Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

But of course it was only the would-be Sherlock Holmes. He swept off a top hat, bowed, and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Carpenter,” in his familiar, British-accented voice. “How lovely to share your company again, even under difficult circumstances.”

“Bah,” Sabina said angrily, using one of John’s favorite expressions to tell Holmes how un lovely it was to share his company again. Not that it fazed him in the slightest. “Did you have to jump out of the shadows like a footpad?”

“My apologies, dear lady. A small lapse in judgment. Apologies as well for requesting a meeting at such an unconventional place and time.”

“Then why did you? Why didn’t you simply call at my rooms like any normal person?”

“I am not a normal person,” he said, a statement with which Sabina agreed wholeheartedly. “I am Sherlock Holmes, as you well know, the world’s greatest detective. No offense to you and your estimable partner, merely a simple declaration of fact.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Shall we sit down on yon bench to continue our discussion?”

He attempted to take her elbow, but she shrugged off his hand and went to seat herself without aid. He plopped down beside her at a respectful distance, holding his hat on one knee and his blackthorn walking stick upright alongside. The nearest electrolier was some distance away, so she couldn’t see his face clearly. But she could make out that in addition to the top hat, he wore an unbuttoned greatcoat that revealed striped trousers and a cutaway coat with a large white boutonniere. Not his usual attire, but also not one of his weird outfits, thank heaven; more or less appropriate attire for this exclusive neighborhood.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said. “Why didn’t you call at my rooms instead of opting for melodrama?”

“Melodrama? Mais non! Decorum and necessity dictated our meeting here.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Decorum because I deem it unseemly for a gentleman to visit a lady in her home after dark. Necessity because I am engaged in an investigation which requires my presence here until midnight at the very earliest.”

“What sort of investigation?”

“I believe you have already deduced that it involves your swain, Carson Montgomery.”

“Carson Montgomery is not my swain, merely a casual acquaintance.” Sabina said this sharply and without hesitation. It was true, of course, but why had she been so abrupt in denying it?

She thought she saw the Englishman smile, though she couldn’t be sure in the darkness. “As you wish,” he said. “A matter of semantics, eh?”

“What is this ‘investigation’ of yours all about? Why did you summon me here?”

Instead of responding, Holmes in his unpredictable fashion commenced to sniff the air like an animal keening scent. “You have excellent taste in perfume,” he said after a few seconds. “I detect attar of roses, orange blossoms, and gardenias. An interesting and unusual blend of fragrances. Distinctly Parisian. Marquis St. Germain number three, is it not?”

Sabina had long ago ceased to be surprised by one of Holmes’s irrelevant observations; they were invariably and uncannily correct, which made them even more exasperating. The expensive French perfume, only a tiny dab of which she wore, had been a gift from Callie last Christmas.

Before she could speak, the Englishman sniffed again and then declared, “Ah, green apple, pilchards of the herring family Clupeidae, and the American version of bleu de Gex, an adequate fromage though of course vastly inferior to our English Stilton. I trust you enjoyed your simple evening meal, dear lady.”

“Such delicate nostrils you have,” Sabina said acidly.

“Indeed. My olfactory sense is almost as well developed as my powers of observation and ratiocination—”

“Why are you investigating Carson Montgomery?”

“At this point in time I am not at liberty to reveal the exact nature of my inquiries. Suffice it to say that the matter is well in hand and Mr. Montgomery appears to be in no imminent danger.”

Sabina seldom lost her temper. When she did, it was exactly opposite of the way in which John lost his; instead of explosively fulminating, she became as cold and hard as a block of ice. “Mr. Holmes,” she said in frigid tones, “have you ever been shot?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Shot. Had a portion of your anatomy perforated with a bullet.”

“No, although I once suffered a painful knife wound during the course of one of my adventures. And I have on occasion been forced to use my Webley Bulldog pistol in self-defense. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re about to be if you don’t stop dithering and answer my questions.”

“Dear me. Would you really shoot me with the Remington double-barrel derringer you carry in your handbag?”

“I might very well—” Sabina broke off abruptly. “How do you know the type of weapon I carry? Or that I carry one at all? I’ve never drawn it in your presence.”

“I know many things, as you are quite well aware. Yes, indeed. Many, many things.”

“ Are you going to explain yourself? I warn you, you’ve sorely tried my patience and I am not a woman to be trifled with.”

“I never for a moment believed you were. I certainly have no intention of trifling with you, or incurring your wrath to the point of violence.”

“Well, then?”

“I requested this meeting because of your association with Carson Montgomery. I was not aware of your unfortunate liaison with him until I saw you dining together at the Palace of Art restaurant.”

“Unfortunate? Why did you use that word?”

“I consider you a friend as well as a colleague,” the Englishman said. “It would distress me if you were to be placed in difficult circumstances.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Should you become more deeply involved with Mr. Montgomery.”

“That’s an evasive answer. Are you trying to tell me he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“Such a conclusion may be drawn, yes.”

“And that he’s a criminal?”

“I made no such allegation.”

“You implied it,” Sabina said. “It’s a preposterous notion. Carson Montgomery is a paragon of respectability.”

“None of us is a true paragon, Mrs. Carpenter. We all have secrets, shameful fragments of our past that make us susceptible.”

“Susceptible to what?”

“The acts of other, unscrupulous individuals. Extortion and blackmail, for instance.”

“Now what are you saying? That Carson is being blackmailed over something in his past?”

“Do you find that beyond the realm of possibility?”

“For heaven’s sake, stop being so mysterious! If he is the victim of blackmail, why and by whom?”

“As I told you, I am not at liberty to divulge the details of my inquiries. However...” Holmes paused. “Are you familiar with the Gold King scandal of several years ago?”

“No. I’ve never heard of it.”

“Then the name Artemas Sneed is likewise unfamiliar.”

“Completely. Who is he? What is the Gold King scandal?”

“A competent detective such as yourself will surely be able to find out and proceed accordingly.”

“Why can’t you simply tell me yourself?”

Just then the cathedral bells tolled the hour. Holmes stirred on the bench, clamped the top hat firmly on his narrow skull, and rose to his feet so quickly it was almost a jump. “Ten o’clock,” he said. “I must be off.”

“Wait! We haven’t finished—”

“Ah, but we have. I mustn’t tarry; more of the game may be afoot tonight. Bonne chance, dear lady.”

And he was off, moving with surprising speed and agility into the shadows. Sabina briefly considered trying to follow him, but as elusive as he was, and with her clothing hindering her own movements, she had little chance of keeping him in sight. And even if she caught up with him, he wouldn’t tell her any more than he already had.