A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [103]
“How long since you ate?”
“I don’t know. Not long. I’m not hungry.”
“Inspector Dakins will want to interview you when you’ve rested.”
“God. Not today.”
“He will insist, I’m afraid, unless you’re unconscious in hospital.”
“Perhaps we might arrange that,” I groaned, and his face lightened a trifle. For the first time, I noticed his appearance: gaunt, grey, and ill-shaven. Even his shirt collar looked tired, a highly unusual circumstance. Before I could rouse the energy to comment, he turned to go into the next room, where I heard the roar of the geyser starting up and the rush of water into the bath. He came out in a cloud of flower-scented steam.
“Can you manage?”
“Yes. I’m fine, Holmes, just feel a bit feverish, that is all.”
“Shall I stay here, or hunt down your clothing?”
“I am fine, I tell you. By all means, find my clothes.” I told him what I had been wearing. “And my specs. Just—don’t lock the door.”
It was an admission, but he did not comment, just said, “No.”
In the bathroom, I agonised over the key, eventually forcing myself to close the door and leave it unlocked. I placed the key on the tiles below the bath, stripped and stuffed the filthy underclothes along with my captor’s things into the waste bin, and eased myself into the hot, foam-covered water. I did not care to examine my body overclosely, but I did notice that the knife wounds, at least, received defending Margery in another lifetime, had healed to clean pink lines.
The heat helped, but I kept my eye on the door, and jerked when there was movement in the adjoining room.
“Russell? May I enter?” Of course: that was why he’d used such a liberal hand with the foaming bath salts. I was quite thoroughly hidden from view. I gave him permission. He placed some familiar garments on the dressing table, brought my glasses over and put them on a chair within reach, looked through some drawers and came up with a silver comb, which he put with my clothes, and turned to the door.
“Holmes? How long has it been?”
“You were taken from the train late on the twenty-second. It is now February first.” He paused, to see if I had further questions, and then left.
He remained in the next room, although I knew he would rather be asking questions of the thugs and the servants and uprooting clues the officials were missing, if not destroying.
Twice, I heard a knock and a brief conversation at the corridor, several times the ting of a cup and saucer. I scrubbed my pores, washed my hair several times, until the tangled mass was at least clean, and ran hotter and hotter water in, but to no avail. I pulled the stopper, and as soon as I climbed out, I began to shiver. Familiar clothes helped. Putting my glasses on and having a world of bright, focused, everyday objects around me helped. But still I shivered. I took my borrowed comb into the next room. Holmes raised his eyes from a book.
“Do you think we might build up the fire?” I asked, teeth chattering. “Just until my hair dries?”
We soon had a blazing fire, but although I practically sat in it as well as wrapping myself in a blanket, I could not feel warm. Holmes carried over a small table with another cup of tea on it and sat down across from me. I took up the comb and set about pulling it through my snarled hair, but succeeded only in making it worse.
“Accusations are being made against you,” he said abruptly.
“Accusations?” I said absently. “Damn, I’m just going to have to cut it all off.”
Holmes stood up impatiently. “Give me the comb,” he ordered, and standing behind my chair, he proceeded to tease the snarls out with none of the awkward jabs of the uninitiated that tangle a comb in long hair, but holding the heavy, wet mass in his left hand while the right stroked its way bit by bit towards the scalp with quick, expert movements. Not the first time he had done this, I thought, and felt myself shiver again.
“By the four men downstairs,” he continued after a while. “They are claiming that you are a drug addict.”
“I suppose,” I said, “they have a point.”
“That you came here