L01-The Many Lives of Monica MacDonald

Summary: Monica is a free-spirited Scottish girl who find herself on the wrong side of the attention of a young boy, a young girl and a witch.


Foreword

Chapters One and Two of this volume were previously published on StoryStar under the identifiers MM01 and MM02. They have been combined with two other chapters to create this novella. The author recommends pausing after each chapter as if it was a short story, to let the suspense build before starting the next.


Chapter One
The Beginning

Monica. She liked her name. She liked the way her dark auburn locks fell in waves about her face to spread about her shoulders. She liked her slim figure which did not need a corset to keep things where they should be. She had a good existence.

At 19 years old, she knew it was unusual for her not to be wed but her father was very indulgent and seemed to be willing to wait for her to decide who she wanted. She just had not yet found anyone that she felt that she could spend the rest of her life with.

It was possible that his attitude in the matter was in large part due to his unwillingness to have her leave the household. His last wife had died two years ago and the house would be more cold and lonely than a Scottish estate in winter should be, without the fresh air that her presence provided.

Modern ideas were starting to take hold in 1789, but she was fully aware that the lot of a married woman was still controlled by the whims of a man. This was a life of restriction that she had not been raised to desire.

Her father doted on his only child to the point that he had constantly had to defend his actions to his late wife when she was alive. She was not the mother of the child, but she still had the sensibilities of her gender and era. It was her opinion that he was doing a great disservice to the girl by not teaching her the truth about the typical life of a Scottish woman and what would be expected of her when she matured and inevitably wed.

Monica was not thinking of all this, though, as she went out to the stable yard. Her mind was on the exhilarating feeling of freedom that riding through the moors, her loose hair streaming behind her, that she always experienced as she glided along, the muscles of her sturdy horse pulsing beneath her.

As she had commanded, Ewan, the stable boy, had saddled her favorite horse, Kenna, who was truly born of fire as her name suggested. The steed could run for the entire day through the moors without faltering.

Ewan was standing in the middle of the stable yard now, Kenna's reins tied to the post, a small step stool positioned strategically to make mounting the tall animal easier for her. As usual, the horse was meticulously groomed and fitted out.

The groom himself was not nearly so well presented. His sandy hair stuck out erratically from beneath his soiled Tam hat. She had never seen him without a smudge of something on his cheeks and tattered work clothes. At least the lad did not smell like he looked. Whatever the smears on his face and britches were, it was clearly not horse dung.

The groom said, “Watch your step, M’Lady,” as he always did when he brought her a horse.

Monica stepped quickly up on the stool, slipped her left foot in the stirrup that Ewan had positioned for her, and hauled herself up with practiced ease, helped ever so slightly by Ewan's left hand on her ankle holding it in the stirrup while his other pushed up under her armpit. In any other circumstances, having a man touch her such would have been highly inappropriate, but servants were expected to perform such duties without falling prey to illicit thoughts.

As she settled herself into the saddle, Monica leaned forward and rested her hand lightly on Ewan’s shoulder saying, “Thank you, kind Sir.” She added a small smile as a signal of gratitude for the service.

Ewan beamed up at Monica as he stepped back to allow the horse and rider to depart, which Monica did without another word or glance.

The young groom’s gaze followed the pair as they left the paddock with obvious longing. This emotion was not missed by another pair of eyes, eyes which belonged to the 16-year-old kitchen maid, Marcy. Her green eyes reflected a mixture of desire and jealousy as she leaned around the corner of the manor and watched Ewan who in turn watched the young mistress of the house ride away.

* * *

Monica road away from the stables unaware of the attention she was getting from the groom Ewan and the unknown watcher.

Monica reveled in the feeling of wind blowing her loose curls about her face as she urged her mount up old Druid Hill. The steed was performing beautifully as always. The sweat dripped from his sides, but his gait never faltered. It seemed as the ride through the heather covered moors had been nothing to his stamina.

As the slope began to level out, Monica’s eyes fell on the familiar sight of the oddly shaped stones that dotted the top of the hill. No one living had any idea of who put the stones in place or why they were arranged in a rough circle. The lack of knowledge did not detract from the wealth of theories.

Most seemed to agree on some sort of Druidic influence, hence the name of the hill. The fact that all of the mysteriously placed rocks had strange symbols etched into their surfaces added to the overall legends.

Monica loved to walk between the stones, running her fingers over their rough surfaces, tracing the symbols. The feeling of ancient power that she felt in the engravings made her tummy twitch delightfully.

She found one of her favorite resting spots between two of the stones where she was protected from the normally stiff breeze blowing in from the northwest but also bathed in the afternoon rays of the sun on the days when it was not playing hide and seek with the clouds.

It was not unusual for her to drift into a brief nap sitting there, but she did not do so on this day. Instead, she watched the birds flitting in and out of the heather under which the wild mountain thyme was in full bloom. She hummed a popular tune softly as she took in all the color and activity.

After about an hour, Monica decided that time had come to head back home. She knew that her excursions were a worry to those that cared for her and did not want to cause them undue stress.

She retrieved Kenna from where the horse was idly grazing and mounted with an alacrity that would have greatly surprised her groom. No stool or boost seemed necessary. A secret smile played across her lips as she imagined the muscled young boy's reaction.

Tugging lightly on the left rein, she pulled Kenna’s head around and the pair loped back towards home for one and the comforting stables for the other.

* * *

The kitchen maid, Marcy, was nervous as she walked up to the cabin of the old crone that everyone said was a witch. She hoped that the stories were true but at the same time she was afraid to meet an actual witch.

Marcy’s desire to have some potion or talisman to ensure that Ewan wanted her more than the young mistress of the house outweighed her trepidation over the witch’s reputation. She took a deep breath and lifted the knocker on the door. It was shaped like the claw of an eagle or some other such bird of prey. It clasped a ball of mostly black stone with swirls of red streaking through it and was heavier than she had expected. Letting the knocker go, it descended with a loud gong-like sound.

While the reverberating tones started to fade, Marcy’s heart began to race uncontrollably. As the seconds multiplied with no response, Marcy was torn between running away and risking the ire of the witch by summoning her again.

The decision was made for her when the heavily carved wooden door began to creak slowly open with a noisy complaint. Nothing could be made out in the dark interior until the wrinkled face of a very old woman peeked around the door. Her white-grey hair tumbled about her for several feet flowing from under her hood. The wizened crone could not have been over five foot tall if she had stood straight, but she was much shorter stooped over as she was.

Marcy and the old woman locked eyes for a moment but neither spoke. Marcy was unable to utter a sound or look away from the eyes which held much more energy than it seemed possible for the diminutive frame to contain.

After a few seconds which felt like hours, the witch finished her examination of her caller and spoke in a gravelly voice that cracked and wheezed. She asked, “What ye be wanting from old Mesolynth, girl?”

Marcy tried to get her heart out of her throat unsuccessfully and squeaked out, “I’m Marcy from the MacDonald house.”

The witch shot back with more force than her previous question, “I knows who you be child. I asked what you be after.” The glare from the old woman turned Marcy’s guts to jelly.

“I need a potion,” Marcy managed to whisper. “A potion or something, to make Ewan notice me.”

The witch’s mouth opened in a broad almost toothless smile as she cackled, “Ain’t that always the way of it!”

“Lassie wanna catch a feller’s eye but he not be seeing her,” Mesolynth said with a wheezing hissing sound which must have been laughter.

Stepping back, the old witch let the door open wide as she turned and led the way into the dark interior of her lair.

When she heard Marcy’s footsteps behind her but not the creaking of the door, she snarled over her shoulder, “You be shutten that door, girl!”

Marcy hastened to comply. Her eyes roamed the dark room as they adjusted to the dimness, trying to take in all the strange sights at once. Every surface was crammed with objects, many of which she could not identify. Some appeared to be animals or possibly insects and some were who knew what.

As she passed an old blanket covered chair, one of the objects moved, which startled her and made her wonder fearfully if all the other weird things were somehow alive. The dark shape moving before her resolved itself into a huge jet-black cat with fur spiking out in all directions.

Mesolynth continued across the room, giving no notice to Marcy’s reaction, and took a seat at a small table in the corner, where the light of a lone nearly spent candle was the sole source of illumination. She waited until Marcy took the other chair at her pointed direction before she spoke again.

“Now tells us about this lad of yours.”

The crossing of the room had somehow given Marcy a chance to get herself under control in spite of its contents. She replied more evenly, “Ewan is the stable boy. He is everything to me, but he seems to have eyes only for the mistress.”

“Hmmm, your lad's heart be set on the Lord’s bairn. There be no good in that,” the witch said.

The old crone studied Marcy for a full two minutes, neither breaking the silence, and finally said, “Bring us a piece of the lassie. A bit of hair, or some such, and we be seeing what can be done.”

That command was obviously a dismissal, as she stood with some trouble and shooed Marcy out.

With her mind racing faster than her feet, Marcy made her way back home.

* * *

Marcy arrived back at the estate just in time to see Monica coming out of the forest. She lingered at the woodpile next to the stables waiting for the young mistress to ride into yard.

As Monica was dismounting, Marcy exclaimed, “Me Lady! You have got your hat and frock all dusty! Let me take those and put them back in order.”

It seemed an odd suggestion from a kitchen maid, but Monica did want the items brushed off and surrendered them to Marcy without a word. The kitchen maid held the hat and cloak to her chest and hurried into the manor.

Rushing upstairs with the items that she had been given, Marcy hastened to Monica’s room. She needed to get there in time to discover something that the witch could use for her spell. Looking quickly about, she spotted the comb and brush lying on the vanity and hastened to pull Monica’s hair from them and secret it in her pocket only moments before Monica herself came into the room.

“Just leave those on the chair,” Monica instructed the kitchen maid when she saw her apparently trying to decide what to do. Marcy quickly complied, placing the soiled garments on the indicated chair and hastening from the room with her prize.

* * *

Marcy had to wait until the following morning before she could manage to sneak away to visit the witch again. Grasping the hair wrapped in a napkin to her chest, she knocked once more on the imposing door.

Mesolynth opened the door immediately and stepped back, beckoning the girl to enter.

“I have it,” Marcy said breathlessly. “I have the mistress’s hair!”

“That be good, child,” the witch crooned, taking the object of both their focused attention from Marcy and storing it safely in a hidden pocket.

“Now you can make the potion?” Marcy asked.

“Better'n that, girl,” Mesolynth replied. “I be makin’ an amulet.”

