The Great Detective (6 page)

Authors: Delia Sherman

BOOK: The Great Detective

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Tacy gave a little mew and covered her blazing face with her hands.

“Oh,” Arthur said. And then, “Oh! Of course,” and pulled her awkwardly to him.

Feeling his arms around her and his lips on her hair, Tacy lifted her face, clutched the bib of his apron, and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.

Someone, possibly Dr. Watson, exclaimed “I say!” in a startled tone. She disengaged herself reluctantly.

The Reasoning Machine was wistful. “I wish I had someone to love, too, and a home, and a proper name, like a real person. Jabez would be nice. Or Algernon. Algernon Holmes.” He turned to the doctor. “What do you say?”

Watson gave him a wary smile. “I'll give it some thought, old chap. But first things first.” He turned his clear brown gaze on the inventor. “You will let him keep his emotions, will you not?”

The big man cast up his hands in defeat. “I will. He must learn to control them, howeverâhe's all but useless as he is.” He considered Watson. “Do you think you could undertake to teach him?”

The Machine turned a radiant countenance to the doctor. “The very thing! Oh, do say you will!”

“Iâ¦”

“It is settled, then,” said Holmes. “In his current state, London is likely to be too much for him. I have a cottage in Sussex, near Bognor Regis, quite sequestered from the world. You shall take him there.” He divested himself of his apron and gauntlets. In his shirtsleeves, with his braces showing, he seemed far less formidable, almost human. He fixed Watson with a measuring eye. “Have you any interest in mechanical engineering?”

Dr. Watson looked startled. “Why, yes. Considerable interest.”

“Excellent. I shall give you a grounding in basic maintenance before you go.”

“And I, myself, shall teach you everything else,” the Machine broke in happily. “I know a great deal about mechanical engineering. Do you think there will be bees, Watson? I have a great desire to observe the communal intelligence of bees. Oh, what fun we shall have!”

Here he showed every sign of throwing his arms around Watson and serving him as Tacy had served Sir Arthur. Watson gently deflected the embrace without absolutely spurning it.

Sir Arthur possessed himself of Tacy's hand. “I think,” he said, “that I should like to go home now.”

But the dawn of reciprocal love had not entirely robbed Tacy of her common sense. “One more question there is to be settled, before we make an end,” she said, turning to Mr. Holmes. “You have our prototype and all our notes. Without them, we can neither refine our work, nor present it to the Royal Society, nor apply for a patent. In short, it will be as if the Illogic Engine was never invented. Unless, perhaps, you intend to present it as your own work?”

The inventor looked shocked. “I may be a thief, Miss Gof, but I am not a scoundrel.” He rubbed his face with his well-kept hands. “Well. It seems we have a great deal still to discuss. Doctor, would you be so good as to walk through that door behind you and put the kettle on the hob? I think we could all use a cup of tea.”

April 1882

On a bright, chilly spring morning, Sir Arthur and Lady Cwmlech sat at breakfast in the cozy morning room of their house on Curzon Street. Sir Arthur was reading a book he had propped up against the saltcellar and absently dripping egg over his waistcoat. Lady Cwmlech, a plate of toast and marmalade at her elbow, was poring over the flimsy sheets of the popular journal, the
Thames-Side Monthly
.

Turning over a page, she uttered an excited squeak. “Here it is at last, Arthur!”

Sir Arthur looked up from his book, pale eyes bleary behind his spectacles. The patent application for the Illogic Engine had kept him up half the night.
Bad as a new baby
, Tacy thought, and smiled. He smiled back wanly. “Here is what, my love?”

“John's account of the Bootlace Murders. Never tell me you've forgotten! Five cobblers strangled with bootlaces and laid out on their benches all neat and tidy, and the police as baffled as sheep at a gate. Last spring it was, just after the wedding.”

“After the wedding,” Sir Arthur said, “I had more important things to think of than deceased cobblers.” He gave Tacy a grin that brought the blood to her cheeks.

“Of course, my dear. But John wrote us about it, remember? Their first case after the move to Baker Street, and so proud he was of how well Sherlock and the police dealt together, after that unfortunate misunderstanding about the purloined letter.”

“Damned silly name, Sherlock,” Sir Arthur observed.

“No sillier than Mycroft, when all's said and done. None of our concern, in any case.” She gave him a wifely look. “Will I read it to you, then, while you wipe the egg off your waistcoat?”

Sir Arthur stared down at the congealed yolk festooning his chest. “Oh, dear,” he sighed. “Tacy, do you thinkâ¦?”

Dipping her napkin in her husband's tea, Tacy dealt with the waistcoat, then rang for Swindon, who bore off the spoiled napery.

“I'm sorry, my love.” Sir Arthur said. “I've forgotten what you were saying.”

“The Bootlace Murders.”

“Ah. The Bootlace Murders. I am all attention. Who did the Great Detective deduce had done 'em?”

“There's pity,” Tacy said severely, “to set aside all John's hard work in unfolding the mystery step-by-step, with all the characters of the shoemaker's wife and Inspector Gregson and the man with the limp drawn as clear as life. Furthermore,” she went on, “we are to dine with them tonight, before the concert. Churlish, it would be, not to mention his literary debut.”

Sir Arthur shook his head. “I dare not, dearest. The patent applicationâ”

“Will be the better for an evening's holiday. A program of Bach, it is. You like Bach.”

“I thought Watson preferred Chopin.”

“He does. But Madame Neruda plays tonight and Sherlock has conceived a keen interest in the violin. He speaks of learning to play.”

“Heaven help us,” Arthur said. “Very well. Bach, Neruda, and dinner, it shall be. And the Bootlace Murders. I do not wish to disoblige John.”

Tacy had just reached the second murder when Mistress Angharad Cwmlech swept into the room on the arm of Mr. Mycroft Holmes, visible to all and very pretty indeed in a plaid walking dress, with a saucy hat perched on her dark curls. Her lips were soft against Tacy's cheek, if a little chilly.

“Going to a meeting, we are,” she announced, “with Rosebery and Ball, about the Bill of Mechanical Rights. Mycroft”âshe cast a proprietary glance at the big manâ“thinks it possible it may pass, if we can coax the prime minister into speaking in support.”

Arthur groaned. “But, my work!”

Mycroft Holmes fixed him with a keen and pearly eye. “This
is
your work, Arthurâor should be. The patent office will waitâthis bill will not.”

“Do I not deserve to be a person before the law?” Angharad demanded. “Does not Sherlock?”

“To be sure,” Tacy answered her. “And so do all thinking mechanicals.”

Sir Arthur sighed and rose to his feet. “You are right, of course. Tacy, ring for the carriage. There is not a moment to be lost.”

About the Author

Delia Sherman
is a highly acclaimed fantasy writer. She lives in Boston and New York. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

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