Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [41]
It was the inspector’s turn to interrupt. He raised a finger to point at Magnus.
“You mean . . . you mean to say he’s a lunatic from Bedlam!”
“Well, I am getting better,” said Magnus reasonably. “I wouldn’t be allowed out otherwise, even with Almost-Doctor Susan.”
“Sir Magnus is not at all dangerous,” said Susan. “He has been at the hospital for a few months recovering himself after an unfortunate accident. He is now well enough to begin to resume everyday activities. My presence is merely a precaution insisted upon by his aunt.”
Magnus grimaced.
“Lady Meredith Foxton,” he said in a stage whisper. “Ghastly woman. Specialises in making people miserable.”
“Now then, Inspector,” said Susan. “As I must have Sir Magnus back at the hospital before nightfall, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us exactly what your problem is and we shall see if Sir Magnus can assist you.”
“Sir Magnus assist me?” asked McIntyre. He was having difficulty comprehending what was going on and was wondering if perhaps he wasn’t better suited to a more lowly rank after all. If only Lestrade hadn’t gone on holiday!
“I like to help,” said Sir Magnus brightly. “Sherlock said you had a case that was right up my alley and that . . . let me see . . .”
He strode to the fireplace and leant one elbow on the mantelpiece, then turned his head back to look at the inspector. Somehow his face had assumed an entirely different aspect, and he now looked far more hawklike and acute, with a hint of suppressed arrogance.
“Magnus, my boy,” he drawled, in a voice that McIntyre recognised as a very good imitation of Sherlock’s. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth—and the very highly improbable is I suspect exactly what Mr. McIntyre is facing. As this is very much more your area of expertise, I suggest that you answer the inspector’s clarion call and leave me to my practice.”
Magnus dropped his elbow, and the likeness with it.
“Revolver practice, that was, not violin,” he added in his own voice. “Shooting initials in the wall. And they say I’m mad.”
“What is your area of expertise, Sir Magnus?” asked McIntyre. He felt that this was perhaps a foolish question, but the truth of the matter was that he needed help, and if Sherlock Holmes really had said those words, which after seeing that impression he was inclined to believe, then perhaps this unlikely lunatic might be of some assistance.
“I am a s . . . s . . . s . . .” Magnus started to say, stopping suddenly as Susan looked at him intently. “That is, I have made a study of the unusual, the arcane, and the occult. Also I make things. I am an inventor and have a supple and surprising mind. Sherlock said that, too, by the way. Mycroft says that I am a throwback to another era and should be burned at the stake, but he doesn’t mean it, not after that business with the . . . the . . . things that I’m not supposed to mention. Let’s go into your office, shall we, Inspector?”
McIntyre surprised himself again by swaying back to allow Magnus to slide past him, and he held the door open for Susan Shrike, before letting it swing shut on Cumber’s inquisitive face.
“Go and get my guests some tea,” ordered McIntyre through the door.
“Yes, sir,” came the muffled response.
“I trust he won’t have to wait for the tea,” said Sir Magnus.
“No, I shouldn’t think so,” replied McIntyre, rather baffled by this new conversational sally. He returned behind his desk and indicated the chairs on the other side. “Please, do sit down.”
“If he had to wait in a line, then he would be a queue cumber,” said Magnus.
“What?” asked McIntyre, who had opened the file again and allowed his thoughts to wander. “What?”
“Hush,” said Susan Shrike to Magnus.