A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [90]
“At the moment, I fear, I am more in need of skills domestic than investigative. I am cold, Holmes, and I am hungry.” I could not, of course, see his expression, but I did not think he smiled at my unintentionally plaintive words. He just turned and, tucking my right arm through his left one, began to stroll into the curry yellow night.
He did not even demand speech of me, but as we made our way—or rather, as he surefootedly steered me—through what my ears and nose told me were streets punctuated by narrow and unsavoury passageways, he told me a lengthy tale of a long-ago experiment into sensory deprivation—namely, living for eight unbroken weeks as a blind man, wearing completely opaque lenses and led about by the young urchin Billy.
At a conjunction of walls which, if invisible, had a familiar feel in its echoes, Holmes took out a key and the wall again opened. I greeted the Constable politely and the Vernet as an old friend, ate the food Holmes set before me, drank the brandy he pressed into my hand, and allowed myself to be pushed into the bedroom. The door shut behind me, and with neither qualms nor questions, I let the remnants of the elves’ handiwork slither to the floor and sank with immense gratitude beneath the bedclothes, and slept.
* * *
SIXTEEN
Saturday, 22 January
Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice, or representation.
—Abigail Adams (1774-1818)
« ^ »
I woke to find a valise containing clothing from my flat just inside the door. I scorned the silks for the moment in favour of a dressing gown I found in the wardrobe, so old that the thread had abandoned the quilted cuffs and collar, but quite long enough to cover my extremities; Holmes was seated in front of his fire, a cup at his elbow, a pipe in his hand, a book on his knee.
“Interior domestic,” I remarked. “Portrait of an amateur at rest. What time is it?”
“Nearly ten.”
“Good heavens, how sybaritic of me.”
“Shocking,” he agreed. “Tea or coffee?”
“Is there milk?”
“There is.”
“All the comforts. Tea, and I’ll make it. A scene as picturesque as the one you occupy must not be broken.”
My arm gave off twinges as I reached for pot and canister, but nowhere near so much as I had anticipated. I hadn’t realised Holmes was watching me until he commented.
“The cut is not troublesome, I see.”
“No, happily enough. It burns, of course, but I was lucky.”
“More so than your assailant. He is dead.”
“What? But I didn’t… Ah. Murdered.”
“In his hospital bed, at four o’clock this morning. Not by the sword he lived by, I fear, and the hospital declares itself uncertain until the autopsy, but even they are aware that villains rarely drop dead of natural causes under such circumstances. Someone in a hospital coat with a needle or a pillow, no doubt while the constable was away fetching tea.” He was annoyed rather than disturbed.
“Fast work. Inspector Richmond will be livid. Do you want a cup?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll cook your breakfast when you’re ready.”
He was quite the perfect host, producing on cue boiled eggs, toast and marmalade, tinned peaches, and coffee. Beyond that, he was the Sherlock Holmes of old, my friend and compatriot. We had not, I realised, had a great deal of time for simply chatting since I had gone up to Oxford at the beginning of the previous October, and we made up for some of the missed conversation that morning. His monographs and my papers took a solid hour, to say nothing of his bees, his chemical experiments, and the latest developments in forensic pathology, always an exciting topic.
There was actually little need for a conference with Holmes, and as he expressed little interest in what bits of hard information I had gleaned, I began