Lestrade spoke into the telephone, frowned, spoke again, then reached down to rattle the hook: twenty-three seconds. After another sixty-four seconds, the exchange gave the Chief Inspector the information he needed. He dropped the instrument back on its rest, and stood for seven seconds, deep in thought.
He then spoke to one of the men in uniform: that took thirty seconds. The man left the room, no doubt heading for the empty house next door whence the call had come. Lestrade stayed where he was for another nineteen seconds, talking with the men, then went back to the door, and out.
I couldn't be certain he would return upstairs, but I moved onto the lawn, just in case. Sure enough, seconds later I saw a brown figure move past the doorway in the direction of the stairs-two and a half minutes were all Holmes was getting.
I trotted across the lawn, took aim, and heaved the rock through the exact centre of the sitting room window; an instant later, the brick punched a hole in the narrow window beside the garden door. Breaking glass makes a most satisfying noise, exploding through the night; the constables in the sitting room ducked down and I ran, out of the gate and down the service alley to the street beyond, where I dropped to a quick walk. I maintained the pace to the corner, then slowed to an amble until I was safely among the crowd in Burton Place.
When five minutes went by and Holmes was not dragged out in handcuffs, I rubbed my damp and shaking palms down the front of my skirt, and walked innocently away.
Had it not been a Sunday, I would have gone straight into the nearest public house and had a drink. Or two.
It being a Sunday, I had to wait until I reached Mycroft's flat. I went on foot, past the meeting hall where the Children of Lights had met (dark and locked up tonight) then up Knightsbridge and around the Palace to Pall Mall. I half expected Holmes to catch me up; he did not.
Mycroft made haste to provide both the drink and an explanation of Holmes' sudden appearance in Burton Place: He had been here when Lestrade telephoned.
“The Chief Inspector asked if I had seen my brother. I naturally said no.”
“Naturally.” Why should one co-operate with the police, after all?
“When Sherlock is working, I volunteer no information until I can see the ramifications. Lestrade had heard that Sherlock was at Scotland Yard this afternoon, asking about the body of an Oriental woman found in Sussex, and he wanted to say that if Sherlock was endeavouring to discover the young woman's identity, not to worry, Scotland Yard had not only her name, but her address. Apparently one of the neighbours reported an entire family missing, among whom was a young Oriental woman. When Lestrade sent one of his men over with a morgue photograph, the neighbour confirmed that it was she. The Chief Inspector offered to let Sherlock see the files in the morning, if he was still interested.”
“And instead, Holmes flew out of here as if the house were on fire.”
“Faster than that, I should say.”
I took a swallow from my glass, which emptied it. Without comment, Mycroft refilled it. I told him, “Holmes was there, behind Damian's house. He came running up, asked me to make a diversion, and went inside to get something. That's what he said, anyway.”
“You doubt it was so?”
“Mycroft, I don't know what to think. He said he'd meet me here and explain it all. I left Chelsea a good hour ago. I expected him back before me.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Eat? I don't know. I'm not hungry.”
“Nonetheless.” He got up-easily, without the grunt of effort he'd have given a year ago-and crossed the room to the telephone, to debate the options available with the invisible staff somewhere in the depths of the building.
While he was doing that, I decided to draw a bath-with Holmes, it was always best to be prepared for an instantaneous departure, and I felt grubby. I closeted myself in Mycroft's enormous bath-tub with a lot of hot, fragrant water; when I emerged, the food had come. Holmes had not.
I ate largely in silence. I wanted to dive into my brother-in-law and prise out every scrap of information he had regarding Damian, Irene Adler, Holmes' past-everything. But pressing Mycroft would put him in an awkward position: If Holmes wanted me to know these things, Holmes would tell me. It wasn't fair to Mycroft to ask.
Apart from which, as he'd said, he tended to volunteer no information-to the police, and perhaps to me. And I did not want his refusal to stand between us.
Better to fume in silence.
An hour later, Mycroft had retired for the night and I had reached that stage where concern and irritation were piling atop one another to create a volatile mix. However, when Holmes finally walked in, one look at him and my anger deflated.
He dropped a roughly-bound parcel on the table beside the door, tossed his hat in the direction of a chair, draped his overcoat on the nearest sofa-back, and sat. Silently, I handed him a large brandy. When he had drunk that, I exchanged it for a plate of cold meat and tired salad. I thought he would refuse it, as I had, but he forced himself to take one bite, and soon was head down over the plate, tearing at the stale rolls with his teeth.
I retreated into Mycroft's kitchen to make coffee, which took no little time since he'd got a new and highly elaborate machine for the purpose, a thing of glass and silver that looked as if it belonged in a laboratory. But I managed, without blowing anything up, and when I carried the tray out, Holmes looked less grey around the edges.
I gave him coffee, with brandy in it, and sat down with my own.
“When I was searching the house early Saturday,” he told me, “I noticed a package addressed to me, on a shelf in Damian's dressing room. At the time, I had no reason to remove it: Damian could give it to me when he chose. However, if Lestrade had come across it-and he would have, within minutes-the link between Damian and me would have made things exceedingly complicated. Without it, Lestrade will have to follow his usual channels of enquiry.”
“But he'll trace Damian Adler to Irene Adler eventually.”
“Not if Mycroft interferes.”
“Oh, Holmes. A formal intervention will be a red flag to a bull. If Lestrade finds out you blocked his investigation, he'll never speak with you again.”
“If Lestrade finds that I have a personal interest in this case, he will not only cut me off, he will actively harass me and dog my every step. Worse, he will pour all his efforts into Damian, and dismiss outright any information or suspects we may uncover. An invisible intervention means that the name Adler may catch his eye, but what does that matter? Irene's married name was Norton, and Adler is a common enough surname. If Lestrade sees no link, then I appear to be merely looking into the death of a woman, and he will see no reason to hamper my investigation. No, it's best if the information simply ceases to exist.”
I studied him. I had known Holmes to be unscrupulous, even cold-hearted when it came to manipulating others for the sake of an investigation, but this was personal. Frankly, I hadn't thought him capable of that.
Except, perhaps, to protect me.
And now, Damian.
I did not like it: Holmes had been known to act as judge, jury, and very nearly executioner, but never had he done so without cost to himself.
He put down his half-empty cup and examined it minutely. “He has nightmares. Damian. Night after night he wakes, drenched in sweat, shivering. He must have the lights on, needs the windows open wide, even in the winter. From his words, and from his art, I believe he dreams of trenches whose walls are crumbling in on him. Of being at the bottom of a well, looking up at a circle of stars. Of being in the hold of a ship and hearing the scrape of collision. Of being buried alive in a casket.