A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [77]
“Right you are, miss.”
I could, of course, have asked Mycroft to retrieve a more complete account of the police investigation into Iris Fitzwarren’s murder, and in fact I did think about it, for perhaps five seconds. I had become involved in this whole affair through a friend, and if there was a case here, it was mine, not Holmes’. Veronica’s safety was now a personal responsibility, and I had no intention of allowing Holmes to talk me out of carrying it through in my own way.
My goal for the evening was Inspector John Lestrade, the only person I knew to any degree within Scotland Yard. Holmes knew Lestrade professionally, had worked with his father numerous times in the Baker Street days, and I had met Lestrade two years before when he had been “in charge” of the investigation into the attempted murders of Mr S. Holmes, Miss M. Russell, and Dr J. Watson. (Needless to say, Holmes and I had solved the problem; Scotland Yard took the credit.)
Unfortunately, Lestrade was not involved in the Iris Fitzwarren case. Even if he had been, I could hardly ring him up casually and expect him to answer my questions for the sake of some dubious old times. Indeed, considering the impression I’d left him with, I knew that if he were told that Mary Russell was waiting outside his office, he very probably would go out the back entrance. No, a subtler approach was required.
When the hideous building was in sight, I tapped on the glass and signalled the driver that I wished to stop on the river side of the road. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and came around to speak with me.
“Driver, we need to wait here for a few minutes. I wish to intercept a friend who will be coming out soon, but I… I cannot go in to meet him, his… colleagues might not approve. Do you take my meaning?” I met his eyes, and by the dim light, he gave me a grin, though not the knowing leer I was braced for.
“Yes, miss. Will he be expecting you?”
“My good man, you have a ready grasp of the essentials, I see. No, he is not expecting me. Would you mind awfully…”
“Just tell me what your friend looks like, miss, and leave it to me.”
Something in my description changed his knowing expression to one of discreet puzzlement. (Lestrade’s height, perhaps, compared with mine? Or was it the phrase “like a ferret, or rat”?) However, he took up his lounging position readily enough, and when Lestrade appeared (at 5:20, not 5:15, as I had estimated, but with the resentful irritation I had expected to see in his shoulders, from the ducal telephone call that had not come), the driver pushed away from the wall, looked towards the car for my white flag of confirmation, and dodged across the heavy bridge traffic to approach the inspector. Captions were unnecessary in the pantomime that followed, and it ended with Lestrade, puzzled and wary and still irritated, following the driver to the cab.
He put his head in and ran an experienced eye over me.
“Now, miss, what’s all this your driver’s been telling me about?” His eyes had reached my face again, and this time they stopped there. He leant forward, squinting, and then his ill-shaven jaw dropped. “My God. You’re—Miss Russell, I never expected to see—is Mr Holmes—” He jerked his head back out the door, leaving his hat inside, but when the now frankly baffled driver failed to metamorphise into the éminence grise of a purportedly retired consulting detective, Lestrade looked back inside and cleared his throat.
“Why, Miss Russell, I doubt I’d have recognised you on the street. You’ve, er, you’ve changed.” Such acuity had led Holmes to his renowned high opinion of the official police. I had to admit, however, that the colourful flapper in the dark taxi did bear only a passing resemblance to the gangly, ill-dressed nineteen-year-old he had last seen.
“Full marks, Inspector, although I believe that the first time we met, I was in evening dress. But I agree, it has been quite a while.” I held his hat out to him.
He took it, glanced a last time at my silken ankles, and withdrew his gaze to my face and his thoughts to my presence.
“You wanted