Details
This post is part of the Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche Blog Tour hosted by St. Martin’s Publishing Group. ARC provided by NetGalley.
Enola Holmes, #7: Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche
By: Nancy Springer
Published: August 31, 2021
Genre: Mystery/Historical Fiction/Children’s Fiction
Enola Holmes
Spunky, resourceful and determined, Enola Holmes is a chip off the old block. That is, if naturally emulating your older brothers by displaying a keen, natural knack for mystery solving meets the description. This young lady refuses to be categorized or made to adhere to the standards of the day. While the Victorian Era marches on, Enola aspires to be the new breed of young woman. No chance of seeing her married off to live sedately in conventions of society.
Instead, she partners with her brother Sherlock to mystery solve in this story. Mycroft doesn’t make an appearance, but he earns a mention or two throughout. Enola and Sherlock take on the case of a missing young bride, sought by her twin sister. Something sinister has happened to the missing sister. Enola is determined to crack the case. This despite the black veils, draped mirrors and dour wreaths pointing to an untimely death. With Sherlock taking a supporting role, Enola’s skills shine! I won’t give away the outcome, but I know I’ll be looking for more of these Nancy Springer tales.
Featured Excerpt
“Is she fainted?”
Indignant, I wanted to sit up and say I was not so easily killed and I never fainted, but to my surprise my body would not obey me. I merely stirred and murmured.
“She’s moving.”
I saw the clodhopper boots of common men surrounding me and smelled alcohol on the breath of those leaning over me.
“Let’s get ’er inside.”
“Somebody go fer the doctor.”
Strong hands, not ungentle, seized me by the feet and shoulders. I could have kicked and yelled—I felt strong enough now—but my mind had started to function, realizing that I was about to be carried into a pub, for only in a public house, or pub, would workmen be drinking in the daytime. And normally no woman of good repute would enter a pub, or if she did, she would be jeered at until she retreated. But, my avid brain realized, fate in the form of Jezebel had given me opportunity to spend some time inside a pub—no, in the pub, most likely the only pub in Threefinches! So I closed my eyes and pretended to be rather more helpless than I was as the men hauled me inside and laid me down on a high-backed bench by the hearth.
Someone brought something pungent in lieu of smelling salts, but I shook my head, pushed the malodourous hand away, opened my eyes, and sat up, acting as if it were a great effort for me to do so. A burly, bearded man in an apron, undoubtedly the publican who kept the place, came running with a pillow for my back, and I thanked him with a gracious smile.
“Will ye have a nip of brandy, lydy?”
“No, thank you. Water, please.”
“Jack! Water for the lydy!” he bellowed to some underling, and he remained nearby as I managed, with hands that genuinely trembled, to remove my gloves. Their thin kidskin leather was ruined by the mauling it had taken from Jezebel’s reins, and my hands were red and sore; doubtless they would bruise. Grateful for the cool glass, I held it in both hands and sipped, looking around me. Half of the denizens of the place, like the owner, stood in a semicircle staring at me not unpleasantly, while the rest did the same from seats at the rustic tables—all but one. A tall man with beard stubble on his chin and quite a shock of coarse brownish-grey hair hiding his forehead had withdrawn to a table by the wall, where he devoted his attention to his mug of ale, or stout, or whatever noxious brew he might fancy. I said brightly to the tavern-keeper, “I believe I would like to stand up.”
“Now, why not wait for the doctor, lydy—”
But taking hold of his arm, as he stood within my reach, I got to my feet with reasonable steadiness. There were muted cheers from the onlookers. Nodding and simpering at the men all around me, I lilted, “Thank you so much. Do you suppose anyone could go out and fetch my bag, and my hat and parasol? I believe they fell along the—”
Already half a dozen would-be heroes were stampeding towards the door. Yet, if I had walked in here under my own power, any request for help would have been met with deepest suspicion. Such is life: odd.