A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [104]
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Holmes.” I stood up and moved away from his hands, wrapping the blanket more firmly about myself, walking aimlessly about the room. I dipped my hand inside the pocket of my skirt, found the handkerchief I’d put there ten days before, and wiped my nose.
“Of course. However, your behaviour over the last weeks has been notably unusual; you have taken to moving with a group of people of whom at least one is a known heroin user and addict; you have suddenly inherited a large amount of money and seem to have taken on yourself the way of life that often does go with experimentation with drugs. To the good inspector downstairs, knowing this as he does, the marks on your arm will be damning enough. When he witnesses the display of symptoms you are currently beginning to demonstrate, he will very possibly try to arrest you.” I turned and stared at him, speechless. “Yours is a remarkably… advanced reaction, considering the number of days you have been away.”
“After the accident, six years ago, they used a lot of it. It was thought to be less addictive than morphine.”
“Yes. It was a very popular cough medicine. You would not, though, care to explain to the good inspector the sources of the predisposition that was then carved into your nervous system.” His hand went inside his coat and came out holding the same long, narrow velvet case, loathsome and thrilling, that I had seen some four dozen times now. His eyes were completely without judgement as he held my gaze. Finally, as if in a dream, I began to pull up the sleeve on my blouse. He went to lock the door, then returned with a snowy handkerchief in his hand, which he whirled into a rope. I extended my arm, and he wound his impromptu tourniquet around my upper arm.
“Hold that,” he ordered as he picked up the case. The syringe was already prepared, as I had always seen it, its plunger pulled back. Holmes examined it.
“He seems to have readied this just before we arrived. He usually gave you the full amount?”
“Yes.” My voice slipped slightly. Holmes did not appear to notice.
“I shall give you half,” he said, and brought up the syringe, felt for the vein, and inserted it impeccably under the skin. He slid the plunger down halfway, removed the needle, plucked the kerchief from my fingers, and pressed it against the tiny puncture.
I closed my eyes and could not control my reaction, the stiffening of pleasure and the shudder as it rushed up from belly to brain. In a minute, I exhaled slowly and opened my eyes into the grey ones of my dearest friend, and I saw in them the terrible reflection of fading pleasure and all the concern that the features did not reveal. I looked at him for a long minute, then down at the table, to the syringe that lay there. I picked it up, wrapped my fist around it, held it high, drove the point of it hard into the immaculate polish of the wooden table, and rocked it back and forth until the needle broke, then replaced it on the silken rest, closed the box, and held it out to Holmes. His face had not changed, but the worry had left his eyes.
Holmes finished combing my damp hair. I pinned it into a severe chignon, ate two biscuits and a piece of cheese, and went downstairs, with Holmes at my side. Inspector Dakins was interrogating one of the thugs, and my flesh began to crawl. Holmes did not give him a chance to speak.
“Inspector, do I understand that accusations have been made against Miss Russell to the effect that she voluntarily and repeatedly injected herself with heroin?”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes,” said the policeman carefully. “Mr. Bigley here was just telling me.”
“Too right, I seen her all the time. Made no try to hide it, she didn’t.” The contrived innocence of his face and voice contrasted grotesquely with the leer in his eyes and the vivid recollection of the abuse he had thrown at me. I fought the urge to crawl behind