Good Night, Mr. Holmes (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) by Carole Nelson Douglas

Author:Carole Nelson Douglas [Douglas, Carole Nelson]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler
Publisher: Wishlist Publishing
Published: 2012-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

A POCKETFUL OF WHY

We left the library possessed of its little book of secrets and a certain smugness at our own cleverness.

Within a day Irene was cursing her possession of it, but there was no way to disown it. The King had died. Rumors of poison ran rampant through the Castle, no doubt fueled by Irene’s subtle but memorable inquiries among the servants.

Within hours of the death, distant relatives from the farthest geographical wrinkles of the Austro-Hungarian Empire had been telegraphed and were wending their way across the picturesque frontiers of many lands en route to the state funeral. The Prince was virtually incommunicado, even to Irene.

We paced our respective chambers, as good as prisoners snared in a web of state ceremony. We could neither declare our suspicions nor defend our innocence. The castle was being methodically but secretly searched, for Hortense’s had swiftly revealed a book on herbs to be absent from the library.

“I’ll take the book and conceal it somewhere,” I offered.

“No, to move it invites greater danger. They have not dared search our rooms yet.” Irene stood inspecting the spires of glass atop her lace-draped dressing table and their throat-soothing contents. “I wonder if any of these elixirs have a more malign use than I am aware of?”

“Or if something could be put into one of them to point the finger at you?”

“Bohemia has sharpened your fancy, Nell; that is a positively baroque idea. Hand me that candle and take another for yourself.”

I caught my breath when Irene tilted the taper and let the wax drip down from the wick’s liquid well. “You’ll mar the lace!”

She ignored my worry, seizing a bottle and turning the seam where stopper met neck under the dripping wax. A waxen ring hardened around the container. She set it down before it was firm and lifted the next bottle to her improvised seal

“They may want to break the seals to examine the contents,” I warned, lifting a bottle to my own candle.

“At least we shall know if anyone has tampered with them from this point on.”

“What of your throat?” came my afterthought.

Irene pressed a hand to her heart as she swore: “From this day forward, I shall tend it only with tea and honey; no foreign herbs. Now, I must discover the facts of the King’s demise. Since even I cannot gain audience with the Prince while he is consumed with the formalities of a state funeral, I must use the occasion of dinner to find them out.”

“Irene! Even you cannot question a bereaved family for signs of foul play over dinner.”

“I must, Penelope, or the killer will go free and some innocent parry will be tinged with suspicion. Like yourself.”

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