Marcia Muller: The Body Snatchers Affair

“Ah, yes,” he continued in his self-aggrandizing fashion, “my brain attic is filled with a vast array of knowledge. Else how would I have earned my reputation as the world’s finest detective?”

“Oh, indeed,” Sabina said, but as always he was immune to sarcasm. “Will you at least tell me how you found out about Carson’s past and Sneed’s attempt at blackmail, and why you took it upon yourself to investigate?”

That dratted smile again. But this time he deigned to give her an answer of sorts. “One trained in the finer points of observation and ratiocination learns much in places such as Soho in my homeland and the Barbary Coast in this otherwise fair city.”

“So you were shadowing Carson in an attempt to save him from Sneed? Or was it Sneed you were after?”

“All criminals and their nefarious deeds are grist for the mill of Sherlock Holmes. Including your Mr. Montgomery, if he had proven to be more culpable eight years ago than he was.”

“He’s not my Mr. Montgomery.”

“Ah? Your liaison with him has ended?”

“That is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.”

“Indubitably not. But if you and the gentleman have come to a parting of the ways, perhaps it is for the best. I have long felt that the estimable if somewhat contentious Mr. Quincannon would make a fitting suitor as well as a worthy business partner.”

The insufferable cheek of the man! The kitten kept her from making an angry retort by mewing, curling a paw around one of her fingers and then nipping with sharp little teeth.

“I should say the little beggar is hungry,” Holmes said. “A spot of milk or cream would seem to be in order.”

Sabina nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.

“And I must be off. Duty calls.” He replaced his cap, turned to open the door. Outside on the stoop, he said, “I really am quite pleased that you like my gift, dear lady.”

“Yes. Thank you again.”

“Not at all. My pleasure.” He bowed. “I expect we shall see each other again before I return to England. Until then, au revoir .”

Sabina watched him walk away at a jaunty pace, his stick tapping on the flagstones. The kitten had been a thoughtful gesture, yes, and she was grateful, but Lord, she fervently hoped never to cross the Englishman’s path again. If he ever did leave San Francisco, it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit her.

She carried the purring kitten — what would she name her? Eve, perhaps? — into the kitchen and introduced her to Adam before pouring out a saucer of cream. Adam and the new addition to the household seemed to take to each other right away, just as she’d hoped. Yes, Eve was the proper name. Adam and Eve.

It was while she was watching Eve lap cream that an afterimage of the bogus Sherlock’s jaunty, stick-tapping departure popped into her mind, bringing with it a sudden belated suspicion. It hadn’t been Carson he’d been spying on, any more than it had been her. It had, all along, been Artemas Sneed. Suppose, then, he had decided to confront Sneed about the attempted blackmail. Suppose that blackthorn stick of his was not solid wood, but in fact contained a concealed weapon such as a long, sharp sword.

Suppose it was the bogus Mr. Holmes who had skewered Sneed in his room at the Wanderer’s Rest.

Possible, entirely possible. He was shrewd enough to have successfully copied his idol’s methods of observation and deduction; he might also have adopted a form of self-protection he believed the real Sherlock employed, and not been hesitant to use it if the need arose.

But whether or not that was the true explanation, it was moot. He would never tell. And she, alas, would never know.