Page 39 of The Art of Theft
“Mrs. Watson has decided that plain toast and French bakedeggs make for acceptable convalescent fare,” she said. “You take your coffee black, as I recall.”
They’d never had coffee together. And he was sure he’d mentioned coffee only once in their entire acquaintance, many years ago, when she was lamenting the fact that he’d visited France without bothering to set foot inside a patisserie. In that same conversation she’d wanted to know what he’d had for breakfast during his French holiday and had been scandalized when he’d said black coffee and maybe, when he was in the mood, a slice of toast—but only when he was in the mood.
Come to think of it, he’d been pleased to find out that Lady Ingram had as little interest in breakfast as he did. Had thought it a further sign that they were true soul mates. Which only went to show that the choice of soul mates should not be left to barely post-adolescent young men.
Holmes, of course, would dispute the validity of the concept of soul mates in the first place.
“Yes, black coffee,” he said.
She left the bed, pulled up a chair nearby, and resumed her knitting. He grinned with that same glee and put on a grown-up expression only when she looked up. But she’d seen his delight, and for a moment, he thought he again saw that smile in her eyes.
His heart floated.
“What happened at the château?” she asked. “Mrs. Watson said all she could get out of you was ‘dogs’ and ‘lake.’”
He cleared his throat and turned his focus back to their task.
“‘Dogs’ and ‘lake’ comprise, more or less, the sum total of what happened.” When Mrs. Watson had asked her question, he’d been so sleepy, his mind so dull, that even those two words had taken superhuman effort. “Is Mr. Marbleton all right?”
“He is still sleeping. But he was briefly awake two hours ago and he was fine then.”
“The ladies?”
“Mrs. Watson has retired for the night. Livia is still with Mr. Marbleton.”
“She should rest, too.”
“I have told her that, but I don’t believe she will until she is convinced he is out of danger,” said Holmes. “Now let me hear some details about dogs and lake.”
He gave her an account of the night. She listened attentively, though her knitting needles never stopped clicking.
He loved that gentle, rhythmic sound.
Although... perhaps that was simply because it was easier to admit that he loved the sound rather than that he loved the woman.
“So they were all headed to a particular section of the fence, not far from the chapel. And then they all disappeared in the space of a minute or so.”
“That’s correct.”
“I see.”
“You mean that you heard me—or that you know what happened?” With Holmes, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter.
She didn’t answer but took photographs out of an envelope. “Have you seen the château by day?”
He shook his head.
“These are pictures Mr. Marbleton took with his detective camera—I brought the exposed roll of photographic paper back to Paris and Lieutenant Atwood developed them.” She handed him one of the images. “This is the chapel. From outside the fence, I couldn’t see the bridge for the chapel. I assume then you couldn’t see the other side of the chapel either, from under the bridge?”
“No, we couldn’t.”
“Could you see the door of the chapel?”
“I think not. We could see the back and the southern side of the chapel. It faced away from us.”
She nodded.
“You think dogs and men all disappeared inside the chapel and later reemerged?”
