Free The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan by Nancy; Springer Page B

was not after all to be found in the tower, he intended to make his escape. Good. Fervidly wishing to do likewise, I stayed where I was, flat on the ground behind the nearest tree-trunk, waiting for him to depart—for I knew him to be a fox, in his way as much a danger to me as the irate baron and his unlovely son.
    Sherlock rose to his feet—or, rather, his uninjured foot, for the other, wrapped in the bandaging with which I had supplied him, showed all too clearly and unfortunately white in the night, and that pale, bloated L barely touched the ground; he placed hardly any weight on the foot at all. Seriously lame, he must get away as quickly as possible.
    Naturally, then, I expected him to limp towards the fence. At once.
    But instead, wobbling on one leg, he scanned the yard and gave a muted call: “Enola!”
    Confound him! Shadowed and in hiding, I clenched my fists in frustration that he would not let me alone. Yet at the same time I felt that benighted butterfly fluttering in my heart.
    “Enola, come here! I’ll not leave without you.”
    He quite meant it, I could tell, as indeed I should have realised all along, for Sherlock Holmes was a true gentleman—that is to say, incapable of sensible behaviour under such circumstances.
    Muttering the naughtiest words I knew, I rose to my feet, yanking knots out of my skirt—what a wretched time to feel shy! But I would not face my brother with my knees bared. Rife with the strangest emotions, I ran towards him while my much-rumpled brown tweed arranged itself to cover my lower limbs to the ankles.
    With only the sunk fence between us I stared at Sherlock, intent on every nuance of his face. But he gave me scarcely a glance. “Enola, quick!” He tossed me the rope.
    Catching it, I stood where I was, studying him for some indication, some sign…still he had not given me any promise, you see.
    Nor would he. He only stared back at me, his chiselled face like marble, something in his gaze imploring me yet daring me to trust him, if only for this one hour of this one night.
    “Confound you, Sherlock Holmes,” I told him, and I took the dare. Reaching above my head to grasp the rope that hung down from the beech tree, I swung across the ha-ha to land lightly by his side.

C HAPTER THE E LEVENTH
     
    I NDEED I STOOD QUITE TOO CLOSE TO S HERLOCK for comfort, and hastily stepped back. I felt heat of embarrassment rising in my face, but surely in the dark he could not see me blushing. Continuing to move quickly, as if such had been my intention from the first, I ran to the fence and began to climb, still carrying the slack end of the rope in one hand.
    Hobbling after me, Sherlock said, “Leave the blasted thing behind.”
    Not answering, I took the rope in my teeth instead, for halfway up the cast-iron bars I realised how my skirt was hindering me, I needed to haul it out of my way, and why should I drop the rope? It was for Sherlock; how else was he to climb with a lamed foot? As soon as I reached the fence’s spiked top, I grabbed the rope, looped it around a stout paling, and tossed the end towards my brother.
    Did he thank me? Heavens, no. He said, “I don’t need it.”
    “Stop where you are!” roared the baron’s voice from the direction of his Gothic manse, and almost simultaneously sounded the even louder roar of a firearm. “Stop, thieves!” The gun fired again, and I heard the bullet clang against a metal fence-post somewhere nearby.
    Far from halting me, these blandishments spurred me over the fence at remarkable speed. Sherlock, too, scaled it with great alacrity, making excellent use of the rope he had said he didn’t need. Indeed, by the time a third shot—or perhaps there were four? It is all frightfully rapid and muddled in my memory; my brother was letting himself down the outside of the fence, one could hear the baron and his squeaky-voiced son bellowing and running towards us, they fired once or twice more, and Sherlock fell.
    “No!” I hope