Indicating the chair that Marcy had sat in on her last visit, she continued, “Just you sit yourself down and be waitin' a bit. It not be takin' no time at all.”

Puttering about the room, pulling a small box out of a shelf and a few small indeterminate items from a drawer, she took her collection over to the stove where a pot was heating. Rubbing her hands together as she mumbled words which Marcy could not make out, she crushed some small leaves into the pot, followed by a powdery substance, which caused a foul-smelling smoke to start oozing over the sides to spill across the floor.

As Marcy watched with a mix of fascination and trepidation, her eyelids began to droop as the witch continued her activity at the stove, and the smoke started to glide across the floor, moving with a snake-like undulation. Neither seemed to notice as the tendrils started to weave between the legs of the table and chairs, the tips changing color from light gray to almost black, and then back to gray with streaks of red and yellow swirling within.

It was only when she felt something tightening about her ankles that Marcy became alarmed, emitting a startled squeal.

“Never you fear, my sweet,” the witch said in a soothing tone. “All be fine.”

Marcy attempted to stand up, but stumbled back into the chair when her feet could not move. She became alarmed when the smoke tightened about her ankles as solid as a rope and started pulling her. Letting out a shriek, she started to resist, to no avail.

Flailing her arms and twisting her body, she was inexorably dragged across the floor toward the stove and the witch. To make matters worse, if that was even possible, the spiky haired cat leapt upon her stomach, hissing and spitting as it rode her like a horse while Marcy squirmed in the grasp of the strangely solid tendrils of smoke.

With a final crescendo of arcane phrases, Mesolynth whipped her hands wildly about over the pot and Marcy was lifted into the air wailing and writhing to shrink quickly to less than an inch tall. As the pot began to glow a deep red, Marcy was deposited into the boiling mess within, her plaintive screams were finally muffled as she sank into the slimy green ooze.

Mesolynth cackled a rasping laugh as she covered the pot with a ill-fitting lid and began to arrange something upon the table. When she had her item just right, she took the lid off, picked up the pot and swished its contents around twice, accompanied with a few quiet words, then poured a small glass-like ball out. The ball rolled into the arrangement on the table.

As the witch waved her hands over them, the metal pieces formed around the ball becoming an amulet with a necklace. Anyone watching would have wondered if the lights swirling within the amulet were glints from the nearby candle or were actually inside of it. Remarkably, the witch's face seemed to have gotten less aged and wrinkled in the flickering light.

* * *

Wrapping the amulet in a cloth and stuffing it into one of her mysteriously hidden pockets, Mesolynth made her way out to the hill of Druid stones. There, she unwrapped the amulet and placed it almost lovingly at the base of the very stone that Monica favored. Then she returned to her hut, softly alternating between quiet laughter and talking to herself under her breath.

* * *

It was two days before Monica once more rode out to her favorite place. The weather could not decide if it wanted to be cloudy or windy or what. The sun was just beginning to peak out through holes between the scattered roiling clouds as she dismounted by the stones and left Kenna to search for tender shoots of greenery.

The mixed atmosphere of misty drops occasionally filtering down from above and the steam pulled up from the ground as beams of sunlight slid across the damp earth created an eerie sight. As she made her way to her favorite stone, she was attracted by a sparkle in the grass at the base of the rock.

Bending down she spied something metallic. Picking it up, she was surprised to find that she was holding a necklace with a small stone enveloped by swirls of delicate metal strands. The beautiful object felt oddly warm in her cold hands.

Monica looked about to see if the owner could be discovered but did not really expect to find anyone out in this desolate place. She had the urge to open the chain and hang the strange piece about her neck but decided instead to store it safely in the small bag hanging from her waist.

She made up her mind that she would not remain among the stones any longer. Gathering Kenna's reins, she mounted and headed back towards the manor.

* * *

Later that night, sitting at her vanity table, Monica was brushing her hair before retiring to bed. As she ran the brush through her auburn curls, she kept feeling an impulse to take the strange amulet out of her bag. She had actually reached for the bag twice, but hesitated to take it. She wanted to finish her 100 strokes with the brush first.

Finally done with her duty to her hair, she could endure the suspense no longer but snatched the bag from the end of the vanity and pulled it open. There, nestled between two small combs and her handkerchief, the necklace seemed to pulse with the need to be taken up.

As Monica lifted the pretty object from her bag, she was once again struck by how warm the metal seemed to the touch. She held it up so that she could more closely examine the glass ball at the center, held within by the fine metal strands woven about it. The light of her candle seemed to reflect from within the glass rather than from its polished surface. It was so, so pretty. Colors almost seemed to flow within the ball as she turned the object about, but she was certain that was a trick of the light.

On a whim, Monica undid the delicate clasp and holding it to her throat fastened it about her neck. The amulet was surprisingly weighty for so small a thing, but not uncomfortably so. It settled onto her chest as if it belonged there. It made her feel more pretty herself as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She knew that its owner must miss it terribly, but she could think of no way to discover who that owner might be. She resolved to have word spread about town on the morrow to see if anyone had reported its loss.

Rising from her little stool, she went to her bed, suddenly more sleepy than she expected. She started to remove the amulet before she crawled into the numerous soft covers but decided that it would be nice to sleep with the weight about her neck. It was so comforting and made her feel wanted somehow.

Almost as soon as her head hit her pillow, Monica drifted off to sleep, images of the young stable boy holding her ankle as he helped her to mount lazily circling about her consciousness for some reason. She found that strange, as she rarely even thought of the lad, but her sleepy mind did not want to be bothered to examine the anomaly at the time.

* * *

When Monica did not make an appearance at breakfast the next morning, Dòmhnall MacDonald was a little surprised. When none of the servants could locate her, he was mildly concerned. It was not unusual for his headstrong child to take off on her own across the estate.

When the groom reported that he had not readied her horse, and in fact all of the horses were still in their stalls, Dòmhnall became very worried.

Her bed chambers were searched again. She had clearly spent the night there, but no trace could be found of her nightgown or the errant girl. The estate was turned upside down but no sign of the missing girl was found. No information on any strangers in the area nor any other clues to Monica’s whereabouts could be found. It was as if she had vanished into thin air!

The days turned into weeks, which gradually turned into months. Monica was assumed to have been kidnapped but no ransom was ever demanded.

When the anniversary of her disappearance occurred, Dòmhnall MacDonald decided that he needed to provide for Monica’s future, should she ever return. He knew that he was nearing the end of his years and Scottish inheritance laws being what they were, he decided to set up a trust for her or her descendants to have in the event that she ever reappeared.

He went to his banker and set up the unusual trust. Mr. McHenry, the banker, was against the action but acceded to the demands of his client. The trust was duly authorized, to be accessible to Monica or any of her female descendants into perpetuity.

That task being completed, Dòmhnall MacDonald lived out the remainder of his years in the lonely estate that he had feared that his home would become when Monica married.

No one who was alive at the time of her disappearance ever heard from Monica again. But…

Chapter Two
The Awakening

The Many Lives of Monica MacDonald continues with the tale of a young girl wandering dazed in a park in the center of Edinburgh Scotland.

Mary Woolsey was enjoying her day at the park with her new beau, Theodore, who was presently lounging on their blanket beside her. The weather was unseasonably warm in Edinburgh, Scotland for May being just over 13 degrees centigrade. She decided that 1809 was turning out to be a warm year. Unfortunately, the perfection of her outing was dispelled by a most unusual event.

She watched aghast as a young girl in her late teens or early twenties, stumbled from behind a large hedge not five feet from her and Theodore. The girl’s obvious disorientation was not the thing that first caught Mary’s attention. It was the fact that the girl was clad only in a thin cotton nightgown with a rope or string of some kind tied about her waist.

“Theo! That girl needs our help!” she cried.

Leaping up from his rest, Theodore moved quickly towards the strange girl. She seemed to pay him no heed as she continued to stumble forward, hands outstretched as if feeling her way.

Grasping one of the girl’s hands, he asked, “Are you in need, Miss?” The question was certainly redundant, but he could not think of anything more to the point.

The girl stopped and just stared at him with blank eyes. Mary came up and took the girl’s other hand and added her concerned voice.

“We must get you somewhere safe. Where is your home?”

The girl did not answer but merely turned her head slowly looking blankly at both of her saviors.

“What is your name?” Theodore persisted.

Finally the girl croaked out an answer, “I… I don’t … know...”

She did not answer any more of their questions. Theodore and Mary started leading the girl towards the exit from the park. She allowed herself to be pulled along.

Once the group exited the park, Theodore was able to flag down a hackney carriage. They helped the girl in, and Theodore directed the driver to take them to the new police station, which had recently been built as a result of the Police Act of 1805. Theodore noticed that the driver did so without a single comment, as if half-clad girls rode in his cab every day. He decided not to dwell on the possibilities of that.

* * *

Inspector Daniel McDermott sat at his rather large desk thinking that it just may not have enough space for the growing pile of papers upon it. There was little of the top of the plain brown oak desk visible underneath the clutter. His musings were interrupted by a loud group of people approaching his office from down the hallway.

The noise reached a crescendo as Sargent McClellan escorted two women and one man into the office. Every one of them except one was talking in a growing volume, trying to make themselves heard.

It was the one not uttering a sound that drew McDermott’s attention. A young girl most inappropriately dressed in a torn nightgown, her feet bare on the cold oak plank floor, stood at the center of the cacophony ignoring it all, looking about the spare office without comprehension.

Although the nightgown did little to conceal her femininity, he could not take his eyes off her tussled auburn curls falling across those striking blue eyes. He knew that this was totally unprofessional, but he could not break the spell.

Sargent McClellan took the initiative to command loudly, “QUI-ET!”

Pleased with the result of his command, he turned to the Inspector and continued, “These two people have discovered this young lady wandering about the King’s Park in a disoriented state.” As he spoke, he indicated unnecessarily which of the visitors fitted which part of his description, after which he touched the bill of his cap in a salute and exited the office, closing the door behind him.

The Sargent’s comments broke through Inspector McDermott’s haze, and he regarded the other two people who had been escorted into his office critically for a few moments. They appeared to be a normal upper-class couple and thus a little uncomfortable in their present surroundings.

He broke the silence, as he pointed at the dazed girl, “Do either of you know this young lady?”

Theodore stepped forward and replied, “Neither of us knows this woman, nor have we seen her before today.” Mary shook her head in silent agreement.

“How did she come to be in your company, then?” McDermott asked.

