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    Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche
    Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche
    Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche
    Ebook206 pages3 hours

    Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche

    By Nancy Springer

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    "A young girl who is empowered, capable, and smart...the Enola Holmes book series convey an impactful message that you can do anything if you set your mind to it, and it does so in an exciting and adventurous way."--Millie Bobby Brown

    Enola Holmes is back! Nancy Springer's nationally bestselling series and breakout Netflix sensation returns to beguile readers young and old in Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche.

    Enola Holmes is the much younger sister of her more famous brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft. But she has all the wits, skills, and sleuthing inclinations of them both. At fifteen, she's an independent young woman--after all, her name spelled backwards reads 'alone'--and living on her own in London. When a young professional woman, Miss Letitia Glover, shows up on Sherlock's doorstep, desperate to learn more about the fate of her twin sister, it is Enola who steps up. It seems her sister, the former Felicity Glover, married the Earl of Dunhench and per a curt note from the Earl, has died. But Letitia Glover is convinced this isn't the truth, that she'd know--she'd feel--if her twin had died.

    The Earl's note is suspiciously vague and the death certificate is even more dubious, signed it seems by a John H. Watson, M.D. (who denies any knowledge of such). The only way forward is for Enola to go undercover--or so Enola decides at the vehement objection of her brother. And she soon finds out that this is not the first of the Earl's wives to die suddenly and vaguely--and that the secret to the fate of the missing Felicity is tied to a mysterious black barouche that arrived at the Earl's home in the middle of the night. To uncover the secrets held tightly within the Earl's hall, Enola is going to require help--from Sherlock, from the twin sister of the missing woman, and from an old friend, the young Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether!

    Enola Holmes returns in her first adventure since the hit Netflix movie brought her back on the national bestseller lists, introducing a new generation to this beloved character and series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateAug 31, 2021
    ISBN9781250822963
    Author

    Nancy Springer

    Nancy Springer is the award-winning author of more than fifty books, including the Enola Holmes and Rowan Hood series and a plethora of novels for all ages, spanning fantasy, mystery, magic realism, and more. She received the James Tiptree, Jr. Award for Larque on the Wing and the Edgar Award for her juvenile mysteries Toughing It and Looking for Jamie Bridger, and she has been nominated for numerous other honors. Springer currently lives in the Florida Panhandle, where she rescues feral cats and enjoys the vibrant wildlife of the wetlands.

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    Reviews for Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche

    4/5

    56 ratings9 reviews

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    • 4/5
      An energetic and enjoyable heroine with a good storyline makes this a very good series. I plan to introduce our 12-year-old granddaughter to it.
    • 5/5
      Enola is back! Hooray! Even if the netflix series did nothing else, another installment of the book series would be worth it. She's just as strong and winning a heroine as ever, even when her plans go dreadfully awry -- and they certainly go awry in this book. I like that she is starting to work more directly with Sherlock; I like even better that she does it entirely on her own terms. Glad to see some more friends coming into the storyline, as Enola's isolation was always one of the things that made me worry for her.

      This book tackles one of the truly appalling things that can happen when men (or anyone) have all the power in a society -- the involuntary commitment of women to insane asylums in order to get them out of the way. Despicable, heartrending, and a terrible reminder of what people can do to each other.

      Advanced Readers' Copy provided by Edelweiss.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      4.5 stars

