He was considering this when Sabina surprised him by broaching the subject herself, almost as if she had been reading his mind. “I spoke to Mr. Bonesall at Western States Bank the other day,” she said, almost offhandedly, “regarding the Blanchford matter. He told me in passing that he’d had a conversation with you about my private life. Evenings spent in the company of Carson Montgomery, to be specific.”
Quincannon was at a loss for words. All he could manage was, “Ahh.”
“You know all too well how I feel about that sort of thing, John.”
“Yes, but … ah, Bonesall happened to mention seeing you and Mr., ah, Montgomery dining together at the Old Poodle Dog, so naturally I was a trifle curious—”
“Naturally. And your trifling curiosity has led you to speculate about my relationship with Carson ever since.”
“Well, now…”
“I am not now nor have I ever been romantically involved with Mr. Montgomery in any way,” Sabina said in her no-nonsense voice. “Does that put your mind at ease?”
“My dear Sabina, I never once imagined—”
“Oh, bosh. Admit it—you’ve been fretting for days over the possibility that Carson and I have been having illicit relations. Well, we haven’t. As a matter of fact, you might as well know that we are no longer keeping company. Now will you be so good as to stop prying?”
He could barely contain his elation. Not romantically involved! Dinner companions, nothing more! No longer seeing Mr. Montgomery!
“You have my solemn promise,” he said. He savored a tender forkful of calf’s liver and onions before he added, “But may I ask a consideration in return?”
“That depends on what it is.”
“Now that your evenings are free again, and in deference to my deep affection for you, I would take it as a great personal favor if you relaxed your rule against fraternization and permitted me the privilege of acting as your escort on occasion—not only for luncheons such as this but for an evening’s meal and entertainment. Just that, nothing more.”
She regarded him unblinkingly for such a long while that he felt sure she would decline, perhaps even launch into another of her business-only speeches. But bless her, she did neither. She sighed softly and said, “Very well. But only if you swear to make no advances, to behave as a gentleman.”
“At all times,” he said. “Oh, at all times.”
He meant it, too.
For the nonce anyway. For the nonce …
26
SABINA
She was enjoying a quietly relaxing evening in her rooms, curled up with Adam, a glass of white wine, and a copy of the Police Gazette (Cousin Callie would have been horrified at her choice of reading matter), when the door buzzer sounded.
That had better not be another messenger, she thought. Or a solicitor, although it was late for that breed to come calling. Not Carson, surely. John, attempting to take immediate advantage of her moment of weakness at Maison Riche? If it was John, she would not only recant, but give him a severe tongue-lashing.
But it wasn’t John. Or Carson. Her caller was the alleged Mr. S. Holmes.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, bowing. He wore his Sherlock outfit tonight—gray cape, deerstalker cap. In one hand he carried the blackthorn walking stick; tucked under his other arm was a small wicker basket. “I trust I haven’t come at an inopportune time?”
“No. But I must say I’m surprised to see you here after what you said to me three nights ago.”
“What I said? Ah, that I consider it unseemly for a gentleman to visit a lady in her quarters past nightfall. That is my usual policy, especially when a game is afoot. However, now that I am temporarily unencumbered again, I deemed it expedient to present myself in person. In point of fact I have a gift for you.”
“Gift?”
“A small token of my esteem for you and your skill in the practice of our noble profession. May I enter for a few moments?”
Sabina nodded and stepped aside. The Englishman swept off his cap as he entered the vestibule, stood there for a moment looking past her into the front parlor. “Charming quarters,” he said. “Quite befitting a woman of your taste and station.”
“I’m honored by your approval,” she said dryly.
He extended the wicker basket. “With my compliments, dear lady.”
It was somewhat heavier than it looked, and she felt movement inside. When she lifted the lid, she was looking at an all-black kitten. It peered up at her with enormous amber-colored eyes, mewed as if saying hello.
Her heart melted to it instantly. It seemed to feel the same toward her; it began to purr, flexing its tiny paws, when she picked it up and cuddled it against her breast. Its fur was as soft as eiderdown.
“As per your wishes, a playmate for your Abyssinian-Siamese mix—Adam by name, if memory serves. You’re pleased with my choice of a black short-haired female?”
Yes, she was—pleased, surprised, and touched. “Very much,” she said, stroking the kitten’s back. Adam would be, too, she hoped. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”
“That will do splendidly. Unlike Adam, you see, this little beggar will not shed hairs upon your clothing.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Not yet. That is for you to decide.”
“Perhaps I’ll name her after you.”
“I would be honored.”
Not necessarily. Two names came immediately to mind, “Crackbrain” and “Beelzebub,” though of course she could hardly saddle the poor kitten with either one.
“How did you know I was interested in a playmate for Adam?” she asked him.
The Englishman’s only reply was his infuriatingly enigmatic smile.
“Carson Montgomery is the only person I mentioned it to,” Sabina said. “But he claims not to know you at all.”
“That is the truth. We have never met vis-à-vis.”