“We were enjoying a morning at the park, The King’s Park, and she approached us from behind a nearby hedge,” Theodore supplied and then continued, “She claims to not know her name and has not answered any other questions, so we decided that we had better bring her here for the police to sort out.”

“Right. You did the proper thing,” the Inspector agreed.

He thought for a moment more, then stepping to the door, he opened it and called down the hall, “Sargent McClellan, bring a cloak, if you please.”

He returned to his desk and continued, “Please, everyone be seated.”

There being only two chairs for visitors, Theodore helped the dazed girl into one of them, and stood behind the other as Mary sat in it.

Theodore and Mary watched the Inspector expectantly as he sat quietly once more and looked at the other girl. As he watched, the girl slowly turned her head and looked directly into his eyes without blinking.

Mary seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye and looked over at the mystery girl, placing her hand over hers and said, “Don’t worry. The Inspector will sort this out.”

The words and touch finally seemed to affect the young girl. She blinked rapidly a few times and turned to look at Mary.

“It will be all right,” Mary continued.

Inspector McDermott rose from his chair, stepped quickly around his desk and kneeling in front of the girl took her free hand in both of his.

“Who are you.” He asked the girl.

“I… I don’t know,” the girl answered haltingly, but with more feeling than she had shone before. “I woke up outside and these people brought me here. Where am I? Who are you?”

“You are at police headquarters. I am Inspector McDermott,” he told her. “You seem to be becoming more lucid.”

“Yes, My head does seem to be more clear,” the girl said. “But why cannot I remember anything before this morning?”

“You must have struck your head or had some sort of shock. Possibly, your mind does not want to recall anything just now.”

The girl leaned forward and pulling her hands free buried her face in them for a moment.

Finally, looking up, she said, “I just do not understand.”

“I am going to send you to the Royal Infirmary for the night. They can make sure that you are in shape physically while I attempt to discover your past,” the Inspector said. Turning to the other couple he continued, “Thank you for your quick response and assistance in this matter. We will take it from here.”

Theodore leaned forward extending his right hand and said, “Thank you, Inspector. We were glad to be of some service.”

Helping Mary to rise, he continued, “We will take our leave now.”

Mary patted the girl’s hand as she stood up and told her, “You are in good hands now. Everything will be fine, I’m sure.”

At that moment, Sargent McClellan opened the door holding the requested cloak. Inspector McDermott informed him of the plan and directed him to arrange transport for the young girl to the Royal Infirmary.

As the Sargent began to lead his nervous charge away, McDermott assured her, “They will make you comfortable at the Infirmary and I will be over in the morning to check on you.”

The girl said nothing but cast a last look over her shoulder as the office door closed behind her.

As he watched them leave, McDermott dwelled on why he felt so concerned and protective for the strange young woman. In his line of work, he encountered many people of all ages and conditions, but there was something about this girl that he could not place a finger on. Something that pulled at more than just his professional instincts. That last haunted look in her eyes as she left, or possibly something else he almost glimpsed behind her blank stare. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Time would reveal what his thoughts could not quite ferret out.

* * *

McDermott waited in the small sitting room for visitors at the Royal Infirmary. The space was comfortably decorated with plush lounging chairs surrounded by small tables with skinny curved legs in the French style popular in the prior century. The tables supported a variety of lamps, bowls and figurines all resting on intricate white doilies. The walls were covered with a printed paper reminiscent of a pastoral woodland scene. The smell of cleaning compounds was in the air, but not so strongly as to be annoying.

He knew that he could have insisted on going into the ward to meet the woman he had come to see, but he did not want to impose on her privacy. He considered for a moment the oddity of a person in his official capacity being considerate of the privacy of the object of an investigation. For some reason it just seemed appropriate in this case.

In due course, a nurse escorted the girl from yesterday into the room. She appeared much improved over when he had last seen her being led away by Sargent McClellan. The staff had found old cast-off clothing for her to wear in place of her somewhat tattered nightgown. It was a combination of ill matched items but a least was more appropriate for greeting visitors.

The girl’s manner was much more alert. Her eyes were clear and inquisitive as she looked quickly about the small room before settling on McDermott.

"You are the man I met yesterday," she said in a voice that was steady but soft. Then she inquired, “Do you have news for me Inspector?”

“I have reviewed all of the listings for the last week and there has been no one matching your description reported missing either in or near Edinburgh,” the Inspector responded. “The staff here at the Infirmary report that the nightgown that you were found wearing had no manufacturer markings, and the only other item on your person was an intricate amulet. We may yet track down some information related to one of those.”

He continued, “As you have probably already been informed, the physicians can find nothing amiss regarding your health and are anxious to release you to make room for more acute patients.”

“What am I to do then?” The girl asked.

McDermott was ready with an answer to this question. “I have considered that problem and think that you may be fortunate, if that can be said about your current circumstances. It seems that the housekeeper at my lodging is searching for a suitable assistant. The position would pay little but would include room and board. Would you be amenable to such a position?”

The girl thought for just a moment before responding, “It would seem that I have little choice in the matter. I must find a placement of some kind until my memory returns.”

“Your hands are not those of someone used to labor,” McDermott noted. “But I don’t believe that Mrs. Witherstone has anything too strenuous in mind as a part of the position.”

“That does seem too fortuitous to ignore!” She continued smiling.

“Excellent!” McDermott said. “I have a coach outside waiting. We will get you released from your confinement,” he smiled to indicate the humorous use of the word and continued, “Mrs. Witherstone is expecting you.”

“Cheeky!” the girl exclaimed. “You think that you have me at your mercy!” Her voice indicated that her statement was in jest as well.

The nurse departed for a few minutes, returning with the doctor and a small bundle presumably containing the girl’s belongings. A brief discussion with the doctor resulted in the agreement that the patient could be discharged.

* * *

When the coach dropped Inspector McDermott and the girl off at his lodgings, he showed her around through the garden to the back kitchen door, which led into Mrs. Witherstone’s domain. He reached up and lightly tapped on the door.

It did not take long for the door to open in answer to his summons. A portly woman of advanced years appeared. She was neatly dressed with a light coating of flour on her apron. Her mostly gray hair was pulled back into a modest bun, held in place by a white cotton cap secured by a thin ribbon. Her friendly face was obviously accustomed to the broad smile she wore as she beamed out at her callers.

“You must be the girl that Daniel was telling me about. I’m Mrs. Witherstone,” she introduced herself, holding forth both hands to clasp one hand each of those she greeted.

Not in the least surprised that the housekeeper had used his given name, McDermott reached out and took her proffered hand and said, “Yes, I’ve brought, uh…uh… We can’t keep just saying ’the girl’. You have to have a name!”

He thought for just a few seconds, then pronounced, “Angelique! We will call you Angelique, until we discover your name, since you appeared as ifan angel out of nowhere.”

“I like it,” the girl who was now Angelique said.

“Well, Angelique,” Mrs. Witherstone said. “Daniel tells me that you probably do not have any experience in this kind of work. Do you think that you can fill in where needed and work diligently?”

“I do,” Angelique agreed.

“Then I think you will do just fine here,” the housekeeper announced. “It doesn’t pay much, but room and board is provided. When can you start?”

“Now would be great!” Angelique responded enthusiastically.

“Agreed!” Mrs. Witherstone said just as enthusiastically. “Come on in and we will get you started. Daniel, we will see you at dinner.”

* * *

Angelique was paying very close attention to what Mrs. Witherstone was saying. The cook/housekeeper was explaining to Angelique how to blend vegetables together with chunks of beef in a pot to create a delicious Scottish stew. She loved soaking up all the knowledge.

The process made so much sense to Angelique that she started to think that just maybe she had experience with cooking in her unknown past.

She learned the details about how the flour was used to coat the meat, which was then browned to create a crusty glaze. Then she was told how the interaction between the vegetables starches and glaze thickened the stew and eventually provided the signature flavor. The interconnection of it all felt so logical and tugged at her soul for some reason. It was very fulfilling and was almost as if it was a part of her.

Later, at the evening meal, she was helping to serve. Inspector McDermott was in attendance, as usual.

As Angelique was ladling some stew into his bowl he said, “Could I have a word afterwards. I wanted to let you know the latest news regarding our efforts.”

She blushed ever so slightly. He was handsome after all and his frequent attention was flattering even if he always indicated that it was strictly professional courtesy.

“Certainly Inspector,” she replied keeping her eyes on her stew pot.

“After the meal then,” he suggested.

“I have to clean up first, then there will be time,” Angelique said.

As it was six of the evening, he suggested, “I will wait for you in the garden outside the kitchen door then, around half past seven.”

She agreed then continued to serve the other tenants. Then she retired to the kitchen to eat her portion and wait for everyone to finish so she could clean away the dishes.

At the appointed time, Inspector McDermott was in the agreed upon garden, resting on one of two small iron chairs near a little table arranged under a curved wooden bower. He did not have long to wait, as Angelique pushed open the kitchen door exactly at 7:30 and stepped out. Seeing him at the table she made her way over to him and sat in the other chair.

“I’m glad that your duties allowed you time to talk with me,” McDermott started the conversation.

“Me as well, Inspector,” Angelique replied. “I enjoy our conversations.”

“As do I,” he said, then continued, “I believe that we know each other enough that we can move on from such formal titles. Won’t you just call me Daniel?”

“That would be better, I agree,” she said. “And you must call me Angelique, as well.”

“Agreed,” Daniel said with a smile.

“Have you found anything?”

“Nothing new, per se,” he replied, “But I do have news. I have a friend who I was discussing your matter with. He has a great interest in such things and hopes to join the ranks someday.”

“In any case, he has agreed to help look into the matter and would like to meet us for tea to discuss it on your free day, if you would allow.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Angelique said. “I can meet the day after next, if he is able.”

“I’m sure he will be available. I will check and get back to you.”

“Let me know the time that the two of you agree on. I really must return to my duties now,” she said rising from her chair and smoothing her apron.

* * *

The following evening, McDermott was watching Angelique dust some tables in the sitting room. He had just arrived back to his lodging from a tiring day at the police station.

His eyes had increasingly more trouble pulling themselves away from the enjoyable pastime of examining the fine bones of her hand as she wielded the feather duster. One of the few things that gave him the ability to look away from her quick movements was the way her auburn curls drifted down past her delicate neck.

Angelique, for her part had finished cleaning the room five minutes ago, but she had delayed leaving hoping the Inspector would arrive near his customary hour. She enjoyed glancing at him from out of the corner of her eye as she worked. He was very handsome and seemed to be interested in her too, although he did always keep a professional distance between them.