      This was by far the best in the series, it was so great watching Enola interact with Sherlock on this case. I really hope that the author is working on another book in this series, it's becoming as good as the Flavia series.
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed this seventh installment in the series, but not quite as much as the first six. I liked Enola better on her own than with Sherlock. She showed more pluck and independence without him. Still, a fun read, and informative about the horrible conditions of insane asylums and how few rights married women had in those times.
    • 5/5
      This seventh book in this series, finds Enola working on the case of Letitia Glover, who believes her twin didn’t die as claimed by her husband. She wants to engage Sherlock Holmes, Enola’s older brother, to find her sister, but Sherlock is in the throes of a full-on fugue state unable to force himself off his front-room couch. Enola agrees to take on the case and it is only when Sherlock hears more of the details that he comes back to life. The brother and sister, both working on the case in their own ways, set out to find the missing sister.This is such a well-written book that the language will have you believing you’re in Victorian England working the case with Enola. Even though this is the seventh book in the series, Springer gives you enough informative background that by the time the story is in full swing you have fallen in love with the rebellious Enola and her suffragette ways.If you’re looking for a story that has your hair blown back and on fire as it speeds toward the ending of the book, this isn’t the book for you. But if you’re looking for a story that has, at its center, a strong woman character of intelligence and cleverness, this is just the book for you. You’ll also find clever, witty dialogue, both spoken and internal, and beautifully written descriptions throughout the story. My thanks to Wednesday Books and Edelweiss for an eARC.
    • 5/5
      Enola Holmes has reconciled with her much older brothers Sherlock and Mycroft which is why Dr. Watson calls on her visit her brother Sherlock who has fallen into a deep depression after working himself to exhaustion on his latest cases. That is why she is present when a young typist named Letitia Glover comes to beg Holmes's assistance in determining what happened to her twin sister Felicity.Miss Glover does not believe the rather odd note she received from her sister's husband Cadogan Burr Rudcliff II, Earl of Dunhench, who tells her that her sister died of some sort of fever and was cremated even though he sent along her ashes. The note raises Enola's suspicions too. Cremation is very uncommon. The lack of notice when Felicity became ill and the lack of detail also seem suspicious. Even Sherlock's interest in caught when the ashes are determined to be from a dog not a person.Sherlock and Enola begin to investigate working both their own leads and working together. Enola has all sorts of problems because young women traveling alone with some man to assist is not at all the thing in either London or rural England. She finds herself taken advantage of by the man who rents her a very stubborn horse and cart and finds herself taking shelter with the Earl. The household is extremely odd with over-abundant signs of mourning everywhere but Felicity's rooms. In fact, Felicity has left a watercolor painting the provides a clue to the mystery. Her new husband has committed her to an insane asylum.Now Sherlock and Enola need to find out which asylum of the hundreds of possibilities in England and rescue Felicity. Enola comes up with a complicated scheme involving Letitia impersonating Felicity to convince Felicity's husband to return her to the asylum with Sherlock tracking the carriage.This was an engaging historical mystery with an intrepid female main character. It was filled with period details including the lack of women's rights and the horrors of asylums that were prevalent at the times. I liked the relationship between Sherlock and Enola. I liked Enola's determination to help Letitia and Felicity. I liked that the Prologue and the Epilogue were both from Sherlock's point of view and voice while the rest of the story was in Enola's voice.
    • 5/5
      In this installment, Enola joins forces with her brother Sherlock to investigate the disappearance of the twin sister of their client. The search places Enola in danger (of course!) and leads the two plus Dr. Watson into seedy asylums and dark mansions. Enola no longer runs the streets, but has grown up and now wears lady-like colorful clothing in the latest fashions (described in detail in the book--probably better when one can see them in the film version). She retains her independent and quirky character. In some ways, I felt as if this book was being written for film rather than to be read as a book, but I still enjoyed it immensely, especially the disguises and theatrics.
    • 5/5
      While visiting her brother Sherlock, Enola Holmes meets a young professional woman, Miss Letitia Glover, who wishes help to learning what has become of twin sister. Miss Glover's brother-in-law has sent her a note informing her of her sister's death and included a jar of ashes as confirmation. Miss Glover does not between it. Together, Enola and Sherlock must follow what few clues there are to find the truth.After eleven years, Enola is back! nHe book picks up shortly after the events of The Gypsy Goodbye. Enola is feeling a bit bored but has embraced a love of fashion. She ventured to Baker street to tease her brother out of his doldrums and is on hand to see Miss Glover when the detective would not. What follows is a fun adventure as Enola and Sherlock work together to solve the mystery.Of course, it is only natural that the tone has a different feel from the first six books. There is maturity that matches the growth Enola went through. The book feels more pointed for young adult readers than middle grade audience now. It is nice that there is a prologue given from the point of view of Sherlock, bringing any new readers up to speed on what has previously happened. (And my goodness, the author leans heavily into the idea that Victorian men were misogynistic, more so, in my opinion, that the original writer of Sherlock Holmes ever wrote.)The Viscount Tewksbury, Marquis of Basilwether, returns. It was disconcerting to have him described as "a tall, grown man, but not quite" when it has only been a year since he was first introduced in the first book and he was twelve then. Perhaps this was an attempt to reconcile with the aging up of the character that occurred in the movie?The mystery itself is fairly straightforward. I liked seeing Enola have friends when she was so alone before. There are no word puzzles or ciphers that featured so prominently in the first six books.Overall, I enjoyed it, and I am glad to see the character back. Readers who enjoyed her previous adventures will no doubt be thrilled with this one as well.I received a free advanced reader copy from NetGalley and all opinions expressed are my own.
    • 5/5
      Enola Holmes and the Black Baroucheby Nancy SpringerI want to thank the publisher and NetGalley for letting me read this fun and exciting book!I find Enola just as exciting, if not more, than Holmes! She is a bit brash, always daring, and will take on just about anything! Her and Holmes make a great team! In this book Holmes is in a terrible funk and Watson is worried about him. Holmes won't eat, shave, or get out of bed. Watson wants Enola to come cheer him up.When Enola arrives, she finds Holmes in a dreadful state and is unable to get him moving. That is until Holmes gets a case but Enola takes it instead. Holmes then perks up! This is just what he needed! Enola and Holmes set about to save a woman before it's too late.The woman states she received a letter saying her sister died suddenly and was cremated. It just seemed suspicious. The husband is a Duke that married below his status. The case is exciting, has suspense, clever, and sprinkled with wit and humor.I watched the one show that aired having Enola so I could picture all this happening! I hope they make this into one also! Recommend for middle grade and up!

