Chapter 5
Thanks to Haley Macrae and Lindsay for reviewing. As regards the last chapter, I made a wee mistakie with the dates. I'm thinking they should be May 13, and 15, respectively. Also, the Villa Il Tatti comes from the play, The Old Masters, by Simon Gray, which I had the pleasure of seeing in London this summer. I owe a debt of gratitude to , The Italian Strand Magazine and Sherlock Peoria for concordances, scholarly articles and inspiring questions. Having this much fun while doing research should be illegal! And now, on with the motley. Remeber to review!
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The latest wave of nausea had subsided, and Holmes was left with an excruciating headache and an irregular heartbeat that shot waves of discomfort through his limbs. His wrists and ankles were still sore, even though the rope had been removed a day ago. The ointment assaulted his raw senses with the smell of camphor.
Holmes winced as he recalled the unfortunate series of events that had led to his being thus brutally restrained. The mistress of the household had left the room and he had decided to take advantage of her momentary absence to reclaim his belongings. He had reached the table where the small heap lay when she returned. She hadn't been angry. She asked him what he was looking for, and he had described the long silver case, no more than three inches wide. His heart was pounding, and tiny beads of sweat had begun to form on his upper lip. She had smiled ruefully, and shown him the case. It was dented in the middle, and when he had opened it, he saw that his exertions had been for naught. The needle was bent and twisted and the glass cylinder had shattered, spilling all the precious fluid onto the blue velvet lining. A rush of blood hit his head and he was filled with rage and despair.
"You have done this!" he had shouted. And she retreated behind the table, and rang for her servants. And when they came running he had not had the good sense to sink to the floor and to apologise for such vile behaviour to a lady. No, he had started having convulsions, and they had to tie him up, because she had looked at him and stated that she was not in the habit of giving drugs to addicts.
Risking another wave of nausea, he turned his head and looked at her. She was seated with her back to him at a small writing desk, illuminated by a stream of sunlight that came in across the floor from the tall windows. Her sleeve rustled as she dipped her pen in the inkwell. She was certainly no monster, although her methods were questionable, at best. Women, he thought, and snorted.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr Holmes."
Startled by the sound of her voice, he cleared his throat. Subtlety and gentlemanly decorum, he thought. "I merely wondered what you were doing."
"I would have thought that was clear enough."
"Aside from the fact that you were born and raised in Sussex, are in your late twenties, and have a husband in the Foreign Office, I know nothing at all about you." He cleared his throat again.
Putting down her pen, she swivelled around in her chair to look at him. At length, she smiled. "All this by way of introduction? Really, Mr Holmes, you should have just asked me."
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