THE VANISHING LADY
a Fetlock Holmes Story
© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1994-1997
first published in GOING NATIVE magazine 1994-1996
It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Fetlock Holmes recovered from the rigors of the 1887 Grand National. His iron constitution had broken down under the strain. Even the knowledge that he had won, when the finest thoroughbreds of three countries had failed was not enough to sustain him or prevent him from falling into a nervous prostration. Despite the comfort of the warm stable we shared, we were dull companions. Fetlock paced to and fro drawing strange, melancholy airs from his Bavarian nose flute while I took refuge in my trusty nose-bag and ear-plugs.
A sharp crash disturbed our contemplations as a horse-shoe was flung through the window and landed at Fetlock’s feet. He laid his flute aside and studied it with interest.
"A mystery, Withers. Could it be some insolent gelding who does not appreciate good music? No ... I think not. This comes from the near hind foot of a well-bred young racing filly. See how the metal is small and carefully shaped. It is worn thin from running on good ground. See how evenly the shoe has worn. A racer, Withers, and in some distress. This shoe has been wrenched, not cast. I surmise that its wearer has chosen this swift and desperate measure to advise us of some great calamity that has befallen her."
"Holmes, my dear fellow, you astound me!" I replied, for I had with difficulty spread out the note attached to the shoe. In shaky letters the message read:
"Help! Help! I am being kidnapped. I am a well-bred racing filly tipped to win at 14 to 1 at Chepstow. If I do not race I will bring grief and ruination to my beloved owners!
Mr. Fetlock Holmes - Dr. Withers - - you are my last hope of salvation!
Sincerely yours,
Lady Felicity."
"Ha!" cried Fetlock. "The game’s afoot! Come old fellow, there is not a moment to lose."
He pushed open the stable door. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track that led through the woods to the high road. His nostrils were dilated with an animal lust for the chase and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded on his ears or at the most provoked only a quick impatient snort in reply. He studied every inch of the soft track and at length stood back with a smile of satisfaction.
"And yet it is not too late to save the fair lady," he murmured. Seeming only then to recollect my presence, he bestirred himself to explain the mystery to me.
"See where the good lady was led along this track to the clearing. Her tracks are simplicity itself - three shod and one bare. Now here are the tracks of the cart. She must be got away in secrecy to a place of concealment, so two old dray horses and a brewer’s cart are pressed into service. Lady Felicity cannot be hitched with such as these. See how their hoof prints waver and falter. Her strait and neat carriage would be enough to pull the ancient timbers of the cart awry. She must be tethered and ride upon the cart itself."
"But Holmes! How shall we find one brewer’s cart among so many! My God, old chap. We must follow at once!"
"Not so, Withers. Mark the curious angle of the wheel track here. A loose axle pin with two, maybe three miles in her at most. That takes them to - "
"The cross roads at Badgers’ Holt!"
"Quite so, my good fellow. Now let us make haste." He paused, and looked earnestly upon me. "There may be a struggle in freeing the lady. Withers - do you have your trusty revolver with you?"
"I do," I said, stoutly, though not wishing to admit that I knew not the trick of firing it.
"Then let us away."
Without further delay we sped at the gallop to Badgers’ Holt. With a furlong to go, we came upon the wreckage of the cart, and a scene of the most piteous confusion. The two drays stumbled aimlessly, while the moonlight shone on the silver haunches of Lady Felicity who lashed, screaming, at her captors.
"Holmes! Take care!" I shouted, but to no avail. With deadly intent, Holmes took off at a flying gallop. As the carter raised the cruel bull-whip to cut the lady’s flanks, Holmes’ hoof caught him square upon the chin.
"My Lady, you are rescued!" he said, as he bit through the cord that bound her to the cart.
"How can I ever thank you enough," sighed Lady Felicity, "for you have saved me from a perilous fate at great risk to yourselves."
"Thank you," replied Holmes, and as he turned away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was his old practical self again.
"Restore the lady’s shoe, Withers," he said, "and go and place a bet on the 3.30 at Chepstow."
With apologies to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!
Modified:25/7/97
Created:25/7/97