A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Holmes sighed as he brushed out his hair in preparation for visiting the solicitor's office again. The withdrawal symptoms had been particularly harsh this morning, and moreover, seemed to be having heretofore unobserved residual effects. He felt . . edgy, and perhaps a little off-balance. His body felt wrong in a way that Holmes did not have words to describe. The culmination of all this was that Holmes was running late and making mistakes - two conditions that were all but guaranteed to place the very punctual, very fastidious Sherlock Holmes in a thoroughly black mood indeed. Worse yet, Holmes was unable to set aside an increasingly prevalent feeling that something was wrong, or that something bad was about to occur. Staunchly, for perhaps the tenth time since he'd begun to prepare for this day's outings, Holmes mentally turned his back on the unwelcome premonition. For all he was almost completely female now, he was still a man of the modern times, a man of science, and premonitions, intuitions or unformed feelings had no place in his world. Holmes pinned his hair up and donned his hat. At least those two tasks seemed to go more easily today than they had the day previous. He'd only made himself wince pulling at his hair with the brush twice today. Holmes gave himself one last critical look at himself in the mirror. His increasingly experienced eye could see where the gown no longer fit as well as it had. He could see where the bodice and waist were no longer as snug as they had been when Jenny had fit him for the gown, and the hem was again in imminent danger of being muddied on the street. Briefly, Holmes had considered using his new Spanish heeled ankle boots, but his attempt to walk in them this morning had been unsuccessful in the extreme. The Cuban heels were still high enough - barely - and would have to be sufficient until he could get back from the Solicitor's and Jenny's whereupon he would practice in the new footwear. Holmes reveries were shattered when he realized he was scratching rather insistently at the skin just above the top of that infernal corset. He thrust his offending hands to his sides, all the while mentally upbraiding himself about how such a misstep would be received in public. He returned his attentions to the mirror and sighed at what he saw there. *I also still need at least one other gown, more likely two or three,* Holmes thought as he reached for his cloak and gloves. *This one is becoming filthy and the gray one I wore to Jenny's won't do until I have time to alter it again. Just another task that will consume time I should be expending in the search for Moriarty.* Again the feeling of impending danger enveloped him, actually making the hair on the back of his neck prickle, only this time, the feeling was accompanied by a flash of memory. Carroll, asking all those relatively personal questions about Miss Hanks, so very off handedly, as if it really didn't matter. And yet, if it didn't matter, why ask at all? Carroll was a man of business, a man to whom time was a scarce and therefore vital commodity. Why would he expend such a valuable resource attempting to gain such information about Joan Hanks? Then another memory flashed into his mind - Carroll's little, supposedly inadvertent touches and brushes while he was supposedly assisting her. Again, why? *And yet, I have no substantial, non-deductive evidence that this man intends to do me harm,* Holmes told himself firmly, *and yet, I can't shake the feeling I need to be prepared to deflect some form of violence.* Setting aside his cloak and gloves, some instinct pushed Holmes to reach for an old friend - his lead shot loaded walking stick. *How many times in the past,* he mused, *Have I been forced to use this tool to stop a villain who was about to attack or injure Watson or myself?* Holmes reached over and hefted the heavy stick and sighed. It had never felt so heavy before. *But before, you were not a female, and you were several stones heavier as well. In any event, it will not serve my needs in this instance. Women, particularly young women, do not use walking sticks or canes.* Holmes sighed as he stepped out of his dressing room and into the hall where his eyes fell upon his, or rather, Joan's small reticule. It was little more than a fabric covered, lidded wooden box supported by two heavy, fabric covered hand straps with which to hold it. Thoughtfully, he hefted the hand-purse. *Not quite heavy enough.* he thought before an inspiration hit him. Part of the five hundred pounds Carroll had delivered the day before had been in coin of the realm instead of banknotes. Holmes rushed to his sitting room and found the bag of coinage which he then transferred to the bottom of the reticule. He tested its weight and smiled. *It will wear on my hand carrying it after a while,* he thought, *but it is now well suited to be a replacement for my walking stick.