When it seemed as though the girl had nearly finished and would soon leave, McDermott said, “We have found nothing new in your matter, but my friend James McLevy has agreed to meet us for tea at 11:30 tomorrow.”

“You think that he may be able to help when your entire force could not?” Angelique asked.

“I think that he may,” McDermott replied. “He seems destined for greatness.”

“Then meet me in this room at 10 of the morning and we shall meet this friend of yours.”

With that statement, Angelique departed the room to be followed shortly thereafter by McDermott.

* * *

The café at Robertson’s Land near Parliament Square was modern by local standards. It featured both coffee and tea along with numerous baked items to have along with your beverage of choice. The many small iron tables with accompanying iron chairs wrought in floral designs were positioned strategically around the several public rooms as well as a few outside for the hardier patrons. It was easy to carry on semi-private conversations with the spacing chosen.

When Angelique and Daniel entered the shop, he immediately spotted his friend James sitting at a table in the far corner. The table was well located to provide privacy being set apart a short distance from the others, as well as providing a clear view of the front entrance. James rose quickly from his chair when he saw the pair enter, pulling out one of the seats for Angelique, and waited for them to approach.

Daniel made the introductions when they arrived at the table, which was followed by the kissing of one hand and the shaking of another, after which they all took a seat.

“Daniel tells me that you have an interest, possibly even a flare for investigating,” Angelique said, opening the conversation.

“It is true that puzzles intrigue me,” James responded. “I’m not a professional investigator yet, but I hope to be someday. James McLevy, at your service.”

“You should find Angelique’s problem to your liking then,” Daniel chimed in.

The three proceeded to discuss all the details of her strange appearance in Edinburgh for over an hour. McLevy asked to see Angelique’s amulet and studied it carefully before returning it.

McLevy was very interested and swore to see what he could find concerning the matter.

All too soon the coffee and tea were consumed, the information exchanged, the questions asked and answered, and it was time to depart. McDermott escorted Angelique back to their lodging, where he dropped her off and continued to his office.

* * *

The following week, McDermott and Angelique once again met McLevy at the Robertson’s Land Café. McLevy seemed very excited as he waited for the group to settle themselves in their seats.

“I found an interesting case from some years ago that fit your situation in every aspect except the year,” McLevy began. “Because of your estimated age, it could not possibly be you. It occurred twenty years ago.”

Sliding a large brown envelope across the table to Angelique, he continued, “Here are my notes. It makes for interesting reading, even if it could not be you.”

“Thank you,” Angelique said, taking the envelope and sliding it unopened into her bag. “I appreciate the help that you have provided.”

“I’ve not given up yet,” McLevy replied. “I just thought that you would find this information interesting. I had hoped that your amulet would have resulted in some hints, seeing that it is so unique, but no information has been discovered regarding it.”

The group discussed several other topics of general interest around Edinburgh but not Angelique’s for the remainder of their time. After about an hour, it was time for McDermott to head to his office. They separated as before, McDermott walking Angelique back towards her work before continuing to his.

* * *

On the way to their shared lodging, Daniel was unnaturally quiet. Angelique knew that something must be on his mind, but she decided not to pry.

As they entered the gate to the lodging, Daniel took Angelique’s hand and pulled her to a stop beside him.

“This is hard for me to tell you,” he began. “There has been no new information regarding your situation.”

Angelique just nodded understandably and continued to wait.

“This news is not all bad,” he continued. “The decision has been made to place your case in the unsolved file.”

“So this is my life now?” She finally asked.

“True, but there is a silver lining to this change,” Inspector McDermott said. “Now that you are no longer the subject of an active case, I am free to admit that I have begun to think of you in ways that I could not act on before.”

Angelique’s heart began to flutter just a bit as she realized where his roundabout admission was going.

“I have enjoyed your company these past weeks and would like to see you more often, if that is agreeable to you?”

“Oh Daniel! I am so pleased to hear you say this. I too have become interested in increasing our time together.”

Daniel let a pent-up breath escape and taking Angelique’s hand, he brought it to his lips and placed a soft but lingering kiss upon her palm as his eyes locked with hers.

“You have no parents for me to ask permission of, so we must make the best of our situation. Perhaps on your next free day I might escort you to view Edinburgh Castle. It’s quite a sight.”

“I must go on to the office for now, but I will see you this evening and we can talk more of this.”

Angelique nodded, a smile breaking out on her face, then turned and opened the kitchen door leaving Daniel standing outside.

She had heard of the Edinburgh Castle. It was reputed to be most imposing and was only a short walk from the Robertson’s Land Café where they had been meeting James McLevy. She had heard other patrons of their lodging talking about the view of the city from the Half Moon Battery where the bronze cannons known as the Seven Sisters now defended the ramparts guarding the entrance. That battery had been built over the ruins of the medieval David’s Tower which had been destroyed by a siege hundreds of years before in 1573.

She blushed a little as she considered the possibility of what the handsome Inspector would suggest when they found themselves in secluded parts of the property, of which there would likely be many.

* * *

Inspector McDermott sent word that he was detained and would be very late getting back to his rooms. Angelique performed her normal duties then prepared for her evening. She had been looking forward to continuing their earlier conversation.

She took the envelope given to her by Daniel’s friend from her bag and extracted several sheets of paper from it. The papers included a pencil drawing, and three sheets covered with neat, blocky writing.

Examining the picture first she was amazed to see a picture of herself looking back at her. The picture was almost a duplicate of what she saw in her mirror.

She slowly placed the picture on the side of the vanity and took up the papers starting to read James McLevy’s notes. He explained, as he had told them at the café, that a young girl who lived alone with her father in the County of Fife, not too distant from Edinburgh had mysteriously disappeared in 1789. Adding to the strange events surrounding the story, a kitchen maid also went missing the day before.

The drawing was apparently of the missing daughter. She was a perfect match for Angelique but of course could not be her since the disappearance had occurred twenty years earlier. Angelique could not be much over twenty herself and was likely a year or two younger than that, so it could not be her no matter how uncanny the resemblance.

She considered the notes for a while then put them back into the envelope and placed it in a drawer.

She sat at her little vanity slowly brushing her auburn curls as her thoughts drifted to the man with whom she was becoming increasingly enamored. As she wondered what it would be like to be wed her face flushed with heat. Her thoughts drifted to his strong hands, and she was embarrassed when she found herself thinking too much about how they would feel.

She did not remember ever being told anything about married life, but her body knew that it would be interesting. The heat extended to her chest and seemed to become focused in her cleavage.

Looking down, she was surprised to see her locket glowing under her nightgown. In awe she pulled up on the chain drawing it into view. It began to glow brighter as it rose above the gown, first light blue then shifting to a deep red.

Looking closely, she was sure that she could see a small flame moving within the amber stone at the amulet’s center. She could not take her gaze from it.

Angelique realized that her eyes were beginning to droop, and she was becoming increasingly sleepy.

Stumbling to her bed, she stretched out on top of the covers, her mind a jumble of confused thoughts brought on by McLevy’s notes. Suddenly, the realization hit her and startled the sleep from her mind, causing her to sit up.

Monica. My name IS Monica! I know that I cannot be this girl, but my name is Monica. I’m certain of it!

As this epiphany enveloped her, so did the increasingly warm glow that she had felt earlier. Her head began to spin, and she fell to her side, her eyes closing to stem the nausea beginning to take hold due to the spinning vertigo she was experiencing.

She had the feeling that she was falling even though she knew her bed to be very solid. The feeling was very strange but also seemed familiar in a way. An image of a very old woman hunched over, and cackling swam before her mind’s eye for a brief moment and was gone.

It was the delighted chirping of a bird that her attention fixed on, of all things. Opening her eyes, she could not believe the sights she took in around her. She was no longer sitting on a bed but rather in a small grassy spot between large shrubbery…

* * *

As McDermott ate his breakfast, he was somewhat surprised to see Mrs. Witherstone mumbling to herself as she sat out the plates of steaming sausages and biscuits.

“The ungrateful girl goes missing without so much as a By-your-Leave,” she said a bit testily under her breath.

Throwing an accusatory look at McDermott, she said, “Your young missy has made off with no warning, good Sir.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“She's gone! Nowhere to be found. Left all of her new things and disappeared! It is as if she had never been here at all!”

McDermott stood up quickly from his seat. “Take me to her quarters!” He said heading for the entrance.

Mrs. Witherstone complied, walking ahead of him down the hall to the servants' rooms in the back. Stopping before a door at the end of the hall she said nothing, simply indicating that this was Angelique’s room with an inclination of the head.

McDermott knocked lightly but did not wait for a response. He pushed the door open and walked in.

Looking about he saw no disarray and nothing obviously amiss. He took note of the slightly careless placement of the hairbrush on the vanity, as well as the ruffled state of the bed. It would seem that someone slept on the top of the blankets without actually getting into the bed properly.

He could find nothing else of interest. After two days and no word was heard from or about Angelique, he brought his friend James McLevy to the lodging to let him determine if he could decipher any additional clues, but he was also unsuccessful.

Days turned to weeks. McDermott’s thoughts went down every possible dark alley. The fact that she had entered their lives as the result of an apparent disappearance from somewhere else, then disappeared from them was not lost on him, but also was of no help.

McDermott was devastated by her disappearance. He never married but devoted himself to his work.

McLevy eventually joined the force and quickly worked his way to Chief Inspector due to his astounding number of solved cases.

McLevy did not realize that he was lucky that he had tried to help with the case when he did. It occurred before he became the famous detective and crime author so it did not impact his impressive percentage of solved cases.


Chapter Three
Another Park, Another Town, Another Life

When Monica opened her eyes and discovered that she had been sleeping outside under a hedge of Yew, she uttered an expletive that had never crossed her lips before. Now she knew what had driven her father to favor the word.

This was not the first time that she had awakened outside. She knew in her heart that the circumstances would be similar to the last time it had happened. That first time, she had been alone, in her nightdress, which had somehow become torn, in The King’s Park in Edinburgh. She looked down and was not surprised to find that, yes, she was in a nightdress again.

She was a little relieved when she realized that at least this time she could remember her name. When she had awoken in Edinburgh, she had remembered nothing of her past, not even her name.

“My name is Monica,” she said out loud but quietly, more to convince herself that things were different than for any other reason. As she continued to consider being in such a similar situation again, this minor reassurance was followed by another louder stream of words that she was not accustomed to speaking, issued in an even more inventive combination and sequence than any she had heard from her father. They did seem to fit the situation nicely though, she thought with a grim smile.

