A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [88]
“So, Miss Russell,” he said finally. “People in high places tell me you’re to be trusted. Do you think I ought to trust you?”
I reflected, shrugged, and winced. I couldn’t remember pulling my shoulder, but apparently I had.
“I don’t know at this point whether it matters or not,” I answered. He poked a stubby finger into the mound of paraphernalia on the desk blotter, things that had been politely but authoritatively removed from my person by a police matron. He chose one item—a set of picklocks—and examined it with expert fingers.
“Were there any injuries other than the scratch on your arm?” he asked politely.
“Nothing much. I have a bad shoulder.”
He studied first my left shoulder, then the other, and though his jolly façade gave nothing away, I thought he knew quite well who I was and why my shoulder was bad. I had saved Holmes’ life, and my own, at the cost of a shattered collarbone. Two years later, chips of bone continued to work their way to the surface with depressing regularity. He nodded.
“Some of these things are illegal,” he continued conversationally.
“For the common citizen,” I agreed. “And some of them only become illegal when they are used.”
“Hmm. And you’re not a common citizen.”
“If I wanted to commit burglary, or even murder, Chief Inspector, I should hardly need to resort to bits of machinery.”
I met his eyes evenly.
“It wasn’t an accident, then,” he said after a moment.
“I told you it was not.”
“But you didn’t intend to break his arm.”
“I warned him clearly what would happen if he moved. And he moved. If he hadn’t attacked us with murder so obviously in mind, I might just have knocked him out. As it is, he’ll not be knifing women for some long time. One more thing, and then I will leave. Scotland Yard is looking into the murder of Iris Fitzwarren. You might offer them tonight’s little episode to chew on.”
I stood up and gathered my belongings.
“We will need to have you sign your statement, Miss Russell.”
“Tomorrow, Inspector. I’ll come in in the morning. Just, please, don’t let that man get away from you.”
“No,” he said simply. I felt a tiny flicker of warmth for the man. “Until tomorrow, then, Miss Russell.”
“Good evening, Chief Inspector.”
My reputation, or more probably that of Holmes, had followed close on my heels, and the path through the station was lined with curious eyes. At least there were no reporters to battle and outwit, and before I got to the front entrance, I knew there would be none waiting outside, either.
The fog had closed in. Such a mild monosyllable, fog, for London’s own particular brand of purgatory, this greasy, burning, indescribably thick yellow miasma that seared the nose and fouled the lungs, rotted clothing and blackened buildings, caused hundreds of deaths by mishaps and brought the proud capital of an empire stumbling literally to its knees.
I made my way out the door and down the remembered four steps, patted my way down the front of the station a few feet, and allowed my shoulders to slump back against the bricks. God, I was tired, weary to the marrow of my bones. My right shoulder ached with the damp and the wrenching it had received, the two cuts on my left arm throbbed along with it, and my head pounded with the reaction of violence, received and committed, followed by two hours of verbal fencing with Inspector Richmond, with nothing in my stomach but sour Camp coffee. I leant my poor trampled hat back against the wall, aware of a trembling that threatened to surface from deep within my body, and tried to summon the energy to walk one and a half blind miles