It wouldn’t surprise her if they sued. She had to be prepared for everything, and she would face it all when the time came.
So would Rick. A jury was going to send him to the home he deserved — a place filled with nasty neighbors, constant noise, and lights that burned long into the endless prison night.
And there would be nothing he could do about any of it.
He wouldn’t even be able to move away.
Ada sighed. She was the one who was moving. For the very last time. She would find a place she liked and stay there until she was an old woman.
She would become a fixture in her neighborhood, a friendly woman who tolerated her neighbors’ idiosyncrasies the way they tolerated hers.
Voices echoed in the darkness behind her, and a conductor came by, checking on passengers in the middle of the night. Ada closed her eyes and listened to the clack-clack of the train moving along the track, the wail of a baby three rows back, and the short grunting snores of a man across the aisle.
The sound of people living their lives.
Enjoying their lives.
Just like she planned to enjoy hers.
Copyright © 2002 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.
Stately Homes and the Invisible Giant
by Arthur Porges
This is not the first time Arthur Porges has provided a delightful parody for the yearly issue in which we join the Baker Street Irregulars, the world’s oldest Sherlockian organization, in honoring history’s most popular detective. On Twelfth Night, the day they assert is Holmes’s birthday, the BSI will hold its annual dinner in New York. Members of the organization claim that Holmes is living in retirement in Sussex, England. Certainly he lives on in the minds of writers and readers.
No one is totally immune to the more subtle effects of ageing. Not even my old friend and — I must say it, although we Sikhs are fiercely independent — patron, Stately Homes (of England).
He was still quite strong and vigorous, despite tending towards long periods of indolence and rarely exercising. His amazing mind, too, was keen as ever, much like the marvelous Analytical Engine of Charles Babbage, which he greatly admired, if a bit less so having learned that the infamous Professor Moriarty had a hand in the inventor’s mathematical logic.
In the case of Homes, what I noted was a significant increase in testiness and impatience. His need for really puzzling crimes got ever stronger; he was no longer content with reflection, and on several occasions, I’m ashamed to admit, I actually hid his violin under our divan. He would search for it rather aimlessly, but then give up, lie back in the armchair, and brood.
So I was relieved, not a typical reaction for me, to hear the clangorous voice of Inspector Briggs Gerard, our old friend from the Yard, expostulating with our invaluable Swedish landlady, Mrs. Hutsut, below stairs. I had no doubt he was bringing Homes another baffling case he himself could not solve.
When he had been escorted in and was seated with a small brandy in hand, the inspector got right to the matter that concerned him.
“When a rich, important man, a public figure, is brutally killed, you wouldn’t believe the kind of pressure we get from the Home Office, gentlemen.” His face dark, he took a sip of the liquor. “We’re near getting to the bottom of the case, but then I thought, ‘This is just the kind of bizarre affair Mr. Homes relishes, so why not do him a sort of favor — for old times, you might say — and give him something to try his theories on.’ Sometimes, I admit,” he added, “they do make a bit of sense out of messy circumstances.”
On hearing this, Homes, to my delight, was instantly transformed. His eyes, which of late had seemed sunken and hooded, sparkled, and his face, so long sober, became greatly animated.
“You heard the man, Sun Wat!” he exulted. “At last a break in the damned dullness of a crime-free London. The game is afoot! Let’s have all the facts, Gerard. Who’s been killed?”
“None other than Sir Nigel Loring, the industrialist, one of the wealthiest men in all England.”
“Ah,” Homes said. “The one they call Loring the Lecher. One very much for the ladies, it’s said.”
“True enough, I’m sorry to say. Very bad for public morality, too.”
“And who inherits all those lovely Consols shares?”
“Wrong turn, Mr. Homes,” Gerard said, not unhappily, I noted. It wasn’t the first time, I thought, that he got some pleasure thinking that my friend might also be baffled, if only briefly. Even an unsolved murder might not be too high a price to pay for that satisfaction, but perhaps I’m too hard on the estimable inspector.
“No, it ain’t that,” the inspector said smugly. “As you may know, his wife died many years ago. Childless; just a few second cousins and such abroad. He left all his money, and even the big house — Elizabethan, they tell me — to the Tottering-on-the-Brink Hunt Club. He doted on the sport.”
“Enough motive to murder right there,” Homes said, his lips twitching. It was good to see him alive again, so to speak. “How was Loring killed?”
“Unusual weapon, you might say. A bronze statue, three feet tall, and very heavy, weighing over eight stone. I’m pretty strong, played a lot of football in my day, yet I could never lift and swing that at a man’s head. The murderer must have been a giant.”
“Statue, eh? Of what?”
“Neptune, I’m told. Taming a seahorse.”
Homes lifted an eyebrow, and a tiny smile touched his mouth.
“Elementary — Robert Browning did it.”
Then, noting our blank stares, he said, “I see you don’t read our best poet. Well, in a recent poem, he refers to just such a figurine, cast in bronze by Claus of Innsbruck.”
“Wrong again,” the inspector said with barely concealed glee. “It was signed on the bottom by a bloke named Jacob Epstein — and he didn’t do it, either; he’s holed-up in France.”
Homes ignored the jibe, saying, “I didn’t think that Young Turk, Epstein, ever did anything as traditional as a Roman God. Last I heard, he was much farther back to Adam, and causing quite a stir.”
“One of my constables, an artsy-craftsy type, did say Epstein is a bit hairy at the heel.”
“Well, as you yourself would say, this isn’t getting us any forrader. Sun Wat, get me the timetable; we shall have to pay a visit to Loring Hall and take a look.”
When Homes had scanned the timetable, he said, “I fancy the one-ten will do us nicely. By the way, Gerard, have you questioned the servants?”
“Only two around,” was the reply. “All the inside people were let off to attend the big Ludlow fair. That left only the gardener’s dogsbody, a slow-witted lad named Rodney Stone, and the gamekeeper, Micah Clarke.”
Here, noting that Gerard’s glass was empty, Homes handed him the carafe, which was accepted with enthusiasm.
“What do you have on motive?” Homes asked him.
“Lummy,” the inspector said. “Half the county would have liked to do Loring in, but especially the lower classes. He was a devil with their young women. That’s why we first closed in on the gamekeeper. He was betrothed to the downstairs maid, Sue Fone, and she ended up, some weeks ago, exiled to a small boardinghouse miles away, carrying Loring’s child, they say. Clarke, naturally, was furious.”
“Then is he under arrest?”
“Unfortunately not. You see, he’s small, almost a dwarf, barely five feet tall. Muscular enough and wiry, but we can’t see him swinging that statue, not just once but repeatedly, as Sir Bernard Spilsbury testifies — and he don’t make any mistakes.”