* Nodding his satisfaction, Holmes returned to the foyer, retrieved and donned his cloak and gloves, and then took one last look into the foyer mirror. As he had the day before, Holmes consciously took on the mental outlook and mannerisms that completed his disguise as Joan Hanks. Then she turned and walked out the door. ~---------------~ Cognizant this day of both her high heeled shoes and her long skirts, Joan waited patiently for the driver to assist her exit from the cab. She paid him without comment and then again entered the offices of Nickleby and Carroll. She was greeted by the same clerk, but this time he quickly escorted her into Carroll's office. "Ah, Miss Hanks," Carroll said rising from his desk and offering her his hand. When she pointedly did not respond, he smiled and offered her a seat. She was more than a little pleased when she managed not to billow her skirts this time. *Practice does make perfect,* she reminded herself. "Now," Carroll continued, "let's get these documents signed and then I will take you around to the Bank and introduce you to Mr. Holmes' account manager." Carroll came around the desk with a sheaf of papers in his hand which he placed on his desk near Joan. He then offered her a pen and began to explain each document in detail. Since Joan, as Holmes, had already read and understood each document yesterday, her mind was not occupied when Carroll began his little game. Throughout the explanations and signing, Carroll would "accidently" brush against Joan's arm or glide a hand filled with paper along her bosom or nudge her thigh with his when he bent over to show her precisely where to sign. Unfortunately, Joan did not know what to do about the bounder. She was so close, his very odd cologne was well nigh to overwhelming, but she couldn't think of anyway to make the man back off. She needed his introduction to her account manager if she was to regain control of her funds, so she could not afford to anger the man by retaliating. *The bastard is taking advantage because he believes I do not have any one to turn to for assistance or protection,* she realized. *We'll see about that once our business is concluded!* Unfortunately, Carroll's increasingly unwelcome touching and fondling continued throughout the morning as he escorted her to the Bank of England for a meeting with Mr. Alfred Stone who managed Mr. Sherlock Holmes' accounts with the Bank. Joan was surprised that there were several other documents that Mr. Stone required signed in addition to those Carroll had required. These she read with more care since this was the first time she'd seen them. That process took almost an hour, so it was after one o'clock with the pair returned to Carroll's offices. Part of the delay was due to Joan's need to beg the use of the lady's facility at the Bank. Evidently her bladder was shrinking just as quickly as the rest of her. Joan noticed that the clerk was not at his usual station, but Carroll indicated that the man took his luncheon between one and two o'clock because the office tended to be busy during the more traditional luncheon hour of two to three o'clock. Joan decided that the set down she had been planning for the damned rogue would wait for another day, and began to take her leave, only to be physically stopped short. Once again, Carroll took advantage by putting his arm about Joan's shoulders and half leading, half forcing her into his office. Joan's immediate reaction was a sudden, seething rage that this fool had dared to manhandle him. . . *her* in that heinous manner. Caught up in a fury unlike anything in her past experience, Joan shook herself free of Carroll's arm and decided that this state of affairs was just fine with her. She had more than just a few tart words she wished to lay upon Mr. Jason Carroll and his office was as good a place as any and better than most. She was just beginning to marshal herself for the attack when she was rudely interrupted by the sound of a key rasping in a lock. Joan spun on her heels just in time to see a smiling Carroll slipping a key into his vest pocket. "What the he. . " she started to scream but Carroll, moving with unexpected speed, was immediately on top of her, binding her arms to her sides in a fierce bear-hug and sealing her mouth off with his own. Joan was so surprised by the suddenness of his attack, that her mouth had been open when Carroll had forced himself upon her and his tongue into her mouth. Joan struggled hard, but Carroll was a much larger man, and moreover, with her arms restrained had a significant advantage in leverage. For an instant, it was Moriarty toying with her all over again, but then, she felt his hand lifting her skirts and petticoats and forcing his leg between hers. Stark realization of what he intended hit Joan and her mind went momentarily blank. A rudely intrusive finger probing none-too-gently about her genitals brought her wits back with a vengeance. Still unable to fight him off physically, she did the only thing she could think of - she bit down on his tongue as hard as she could. A hot, almost sweet, coppery flavor assailed her senses as Carroll began hitting her, trying to make her break her hold on him. A particularly hard blow to her head rocked her and she fell away, rolling as she hit the floor. She came to rest near Carroll's desk. "So you like to play rough, do you, Miss Hanks," Carroll asked with a positively demonic look on his face as he swiped blood from his mouth, "Well, so do I - particularly with virginal little