Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
How warm he was! How warm, and solid, and comforting – three qualities not ordinarily associated with the Great Detective, but at the moment I could think of no-one I would rather have by my side after my terrifying encounter with the icy hands of the Ghost.
I half expected him to be uncomfortable with the close proximity – considering modern rules of propriety and his own naturally prickly nature – but to my surprise he actually put his arms around me and held me while I regained my composure, stroking my hair with a gentleness that I would not have expected in him until I had stopped shaking.
After a few minutes he pulled away slightly and looked at me. "Now," he said, "Are you all right? Were you hurt at all?" Although his voice was unreadable, I saw concern in his eyes – concern and something else, though I couldn't decipher this second element.
"I'm fine," I assured him, "Just a bit shaken, and it's freezing cold in here, and I feel like I want to have a long bath." I glanced over at my physics book on the floor. "I don't think you can say the same for the Ghost."
He followed my gaze, then stood – deftly removing himself from my arms – and crossed to the book, stooped, and picked it up. While he was still bent over, something else on the floor, something small, caught his eye, and he retrieved it as well. He looked at the smaller object under the light of his lantern.
"It appears that you have taken your pound of flesh from the miscreant," he said, and showed me the item of interest in the palm of his hand. It was an eye-tooth, apparently broken off when I hit the rogue with my book. "Would I be correct in assuming that our poltergeist has been taught a thing or two of his own about physics?"
I smiled wanly, but before I could reply, he suddenly straightened in an attitude of intent listening, putting his hand up to silence me. I listened, straining my ears to hear what had caught his attention.
"How very odd," he said.
"I hear nothing," I replied.
"That is the odd thing," he returned, "For your shriek must logically have roused the whole house – with the exception, perhaps, of Mr Hammond. Yet no alarm has been raised, no-one is coming to see what the trouble is, and no-one even seems to have stirred." His eyes clouded, and then brightened. "And I think I have a fair idea why not." With that he darted like a hare through the connecting door, leaving me in the freezing room. I pulled the coverlet over myself for warmth. In a few moments he had returned, holding an open book in one hand and leafing rapidly through it with the other. Apparently he'd momentarily forgotten about me in his zeal to investigate this prospective clue. I grumbled and slid shivering out of bed, pushing my feet into my slippers and pulling on my robe, meaning to rekindle the fire.
Holmes glanced up at me, apparently surprised that I was still there. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm getting ready to get the fire going in the fireplace again," I returned, a bit sharply I'm afraid, "Maybe you don't care if I get frostbite or hypothermia from sleeping in an icy room, but I do."
I'd inadvertently touched a nerve. He shut the book with a loud snap. "You listen to me, Emily," he snarled, jabbing a finger at me, "I happen to care very much what happens to you. The sound of your screaming was the single most terrifying noise I've heard in a very long time, so don't you *dare* imply that I don't care about your continued well-being!" He opened the book again and found what he'd been looking for.
That stopped me in my tracks, as one could well expect. In retrospect, of course, his behaviour made sense for his nature. How very like him to reveal tender feelings for me, while at the same time yelling at me!
He pushed the book into my hands and pointed out a section with the heading _Valerian_. "You might find this educational," he said shortly, then turned away abruptly and started attending to the fireplace.
I started reading, and found that he was quite correct.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
That I had figured out the cause of my moment of weakness did little to make me feel better about it. Additionally, I bristled at Emily's implication about my supposed callousness; I was trying to solve this mystery every bit as much as – if not more than – she was.
I will concede, however, that I probably should not have yelled at her. What is done is done.
As I knelt in front of the again-cold fireplace, I saw what else had been done. To the casual observer in dim light, it would have appeared that the fire had smothered in its own ashes and, upon relighting it, destroyed the evidence to the contrary. I saw, however, that the pieces of kindling were not sufficiently consumed by the previous fire to warrant the amount of ash apparent in the fireplace. The intruder had been thorough, but not vigilant – else he would have noticed and remedied this. To my own expert eye, the fire had not burned out on its own, but been smothered by a quantity of dust or cold ashes poured over the flames. There were no tapestries or wall-coverings in the room to hold in the heat, so it could very well have taken an extraordinarily short interval for the room to take on a chill. I made a mental note of this and set about clearing away the dust and relighting the fire.
