A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [108]
“No proof of one, but it has to be with the woman herself.”
“Oh God. It always comes back to Margery.”
“It does.” He started to say something, then changed his mind. We sat in another patch of silence, until another thing that had to be said forced itself onto my tongue.
“You were right, Holmes, Tuesday—at the house. Inspector Dakins would have seen only the addict’s symptoms and not have listened to anything else. I hated that, having you give me… I hated it.”
“You hated me.”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“My shoulders are broad,” he said easily.
“So, who is he?” I asked.
“He does not own that house. It was let, six months ago, to a man using the name Calvin Franich.”
“Does Mr Franich have a small scar on his upper lip?”
“The estate agent said yes, he did. The interesting thing is, Scotland Yard knows of another gentleman with a small scar on his upper right lip and another in his left eyebrow. He calls himself Claude Franklin.”
“Mr Franklin being…”
“A rather mysterious gentleman with fingers in any number of shadowy pies. He made a beginning, you may be interested to know, in convincing elderly widows to leave him a little something when they died. He disappeared from this country in 1912, as things were becoming a bit warm for him, and survived the war quite nicely by importing illicit goods to the Mediterranean. Recently, his name has been linked with drugs being smuggled into the south of France, and he seems to have slipped quietly into England some time in the last year. Very low-key, very clever, very dangerous, was Scotland Yard’s verdict. They weren’t happy to hear he’s come home.”
“I should think not.”
“Has that restored your appetite?”
“Do you know, I believe it has. Not for great quantities, however.”
“But an intensity of flavours. It is not your stomach that abhors the idea of food, if I may be allowed to mention that indelicate organ, but your palate. I have discovered a new establishment run by a chronically unsuccessful cracksman who was fortunately employed in the governor’s kitchen during his last spell. He has found his calling. You shall begin with the prosciutto—no, not pork. Ah yes, the baked pear and Stilton, that ought to awaken your taste buds. And then a bowl of his onion soup—he makes it with a touch of garlic and a particularly interesting cheese grated on top—with a nice young Côtes du Rhône, I think, and perhaps if you’re up to it a sole almondine with a glass of sparkling white wine—”
“You have convinced me. However, Holmes,” I said gravely, “before we go any further, there is something I have to know. I realise this may not be the ideal time, but it is necessary that I ask, because my mind has dwelt much on the question while I was locked in the darkness, and if I do not bring it up now, I may never nerve myself up to it.” I looked down at my gloved hands, choosing my words with care. “These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit that I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer.” I looked up into his face. “The question I have for you, then, Holmes, is this: How are the fairies in your garden?”
By the yellow streetlights, I saw the trepidation that had been building up in his face give way to a flash of relief, then to the familiar signs of outrage: the bulging eyes, the purpling skin, the thin lips. He cleared his throat.
“I am not a man much given to violence,” he began, calmly enough, “but I declare that if that man Doyle came before me today, I should be hard-pressed to avoid trouncing him.