have prepared her for another visitor.”
She laughed. “Even him.” She took a drink of water, then ran her tongue across her lips. Her plate was empty. “My poor Rickie.”
Five
R ose Grimswell fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. I had suspected she would. The body has a way of making its needs felt, and natural sleep was better than that produced by opiates. I asked the maid to sit with her for a while, then I took a candle and stepped into the hall.
Two doors down was Holmes’s room, the door ajar. He was seated before the fireplace, pipe in hand, a volume on his lap. The room was enormous and beautifully furnished, another plush carpet like that in the library, the design remarkably fine with a myriad of colors. The four-poster bed, a bookcase, the small table and chairs were all constructed of oak stained very dark. Pipes were also mounted here above the mantel. This must have been Victor Grimswell’s room. It was situated at a corner of the edifice, with large windows on two adjacent walls.
“Ah, Henry, have a seat. I fear I have already claimed the most comfortable chair.”
By the fireplace were two chairs covered with dark red leather. I pulled the smaller one about. Holmes’s had large rounded arms and appeared big enough to hold almost anyone who was not a true giant. A chunk of coal glowed on the grate, and Holmes had his feet up on the ottoman. He still wore his heavy tweed suit and brown boots, but he had loosened his collar and cravat.
He exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke. “Victor Grimswell had excellent taste in pipes. Each one is a treasure, as is the tobacco. It puts my shag to shame.” He slipped the stem between his lips. “I suppose there are some who would hesitate to smoke a dead man’s pipe, but any man who owned such a collection would want them to be used. A good pipe must not be shut up in a trunk or cupboard.”
“This is his room, then—or rather, was his room.”
“Yes.” Holmes smiled. “You seem to suggest by your use of verb tense that a dead man cannot possess a room.”
“I think not.”
“Even if he is a predatory ghost?” His smile was ironic, but I frowned. “Forgive me. It was an idle jest. I am fatigued.”
I withdrew my watch and opened the cover. The hands showed five past nine, but Michelle’s portrait in miniature caught my eye. She had given it to me after we were married, mostly in jest, saying it was to remind me of my matrimonial bond. She might have gone to bed by now. She wore a flannel nightgown to bed, but underneath it was none of the usual complicated paraphernalia of female undergarments, only her smooth, strong body. I eased out my breath, then snapped shut the case and slipped the watch into my waistcoat pocket.
Holmes’s gray eyes watched me. “Amorous thoughts, Henry?”
I actually blushed. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Forgive me. I know Michelle’s picture is there, and your eyes give you away. Deduction had little to do with it. I should have allowed you the privacy of your thoughts, especially since it is I who dragged you away from her.”
“I was not dragged—I wanted to come.”
“Thank you all the same.” The mocking smile returned. “If I had been alone this evening I fear I would have dropped Miss Grimswell. I could never have held her up without your help.”
“One would hesitate before carrying her over the threshold. I tried picking up Michelle once in jest. She is probably some twenty-five pounds lighter than Rose, and I still wrenched my back in the process. Luckily, one is not often asked to haul women about.” I yawned. “I cannot believe it is only nine. It feels like it should be at least midnight.”
He nodded. The rain had stopped, but we could hear the low, distant cry of the wind outside on the moor. “I agree. Oh, while you were occupied, I spoke with Miss Grimswell—Constance, as she insisted I call her.”
“And you have escaped to tell me about it?”
He
She laughed. “Even him.” She took a drink of water, then ran her tongue across her lips. Her plate was empty. “My poor Rickie.”
Five
R ose Grimswell fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. I had suspected she would. The body has a way of making its needs felt, and natural sleep was better than that produced by opiates. I asked the maid to sit with her for a while, then I took a candle and stepped into the hall.
Two doors down was Holmes’s room, the door ajar. He was seated before the fireplace, pipe in hand, a volume on his lap. The room was enormous and beautifully furnished, another plush carpet like that in the library, the design remarkably fine with a myriad of colors. The four-poster bed, a bookcase, the small table and chairs were all constructed of oak stained very dark. Pipes were also mounted here above the mantel. This must have been Victor Grimswell’s room. It was situated at a corner of the edifice, with large windows on two adjacent walls.
“Ah, Henry, have a seat. I fear I have already claimed the most comfortable chair.”
By the fireplace were two chairs covered with dark red leather. I pulled the smaller one about. Holmes’s had large rounded arms and appeared big enough to hold almost anyone who was not a true giant. A chunk of coal glowed on the grate, and Holmes had his feet up on the ottoman. He still wore his heavy tweed suit and brown boots, but he had loosened his collar and cravat.
He exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke. “Victor Grimswell had excellent taste in pipes. Each one is a treasure, as is the tobacco. It puts my shag to shame.” He slipped the stem between his lips. “I suppose there are some who would hesitate to smoke a dead man’s pipe, but any man who owned such a collection would want them to be used. A good pipe must not be shut up in a trunk or cupboard.”
“This is his room, then—or rather, was his room.”
“Yes.” Holmes smiled. “You seem to suggest by your use of verb tense that a dead man cannot possess a room.”
“I think not.”
“Even if he is a predatory ghost?” His smile was ironic, but I frowned. “Forgive me. It was an idle jest. I am fatigued.”
I withdrew my watch and opened the cover. The hands showed five past nine, but Michelle’s portrait in miniature caught my eye. She had given it to me after we were married, mostly in jest, saying it was to remind me of my matrimonial bond. She might have gone to bed by now. She wore a flannel nightgown to bed, but underneath it was none of the usual complicated paraphernalia of female undergarments, only her smooth, strong body. I eased out my breath, then snapped shut the case and slipped the watch into my waistcoat pocket.
Holmes’s gray eyes watched me. “Amorous thoughts, Henry?”
I actually blushed. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Forgive me. I know Michelle’s picture is there, and your eyes give you away. Deduction had little to do with it. I should have allowed you the privacy of your thoughts, especially since it is I who dragged you away from her.”
“I was not dragged—I wanted to come.”
“Thank you all the same.” The mocking smile returned. “If I had been alone this evening I fear I would have dropped Miss Grimswell. I could never have held her up without your help.”
“One would hesitate before carrying her over the threshold. I tried picking up Michelle once in jest. She is probably some twenty-five pounds lighter than Rose, and I still wrenched my back in the process. Luckily, one is not often asked to haul women about.” I yawned. “I cannot believe it is only nine. It feels like it should be at least midnight.”
He nodded. The rain had stopped, but we could hear the low, distant cry of the wind outside on the moor. “I agree. Oh, while you were occupied, I spoke with Miss Grimswell—Constance, as she insisted I call her.”
“And you have escaped to tell me about it?”
He
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