Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
He was taking the drugging quite a bit harder than I would have reasonably expected him to, and I was starting to suspect that there might be more to him than met the eye. All that aside, I was relieved to find that the fireplace in the study was still crackling invitingly, and the room was warm and cosy. He paused as I entered the half-circle of light in front of the fire, and he took my wrists and held up my hands so that he could examine them in the firelight.
"Tissue under the fingernails," he murmured, mainly to himself, and then glanced up, "You have certainly gone to great lengths to mark your attacker, Emily."
In the firelight, I saw that he also had scratches on his face, which I pointed out to him. He touched his check lightly and glanced at his fingertips, though his face was not scored deeply enough to bleed.
"They are not deep," he dismissed them, "And in any case I do not blame you. You were already badly frightened, and my initial attempt to snap you out of it was… clumsy." With that he folded himself into the wing-backed chair and waved a thin hand at the couch. "You may begin your account whenever you are ready."
I sat, warming my chilled self in front of the fire while Holmes sat like a statue in the chair, his hands folded before him and his eyes half-lidded. I reflected that he was being remarkably accommodating, considering the battle of wills we'd had not much more than twelve hours ago.
Once I'd banished the last of my chills, I described to him, to the best of my memory, all that had transpired from the time I awakened in the night to the time he'd entered my room. He did not move during my retelling (and, to my credit, I considered it a very lucid account, if I may say so). He did, of course, have a few questions.
"You said that it was too dark in your room to see anything, correct?"
I nodded. "After the fire went out, it was black as pitch in there."
"What of your other senses? The human body is a remarkably adaptable machine – when deprived of one sense, the other senses compensate." He opened his eyes fully. "Anything you can remember would be helpful. Begin with hearing."
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sounds I'd heard. "Well… not long after I woke up, I heard a shuffling noise."
"A footstep, perhaps?"
"It just sounded like someone trying to be quiet. It didn't sound like a shoe or anything."
"No, I don't expect our Ghost would wear shoes to sneak into bedrooms… perhaps slippers of some sort. Pray continue. Did he say anything or make any other vocalisations?"
"Only when I hit him with my book."
"So I would reasonably expect. Did he cry out?"
"No… it was more of a grunt than a cry. And not long after that I was screaming, so I didn't hear anything more."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, I'm sure!" I snapped, but then forced myself to relax. He was just doing his job, after all. I sank back into the warmth of the coverlet.
"We shall move on, then," he said quietly, "If you remember any other sounds we shall go back to them. Now, did you smell anything unusual during the incident, perhaps on the hands?"
This one was a bit harder. I closed my eyes again, remembering the hand over my mouth. "No," I said, "I just smelled like… like a hand." I opened my eyes as something clicked. "That means that the owner of the hands probably didn't prepare the Valerian, or else he would have smelled like mothballs."
"Very good, Emily," Holmes said, not without a hint of praise, "A very sound conclusion. Except—"
"And if he wore gloves his hands would probably have smelled like whatever the gloves were made out of." Holmes conceded the point with a small smile. "So that probably means that there are two people involved in this."
"Very good. You have raised a number of very valid conclusions – more than I would have expected from you after your ordeal. Let us move on." He looked steadily at me. "Touch." I shivered, remembering those awful hands on me. He added, "Focus on textures, Emily, and the size and shape of the hands and the strength exerted by their owner. I know this will be hard."
I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I noticed that he'd worked up to this one, apparently saving it for last. I closed my eyes a third time and remembered. "The hands were… were average-sized, I suppose…"
"Were they male or female?"
"Male," I replied, understanding that we needed to cover all possibilities.
"Were they young or old, by your best estimation?"
"I don't know."
"Fair enough. Were they smooth or rough?"
I tried to remember… but when I did I felt a cold pit of dread form in my stomach. It must have showed in my face.
"Emily." I opened my eyes to see Holmes looking keenly at me. "What do you remember?"
"It… couldn't be him…" I protested, but Holmes would have none of it.
"Were the hands smooth or rough?" He repeated, making sure to enunciate the words carefully.
"I think I know who attacked me," I said, "But I want to make sure. I could be mistaken."
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked.
I told him. He sat back, digesting this. "I can see why you would have your doubts," he said finally, "But remember that he is one of two people involved with this." He sighed, looking tired. "We shall speak further on it in the morning. I recommend you try to get some sleep if you can."
I nodded and curled up on the sofa.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
I watched her for several long moments, curled as she was on the sofa like a cat. I needed to think, but more importantly, I needed to smoke. I had found that my trusty calabash pipe and a quantity of the strong-smelling shag tobacco about which Watson had frequently complained were an effective aid to deep meditation. My other aid to ratiocination (as deep cogitation had been whimsically called by Dupin), the violin, would have been dreadfully inappropriate under the circumstances – only marginally less so than pipe smoke.