To her consternation, however, that forceful explosion of emotion was apparently heard by someone else!

"Hold on a minute there, young lad," a voice called from the other side of the hedge. The speaker seemed to be coming around the bushes as he spoke.

A young man came into view rounding the Yew striding purposefully, but stopped short when he saw Monica. The man was probably in his early twenties, tall and lanky, with brown hair sticking out in all sorts of directions from beneath a well tattered hat of some indeterminate brownish, greenish, grayish color. He was wearing the well-worn clothing of someone who lives hand to mouth. His eyes were his most striking feature, being a piercing blue, and were easy to make out as they widened when his gaze fixed on the immodestly dressed girl whose uncontrolled auburn hair was blowing freely about her like a halo of reddish, brown gold in the slight breeze.

"I mean young lass," he said, somewhat embarrassedly, his right hand flying to his cap to doff it as he bent forward slightly in an awkward bob of a bow.

"Henry Avery, at your service," he said awkwardly, pronouncing his name without the initial H.

"I don't know what sort of trouble you be in," he continued, "But you cannot be sashaying about the park undressed and shouting such words for all young and old to hear!"

Monica blinked in surprise at this comment. The man was easy to look at in a rough sort of way but he seemed much more assured of his authority than his clothes would suggest.

She stood up to her full height, and looked somewhat haughtily at the intruder.

“You will not tell me what I can or cannot do, young man,” she said in her most formal tone, and then continued, “I am not having a particularly wonderful day, and I would appreciate some respect!”

“Respect is a good choice of words,” the young man shot back immediately. “I usually expect and receive much more than you are providing.”

“YOU!” Monica said. “You barge into my miserable day without leave and then have the gall to demand respect from ME?”

“That is exactly correct,” Henry said in response. Pointing at the badge which Monica had not before noticed on his lapel, he continued, “Most people speak much more respectfully to a Runner, especially those not properly dressed to be visiting our public park!”

“A runner?” Monica asked, somewhat less assuredly. “What would that be?”

The young man laughed out loud.

“Everyone knows what a Runner is,” he finally managed to say.

“Everyone except me,” Monica said quite defeatedly now. “Not only do I not know what is so special about you running, but I have no idea of what park this might be!” her voice rising a bit at the end.

“It’s not that I am running,” Henry said patiently and then added in a self-important tone, “I am a Bow Street Runner. I work for The Beak! I mean Magistrate John Fielding.”

The remainder of Monica’s statement sunk in and he continued, “Why don’t you know where you are?”

“I don’t know that either,” Monica wailed as tears started cascading down her cheeks, and she slowly settled down to her knees.

Henry was out of his element when confronted with an attractive, crying young lady. He knelt beside her and tried to comfort her by saying, “Come on now, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

He wanted to do more, but could not hold her or put his arm around her, given her current state of undress.

“Let’s get you to the Magistrate. He’ll know what to do,” he added.

Removing his coat and draping it over her shoulders, he took the girl’s hand and started leading her away.

* * *

When John Fielding assumed the Magistrate’s role in place of his famous brother, Henry, he knew that there would be many varied and sometimes unusual cases to rule on. One matter before his court this morning fit both descriptions.

Henry Avery, his best Runner, had arrived just before the court convened with a half-dressed young girl in tow, asking to speak with the Magistrate. There being no time before the formal proceedings were to commence, the pair were directed to the rear of the courtroom.

A gaunt man dressed all in black stood up to the right of the Magistrate and addressed the room in general, “The Bow Street Magistrate’s Court is convened this 2nd day of June in this Year of our Lord 1750, and is now in session!”

Monica gasped, her right hand flying to cover her open mouth. Beside her, Henry shushed her quietly.

“Persons with matters to be placed before the court may approach and be heard,” the stern-faced man continued, glancing pointedly at the commotion from the back of the courtroom.

Looking about the room confusedly, Monica made no further sounds, but was certain that the whirling inside her head could almost be heard. 1750! How could that be?! Before awakening in the park, she had fallen asleep in her own bed in Edinburgh in 1809! Her mind told her that moving to a different year almost sixty years before was impossible, but then another part chimed in with so was falling asleep in her bed and awakening in a park in another city!

A motley group of disparate individuals arose and shuffled forward to form a short queue before the bench on which sat another stern person, also clad in a black cloak and hat, a white ruffled shirt peaking from sleeves and neck.

The most remarkable aspect of this man, who Monica assumed must be the Magistrate, was the folded band of black cloth tied about his head obscuring his eyes completely. Monica just managed to stifle a giggle as a disrespectful thought about blind justice leapt into her mind.

For the next several hours, the people in the queue stepped forward and presented their cases. It seemed to Monica that each was given fair and sometimes even compassionate treatment.

When the queue was depleted, Monica assumed that it would be her turn to face the Magistrate, but to her surprise the bailiff rose and declared the proceedings ended.

The Magistrate and bailiff exited through a door behind the Magistrate’s desk. Everyone else departed via the main entrance leaving Henry and Monica alone.

Monica looked a question at Henry and he answered by taking her hand once more, then stood up and pulled her with him towards the back if the courtroom. He led her through the same doorway that the Magistrate had used earlier.

They went only a short distance down the dim hallway before stopping at a closed door. Henry knocked lightly and waited. Monica said not a word as he seemed to know what he was about.

“Enter,” came the command from the other side of the door. The voice was firm but the single word was not harsh. Monica recognized the voice of the Magistrate.

Henry complied and opened the door, stepping back and gesturing Monica to precede him into the room, which she did.

Looking around she discerned that the room was some kind of office. There was an old heavy oak desk behind which sat the blindfolded Magistrate that she had seen earlier along with several empty simple wooden spoke chairs. Other than those items the room was bare.

Standing and facing the desk was the bailiff who had apparently just finished talking to the Magistrate. He turned and departed through the open door closing it behind him as he left.

A few moments of silence ensued as Henry stopped before the desk saying nothing and Monica followed his lead. The Magistrate sat perfectly still, his covered eyes straight ahead either sleeping or thinking, Monica knew not which it might be.

Finally, the Magistrate broke the silence, “Do you often tour Hyde Park in such a state of undress?” It would seem that someone had already briefed him on who would be coming into the office and why.

Since this question was clearly directed at her instead of Henry, Monica answered, “Not at all, your honor.”

“No need for formality in the office,” the Magistrate said then continued, “so why did you choose to do so today?”

Monica paused for a moment before answering, considering how much she should confide. She had experience with the reaction to her story and now it would be magnified by the information regarding the date anomaly.

“I did not choose to do so today, or any day for that matter,“ she finally replied.

“Your dissimulation intrigues me,” the Magistrate said, a smile playing on his lips.

“Henry, what do you make of this matter?” The man continued, changing the recipient of his inquiry.

“It is most strange Mr. Fielding, Sir,” Henry replied doffing his cap.

“I’ve told you before that it is not necessary to remove your head covering in my presence,” the Magistrate said.

“I know, Sir. But it’s a good habit,” Henry said.

“True enough. What else do you have to report about our young lady here? I have not yet heard her name mentioned.”

“She says that her name is Monica, no surname given and says that she does not know how she came to be in Hyde Park.”

“And you, Miss Monica, can you add anything?”

“Surely you cannot believe that I would choose to appear in public in such a state of attire, or more accurately a lack thereof. Not only do I find it necessary to beg the courts indulgence in this matter, but would also request some assistance in finding a lodging until my memory returns,” Monica said.

“I need for you to explain,” the Magistrate commanded.

Monica took a deep breath and launched into her tale. She explained that she had no idea what had occurred between the time that she fell asleep in her own bed, and did not elaborate on where that furniture might be, and awakening in the park. She said that she had almost no memory of her past and could not remember where she lived or even her last name. She had no idea how she had gotten to the park.

When she finished her testimony, she waited as John Fielding, Magistrate of Essex County Court considered her situation. This he did silently for a full five minutes before continuing, “I cannot help feeling that you are withholding some information, but that is your right. As for what we are to do with you, I believe that we can excuse your public indecency. Since it seems that you have no place to go nor anyone to assist you, I am remanding you to the Foundling Hospital. You are clearly too old to become a ward there, but my friend Thomas Coram, will provide you shelter and sustenance while you will earn your keep by volunteering to assist them with their good work caring for infants until more can be learned regarding your past.”

The Magistrate directed Henry to escort Monica to the orphanage and then signaled that the interview was concluded.

* * *

Thomas Coram was showing the toll of his eighty-plus years. His portly body was stooped over and he moved slowly with the aid of a cane. The one bright thing about his advanced years, he thought ironically, was that his unruly naturally gray hair did not need to be covered with a powdered wig.

He had spent his recent years in badgering anyone who would listen into helping him open the Foundling Hospital to save the many young infants left to die about the city by parents who could not take care of them. Here he was now, showing this girl, who John Fielding had sent over around his pride and joy. He smiled inwardly as he considered that it was unlikely that she would be the one he sought to carry on his legacy but one never knew.

“John tells me that you are experiencing some memory issues,” he said.

“Unfortunately true,” Monica responded. “I can remember almost nothing of my past, but I am sure that I will be able to help out somehow, even if that is only with menial tasks.”

Thomas considered this response as he opened the door to an infant ward. He showed Monica what services the hospital was providing and explained their basic goals. Monica assured him that she could be of use to him.

“I think that you should get along just fine with us,” Thomas said. He pointed to an elderly lady tending the infants and continued, “Mrs. Bankston will show you where you will be staying while you are here and provide you with a uniform.”

He then left Monica in the care of the matron and departed. Mrs. Bankston was very happy to see Monica. She explained that the hospital was chronically understaffed as she led her into the bowels of the building, eventually stopping at a closed door in a dimly lit back hallway.

“This will be your quarters while you are here, dear,” she explained as she opened the door revealing a small sparsely furnished space. “You will find uniforms of various sizes in the cabinet. Come back to the ward when you are dressed. Do you think that you will be able to find your way?”

Monica assured her that she could and when Mrs. Bankston left, Monica dug through the stored uniforms discovering a suitable size. Then she wound her way back through the maze of hallways to the infant ward where she toiled the remainder of the day administering to the children’s needs.

* * *

As her first, long day at the Foundling Hospital was approaching its end just before 7:00 pm, Monica received word that someone was waiting in the visitor room off the foyer to speak with her. As she made her way there, wiping her hands on her apron, she thought to herself that the visitor must be from the Magistrate’s office. No one else even knew that she was here.

