Free The Detective and the Woman by Amy Thomas

hearing a light tap from inside the door. Irene wore a plain yellow cotton dress, worn from its previous owner’s use, but she was still stunningly beautiful. Wordlessly, Holmes placed the rickety chair in front of the basin and began to work on his still-sleepy companion, using makeup to create lines of exhaustion and worry where there were none and slight asymmetry in near-perfect features. At last, he took her hair and mussed it slightly, arranging it as sloppily as he could without arriving at a completely inappropriate conclusion. He took care to commit every step to memory so that he would be able to replicate the results as many times as needed.
    Irene walked over to the broken mirror and stared at her reflection. ‘I’m afraid I can’t completely eradicate your beauty without more extensive work,’ murmured Holmes behind her, in a tone laced with irony.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, whirling on him. ‘Godfrey couldn’t manage it either, no matter how hard he tried.’
    The tall detective stepped back as if he’d been slapped, but regained his composure after a moment. ‘I’ve found us a place to eat breakfast before we open.’ He spoke as if nothing had happened, but Irene wouldn’t look at him. Without speaking further, he led the way downstairs and into the morning half-light of the dusty road.
    Barcroft’s wasn’t the sort of place Lavinia and Bernard James would visit, but it was every bit the kind of place Jane and Tom Perkins, junk and supply store owners, would certainly frequent. Holmes and Irene were ushered into the cramped establishment and seated at a round table in a tiny, dubiously-kept corner, away from the few groups of working-class men who had come in for a very early-morning breakfast and, for some, liquid fortification. The other patrons’ initial glances at the newcomers gave way to disinterest, so the detective was assured that their disguises were at least marginally effective. Holmes took a sip of the indifferent coffee the waitress brought and declared it vile with a disgusted expression. Irene looked up and met his gaze, then dropped her eyes quickly. ‘This will not do,’ he murmured, whether to himself or to her he was unsure. It had been a great deal of time since he’d had such protracted contact with a female of any sort, and he was beginning to recall the pitfalls that invariably complicated such associations. Watson had his days, of course, but a glass of scotch and a good pork pie set him to rights without difficulty. One couldn’t ply Irene Adler with a pork pie and expect the same result, more was the pity. The detective’s mind extended to the furthest bounds of male existence, but where females were concerned, there had always been certain blanks. The current problem was that communication, which was vital during a case, required the cooperation of two, and one of those two was persisting in her silence.
    ‘I apologise, Holmes.’ The Woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I have no cause to bring my private feelings into the case.’ Holmes stared at her as if she had suddenly acquired the power of speech after profound muteness.
    ‘Ah,’ he said.
    ‘Quite,’ she replied, blushing and staring at the thick white plate on the table before her. Holmes felt fortunate when a plate of irregularly-shaped sausage arrived a moment later, accompanied by white pillows of dough the waitress called biscuits, though they were nothing like the English variety.
    ‘Don’t you intend to eat?’ Irene asked once she had taken a few bites and noticed his lack of movement.
    ‘Not hungry,’ Holmes answered. ‘I rarely require food while I work.’
    ‘Well, that’s one difference between us,’ his companion replied between bites, her good humour apparently restored. The biscuits seemed to meet with her approval, as she downed three of them and two large sausages. ‘I always eat well when I’m on tour,’ she continued after she had finished her last crumb.