This time I was successful. Even without my spectacles I could see the old woman Mr. Thomas had described, sitting before the fire, bent over a book, her stockinged feet propped up on the rail. I fumbled with the sensationless protuberances on my hand and managed to pop the button from my shirt pocket, lay hands on my spectacles, nearly dropping them to destruction twice, and finally draped them crookedly across my nose. Even from the side she was extraordinarily ugly, with a black mole that resembled a large insect crawling across her chin. I pulled back, trying to think. I should have to do something quickly, as my hands were on the verge of becoming completely useless.
A stream of liquid ice was running down the back of my shirt and streaming off my bare foot. My brain was sluggish with the penetrating cold, but something stuck in my mind about this old woman. What was it? I rested one foot on the mossy stone sill, leant precariously forward, and studied the figure. The ear, was it? And then suddenly it all fell together in a neat pattern. I wedged my poor frozen fingers under the edge of the window and pulled. The old woman looked up from her book, then rose and came to open the window more fully. I looked up at "her" bitterly.
"Damn you, Holmes, what the hell are you doing here? And for God's sake help me in this window before you have to scrape me up off the pavement."
Soon I stood shivering and dripping on my carpet, and awkwardly dried my spectacles on the curtain so I wouldn't have to squint to see Holmes. He stood there in his dingy old lady's dress, that horrid mole on his face, looking not in the least apologetic for the trouble he had put me to.
"Damn it, Holmes, your flair for the dramatic entrance could have broken my neck, and if I avoid pneumonia it'll be no thanks to the last few minutes. Turn your back; I must get out of these clothes." He obediently turned a chair to a blank wall, one with no reflecting object, I noticed, and I peeled off my clothes clumsily in front of the hot little fire, put on the long grey robe I had left folded over the stool that morning, and got a towel for my hair.
"All right, you may turn around now." I pushed the sodden clothing into a corner until I could deal with them later. Holmes and I were close, but I didn't care to wave my underclothing about in front of his nose. There are limits to friendship.
I went to the night table for my comb and, pulling a stool in front of the fire, I began to undo my wet braids to steam in the heat. My fingers, toes, and nose were fiery with returning sensation. The shivering had subsided somewhat, but I could not suppress the occasional hard shudder. Holmes frowned.
"Have you any brandy?" he asked in a low voice.
"You know I don't drink the stuff."
"That is not what I asked," he said, all patience and condescension. "I asked if you had any. I want some brandy."
"Then you'll have to ask my neighbour for some."
"I doubt that the young lady would appreciate a figure like myself at her door, somehow."
"It doesn't matter, she's home in Kent for the holidays anyway."
"Then I shall just have to assume that she gave her permission." He let himself out into the hallway, then put his head back in the door. "By the way, don't touch that machine on the desk. It's a bomb."
I sat eyeing the tangle of wires with the black box in its centre until he returned with my neighbour's bottle and two of her magnificent glasses. He poured generously and handed me a glass, and poured a smaller amount for himself.
"Not a very nice brandy, but it will taste better in these glasses. Drink it," he ordered.
I dutifully took a large mouthful and swallowed. It made me cough but calmed my shudders, and by the time I finished it I was aware of a warm glow spreading out to my very fingertips.
"I suppose you know that alcohol is not the optimum treatment for hypothermia?" I accused him, somewhat truculently. I was really most annoyed at the whole charade, and the melodramatic touch of the bomb was tiresome.
"Had you been in danger of that I would not have given you brandy. However, I can see that it has made you feel better, so finish combing out your hair and then sit in a comfortable chair. We have a long conversation ahead of us. Ah, how forgetful I am in my old age." He went over to the old lady's shopping basket and drew out a parcel that I immediately recognised as Mrs. Hudson's handiwork. My attitude lightened immediately.
"What a life-giving surprise. Bless Mrs. Hudson. However, I cannot eat sitting across from a dirty old woman with an insect crawling up her chin. And if you leave fleas in my rooms, I shan't forgive you easily."
"It's clean dirt," he assured me and peeled off the gruesome mole. He stood up and removed the skirt and loose overshirt, moving stiffly, and sat down again as Sherlock Holmes, more or less.
"My appetite thanks you."
I finished towelling my wet hair and reached greedily for one of Mrs. Hudson's inimitable meat pies. I did keep bread and cheese for informal meals, but even two days old, as this one seemed to be, it was much superior even to the Stilton that lay festering nobly in my stocking drawer.
I emerged from the feast some time later to find Holmes watching me with a curious expression on his face, which disappeared instantly, replaced by his customary slightly superior gaze.
"I was hungry," I declared unnecessarily, somewhat defensive. "I had a murderous tutorial, for which I skipped lunch, and then worked in the Bodleian all afternoon. I don't remember if I had breakfast. I may have done."
"What so engrossed you this time?"
"Actually, I was doing some work that might interest you. My maths tutor and I were working with some problems in theory, involving base eight, when we came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours."
"I assume you speak of Professor Moriarty?" His voice was as cold as the ivy outside my window, but I refused to be subdued.
"Exactly. I spent the day hunting down some articles he published. I was interested in the mind and the personality as well as the mathematics."
"What impression did you have of the man?"
"The subtlest of all the beasts in the garden' comes to mind. His cold-blooded, ruthless use of logic and language struck me as somehow reptilian, although that may be unkind to snakes. I believe that had I not known the identity of the writer, the words alone would have succeeded in raising my hackles."
"Being a good mammal yourself apparently, rather than a cold-blooded thinking machine such as your teacher is known to be," he said drily.
"Ah," I said, speaking lightly with the freedom of the brandy's glow, "but I have never called you cold-blooded, now have I, my dear Holmes?"
He sat very still for a moment and then cleared his throat. "No, you have not. Have you finished with Mrs. Hudson's picnic?"
"Yes, thank you." I allowed him to pack away the remnants. His movements seemed terribly stiff, but as he hated to have his ailments noted, I said nothing. He had probably taken a chill in his old woman's clothes, and his rheumatism was acting up. "If you would just put it over there, I will enjoy it greatly for lunch tomorrow."
"No, I am sorry, but I shall have to put it back in my shopping basket. We may need it tomorrow."
"Holmes, I don't much like the sound of that. I have an engagement for tomorrow. I am going to Berkshire. I have already put it off for three days, and I have no intention of further delaying it because of some demand of yours."
"You have no choice, Russell. We must be away from here, before they find us."