    Book preview

    Enola Holmes and the Black Barouche - Nancy Springer

    Prologue

    by Sherlock Holmes, 1889

    Those of you who are aware of my distinguished career as the world’s first Private Consulting Detective can hardly remain unaware of the sensational way in which another Holmes of similar ilk, my much younger sister, Enola, has lately burst upon the London scene. Many have found her unabashed capture of the public eye both scandalous and deplorable, and some question my own failure to control her. Therefore I welcome this opportunity to pen my own logical and dispassionate account of my dealings with Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes.

    To absolve myself at once of any suspicions of sentimentality, let me state that I have no childhood memories of my sister, Enola; indeed, I barely knew her until July of 1888. In 1874, when she was born, I was on the point of leaving home and living on my own to pursue my studies; indeed, I hastened my departure due to the most unpleasant household disruption consequent upon her infant arrival. I encountered her over the next few years only occasionally and only with the natural revulsion of a gentleman towards a messy and undeveloped specimen of humanity. At the time of our father’s funeral, she was four years old and still incapable of maintaining the cleanliness of her nose. I do not recall having any sensible discourse with her at that time.

    Ten years passed before the next time I saw her, in July of 1888.

    This was no normal occasion. The unexpected and unexplained disappearance of her mother—our mother—caused young Enola to summon my brother, Mycroft, and me from London. As our train pulled into our rural destination, Enola awaited us on the railway platform, resembling nothing so much as a fledgling stork. Remarkably tall for a girl of fourteen, she wore a frock that failed to cover her bony shanks, and no gloves or hat; indeed, the wind had turned her hair into a jackdaw’s nest. Mycroft and I thought her a street urchin, failing to recognize her until she spoke to us: Mr. Holmes, and, um, Mr. Holmes? As lacking in manners as a colt, she seemed confused by Mycroft’s questions, and indeed, by the time we arrived at Ferndell Hall, our ancestral home, I thought my sister perhaps even a bit more brainless than the typical female.

    Once on the scene, Mycroft and I concluded that our mother had not been kidnapped but, suffragist that she was, had run away. This did not greatly concern us, for Mother had served her reproductive purpose and was, at her age, both useless and incorrigible. However, as something had to be done about Enola, we considered that it was perhaps not too late to salvage her. Ignoring her nonsensical protests, we made arrangements to place her in an excellent finishing school, hoping eventually to marry her off.

    Mycroft and I returned to London feeling that we had done our duty.

    However, our sister never arrived at the school. On the journey, she contrived to vanish.

    How dare she? The ingratitude of her!

    For the ensuing days, I, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective, devoted all my skill to tracking a silly runaway girl, presumably disguised as a boy—but I could find no trace of her. Then, much to my chagrin, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard gave me news of her.

    She was masquerading as a widow.

