"Thank you, I suppose," he said. "But, Irene, I'm not your..."
She'd stopped listening, staring straight ahead, eyelids drooping. Joe finished the bandage on her arm, then dabbed her bloody knuckles. He rechecked the dressing on her cheek, touching the bruising skin gingerly.
A constable came from the sitting room, car keys in his hand.
"Think these are yours, sir," he said, holding them out to Joe.
Irene snatched them first and stood. The constable saw the impending argument by the look on her face and quickly hurried away.
"No, Irene," Joe said. "I will drive us home."
"I can drive," she mumbled, bandage and bruise impeding her ability to speak clearly.
"Oh, you are stubborn," he said. "You are barely fit to walk, let alone operate a vehicle. You want me to give you doctor's orders? Hand over the keys and do not drive your automobile."
Joe was tired, and no matter how hard he'd scrubbed, he still felt the tightening of drying blood on his skin. He wanted to get them home, take a bath, and sleep until every ounce of exhaustion left his body. He was in no mood to argue with Irene and he was about ready to forcefully take the keys from her if need be.
She held out her bandaged arm, keys dangling from her fingers.
"Drive it carefully," she said, voice soft. Guilt drifted over him. Of course, she didn't want anyone else driving that car, no matter how incapacitated she was
He touched her chin gently, lifting her head, meeting her gaze. "I promise I will."
✽✽✽
Joe hadn't driven in years, but he'd eased into the skill quick enough as he turned the car onto the highway heading back to London. Beside him, Irene leaned her head against the window, staring out into the night. She must've fallen asleep because she didn't move for a long time. She deserved a good rest. She'd taken on a man twice her size and managed to hold her own.
Joe grew more impressed with her skills all the time, but with that awe came an increased level of caring. It hurt Joe to see her injured and so willing to throw her whole self into a case like this.
Joe kept the drive as silent as possible, letting the rumble of the road carry them back to the city. Every now and then he rubbed his arms, a shiver running down his spine as he remembered all the blood that had soaked his skin.
About an hour later they entered the city and the streetlight played tricks on his eyes. He swore he could still see red splatter on his arms. He rubbed them again.
Irene sat straight and stretched gingerly. "Relax, Lady Macbeth. You've scrubbed your skin clean and raw. The only blood on you is soaked into your shirt."
He glanced at her, watching her tired face flash with every streetlight.
"You know Shakespeare?" He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice but failed.
She laughed, slow and sleepy. "I may not have finished school, but that doesn't mean I'm not educated."
Joe focused back on the road, trying to unpack her sentence. "You never finished school?"
She shrugged. "I kept getting myself suspended, and eventually I asked my father if I could just stay home and he agreed, much to the chagrin of my uncle."
She leaned against the window again, closing her eyes. Joe never gave much thought to chatting with her about literature, or anything academic, unless she initiated the conversation. He assumed she looked down on the novels he read, but maybe no one had ever spoken to her about her own interests, other than asking for her help with solving crime.
Joe looked at his arms again and saw his own skin, no mirage of blood. He sighed and shook his head.
"This was supposed to be a logic puzzle," he said. "A fun code-cracking case."
"It was a logic puzzle," Irene said.
"The bloodiest logic puzzle I've ever done."
She stared out the front window. "There is a lesson to be learned in all of this."
"Agreed," Joe said. "Be truthful to those you love."
"Oh," Irene said. "I suppose that too. I was thinking 'tie up all loose ends'."
"What?"
"Mrs. Grouper should've made sure Noah was dead at the scene of the crash."
"I'm sure not everyone thinks through the whole crime," Joe said. "Even when they're committing one. She certainly did try to ensure his death."
Joe surprised himself by talking about murder and revenge so casually. He'd already spent so much time with Irene that those topics were becoming commonplace. Or perhaps he was just too bloody tired.
"She did," Irene said. "That is true. If I had someone threatening me, or the people I cared about, the way Noah did to her, I would've made sure they were buried six feet deep with no hope of seeing daylight ever again."
She settled back into the seat and Joe glanced at her. Did he fall under the blanket of people that Irene would protect? Lestrade and Miss Hudson certainly did, but he wondered if he shared that honour with them. He wasn't eager to put himself in danger to test that theory out, but he knew that thought would stay in the back of his head until it was proven.
Chapter IX
The End of a Long Day
Irene leaned on the bannister, thoroughly exhausted, as they trudged up the stairs of 221B. The door was open, and Miss Hudson paced back and forth. She heard them coming, and as soon as she saw them, she gasped. She rushed to meet them, but Irene quickly dodged, sidestepping her and entering the flat.
