Page 66 of The Hollow of Fear

Treadles did his best not to frown. Miss Holmes’s methods might be incomprehensible to him but he could not argue with her effectiveness. Granted, Fowler hadn’t worked with her before, but the competence “Sherrinford Holmes” displayed in the icehouse today should have earned her pronouncement a closer scrutiny. “And the rest?”

Fowler shook his head. “Too convenient that a crate that wasn’t ever expected has by now disappeared. Not to mention, anyone could cut a padlock or two. Sergeant Ellerby is a good copper, but frankly, a little naïve.”

But the arrival of the third crate was something that could be verified by interviewing the station agent, Mr. Walsh, and the manservant Mr. Walsh sent to accompany the crate to the lavender house.

Would Fowler suggest, then, that all those involved must have been bribed by the rich and powerful local seigneur?

Treadles didn’t say anything. It was clear that Fowler had his sights set on bagging Lord Ingram, who could prove a spectacular feather in the cap of an already legendary career.

Miss Holmes had better not help the chief inspector by revealing the truth of Sherlock Holmes tonight.

Treadles excused himself by saying that he needed to write his wife. He hadn’t meant to actually do that, but before he knew it, he had already finished a letter.

Dear Alice,

It’s cold and miserable in Derbyshire. An interminable day, and it still hasn’t ended yet.

I wish I could reassure you otherwise, but at the moment it isn’t looking very good for Lord Ingram. The evidence that points to him is legion. Evidence to the contrary, despite some illogic and oddities, scant.

I hope tomorrow will bring better tidings.

Love,

Robert

He found himself turning his pen around and around, wanting to write more. He used to dash off letters running several pages, telling her about every part of his day, major and minor. But now he felt like a rusted spigot that let out only trickles and irregular spurts.

He set down the pen and dropped his head into his hands.

“Is theretime to do it again?” asked Holmes, her eyes bright, her face flushed.

Lord Ingram reached for his watch on the nightstand. Three minutes to seven. They were to dine with Bancroft at half past. And even though he’d already told Bancroft they wouldn’t be changing into tails and pumps, they were still running short on time. “No, not properly, in any case.”

She sighed, the sound a sweet flutter. “I liked it. Did you?”

Did he? If he liked it any better, he would be stark-raving obsessed. “It was all right.”

“I thought you’d be rusty, since it’s been a long time for you—or so you claim.”

It had been an age of the world. He ran his fingers down her arm, marveling at the softness of her skin. “Maybe it’s like riding. Once you learn, you don’t forget how.”

“I have much to learn,” she said happily. “I wonder if Mrs. Watson can impart any wisdom.”

Good God. “How about I tell you exactly what I like?”

“Really?” She batted her eyelashes at him, needlessly long lashes that would have been a lethal asset had she any interest in flirting. “I’m astonished, my lord. You never tell me anything except what you don’t like.”

“In that case...” He placed his lips against her ear and whispered for some time.

When he pulled back, her eyes were slightly glazed. “I was rather hoping, given how starchy you are in public, that in private you might be a man of varied and somewhat depraved tastes. I must say I’m not disappointed.”

He gave her a mock-glare. “I’m too young to be called starchy.”

“You are too young tobeso starchy.”

“Fine,” he said, laughing a little. “I deserved that. Now tell me, when you were talking about your inability to eat earlier, were you using impotence as an analogy?”

“What if I was?”