124
Doyle’s still-oozing wound, the doctor said, “Keep pressure on
this, Constable, if you will. Inspector?”
All right, so he obviously wasn’t invited to take tea. Press-
ing the linen cloth to his cut, he watched Kramer shuck his soiled
vest and hang it on a coat tree. And the bottle . . .
Ah.
Doyle’s
eyes zeroed in on a bulge in the right front pocket. How to get it?
“So.” Clearly impatient to get on with it, Battle perched on a
red leather wingback. “You were going to explain.”
“Do let’s not spoil our tea, Inspector. We’ve so few pleasures
these days,” Kramer said as Meme poured from a squat pot into
cups arrayed on a silver tray. An aroma of black tea laced with
bergamot bloomed. Beneath a napkin, a miracle: a lemon, impos-
sibly yellow in the gloom. Doyle hadn’t seen something that
beautiful in . . . well, ever so long.
“Oh.” Meme’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I am
sorry. I forgot a knife. Let me fetch . . .”
“Nonsense.” Kramer looked over at Doyle. “Constable, might
I trouble you for that knife of yours?”
“Sir?”
Shite.
He managed to look confused. “I’m afraid I’ve
no fruit or penknife on me.”
“Oh, come now, Doyle.” Kramer twitched a forefinger.
“That nasty business on your left hip. I saw the hilt when you
unbuttoned your uniform coat.”
Blast.
This was just
so
his luck. Conscious of the questioning
look Battle tossed him, he let go of his bleeding arm, reached
beneath the folds of his coat, and pulled the knife free of its tooled
leather sheath. Turning the steel blade, he pinched the business
end between two fingers and extended the knife so Kramer could
grasp its stag-horn hilt.
“Ah.” Kramer arched his one functional eyebrow. “Scottish,
