Doyle After Death Read Online Free Page B

it!”
    â€œ ‘Ex-­wife!’ ” she snarled. “We were never divorced!”
    Brennan gave out with a short bitter laugh. “Till death do us part, Claudine! I died! And if you’re here, so have you, for that matter!”
    Doyle cleared his throat. “Ah—­according to the rules of the last life and this one, madam,” he said soothingly, half bowing to Claudine, “the gentleman is correct. The marriage is no longer in force.” Doyle rolled all his R s like a Scot; his accent was a perfect mesh of English and Scottish. He looked up at the balcony. “Brennan—­you didn’t really let this woman knock you through that railing?” He put a hand over his mouth as if to cover a smile.
    â€œShe hit me in the head with a chair!”
    â€œHa, well, did she indeed? We shall see that the lady is, ah, given a good talking to and sent on her way.”
    â€œAnd who are you to send me anywhere?” Claudine demanded, scowling at Doyle.
    â€œMy name is Doyle, madam, Arthur Conan Doyle—­but it’s not just me, don’t you see, I represent the town council. Specific policies, that sort of thing. If you behave with grave, extreme violence, we will of necessity ban you from the town, until such time as we judge you’re . . . reformed. Violence is unpleasant, messy, briefly painful. Unsocial. We can’t have it, miss. It’s simply not the thing. I know a lovely town a dozen miles down the coast—­they take in some new ­people having difficulty adjusting . . . we’ll get someone to escort you there . . . but I think a cup of tea, first, and some biscuits, don’t you? My wife will be delighted to have the company.”
    He smiled, lifting his eyebrows, offering her his crooked arm. She blinked at him. At something of a moral disadvantage, she took his arm, giving Brennan a final glare.
    Brennan snorted and stalked back into the house. “Got to fix the balcony . . . what a damned nuisance . . .”
    Doyle started to turn away.
    â€œWait,” I blurted. “Arthur Conan Doyle? Creator of . . .”
    I didn’t say the rest, suddenly feeling foolish. Creator of Sherlock Holmes.
    He glanced at me, pretending embarrassment, but I could see he was pleased, too. “Yes, sir.” He chuckled to himself. “My vanity, of course, wishes you’d mentioned The White Company , something I esteem a bit more, but I’m lucky to be remembered at all and I owe a great deal to the imaginary Mr. Holmes. You are?”
    â€œNick . . . um, Nicholas Fogg, Mr. Doyle.”
    â€œNew arrival,” Bertram said. “Was a detective.”
    â€œWas he indeed?” Doyle seemed unimpressed. He nodded to me. “Anon, Mr. Fogg. Dear lady . . . shall we?”
    He nodded to Claudine and they walked off, her arm through his. She was quietly weeping, now, and surprisingly docile.
    â€œGuess she got it off her skinny little chest,” Bertram said, when they were out of earshot.
    â€œArthur Conan Doyle!” I said wonderingly. “I thought I recognized him. Photos on the backs of old books . . .”
    â€œSure, he’s that Sherlock Holmes guy,” Bertram said, yawning. “Been here awhile. Scottish guy.”
    â€œActually his parents were Irish, but they emigrated to Edinburgh. Doyle was born and raised in Scotland, so he sounds Scottish.” Bertram gave me a look of surprise and I shrugged. “I read a biography of him. Big fan of his Holmes stories and his Challenger books.”
    Bertram nodded. “Okay, Irish by way of Scotland. I figure he shaped this place, this town, in its present form—­much as anyone. Well, come on, let’s find you some shelter . . .”
    We walked on. I was a bit shaken, thinking, Murder that wasn’t murder. Violence, pain, but quick healing. And yet—­some form of murder