teases like you!" The solicitor began to move slowly towards the still recumbent Joan, his hands fisting and unfisting, and an almost insane smile on his face. Joan bided her time, waiting as he approached. From deep inside her fear-fogged mind, the part of her that was Sherlock Holmes examined her situation, predicted probabilities and plotted stratagems. And Joan acted on them. She waited, looking terrified, until Carroll was nearly on top of her, until he lifted his fist to strike down on her yet again, and then - only then - did she move. Her right hand flashed out, swinging her coin-loaded reticle with all her strength like a mace. The sharp corners of the wooden purse caught Carroll midway between his ankles and his knees, squarely on both of his shins and snapping both carry straps. *Obviously not designed for such abuse,* some idle part of her mind commented. The scream that issued from Carroll's throat as he fell was almost inhuman. He had not even finished when Joan snatched up the reticule in both hands and brought it up into her assailants solar plexus with all her strength. Carroll fell to the floor gagging and gasping for air that simply would not oblige him. Joan began to shake as she struggled to her knees. She handwalked her way up his quivering legs and retrieved the key from Carroll's vest pocket. Her eyes fell on a strange stain about the cuff of his pants leg, and noticed that it seemed to be particularly redolent of that strange, half remembered cologne scent of his, but did not let herself dwell on that. She needed to make her escape before he recovered his wind. She reached down, gathering up her broken reticule, and then let herself out of the office. She was halfway to the main door of the office when a last a vestige of Holmes fought through the maelstrom of her wildly swirling emotions. Joan stopped, returned to the office door, and used Carroll's own key to lock the office before departing. She took the key with her. Knowing she must look a sight, Joan fought against the uncontrolled shaking as she hailed a cab, and then directed the driver to the only people she knew in all the world that might care about what had happened to her. The cabbie saw the incipient terror in her eyes, and hastened to follow her orders. ~-------------~ Her clock chiming two o'clock roused Madame Jeanne Marie from her thoughts. Time for the midday meal break for many of the local businesses which meant the street would soon be full of busy clerks, typists and business people all rushing about for a bit of luncheon or to run an errand or two. Jenny had about given up on Joan who'd been showing up on her doorstep the past two days promptly at one o'clock. *Must be that nurse's training that makes a woman so cognizant of time,* she thought with a smile. Jenny was just standing up when a hansom cab raced up to her shop and stopped suddenly at her doorstep. She watched in amazement as the driver hastily got down from his driving box in a futile attempt to help his passenger disembark his cab. A young woman in a very familiar brandywine colored day dress practically jumped from the high cab and promptly fell to her hands and knees in the muddy street. The cab tried to help her to her feet, but she seemed almost limp in his arms. That was when Jenny recognized Joan. "Maisie!" she yelled. "Get out here! Something has happened to Joan!" ~-------------~ Several somewhat-more-than-sips of Jenny's now-familiar medicinal French brandy later, Joan was finally beginning to calm down. Recognizing the signs - disarranged clothing including one missing glove, bruised mouth, hair and eyes wild with emotion - Jenny did not need to be told the cause of Joan's panic, but she also knew that the girl needed to talk it out. The brandy would help. The emotional purge was well-lubricated by several refillings of Joan's brandy snifter. Jenny and Maisie simply listened while the held the shaking girl between them on one of the shop's sofas. "I. . . I don't even know why I came here," Joan said almost to herself as the emotion ebbed. "I don't understand what made me tell the driver to come here instead of to Baker Street." "Pish and tosh," Jenny said with a glint of humor in her gentle eyes, "And what would Mr. Sherlock Holmes know about such things, I'd like to know? Probably just say something about deducing what had happened based on something no normal person would ever notice and that it was elementary. Which is nothing of any use at all just now. What you need is seeing to, and in times like this, women see to women - friends see to friends. Your heart knew that even if your head might have been all mixed up." "I wasn't sure I had earned the privilege of calling us friends yet, but I am glad you were here for me. I do feel better now, thank you," Joan said very quietly. Jenny nodded. "If we are not yet friends, we are friendly acquaintances Joan. And we are women. I am glad you came here so that we could be here for you. And now,," Jenny said, deciding it was time to get the girl focused on something positive again, but first they had to get a few things out. "Tell me, dear, do you always carry coins valued at nearly fifty pounds in your reticule?" *As if I have ever carried a reticule before this week,* Joan thought barely suppressing a hysterical giggle. "No, Jenny. I did it because. . well, something Mr. Holmes said made me think of it." "Holmes, again? I don't understand." *Think fast, Joan Hanks!