She was mildly surprised but pleased to see Henry waiting for her. She had expected a clerk or some other low-level assistant.

Smiling warmly at the handsome Runner, she said, “Mr. Avery. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“Magistrate Fielding asked me to look in on you on my way home to ensure that you were getting along well.”

“The work is constant but the little darlings are just so cute, one does not notice the hours flying by.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I will pass it on to the Magistrate in the morning.”

The two just stood smiling at each other for a few moments, apparently neither having more to add to the conversation.

“Well, I should be off then and let you get about your duties,” Henry finally said.

“Thanks for dropping by,” Monica said. “Will you be coming again soon? I do not know another soul.”

Henry touched the edge of his woolen cap in a salute as he nodded slightly and replied, “I’m sure the Magistrate will want me to keep tabs on you.”

Henry did not notice the pained expression that flitted across Monica’s face for a moment to be replaced quickly by her customary smile. She had hoped that he might want to see her, not merely that he was performing a duty.

When he walked out, she turned towards her room. Her first day had left her drained and she just wanted to go back to her room and think. She could not even consider a meal.

When she closed the door to her chamber, she leaned against it, her forehead pressed against the wood, eyes closed, just trying to gain some equilibrium or understanding. Her calm, confident demeanor with which she had performed her tasks was not on display now. She was a confused country lass of only nineteen years and the events of the past months were overwhelming.

She had no explanation for why this was happening to her. Her friends in Edinburgh had come up with nothing. Now not only was she in London suddenly but it was years in the past! Was she merely dreaming? It did not seem so, but how could this keep happening to her.

She clasped the amulet hanging from her neck inside her uniform tightly. It was her only source of solace. It seemed so warm and reassuring.

She eventually readied for bed and fell asleep with tears sliding down her cheeks.

* * *

The next several days passed in an unremarkable stream of awakening, eating breakfast with the small staff, attending to the infants, eating dinner and sleeping. This morning was different. She found herself being escorted to the office of Magistrate Fielding by his Runner Henry Avery.

As they were ferried by a hackney through the winding streets, Monica mulled things over. The normalcy of the routine at the hospital conflicted wildly with the utter strangeness of her situation. In her mind, she knew that she must have been living some kind of life, the details of which she could not remember, then she had been in Edinburgh for a week, long enough to start becoming interested in a young man, and now here she was in London a few scant days later, but many years earlier. It all had her head spinning!

She found Henry Avery very easy to look at and pleasing to talk to , and sometimes it seemed that he might be interested in her, but what of her friend Daniel McDermitt in Edinburgh. She had been beginning to have real feelings for him and she felt that it was not right that here she was starting to think more about another after only a few days. It did not lessen her guilt to realize that she would likely never be able to get back to him. It came as a shock to realize that it was not only the distance between the two cities, but as of today, Daniel had not yet been born!

Her musings were interrupted when Henry escorted her into the Magistrate’s office. John Fielding sat behind his oaken desk as ramrod straight as he had the last time she saw him. He was dressed much the same in black with a folded black cloth tied around his head, covering his eyes.

After Monica and Henry sat down, he asked, “Has the Foundling Hospital treated you well?”

“To be certain, Your Honor,” Monica began.

“John,” the Magistrate interjected. “Just John will do.”

“John,” she continued. “Yes, Thomas Coram and Mrs. Bankston have been very kind. I find the work very fulfilling helping with the babies.”

“That is for the best. I fear that we have made no progress in discovering any additional information in your case. It is as if you appeared in London from thin air.”

Monica still had not admitted to her recent, for her, past experiences in Edinburgh for fear that the date discrepancy would come out. She decided that it was still not the right time for all to be made known.

“I do feel perfectly well, but have no memory of where I grew up nor how I got in that park,” she said.

“If you are happy there, Thomas has told me that you are welcome to remain as long as you like,” the Magistrate informed her. “Unless your memory improves or you choose to add any additional facts for us to pursue, I do not expect any additional progress towards returning you to those that must be wondering where you have gone.”

Monica knew that he knew that she was holding something back.

“I really appreciate the kindness that everyone has shown and the efforts that you have put forth in my behalf,” Monica replied.

“If you will escort Miss Monica back to the Hospital, then, Henry. I must be off to another meeting.” So saying, John Fielding rose and indicated the door to his office with his right hand.

Henry took Monica’s hand and led her from the office. The Foundling Hospital was only a few miles away and the London weather unseasonably agreeable so the two decided to walk rather than taking a hackney.

Henry led Monica through a maze of streets and avenues, some cramped and some spacious. She remarked on his ability to find his way in such a labyrinth, but he made light of it. He had wandered these streets for so many years that they were like old friends.

Finally, back at the Hospital in the foyer, he lightly kissed the knuckles of her hand and told her that he would look in on her in a few days. The gentlemanly gesture once again sent a tingling sensation up her back and after he had departed, she raised the hand to her lips and covered his kiss with one of hers.


* * *

Monica was consumed by the routine of infant care for the next several days. Two more foundlings had arrived to add to the staff’s load.

It was when she was bending over the newly arrived Samantha that the child reached up and grasped her amulet which had fallen out oh her blouse and was dangling between them. Monica was not too concerned at first, but she could not easily dislodge the grip that the baby had on the necklace. She was afraid that the chain might part.

A feeling of anxiousness began to overcome her as the baby pulled on the amulet and cooed in a bubbly toothless grin. She tried to keep her voice light as she spoke quietly and pried at the little fingers. She was afraid that the child might suffer if she pried too forcefully but it would not let go.

Finally, inspiration stepped in and she took the bottle of milk and rubbed it on the child’s lips. Instantly the amulet ceased to be of interest as the baby grabbed at the bottle and suckled boisterously.

Monica said a small prayer of thanks and slid the amulet back inside the collar of her blouse.

When she had a brief break in her duties, she slipped back to her room and removed the precious amulet and placed it under her mattress for safekeeping.

The remainder of the day was uneventful but for the near constant flashes of concern Monica felt for the amulet. Was it safe? Would it still be under her mattress when she returned to her room? It occurred to her that she was constantly plagued with such thoughts when she was away from the thing.

It was a huge relief when she reached under the mattress later and pulled it out. She immediately clasped it around her neck and calm descended over her like a blanket.

* * *

On her free day, Monica was walking slowly past the street vendors which were around the corner from the Founding Hospital, casually looking over their wares, more to see what was considered salable in London than from any interest in the items. As she stood before a lady offering crocheted doilies, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Out enjoying the weather, I see,” Henry Avery said. “Surely you are not considering one of those rags?”

Noticing the scowl with which the vendor responded to this question, Monica turned with a smile to greet her friend.

“You think so little of their quality?” she responded.

“It’s not that. Merely that what little allure they might possess is diminished by the superior beauty before them.”

This compliment, accompanied by the infectious grin on Henry’s lips was enough to make Monica blush as she considered how it would feel to have those very lips pressed to hers. She did not even care if they were on her own lips or possibly sampling the tender place behind her ear, or whatever.

The snort from the vendor proved that she was not impressed by Henry’s gallantry. The old lady followed this succinct statement up with, “Be gone ye worthless scamp!”

Taking her comments as an order, Henry turned and extended his elbow to Monica. She gently slid her hand into its crook and allowed herself to be led away. The attention of the handsome young man was making her thoughts disjointed.

“I hope that your shopping has worked up an appetite for you,” Henry said. “There is something that I have been wanting to show you a few blocks away that I know you will enjoy.”

Monica said nothing as she mulled over this cryptic statement.

It did not take the pair long to traverse the few blocks to Henry’s surprise, and surprise it was. The sight that came into view as they came around the last corner literally took Monica’s breath away.

It was not the café tables set behind the short iron fence, nor the huge willow tree which drooped its branches amongst them, nor even the myriads of small mirrors, bits of colored glass, ribbons and small framed pictures adorning the tree, the walls and even the fence that made such an impression. It was the magical blending of their combined effects that transported the scene to a realm where fairies might dwell.

Covering her open mouth with her hand, she could only muster a breathy, “Oh my!” She glanced furtively at the spaces beneath the tables to see if she could spot any mystical creatures.

Obviously pleased with the effect that his secret had caused, Henry slipped his arm about Monica’s waist and guided her through the arched gate into the group of scattered tables. Adding to the unreal atmosphere of the place was the actual short cropped grass upon which the tables were placed. The only flagstones, which were normally used in this area of the town to cover the local sidewalks, created winding paths between them.

It was clear that Henry was known by the waiter, at least that is what Monica assumed the man dressed in an old-fashioned country outfit to be. He merely waved them on towards the thick foliage of the tree rather than attempting to seat them at one of the empty tables. Henry pulled aside the curtain of leaves and escorted Monica within.

She had thought that the tree was wonderful to behold from without, but the view from within the confines of its branches surpassed everything that had come before.

Not only did the multitude of drooping strands cascading from above completely block the view of the outside world, but the thickness of foliage also blocked out the sounds of the city without. Only the chirping of some birds somewhere up in the tree and their own hushed voices could be heard.

They were momentarily in their own little world comprised of a small table with two matching chairs, up against the massive trunk of the tree with a couple of small serving tables. Upon these tables rested a teapot, two cups, a sugar bowl, a creamer and a pair of saucers all in white with delicate blue designs, accompanied by a large tray of edibles.

Henry pulled out one of the chairs for Monica to be seated and after she did so, he took his place in the other.

The sense of guilt that Monica had been having about her growing feelings for Henry when it had not been so long since she left Daniel in Edinburgh flew out the window.

As they ate from the tray of little triangles of toast, jams, cheeses and grapes, and sipped the Earl Grey tea, they talked quietly. They both seemed to have the feeling that speaking too loudly would dispel some of the magic.

Henry admitted that he had seen Monica shopping at the street vendors and had stepped over here to get his friend the waiter to arrange the special table for the couple.

Nothing that they ate or drank was terribly extravagant, but Monica knew that the repast must have made a significant dent in the funds that he would have collected working for the Magistrate. The thought that he had gone to such lengths for her caused a sense of warmth to blossom in her chest, right where her amulet rested, and brought another blush to her cheeks.

The two continued to eat the treats and talk quietly enjoying each other's company for several hours. When Monica finally could not control a yawn, Henry took the hint and arranged for the empty dishes to be cleared.

In light of the lateness of the hour, Henry flagged a hackney to get them to the Foundling Hospital. He helped Monica up into the cab and sat beside her.

