The Brothers of Baker Street by Michael Robertson Page B

piece of bacon. “But he is right about that much.”
    “Yes”—said Ilsa, and then, quite carefully—“Professor.”

9
    Reggie stopped at Audrey’s Coffee and Newsagent across from Dorset House, to pick up a cold sandwich on his way to chambers.
    Audrey’s had installed a small cappuccino machine more than a year ago, and the output from that was part of Reggie’s usual purchase at breakfast. But not so much recently.
    He wasn’t on a budget. Not exactly. It was just that after the loss of his entire Lloyd’s of London investment, it made no sense to pay two quid for milk foam.
    But all told, things were looking up. He had won his case. That was good in and of itself, but more importantly, it meant that if Laura called today, he need not necessarily feel like a complete loser when he spoke to her. That was a start. A step closer to being himself again.
    “The camera makes you look old,” said the clerk at Audrey’s.
    “Excuse me?”
    The clerk nodded at the news rack—the one close at hand by the register, with the cheap daily rags like Buxton’s.
    Reggie saw the Daily Sun story. It was page one; it could not be missed. And it was another Emma Swoop byline.
    Reggie was in the foreground of the largest photo, scowling villainously back at the press, and at an angle that made it look like he was developing a bit of a paunch.
    The solicitor Darla Rennie was visible only in the flash of a shapely bare leg.
    It seemed unlucky, and possibly bad form, to buy the paper and take it with him. But a queue was building in the little shop, and the woman behind him kept peering around Reggie’s shoulder at that front page and then glancing up at Reggie’s face.
    Reggie bought both the paper and the sandwich and hurried out.
    Once again he was entering the Baker Street lobby with the lowest form of journalism tucked conspicuously under his arm.
    He got in the lift, pressed the button, and as the doors began to close, he opened the paper and followed the story onto page two.
    But the lift doors hadn’t closed yet; a slender hand caught them before they did, and the same tall brunette from a few days before stepped inside. Reggie acknowledged her presence with a quick nod, but stayed focused on the story.
    As the lift went up, the woman’s eyes shifted to the outward-facing front page—with Reggie’s photo—and then she craned her neck ever so slightly to see the interior pages Reggie had opened to: page two and, once again, page three with that day’s bare-breasted lass.
    “You’re making progress,” said the woman, as the doors opened on Reggie’s floor. “One more page, and you’ll be right up against her.”
    Reggie couldn’t take the time to even think about a response. He got out and headed quickly down the corridor toward chambers.
    Once safely inside, he opened the Daily Sun again and read the article about how he had used insidious legal trickery to get an obviously guilty killer released.
    It was complete rubbish. But Buxton owned the paper. He would have the last word, and there was nothing Reggie could do about it. Or almost nothing.
    Now the phone rang, and Reggie dismissed, for the moment, the fantasy of going to Wapping to punch out Buxton again.
    He picked up. It was Laura.
    “I should like to speak, please, to a cynical champion of the dark dregs of society. Is there one available?”
    So she had seen the tabloids.
    “A dreg or a cynical champion?”
    “Can I get both in one?”
    “Any time you like.”
    “I would like an early dinner and a chat, then,” she said. And then she added, “She has fine legs, Reggie. But shouldn’t proper solicitors wear opaque tights or the like to court?”
    “I … I told her exactly that myself,” said Reggie.
    Laura laughed again. “It doesn’t matter, Reggie, really.”
    “What time shall I pick you up?”
    There was a short pause. “Why don’t we just meet?” said Laura, too brightly. “I know you’re quite busy.”
    “Fair enough,” he