A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas Page A

so few that may have caused Maclaine’s tragedy! Secrets aid conspirators, not truth-tellers.”
    “But this bloody name would mean nothing to you! None of this means anything to you. You are implacable, Madame. You are damn near Afghan.”
    “I reserve,” Godfrey put in quietly, “the right to shout at my wife to myself.”
    Mr. Stanhope grew immediately silent, then ebbed back into his chair, exhausted. “Do you ever do it?”
    Godfrey smiled. “No.”
    “I can see why not. She is... not to be denied.”
    “No,” Godfrey said.
    Mr. Stanhope set his brandy snifter on a side table and threw up his brown hands. “Watson,” he said. “The name was Watson.” He regarded us with weary triumph. “You see! The information is utterly useless. All you have learned is that curiosity can not only kill the cat, but also can be a cul-de-sac, Madame.”
    “Good Lord, man,” Godfrey commented in awed tones. “Do you know how many thousands of Watsons there are in England? How many hundreds may be physicians?”
    Nevertheless, Irene shut her eyes and clapped her hands together as if just offered a rare gem before inclining her head toward poor unknowing Mr. Stanhope.
    “Ah, but you need not despair, my dear sir.”
    Irene glanced significantly at me. “I may already know a most excellent place to start our search for the mysterious Dr. Watson.
    “And Godfrey,” she almost literally purred in closing the subject, “I believe that I will have some of that excellent brandy now.”
     

 
    Chapter Ten
    KISSMET
     
    Mr. Stanhope had to be assisted upstairs. The strain of sitting up to tell his tale had weakened a constitution already tested by years of privation and most recently—if Irene was right—an attempted poisoning. And although brandy is reputed to buttress the backbone, in this case it further sapped the system, in my opinion.
    At his bedchamber door he thanked Godfrey for his support, wished Irene good night now that her questions had been answered, and requested that I remain a few moments, as he wished to speak with me.
    I opened my mouth to decline—morning would do, but Irene rushed to answer for me.
    “An excellent idea! You seem pale, sir, after recounting your Afghanistan ordeal. A watchful nurse for a short time would set all our minds at rest.”
    Her suggestion was sensible, at least, but to call Mr. Stanhope “pale,” no matter how worn his condition, was a great stretch of the imagination, if not the sympathy.
    So the pair of them helped Mr. Stanhope into bed, where he reclined fully dressed upon the feather quilt with a relieved sigh. Godfrey and Irene took a somewhat hasty leave, it struck me.
    The paraffin lamp had been turned very low while the chamber was unoccupied—Sophie was a tyrant about saving oil. I was expected to read and sew in a level of lamplight barely sufficient for seeing one’s hands at arm’s length. I went to turn up the light.
    “Leave it be,” he said.
    At my inquiring look, he gestured to the window. “We don’t wish to be too visible to the world outside.”
    “Oh.” My hand darted back from the little brass turnkey as if it had been a viper’s fangs. “Perhaps it is not safe to remain in this chamber.”
    “The odds are long that he will try again here, but it’s best not to tempt chance.”
    In the dimness of the tapestry bed curtains, his face was unreadable; only the extraordinary pearly glimmer of his teeth and eye whites caught the scant light. I sat on the straight-backed chair that would insure no nodding off and fell into an uneasy silence.
    In my father’s parsonage, visiting the sick was an obligation of the highest regard. Since a child I had sat for long hours beside many a sickbed; there I had learned patience and a respect for mortality.
    Despite the nobility of the role, I found myself uneasy in Mr. Stanhope’s presence. Perhaps it was the fact that he was fully dressed, oddly enough, although that should allay any notion of impropriety