"Correction," Irene said. "You hesitated, walking in circles, before entering."
Drebber eyes widened, but he didn't argue. "That's correct."
"Why?"
He hesitated, playing with the hem of his sleeve. The urge to reach over, grab him by the collar and shake the story out of him almost overwhelmed Irene, and she looked to Joe for assistance.
Thankfully, Joe recognized her plea for help and leaned forward, but Drebber spoke.
"Some things aren't fit to tell a lady," he said.
"Then talk to my companion," she spat, curling her fingers so she didn't slap him. "But for God's sake, get on with it."
"I was feared there'd be a ghost," he said quickly, speaking directly to Joe. "I got an odd feeling in my bones and didn't want a run-in with a spirit."
Joe rubbed his chin, a sign of frustration and nerves. He glanced sideways at Irene, and she looked back at him, mostly to keep Drebber from her field of vision while she calmed down.
"You hesitated because of a ghost?" She failed to hide the exasperation in her voice. "Constable, do you know what happens to a body when it dies? I do, in detail, and I can assure you that a spirit does not fly out. Gasses and liquids, yes, but not spirits."
Drebber puffed out his chest. "Who did you say you were, again?"
"Irene Holmes," she snapped.
"Lestrade's girl?" A smirk fell across his face. "I thought you were on the out since the war ended?"
Irene narrowed her eyes, ears hot. Her father was famous for his outbursts of frustration, and she tried to keep hers contained, but between all the old feelings dredged up by the move yesterday, her fuse was limited.
"Clearly, I am still needed," she said, voice barely containing her anger. "You were about to pass by a murder scene because of a non-existent ghost."
Joe wrapped his fingers gently around her wrist, giving a small squeeze. Irene took a deep breath. It had been so long since she'd done an interview that she forgot how ignorant some people were.
Finding people's lost animals was never this involved or this frustrating.
Joe kept his fingers softly on her wrist, and while Irene would normally take offence to a seemingly restrictive act, coming from Joe, the touch felt more supportive than restraining.
"I could see," Joe said. "How, given the hour and the place, that one could think of spirits. To get back on track, though, you entered the house and found the body?"
"There was nothing out of place in the front room," Drebber continued speaking directly to Joe. "But when I went to the back room, I saw him. His face, his eyes. I saw the writing but could not make sense of it. Then, I called Detective Inspector Gregory."
"You touched nothing," Irene said. "And saw no one else?"
"No one but a drunk man," he said, still talking to Joe. Irene perked up. Neither Eddy nor Thom had mentioned a drunk man.
"Which man was this?"
Drebber shrugged. "Just a man coming home from the pub, stumbling down the street. At one point he bumped into the wall and paused, righting himself."
"And why," Irene said, frustration returning. "Did you not mention this to the detectives?"
"A drunk man is just that," Drebber said. "None too reliable."
"A man at a crime scene," Irene snapped. "No matter how drunk, is still a man at a crime scene and could potentially be a suspect. What did he look like?"
"Large," Drebber said. "Long overcoat, no beard far as I could tell. But a big solid beast of a man."
"Thank you, Constable Drebber," she stood, ready to leave. "I'd say you've been helpful, but you've mostly been a nuisance."
Drebber stood to meet her. "You came to me with questions. I could've just slammed the door on you, but I didn't."
Irene folded her arms across her chest. "Perhaps a door would've made for better conversation."
He spat a curse at her and launched himself forward. She shifted to the balls of her feet, fists ready, but Joe slid in front of her.
He blocked her, forearm across her chest, holding her in place. With his other hand, he punched Drebber square in the chest. The constable grunted and stumbled backwards, landing in his chair.
"Stay seated and let us leave," Joe said. "You have given us a clue to the murder, to which we are grateful, but it is one you should've given to either Lestrade or Gregory."
Joe's arm slid down Irene's chest, close to the hem of her shirt, but Irene didn't care.
