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302 pages, Paperback
First published September 16, 2025
Her breasts bounced alarmingly behind the low décolletage, threatening to pop free from their confines due to such unexpected and unusual activity.
She did hope they would be more competent than the ones portrayed in Mr. Conan Doyle’s stories.
Are you familiar with the stories of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Bentley Bodham? The ones by Mr. Conan Doyle?
And in fact, you’ve interrupted my plan to play Sherlock Holmes.
“I’ve been investigating the deaths,” Irene told her. “Like Sherlock Holmes.”
And of course, Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character after all. One couldn’t truly compare oneself to a figment of an imagination, could they?
the other women—older but no less dramatic—
Rather elementary, my dear Miss Bedwith.
"Of course,” replied Mr. Smayle. “If the inspector didn’t see it, then he has no right to it."
Oh, dear, I think I might be feeling a bit off myself, Mr. Bentley-Bodham. It’s—it’s just so unsettling to see a dead person so unexpectedly—in his own study!” She swayed alarmingly, confident that his gentlemanly instinct would induce him to catch her before she fell.
You are the first person to react in such a manner—although, to be fair, you are likely the only person in the world—aside from myself and Mr. Conan Doyle, of course—who is aware that yours truly was the, ah…inspiration for that character.
Some of the other ladies screamed and acted as if they were going to faint...
The girl was already babbling.
“Ah, quite so—and there is Mrs. Merryweather,” said Irene, interrupting what would likely have been either an unnecessary comment regarding the reaction to her entrance, or something equally inane.
It’s rather a nuisance being a lady most of the time, don’t you agree? One can’t do this, one daren’t do that, but one must certainly do some other ridiculous thing like bind oneself up in clothing that doesn’t allow one to bend over or even to breathe—thank Heaven fashion has gotten on past those bloody hobble skirts!—and so on.
"And so what if they did?” Irene replied. “It’s not against the law for a woman to drink whisky—though there are plenty of other things that are against the law for a woman to do,” she grumbled. “Such as vote, and hold office, and have equal custody of her children—"
Why must women be required to wear so many layers of clothing?
I shall speak to Mr. Feverley and demand he tell me why he did such terrible things.
Irene had no fear for her own safety. Perhaps she should have done, but she simply could not believe Mr. Feverley—despite doing what she suspected him of doing—would cause her any harm. Especially in her own sitting room.
Men always seemed to think that women were incapable of clear thinking and preparation.
Did the man not realize how many layers of corset and crinoline were beneath a woman’s gown? It would be no small feat to shove a knife far enough through boning, thick seams and layers of heavy material into Priscilla’s flesh, no matter how sharp it was. Irene relaxed a bit more.
I was there, of course. And I was the one who noticed that he was dead, after all. Someone intelligent and capable must be responsible for finding the villain who did such a thing. I am the most intelligent and capable person I know—and I have little else to occupy my time—so why shouldn’t it be me?
—well, I know I’m smarter than that Inspector Burgess.
I promise it shan’t be another four years before I host a ball, but, good Heavens, this is becoming quite a disruptive custom.