law, fastened to the gloomy grey registration of death was a Medical Certificate of Death.

It listed Flossie’s cause of death as fever, unspecified.

It was signed by John H. Watson, M.D.

Dr. Watson? Our friend Watson?

It was not inconceivable. Surrey was a short distance from London. And how many medical doctors named John H. Watson might there be in England?

Trying hard not to squeak or ogle, I got up and showed the paper to Sherlock. His eyebrows fairly levitated.

“What physician signed for Rudcliff’s first wife?” I asked.

“None. A medical certificate of death was not required by law until ten years ago. Lord Rudcliff simply reported that Lady Myzella succumbed to brain fever. I think we should be on our way back to London, don’t you?”

I certainly did.

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