What a suspicious lot some of you are! Holmes may be callous and selfish but he would never deliberately intrude on the Watsons' honeymoon . . . or would he? ;)

(And thanks, CG, for helping work out some of the psychological complexities in this chapter.)

"Have you any suspects?" Mary inquired, her expression eager. I looked at her in some surprise; I had supposed she had asked Holmes about the case out of politeness, not genuine interest. Nevertheless, it was a relieving to see my wife did not object to matters of mystery.

"I have," Holmes replied. "Unfortunately the police believe that if Mr. Kendall Senior was indeed murdered, the most likely suspect is his son, my client."

"Mr. Kendall Junior?" I asked in disbelief. "If he is the murderer, why on earth would he not have allowed the police to believe his father died of natural causes? For that matter, why would he engage you at all?"

"Watson, you have hit on the self-evident points that the local constabulary are so quick to dismiss," my friend sighed. "It is true that Mr. Kendall Jr. has displayed the least incriminating behavior after the fact. However, he does appear to have the most likely motive."

"Inheritance?" Mary ventured timidly. "He murders his father to inherit the estate?"

I fear both Holmes and I looked at her in mute amazement. "That is precisely it," managed Holmes at last. "Phillip Kendall Jr. was the proverbial prodigal son in his younger days. After a few years he finally settled on a tobacco plantation in the southern United States and turned quite a tidy profit. Recently, he decided it was high time to return to England. Thereupon he presented himself with all due humility and was warmly received by his father, who promptly declared he would reinstate his son as full beneficiary of the estate."

"A tobacco plantation?" I asked uneasily.

"That is another point not in his favor as far as the police are concerned," acknowledged Holmes. "Especially as it is well-known that he has brought samples of the various varieties with him in order to see which new blend should prove popular in England."

Mary had grown pensive, her brow more deeply furrowed. "But if his tobacco plantation was already profitable, why would he be in such a rush to inherit? Had the will even been changed yet?"

"My dear Mrs. Watson, you scintillate this evening," Holmes said approvingly. "Those are the precise concerns I must address tomorrow, as I arrived too late to enquire today. Before my client's return, however, it was his sister, the household staff, and a local charity that stood to gain from Mr. Kendall Sr.'s death."

"And you came here for the local gossip in order to evaluate each of their motives?" I asked.

"Indeed." My friend seemed on the verge of saying more but he checked himself. I noted the bright mood that had come over him while relating the details of the case dissipated. "But I feel I have accomplished all that I am able to here. Good evening."

I watched Holmes leave with, I admit, more than a twinge of regret. I had made it clear before the wedding that while I would be happy to assist him with his cases, my time for such pursuits was going to be greatly curtailed. Now, I reflected, he was going out of his way to accommodate me . . . us, rather. I appreciated the motive behind his behavior and yet it illustrated a growing strain on our friendship. And, were I to be completely honest, it also illustrated how much I had enjoyed those mysteries and how much I was going to miss them.

"Are you so surprised that I find Mr. Holmes's cases interesting?" Mary asked as she took out her hair pins. I watched her unashamedly, having discovered after only a few days of marriage how fascinating a woman's hair can be when unbound. The sight, however, could not distract me from the subject at hand.

"Well, yes. I would have thought you had had your fill of mystery after the Agra treasure affair," I admitted.

Mary shrugged. "I find they are far more enjoyable when I am not immediately involved in them." She watched me in the reflection of her mirror, slowly unplaiting her braid.

I had not realized I looked troubled until her own brows lowered and she turned from the mirror to kiss me gently. "Jealousy does not become you," she cautioned.

"It is not jealousy," I protested. "It is . . . " I stopped, uncertain how to categorize the jumble of conflicting thoughts and feelings.

"Guilt?"

"What?"

"I saw how your eyes lit up when Mr. Holmes described the murder scene. You love those adventures almost as much as he does. I know you mean to give it up but I wonder if that is the right decision. For your sake."

"A medical practice, if it is to be anything resembling a livelihood, won't tolerate that kind of neglect," I answered stiffly. "And I do not mean to neglect you in favor of business either." That I had harbored the same concerns as she made me, I fear, more brusque than called for.

"I wouldn't resent it, you know. I know being a doctor's wife means watching her husband called from home at all hours. Who am I to distinguish between fighting disease and death and fighting injustice and evil? They are not so very different. Both are noble causes to champion."

"Marriage is no less noble."

"Friendship is no less noble. You needn't avoid Mr. Holmes in order to be an attentive husband to me. Doing so will only make it appear that you are choosing between us. And I have no desire to come between such close friends."

I pulled her close and embraced her, burying my face in her hair and finding a simple comfort in the presence of a sympathetic human being. "It will not be easy to find the right balance," I warned her without raising my head. "I warn you now I am going to end up erring too far in one direction and then overcompensating for it."

"I know. I'm planning ahead for it. And I shall do my part and let you know when I think you are losing equilibrium."