through an open window, cannot resist the attempt to construct an entire concerto in his head.
By late afternoon I had fallen asleep in my chair, and was thus startled several hours later when Holmes burst into the room and shook me roughly by the shoulders.
“What’s this, Watson? Asleep? Why have you not visited with Houdini? Why have you not interviewed the countess?” He busily set to relighting the fire which I had allowed to go out.
“I’ve done all of that,” I replied sleepily. “That was yesterday. You have been away for more than a day, Holmes.”
“I have?” he asked with an incredulous laugh. “So I have! Marvellous!”
Coming awake, I examined Holmes closely. His eyes were rimmed with red above his unshaven cheeks, and his hair was even more wildly askew than was usual. He was wearing a soiled motoring outfit which I had never seen before, and his hands bore traces of some sort of black inunction.
“Where have you been?” I asked, old fears rising within me. “What have you been doing?”
“Ah, Watson,” he sighed, slumping heavily onto the sofa, “I have been in the clouds! Ascending the brightest heaven of invention... of cabbages and kings...” his voice trailed off.
It was now plain to me that Holmes had been on one of his notorious cocaine binges, and I knew that soon the blackest fit of depression would be upon him. “Holmes! How could you behave so irresponsibly?” My voice quivered with emotion. “With all that is at stake! Houdini is wasting away in the gaol! The prince himself is relying on your discretion—”
“It is on their behalf that I have acted,” Holmes said languidly. “You must not shy away from sensation, Watson. It keens the faculties.” He waved his fingertips in the air.
How often had I warned him of the destructive effects of this drug? I could not bear to think of that splendid mind being eroded by countless indulgences. Grimly, I made to unbutton his shirt cuff that I might examine his arm for puncture marks.
“What?” he murmured, pulling his arm free. “Oh no, Watson, it is not that. Your vigilance has not been betrayed. No, it is the thrill of the hunt which stimulates me now. Our quarry is of a most inventive stamp, Watson. His trail has pressed me to great heights. Great heights indeed. I find it very rewarding.”
Though my suspicions were not entirely lulled, I found my concern returning to the case. “Who is the criminal, then?”
“You musn’t expect miracles from me, Watson,” he replied, a trifle hurt. “Houdini is the magician, not I. The villain’s name is as yet unknown to me. But my net is drawing tight about him, and soon...” He curled his bony fingers and held them aloft. “But enough of that. Tell me what you have learned from the countess.”
He listened eagerly as I gave a brief account of my visit to the Cleland and of the incident which followed.
“Ah,” said Holmes when I had finished, “our friend with the red muffler has attached himself to you, has he? You should be flattered, Watson!”
“What? Do you mean you know him?”
“Well, let us say I’ve seen him about. He followed us home from the Diogenes the other night, and he caught up with us again after our trip to Gairstowe House. When you and I separated I managed to shake him off by jumping out of a moving four-wheeler.”
“But who is he? What does he want?”
“What an inquisitive fellow you are, Watson! It’s a pity you weren’t quite so persistent with the countess or we might be a good deal closer to our solution.”
“What do you mean, Holmes? I learned as much as could be hoped under the circumstances. I thought I did rather well.”
“No, Watson, I’m afraid you are too easily intoxicated by feminine allure. It is perhaps your greatest failing. You are more concerned with the cut of a gown than with the poisoning of a husband. True, your narrative holds one or two points of interest, but on the whole you are too chivalrous to be
By late afternoon I had fallen asleep in my chair, and was thus startled several hours later when Holmes burst into the room and shook me roughly by the shoulders.
“What’s this, Watson? Asleep? Why have you not visited with Houdini? Why have you not interviewed the countess?” He busily set to relighting the fire which I had allowed to go out.
“I’ve done all of that,” I replied sleepily. “That was yesterday. You have been away for more than a day, Holmes.”
“I have?” he asked with an incredulous laugh. “So I have! Marvellous!”
Coming awake, I examined Holmes closely. His eyes were rimmed with red above his unshaven cheeks, and his hair was even more wildly askew than was usual. He was wearing a soiled motoring outfit which I had never seen before, and his hands bore traces of some sort of black inunction.
“Where have you been?” I asked, old fears rising within me. “What have you been doing?”
“Ah, Watson,” he sighed, slumping heavily onto the sofa, “I have been in the clouds! Ascending the brightest heaven of invention... of cabbages and kings...” his voice trailed off.
It was now plain to me that Holmes had been on one of his notorious cocaine binges, and I knew that soon the blackest fit of depression would be upon him. “Holmes! How could you behave so irresponsibly?” My voice quivered with emotion. “With all that is at stake! Houdini is wasting away in the gaol! The prince himself is relying on your discretion—”
“It is on their behalf that I have acted,” Holmes said languidly. “You must not shy away from sensation, Watson. It keens the faculties.” He waved his fingertips in the air.
How often had I warned him of the destructive effects of this drug? I could not bear to think of that splendid mind being eroded by countless indulgences. Grimly, I made to unbutton his shirt cuff that I might examine his arm for puncture marks.
“What?” he murmured, pulling his arm free. “Oh no, Watson, it is not that. Your vigilance has not been betrayed. No, it is the thrill of the hunt which stimulates me now. Our quarry is of a most inventive stamp, Watson. His trail has pressed me to great heights. Great heights indeed. I find it very rewarding.”
Though my suspicions were not entirely lulled, I found my concern returning to the case. “Who is the criminal, then?”
“You musn’t expect miracles from me, Watson,” he replied, a trifle hurt. “Houdini is the magician, not I. The villain’s name is as yet unknown to me. But my net is drawing tight about him, and soon...” He curled his bony fingers and held them aloft. “But enough of that. Tell me what you have learned from the countess.”
He listened eagerly as I gave a brief account of my visit to the Cleland and of the incident which followed.
“Ah,” said Holmes when I had finished, “our friend with the red muffler has attached himself to you, has he? You should be flattered, Watson!”
“What? Do you mean you know him?”
“Well, let us say I’ve seen him about. He followed us home from the Diogenes the other night, and he caught up with us again after our trip to Gairstowe House. When you and I separated I managed to shake him off by jumping out of a moving four-wheeler.”
“But who is he? What does he want?”
“What an inquisitive fellow you are, Watson! It’s a pity you weren’t quite so persistent with the countess or we might be a good deal closer to our solution.”
“What do you mean, Holmes? I learned as much as could be hoped under the circumstances. I thought I did rather well.”
“No, Watson, I’m afraid you are too easily intoxicated by feminine allure. It is perhaps your greatest failing. You are more concerned with the cut of a gown than with the poisoning of a husband. True, your narrative holds one or two points of interest, but on the whole you are too chivalrous to be
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