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By Root 811 0

Holmes’ ear, but he seemed not to notice. In fact, so carried away was he by the music that I believe he forgot I was there, forgot where he was, forgot to breathe, even, at certain passages. I have never been a great lover of the operatic voice, but that night—I cannot tell you what we saw, unfortunately—even I could begin to see the point. (Incidentally, I feel that this is one place where I must contradict the record of Holmes’ late biographer and protest that I never, ever witnessed Holmes “gently waving his fingers about in time to the music,” as Watson once wrote. The good doctor, on the other hand, was wont earnestly to perform this activity of the musically obtuse, particularly when he was tipsy.)

We drank champagne at the intermission and took to a quiet cor-ner lest he be recognised. Holmes could be charming when he so desired, but that evening he positively scintillated, during the inter-mission with stories about the primary cast members, and over supper later talking about his conversations with the lamas in Tibet, his most recent monographs on varieties of lipstick and the peculiarities of modern tyre marks, the changes occasioned by the disappearance of castrati from the music world, and the analysis of some changes in rhythm in one of the arias we had just heard. I was quite dazzled by this rarely seen Holmes, a distinguished-looking, sophisticated bon vi-vant without a care in the world (who could also spend hours in a grey, biting mood, write precise monographs on the science of detection, and paint blobs on the backs of bees to track them across the Sussex Downs).

“Holmes,” I asked as we stepped into the street, “I realise the ques-tion sounds sophomoric, but do you find that there are aspects of your-self with which you feel most comfortable? I only ask out of curiosity; you needn’t feel obliged to answer.” He offered me his arm and, for-mally, I took it.

“ ‘Who am I?’ you mean.” He smiled at the question and gave what was at first glance a most oblique answer. “Do you know what a fugue is?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“No.”

I thought in silence for some distance before his answer arranged itself sensibly in my mind. “I see. Two discrete sections of a fugue may not appear related, unless the listener has received the entire work, at which time the music’s internal logic makes clear the relationship.”

“A conversation with you is most invigorating, Russell. That might have taken twenty frustrating minutes with Watson. Hello, what is this?” He pulled me to a halt in the shadow of the building we had just rounded, and we gazed across to the area where the cab and Billy had been left, seeing with sinking hearts the flicker of naphtha flares and the distinctive milling outline of many constabulary hel-mets and capes. Loud voices called to one another, and as we watched, an ambulance pulled swiftly away. Holmes slumped against the build-ing, stunned. “Billy?” he whispered hoarsely. “How could they track us? Russell, am I losing my grip? I have never come across a mind that could do this. Even Moriarty.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I must see the evidence before those oafs obliterate it.”

“Wait, Holmes. This could be a trap. There may be someone wait-ing with an airgun or a rifle.”

Holmes studied the scene before us through narrowed eyes and shook his head again, slowly. “We were excellent targets a number of times this evening. With all these police here it would be a great risk for him. No, we will go. I only hope that someone with a bit of sense is in charge here.”

I followed his vigorous stride as best I could in my heeled shoes, and as I came up behind him I saw a small, wiry man of about thirty-five thrust out his hand and greet Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes, good to see you up and about. I wondered if you might not make an appearance. I figured you must be behind this somewhere.”

“What precisely is ‘this,’ Inspector?”

“Well, as you can see, Mr. Holmes, the cab—May I help you, Miss?” This last was to me.

“Ah, Russell, I should like to introduce you to an old