Page 6 of A Ruse of Shadows
She scanned the next few lines, which had been set down in a simple Caesar cipher.
He, of course, knew exactly what it said.
Her clothes lay discarded at the foot of the bed. Firelight caressed her smooth, supple skin. She made no attempt to cover herself, though occasionally she adjusted the pillows underneath her head.
He stared at her. His hands were busy, but his feet had been nailed in place since she had removed her garments and lain down on the rumpled bed. Light refracted from the folds of black satin sheets. Her lips were red, her calves shapely.
He swallowed.
His alarm clock clanged. He swore under his breath and silenced it. The woman rose, dressed quickly, came forward, and took her payment from him.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Will the painting be finished soon?”
“Yes, soon,” he mumbled.
“Ah, I’m almost sorry,” she said as she walked out the door. “Your studio is the only one that’s remotely warm in winter.”
“You made my tale of torrid seduction into one of a professional relationship, and a platonic one at that? Ah, but wait, you wrote a reply to this letter, too, didn’t you?”
Dear Holmes,
The hours have been long since your departure.
To answer your question, my recovery continues apace. My staff aim to build the best wheelchair known to man so that I can move about outside.But they have had to admit that even if they fitted pneumatic tires to this wheelchair, without a spring suspension, my broken limb would still be badly jostled along the garden paths, which was not designed with invalids in mind.
So, for now, I remain confined to my apartment. There are also plans to have me carried, like a pharaoh upon a palanquin, on the shoulders of four footmen, for me to visit other parts of the house. I have thus far demurred, not only out of hidden egalitarian principles deep in my heart but also out of fear that my inexperienced footmen might drop me while descending the grand staircase and give me a concussion and a dislocated shoulder to go with my fractured femur.
Do please convey my regards to Inspector Treadles next time you see him. I am sure he is grateful to receive your help, and I have no doubt you will be of great assistance to him.
I do not know how else to reassure you that the accident was indeed a result of my own misadventure, so I will simply let time bear witness to that. Please do not worry about me.
Yours,
Ash
P.S. While I am relieved for your immortal soul that your story has taken on a, well, not exactly wholesome but at least less lubricious bent, I must say the part of me that was looking forward to a bit of outrage was rather disappointed. Ah, Holmes, how you have corrupted your old friend.
P.P.S. However, I cannot help but think that the story would benefit from the addition of a few more lines. May I suggest the following?
The man stared at the closing door.
The painting was finished some time ago, and he suspected that she knew it.
Where did that leave him then?
Holmes did not say anything, even after enough time had passed for her to have read the letter five times over.
Pinpricks of sensation stung Lord Ingram’s fingertips—and theinside of his chest. It had not occurred to him when he wrote his “reply,” but now it was blazingly obvious that he had revealed everything of himself in the little addendum to “her” story.
What did it say about them that her naughty and lighthearted tale, when he took over its authorship, immediately became a narrative of suppressed yearning, even though he had intended only a humorous rebuttal?
Perhaps it was a sign of how much more relaxed he had become around her that at this realization, he felt not a soul-crushing angst but only a bout of acute self-consciousness, which caused him to say, “I noticed that Mrs. Watson was tense—far more tense than she had reason to be. Did anything happen?”
The answer occurred to him as the question left his lips. “My goodness, did Bancroft write again?”
Holmes had informed him of Bancroft’s first letter as soon as she’d received it, and he had been waiting, on tenterhooks, to see what his brother would do next.
She glanced at him, but chose not to question the abrupt change in their topic of discussion. “He did. His latest missive reached us just as we were about to begin our trip here to see you. The first letter had been addressed to Sherlock Holmes and sent to the General Post Office in London. This second note was delivered directly to the front door of Mrs. Watson’s hired house in Paris.”
