Homes puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, fractal wisps of smoke
reeling
into the air around him. "I knew that it had to be Lady
Tempest," he
said at last, "the moment I heard about the crime.
It had all her
hallmarks. It was brazen: the museum was
full of visitors. It was ingenious: how
she managed to smuggle
a dozen snarling wolves into the sculpture garden in broad
daylight
eludes even me. And it was flawless: everyone remembered
the
wolves running free through the galleries, but all that anyone
could remember
about the half dozen thieves was that they were
each dressed as Little Red Riding
Hood." A smile played for a fraction
of a moment on Holmes lips. "She
is," he said, "a very Moriarity
in heels – perish the thought."
