Mycroft brushed the crumbs from his fingers and took the heavy paper by one corner, appraising the black lines of my portrait as if analysing a finger-print.

“What does it tell you?” I asked.

He considered the question, and his answer, then laid the drawing back on the table before he replied. “This is not a drawing Damian Adler would have done even a month ago.”

“Exactly!” I said, pleased that we were in agreement. It was an exquisite thing, a stirring use of delicate lines to depict strength in the subject: I did not for a moment think that I looked like the drawing, but I was very happy that Damian had imagined me so. “Holmes thought his son's mistrust of him had begun to fade, following the days they spent together. I should say this drawing indicates that Damian had a profound change of heart: If he accepts his father's wife to that degree, there could be little doubt that he accepts his father.”

“It is hard to imagine that even a fine artist could feign affection so thoroughly,” Mycroft agreed.

“And third, the newspapers. Damian had been in that house for days-perhaps since Friday, but certainly for long enough to ask for paints and a work-table. However, the only newspaper I found in the entire house was from Saturday. Since Monday morning the papers have been full of Yolanda's death, but if Damian has been in hiding since then, and if he has not seen a paper, he may still not know.”

Mycroft's eyes went out of focus as he reviewed everything we knew, taking pieces of the case out of their pigeon-holes and comparing them. Finally, he nodded. “I am not sure I agree unreservedly, but I can see that you would be willing to move your attentions off of Damian.”

Huge relief, that Mycroft saw firm foundations beneath my judgment. “However, I don't entirely understand the link between Brothers and Damian. Brothers hired Gunderson in October and started setting up the Children of Lights soon afterwards. Brothers is British-I heard him speak-but Gunderson thinks he was recently arrived, that he knew London a little but hadn't been here for some long time, certainly not since the War.

“Millicent Dunworthy was hired in December, to do a few hours of secretarial work-I didn't know that because her ledger only went back to January, and she seems to have become a convert to the Children by then. With both her and Gunderson, I should say their chief job was to function as Brothers' face. He hid behind one or the other of them for most of his transactions, from constructing a false identity to hiring a meeting hall.”

“Purchasing clothing for Yolanda Adler,” Mycroft suggested.

“Yes-someone will have to question Millicent Dunworthy. Now, Damian didn't get here until January, when-”

“December. They were here before Christmas.”

“Really? He claimed they passed us off the coast of France.”

“He told me that as well, but in fact, their ship docked on the twentieth of December. I check such things, as a matter of course.”

“You knew he was lying from the beginning?”

“A man may have any number of reasons for telling a lie. In this case, I assumed it took him some time to muster his courage and approach his father. Later, when it turned out he had delayed too long, he was embarrassed to admit it.”

“I suppose so.” I drank more coffee, and realised that although the morning was overcast, my mood was sunny. The relief of thinking that Holmes was right and Damian was an innocent made for a rising bubble of optimism.

“Do you not wish to talk to Lestrade about this?” Mycroft asked me.

I sighed. “What do you think Holmes would want?”

“My brother would give nothing to Scotland Yard until he felt his case to be safe from their meddling.”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

“However, in his absence-”

“No, we'll go along with that until he deigns to raise his head. In which case, I think I had better change my plan for today and go to Sussex.”

“Is there something I can do for you here, Mary?”

“Well, we need to find Brothers' home. He didn't live in that mausoleum of a place behind walls. He and Gunderson used to meet on Chalton Street, between Euston and Phoenix roads.”

He gave me a look.

“I know,” I said. “Three train stations and six lines of the Underground to be had in five minutes' walk. Still-”

“-it has to be done,” he finished my sentence. “I shall put a man on it.”

“He has to be discreet.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, of course you know that. Thank you. Tell Mrs Cowper I'm not sure if I'll make it back in time for dinner.”

When I was ready, Mycroft let me out through the pivoting bookcase in his study, showed me where the candles and matches were, and told me how to work the locking mechanism from the other end. The odour of honey from the bees-wax carried me through a dim, narrow labyrinth; I came out well clear of any of Lestrade's men.

Many long hours later, I extinguished the candles and stepped back through the bookcase into the study. Mycroft spoke when I entered the sitting room, although he sat with his back to me.

“I should think you need a glass of wine. I opened one of Sherlock's bottles, if that appeals.”

“No,” I said, then modified the sharp response to, “I feel I've had a surfeit of honey, between one thing and another.”

“A nice Bordeaux, then,” he said mildly and handed me a full glass. I dropped the parcel I carried onto the table, and looked without enthusiasm at the plate he set in front of me: Mrs Cowper's cooking was not improved by two hours in a warming oven.

“Not just now, thanks,” I told him. “But, in case Lestrade decides to raid your flat looking for me, perhaps you should lock up that envelope. It contains everything I could find at home that might suggest a link between Holmes and Damian.”

When I'd got to Sussex that morning, I found that the police had been to our house, and been stoutly repelled by Mrs Hudson. However, if this went on for much longer, they would return, this time with the authority to conduct a search. Now, they were welcome to do so.

Mycroft picked up the parcel to take it away, but I said, “There is a biscuit wrapper in there. It might be best to give that to a laboratory, for the finger-prints.”

Mycroft nodded, and took the evidence to his study, coming back empty-handed.

“Anything from Holmes?”

He scooped up a letter from the side-board as he passed. It was addressed to him, in Holmes' writing, but opened without salutation and in an almost telegraphic brevity.

Wednesday, 21st

The death of Fiona Cartwright at Cerne Abbas was murder, not suicide. Details when I see you.

Poole employment agency describes Smythe as a middle-aged man wearing a good suit, dark hair and eyes, well spoken, a scar beside his left eye. No record of the company he claimed to represent.

Tourist charabanc to Salisbury and Stonehenge leaves in two minutes, I have bribed the conductor to begin with the latter. Have already been informed twice that I look like Sherlock Holmes. Kindly pray I do not have to ask you to stand me bail for murdering a visitor to Olde England.

S

When I had finished laughing, Mycroft handed me an actual telegram:

TO CUMBRIA AFTER DEAD RAM STOP WILL NEED INFORMATION REGARDING ALBERT SEAFORTH OF YORK FOUND DEAD THURSDAY LAST STOP

“How does Holmes intend to get this information from us?” I wondered.

“I took the otherwise unnecessary ‘will’ in the telegram to indicate that he would need it at some point, although not immediately.”

“You're probably right. Still, it would be nice to let him know that Lestrade's on the war-path, so he can keep his head down.”

“Sherlock tends to keep his head down in any event. I was pleased to find that you made it through the day without having hand-cuffs dropped around your wrists. Lestrade has telephoned twice more today. He sounded increasingly vexed.”