“Within two months of that event, your father's will was given an addendum to ensure that the house be left untouched by anyone other than family members for a minimum of twenty years.”

“So?” I demanded, driven to rudeness.

“And finally, your emotional turmoil over the unfinished nature of your family's death has led to a series of disturbing dreams.”

“Damn it, Holmes, I'm going to bed.”

“The evidence is clear, yet you refuse to see it,” he mused. “Fascinating.”

“See what?” I finally couldn't bear it another moment, and blew up at him. “Holmes, for Christ sake, I'm absolutely exhausted, I have bruises coming up all along my shoulders and skull, and my head is pounding so hard I'm going to have trouble seeing my face in the bath-room looking-glass, and you persist in playing guessing games with me. Well, you'll just have to do it in my absence.” I stood up and stalked into the bath-room, where I ran a high, hot bath and immersed myself in it for a very long time. Holmes was asleep when I came out; at any rate, he did not stir.

For the brief, dull, businesslike venture that I had expected of our trip to San Francisco, it had already proved remarkably eventful. Even before we arrived, dreams had been pounding at the door of my mind; in the three days since the ship had docked on Monday morning, I had been arrested, confronted with a bucket-load of oddities, seen the evidence of a house-breaking, met a large slice of my past, been attacked on the street, and had a serious argument with my husband.

But the deadly ambush laid for us Thursday as we walked in all innocence across the hotel lobby reduced the rest to little more than specks of dust on our way.

We'd had a pleasant breakfast—or Holmes had, while I drank coffee and ate a piece of toast while reading the newspapers. Holmes had the Call, I had the Chronicle, working my way from NEW WOMAN IN POISON CASE and past an advert for MJB coffee with two finger-prints accompanied by the statement “No two are alike—People differ in their coffee tastes as well as their thumb prints.” I consulted Holmes, and we agreed that the prints in the advert were those of fingers, not thumbs, so I went on to GAY GATHERING ON YERBA BUENA FOR SWIM PARTY and RESCUED GIRL TELLS COURT BONDAGE STORY.

All in all, a satisfying day's headlines.

We drained our cups, dropped our table napkins beside our plates, and made our way towards the lift.

The first volley of the ambush rang out across the dignified lobby, startling every inhabitant and sending Holmes and me into immediate defensive posture. The next shot fired hit home and froze me where I stood.

“Mary! It's Mary Russell, I'd never be wrong about that, you're the spitting image of your father. When I read you were in town I—”