“So you infiltrated a circle of artists,” I said, wonderingly.
“More poets than artists,” said Holmes. “Probably because it is slightly more difficult for the average observer to determine whether poetry is any good.”
“Did you write poetry?” I asked, probably because of the amount of brandy we’d both had.
“I did not.”
But there was something in his tone... “Did you try?”
I didn’t think he was lying, but... “Were you the subject of poetry?” I asked, and he—who I knew could lie perfectly smoothly if he wished—though perhaps not while as drunk as he was tonight—glanced away and covered his face.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed, delighted. “Show it to me!”
“I will not.”
“It’s not as though I kept any of it.”
“More than once!” I deduced. “Oh, I must see this.”
“You are destined to be disappointed.”
“You realize that if you won’t I will have to find the poets themselves.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“I know you have little opinion of my investigative abilities, but I will be very strongly motivated.”
“I absolutely refuse. I shall warn them that you are a very dangerous murderer, see if I don’t.”