"This certainly explains why the coffee tasted like it did," Emily said from the vicinity of the lantern, "It says here that the root of Valerian has a distinct, slightly bitter camphor taste and smell. And it says further down that it's used to remedy insomnia and nervous tension. So if someone drugged the coffee with something made from this, then anyone who drank it must be out cold. Except…"
I could hear her working it out in her mind. I did not turn around, though, until I had the fire safely alight and thus would have its warmth at my back.
"You drank it too, didn't you?" she asked, a legitimate inquiry under the circumstances.
"Yes," I confirmed shortly.
"So… how is it that you're still awake?" Again, this was a perfectly legitimate question.
I closed my eyes and did not answer. That was, I suppose, all the answer she required.
"It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, "You were drugged. Everyone was. That's why nobody else is coming. You fought it off, Holmes. I'm not sure how but I'm glad you did."
I opened my eyes again. "Not everyone was drugged," I observed, "If it was in the coffee – and that is the only way it could logically have been administered – not everyone was drugged."
"I hardly drank any… and the Fairfaxes didn't join us, so we can reasonably conclude that they didn't drink any either. That leaves us with three viable suspects."
"And our culprit should be easy to identify in the morning," I responded, "considering that you beat him over the head so violently that he lost a tooth in the process."
She smiled briefly. I was glad that she'd gotten over – or else redirected – her trauma.
"So, what do we do now? I don't think I can get back to sleep, not in here anyway, after what happened."
I considered the problem. I couldn't force her to sleep in the bedroom again, in case the Ghost returned with vengeance in mind.
"We will relocate to the study," I said finally, "I will need to question you about what happened, in case it yields further clues as to the identity of your attacker. Try to remember all you can." She nodded, and I continued, "Afterwards, if you are tired, there is a couch in the study where you may sleep. I shall take the wing-backed chair, so no-one can accuse either of us of impropriety. Will that be amenable?"
"I think that will be perfect," she replied, "But only if your fireplace is working better than mine." She relieved the bed of its coverlet and one of the down pillows.
Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. I was well on the road to redeeming myself. To be sure, she had already forgiven me for falling asleep – but now I had to forgive myself.
*****
Author's notes: Everyone who guessed it was the Valerian gets a cookie – any guesses about the culprit?
End of Part 9.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
How warm he was! How warm, and solid, and comforting – three qualities not ordinarily associated with the Great Detective, but at the moment I could think of no-one I would rather have by my side after my terrifying encounter with the icy hands of the Ghost.
I half expected him to be uncomfortable with the close proximity – considering modern rules of propriety and his own naturally prickly nature – but to my surprise he actually put his arms around me and held me while I regained my composure, stroking my hair with a gentleness that I would not have expected in him until I had stopped shaking.
After a few minutes he pulled away slightly and looked at me. "Now," he said, "Are you all right? Were you hurt at all?" Although his voice was unreadable, I saw concern in his eyes – concern and something else, though I couldn't decipher this second element.
"I'm fine," I assured him, "Just a bit shaken, and it's freezing cold in here, and I feel like I want to have a long bath." I glanced over at my physics book on the floor. "I don't think you can say the same for the Ghost."
He followed my gaze, then stood – deftly removing himself from my arms – and crossed to the book, stooped, and picked it up. While he was still bent over, something else on the floor, something small, caught his eye, and he retrieved it as well. He looked at the smaller object under the light of his lantern.
"It appears that you have taken your pound of flesh from the miscreant," he said, and showed me the item of interest in the palm of his hand. It was an eye-tooth, apparently broken off when I hit the rogue with my book. "Would I be correct in assuming that our poltergeist has been taught a thing or two of his own about physics?"
I smiled wanly, but before I could reply, he suddenly straightened in an attitude of intent listening, putting his hand up to silence me. I listened, straining my ears to hear what had caught his attention.
"How very odd," he said.
"I hear nothing," I replied.
"That is the odd thing," he returned, "For your shriek must logically have roused the whole house – with the exception, perhaps, of Mr Hammond. Yet no alarm has been raised, no-one is coming to see what the trouble is, and no-one even seems to have stirred." His eyes clouded, and then brightened. "And I think I have a fair idea why not." With that he darted like a hare through the connecting door, leaving me in the freezing room. I pulled the coverlet over myself for warmth. In a few moments he had returned, holding an open book in one hand and leafing rapidly through it with the other. Apparently he'd momentarily forgotten about me in his zeal to investigate this prospective clue. I grumbled and slid shivering out of bed, pushing my feet into my slippers and pulling on my robe, meaning to rekindle the fire.
