"Stay here," he told me as he settled his jacket on his shoulders. "Lestrade mentioned possibly having a case for us, and I will return for you if he does."
I nodded, glancing up from my book to grin at him. "Arre you sorrre you don't need me to come with you?"
He glared at me again, and I grinned wider. It had been two days since I had won our bet, and he was still more than a little irritated that I had so thoroughly tricked him. I had taken to randomly affecting an Italian accent for two to three words simply to make him frown at me.
I had also thwarted three more attempts to discover Rubio's real name. He frowned at me for that, too, but I did not care. He did not need to know how much of my story had been true.
"I would not be going at all if Hopkins had not insisted," he answered, "and this way I can use you as an excuse to leave early if needed."
My grin quickly changed to a scowl. "You had better not tell them I am ill again. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to respond with confusion when someone expresses how relieved they are that I survived?"
He ducked his head. "I will not tell them you are ill," he promised.
Instead of reassuring me, his promise promptly sparked suspicion. Such an easy win implied that he had already planned something else, and I stared at him for a long moment.
I could deduce nothing, of course.
"See that you don't," I eventually said, "or I will inform the entirety of Scotland Yard that the famous detective would rather give his flatmate a life-threatening illness than attend a meeting."
Technicalities could get him an earful from Lestrade, and he well knew it. The glare he leveled at me declared his thoughts on that threat, and I settled back with my book, satisfied he would not put me in such an awkward position again. Once had been quite enough.
Holmes had spent the day flipping through indices and newspapers, but he had claimed a message from Hopkins when I retrieved a new book from my room. He would not tell me what, saying only that it had something to do with one of Hopkin's cases last week, and when he had repeatedly told me I need not come, I had decided he was planning something—probably his third attempt. We had not explicitly said the wager ended with a success, after all.
I would simply have to be on my guard, but that did not matter now, with him supposedly on his way to the Yard. Silence settled over the flat as his footsteps faded out the door, and I quickly lost myself in my novel, drifting through time and place as I followed the story of a dragon-riding war leader on another planet.
Several hours passed before a knock on the front door pulled me out of the book, and I was just about to get up when Mrs. Hudson's footsteps moved toward the door. Voices carried up the stairs, then two pairs of feet started climbing. I set the book aside.
"Ms. Jules Favre," Mrs. Hudson announced. A tall, young lady swept into the room as if she owned the place, and I waved her toward the settee.
"Dahctor," she greeted me as she sat.
Lean and with a bonnet covering shorter than normal hair, she reminded me somewhat of a feminine version of Holmes. I did not think he would create such a transparent disguise, but I was already wary.
"Good afternoon. What brings you here?"
"I work fahr a family een Kensington," she said in an obvious but easily understood French accent. "I have noticed things going missing een ze last week, but my employer did not believe me. I fear she will blame me when she notices ze problem herself."
I glanced up from quickly jotting this in my notebook. This seemed like just the kind of case Holmes would invent as a ruse, but the lady's eyes were half-hidden under her bonnet. I could not be certain yet.
"Where do you work?"
"I wahtch two young seesters each evening after school fahr ze Segals," she answered, digging a slip of paper from her shoulder bag. "Here ees ze address. Small, vahluable things, easeely meessed, have been regularly deesappearing fahr at least a week, now. I cannot affahrd to lose zis jahb, especially fahr something I am not doing. Please, you must help."
I nodded immediately. "Mr. Holmes should return in a few hours," I replied, finally getting a clear glimpse of her face. Her eyes were brown. "I cannot accept a case for him, but we will contact you before noon tomorrow either way. Where can you be reached?"
She rattled off an address very near my old practice, and I scribbled that below the rest of my notes. "He will see it tonight."
"Zank you, Dahctor."
I showed her to the door and returned to my book, and I had just finished the last chapter when another knock sounded. Two pairs of feet climbed the stairs again. It was not often we had two new clients in a single afternoon.
"Mrs. Jada Martinez," Mrs. Hudson introduced. "She was looking for Mr. Holmes, Doctor, but asked to see you when I replied that he was out."
Mrs. Martinez carried herself as if she were several years older than I, but I could tell very little about her except that she wore the unrelieved black of full mourning. I could not even see her face, covered as it was with a heavy crepe veil.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said as I gained my feet. "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Martinez?"
"Thank you, Sigñor," she said in a faint Spanish accent. I resumed my place in my chair as she delicately sat on the settee. "I am sorry to intrude like this." Her voice was small and grief-heavy, yet somehow familiar. "I was hoping to catch Sigñor Holmes, that he might help me—" The word broke, and her hand came up to cover a sob. "That he might help me know what happened to my husband."