    A widow! For the first time I realized I had underestimated her. She had at least a modicum of brain, for, by becoming a widow, she had quite obliterated her face, added a decade or more to her age, and discouraged anyone from approaching her.

    She was, however, in a widow’s weeds, noticeable. I traced her to London, scarcely able to believe she had the temerity to venture there—and at Scotland Yard I encountered an aristocratic lad who had been rescued from kidnappers by a girl in a widow’s guise! The boy informed me, however, that she was now dressed as a spinster with a pince-nez.

    I redoubled my efforts to find her and save her from the perils of London. Unfortunately, I had no likeness of her with which to advertise. No photograph of her had ever been taken. But I did have a most interesting and revealing booklet of ciphers our mother had given her. Having thus discovered that the two of them secretly communicated via The Pall Mall Gazette personal columns, I placed my own message pretending I was Mother and asking Enola to meet me. But somehow she saw through my ruse. Whilst I was at the British Museum waiting to pounce on her, she gained entry to my apartment and stole back the booklet! When my landlady said she appeared to be a poor huckster shivering in the autumn cold, I realized I had actually walked past her on my way out!

    Even more concerned for young Enola now, fearing that she might indeed be indigent, I concentrated my search on the slums, where one freezing winter night I met the Sister of the Streets, a mute nun enveloped in a black habit who ministered to the poor. Indeed, she fed me a biscuit. Shortly thereafter, this nun delivered a swooning lady into my arms and tersely told me the identity of the villain who had harmed her. Recognizing the mute nun’s voice, I realized to my utmost shock that the Sister was my sister! I tried to seize her, but she fended me off with a dagger and disappeared into the night. All the police in London failed to find her. Returning, defeated, to my flat in the morning, I found her discarded habit there! The brass, the nerve, the sheer daring of her, she had hidden in my own rooms while I was out looking for her!

    And, by the way, in order to rescue the lady, she had quite savaged a murderous villain with her dagger. Evidently my sister, Enola, could take care of herself, but drat the girl, she could not be allowed to grow up wild on the London streets. I simply had to rescue her. Yet despite my best efforts, winter dragged into spring with nary a sign of her.

    Then my attention was all seized by the inexplicable disappearance of my dear friend Dr. Watson. For a week I neither ate nor slept, nor did my brother, Mycroft, but we could not find a sign of him. Indeed, it was not we who saved him, but our sister! A message in the newspapers led us straight to poor Watson where he was being held captive in a lunatic asylum, and the message was signed E. H.—Enola Holmes.

    Quite humbled, I had no idea how she accomplished this feat.

    Nor did I have any idea where in London she lived or how she sustained herself day to day. But, gentle reader, please recall the swooning lady she had once delivered into my arms. Shortly after Watson’s return, that same lady fell victim to a forced-marriage scheme, and I was retained to save her. This involved a surreptitious nighttime visit to the mansion where I had reason to think she was being held captive. All dressed in black, with my face darkened, I stole into the back garden—and seemingly stepped off a precipice! Hitting the bottom of what turned out to be quite a deep trench, I badly hurt my ankle.

    And my pride. One does not expect to encounter a sunk fence in the heart of the city, yet there I was caught in one, unable to even attempt to climb out. Already my ankle had swollen so greatly that, seated on comfortless rocks, I had to take my penknife and cut my bootlaces in order to get the boot off. Struggling to do so in utter darkness, I swore under my breath.

    A girlishly distinctive voice above my head teased, Shame on you.

    I am sure my jaw dropped. So great was my shock that it quite strangled me for a moment before I was able to gasp, Enola?

    Yes, it was she, tossing down brandy and bandages to me, then swarming up a seemingly impossible tree with a rope, of all things, between her teeth. Securing it, she came thumping down like an oversized monkey on the far side of the trench in which I remained entrapped. I expected her to give me the rope so I could get out, but no, she started to go gallivanting off by herself to free the imprisoned lady, and I might be languishing in that pit to this day if it were not that the lord of the manor came out with a shotgun and fired upon us! In the duress of the next few moments I found Enola helping me out of the trench, up and over the fence, and away, my injured foot so useless that I must needs cling to her shoulder to limp along. I am sure my brother, Mycroft, will never forgive or understand why, when we reached safety, I felt obliged to let her go, but gratitude and my sense of honour compelled me. We shook hands, my sister and I, and then like a wild moorland pony she shied away, her mane of hair flying, and ran for freedom. I was relieved to note that she wore a skirt, not trousers.

