The Private Wife of Sherlock Holmes (Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes novella) by Douglas Carole Nelson

Author:Douglas, Carole Nelson [Douglas, Carole Nelson]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Wishlist Publishing
Published: 2012-01-08T16:00:00+00:00

~~~~~

Back at Baker Street I divested my sleeves of their booty in the parlor while Mr. Holmes shed his latest disguise in his bedchamber.

“One thing I must know,” I told him when he emerged in his own guise, attired in City vest and suit. His clean-shaven face in an age of mustachios was an empty canvas for his disguises, I realized, and I quite liked it.

“How do I intend to destroy the compromising gramophone discs?” he anticipated me. “It will be a first. I suppose I’ll smash them with a hammer.”

I smiled to picture Mr. Holmes performing such a task, a veritable Carrie Nation breaking liquor bottles.

“Not that,” I explained. “I want to know why Dr. Watson’s story of our first encounter so badly garbled the scene of my wedding, which you witnessed in disguise at St. Monica’s.”

“Watson ‘garbled’ nothing. I, er, omitted certain unimportant details when relating the event to him.”

“Importance is in the eye of the beholder. I wonder that you didn’t regale him with the remarkable circumstances. Godfrey’s arrival at St. Monica’s was delayed and there was some question that the marriage wouldn’t be legal if it didn’t transpire immediately. The clergyman drafted a nearby idling groom as proxy bridegroom.

“I was forced to stand beside a tipsy side-whiskered lout as the ceremony began, until Godfrey stormed in and you were demoted to a mere witness. Is that not a much more dramatic moment than the good doctor penned?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Grand opera has accustomed you to high drama. A trifling fine point. We stood together at the altar only a minute or so.”

“Nevertheless, I believe that circumstance justified introducing myself into your chambers on that pretext.”

“Flimsy grounds, madam, exceedingly flimsy.”

“And where is the gold sovereign with which I tipped the tipsy groom?” I looked pointedly at his waistcoat. “You wore it yesterday when you returned to these rooms to find me in residence but I have not seen it since.” Nor was my photograph any longer in view.

He shrugged. “I was in disguise.”

“You are not now,” I pointed out, eyebrows raised. “Dr. Watson’s story ended with your vow to wear it on your watch-chain in memory of our encounter.”

“In memory,” he said, “not in perpetuity.”

I smiled, knowing I would get no more. “And I owe you—?”

“Nothing. This sordid matter required no great thought, but featured the usual messy marital maneuvers. Only the role of the gramophone was mildly of interest.”

“Still, I am most grateful.” I offered my hand, recalling from Watson’s narration that he had refused to take Willie’s six years ago, King of Bohemia or not.

Mr. Holmes hesitated. Then, observing it was gloved, did so.

“I hope,” he said, “that you have a new appreciation for the uses of fern dust and gramophones.”

I laid my hand delicately on his forearm, saying softly, “I do indeed, my dear Mr. Holmes, I do. My wedding, as you know, was hasty and sparsely attended. I’m afraid some of the niceties were neglected, so I take the liberty of amending one.

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