The Marriage of Mary Russell Read Online Free PDF

and a pair of servants by the name of Quimby. Before the dust had settled, I realised it was an experiment doomed to failure, but I had yet to break it up; if I had suitable clothing, it would be there.
    Under other circumstances, I’d have grumbled that the first train from Sussex did not reach London until nine o’clock—or gone back to bed entirely and set off for Town at my leisure. However, between the coffee buzzing in my veins and the thoughts whirling through my head, I rather thought I might never feel sleepy again. Motoring through the dark countryside at least kept the whirling thoughts under control.
    The flat’s brittle and dramatic furnishings were particularly stark by dawn’s early light, even when the Quimbys appeared (summoned by the doorman—I’d have let them sleep) bearing newspapers and breakfast. Mrs Q found me in the bedroom, frowning over the clothing I had flung across the huge modernist-sculpture object that passed for a bed.
    Even if I’d had until July, I’d have regarded the traditional white satin wedding dress with floor-length veil as an absurdity, suitable for those wed in a cathedral with scores of family and a phalanx of uniformed groomsmen to hand. I did not even wish eggshell silk, since wearing it would instantly bring me into contact with engine grease, fresh blood, or a pool of quicksand. Surely something on this vast bed would serve my purpose? The eau-de-Nil sheath and the black-and-white frock with the dropped waist were both more suited to an afternoon tea than a mid-night wedding. The brown-and-scarlet was beautiful, but those colours were a very long way from the traditional. And if I were to take Holmes’ caveat seriously (should I?), the magnificent ice-blue evening gown, the burnt-orange frock with the snug skirt, and the green lacy piece with the uneven hem-line and train would each render brisk flight impossible. There was one piece with a lot of beads that I liked, but if silence were required in addition to speed, I’d have to strip it off and flee in my camiknickers.
    Which left the grey-blue wool skirt-and-jacket with the Kashmiri embroidery along the front. With a white silk blouse underneath and its matching hat, I would be both presentable and capable of an all-out sprint. I even had a dark overcoat, in the event of rain or skulking in the shadows.
    I wondered what the fashion pages might say regarding a throwing knife strapped somewhere about the bride’s person. Better than a revolver in the handbag, I decided, and told Mrs Quimby that I would have three eggs for my breakfast, and a lot of toast.
    I got through the day somehow. In the afternoon, I did nearly fall asleep in the bath, but when Mrs Q then took charge of my hair, leaving me with nothing to do but envision the next few hours, my stomach began to feel the approach of nerves, that strange physiological reaction of icy hands and over-warm body. It was all I could do not to wrench away from her—or, worse, blurt out why I was in such a state—but I managed to submit to her attentions, allowing her chatter to wash over my head and across the crystal fittings on the glass-and-mirrored dressing table.
    I remember little about that endless afternoon. Time seemed to stretch and contract like the pulling of taffy—until eventually a glance at the clock snipped it off and swept me out the door in a panic, convinced that I would miss the 4:15 from Euston. (Holmes would not take the 3:05, since that train arrived by daylight, and the 4:00 was a local, its many stops eating up an extra 32 minutes. The 4:15 it would be.)
    Holmes no doubt intended for me to be on Mycroft’s Special with our priest and witnesses, but the thought of being locked for ninety minutes behind blacked windows with those inquisitive friends was more than I could bear. No: whatever Holmes had in mind, I would stand with him, Kashmiri embroidery or no.
    We spotted each other across the crowds at Euston Station. He did not look