    Only two days later, she entrusted me with the care of the unfortunate lady after she saved her from forced marriage. Thereafter, I saw no more of my sister, except that quite by accident the next month I encountered her in the home of Florence Nightingale. Enola wore glasses, a mannish hat, inky gloves, and a dark, narrow dress to disguise herself as a scholar, but to my long-awaited credit, I recognized her at once. She fled. I chased her clear up to the top of the house, but she escaped through a window, down a mighty oak tree, and away like a hare.

    Simultaneously angry and admiring, I went about the business Miss Nightingale had engaged me for: finding a missing woman named Tupper. I made my inquiries, then the next night I got myself up like a poor rickety old greybeard and went scrounging around a certain grandiose house as if searching the gutters for farthings. Much amazed was I when a plainly dressed but obviously aristocratic lady crossed the road in front of me, strode up the walk, and smartly rapped the brass knocker. It was Enola! Unable to stop her before she entered that dangerous place, I made shift to watch her through the windows; indeed, such was my concern for her safety that I climbed the side of the house when she was escorted upstairs. As I clung to vines, my face pressed against the glass to see within, she looked straight at me and winked! I was so taken aback, I nearly lost my grip and fell. Thereafter, as was becoming deplorably customary, she outwitted me. As the front door burst open and I was busy engaging the villain in jujitsu, Enola disappeared out the back way along with, of course, the Tupper woman, whom she conveyed to safety at the Nightingale house.

    The next day, from shouted conversation through an ear trumpet, I pieced together that the pitiful, deaf, and ancient Mrs. Tupper had been Enola’s landlady, and with some mental excitement I deduced that Enola might visit her at the Nightingale residence. Thereafter I lurked in wait for her, along with a companion named Reginald. Dozens of people entered the Nightingale home daily, and on the lookout for my plain-faced sister, I paid no attention whatsoever to quite a lovely lady in an elaborate cerulean gown of three fabrics—but Reginald, my sister’s longtime pet collie, whined and pulled at the leash! I let him go bounding to her, and could scarcely believe it when the lady greeted the dog with laughter and tears, most unceremoniously sitting on the ground to hug him! When she saw me looking down at her, she smiled up into my face and willingly took my hand to arise. She sensed, I think, that I no longer looked down on her in any other sense of the phrase.

    Thus were we reunited. Not without complications; she gave me the slip again that selfsame day. But we remained in communication, and only a few days later I contrived to get her, in her most ladylike incognito, into the same cab as our brother, Mycroft. After spending an evening with his astonishing sister, helping her locate a missing duchess in the labyrinth of London’s dockyards, Mycroft came to much the same conclusions I had already reached:

    Enola did not need protection.

    Enola did not need to go to finishing school.

    Nor did Enola need to be married off. Indeed, heaven help any man who might be so unwary as to wed her.

    The next day, Enola’s fifteenth birthday, the three of us had tea and cake together at my flat. From a letter recently received, we now knew why our mother had run away: her days were numbered, she had spent them in freedom from society’s dictates, and she was now deceased. Enola shed a few tears, but her smiles were manifold; her mother was gone, but she had her brothers now. Mycroft had made peace with her, and I had grown to care for her. All was well.

    Or so I reflected to my satisfaction, quite blindly failing to foresee that she might go sticking her considerable nose into one of my cases …

    Chapter the First

    After my reconciliation with my brothers in the summer of 1889, I spent August quite happily with Reginald Collie, visiting Ferndell, my childhood home in the country. Moreover, after returning to London and my very safe albeit somewhat Spartan room at the Professional Women’s Club, I purchased a delightful new dress, apricot foulard with slightly puffed shoulders and a narrow gored skirt, which disguised me as no one but my slender self! At last, and most fortuitously, the hourglass figure was going out of style—just when I no longer required bosom enhancers and hip transformers to conceal myself from Sherlock and Mycroft! Eagerly I looked forward to seeing them again as the authentic Enola Holmes.

    But days became a week, then a fortnight; August became September, yet I did not hear from

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