“You have convinced me. However, Holmes,” I said gravely, “before we go any further, there is something I have to know. I realise this may not be the ideal time, but it is necessary that I ask, because my mind has dwelt much on the question while I was locked in the darkness, and if I do not bring it up now, I may never nerve myself up to it.” I looked down at my gloved hands, choosing my words with care. “These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit that I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer.” I looked up into his face. “The question I have for you, then, Holmes, is this: How are the fairies in your garden?”
By the yellow streetlights, I saw the trepidation that had been building up in his face give way to a flash of relief, then to the familiar signs of outrage: the bulging eyes, the purpling skin, the thin lips. He cleared his throat.
“I am not a man much given to violence,” he began, calmly enough, “but I declare that if that man Doyle came before me today, I should be hard-pressed to avoid trouncing him.” The image was a pleasing one, two gentlemen on the far side of middle age, one built like a greyhound and the other like a bulldog, engaging in fisticuffs. “It is difficult enough to surmount Watson’s apparently endless blather in order to have my voice heard as a scientist, but now, when people hear my name, all they will think of is that disgusting dreamy-eyed little girl and her preposterous paper cutouts. I knew the man was limited, but I did not even suspect that he was insane!”
“Oh, well, Holmes,” I drawled into his climbing voice, “look on the bright side. You’ve complained for years how tedious it is to have everyone with a stray puppy or a stolen pencil box push through your hedges and tread on the flowers; now the British Public will assume that Sherlock Holmes is as much a fairy tale as those photographs and will stop plaguing you. I’d say the man’s done you a great service.” I smiled brightly.
For a long minute, it was uncertain whether he was going to strike me dead for my impertinence or drop dead himself of apoplexy, but then, as I had hoped, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard.
Suddenly, without warning, I found myself turning to him, leaning into him until my face was buried in the lapels of his coat. “Oh God, Holmes. I was so frightened. Even now, the thought that He is out there somewhere paralyses me with terror.” We stood together for a long moment, and he cleared his throat.
“There is only one solution, you know, Russell.”
“Yes. I know.” His white evening scarf was soft against my cheek, and he smelt of wool and tobacco. I sighed, and stood away from him, only peripherally aware of his hands falling back to his sides. “I seem to have spent the last few weeks running away from things. I can’t very well do it now.”
“You will not be alone,” he said quietly. And indeed, from that moment on I was not. I tucked my arm into his, and in amity we walked out of the park and caught a cab.
What the walk and the conversation had begun, the food finished, though what had helped most was having my anger redirected at its rightful target. After eating, we walked through nearby Covent Garden and then up to my flat, where I made coffee and we sat talking and I dozed off in front of the fire. Holmes woke me and sent me to my bed, where I slept, not for long, but deeply. I woke and put on my dressing gown to prowl the dark flat that smelt now of Holmes’ tobacco, but the restlessness of the day before was controllable now, and the shame something to be acknowledged and not dwelt upon. I made myself some warm milk with a grating of nutmeg and stood at the window, watching the empty street below. After a while, the beat constable appeared, reaching for doorknobs, shining his light into corners, quite unprepared for any of the evil things that might befall him, but solidly, stolidly, reassuringly English. He passed on. I finished my drink and, walking past the smell of a pipe, returned to bed, and to sleep.
“Are you quite certain you feel up to it, Russell?” Holmes pressed.
In answer, I held my hand outstretched over the breakfast table. Steady as a rock, I noted proudly, and then noticed for the first time what Holmes was wearing.
“Where did you find the dressing gown, Holmes?”
“Lent me by the good Mr Quimby.”
“Good of him. I was afraid they might be offended, an unchaperoned female and a male guest.”
“I told the missus I was a bodyguard, and she had no further qualms. Women find me reassuring.”
In the general run of things, Holmes was as reassuring as a shark, but I said nothing, applying myself to the eggs and the toast that tasted of actual food again.
“You wish to begin at once?” he asked again.
“Of course. We’ve no time to waste.”
“Do not expect to be fully yourself for some days, Russell,” he warned.
“I’ll try not to fight off more than six thugs at a time. Joke, Holmes, only a joke. There isn’t anyone in the Temple to fight, anyway, not at night. The guard is a drowsy old man.”
“Miss Childe has taken on bodyguards, one or another of whom follows her about during the day.” I looked up at him quickly, Mrs. Q’s excellent eggs turning to pap in my mouth.
“And at night?”
“Apparently, she dismisses him after her services, earlier on the other evenings. However, you’ll have to keep an eye out for the night guard, who prowls the Temple building itself.”
“Thanks for the warning. I can’t think she’d have him in the Temple overnight, though, and I’ll be away long before he reports for duty in the morning.”
“Take a gun.”
“I will not. It would be found, and I’ll not risk shooting a guard or even the tedious Marie just for the sake of your nerves.”
He was not happy, but left it.
“You’ve decided how you will get in, then?” he asked.
“I can hardly borrow a child or two, so I shall go as an unfortunate and very young lady of the evening, at odds with her procurer.”
“A prostitute beaten up by her pimp.”
“I’ll need foul teeth and a few fresh bruises. Which reminds me: What was it that you put on my wrist to make the fading bruises for the benefit of Inspector Dakins?”
“Algae from the water closet mixed with pipe cleanings. A pretty effect, is it not? I shall give you caps on two teeth and a yellow mouthwash I’ve been working on. It will stay on your tooth enamel even if you eat, although it won’t stand up to brushing. The taste is pretty appalling, I’m afraid.”
“I wouldn’t have expected any less.”
I rested during the middle of the day, and ate again. Holmes returned, given entrance by Q as I was scraping the last of the cheese from the plate. He deposited an armload of clothing and a stained and mottled canvas grip on the table with a fine disregard for propriety. I snatched up the underclothes and carried them away, then returned, to find him with a plate of his own.
“Thank you, Mrs Q,” I called.
“Wig, or dye?” he asked around a mouthful of lightly curried chicken.
“Dye, for safety. I haven’t been red for a while. A fiery redhead, that’s the job.”
The colouring was good enough to resemble a hennaed exaggeration of a natural red rather than a complete change in colour. Glasses, I should have to do without, carrying a pair in my pocket for the occasional peep. Skin lightened, two teeth capped and the rest stained with the revolting mixture. Mrs Q was seething with curiosity but said not a word. Holmes and I played chess and drank coffee all afternoon, and after a light, early supper, I went to dress.
The brassiere emphasised everything I hadn’t thought was there; the dress was pathetic, particularly with the weight I had lost in the last two weeks. I overdid my hair, then pulled half of it into disarray. Holmes helped me with the bruises and reddened one of my eyes, and I stood back, waiting for his approval. His face, though, was as closed as ever I had seen it, and his jaw tightened briefly before he spoke.
“I suppose I shall become accustomed to this eventually,” he muttered.
“I don’t plan to wear this sort of thing regularly, Holmes,” I protested.
“It’s not the clothing you wear; it’s the lion’s dens you insist on walking into. You’d best go, before I’m
