The Star of India by Carole Bugge

Author:Carole Bugge [Buggé, Carole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2011-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

Nine

When we returned to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met us at the door. I have often described her as long-suffering, which is true, but equally true is that her hardy Scottish nature revels in the constant aura of adventure which surrounds her famous tenant. In short, though she might not admit it, Mrs. Hudson has often displayed a certain exhilaration in her proximity to Holmes—even when the dangers to herself are as real as her recent kidnapping. Now she met us in the hallway, her face animated with unspoken questions.

“There’s a young woman upstairs waiting to see you,” she said with a conspiratorial nod to me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said, ignoring any implication that he reveal anything more to her. When it came to women— excepting of course the much-admired Irene Adler—Holmes tended to be old-fashioned. Women aroused in him a protective instinct, and he did not relish the idea of exposing them to the perils which his profession occasioned. This attitude was not entirely confined to women; he sometimes expressed a regret that my association with him exposed me to dangers—dangers which I risked gladly but which he felt responsible for.

When we opened the door to the sitting room, Violet Merriweather rose from her chair by the fire to greet us. As she did, the aroma of Golden Nights wafted up from her rustling skirts. The smell of it made me quite dizzy, and I stood there transfixed for a moment.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind—” she said, looking flustered. Holmes smiled and closed the door behind him.

“Not at all, Miss Merriweather; I am sorry if we have detained you.”

“Oh, I didn’t have to wait very long.”

“Long enough to smoke two cigarettes and take a nap.”

Our visitor blushed, and again I was struck by what an agreeable change it made in her complexion.

“But h-how did you—?” she stammered.

Holmes smiled again and sat in his chair by the fire. As Miss Merriweather was seated in my usual chair, I perched upon the arm of the sofa, the better to hear what Holmes had to say.

“Well, for one thing, I detect the aroma of a blend of Turkish tobacco which, as it happens, neither Watson nor myself use,” he said, removing his coat and hanging it on the bentwood coat rack. “As for the nap, I hope you will forgive my impertinence when I observe that the impression upon your cheek was made by the lace doily on the back of that armchair. As I see you are now in a rather agitated state, I presume that only sleep would have induced you to remain in the chair in one position for so long. Am I correct?”

“Indeed you are, Mr. Holmes, and I hope you and Dr. Watson don’t think the less of me for my indulgence in such an unladylike habit.”

Holmes merely smiled and shook his head; for my part, I had to admit that it only added to our visitor’s sense of mystery. What sort of life

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