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“There’s nothing to do.”
Thank Providence.
The low whine carried from the other armchair, petulant as only a consulting detective could be. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
Though heavy silence suggested I had replied aloud, and I finally glanced up to find him scowling at me. “What? You should be glad there are no cases. Did the Guy Fawkes copycats not try again on the solstice last year? How many did the Yard apprehend? Surely over a dozen?”
“Ten,” he grudgingly admitted even as he readjusted in his chair, “with another half dozen on the day itself and three over the next week.”
“So either the detractors have finally given up trying to kill our infamous king, or they are hiding it better. Be glad there are not more.” I made no attempt to conceal a smirk at the glower he leveled at me. The valid point did nothing to aid his boredom, and after over a fortnight without a case, I knew better than to think he could find something alone. Had I used all my backup plans?
Most of them. I could hardly suggest an experiment after what had happened last week. He had updated his indices yesterday. He would scratch dissonant notes instead of playing, which ruled out the violin. What about his supplies?
“Have you reorganized your disguise materials yet?”
“Two days ago.” He turned sideways in the chair to swing his feet. “I already fixed that index, I have no interest in a book, and my monograph refuses to go anywhere. Do you need anything on the other side of town?”
No, but that narrowed this from general boredom to restlessness. A moment stared at him. Could I send him on a wild goose chase somehow?
“Stop that.” He rolled his eyes when I raised an eyebrow at the order. “I will not fall for ‘stethoscope grease’ again. Do not try it.”
I quickly turned to hide a grin. The prank war last month had seen the contents of my medical bag scattered around the flat, and my retribution had claimed he had spilled my stethoscope grease during his mischief, sending him on a thirty-minute snipe hunt. His griping that night had been more than a little entertaining.
I would not say as much now, however, and silence reigned until I could eliminate amusement from my tone. “How about a walk? We have several hours until sundown.”
A low harrumph escaped as his initial reaction, but when several seconds could think of nothing else, he finally pulled himself upright. Better than doing nothing here, that conveyed.
Not that I minded. The unseasonably warm sunshine had sent me on a wander several times this week, and even the necessary coat served only to block the breeze. He headed up the sidewalk the moment the lock clicked.
“Slow down, Holmes, or you’ll reach our destination before we know what it is.”
He grumbled something about “confounded poetry,” but he did slow, looping my arm in his to make me carry my cane in my other hand. A left at the second street, then a series of rights aimed us toward Regent’s in an extremely roundabout manner, and when I nudged him into turning away from the park, the next intersection declared he had chosen a destination.
“You have a better chance for a case in the city.”
Irrelevant, that gesture announced. He preferred circling an empty park over deducing London’s pedestrians, and a mental shrug willingly followed him through the gate.
And across a bridge. Through the grass. Around the gardens. He whiled away an hour simply following the many paths crisscrossing the southern half of the park, his steady pace never quite fast enough to make me comment. I let him wander in silence until a strange shape caught my attention. What was—
Danger!
Instinct sounded as metal glinted in the darkest shadows, and the shape clicked as human to make me shove Holmes as hard as I could.
“Duck!”
He dove into a roll, narrowly avoiding the blade thrown at his head. The momentum turned into a right hook that eliminated one of the half-dozen men that appeared from the bushes.
Though not the rest of them. My cane tripped one aiming for Holmes’ back. Holmes’ warning let me dodge a tackle, then one tried to pin me against a tree and received a blade for his trouble. One man’s failed tackle let me put my shoulder to Holmes’. A large tree covered our backs—and helped us take out two more. Two on two proved much simpler, and another ten seconds finally surveyed both the surrounding trees and the motionless forms around us. Only once sure none tried to set an ambush did we refashion the length of rope I had intended to put in my bag into several binds.
“Do you have your revolver?”
“No, only my cane.”
Which held both sword and club, but that still sounded like a muttered oath. Scanning the park found only the open space of Regent’s on a holiday, however. He finally tied the men together and dragged them into a tight line, feet pointing away from where I stood. I realized what he intended as he stood to address me.
“I can monitor them all,” I confirmed. “I saw a constable on his beat just the other side of the bush on that last path.”
A sharp nod confirmed he had seen them as well, and a final glance set off in a ground-eating lope. He would return in a few minutes, Yarders in tow. I settled against a tree to watch for movement.
Not exactly the Christmas we had intended, but Holmes could certainly no longer claim boredom.