With each passing day, Lizzie was getting stronger. But she was far from being over her torture. I call it torture for there is no other way to describe what happened to her.
One day in early summer, I came into the parlor to find her sitting in the window. “Dear lady, how are you feeling today?” I smiled.
She sighed, “Good doctor, I fear you will never tire of asking me that question.”
“Should I?”
She sighed even longer this time, “I feel weak today, kind doctor.”
“Where is Holmes?”
“He tells me about as much as he tells you.” There was a moment of silence, “here comes the thunder cloud now.”
Was she ever right, Holmes was in an odious mood. He said not a word when he entered the room and began his usual pacing, arms clasped tightly behind his back.
“Holmes,” I asked. “Whatever is the matter?”
“A delightful meeting with Mr. Merryweather.”
“And?” Asked I.
“He informed me that he is giving up the search for his wife. Since I have been unable to find any leads as to her whereabouts, he is finished. He thinks she has returned to America.”
I was beyond confused, “this should make you happy. He is no longer a threat to her.”
“That is not it Watson.” She whispered.
“What then?” I almost shouted. She touched my arm. Her expression was soft, tired. She was calm. This part I could understand: the thought that her torturer had given up the fight.
There was a knock at the door, “What?” Holmes’ roared like a wild animal.
Mrs. Hudson timidly opened the door. “You have a visitor sir.”
Lizzie spoke, “give us a moment Mrs. Hudson then send her up.”
She smiled as she shut the door. Holmes’ just glared at Lizzie. “Would you like a pipe Sherlock? It might calm your nerves.”
“Indeed not.” He walked over and propped himself up on the fire place, staring into an empty grate.
Lizzie tighten her grip on my arm. As I looked up, she was staring out the window again. “All he wants is the property Sherlock. That’s all he’s ever wanted. When this good lady leaves, call your inspector and we shall discuss a solution.”
“Indeed not. There is much more to this and you know it.”
“If you will not call him, I shall.”
“You frustrate me beyond measure.”
She smiled a smile the little girl in the painting would have been proud of.
There was another knock at the door. I opened the it for a lady. Time had not been kind to her. The hair that I could see peeking out from under her bonnet was entirely gray. Her dress was clean; however, worn thread bare in some places the holes covered with patches.
Lizzie spoke, “my dear you could have worn your shoes.”
She blushed, “no. I dare not track mud.”
I guided her to the sofa, “I am Dr. Watson.” I pointed at Holmes still staring at an empty grate. “My friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“And I am Elizabeth Parker.” Lizzie smiled, “please tell us why you have come?”
Lizzie looked back out the window.
The lady looked at me, fear lay behind her eyes. “Where do I begin?”
I smiled, “with your name.”
“Of course,” she blushed. “I am Mrs. Mary Tarter.” She took a long breath. “I,” she stopped before she even started as a big tear rolled down her cheek. “When I was a little girl, not even ten; my brother took the Queen’s shillin’. When I was one and four, he returned home.” More tears flowed. I gave her a handkerchief. She wiped at her face then began to wring the material in her fingers. She sniffed, “he returned such a broken man both mind and body. He would wake us up at night screaming. About what, we never knew.” She snubbed again. “There were days he could not walk. We would have to carry him to and fro.” She began to cry again, “one day he killed himself. My brother, my strong, handsome brother, killed himself.” We waited while she composed herself. Holmes moved to his arm chair. I could tell that he was annoyed that the story was moving along rather slowly. “My oldest son told my husband and I that he wanted to fight as well.” She sobbed some more. “Imagine my horror. All I can see is my brother. I would die if the same thing happened to my boy.” She wiped some more at her tears. “The reason that I am here, my son has ran away. When I said no to his request, he ran away. Now my husband is ill toward me and my son is missing.” She sobbed more. I looked at Holmes to see his blank stare. “The local constable thinks I am being an irrational female.”
I was in shock, “he actually said that to you?”
She cried, “yes.” I let her cry a little more. “This is my story. I desperately need your help to find my son.” She sobbed.
Lizzie spoke, her voice was flat. “When you return home, you and your husband go down into the cellar and talk about your brother. He knows not the whole story.” Mrs. Tarter’s eyes grew large. “Talk about everything that happened to him. Talk about how this made you feel. Talk about how you worry that these things will happen to your son. Your son needs to know about his uncle.”
Mrs. Mary Tarter looked at Lizzie in shock. “I said nothing about a cellar.”
Lizzie was ghostly white. The speed of her breathing had increased. Holmes was sitting on the edge of his arm chair. “Ara.”
Mrs. Tarter and I both just stared at him.
“After you have this conversation,” Lizzie paused gasping.
Holmes scolded her again, “Ara.”
“Contact us to let us know the outcome.” She gasped again.
“Ara!”
“I look to hear back from you soon.” She hissed.
Mrs. Tarter jumped to her feet, running from the room. I closed the door behind her. Holmes was kneeling in the floor at Lizzies feet. “Ara stop. She left.” Rising slightly, he put a hand on each side of her head., “please stop.”
“Sherlock?” She whispered.
“Yes.”
Lizzie collapsed, cascading into Holmes’ arms. I rushed over to her.
“Ara!” Holmes called to her. “Ara!”
I went to the door calling to Mrs. Hudson for cold water and a cloth.
“Holmes,” I tried to comfort him. “She will be find. Look, see,” I pointed out. “She is breathing.” I took his hand and placed it on her chest so he could feel her breath. I could feel he was shaking. Mrs. Hudson brought what I had asked for and I began to pat her face with the cold water.
Holmes held her hand and kept calling to her again, “Ara.”
“Holmes, may I ask, why do you call her Ara?”
Holmes’ voice was cracking with emotion, “have you forgotten Watson, her first name?”
“Oh yes,” I spoke as I rung out the cloth again, “Araminta. Even as close as she appears to be with Mycroft, he calls her Lizzie.”
“Too soon Ara.” He scolded, “too soon.”
“Holmes?” I questioned.
“Watson, do you remember when you read her journal to me?”
“Of course, you were incredibly sick.”
“She had written, ‘Our paths will cross again. Though, I do not see the thread.’”
“Yes I remember that.”
“Do you remember what you said after reading that?”
“I think I commented about it either being a joke or an amazing mind that was writing to the future.”
She startled me when she reached up and touched Holmes’ face.
“I am alright.”
“This time,” his voice was stern. “A stunt like that could kill you right now.”
We helped her into a setting position leaning against the wall.. “You had no desire to help her. You hate missing persons. If I may quote, ‘they are a matter for the legitimate police.’”
“Ara,” he whispered.
“You never did tell Watson why you are the only one allowed to call me Ara.”
We helped her to the couch.
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