As the cab rocked gently over the uneven bricks, they both found their eyelids getting heavy. Monica gave in first and closed her eyes and rested her head on Henry’s shoulder. A feeling of drowsy warmth overtook her and she drifted off. It was not long before Henry leaned his head on Monica’s and dropped off to sleep also.

* * *

“She was in the carriage with you when you dosed off?” John Fielding asked. He was seated at his desk in Bow Street and Runner Henry Avery was standing before him.

“Yes, Sir,” Henry answered. “Just as I reported. We met a few blocks from the Founding Hospital as I was finishing my rounds. I showed her the Fairie Park and we grabbed a bite, then I hailed a hackney and we started back to the Hospital. I don’t know why but we both seemed very tired for some reason. I know that she dosed off and I must have too. “

“But when you awoke, she was gone,” Fielding continued. “And the cabbie swears that he never stopped and did not see her depart.”

“Aye, that be the whole of it.”

“And no Runner can find any trace of her?” Fielding asked.

“No, Sir. Nothing.”

“The girl was a mystery from inception to end,” the Magistrate declared. “I would be surprised if we hear aught of her again.”

“Let me know if you do,” the Magistrate said. “Back to your duties now. I have court in a few minutes.”

Henry rose, made a small salute, touching his fingers to his cap, and left the room.

The mysterious Monica was quickly forgotten by most, except Henry Avery, who never quit thinking of the auburn-haired Scottish lass who had stolen his heart and then left without a word.

Chapter Four
The Sleuth

Opening first one eye and then the next, she was rewarded with the sight of an older gentleman bent over her and staring intently into her face as he rubbed and patted her hand. When her eyes were fully opened, she took in her surroundings. She did not know where she was but she did know what had happened to her, again.

“Who…Who are you?” Monica mumbled thickly, in a voice that did not seem as if it had been used recently.

“That’s what I was asking you, young lady,” the man replied. “My name is Watson. Dr. John Watson. And what is yours?”

“Monica. I’m Monica.”

“Are you all right, Monica?” the man asked. “I found you slumped against this wall, unconscious. You were moaning something that sounded like ‘Not again’ over and over.

With the man’s assistance, Monica stood up unsteadily and looked about. She was aware that her entire body was stiff and ached as if it had been in an awkward position for far too long. A moment of panic seized her and her left hand flew up to touch her chest to reassure herself that her favorite locket was still nestled warmly and safely where it should have been.

“Well, all things considered, I think that I prefer the park,” she said. She lifted her free hand and looked at the coat sleeve, recognizing the outfit that she last remembered wearing in the coach in London before she lost consciousness. She then followed her prior response with the revelation, “At least I’m dressed.”

“You do seem well now,” Dr. Watson said, not directly addressing either of her cryptic comments.

“At the risk of seeming less so, can I ask you what city this is, and what the date is?”

Dr. Watson did not act like this was such an unusual question. He answered calmly as if those were the questions that everyone was asking, “We are in London, and it is half past nine on the morning of July 14th.”

“And the year?” Monica prodded.

“1887, of course,” Dr. Watson replied, a note of surprise creeping into his voice. He watched to see how the girl would receive this information, but could not tell if it came as a surprise to her. If only his companion was here. He was so much better at such things.

Deciding that he could not leave the disoriented young woman to the potential clutches of street urchins and worse, Dr. Watson helped her to stand, and said, “Would you like to come along and rest until get your wits about you? The flat that I share with my companion is just a few blocks away.”

The man seemed kindly and well meaning, but Monica was not so naïve as to trust just any stranger. Noticing her hesitation, Watson continued, “Our housekeeper can make you a cup of tea. My friend might be able to help you with the mystery of what caused you to be in this alley. He is very good with such things.”

Being somewhat reassured, Monica allowed herself to be led by the gentleman’s hand under her forearm. They chatted about nothing important as they walked along the cobblestone streets which were closely lined with two and three storied brick buildings. Not many other people were out walking this time of the morning.

* * *

“Here we are,” Dr. Watson said as he led Monica up the steps to the flat where he lived with his friend on the second floor.

As they entered the foyer and began to ascend the stairs, a portly woman with mostly gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, stepped out of the staircase leading down into the cellar.

“Dr. Watson,” she said. “I see that you have a visitor.” Her severe tone of voice indicated that she did not approve of young ladies appearing at her gentlemen’s lodging so early in the morning.

Affable as ever, Watson stopped and leaned over the banister, saying, “Mrs. Hudson. There you are. This is Monica. She has had a difficult morning. I was hoping that I could impose on you to bring up some tea.”

Not being at all reassured, but being used to the irregular activities of these particular two lodgers, she responded with a quiet humph and turned to go back downstairs. Dr. Watson and Monica continued upward.

As the Doctor showed Monica into what was obviously a male dominated apartment, she quickly scanned the room, categorizing in her mind the profusion of books and newspaper clippings, as well as miscellaneous odds and ends on every surface. The smell of tobacco, not unpleasantly permeated the room. Watson indicated a comfortable chair for Monica as he stepped over to a window and pulled aside the drapes to allow the meager light of the overcast day outside to filter in.

It was only moments after Monica settled into the indicated overstuffed chair before Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door, which had been left open. Entering, she deftly set a tray containing a tea service on the table buried under the least amount of paper, after which she eased out of the room, once more leaving the door wide open.

Just after Dr. Watson finished pouring the tea, steps upon the stairs indicated that someone else was about to arrive. A tall lanky man walked in through the open door. Watson added tea to the third cup, which Mrs. Hudson had knowingly provided.

“Now I see why the door was ajar,” the newcomer said. “What have we here?”

“This is Monica,” Dr. Watson replied. “I think that you will find that her story interests you.”

“Tell me more,” the man said. “For example, why is she wearing those garments which seem antiquated but which are clearly new?”

Both Monica and Dr. Watson seemed surprised by these questions, sharing a quizzical glance with each other.

Finally, Dr. Watson added, “You see, Monica. I told you that he was good with puzzles and such. Monica, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes noticed the lack of recognition displayed by Monica upon hearing his name, but said nothing. Since Watson had been publishing his little stories, he was becoming used to the notoriety that they had produced. Either this Monica was a consummate actress, or she was not aware of current events in London.

Holmes just looked at Monica expectantly, saying nothing. She lowered her eyes and found her hands to be very interesting all of a sudden. Dr. Watson gave in first.

“So, Monica. Why don’t you tell us how you came to be unconscious in Merchant ‘s Alley where I discovered you?” Watson asked. “Do you remember how you got there?”

Holmes did not miss the quick glance that Monica threw at Watson, before once more looking at her hands.

When Monica said nothing, Holmes finally said, “I cannot help you if you are not honest with me.”

This seemed to strike a chord with Monica. She glanced up, right into Holmes’ eyes. The desperation in Monica’s look was obvious.

“I have a story to tell,” she began. “I don’t fully understand it myself, and you will likely find it hard to believe.”

“You tell your tale and let me decide,” Holmes said.

Monica took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“To begin with, I'll answer one of your questions, even though it is not the beginning of my journey,” she began. “My dress is indeed probably an antique now. I bought it yesterday in London, but in the year 1750.”

She paused for a moment to let the year sink in. Dr. Watson seemed inclined to protest this statement, but he kept quiet at a gesture from Holmes. “Go on.”

“To be fully honest, I was born in the year 1770 in County Fife, Scotland, where I lived with my father until 1789, when all this started to happen.”

“I see. Please continue.”

“I feel asleep one night and woke up in a park in Edinburgh. The year was 1809. I was taken in by Inspector McDermitt. He and his friend, James McLevy, tried to help me sort things out, but to no avail. I fear that I was not as completely honest with them as I am being with you. I think that I feared that they would not believe such a wild tale.”

“And you feel that you can trust us?”

“Keeping secrets has not been fruitful. I have nothing to lose."

“You say that James McLevy of Edinburgh was unable to help. He was one of the first great detectives.”

“As I said, I was not forthcoming with all of the facts. Somehow, I had skipped twenty odd years, but without seeming to affect how I appeared. He did find some information about someone, but he did not think that it was me because of the age difference. In any event, I was only in Edinburgh for a few weeks before I fell asleep again, and woke up this time in London and the year was now 1750. I never saw those papers that James gave me again.”

“Most intriguing,” Dr. Watson could not stop himself from saying.

“Yes. Go on,” Holmes added.

“In London, I was helped by Magistrate John Fielding and one of his Bow Street Runners. Unfortunately, I did not tell them everything. After all, somehow the year was now before I was born and yet still, I appeared unchanged. They could find nothing to explain my circumstances and a few weeks later I once more fell asleep, wearing these clothes, and awoke in the alley where the Doctor found me this morning.”

At this point, Monica went silent. No one else spoke up for a few moments. Dr. Watson looked from Monica to Holmes, who sat fingering a large curved unlit pipe.

“You think me crazy or untruthful, don’t you?” Monica asked.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “I believe that you have told us exactly what you think happened to you.”

This comment caused a tremendous weight to leave Monica. “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much better that makes me feel. I can hardly credit what has been happening myself.”

Holmes stood up, saying, “I have to go out and check on some things. Watson, will you ask Mrs. Hudson if she has a place where Monica can stay?”

Shifting his gaze to Monica, he added, “I assume that you have no place in town.”

“No, I don’t. That’s very kind of you to concern yourself.”

Mrs. Hudson did have an open flat that Monica could use for a week or so.

* * *

Holmes returned to 221B Baker Street well after sunset. Entering, he stood shaking the water from the drizzle outside off his coat before hanging it on its peg.

Monica was downstairs in her loaner flat, presumably resting. Watson patiently waited for his friend to be ready to speak.

Holmes busied himself in front of the mantle packing tobacco into his favorite pipe for a moment before settling into his customary chair next to Watson. Once the pipe was sufficiently lit to be able to continue to burn, Dr. Watson finally broke the silence.

“So, you discovered what you expected?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied. “I was able to verify the greater portion of the girl’s tale.”

“And you believe all that talk of traveling through time?”

“I admit that I have not fully decided on that aspect, but once you remove the other possibilities, what you are left with must be the truth, however improbable.”

Holmes continued, “I was able to quickly ascertain that there had been a Monica MacDonald, a girl of nineteen years, who had gone missing and was never found in 1770. Apparently her father left his entire estate to a trust in her name and that account has grown considerably over the many years.”

“I considered the possibility that her entire story was a ruse to establish her claim to the trust, but it seems that they have what they consider a foolproof identification method, the details of which were not made plain.”