* "Well, Mr. Holmes had concluded that Mr. Carroll might have . . . inappropriate intentions toward me." "Well, Holmes always did see things others missed, but did he ever stop to think that sending you to meet with that fool might have been dangerous? Goodness, girl, didn't YOU think it would be dangerous?" *Nothing I couldn't easily control - or so I thought,* Joan thought. "Well, that was when he told me about that walking stick of his - the one he filled with lead?" "I know about it. When I was involved with Mr. Holmes before, I even saw him use the bloody thing. Damn him, anyway! I am surprised the man didn't offer it to you," Jenny muttered as she took a large swallow of her own brandy. "Some men are just so intelligent they are stupid." Joan wanted to jump to Mr. Holmes' - that is her own - defense, but resisted the urge. "I couldn't carry it - it was too heavy," Joan said with the first sign of animation since her arrival. "Besides, it didn't go with my dress." Jenny acknowledged Joan's attempt at humor with a half smile. "So you decided to load your reticule instead?" Joan nodded. "Jenny, Mr. Holmes is a very impressive man, but he *is* MERELY a man. That cane, and that reticule which is essentially the same thing, are men's weapons. You are very fortunate you got to use it, but in most other situations like that, you'd probably have lost it before you got in a single swing with it." "What should I have done, then? Carried Mr. Holmes' revolver in the reticule?" Jenny threw up her hands in exaggerated disgust. "Didn't your mother teach you ANYTHING when you were a girl?? You shouldn't have gotten in the situation in the first place, dear," Jenny said with heavy emphasis. "As soon as all the papers were signed at the bank, you should have left then. Once you were back in his office and you knew you were alone, you should have tried to get out again. . ." "But I did!" Joan protested. "And if the reticule wasn't the answer, what should I have done?" "First, you shouldn't have lost your temper. You were in deep trouble and you wasted valuable time thinking about berating him instead of thinking about getting away from him. That's how he had the time to lock you in." "So what should I have done? Especially since he immediately immobilized my arms and practically choked me with that excuse for a kiss." "Biting him was good, but the move that would have freed you and given you time was to knee him." "Knee him?" Joan asked with a squeaky break of shock in her voice. She was certain she hadn't understood Jenny. Surely, Jenny did not mean Joan should do something so cowardly as . . "You have a knee, Joan, and he has a groin with that lovely and very vulnerable male organ that men are so damned proud of. Well, it may be their bloody pride and joy, but is also their greatest weakness. Men with their stupid "Marquis of Queensberry Rules" have made blows to that part of their anatomy something less than manly, something terribly dishonorable. Women cannot afford that artificiality when a man intends to rape her. Next time, hopefully you'll learn from this and there won't BE a next time, but if there is, position yourself carefully, and then plant your knee in his groin with every ounce of strength you can muster. Don't hold back anything because you may get only one opportunity, but you *will* get that one opportunity. If he's going to rape you, he has to get those tender little balls of his in range of your knee." *She's correct, now that I think of it. Carroll is almost half again my weight, and he had me dead to rights before I could make a move against him. I caught him by surprise or the reticule would never have worked.* "Do you understand, Joan," Jenny said with the impatience of someone who has been forced to repeat herself. Joan smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I understand, Jenny." "Good, then we need say no more on the subject. No real harm was done although if you are going to have to do business with him for Mr. Holmes, we will need to come up with a means of preventing this in the future. Perhaps have the accounts transferred to his partner?" "Perhaps," Joan murmured as she thought about all that had happened. Suddenly, several things fell into place. "I simply don't understand why he would attack me in such a manner in any case. . . given his evident preferences. . .or what I deduce to be his preferences." Jenny's eyes went hard and she demanded, "What do you mean, preferences." "Mr. Carroll has a marked preference for male. . . . lovers," Joan declared with the same certainty that had revealed many a villain during the career of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. "Male lovers? How can you conclude such a thing? Moreover, how would you, such a milk and honey country miss know of such deviancies?" Jenny interjected. *In the mental satisfaction associated with deduction, I forgot who I was. . . or rather, who I appear to be which is not Sherlock Holmes,* Joan thought furiously, *Better think of some reasonable explanation for knowing what you know, Miss Joan Hanks,* then an inspiration struck, *Oh, yes, that should do nicely.