Sympathy lurched in my chest as she valiantly fought another sob. This must be a very recent loss.
"I am sure he would be willing to hear your case," I said, offering her my handkerchief, "but I have no idea when he might return. It might not be until later this evening."
"Oh dear." She started to wring the handkerchief before catching herself. "Miguel's funeral is in Chelmsford. I must catch the train in less than two hours." She hesitated. "I could give you the facts, no? Then you can relay it to Sigñor Holmes? I will be back in London overmorrow. Perhaps he will have found something by then."
Such pleading laced her words, and I wanted to help, but I doubted Holmes would appreciate my accepting a case on his behalf. I slowly shook my head.
"You are free to wait here for a few minutes on the chance he returns soon," I told her, "but I cannot accept a case for him."
Her shoulders dropped noticeably. "Why not? I thought you were partners?"
If being partners meant we worked together on cases, then yes, we were partners, but I would never hear the end of it if I accepted a case he did not want. Besides, partners also had an equal share in case fees, and she should not have asked about anything related to money.
"That does not mean I can accept a case in his absence," I replied simply, trying to brush the rudeness aside. People say and do strange things in their grief. "Would you like me to ring for tea?"
She hesitated again but slowly accepted. "Thank you."
Leaving her on the settee, I stepped to the landing to find Mrs. Hudson already halfway up the stairs, tray in hand.
"Holmes is not the only mind reader living in this flat," I told her with a wide grin.
She laughed. "What else would you want for a guest who had come for Mr. Holmes? You would not turn her away without a cup of tea."
I could not stifle my own chuckle. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
She followed me into the room, setting the tray on a nearby table, and I reclaimed my chair across from where Mrs. Martinez sat on the settee.
"One sugar, please," she said before I could ask, and she cradled the warm cup in her hand as I prepared my own.
"Miguel was such a kind man," she said quietly, her voice taking on the airy tone of a grieving monologue, and I resigned myself to listening for a few minutes. "We met at a party when I was a girl. He and I were the two youngest there, and we ended up spending the evening together, talking about anything and everything. His father was a businessman, and work took him abroad frequently. Miguel always went along. Oh, the stories he could tell! There was one time…" She went on to describe, in far too much detail, an incident when her husband had unexpectedly run into—and argued with—two relatives in Italy. I nodded and listened, drinking more than sipping my tea so I could set the empty cup aside as a signal for her to leave.
She set her own aside before I could, evidently realizing how badly she was rambling. "Lo siento—I am sorry, Doctor," she said quietly, and again I noted how familiar her voice was. "I should know better than to ramble on, so, and it seems Sigñor Holmes will not be returning in time for me to make my train. I will come back after the funeral. Would midmorning suffice? Around ten?"
"That should be fine," I replied. I set aside my cup and stood to see her to the door, but before I could wish her a good day, I suddenly realized what about her voice was so familiar.
Holmes had not called me "Doctor" in years, but I remembered that he had always put slightly more emphasis on the second syllable than normal. Mrs. Martinez had said the word the same way, and in a voice very similar to one of Holmes' disguises. He had probably been planning to announce himself on the way out the sitting room door.
Her posture changed just slightly at my hesitation, and I sighed. "Holmes. Was that five minutes?"
"Almost to the second," he answered. The veil fell away to reveal his frustration. "What did you notice?"
He started removing the outermost layer of crepe as I resumed my seat, my wide grin pulling uncomfortably on the half-healed burn. "Your voice was familiar from the start," I answered, "but my title provided the final clue. You say the word differently than most people, and your own pronunciation leaked into her accent."
He huffed in irritation but disappeared into his room without comment, and I made no effort to hide my amusement, glad I had seen through his disguise before he revealed himself. He would have been insufferable for days if he had succeeded completely, and even pointing out that I had done it first would not have tempered his comments.
"Stop that!" he called from the other room. I laughed aloud.
"Stop what?"
"Stop grinning! This is hardly the first time you have seen through a disguise."
The first time had been far more entertaining—for me, anyway—but I could not see a correlation between that and my actions now.
"Your point?" I replied. "I think it is quite the accomplishment to see through a disguise such as that. I had very few clues."
An irritated huff was his only answer, and I still did not try to check my amusement. Conversation this evening was going to be interesting.
Too bad Watson could not be just a few seconds faster! :D Hope you enjoyed. Only one chapter left
As usual, thanks to those who reviewed last chapter. You have no idea how much I enjoy the feedback.