Excerpt: Bring a Torch

Finally, Holmes stood in the doorway of Isabella's room. He looked at her with some compassion. “Should you prefer to wait outside while I search?”

She shook her head resolutely. “No—do it like the others. Tell me what you see.”

“But the trick is so much less impressive when one knows the party, surely,” Holmes murmured. He turned his attention to her bedside first. “Devout; of middling income; aged, but surely out of your milieu; right-handed; a frequent cook,” he added, turning to the bureau.

“Now tell me how you knew about the cooking?” She had never mentioned cooking to him.

He held up an old blouse that was one of her own —she had brought it for comfort, more than anything else. Drawing out his magnifying glass, he said, “Examine, if you will, the sleeves. Extremely minute spatters over the right of a great variety of ages and compositions, which leads me to understand that you have spent a great deal of time stirring various cookery concoctions.”

She had, of course, to own the truth of that. But Holmes was no longer paying attention. He was, instead, holding up between thumb and forefinger an elegant linen square. “Are you in the habit of biting your handkerchiefs, Miss du Flambeau?”

“No, that would be a silly--” She broke off as she realized what he must mean. Stepping closer, she realized a worse fact. “But that is my handkerchief.” She went very pale and took an involuntary step away from him, her eyes fearful. “I couldn't--” she began, her mouth going dry. For her handkerchief, her handkerchief had been used to stifle the cries of a dying man.