“This is highly irregular,” he spluttered.
“I don’t care!” I shouted back, searching my arm for a vein that might serve. “Three days ago, Hilton Cubitt was alive and well—a good man with a vibrant wife, whom he deeply loved. He asked for my help and I promised he would have it. And now, look how matters stand! I am ashamed and horrified! But I will be damned, sir, I will be double-dog-damned if I allow myself to fail Elsie! Ow, ow, ow!”
This last addition, of course, was due to the fact I had found a good vein and begun to withdraw as much blood as my humble syringe would accommodate—a process, by the way, not simplified by the act of shouting at somebody as one undertakes it. Thus began my battle for Elsie Cubitt’s life.
A short battle, it turned out, and not one that ended well. I walked out of that room twenty minutes later, my shoulders slumped, burning with anger and shame. Strange, how a defeat like that can take the wind from a man’s sails. Dr. Anders asked what I’d expected and said there was nothing I could have done. Inspector Martin stalked by me with an air of vengeful rage, which, luckily, did not seem to be directed at me.
Though it was yet early, I felt utterly exhausted. I sat in the sitting room for over an hour, I think, staring dumbly at the scene of the crime. What more could I do to solve this case and find justice for the Cubitts? Irene Adler was the most interesting loose thread, of course. Yet, as I knew from previous experience, a difficult one to hunt. I could do as Lestrade suggested and try to make sense of the lewd pictures. Then again, they were now in the custody of Stote and Martin. Oh, and speaking of Lestrade, I was going to have to go to him and eat my slice of humble pie. I could picture the gloating expression he’d wear as he reminded me of the trust he’d placed in me and what I’d let it come to.
No sense delaying it. I decided to head back to London. I was practically out the door before I realized I’d left my medical bag upstairs. I went back to the side of Elsie’s deathbed to gather up my tools. I got all my medical instruments packed away and reached for my service revolver. As I grasped it, I felt my fingers brush something unexpected. I was certain I’d placed the pistol upon the naked table. But no, there was a folded piece of paper beneath it.
Placing the pistol back in its pocket of my medical bag, I reached out, unfolded the paper and read:
John,
I can explain everything. Meet me at the Thistle Wig Inn, this afternoon at 5 o’ clock. I am staying in the suite.
Warm regards,
—I. A.
I leapt to my feet with a cry. It was her! I knew that writing well. I had a rather shocking photograph with an inscription in exactly the same handwriting, which I had spent… er… rather more time examining than a well-bred gentleman ought to have. Irene Adler was here! Or… she had been, recently. Very recently. How had she gotten in? She was unlikely to have broken in or snuck in. No, her method was impersonation and infiltration. Had she taken the place of one of the servants? Possibly. But would the actual servants not have pointed her out? On a day when one’s employers are murdered, one tends to distrust recent arrivals. Yet how could she have possibly presented herself as an outsider? Any stranger would stick out a mile, unless they were here on the grim business of the day. So…
Oh!
Damn!
I pelted down the stairs, crying, “Inspector Martin! Where is Inspector Martin?”
“Why?” asked Inspector Stote, who stood at the bottom landing, wearing his when-I-get-back-to-the-burrow-tonight-I’m-going-to-tell-all-my-furry-friends-John-Watson-is-crazy expression.
“Where is he?” I shouted, shaking Stote by his lapels.
“He went to send an urgent communication to London. Now, unhand me, if you pl—”
“What communication?”
“I don’t know! He didn’t tell me and I don’t know his ways. I’ve only just met the man.”
“That’s not a man.”
“What on earth are you speaking of?” Inspector Stote demanded.
“The eyes were brown!” I howled. “How did she get the eyes brown?”
Indeed, that was about the only question I had left. Green eyes—that’s how I’d always thought I could spot her—but she’d found a way to foil me. Yet now I understood why the good inspector had sported such a diminutive frame and why he’d stayed upstairs, displaying more interest in Elsie’s care than in solving his case. Now I understood that trickster’s grin she gave when she was glad someone had caught her little stoats and martens joke.
“You say he just left?” I asked Stote. “How? With what transportation? Do you know where he was headed?”
“No! Now, unhand me!”
Why not. The man was useless, clearly. I needed good information if I was to have a ghost’s chance of catching her. I stumbled out the front door to survey the scene. There, upon the step, who should I blunder into but Inspector Lestrade. He had apparently received
