me, drank the brandy he pressed into my hand, and allowed myself to be pushed into the bedroom. The door shut behind me, and with neither qualms nor questions, I let the remnants of the elves’ handiwork slither to the floor and sank with immense gratitude beneath the bedclothes, and slept.
SIXTEEN
Saturday, 22 January
—Abigail Adams (1774-1818)
I woke to find a valise containing clothing from my flat just inside the door. I scorned the silks for the moment in favour of a dressing gown I found in the wardrobe, so old that the thread had abandoned the quilted cuffs and collar, but quite long enough to cover my extremities; Holmes was seated in front of his fire, a cup at his elbow, a pipe in his hand, a book on his knee.
“Interior domestic,” I remarked. “Portrait of an
“Nearly ten.”
“Good heavens, how sybaritic of me.”
“Shocking,” he agreed. “Tea or coffee?”
“Is there milk?”
“There is.”
“All the comforts. Tea, and I’ll make it. A scene as picturesque as the one you occupy must not be broken.”
My arm gave off twinges as I reached for pot and canister, but nowhere near so much as I had anticipated. I hadn’t realised Holmes was watching me until he commented.
“The cut is not troublesome, I see.”
“No, happily enough. It burns, of course, but I was lucky.”
“More so than your assailant. He is dead.”
“
“In his hospital bed, at four o’clock this morning. Not by the sword he lived by, I fear, and the hospital declares itself uncertain until the autopsy, but even they are aware that villains rarely drop dead of natural causes under such circumstances. Someone in a hospital coat with a needle or a pillow, no doubt while the constable was away fetching tea.” He was annoyed rather than disturbed.
“Fast work. Inspector Richmond will be livid. Do you want a cup?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll cook your breakfast when you’re ready.”
He was quite the perfect host, producing on cue boiled eggs, toast and marmalade, tinned peaches, and coffee. Beyond that, he was the Sherlock Holmes of old, my friend and compatriot. We had not, I realised, had a great deal of time for simply chatting since I had gone up to Oxford at the beginning of the previous October, and we made up for some of the missed conversation that morning. His monographs and my papers took a solid hour, to say nothing of his bees, his chemical experiments, and the latest developments in forensic pathology, always an exciting topic.
There was actually little need for a conference with Holmes, and as he expressed little interest in what bits of hard information I had gleaned, I began to suspect that the reason for his presence outside the police station had been less the business he had claimed than—what was the alternative? Pleasure?
When eventually I rose to dress, I had forgotten about the rip in my arm and brushed painfully against the back of the chair. Holmes insisted on looking at it then. I hesitated, as beneath the dressing gown, I was wearing only my silk underclothing, but then I thought, Don’t be stupid, Russell, he’s seen you in a lot less than this. Still, I submitted to his ministrations with a heightened awareness of his fingers on my arm, although, for his part, he seemed unaware of a change, simply fitting a clean dressing across the rapidly healing cut as if the arm being serviced were his own.
I told myself firmly that I preferred it this way.
Certainly by the time we left the bolt-hole, we were friends again, which counted for a great deal.
The owner of the office building where Holmes had established his refuge was an enlightened employer, and the Saturday half day was so scrupulously observed that the place was all but deserted by two in the afternoon. I put a ladder in my stockings climbing out of the wardrobe (no wonder women got in the habit of allowing themselves to be handed in and out of places, with the sorts of clothing we have been forced to wear).
We returned to the station, where I signed the statement for Inspector Richmond and managed to slip away before he could question me further regarding a death I knew nothing about. That task completed, we strolled along to the nearest Lyons for coffee, a cheery place that struck me as an incongruous setting for Holmes until I thought of its anonymity. Outside on the pavement, he seemed oddly reluctant to part.
“You’ll have that arm looked at in a day or two?”
“I said I would, Holmes.”
“You’re certain you don’t want me to…”
“Holmes, it’s only a week. Six days. Veronica is safe; I’m already entrenched in the Temple. I don’t want you to dress up as a cleaning woman. As soon as I’ve finished with the presentation, I’ll come back to work.”
“I don’t like it,” he burst out.
“Holmes, hands off! You said yourself, this is my investigation—this side of it, at any rate. See what luck you have with solving the two other deaths. That should be a challenge even for you, deaths classified as accidents months ago. I give you a week, and then we can both tackle the Temple in an all-out effort.”
His narrowed eyes followed a brewer’s dray negotiating a turn into a narrow alleyway. He shook his head.
“I’ve never taken orders, from anyone,” he muttered, almost too low to hear.
“High time then, Holmes,” I pronounced with asperity. “I may be in town Tuesday or Wednesday; otherwise, I’ll see you on Saturday morning at the flat.” I turned and walked away.
I had less success with Margery, who had regained what small amount of equanimity she had lost and now dismissed the danger. I reasoned, I pled, and finally I lost my temper and shouted at her, but without the slightest effect. She maintained that the attack had been a fluke and insisted she was in no danger; she would not restrict her movements or hire a bodyguard. I charged to my feet and loomed over her.
“I have not to this point considered you a stupid woman, but I am rapidly changing my mind. You obviously don’t care about your own skin, but what about mine? I could have been killed. A quarter of an inch more and I could have lost the strength of my writing hand. What about next time? Who will be with you then? What will she lose? A pretty coat? Or her life? Margery, ask Inspector Richmond to recommend a bodyguard—only for a week or two, until they solve it. Martyrdom is great for the ego, but I personally have always considered it a waste.”
She sat rigid, debating whether or not to have Marie throw me out, but she did hear my words, and after a while she wilted.
