A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [55]
I started by removing my gloves, shunning for the moment the obvious ruse of dropping one on the floor, and tucking my hair back into place. I sipped at my drink without gagging on the cloyingly sweet stuff, took a magazine from my handbag, and then let it fall shut after two minutes. I slipped my shoes off under the table and surreptitiously leant down to massage my feet, stared out the window at the receding tide of foot and vehicular traffic, froze in apprehension when the voices of the darts players erupted into anger, then gradually relaxed when the publican's wife put herself into the middle of it, turning it into a joke. After ten minutes, my glass was nearly empty, my eyes were smarting from the smoke and the fumes, and I was beginning to wonder how I could put myself any closer to Colonel Edwards without being obvious. I pulled off the heavy spectacles and folded them carefully on the table, then sat rubbing the bridge of my nose. There came a movement from behind me, male voices at the bar. I held my breath. If he decided to leave, I should have to play this all over again tomorrow. A dreary thought.
A large moving object came to a halt next to my left elbow. I took my face from my hands to look up, startled, at the man beside me, into a face ruddy with whisky and weather, a wide nose over a trimmed moustache, sand beginning to grey, that gave way to a full mouth and an ever so slightly weak chin. His expression was half-paternal, half-interested male. Ideal, I thought, if only he didn't look so much like Uncle John. Actually, it was the moustache that brought John Watson to mind, but I cautioned myself that I would have to beware of the affection I felt for Holmes' longtime partner and biographer. This man was not Uncle John.
He was holding out a glass, of the same sweet stuff I had been drinking. His smile broadened at my confusion, and I reached for my spectacles.
"I thought you might like a refill."
"Oh, well, yes, thank you. It's most kind of you, but I don't usually drink more than one."
"Well, you can't refuse a gift, can you? Besides, you looked all alone over here, and we can't have that, not at the Pig and Whistle."
"Oh no, I'm not all alone. I mean, I am alone, but not— oh dear, that's not coming out right, is it? Please sit down." I fumbled my shoes back on and straightened my back.
He placed his glass on the table and took possession of the chair across from me. He was a big man, not tall, but with broad shoulders and a bit of a belly to show for his intemperate habits. Erect bearing, still the military man.
"Colonel Dennis Edwards, at your service, miss." His hand sketched a humorous salute, and he grinned. Oh dear, I thought, what a very nice smile.
"Mary Small," I said, and held out my right hand to have the fingers shaken. Instead, he took my hand and raised it to his lips. I blushed. Yes, truly I did, although the wine helped. He was greatly amused.
"Miss Small— it is Miss, I trust?" I inclined my head. Direct lies were the most difficult, although Mary Small was not a married woman. "Miss Small, I don't believe I've seen you here before, have I?"
"No, I'm new to the area, Colonel Edwards."
"I thought as much. I didn't think I could overlook such a flower as yourself."
I did not know quite how to respond to this, and I decided that Mary Small did not know, either. I smiled awkwardly and sipped