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on the dance floor offended by, or speculating on, my scar tissue. The
automobile accident that killed my family when I was fourteen had left me just
able to wear a cautious degree of décolleté, but five years later the bullet
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through my right shoulder put an end to any thoughts of bare flesh below the
neck.
This dress, though as a piece of pure engineering, it was fascinating; as a
piece of evening wear, even in its present incomplete state, it transformed
the padded torso on which it hung. High on the right shoulder, it dropped down
to expose the left and continued down and yet farther down, the fabric barely
meeting at the waist before it began a slit up the left side, where the hem
angled down in a mirror image of the bodice line. The ice blue silk made it
aloof in any warmer colour, it would have been an incitement to riot.
I gulped, smiled feebly at Mrs Elf, declined her eager invitation for me to
try it on, and turned to the other two half-formed outfits. One was a rich
brown with slashes of crimson that looked as if they would appear and
disappear with movement; the other was an intense eau-de-nil sheath with lots
of little tucks and ruches that made the dressmaker s dummy look like the
representation of a woman considerably more voluptuous than I. I clutched the
fronts of my new overjacket and told them that I should have to return for a
fitting soon, but I was not allowed to escape so easily. First I had to choose
a pair of shoes from a huge stack they had caused to be delivered (I think
they did not trust me not to wear mud-spattered brogues beneath their
creation) and then Mrs Elf insisted on arranging her small cloche hat
(matching embroidery, of course) on my hair, and even then I had to reassure
them that I would remove my overcoat whenever possible.
I achieved the street, feeling like some child s costly doll. My toes were
indignant about the unfamiliar shape they were being pushed into, and cloche
hats always made me feel as if I were wearing a soft chamber pot. I was hungry
and ruffled and not in the best mood to approach Margery and her Temple of
women, and I stood on the street and said aloud the first thing that came to
my tongue:  Holmes, where the hell are you?
I was immediately abashed, particularly as neither the organ-grinder nor the
pie-seller metamorphised into him, and even the man on the delivery wagon
merely glanced at me and flipped the reins.
I had to admit it: I wanted to see Holmes, who, although one of the most
peculiar individuals I had ever met, was nonetheless the sanest and most
reliable of men. Beyond that, I wanted to know what had been done with Miles
Fitzwarren, four days ago. I had expected Holmes to be in touch before this. I
stood undecided, until my eye caught on a post office sign, and then I knew
what I would do. I used their telephone, but no, the Vicissitude was holding
no message for me, so, before I could reconsider, I wrote out a telegram and
had it sent to five separate places, including his cottage in Sussex, if by
some remote chance he had landed there. Each one said:
AM UNEASY NEED CONSULT
RUSSELL
I regretted it immediately the message had irrevocably left my hand. Perhaps
he will not answer, I comforted myself, then took myself to Selfridges for
something to eat.
My tutorial with Margery was for half-past four. Upon my arrival at the
Temple, I sat down at a table and took out my chequebook, then handed the
completed cheque to the startled secretary.
 This is for the library fund, which I believe Miss Beaconsfield is in charge
of. Would you kindly give it to her when she comes in?
Communication within the Temple was excellent. Margery greeted me with all the
naughts of my cheque in her eyes, although of course she did not mention it,
and when she saw my clothing, the transformation was complete. I regretted it,
but to have continued with her thinking me a bluestocking forced to mend the
ladders in said stockings would have been too painful. I returned her
greetings evenly, sat down, and prepared to teach her about her Bible.
We were interrupted only once, by a telegram for me, which read:
EIGHT OCLOCK DOMINICS
SH
It cheered me greatly. I folded it and made to thrust it into my pocket, only
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to discover that I had none. I put it instead into my handbag, turned back to
Margery with a smile, and continued my brief overview of the history of
Judaism and Christianity.
 So, we have the Hebrew Bible, roughly what you would call the Old Testament,
composed of the Law, the Prophets, and the Writings; we have the
intertestamental literature, or Apocrypha; and we have the Greek, or New
Testament, composed of the four life stories of Jesus, called Gospels, the
Acts of the early church, various letters and writings, and the Revelation of
John.
 None of this was written in English. Now, that may sound ridiculous, but one
gets so into the habit of thinking the Authorised Version as the direct word
of God, that one needs to be reminded that it s only three hundred years old
and was the work of men. I reached into my bag and took out two sheets of
paper I had prepared earlier.
 I want you to commit these two alphabets to memory. This is Greek, for your
purposes more necessary perhaps than the Hebrew. The letters are alpha, beta,
gamma. I continued on to omega.  And these are the sounds they make, in this
column. You ll see the similarities; that s because the alphabet we use in
English grew in part from this one. Now, using the chart, sound out these
three words.
She did it laboriously, but correctly.  Anthropos; ançr; gunç.
 Good. In English, we use the word man to translate both anthropos,  human [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]