Free Femme Fatale by Carole Nelson Douglas

found dead in London.”
    “Mormons! Murder! Vengeance! Corpses in London, dear me. And the American West as well, which I found quite fascinating, and vice versa, during my lecture tours there in early part of the decade. I am currently editor of The Woman’s World , so if you’d care to offer your work for the glance of my editorial eye, I would be happy to advise. I am always eager to encourage rivals. It gives my constant critics so many more worthy targets.”
    He aimed a languid forefinger at the wall and sketched an airy pattern. “I make a metaphorical statement. V. O. Either Very Old brandy, or Victorious Oscar. Come, Stoker, let us see what they are up to at the Beefsteak Club. I have a play or two of my own in mind, one involving an earnestly unfortunate fellow who was indeed a ‘case,’ or rather was found in one in Victoria Station asan infant. Mislaid infants! Possible bastardy! Perfidy in cloak rooms in Victoria Station. I may someday be as acclaimed as Dr. Watson and his sensational fictions. Adieu for now.”
    On that note the two men left our rooms, or Holmes’s rooms now, clattering and chatting together down the stairs.
    “Theatrical folk,” I commented, surprised by Holmes’s high spirits. He was already opening the claret and soon poured two glasses.
    “Isn’t it odd,” I asked, “that those men didn’t know Irene Adler was dead?”
    “Odd? Not at all, Watson. They live and work in the theater, where anything is possible.”
    “Why were . . . you consulting them?”
    “I was?”
    “So they said.”
    “Ah, did they? Well, Watson, you know how my cases sometimes involve persons of the most elevated rank in the realm, and the most sensitive subjects for the future of the Empire.”
    “Indeed. Was this latest European jaunt in the service of such eminent persons?”
    “Exactly. I soon may be required to go elsewhere as well, in the same service.”
    “And these two men—?”
    “Know everyone who is everyone, and everything about them. I can say no more, save that it is very encouraging that Wilde is willing to assess your work. I would pursue his offer.”
    “He is the writer of the moment, isn’t he? But editor of The Woman’s World . . . I’m not sure that my sort of thing is his sort of thing.”
    “Nonsense, Watson! I may immodestly say that my cases, suitably fictionalized and based upon your maiden effort, make most interesting reading.”
    “I have another manuscript I call ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’ ”
    “I have heard you brandish that annoying little title beforeand suggest you look farther. That case was much ado about nothing, and I did not exit it in glory, since the lady evaded me.”
    “But she is dead: perished in that dreadful Alpine train crash while fleeing London with her new husband. She can hardly bring any sort of case against me if I were to present her unhappy history in fiction.”
    “I sincerely hope not, Watson. Still, I advise you to look farther afield for your second, and perhaps more important effort, for every debut must prove itself with the unquestioned quality of its successor. What about that gruesome affair involving the murder at Pondicherry Lodge and the Agra treasure? It has all that the modern reader yearns for: lost riches, betrayal, a rousing river-borne chase, sudden death, and a charming touch of romance in the stalwart doctor’s wooing of the consulting detective’s charming young client, Miss Mary Morstan, now Mrs. John H. Watson. That is the sort of thing that appeals to the public.”
    “Given your praise of Mary, I am surprised that the consulting detective did not rival the doctor for her hand.”
    “Ah, Watson, the married man! You are speaking to one who can report that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for murdering three small children for their insurance money. Women are not entirely to be trusted, not even the best of them.”
    “I thought you found Irene Adler the most winning of them of all. That is