“Do you still have him under surveillance?”
“No. That is what I meant in saying I am no longer encumbered—my inquiries concerning Mr. Montgomery have ceased. As have yours, I trust, now that he is no longer threatened by his minimal involvement in the Gold King scandal. Or by the villainous Artemas Sneed.”
“Why is Sneed no longer a threat?”
“Come, come, Mrs. Carpenter, you mustn’t try to fence with me. You know perfectly well that the man died a violent death two nights ago, having yourself discovered his body at the Wanderer’s Rest.”
She blinked at him. “How do you know that?”
“I have my sources, as you have yours.”
That was almost the same thing she’d said to Carson at the Palace Hotel. Holmes’s claim seemed equally valid, annoyingly so. Whereas it had taken her and John years of combined activity to compile their various sources, the Englishman had managed to develop his in less than a year of residence in the city and without any official standing. How he’d accomplished this by flitting about in the shadowy underworld on mysterious missions was as astonishing as it was inexplicable.
“Ah, yes,” he continued in his self-aggrandizing fashion, “my brain attic is filled with a vast array of knowledge. Else how would I have earned my reputation as the world’s finest detective?”
“Oh, indeed,” Sabina said, but as always he was immune to sarcasm. “Will you at least tell me how you found out about Carson’s past and Sneed’s attempt at blackmail, and why you took it upon yourself to investigate?”
That dratted smile again. But this time he deigned to give her an answer of sorts. “One trained in the finer points of observation and ratiocination learns much in places such as Soho in my homeland and the Barbary Coast in this otherwise fair city.”
“So you were shadowing Carson in an attempt to save him from Sneed? Or was it Sneed you were after?”
“All criminals and their nefarious deeds are grist for the mill of Sherlock Holmes. Including your Mr. Montgomery, if he had proven to be more culpable eight years ago than he was.
”
“He’s not my Mr. Montgomery.”
“Ah? Your liaison with him has ended?”
“That is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.”
“Indubitably not. But if you and the gentleman have come to a parting of the ways, perhaps it is for the best. I have long felt that the estimable if somewhat contentious Mr. Quincannon would make a fitting suitor as well as a worthy business partner.”
The insufferable cheek of the man! The kitten kept her from making an angry retort by mewing, curling a paw around one of her fingers and then nipping with sharp little teeth.
“I should say the little beggar is hungry,” Holmes said. “A spot of milk or cream would seem to be in order.”
Sabina nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.
“And I must be off. Duty calls.” He replaced his cap, turned to open the door. Outside on the stoop, he said, “I really am quite pleased that you like my gift, dear lady.”
“Yes. Thank you again.”
“Not at all. My pleasure.” He bowed. “I expect we shall see each other again before I return to England. Until then, au revoir.”
Sabina watched him walk away at a jaunty pace, his stick tapping on the flagstones. The kitten had been a thoughtful gesture, yes, and she was grateful, but Lord, she fervently hoped never to cross the Englishman’s path again. If he ever did leave San Francisco, it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit her.
She carried the purring kitten—what would she name her? Eve, perhaps?—into the kitchen and introduced her to Adam before pouring out a saucer of cream. Adam and the new addition to the household seemed to take to each other right away, just as she’d hoped. Yes, Eve was the proper name. Adam and Eve.
It was while she was watching Eve lap cream that an afterimage of the bogus Sherlock’s jaunty, stick-tapping departure popped into her mind, bringing with it a sudden belated suspicion. It hadn’t been Carson he’d been spying on, any more than it had been her. It had, all along, been Artemas Sneed. Suppose, then, he had decided to confront Sneed about the attempted blackmail. Suppose that blackthorn stick of his was not solid wood, but in fact contained a concealed weapon such as a long, sharp sword.
Suppose it was the bogus Mr. Holmes who had skewered Sneed in his room at the Wanderer’s Rest.
Possible, entirely possible. He was shrewd enough to have successfully copied his idol’s methods of observation and deduction; he might also have adopted a form of self-protection he believed the real Sherlock employed, and not been hesitant to use it if the need arose.
But whether or not that was the true explanation, it was moot. He would never tell. And she, alas, would never know.
BY MARCIA MULLER AND BILL PRONZINI
NOVELS
Double
Beyond the Grave
The Lighthouse
The Bughouse Affair
The Spook Lights Affair
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Duo
Crucifixion River
NONFICTION
1001 Midnights
About the Authors
Marcia Muller is the New York Times bestselling creator of private investigator Sharon McCone. The author of more than thirty-five novels, Muller received the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award in 2005.
Bill Pronzini, creator of the Nameless Detective, is a highly praised novelist, short-story writer, and anthologist. He received the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America in 2008, making Muller and Pronzini the only living couple to share the award.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
THE BODY SNATCHERS AFFAIR
Copyright © 2014 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Gordon Crabb
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3176-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-9723-2 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429997232
First Edition: January 2015
The Body Snatchers Affair Page 19