The Game - Laurie R. King [44]
I caught myself up short. That kind of romantic nonsense would get us nowhere. In any event, we had to find the man before we could lay judgement upon his actions, and I could not see that the documents provided us with any clear direction.
“What do you think, Holmes?” Generally, venturing such a vague query resulted only in a burst of scorn, suggesting as it did that I was at a complete loss to know where I stood; but sometimes, and particularly if Holmes was as wrapped up in his thoughts as he appeared to be now, a vague probe merely loosed his tongue. To my relief, so it proved.
“Simla first, I believe. Three years makes for a glacier-cold trail, but he has always been a memorable character, and cautious enquiry might uncover a trace from his passing.”
“From what you told Nesbit, we will not be openly taking the train as Sherlock Holmes and wife.”
“I shouldn’t think that a good idea, no. And as we shall have to assume that we have attracted notice, it would be pushing our luck to board the train as two stray Europeans.”
I sighed to myself, and told him, “Well, whatever disguise you come up with, kindly make sure that the shoes aren’t too crippling.”
He paused to gaze up into mid-air. “Yes. Odd, that your trunk has not come to light.”
“You think its disappearance may be related? But that would mean that someone knew we would be on board that ship before we left Marseilles.”
“Not necessarily. It could have been diverted with the first rush of coolies in Bombay.”
“In either case, what would anyone want with my trunk?”
“The Baskerville case began with a missing boot,” he mused. “The same question occurred then. Perhaps they wished to compile evidence. Or wanted to steal your revolver. Which reminds me, we shall have to get you another one.”
“Perhaps they wished to be sure I had only one pair of shoes, and then arranged for the ruination of those, that they might pick me out of a crowd,” I said. I intended to be facetious, but Holmes took my suggestion at face value.
“True. It’s the one garment you might find time-consuming to replace.” My feet are large for a woman’s shoe, yet narrow for a man’s, and that morning the hotel manager’s shoe-seller had come up with nothing wearable. I should, I supposed, have to have a pair made, but bespoke footwear did indeed take longer to make than clothing.
“Are you serious?” I asked, but he merely grunted, and returned his attention to the document in his hand.
We took lunch in the hotel dining room—sitting well away from windows, I noticed. Afterwards, Holmes folded his table napkin and got to his feet.
“Russell, I should appreciate it if you were to stay in our rooms this afternoon while I make the necessary purchases for our disguises.”
“Why?”
“Because as an Englishwoman, you would stand out in the bazaars more than I do.”
“Very well,” I said, surprising him. “But if you haven’t returned by six o’clock, I shall walk out of the hotel’s front doors and come looking for you.”
He believed me.
I went back upstairs to our first-floor rooms, locking the door behind me. I was never entirely comfortable when Holmes took off like that—which was odd, considering how often it happened. But that afternoon I wandered the rooms, unable to settle to the work at hand, picking up objects and putting them down again. At one point I came across the small lumpy envelope Nesbit had given us, containing the amulets. Holmes, I noticed, had taken his already. I took the other, fastening it around my neck, and went to the looking-glass to inspect it.
The silver charm looked like the sort of thing a tourist might buy, or a poor Indian. It was the kind of decoration sold at any of a thousand shops in the city, crudely worked but not unattractive. I rather liked it, in fact, and although I hadn’t intended actually to wear