"Oh heavens." Miss Hudson followed them in. "Look at you two. Oh, Irene, you must stay away from these fights you keep getting into. The last bruise had just faded and now-"
"Miss Hudson," Irene snapped, setting her bag and keys on the small table by the door. "Please, be silent. Clearly, we are both in need of tea and some rest."
That didn't deter Miss Hudson.
"I can't believe a taxi picked you up in your state," she muttered.
Irene made a point of sighing. "We didn't ride in a taxi. The old Vauxhall did us just fine."
"Doctor Watson's automobile?" Miss Hudson said. "You retrieved it? That is fantastic. You should-"
"Tea, Miss Hudson," Irene said. "Tea is required, chatting is not."
"You'll need a lot more than tea to fix you up," Miss Hudson said.
"We're both planning on baths," Irene said. "So, the hot water will need to go on."
"Tea and a bath," she mumbled as she left the room. "Not a hospital, simply tea and a bath..."
Joe sank into his chair and closed his eyes. Irene sat opposite him. Every muscle in her body ached and the side of her face felt so swollen, her left eye shut. For almost ten minutes, they sat in silence, neither one of them finding the will to move. Irene caught scent of herself and cringed. She smelled of sweat, old blood, and musty rainwater.
"Shall we draw a card to see who bathes first?" She asked.
"You may go first," Joe said. "I need a drink. I'm going to see if Miss Hudson has anything stronger than a cup of tea."
"If she doesn't," Irene said. "I have some aged brandy in a trunk in my bedroom."
Joe sat up and stared at the board full of notes and messages.
"Codes and cyphers," he said. "Bletchley Park, attempted murder, clandestine secrets. It's got an air of romance about it all."
Miss Hudson entered the room, a tea tray in her hands.
"Are we talking about romance?"
"Not at all." Irene straightened as Miss Hudson put the tray on the table.
"I believe, Irene Holmes," Miss Hudson said. "That under all your logic and cheeky wit, you have a romantic and whimsical streak to you.
"Whimsical?" Joe grinned.
Irene tried to glare at him but had no idea if her facial expression showed through her swollen face.
"Right now," she said, pouring herself a cup of tea. "I have no whimsy, no romance, and no intention of continuing this conversation."
"But you certainly have the dramatics," Miss Hudson said.
Joe laughed again. "There's certainly no lack of drama on Baker Street."
"I am already cover
ed in bruises and blood," Irene said. "Must you two continue this attack?"
Miss Hudson smiled that grandmotherly smile of hers, full of the unconditional love that Irene never knew how to respond to. She looked over Irene's bruised face and gently patted her unharmed cheek.
"Goodnight, Love," she said, heading out of the room. "And goodnight, Doctor."
Irene dragged herself off the chair and wandered into the bathroom. She turned on the tap, letting hot water pour into the tub. As she watched the water level rise, she sipped her tea in small, angry sips. She should've been satisfied that the case was over. She'd figured out the code, prevented murders, and returned home battered and bruised but in one piece.
Inside, she felt a knot of disappointment. She turned from the bathroom door to the kitchenette and set her empty mug on the counter. She must've been wearing her thoughts on her face because Joe spoke up.
"Irene?" he said. "You've paled. Are you alright?"
He'd stood, hand out, ready to rush over and catch her if she fell. He looked ready to topple, himself, so she waved him off.
"I'm fine," she said.
He folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow. She let out a frustrated breath and gave in to his stubbornness.
"I don't understand," she said. "Mrs. Grouper's husband was shot, two beautiful rooms in her house destroyed, and a man killed on her carpet. We failed her, and yet, she seemed so happy."
Joe stared at her for a minute, mulling over her words. He walked around the couch and stood in the kitchen with her.
"If we had not arrived," he said. "Then everyone in that house would've died."
"We should've been there sooner." Irene poked at the empty mug on the counter. "We should've figured the code out, and prevented Mr. Grouper from being shot."
Joe rubbed his arms, then pushed some hair off his forehead. Finally, he shrugged.
"But we weren't," he said. "We did the best we could-"
"No, we didn't," Irene said.
"Well, I did," he said. "And I'm proud of the work we did and the case we solved. Sometimes you just have to accept the facts as they are laid out. We can't change the speed in which we solved the cypher, and we can't change the fact that Noah got away from us and ended up at the house. We got there in time to prevent the slaughter of that family. Those are the facts that we have to accept. Listen to me, I sound like you."
