Minerva’s gray eyes regarded me as if I was an impudent child. “It is unnecessary,” she said simply. “Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. I am not.” She sat at her enormous desk, papers and files forming a small mountain range across the top. Minerva wore a dark blue blouse, one button open at the collar. Her curly black hair was perfectly in place. She lifted a file with long elegant white fingers. “Because I think you could dazzle ’em,” I said. “It might make them more enthusiastic about paying the fees.” “The Sherlock Holmes bit, as you call it,

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