The Wintle Blog

I gasped, and swallowed hard, thinking for a moment that beneath the towel she was completely unclothed, as indeed she might as well have been, for she was wearing only a bathing costume of some transparent material. “That is, might I venture, somewhat unsuitable attire for a cool Autumn evening in the Cornish countryside,” I remarked huskily. “And perhaps uncharacteristic of a young lady’s customary wardrobe.” “Dear, sweet Doctor Watson,” she laughed, “don’t be shy. Remember the song? ‘You’ll drive him half insane in a bathing suit of cellophane, keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved’ – have I driven you half insane, doctor? It might appear so.” I had been tugging and tugging the curtains together, trying to close the gap between them. Now I turned to stare at her and covered the bare stretch of window with my back. My room, as I’ve recorded, was very small. The moist warmth of her freshly bathed body radiated over me, and her lemony, soapy scent was intoxicating. ...

Slowly, carefully, Lestrade poured beer into a tall glass. He stopped when there was about a quarter of an inch of pale liquid left in the bottle. “White Shield,” he explained, with a professorial smile, setting the bottle down. “That yeasty little residue would quite spoil the taste, besides turning a clear ale cloudy.” He swigged, and wiped his mouth with a corner of his cravat. “There’s some things they don’t teach you in medical school, doctor. True?” “Indeed.” For myself, a pot of China tea was all the refreshment I wanted. “I do hope Holmes is all right,” I said anxiously. “Perhaps we should take him something up?” “Let him stew. Like your tea.” The Inspector laughed, stretched out his legs, and addressed his beer with even more eagerness. “Here,” he said. “How about this?” and he dropped his pork pie hat onto the head of a stuffed goat that was standing by the window, staring out menacingly at the rain-misted river valley. Even subtracting the goat, the bar of the Danesco...