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The affair of the Blackheath emerald displayed Holmes’s powers at their finest.
He moved about Lady Harcourt’s music-room like a hound upon a scent, examining the forced escritoire and three muddy impressions beneath the window. Dr Watson followed with diligence, measuring each print, questioning the servants, and dressing the footman’s injured hand. It was Watson who observed that the wound contained a splinter of rosewood.
“Excellent, Watson,” said Holmes. “Our thief forced the desk, cut himself upon it, and feigned a burglary by pressing his own boots against the carpet.”
The emerald was recovered from the footman’s mattress before luncheon.
I watched the two men exchange that singular smile of theirs. London had whispered about the eccentric bachelor of Baker Street and the widower who shared his rooms. Some declared their loyalty concealed a tenderer attachment, indulged behind locked doors. Their easy accord lent the rumours colour, although neither appeared troubled by them.
That evening, at home, I bent over the basin and washed the grime from my face. A floorboard creaked behind me.
“Lestrade.”
“I yearned for you today,” I said, my weariness gone.
I turned towards him. He stood in the doorway, his stern face softened by lamplight. I framed his beloved face in my hands and kissed his brow.
“As did I,” Holmes murmured, and drew me close.