* "As to how I know of such things, I did my training at a hospital down on the lower East End. Several times we'd get patients. . .men whose. . .bottoms had been badly cut by a whip or a cane - sometimes with. . .hemorrhaging . . .ummm. . about the orifice from which they eliminate. ." Joan looked up and saw Jenny nodding slowly. "As to Mr. Carroll's involvement in such activities, that is ele. . .I mean, simple. Several facts point to Mr. Carroll's involvement in such activities. First, his trousers were stained with a bath oil whose scent I just recalled as being similar to that of the men who were injured. I originally thought he merely had atrocious taste in cologne, but then I saw the stain when were on the floor after I struck him with the reticule. The injured men who carried that scent always came from these . . .bathhouses." "You might have mistaken the bath oil's scent, dear," Jenny cautioned. "Unlikely," Joan said authoritatively, "It is QUITE unforgettable. However, the second fact is that he always sat down rather carefully, - as if he was trying to keep weight off his buttocks, and once seated, could not sit still in one place for any length of time. The final piece of the puzzle, though I didn't credit it properly at the time I first noticed it, is that his lips were oddly discolored and unusually full - almost swollen. What they were, in actuality, was bruised, much the same as those men at the hospital were." "You do realize what you are implying, don't you," Jenny asked, her opinion of the girl's intelligence taking a marked step upward. "That's why I said I didn't understand why he wanted to rape me. The evidence indicates that he prefers other men." Jenny shook her head. "Not quite all, dear. Your assessment is mostly correct, but what he truly prefers is submission. . .*rough* submission to the will of other men who beat him and use him as a sexual plaything. I suspect that he preys on young women such as you in a sick attempt to convince himself he is still a true man. However, that does give me an idea of how we can ensure that Mr. Carroll turns over Mr. Holmes' business to his partner and that he will not attempt to do you any further harm as well. MAISIE!?!" she called out suddenly. "Yes, Miss Jenny?" the little seamstress answered as she stuck her head through the beaded curtain to the workroom. "Get Miss Joan's other dresses so we can final fit them to her. She needs something to wear home while we get this once cleaned. Also, is that black satin day dress we designed for that opera singer still available?" "You mean the one that looks like it was painted onto the dressform? Yes Ma'am. She was so petite, no one else who might want it could fit in it. 'Specially in the bosom. She was a little thing, 'cept there." "That one. I think it would fit Joan if we can tighten her corset another inch or two. Fetch it and my make up case, please." Joan watched all this with some confusion. "What are you doing? Why a black satin day dress? Isn't that a little unusual." "Very unusual, but perfect to our purposes. *You*, dear girl, are about to learn about fighting with a woman's weapons. Now, pick up your brandy and follow me." ~-----------~ "But, Jenny," Joan whined and hated herself for it, "You just said I got it right, for the fourth time!" "It still took you too long. Clean it off your face and do it again. Once you can apply the cosmetics for that particular facial look in ten minutes or less, I will let you go home to rest. Now, use the cream and cleanse your face." "But I can't go any faster, Jenny. I can barely breathe now that you and Maisie have tightened the corset again. And that damned thing itches infernally! It bids fair to drive me insane." "Hush. If you'd just take the corset off at night, you wouldn't chafe your skin so badly. I'll give you a cream that will soothe the irritation." "Well, every time I take it off, you accuse me of loosening it. Why can't you just alter the dress so that I don't need the corset to wear it!?!" "Because even if we had the time to alter the dress to fit you that way, which we DON'T, the dress doesn't have sufficient spare material to let out the darts to fit you uncorseted, girl. Therefore, we needed to reduce your waist some more. And the corset can't loosen now because we've laced you to the point where the edges meet all up and down your back. That let me connect the hooks and eyes along the back so it can't loosen anymore. Besides, tightening up the corset like that lifted your bosom enough that you fill that bodice perfectly and show a delightful cleavage. It's perfect." Joan sighed, but the unrelenting force of the corset stays stopped her in mid-breath. Frowning, she began to cream away the heavily applied, exotic make up from her face. "You're sure this will work?" "Trust me, darling. I had more than one protector who played rough in hopes of making me angry enough to punish him like a naughty little boy. What you need to do is get his attention and then keep him off balance so that you can get that threat in." "Well, that dress will do it, Jenny." "A woman's weapons, darling."