She smiled at his words, then winced at her swollen face. Her dissatisfaction with the case ran deeper than that, though.
"I suppose you're right," she said. "I just wished we'd been there earlier. I wish you weren't forced to save a life and have all your trauma dredged up and I wish I hadn't been punched in the face. Perhaps, I just wish I was better."
She went toward her room, but Joe stopped her, taking her hands in his. He opened his mouth, jaw working back and forth, trying to find some words.
"Forgive me," he said, voice hesitant and apologetic. "If what I am about to say hurts you, but I feel I must say it while you are too tired to take action against me. You cannot hold yourself to your father's standards, Irene. He worked in a different time, and he worked for a long time. Things are different nowadays. Things are more difficult. The two cases I've solved with you have turned out to be more complicated than either of us expected."
She felt that little ball of lava bubble in her stomach as anger rose up. Joe's words were completely accurate, and that made them all the more difficult to accept. Any case she helped her father solve growing up, had been, in her eyes, solved with such quick efficiency it left people astounded. Perhaps she never saw him stumble, or maybe those memories had vanished like other, not so pleasant ones. Either way, Joe's words cut deep but didn't hurt.
She looked at him, studied him. He tried so hard to prevent her feelings from hurting, to shelter her from her own negative thoughts. He was kind and cared about her and that thought made her squirm.
It was her turn to become awkward and search for words.
"I don't know if I like you getting to know me," she said, a coy smile spreading across her face. "You speak too many truths for my liking."
Joe winked at her, then pressed a piece of tape on her bandage that had come loose.
"Keep the gauze dry," he said. "I'll change them before you go to sleep."
Irene headed into the bathroom and turned the tap off. The temptation to fill the tub to the top almost overwhelmed her, but she stopped the water halfway, saving some for Joe.
A small, glass bird soap holder on the counter caught her eye. Her uncle had picked it up while on holiday one year and brought it back for her. It reminded her of the conversation she'd had earlier with Joe, and she recognized a revelation inside her. Expressing her caring and happy feelings toward others was difficult, but perhaps showing people that she listened to their wants and desires was a small bit of progress.
She popped her head out of the bathroom.
Joe rooted around in the kitchen cupboard, looking for a glass for his strong drink.
"Joe?" she said. "We can look at getting a bird. A pretty one, with lots of colours. But not one of those clever ones that can talk. I don't need to be arguing with a bird while I work my cases."
A smile so grand and happy fell across his face and made him look ten years younger. His demeanour confirmed her theory and she made a note to try listening to people more.
"I shall inquire about such birds first thing in the morning," he said, then gave a laugh. "Well, maybe early afternoon, whenever I wake up."
She laughed with him for a moment, then retreated back into the bathroom. She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. Tears welled in her eyes as the sheer exhaustion of the week, and the feelings and memories she'd faced, swept over her.
She blinked and a tear rolled down her face. She wiped it away and pushed herself off the door. She knew she was only prolonging the moment when the dam holding back all her feelings cracked and crumbled. When all those memories that she'd forgotten came flooding back and consumed her, it would be a hellish day.
Until then, though, she'd scrub herself clean, then let Joe have a turn in the tub while she took a drink of that brandy. The outcome of this case had not been what she'd initially intended, but everyone that should've stayed alive ended up alive, and that's all she could hope for. Joe was right, she wasn't her father. She wasn't as good as he was, yet. Perhaps one day she would be, but for now, she'd mark this curious cypher case as complete and wait for the next mystery to walk through the door.
The End
Holmes & Co. will return in:
The Impossible Murderer
When a famous dressage horse goes missing in the middle of the night, and the bodies of an unknown man and local stable boy are found dead outside the horse's empty stall, the blame is immediately pinned on a gorgeous amiable stallion covered in the victims' blood. Eddy calls upon Irene and Joe's assistance as the stallion's handler swears by his, and his horse's, innocence. The trio take a trip to the country to navigate the intricate bond between horses and their trainers and discover layers of betrayal and secrecy coating this glamorous sport.
About The Author
Allison Osborne
Allison Osborne lives in Ontario, Canada with her son, their West Highland terrier, and an overwhelming amount of vintage trinkets. She attended the University of Western Ontario for creative writing, and when her mind isn't wandering through 1940s England, she is busily working at a vet clinic.
The Circle Code Conundrum Page 8
