“Well… who else?” said Irene.
“So nice of you to pour me some,” said Holmes, settling into my old seat. “I never drink it, so don’t be offended, but it’s nice to feel included.”
“Exactly,” said Lestrade.
With Holmes’s overlong legs taking up practically half the table, I was forced to wedge myself in between Irene and Lestrade. Lestrade did his best to accommodate me, but made sure to jab me with his bony knee whenever he felt I was crowding him. Irene did nothing of the sort. Though she could easily have afforded me about a foot of free room, she made sure her soft calf was resting against my cheek. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was smiling.
“The only thing is, I rather expected Watson,” said Holmes. “See? The note says: Holmes, go to Elridge’s farm near East Ruston in Norfolk and collect Mr. Abe Slaney. Bring him to Thistle Wig Inn at 5:30. Very important. Make sure to tell him Elsie Cubitt sends her regards when you meet him. And it’s signed Watson.”
I stifled a moan. Above the table, I heard Lestrade smack his hand to his brow. And why not? It was clear Irene Adler had not been above avenging the death of her friend. How well she’d carried it off! Holmes had been utterly unaware of the threat he was delivering to Abe Slaney. Slaney would have been shocked and taken aback, no doubt. But to a practiced killer like him, what threat would the unarmed and unescorted Holmes seem to present? How could he have known—when he inevitably made his attempt on Holmes’s life—that he was picking a fight with the single most dangerous creature on earth.
“Oh no,” Lestrade groaned. “What did you do to him?”
“I? Nothing. How dare you imply such a thing?”
“Well, where is he then? Why did you not bring him as the note commanded?”
“I did bring him,” Holmes huffed. “I mean… mostly.”
“Holmes… no…” said Lestrade in his most defeatist tone.
“Some of him got on the walls and a great deal soaked into the carpet, but most of him is in that bag, right down there. All the biggest chunks I could find.”
“Damn it, Holmes.”
“Well it wasn’t my fault! He got rather out of sorts when I mentioned that Elsie woman. Really, by the time I knew what was going on, he was in pieces. I was rather hoping Watson could explain. You’re sure he’s not here?”
“What? Watson? Here? No. Watson? No,” Lestrade spluttered.
I could feel Irene’s legs shift as she leaned across the table to pat Holmes’s hand and tell him, “I’m afraid I have misled you, Warlock. I wrote the note. I needed to see you. And I needed to move against Slaney. I feared that if I signed my own name, you would not come. But I knew if you thought the instructions came from Watson, you would not fail me.”
“Oh,” said Holmes. “Well, apparently you were correct, for here I am. Dashed clever of you, really. And I suppose it explains the sudden change in Watson’s… you know… penmanship.”
Lestrade shook his head. “But how did you know where to send Holmes? How did you find Slaney?”
“Simple,” said Irene. “The correspondence which you had in your possession was… um… delivered to me this morning while I was in the guise of Inspector Martin. One said, ‘Elsie, prepare to meet thy God.’ That must have been the one she received yesterday that made her rather keen for a sudden vacation. It also explains why Hilton Cubitt was dressed and armed at three in the morning—he must have been waiting for Slaney. One of the others said, ‘Am here, at Elridge’s. Come Elsie.’ So Abe must have tried bargaining first, which is like him. I asked if there might be an inn called Elridge’s nearby and was told there was not, but a local farmer of that name took in boarders. I then had what I needed. When it was clear I could be of no further aid to Elsie than by avenging her, I took my leave, wrote to Holmes, then sat back and waited.”
“So, Watson was never here, then?” Warlock asked with a tinge of disappointment.
“Watson?” Lestrade blurted. “No. Hey. Ha-ha! Why do you keep mentioning Watson?”
“Yes…” said Irene, and I could practically feel her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why do you?”
I rather did not care for her to be pursuing that line of questioning—a fact that I had no way of communicating to her verbally. Nor did I wish to indicate my reticence by touch, given that the only areas of Irene Adler I currently had access to were deemed rather off-limits by every law of propriety. Well… nearly. I began earnestly slapping the tips of her toes to get her to desist. Instead, she gave me a little shin-kick that bounced my head off Lestrade’s knee and asked Holmes, “Has something happened between you and Watson?”
How I burned with embarrassment to hear her ask it. So funny… I would tell the world what happened to me—complain of my treatment to any who wished to listen—but it flooded my heart with shame and horror to know Irene Adler would find out.
“No,” Warlock pouted. “Something happened between you and Watson. He got so fixated on you he began poisoning himself with magic, just to learn more about you. I couldn’t keep him safe, so I had to get rid of him. He’s happily married now and living somewhere near Paddington Station.”
“He’s what?” Irene cried, and the legs were suddenly removed from my cheek and whisked away to the other side of her chair. How odd... Matrimonial status mattered to the most blatant temptress I’d ever met? I hadn’t expected her to dwell on such formalities.
“I’m afraid he’s not cut out for this life,” said Holmes, with a sigh. “He’s not fast, like Lestrade, or tough, like Grogsson. He’s got no magical powers whatsoever…”
“No,” said Lestrade, jumping in to defend me, which was not something