“It turns out that the remainder of her story also matches the records in the Times of London archives. There was both a Monica connected with the Edinburgh police detective Daniel McDermott and with Sir John Fielding, the famous Magistrate of the Bow Street Court and founder of the Bow Street Runners, before a formal police force was established.”

“And your opinion on the matter?” Watson prompted.

“I am inclined to believe that she may be telling the truth,” Holmes admitted. “The matter will be settled one way or the other tomorrow. We all leave for Edinburgh on the 8:00 AM train in the morning. I have contacted the firm managing the trust and we will meet in their offices after lunch.”

“I guess that the only thing left to see to is to apprise Monica of the plan,” Watson said.

“I have instructed Mrs. Hudson to ask her to come up so that we can do just that,” Holmes agreed with his typical smugness.

Almost as if on cue, Mrs. Hudson pushed through the door with a tray of tea, Monica in tow. Once the tea was placed on a table, Mrs. Hudson departed.

Holmes got right to the point, saying, “I managed to find the same report that McLevy had uncovered. If you are indeed this Monica, or related to her, there is a law firm in Edinburgh who claims to be able to validate this fact. We have tickets for the morning train.”

He watched to gauge Monica’s reaction to this news.

“That’s fantastic news, Mr. Holmes!” she exclaimed. She stood up and stepped forward as if to hug him, but the look on his face forestalled that action. “I did not think that you would believe me.”

“I may or may not, but the facts of your story do seem valid. Get some more rest. We leave at 7 in the morning to catch the train. It will be a long ride, more than a day, so you will have your own private sleeper berth.”

* * *

The morning after they began their journey, they arrived at the Edinburgh law offices founded by John MacKenzie over a hundred years before, in time for their interview with the current MacKenzie. They were shown to a waiting room where they availed themselves of the contents of a tray containing tea and shortbread crumpets.

A young man came into the room after twenty minutes and said,” Mr. MacKenzie is ready to see you now.” He led the way through a long hallway decorated with paintings that could only be prior solicitors of the firm based on their apparent age, and at the end he opened double oak doors, showing the group into a very spacious office.

The room had opened windows which let in the air from outside but which failed to dispel the gloom. A number of table lamps were called into service to assist. The numerous rugs and heavy drapes helped maintain a feeling of warmth.

An older portly gentleman with bushy sideburns stood up from the huge desk which dominated the room and indicated that they should be seated at the chairs arranged across the desk from him. When Monica had taken one of the chairs, the others did also.

“I am Duncan MacKenzie,” the man behind the desk introduced himself. “How can I be of help to the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I am here in behalf of Lady Monica,” Holmes began, indicating Monica with his left hand. “She believes that she is descended from Monica MacDonald of Fife, for which you are managing a trust.”

“We have been informed that you have a validating procedure that is believed to be infallible,” he continued.

“Yes, yes,” MacKenzie said. “As you had made us aware of this when you requested this interview, we did prepare.”

“As you presumably also are aware, that trust has been dormant for some years and we really never expected anyone to come forward. The original principle was declared missing almost a hundred years hence and no word has ever been available.”

“True, but Lady Monica, who was unaware of the trust before yesterday, was told by a reliable source that she is, in fact, directly related to your principle,” Holmes responded.

Mackenzie picked up a small bell from his desk and shook it. In answer to the bright sound it made, a young lady entered the office in the company of the clerk who had originally shown them into the office.

“This is Miss Hendricks,” MacKenzie announced. “Lady Monica, if you would accompany her, she will explain.”

Monica looked at both Holmes and Dr. Watson for confirmation, then left the room with Miss Hendricks, who then led her only two doors down the hallway before entering another room.

The room the two women entered was much darker than the main office. The single window was covered by a heavy drape which allowed no light in or out. Two lamps provided meager but adequate light.

“Are you aware of our validation protocol?” Miss Hendricks asked.

“I have no idea,” Monica admitted. “I fear that this entire affair is very new to me.”

“As I was told to expect. Before we begin, I must ask you to read and sign the affidavit on this table,” Miss Hendricks continued, pointing to the paper and quill resting on the nearby table.

Monica did as requested, and after reading the short text, which certified that she was of sound mind and making a valid request of the firm, and agreed to not disclose anything that happened herein upon pain of legal suit with damages being assessed, she signed the paper at the indicated location.

“This will undoubtedly seem intrusive, then, but I am going to have to ask you to open your bodice so that I can examine the space underneath your breasts.” Miss Hendricks said after Monica had replaced the quill in its cup.

This comment caused the confusion that Miss Hendricks had been told to watch out for.

Monica blinked rapidly and then said, “You want me to do what!?”

“I know that it is most irregular, but I have been told that you have a birthmark and I am required to examine it.”

“However could you know about that?” Monica asked, incredulity in her voice.

“It was specified in the trust.” Miss Hendricks replied, and then waited.

Monica thought for a moment and the quietly started undoing the buttons along the front of her bodice that she had been loaned by Mrs. Hudson, thinking to herself that it was fortunate that modern dress had the buttons in front rather than the back.

When the bodice was opened, she hesitated for only a moment and the continued with the chemise underneath. Covering her breasts with her arm across them, her locket gleaming from between them in the dim light of the lamps, she allowed Miss Hendricks to perform her search. The woman leaned in close to look and was able to complete whatever she needed in short order.

Standing back up, she told Monica, “That was all we needed. You can restore your garments now. Please keep in mind that you have signed an oath to never disclose what has happened in this room.”

As Monica refastened her buttons, Miss Hendricks filled the interval with small talk.

“That is an interesting locket you wear,” she said. “It appears well made and catches the light easily.”

“I have had it for as long as I remember,” Monica replied. “I’m not sure how it came to my family.”

When Monica was ready, they returned to the men waiting in the office. Miss Hendricks leaned in and whispered in Duncan MacKenzie’s ear. He did not give any indication regarding what he had been told. He just nodded and Miss Hendricks departed.

“Lady MacDonald, I am indeed very pleased to make your acquaintance after all these years. My grandfather, John MacKenzie told us to prepare for this day, but I must admit that I had my doubts.”

Holmes did not seem surprised, after a moment, it sank in to Monica that he had said 'MacDonald'.

“Does this mean that you believe me?” Monica asked.

“The evidence is conclusive,” MacKenzie replied. “You are now a very wealthy woman. The trust which Dòmhnall MacDonald established many years ago has done quite well in your absence. We hope that you will consider allowing our firm to serve and advise you in these matters in the future.”

After some further discussion of details, Monica was provided a sum of cash to cover incidentals until further arrangements could be made, and the group departed.

On the train ride back to London, they talked. Monica was still somewhat in shock about how the revelations at the lawyer would affect her life.

“You will be able to establish a comfortable living now,” Holmes was saying.

“I know,” Monica said, “But it is all so much to take in.”

“There are still aspects of the case that elude me,” Sherlock Holmes admitted. “It seems clear that your report of what has happened to you is truthful, but how it could be possible is another matter.”

“Such as being in so many locations at such disparate times,” Dr. Watson interrupted.

“Exactly so,” agreed Holmes. “I cannot address the methodology, but I can deduce that it appears related to your affections for those you met during your travels.”

“What do you mean?” asked Monica.

“According to your account, each time after you arrived on the scene, you began to have feelings for a man in your life, that was followed quickly by your being ’moved’ to another place.”

“I never made that connection before. It does seem to have happened that way.”

“But what about your life at you father’s house?” Holmes asked. “You did not mention anyone special to you there.”

“There was no one,” Monica said. “My father was very indulgent and did not try to force a marriage upon me. There was a stable boy who appeared infatuated with me, but I had no feelings for him.”

“Most intriguing. It does not match the specific pattern, but may still be related.”

With the cash that she had been provided, Monica was able to pay Mrs. Hudson to rent the flat that she had stayed the night in for a time to allow her to decide on her next steps.

* * *

After a few months, Monica decided that it was time to terminate her residence at 221B Baker Street. She was making great strides at ordering her new life and felt that she might be becoming a burden to her new friends.

She had retained an agent in County Fife in Scotland and it had turned out that a portion of her father’s old estate, the area was available for purchase adjoining the hill on which the rune stones were located. The hill itself had been turned over to the government and was now a local park.

She purchased the plot of land and arranged to have a small cottage built there. While that work was progressing, the agent had arranged a flat in the nearby county seat of Cupar. She quickly struck up a friendship with the owner, Mrs. Haversham, and learned all the local gossip as well as where best to fulfill her shopping needs.

Some months later she was loath to depart her Cupar lodgings when her new cottage was ready for occupancy. She promised to check back in often to keep abreast of local happenings.

Monica made a habit of visiting her old haunts amongst the rune stones which were now within walking distance of her new property. She would sit for hours reminiscing about her youth and how her life had turned out.

Monica was sitting among the stones one day and her locket seemed to be warm. As she reached up and pulled it from within the confines of her blouse, she thought that she could detect a slight glow in the amber stone.

When she looked about to determine if it was a trick of the sun, she noticed an old woman watching her from the trees down the hill. When the woman discovered that she had been seen, she slunk back into the cover of the foliage, leaving Monica unsure if she had ever seen anyone there.

When she questioned the man who tended the maintenance of her property, he said that there were old wives tales of a crone living in the woods nearby, but most people discounted the stories.

Heeding the connection that Sherlock Holmes had made regarding her becoming enamored with an acquaintance, Monica never allowed herself to become involved with any of the eligible bachelors that sought her out. Being a single woman of means had its drawbacks.

As the days drifted by and became months and then years, her life was filled with excursions to Cupar and even the continent on occasion. Monica took up painting, spending many days capturing the aspects of the light on the rune stones, as well as the valley beyond.

Her needs were few and Mr. Mackenzie did an excellent job of managing her accounts. When she grew old on her estate and she knew that her time would be coming, she ensured that the trust would continue, just as it always had, in case any other relatives should appear.

One warm spring day, as Monica was among what she had begun to think of as her stones, painting another landscape, she felt the urge to include a smudge in the shadow of a tree, which in her mind represented the old crone that she had noticed watching her over the years. After that had been done, she also added another incomplete set of brush strokes which represented a man from her past. She mostly had not missed companionship, but only mostly.

As she observed her additions, she felt a pain in her chest. She could not catch her breath and became lightheaded, falling to the ground, her brushes and paints sprawled around her. Her last thought before she lost consciousness, 'I am happy to die up here where I have enjoyed so much of my life. I just hope that they find me before the creatures have their way with my remains.'