However, I had to keep Emily in mind, so I forced myself to abstain from both for the night. This left me with two obvious points on which to focus during my meditations: the fire and the sleeping form of Emily. Presently, the curl of her hair which always managed – one way or the other – to escape from whatever bound its fellows, fell across her cheek and brushed her nose, making it twitch. I reached forward to brush it away but was forced to take evasive manoeuvres when she spoke.
"Holmes?" She opened her eyes just as I settled back in the arm-chair.
"Yes, Emily?"
"Do you have any ideas about what we should do tomorrow morning?"
I was flattered that she was actually asking for rather than lambasting my ideas, but under the circumstances, I considered, it was perfectly understandable that she might feel a bit off-balance. However…
"How do you feel we should proceed?" I countered, "We have a possible suspect but neither proof yet that it was actually him, nor any evidence which would point to the accomplice."
She propped herself up on one elbow on the arm of the sofa, brushing the curl back behind her ear. "Valerian is a local plant," she said, "which means that it could be grown in an English climate… but only during the summer. But suppose someone wanted to cultivate some outside of its growing season – say, to keep some of the sleep drug available through the winter. Where would our horticulturally-inclined subject be likely to do so?"
"The hothouse," I replied immediately, "But I shall investigate it by myself – the back lawn will likely be a solid sheet of ice after the storm tonight and – with all due respect to your potential agility in icy conditions – I would rather you stay inside."
"That will give me enough time to account for everybody else in the house, whether they drank the coffee or not."
"And, of course, see who looked as though they picked a fight with a stout physics book."
She smiled. "That shouldn't be too easy to miss. But remember we're still supposed to be happily married – how are we going to explain you going for a little perambulation in such rotten conditions?"
I smiled at her. "That will be the hard part."
"How's that?"
"You will pick a fight with me – some petty disagreement that will cause me to leave in a considerable huff to take a solitary walk around the premises."
She smiled. "You always ask for the impossible, don't you? Who would ever wish to have an argument with sweet, lovable you?"
"My dear Emily," I replied warmly, "I am certain that you will be able to come up with something by morning."
*****
End of Part 10.
*****
::Emily Cartwright::
He was taking the drugging quite a bit harder than I would have reasonably expected him to, and I was starting to suspect that there might be more to him than met the eye. All that aside, I was relieved to find that the fireplace in the study was still crackling invitingly, and the room was warm and cosy. He paused as I entered the half-circle of light in front of the fire, and he took my wrists and held up my hands so that he could examine them in the firelight.
"Tissue under the fingernails," he murmured, mainly to himself, and then glanced up, "You have certainly gone to great lengths to mark your attacker, Emily."
In the firelight, I saw that he also had scratches on his face, which I pointed out to him. He touched his check lightly and glanced at his fingertips, though his face was not scored deeply enough to bleed.
"They are not deep," he dismissed them, "And in any case I do not blame you. You were already badly frightened, and my initial attempt to snap you out of it was… clumsy." With that he folded himself into the wing-backed chair and waved a thin hand at the couch. "You may begin your account whenever you are ready."
I sat, warming my chilled self in front of the fire while Holmes sat like a statue in the chair, his hands folded before him and his eyes half-lidded. I reflected that he was being remarkably accommodating, considering the battle of wills we'd had not much more than twelve hours ago.
Once I'd banished the last of my chills, I described to him, to the best of my memory, all that had transpired from the time I awakened in the night to the time he'd entered my room. He did not move during my retelling (and, to my credit, I considered it a very lucid account, if I may say so). He did, of course, have a few questions.
"You said that it was too dark in your room to see anything, correct?"
I nodded. "After the fire went out, it was black as pitch in there."
"What of your other senses? The human body is a remarkably adaptable machine – when deprived of one sense, the other senses compensate." He opened his eyes fully. "Anything you can remember would be helpful. Begin with hearing."
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sounds I'd heard. "Well… not long after I woke up, I heard a shuffling noise."
"A footstep, perhaps?"
"It just sounded like someone trying to be quiet. It didn't sound like a shoe or anything."
"No, I don't expect our Ghost would wear shoes to sneak into bedrooms… perhaps slippers of some sort. Pray continue. Did he say anything or make any other vocalisations?"
"Only when I hit him with my book."
"So I would reasonably expect. Did he cry out?"
"No… it was more of a grunt than a cry. And not long after that I was screaming, so I didn't hear anything more."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, I'm sure!" I snapped, but then forced myself to relax. He was just doing his job, after all. I sank back into the warmth of the coverlet.
