The Detective and the Woman by Amy Thomas Page B

her,’ she said brightly. ‘I was just about to tell Mr James about Bradford’s ailment.’ Her husband nodded wordlessly and proffered his arm to me, using the other to pick up the lantern from the shelf where Edison had placed it.
    ‘Thank you so much!’ I said, trying to project artlessly breathless gratitude. Tootie fairly beamed upon me, and I fancied she had decided to take me on as a sort of protégé.
    We were halfway between the house and the laboratory before Ambrose spoke. ‘Mrs James,’ he said quietly, ‘I hope you don’t think me impertinent. I wish to say at the outset that I mean you no harm.’
    ‘I was sure of it, Mr McGregor,’ I rejoined, supposing it to be the sort of thing Lavinia might say, though it was a blatant lie in the mouth of Irene Adler.
    ‘The truth is—,’ we reached the door of the laboratory building, and he opened it, shining the lantern inside. I walked quickly toward the side of the room where I had placed my glove. ‘The truth is, Mrs James, that I believe you may be in grave danger.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ I said, turning around to face the man, his plain face hardly visible in the shadows the lantern cast against the dark walls.
    ‘This is hard to say,’ he continued in a slow, stuttering voice, ‘but I have reason to believe your husband is not who he claims to be.’ I froze. Of all the possibilities I had considered, this contingency had never crossed even the furthest recess of my mind.
    ‘Whatever do you mean, Sir?’ I asked in my most husband-defending tone, moving back outside where the moonlight cast less garish light. Ambrose’s expression was filled with pained concern.
    ‘I have reason to believe that the gentleman who claims to be Bernard James is actually an English detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes.’ I nearly laughed. Only by the immediate application of a pinch to my forearm was I able to keep from making noise. I thought quickly. Holmes and I had not discussed this situation. I was sure that the detective, with his seemingly omniscient mind, must have considered it, but he had most likely dismissed it as a near-impossibility.
    Ambrose continued in the midst of my silence. ‘There is a man who lives in town by the name of Sanchez, and he—well, he is more acquainted with the ways of this person than I am. I first met your husband at this house during a large party a week ago, and Sanchez was also a guest. He took me aside that night and told me he had spotted Holmes, who, I gather, is somehow affiliated with the police. At the time, Sanchez voiced his opinion that the ruse was most likely harmless. After all, the man’s reputation is as a champion of good. I could not, however, fail to speak when I realised that you, his wife, seem unaware of his true identity. I am sorry if I have caused you distress, but I could not bear to stand by and watch a lady as fine as yourself be taken in.’
    I looked up into the kind, concerned face of Ambrose McGregor, and I made a decision. I am generally a good judge of character. Barring the blinders that caused me to marry a monster, I am rarely ever wrong. I wondered briefly what Holmes would wish me to do, but I was in a bind, pinned to the wall like a lab specimen. I had the choice of trying to come up with some wildly elaborate ruse to fool a seemingly reasonable man, or else come out with the truth and trust his judgement and good will. I chose the latter.
    ‘Mr McGregor,’ I said, standing close to him in the lantern light, ‘I will be quick, or the others will wonder what is keeping us. The things you say are true, and if you will call on us tomorrow at Mrs Stillwell’s boardinghouse, we will explain them to you. I ask you, as a personal favour, to please trust me and keep silent about this until then.’ The pleading look I gave him was unfeigned.
    ‘You’re quite a woman, Mrs James,’ was all he said as he turned back toward the house.

Chapter 6: Holmes
    The moment Irene entered the house