Holmes glanced up at me, apparently surprised that I was still there. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm getting ready to get the fire going in the fireplace again," I returned, a bit sharply I'm afraid, "Maybe you don't care if I get frostbite or hypothermia from sleeping in an icy room, but I do."
I'd inadvertently touched a nerve. He shut the book with a loud snap. "You listen to me, Emily," he snarled, jabbing a finger at me, "I happen to care very much what happens to you. The sound of your screaming was the single most terrifying noise I've heard in a very long time, so don't you *dare* imply that I don't care about your continued well-being!" He opened the book again and found what he'd been looking for.
That stopped me in my tracks, as one could well expect. In retrospect, of course, his behaviour made sense for his nature. How very like him to reveal tender feelings for me, while at the same time yelling at me!
He pushed the book into my hands and pointed out a section with the heading _Valerian_. "You might find this educational," he said shortly, then turned away abruptly and started attending to the fireplace.
I started reading, and found that he was quite correct.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
That I had figured out the cause of my moment of weakness did little to make me feel better about it. Additionally, I bristled at Emily's implication about my supposed callousness; I was trying to solve this mystery every bit as much as – if not more than – she was.
I will concede, however, that I probably should not have yelled at her. What is done is done.
As I knelt in front of the again-cold fireplace, I saw what else had been done. To the casual observer in dim light, it would have appeared that the fire had smothered in its own ashes and, upon relighting it, destroyed the evidence to the contrary. I saw, however, that the pieces of kindling were not sufficiently consumed by the previous fire to warrant the amount of ash apparent in the fireplace. The intruder had been thorough, but not vigilant – else he would have noticed and remedied this. To my own expert eye, the fire had not burned out on its own, but been smothered by a quantity of dust or cold ashes poured over the flames. There were no tapestries or wall-coverings in the room to hold in the heat, so it could very well have taken an extraordinarily short interval for the room to take on a chill. I made a mental note of this and set about clearing away the dust and relighting the fire.
"This certainly explains why the coffee tasted like it did," Emily said from the vicinity of the lantern, "It says here that the root of Valerian has a distinct, slightly bitter camphor taste and smell. And it says further down that it's used to remedy insomnia and nervous tension. So if someone drugged the coffee with something made from this, then anyone who drank it must be out cold. Except…"
I could hear her working it out in her mind. I did not turn around, though, until I had the fire safely alight and thus would have its warmth at my back.
"You drank it too, didn't you?" she asked, a legitimate inquiry under the circumstances.
"Yes," I confirmed shortly.
"So… how is it that you're still awake?" Again, this was a perfectly legitimate question.
I closed my eyes and did not answer. That was, I suppose, all the answer she required.
"It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, "You were drugged. Everyone was. That's why nobody else is coming. You fought it off, Holmes. I'm not sure how but I'm glad you did."
I opened my eyes again. "Not everyone was drugged," I observed, "If it was in the coffee – and that is the only way it could logically have been administered – not everyone was drugged."
"I hardly drank any… and the Fairfaxes didn't join us, so we can reasonably conclude that they didn't drink any either. That leaves us with three viable suspects."
"And our culprit should be easy to identify in the morning," I responded, "considering that you beat him over the head so violently that he lost a tooth in the process."
She smiled briefly. I was glad that she'd gotten over – or else redirected – her trauma.
"So, what do we do now? I don't think I can get back to sleep, not in here anyway, after what happened."
I considered the problem. I couldn't force her to sleep in the bedroom again, in case the Ghost returned with vengeance in mind.
"We will relocate to the study," I said finally, "I will need to question you about what happened, in case it yields further clues as to the identity of your attacker. Try to remember all you can." She nodded, and I continued, "Afterwards, if you are tired, there is a couch in the study where you may sleep. I shall take the wing-backed chair, so no-one can accuse either of us of impropriety. Will that be amenable?"
"I think that will be perfect," she replied, "But only if your fireplace is working better than mine." She relieved the bed of its coverlet and one of the down pillows.
Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. I was well on the road to redeeming myself. To be sure, she had already forgiven me for falling asleep – but now I had to forgive myself.
*****
Author's notes: Everyone who guessed it was the Valerian gets a cookie – any guesses about the culprit?
End of Part 9.