I opened my mouth to reply that it surely did matter when an odd thought struck me dumb. I gaped accusingly at Holmes and set my knife and fork down with a crash.
“If it was someone on this physical plane who tipped him off then it was criminal to do so! The risk was abominable. What if she had raved?”
“We have not once seen Mrs. Heaster rave,” he observed calmly. “Rather the reverse.”
“What if the jury did not believe her? What if Grimby had managed her better on the stand? What if—?”
Holmes cut me off. “What if once in a while, Watson, justice was more important in a court of law than the law itself?” He sipped his wine.
Once more I opened my mouth to protest, but then a chill wind seemed to blow through the room, making the curtains dance and causing the candle flames to flicker, and in that moment I could feel the heat of my outrage and anger leak out of me. Holmes cut another slice of duck and ate it, his glittering dark eyes dancing with a strange humor. I followed the line of his gaze and saw that he was looking at the curtains, watching as they settled back into place; and then the chill of the room seemed to touch my chest like the cold hand of a dead child over my heart. Though the day had been a hot one the night had been cool, and the maid had shut the window against the breeze. The curtains hung now, as still as if they had never moved, for indeed they could not have.
When I turned back to Holmes he was looking at me now, half a smile on his mouth.
Was it a breeze that had found its way through the window frame, or perhaps through an unseen crack in the wall? Or had some voiceless mouth whispered thank you to Holmes in the language of the grave? I will not say what I think nor commit it to paper.
We said nothing for the rest of that evening, and in the morning we took ship for England, leaving Greenbriar and the ghosts of West Virginia far behind.