Free The Private Wife of Sherlock Holmes by Carole Nelson Douglas Page A

Apparition
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    Into the front room stepped a ragged and scrofulous street beggar of the most repulsive sort. Any refined eye would avert itself from him, which was the idea.
    “Your unexpected visit has caught me in dishabille , madam,” Sherlock Holmes told me dryly in massive understatement. “Watson, would you be so good as to entertain the lady whilst I reassemble myself? There’s a good fellow.”
    He ducked back into what I could glimpse of the chamber. I was pleased to spy a gramophone atop a table on the far wall.
    “Do sit down, Dr. Watson,” I urged my speechless companion, delicately exhaling a veil of smoke. “It will take a few minutes to erase so much studied degradation. The picture of Dorian Gray was not painted in a day.”
    “I will not sit in the presence of a   . . . lady,” he said stiffly.
    I smiled and arranged myself in the velvet armchair.
    A London June in 1894 was a thing of balmy weather for the English and a joy to revisit, although not as delicate and decorative as in my base of operations, Paris . I was dressed as a lady of the middling classes in anticipation of the role I’d play in Sherlock Holmes’ forthcoming case . . . provided he would take up my cause.
    I’d visited these rooms before, in full disguise, but now felt free to examine them and the good doctor always so ready to support and admire his brilliant but bohemian friend.
    “You have been well these past six years?” he inquired with a physician’s brusqueness.
    “Quite well. And you, doctor? The leg still shows a bit of stiffness.”
    “War wound,” he trumpeted.
    “Ah,” I said politely.
    “And your husband , Mr. Norton?”
    I did not contradict him. “Splendid, as always.”
    “You look well,” he added, a bit of gallantry peeking through his natural protectiveness of Holmes.
    From his manner, it was clear that Dr. Watson had not been in actual residence at Baker Street for some time. I had the advantage of him by having arrived here today first. I looked around to discover that Holmes was not a proponent of ashtrays and flicked my small Egyptian cigarette into the fireplace with casual but unerring aim.
    The good doctor’s eyes momentarily shut in despair. No doubt Holmes had the same cavalier way of disposing of any cigarettes he smoked between pipes. The air of the place mixed a chemical tang with the softer perfume of pipe tobacco, which I have always savored.
    Holmes’s returning step ended our awkwardness. He was attired for the London streets, a well-worn dressing gown over his shirt and trousers but I glimpsed his vest and a round golden glint like a watch on a chain. His tall, lean form was as agile as ever, though he must now be about forty.
    “Thank you for entertaining my ‘wife,’ Watson. I surmise that Madam Irene has delicate business to discuss. You might as well be off, old boy. She’ll never speak freely in front of you. She’s arrived on the boat-train from Paris just this afternoon, is attired for action of the City sort and has no use for a companion in addition to myself, or even your stalwart Army pistol. Am I wrong?”
    I could only shake my head.
    Watson stood, vanquished. “Very well, Holmes. I expect you to explain the lady’s astounding claim of wifehood later. I will call on you tomorrow.”
    “Make it the day after.”
    I tried not to look smug again.
    “I’ll bid you both ‘Good Day,’ then,” Dr. Watson harrumphed in that way that Englishmen have mastered when under friendly fire. He picked up his hat, gave me a last, not unappreciative glance, and pounded down the long stairs in no good temper.
    Holmes strolled to the mantel and selected a cigarette from a small box, eyeing me with raised eyebrows. I abstracted one from my case and accepted the lighted match he extended first to me and then his own cigarette.
    We smoked in separate content for a few moments.
    “Your self-advertisement must have taken a few years off Mrs. Hudson and Watson’s