faded suddenly, and I pictured them on the roof.
A sudden thought occurred to me. There had been a good twenty seconds between the first alarm of the dogs and the time Holmes hit the steps. What if—? On the first-floor landing I ducked silently under the open stairway and waited, just in case. Suddenly a noise came from above, hushed, silent footsteps, hurrying down. I put my hand ready between the treads, caught sight of an unfamiliar shoe, and, praying it did not belong to Smith, Jones, or Barker, grabbed at it. A scream and a crashing fall that continued down the next flight of stairs were fol-lowed by shouts and steps from above. I unfolded myself slowly from my hiding place and went to see what I had done.
I stood at the top of the flight, looking down at the crumpled figure of Terrence Howell and feeling my stomach wanting to rise up out of my throat. Then Holmes stood beside me, and I turned to him, and his arm went around my shoulders as the two men pushed past us. I was shaking.
“Oh God, Holmes, I killed him. I didn’t think he’d fall that hard, oh God, how could I have done it?” I could feel the texture of the shoe leather impressed on my fingertips and see the tumble of limbs glimpsed through the steps. A voice came up to us.
“Ring for a doctor, would you please, Mrs. Barker? He’s got a bad bang on his head and a few broken bones, but he’s alive.”
Sweet, sweet relief flooded in, and my head suddenly felt light.
“I need to sit down for a minute, Holmes.”
He pushed me onto the top step and shoved my head down to my knees. His rucksack plopped down next to me, and I vaguely saw him pull a little bottle out of it. There was the pop of a small cork, and the concentrated reek of the morning’s experiment exploded into my nasal passages. I jerked back, and my head smacked hard onto the stone wall. Tears came to my eyes and my vision swam. When it cleared I saw Holmes, a stricken expression on his face.
“Are you all right, Russell?”
I felt my head delicately.
“Yes, no thanks to your smelling salts, Holmes. I can’t see much point in reviving someone quite so dramatically, though it does make a fine weapon against a pack of dogs.” Relief edged into his eyes, and his normal sardonic expression reappeared.
“When you’re up to it, Russell, we should see to Mr. Barker.”
I reached for his hand and pulled myself up, and we walked slowly up to the old man’s room. A fug of sweat and illness met us at his door, and the light revealed the pale, wet skin and unfocussed eyes of high fever.
“You sponge his face for a bit, Russell, until Mrs. Barker comes. I’m going to see what I can find in Howell’s room. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Barker. Your husband needs you. Come, Russell.” He swept past her anxious questions.
“What are we looking for?” I asked in his wake.
“A packet of powder or a bottle of liquid, one or the other. I’ll start with the wardrobe, you take the bathroom.” The bedroom was soon filled with mutters and flying articles of clothing, and the bathroom was awash with odours as I opened one after another of the multitude of scents, after-shave lotions, and bath soaps I found in the drawers. My poor nose was a bit numb, but I eventually found a bottle that did not smell right. I took it into the next room, where Holmes stood calf-deep in clothing, upended drawers, and bedclothes.
“Have you found anything, Holmes?”
“Cigarettes from Fraser’s of Portsmouth, boots with scratches over the arches. What have you there?”
“I don’t know, I can’t smell a thing anymore. Does this smell like Eau d’Arabe to you?” A quick sniff and he waded out of the room, the bottle held high.
“You’ve found it, Russell. Now to figure how much to give him.” He went to the stairs and poked his head over. “I say, Jones, is he awake yet?”
“Not a chance. It’ll be hours.”
“Ah well,” he said to me, “we’ll just have to
A sudden thought occurred to me. There had been a good twenty seconds between the first alarm of the dogs and the time Holmes hit the steps. What if—? On the first-floor landing I ducked silently under the open stairway and waited, just in case. Suddenly a noise came from above, hushed, silent footsteps, hurrying down. I put my hand ready between the treads, caught sight of an unfamiliar shoe, and, praying it did not belong to Smith, Jones, or Barker, grabbed at it. A scream and a crashing fall that continued down the next flight of stairs were fol-lowed by shouts and steps from above. I unfolded myself slowly from my hiding place and went to see what I had done.
I stood at the top of the flight, looking down at the crumpled figure of Terrence Howell and feeling my stomach wanting to rise up out of my throat. Then Holmes stood beside me, and I turned to him, and his arm went around my shoulders as the two men pushed past us. I was shaking.
“Oh God, Holmes, I killed him. I didn’t think he’d fall that hard, oh God, how could I have done it?” I could feel the texture of the shoe leather impressed on my fingertips and see the tumble of limbs glimpsed through the steps. A voice came up to us.
“Ring for a doctor, would you please, Mrs. Barker? He’s got a bad bang on his head and a few broken bones, but he’s alive.”
Sweet, sweet relief flooded in, and my head suddenly felt light.
“I need to sit down for a minute, Holmes.”
He pushed me onto the top step and shoved my head down to my knees. His rucksack plopped down next to me, and I vaguely saw him pull a little bottle out of it. There was the pop of a small cork, and the concentrated reek of the morning’s experiment exploded into my nasal passages. I jerked back, and my head smacked hard onto the stone wall. Tears came to my eyes and my vision swam. When it cleared I saw Holmes, a stricken expression on his face.
“Are you all right, Russell?”
I felt my head delicately.
“Yes, no thanks to your smelling salts, Holmes. I can’t see much point in reviving someone quite so dramatically, though it does make a fine weapon against a pack of dogs.” Relief edged into his eyes, and his normal sardonic expression reappeared.
“When you’re up to it, Russell, we should see to Mr. Barker.”
I reached for his hand and pulled myself up, and we walked slowly up to the old man’s room. A fug of sweat and illness met us at his door, and the light revealed the pale, wet skin and unfocussed eyes of high fever.
“You sponge his face for a bit, Russell, until Mrs. Barker comes. I’m going to see what I can find in Howell’s room. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Barker. Your husband needs you. Come, Russell.” He swept past her anxious questions.
“What are we looking for?” I asked in his wake.
“A packet of powder or a bottle of liquid, one or the other. I’ll start with the wardrobe, you take the bathroom.” The bedroom was soon filled with mutters and flying articles of clothing, and the bathroom was awash with odours as I opened one after another of the multitude of scents, after-shave lotions, and bath soaps I found in the drawers. My poor nose was a bit numb, but I eventually found a bottle that did not smell right. I took it into the next room, where Holmes stood calf-deep in clothing, upended drawers, and bedclothes.
“Have you found anything, Holmes?”
“Cigarettes from Fraser’s of Portsmouth, boots with scratches over the arches. What have you there?”
“I don’t know, I can’t smell a thing anymore. Does this smell like Eau d’Arabe to you?” A quick sniff and he waded out of the room, the bottle held high.
“You’ve found it, Russell. Now to figure how much to give him.” He went to the stairs and poked his head over. “I say, Jones, is he awake yet?”
“Not a chance. It’ll be hours.”
“Ah well,” he said to me, “we’ll just have to
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