The Brothers of Baker Street by Michael Robertson Page A

had meant what he thought she might have meant.
    In any case, he decided that he wasn’t taking chances.
    “A rain check?”
    She laughed a little at that. “If it makes you feel safer,” she said. She smiled as she said it. Reggie looked away from her for an instant, looked back, and she was still directing that smile at him.
    “The Seven Stars,” she said to the driver. And then, to Reggie, “Alone if I must.”
    The Seven Stars was only blocks away. They were there within minutes, mercifully.
    “A rain check, then,” she said to Reggie as she got out, still with the smile.
    The driver turned to look back at Reggie.
    “Blimey, mate, if I were you—”
    “Bloody hell, just drive,” said Reggie quickly. “Dorset House on Baker Street.”
    The driver complied, and several minutes later they pulled up.
    Reggie started to get out of the cab without having paid.
    “Forgetting something, mate?”
    Reggie stopped, halfway out of the cab.
    “Sorry.” He paid the driver.
    “I suppose you were expecting a free ride, for what you did in the courtroom today?”
    “What? No, not at all.”
    “That’s good. ’Cause you’re not likely to get one. Not from me, not from any Black Cab driver.”
    Reggie paused outside the cab and turned back toward the driver.
    “What’s your point?”
    “The last thing in the world we want is one of our own out whacking people. Bloody hell, people trust us with their frail old grand mums. What’s going to happen if they think they can’t anymore?”
    “Point taken,” said Reggie. “But have you considered that he didn’t do it?”
    “Better not have,” said the driver. “And if the police don’t soon put away who did … well, I know blokes who aren’t above taking care of it themselves.”
    On that disturbing bit of bluster, Reggie shut the cab door and went to his car.

8
    The next morning, in the garden of the Edwardian town home in Mayfair, Ilsa brought a full breakfast—deliciously greasy singed bacon, with stewed tomatoes and baked beans, and all the juices intermingling. Her employer was quite hungry, having worked hard the day before.
    With the meal, Ilsa she again brought the Daily Sun .
    “Page one,” said Ilsa: “‘Balmy Barrister Bails Black Cab Killer.’”
    “Really?” said her employer. “Page one?”
    “Yes.”
    “I like that. I presume we have a photo or two?”
    “Yes.”
    “Let me see.”
    Ilsa unfolded the paper so that they both could look.
    The grainy Daily Sun photos showed the defendant getting into one cab—and the lovely leg of the solicitor as she got into the other cab—and the villainous visage of Reggie Heath as he got in as well.
    “Is that him?” asked Ilsa. “The barrister?”
    “Yes,” said her employer. “An evil man, thwarting Londoners in their legitimate desire to be free of the Black Cab menace.”
    “Is that in the editorial page? What you just said?” The phrasing sounded quite journalistic to Ilsa.
    “Not yet. But it should be, shouldn’t it?”
    “He does look mean,” agreed Ilsa.
    “Indeed, he does.”
    Ilsa’s employer sat back with a satisfied sigh, then said, “Ilsa, do you know what the binomial theorem is?”
    “No,” said Ilsa.
    “Neither did I, until just recently,” said her employer. “I paid so little attention to mathematics in school. But I’m rather catching on now. These things run in the family, you know. Perhaps some day I’ll write something about it myself.”
    Ilsa nodded. “Yes,” she began, agreeably, and then her employer quickly interrupted her.
    “You may now address me as Professor.”
    Ilsa hesitated, puzzled over that request. “I didn’t know that you are a professor,” she said, quite respectfully.
    “Well, technically perhaps not yet. But soon, I expect.”
    “I’m sure you can be one if you want,” said Ilsa. “Your doctor said that you are the brightest woman he has ever known.”
    “My doctor is rather a fool,” said Ilsa’s employer, seizing a