The Exile: Kitty Bennet and the Belle Epoque (The Bennet Wardrobe Book 3) by Don Jacobson & a Lady

Author:Don Jacobson & a Lady [Jacobson, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-06-02T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XXI

221B Baker Street, London, July 6, 1891[lix]

Watson rested in his armchair, the Times spread across his lap, as he watched his friend act like a caged tiger at the Tower menagerie, pacing back and forth across the parlor of the flat at 221B Baker Street. First, Holmes would prowl to the mantle over the cold grate to inspect some flecks of tobacco that had escaped the worn Persian slipper, using a long tightly manicured forefinger to trace aimless circles in imaginary dust. Then he would drift over to his work table where he would desultorily sift through ancient letters and telegrams, snorting in disgust when none of them appealed any more to him now than they had the twenty-odd times he previously had stared at their words.

Since Watson had wed more than a year before, these observed moments of impatience and boredom had necessarily become less frequent. While his Mary and the consulting room in Kensington occupied the greater part of his day, most mornings, none-the-less, found Watson greeting Mrs. Hudson and then climbing the stairs to 221B in time to hand Holmes the early post and to share a late breakfast.

This morning had been comfortably cooler than the past few thanks to a series of brisk showers that had washed away the accumulated heat of the great city. The sky was clearing. The mid-morning sun brightened the cluttered rooms that made up, as Lestrade sarcastically had put it, “the den of lost causes.” Holmes would have none of the Sergeant’s needling however, rather frequently reminding him that the rooms at 221B were “the hall of Scotland Yard’s lost cases.”

Suddenly the detective’s perambulations were arrested as he pushed aside the summer drapes to peer down into the crowds milling about Baker Street. His deeply-set dark eyes focused intently down his aquiline nose, a sudden squint wrinkling his high forehead. Spinning away from the portal, he strode resolutely back to his long-empty wingback. Throwing himself into the seat, he stretched his lanky frame like a feline having awakened from a pleasing nap. Then he reached into the pocket of his mouse-colored robe and extracted a silver cigarette case. Opening it, he pulled one long white tube, closed the case and tapped the cigarette to settle its Turkish contents. Having lit it with a wooden match, he took one very long pull and exhaled a giant cloud of aromatic smoke.

Holmes spoke for the first time in nearly 30 minutes.

“We are going to have an important visitor momentarily. There is no question that we are to be sent on a great quest.”

Watson looked up from his newspaper and replied, somewhat skeptically, “Truly? Great? Knowing you as I do, you saw something in the street just now to lead you to that conclusion. Pray, dear Holmes, enlighten me.”

“Now, Watson, I understand that you are justifiably doubtful about my sudden mood change. I urge you, though, to reserve judgment and to recollect your earlier disbelief after our guest departs.”

With that pronouncement hanging in the smoke-laden atmosphere, Mrs.

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