"A lesson hopefully learned for next time." She leaned into Joe's arm, his elbow pressing into her chest.
"Come over here," Drebber rose from the chair. "And I'll teach you a lesson, girl."
Irene went for him, but Joe pushed against her, keeping her still. He kicked Drebber hard in the shin, and the constable collapsed, yowling in pain.
Irene danced from one foot to the other, trying to step around Joe. All she needed was one good swing and Drebber would remember her name forever.
"No," Joe said as if reading her thoughts. "Out we go."
He linked his arm through hers and tugged her out of the house, Drebber yelling behind them.
Joe kept a solid hold on her upper arm down the front steps and halfway down the block. She stepped away from him, grumbling. She smoothed her shirt and straightened her scarf, but adrenaline pulsed through her as they walked down the street. She didn't get into a proper fight often, and she would've loved to teach Drebber a lesson.
She rubbed her chest where Joe's elbow had pushed into her skin. Despite how badly she wanted to swing at Drebber, Joe was right to stop her. If Drebber reported the altercation to Eddy or Thom, she risked removal from the case.
"I'm going to tell you about terriers," Joe said. "While we stroll to the main road to fetch a cab."
"Terriers?" Irene said, completely surprised at this turn in the conversation. "Like, the dogs?"
"Yes," he said. "I've met quite a few terriers, and they are the most stubborn dogs I have ever met. Yet, they are probably the most clever. They do not perform tricks unless it suits them, and they scrap with anyone who looks at them sideways. Female terriers are notorious for this trait."
Irene stopped and turned to him, folding her arms across her chest. "Are you comparing me to a dog?"
He turned to face her, meeting her narrowed eyes and not wavering.
"Yes," he said. "I've never seen anyone as quick to anger and willing to scrap with a man twice her size with police and military training. That, my dearheart, is a terrier if I've ever seen one. Not an insult, I assure you. Terriers are my favourite."
Irene stared at him, not quite sure what to make of his words. She'd been compared to much worse, but his comparison was so unique. And true.
Miss Hudson had once adopted a little white terrier, some breed from Scotland, and that dog attacked every animal, horses included, that dared walk up or down the street. She loved everyone inside the house and even made friends with the neighbour cat, but to everyone she deemed an enemy, she was a holy terror. Miss Hudson eventually gave her to a cousin in the country.
Perhaps Joe's comparison was more on the nose than Irene realized.
"I just forgot how frustrating the ignorant are," she said. "And apparently I am bottling up some frustrations of my own."
Joe chuckled, and they started down the street again.
"From what I've gathered," he said. "Your cases lately have been tame at best."
"I thrived during the war," she said. "At least my work did. The police force was stretched thin, so I helped Eddy on cases where I wasn't even needed. It kept me sharp, my people skills grew, and I became accustomed to conversations like Drebber's. But since then, my cases have been very predictable."
"So," he said. "You pick physical fights with people to combat that?"
"People underestimate me," she said. "Normally, I don't mind because I can always out-wit them. But unbeknownst to most, I was taught to grapple, and box, and 'scrap' by professionals, and I have a quick temper. Lately, I've been deterred and ig
nored more than I prefer. And I can't count how many times I've been called 'Lestrade's girl'."
"I shall never think of you like that," Joe said. "Mostly because I wouldn't want to see what you're capable of when you get truly angry. I've seen what terriers can do, and I'm quite satisfied with not getting bit."
Irene laughed. Joe Watson intrigued her with each passing minute they spent together. He seemed to genuinely like her, which made her both blush and feel suspicious at once. Not many people actually liked her.
She kicked at a stone, ready to end the conversation. They were drifting into personal territory that she wasn't prepared to visit, at least not yet, and certainly not on this downtrodden street.
"Once again, Joseph," she said. "You've been invaluable to me. Thank you. Time for a cuppa back at Baker Street."
