Free Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares by James Lovegrove

can’t prove anything.”
    “Do you deny it?”
    “Most strenuously.” The Abbess’s façade of joviality slipped somewhat, revealing a glimpse of a steely nature beneath, like a stiletto dagger being part-way withdrawn from a velvet sheath. “There is nothing to connect me to any such girls.”
    “Nothing directly,” Holmes admitted, “but the circumstantial evidence is strong. Strong enough that the police would take little persuading to pay a call and turn this place upside down.”
    “For all the good it would do them. All I’d do is pay a few fines, wink at the right people, and be back in business in next to no time.”
    “Yet I would imagine you’d prefer to avoid the related upheaval and the temporary loss of earnings.”
    “So that’s how it is, is it?” said the Abbess. “And here was I thinking you a gentleman. What’s your price? I could offer you the night of your life, if that’s what you’re after. On the house. Your friend too. Together? One of you watching? We cater for all tastes here.”
    “ All tastes,” said one of the two harlots, and to my horror she turned and caressed her friend’s cheek, then planted a kiss full on her lips. The other girl responded as if this were the most pleasurable thing in the world, uttering a soft guttural moan.
    Holmes merely looked wry. “Information is all I require. Names. A list of the names of some of your regulars.”
    “Which ones? I have hundreds. You’ll have to narrow it down.”
    “Foreign ones. Ones with titles. Frenchmen specifically.”
    “And supposing I had such a list, what would you do with it?”
    “Simply run an eye over it. I’m searching for one name in particular. Once I have that, I can discard and forget the rest.”
    “Hmmm.” The Abbess looked pensive. “And you give me your word that that’s all? You get a name, and I get no hassle from the bluebottles?”
    “None that will come as a result of anything I have done. I give you my solemn promise on that.”
    She studied my friend. “Over the years I have come to be a good judge of character, Mr Holmes, especially of men’s characters. I’ve seen them all, at their best and their worst. I know the ins and outs of them, in more ways than one. You strike me as honourable. I’m inclined to take you at your word. Pearl?”
    One of the courtesans stood, like a soldier called to attention.
    “Fetch me the book.”
    “Which book, Abbess?”
    “You know the one. The one we keep hidden.”
    The girl disappeared, returning a minute later with a small journal wrapped in oilcloth.
    “I would suggest that behind a loose brick inside a chimney breast in the kitchen is not the securest place for such an item,” Holmes said. “You might want to consider putting it somewhere else where there is less danger of it being so strongly heated that it catches alight.”
    The Abbess was startled. “How did you –?”
    “I observed the faint soot marks now adorning Pearl’s hand and forearm, which were not there before and which are of a particularly greasy kind such as are left by a cooking fire. They extend almost to her elbow, indicating that she has had to reach inside an aperture to some depth. That and the brick dust adhering to the book’s oilcloth covering led me to my conclusion.”
    The Abbess regarded my friend with newfound appreciation. “We do not actually use the kitchen for cooking. The soot is old, dating from the previous owners. This used to be a family house. But I can see that I shall have to be unusually wily around you, sir.” She brandished the journal. “Here it is, my full client list. Actual names, or if those aren’t known, the false names they choose to give. I keep it in case... Well, a lady has to have something up her sleeve, should she find herself in real trouble. A contingency plan.”
    She handed the journal, with a show of considerable reluctance, to Holmes.
    “They’re arranged according to type. Age. Financial circumstances. Marital