"We shall move on, then," he said quietly, "If you remember any other sounds we shall go back to them. Now, did you smell anything unusual during the incident, perhaps on the hands?"
This one was a bit harder. I closed my eyes again, remembering the hand over my mouth. "No," I said, "I just smelled like… like a hand." I opened my eyes as something clicked. "That means that the owner of the hands probably didn't prepare the Valerian, or else he would have smelled like mothballs."
"Very good, Emily," Holmes said, not without a hint of praise, "A very sound conclusion. Except—"
"And if he wore gloves his hands would probably have smelled like whatever the gloves were made out of." Holmes conceded the point with a small smile. "So that probably means that there are two people involved in this."
"Very good. You have raised a number of very valid conclusions – more than I would have expected from you after your ordeal. Let us move on." He looked steadily at me. "Touch." I shivered, remembering those awful hands on me. He added, "Focus on textures, Emily, and the size and shape of the hands and the strength exerted by their owner. I know this will be hard."
I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I noticed that he'd worked up to this one, apparently saving it for last. I closed my eyes a third time and remembered. "The hands were… were average-sized, I suppose…"
"Were they male or female?"
"Male," I replied, understanding that we needed to cover all possibilities.
"Were they young or old, by your best estimation?"
"I don't know."
"Fair enough. Were they smooth or rough?"
I tried to remember… but when I did I felt a cold pit of dread form in my stomach. It must have showed in my face.
"Emily." I opened my eyes to see Holmes looking keenly at me. "What do you remember?"
"It… couldn't be him…" I protested, but Holmes would have none of it.
"Were the hands smooth or rough?" He repeated, making sure to enunciate the words carefully.
"I think I know who attacked me," I said, "But I want to make sure. I could be mistaken."
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked.
I told him. He sat back, digesting this. "I can see why you would have your doubts," he said finally, "But remember that he is one of two people involved with this." He sighed, looking tired. "We shall speak further on it in the morning. I recommend you try to get some sleep if you can."
I nodded and curled up on the sofa.
*****
::Sherlock Holmes::
I watched her for several long moments, curled as she was on the sofa like a cat. I needed to think, but more importantly, I needed to smoke. I had found that my trusty calabash pipe and a quantity of the strong-smelling shag tobacco about which Watson had frequently complained were an effective aid to deep meditation. My other aid to ratiocination (as deep cogitation had been whimsically called by Dupin), the violin, would have been dreadfully inappropriate under the circumstances – only marginally less so than pipe smoke.
However, I had to keep Emily in mind, so I forced myself to abstain from both for the night. This left me with two obvious points on which to focus during my meditations: the fire and the sleeping form of Emily. Presently, the curl of her hair which always managed – one way or the other – to escape from whatever bound its fellows, fell across her cheek and brushed her nose, making it twitch. I reached forward to brush it away but was forced to take evasive manoeuvres when she spoke.
"Holmes?" She opened her eyes just as I settled back in the arm-chair.
"Yes, Emily?"
"Do you have any ideas about what we should do tomorrow morning?"
I was flattered that she was actually asking for rather than lambasting my ideas, but under the circumstances, I considered, it was perfectly understandable that she might feel a bit off-balance. However…
"How do you feel we should proceed?" I countered, "We have a possible suspect but neither proof yet that it was actually him, nor any evidence which would point to the accomplice."
She propped herself up on one elbow on the arm of the sofa, brushing the curl back behind her ear. "Valerian is a local plant," she said, "which means that it could be grown in an English climate… but only during the summer. But suppose someone wanted to cultivate some outside of its growing season – say, to keep some of the sleep drug available through the winter. Where would our horticulturally-inclined subject be likely to do so?"
"The hothouse," I replied immediately, "But I shall investigate it by myself – the back lawn will likely be a solid sheet of ice after the storm tonight and – with all due respect to your potential agility in icy conditions – I would rather you stay inside."
"That will give me enough time to account for everybody else in the house, whether they drank the coffee or not."
"And, of course, see who looked as though they picked a fight with a stout physics book."
She smiled. "That shouldn't be too easy to miss. But remember we're still supposed to be happily married – how are we going to explain you going for a little perambulation in such rotten conditions?"
I smiled at her. "That will be the hard part."
"How's that?"
"You will pick a fight with me – some petty disagreement that will cause me to leave in a considerable huff to take a solitary walk around the premises."
She smiled. "You always ask for the impossible, don't you? Who would ever wish to have an argument with sweet, lovable you?"
"My dear Emily," I replied warmly, "I am certain that you will be able to come up with something by morning."
*****
End of Part 10.