Holmes didn’t know how close to collapse I’d been, how much it had taken for me to play my part in front of Barnett, wondering if he would recognise me from the same sorts of clues that had unmasked him in my eyes. We had been like a cat and a mouse, but I wasn’t sure who was feline and who prey. I felt thankful, for once, for the playacting I’d had to do as Godfrey Norton’s wife, the months and years of acting in front of the world as if all was well when I wanted to scream in protest. I had learned to scream on the inside, and that was exactly what I had done when James Barnett’s cold eyes had looked into mine. I had screamed in my mind, but I had seen no recognition in his. Holmes’s disguises had, seemingly, been effective. My companion held out his hand and helped me out of the wagon gently enough to make up for Tom Perkins’s earlier handling of his wife. Neither of us spoke until we were back inside the shop, seated behind the scarred front counter where we could see anyone who approached.
What do You think about The Detective And The Woman?
