Sherlock Holmes and the Queen of Diamonds by Steve Hayes, David Whitehead

quarters the other day and gave it a quick peek. Quite stimulating’ – catching her own husband’s look of disapproval , she added – ‘in a revolting sort of way, of course.’
    ‘In answer to your question, Elspeth,’ said Elaina, ‘no, Mr Howard is not a rustler.’
    ‘Stealin’ other folks’ cattle is a necktie offense, ma’am,’ he explained.
    ‘‘Necktie offense’?’
    ‘Hangin’, ma’am.’ And in case he hadn’t made himself clear enough, he mimed hanging, bugging his eyes, poking out his tongue, making gurgling noises and pretending to twist the end of an invisible rope.
    It had the desired effect. Lady Chatfield and company might be happy to suggest all manner of dire punishments for the criminal classes, but they recoiled at the grotesque sight one of those punishments might look like.
    ‘O-Oh, dear me, do rustlers steal?’ asked Elspeth. ‘I am so dreadfully sorry, Mr Howard. I had no idea—’
    ‘Forget it, ma’am. I know you ain’t on the prod.’
    ‘On the what?’
    ‘Tryin’ to rile me. Twist my tail. Get my goat?’
    ‘Oh-h, no, of course not. I’d never even touch a goat’s tail, let alone twist it.’
    ‘If you’ll excuse us,’ Elaina put in, ‘we simply must mingle.’
    As they moved on, she said through her fixed smile: ‘Thank God I don’t have to see these pompous idiots too often. I’d die of boredom.’
    Howard scowled. ‘What I can’t figure out is how folks can speak the same language and not understand each other.’ He pulled up suddenly and nodded toward a man with a heavy moustache, who was busily working over a sketch patch.
    ‘Who’s that feller?’
    ‘He’s a sketch artist from the Illustrated London News . He’s recording the event for the society pages.’
    ‘He keeps lookin’ at me.’
    ‘Maybe he’s sketching you .’
    ‘He better not,’ he growled.
    She cocked her head at him, surprised by his reaction. ‘Don’t tell me you’re like the Indians,’ she said, trying tomake light of it. ‘They believe that if someone takes your photograph or draws your picture they take your soul along with it.’
    ‘It ain’t that,’ he murmured, suddenly disentangling himself from her. ‘Listen, I’m gonna tell that there feller to quit drawin’ me.’
    She frowned, alarmed by the change that had come over him. ‘You don’t really mind, do you?’ she asked. ‘I mean, we have ascertained that you’re not a rustler.’
    But for the moment at least his sense of humour appeared to have deserted him. Without another word he strode across to the sketch artist, yanked the pad out of the startled man’s hands, turned it around and glanced at the portrait he’d been working on. His mouth thinned when he saw that it was an excellent likeness of himself.
    ‘I’ll take this,’ he said softly, and before the artist could do more than open and close his mouth a few times in surprise, he ripped the portrait from the pad, crumpled it up in one fist and shoved it into a jacket pocket.
    ‘But … but …’ was all the artist seemed able to manage.
    ‘Don’t you go drawin’ me again, mister,’ warned Howard. ‘I don’t cotton to it.’
    They stared at each other for a moment, the artist’s hazel eyes both puzzled and fearful. There was something about Howard that thoroughly intimidated him, and he could only sigh with relief when a voice behind the man suddenly called: ‘I say there, Mr Howard!’
    Howard glanced around. ‘What is it?’ he asked testily.
    If he sensed Howard’s dark mood, Victor Landon certainly didn’t show it. He said jovially: ‘They tell me you’re from America, sir – Missouri, of all places! I spent some time there last year, on business. Saw some of the locals perform the most marvellous tricks with a lariat. How are you with a rope, sir?’
    Howard shrugged, deciding to settle with the sketch artist before the party ended. ‘I reckon I can handle one,’ he allowed. ‘But I didn’t bring mine with me.