Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [60]
Holmes narrowed his eyes, regarding the lady for an instant, then stabbed rapid glances at his brother and, lastly, the Prime Minister. A shadow of apprehension veiled his pale gaunt features. Shoulders settling back he assumed his old unique comportment of authority.
“Allow me a moment to propose my suspicions as to my role in this dubious matter,” he stated bluntly. “I take it that I have been engaged to locate and reveal the exact whereabouts of the infamous Professor George Edward Challenger, who — according to The Times — has been missing and is presumed dead these last twenty-seven months. I further infer that Mrs. Challenger believes that her husband is very much alive.”
The Prime Minister’s moustache visibly twitched in surprise.
“How in Hades did you guess that, sir?”
Holmes grimaced impatiently.
“I never guess,” he snapped.
Mycroft Holmes stamped a boot heel.
“Now see here, Sherlock — these theatrical antics of yours are heinously out of place,” the elder brother’s neck bloomed a deep crimson. “I assure you that this is a desperately secret matter of the very deepest concern for all of England. Why, the very lives of hundreds of thousands are at stake—”
The Prime Minister touched Mycroft Holmes upon the sleeve.
“Your brother never spoke more truly, sir,” his voice more grave by several degrees than mere moments before. “I demand to know exactly how you came by this information. If there has been some clandestine breach in our security I must know about it immediately.”
Sherlock Holmes turned his back upon the bristling mustache and resigned himself to an armchair. His hooded eyes nearly disguised his growing interest in the matter, though his mouth remained fixed and determined. Automatically, he lighted a cigarette and blew the blue smoke toward the lofty ceiling.
“You may call off our watchdogs, Mr. Prime Minister, the secrets of the Crown are quite safe for now.” Holmes exhaled with an exaggerated weariness. “You should be aware of my methods.”
The Prime Minister puffed his annoyance.
“You mean to say, sir, that this is more of your deductive reasoning nonsense,” his face was starting to purple.
Holmes allowed himself a slight smile.
“Is it nonsense to deduce, after being rather intimately aware of the workings of this government, that the presence of the presumed widow of a private scientific adventurer would suggest such an obvious inference? Why else would the lady be present within this selective company, were that not the case? As to Mrs. Challenger herself being convinced of her husband’s survival, well, that is also simplicity itself. The lady would be wearing black, certainly not the stylish dove-grey dress we all perceive, if she were, in fact, in genuine mourning.”
I noticed an immediate glint of affirmation in the lady’s dark, lustrous eyes and a considerable weight of the earlier anxiety had perceptibly eased from her proud, yet delicate, shoulders.
The Prime Minister regained his stalwart composure.
“I see,” he nodded. “Now that you’ve explained yourself, it’s really not so very clever at all. Well, sir, now that we understand each other—”
“There is one small detail I need to possess before we proceed,” my friend interrupted. “Why is the Crown so interested in locating the Professor?”
The mustache fluttered angrily again.
“That is privileged information, sir,” the Prime Minister glowered.
Holmes fully opened his eyes and tossed his half-spent cigarette into the fireplace. Abruptly, he rose to his feet and donned his top hat.
“Quite so. Good day, madam. Come, Watson, a gallery of Greek and Etruscan marvels await us.”
The Prime Minister’s violet complexion deepened.
“Very well,” he spoke directly to Mycroft Holmes. “Show him the damned thing!”
The elder Holmes revealed a steel infantry helmet from a wooden case, handing it to my friend with the reverence of a Holy Relic. It was no different than any other soldier’s helmet I’d seen, though I did