Chapter VIII
Joe and the Limping Horse
Joe sunk into the armchair, exhausted, and sipped at his tea. He'd finished a sandwich and looked forward to an afternoon of relaxation. The crime scene was exciting, and preventing Irene from assaulting out a police constable was exciting too.
Irene left the pile of blankets and pillows on the chair closest to the fire, and he had a feeling he shouldn't move them. She seemed to enjoy sprawling on the couch like a sunbathing cat, and that left the other armchair for himself, the spot slowly becoming permanent.
He'd almost drifted off to sleep when Irene wedged a piece of paper into his hand. He opened his eyes, stifling a yawn, and looked at a list of half a dozen shops scrawled on the paper.
Irene paced back and forth in front of him with her own list.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Shops that sell lipstick," she said. "I've split them in half. I need one tube of every red lipstick to determine the colour."
"You need to purchase each one?" Joe looked at the small pile of bricks Lestrade had dropped off earlier. "Why not just take the sample around?"
"It was written on brick, and left to the air," she said. "That may have altered the colour, I'm not sure. I've not done enough research on lipstick. If we divide and conquer, that's less time doing pedestrian work, and the sooner I can determine the colour."
Joe finished his cup of tea. "Convince Miss Hudson to make more of those biscuits, and I'll scour the city."
She beamed at him. "Deal."
* * * * *
Purchasing lipstick was less daunting than Joe expected. As soon as he said he was buying red lipstick for a lady, and flashed some money, the salespeople were more than accommodating. Within a few hours, a handful of red lipsticks rolled around in the outside pouch of his bag. He sauntered back down Baker Street, glancing at the heavy clouds covering the only sliver of sun they'd had all day.
The clip-clop of hooves made him pause. An old-fashioned Hansom cab approached, driving smoothly down the street.
A gorgeous thoroughbred pulled this particular relic from the past. The horse's sleek chestnut coat gleamed, even in the dull weather. Its mane and tail were brushed, and it gave a soft snort, tossing its head.
Delighted, Joe waited on the pavement for the cab to pass, but as he watched, he noticed a slight limp on the horse's foreleg. The driver, perched high on the back of the cab, halted the horse in front of him.
"Would you like a ride, sir?" The driver called.
Joe baulked at the offer. He'd only wanted to watch the horse pass, not climb into the cab. He'd sworn to never set foot in another horse cart or carriage. The driver, however, couldn't know any of this, so he waited for Joe's answer. Joe wandered over to the horse, a mare, and stroked her neck.
"She's limping," he said, avoiding the driver's offer.
"Started a few weeks prior." The man hopped off the cab and walked around to his horse.
Joe ran his hand down the mare's leg and found the inflammation around her joint. He lifted her hoof, bending her leg, and checking her shoes. Out of habit, he gently grabbed her head and lifted her lips, looking at her teeth.
"She's ageing," he said, scratching her ears. "Her joints are stiff. Switch her to a hay or a heavy grass diet. And if you can find some, I've heard turmeric is good for joints. A tablespoon, introduced over a week or two, will likely help. Keep her hooves trimmed, and as much as people love to see her trot by, slow her activity level a bit."
The driver broke out into a grin. "Thank you, sir."
"If there's one thing I do know," Joe said, the murder investigation and his bag full of lipstick crossing his mind. "It's horses."
"Hopefully, I'll see you around then," the driver said.
"I would love to know her progress in a week or two." Joe gave the mare a final pat as the driver hopped into his seat.
He tipped his hat at Joe, urging the horse into a slow trot.
As Joe watched the cab travel down the road, an uneasy feeling travelled down into his stomach. His lungs tightened and a dizzy spell swept over him.
One of his episodes.
He quickly backed into a small alleyway as memories, vivid images like bright moving pictures, flashed in his head.
A cart of dead men creaking across a field...
Horses forced to pull weapons and parts until their hooves bled...
Gunfire startling and scattering the animals every which way...
Joe forced to collect them all under penalty of physical discipline...
Bombs, whistling and falling, exploding...
