‘I suppose it is possible.’

‘But you do not think so, Doctor?’

‘No. I rather like her.’

Holmes did not reply but looked out of the window. The few trees lining the streets drooped from the day’s heat, their parched leaves lit faintly by the streetlamps. Even at this late hour the temperature was oppressive, and I could feel a drop of sweat making its way down my back.

Holmes closed his eyes. ‘Unlikely, perhaps. I do believe her when she says that she could have dispatched her boorish husband earlier and without clues, if she so chose. She is more than capable.’ He paused, then opened his eyes. ‘If he did not engineer his own mishap tonight, Borelli is a fool to keep performing with this mystery hanging over him.’

‘Don’t you find Madame sympathetic, though, Holmes?’

He looked out of the window again. ‘No. Intriguing, perhaps. But I will admit I am mildly curious about this case of warring magicians. I shall give it more consideration tomorrow. In the meantime, I hope Mrs Hudson has replenished the ice. I would appreciate something chilled after tonight’s little adventure.’

‘Indeed!’ I said, with sudden visions of a lemonade and perhaps a splash of gin, and a long sleep following.

But it was not to be.

PART THREE

THE DOLL

‘I am turned into a sort of machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions.’

—Charles Darwin

CHAPTER 11

The Floating Doll

After midnight, Holmes and I sat together near the fireplace in shirtsleeves over our last drink. The cold hearth was filled with ash from the disposal of Holmes’s papers earlier in the day. The windows were wide open to catch the faintest cooling breezes. Outside, the tumult of Baker Street had settled into a calmer rhythm—the night soil men attending to those very few near us still without plumbing, the policeman making rounds, the dairy carts, a few late revellers.

Both of us had difficulty sleeping in this heat. At least the floor had been cleared, and stacks of papers in the corners were all that remained of Holmes’s recent flurry. The straitjacket had been taken down, and I noted a few other touches that indicated Mrs Hudson had followed our efforts with a few of her own.

We had continued to discuss the mysterious Borellis. Holmes was unwilling to drop the subject. ‘It is a bit of a hornet’s nest, Watson. Madame has not been fully forthcoming. I sense an agenda.’

‘A benign agenda, then,’ I said. ‘Madame seems to be a magician’s angel.’

‘By her own description, and yet fickle. The magicians are a tight but jealous community. They steal from each other regularly, and their temperaments are often volatile. When you combine the performer’s ego with the mechanical ability and focus it takes to do stage conjuring, the result can be a dangerous combination.’

‘A magician would make an excellent thief, I would imagine,’ I added.