The horses, his horses, collapsing beneath the shells and mud and smoke...
Joe forced to collect their chunks of flesh for dinner meat, under penalty of death...
Joe leaned against the wall of a bombed-out building, gasping for air, pain slicing through his every nerve ending. The small bit of sunshine he was so thankful for before, now blinded him. He squinted, trying to focus on something to dispel this horror.
A woman walked across the street, teal scarf holding her dark hair back, trousers flapping in the breeze.
Irene.
He opened his mouth to call for her, but no sound came out. He blinked against the bright sky, trying to stay focused on her.
She slowed in front of a dress shop and peered in the window.
As he watched her gaze into the shop, his breathing settled, the fear and pain in his stomach diminishing. He remained focused on Irene, not knowing if the episode was ending on its own, or if focusing on her was helping.
He kept focus, either way.
She shifted down the pavement to look at another dress, a dark green one, whose colour complimented the cream shirt she wore.
Joe finally straightened and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs.
Irene stepped back from the shop, and with one final look at the dark green dress, she carried on up the street.
Joe wiped his brow, ridding his skin of perspiration. As he stepped out of the alley, he rubbed the scar on his arm out of habit.
He hadn't had an episode that intense for a few months. Usually, he kept them under control and stayed away from situations that triggered them.
He'd been lucky enough walk away from the war with his body intact, but his spirit was bruised and his mind was wounded. Sometimes that seemed worse than a missing limb. His mind ambushed him without a moment's notice and was ruthless in its attack.
He started back to 221B now thoroughly exhausted, ready for supper and an early bedtime.
He took one last glance at the dress shop, the green dress catching his eye. He never thought about the way Irene dressed, but he wondered if wanting people to take her seriously affected her clothing choice. A woman of her intelligence and tenacity, unfortunately, was given more credit by downplaying her looks.
He trudged through the door and climbed the stairs. Irene sat on the floor, her collected tubes of lipstick beside her. She looked at each name, then scribbled on a piece of paper.
Joe scooped out his own lipsticks and set them in a pile.
"Ah, excellent," Irene said, without looking up. "You managed all the shops?"
"Quite easily, actually," he said, heading for the dining table, ready to eat whatever Miss Hudson prepared.
"Joe?"
He sat and met her worried expression.
"Did something happen?" she asked. "You've been sweating, your shoulders are tense, and you look flushed as if you've been exerting yourself."
"I'll admit," he said, scrambling to find an excuse. "Running around the city has tired me right out. I haven't kept in shape since being back."
She furrowed her brow as if she didn't quite believe him, but accepted his answer and turned back to her lipsticks.
"I would love your help on another matter," she said. "I've written down the etching on the back of the pin. Can you see if you can find any meaning to it? Important military dates, anything to do with the war?"
"Of course," he said.
Miss Hudson brought supper, and within minutes of finishing his food, Joe headed upstairs to read and sleep.
* * * * *
Despite his episode yesterday, Joe woke well rested and ready for a day of errands with Irene. His curiosity was getting the better of him, and he needed to know how this mystery ended. He felt like an actual detective from his crime novels. Collecting evidence, following clues, putting together the pieces to get some answers.
All silly and trivial, but whatever kept his mind from dredging up those painful memories, he was thankful for. He'd even put on freshly ironed trousers and his nice waistcoat. He kept his sleeves rolled up, more out of habit than the warm weather.
He whistled some tune he'd forgotten the name of as he headed into the living room.
Irene was still on the floor, and at first, he thought she hadn't moved all night, but her clothes were changed, and a cleared plate sat beside her.
"Any luck?" he said, sitting at the table to his own breakfast.
"Some," she said, standing. "I've narrowed it down to three possible shades, and by the names alone I've a good hunch to which one was used."
She sat across from him with a tube of lipstick. She worked the cap off and twirled the product up, revealing a lovely shade of red.
A Study in Victory Red Page 6