I finished:

I am going now to speak with Lestrade. I believe the sincerity of the note he left at Mycroft’s.

I may, of course, be wrong (yes, even I!) in which case you may need to stand me bail. However, I beg you, wait to do so until you have solved this case and ensured the safety of Damian and Estelle. I understand that one can get a great deal of mental work done in the confines of a cell.

Finally, I commend to you Mr Robert Goodman, whose name might as well be Robin Goodfellow. A singular character whom I have no doubt will entertain you mightily.

Your

Russell

When I had finished, it came to six pages despite my attempt at succinctness. I then set about putting key sections of the thing into code: If the letter was intercepted, Mycroft’s sixteen inflammatory papers would be safe enough, given my wording, but I did not care to give up the location of Estelle Adler to unfriendly eyes. And there was no reason for Goodman to know that his innocent actions had betrayed us to our enemies.

I folded the pages into an envelope, added Lestrade’s note and Mycroft’s letter, wrote Holmes’ name and our Sussex address on the front, and left it-stamped but unsealed-on the table.

Chapter 45

Chief Inspector John Lestrade lived in the house where he had been born, some forty-five years before. His father, also a Scotland Yard detective, had died during the War, bequeathing his son the house, a set of unfortunate facial features, a mind rather too quick for a policeman’s desk, and a long-established relationship with that trouble-making amateur, Sherlock Holmes.

I had known for years where Lestrade lived, although I had not yet been inside the house. It was approaching three in the morning when I rounded a corner four streets down, stopping in the shadow of an overgrown lilac to survey the street.

Few watchers can keep still at three a.m. when nothing is happening. Even watchers too clever to light cigarettes still scuff their feet, move up and down, anything to alleviate the boredom of a fruitless watch.

I stood motionless for half an hour before I was certain that the stretch of front-doors and walled areas contained nothing more threatening than an amorous tabby cat atop a wall. Only then did I step into the open pavement, plodding and stooped with tiredness on the chance some insomniac was gazing from their window.

I continued up the rows of houses, then made a pair of right turns to survey the house’s back: no service alley here, and a snuff and a tentative whoof returned my feet to motion-his neighbours had a dog.

Unfortunately, that left me with no choice but the direct approach.

I made another pair of right turns, and when I had reached the next house but two from Lestrade’s, I hopped over the waist-high wall, hastily grabbing a bicycle toppled by the manoeuvre. The next low wall I took with more circumspection, creeping across the pavers to slip onto Lestrade’s property.

The house was dark, as were all the houses save one three streets down. I moved noiselessly across the little forecourt to the door, grateful he did not leave a light burning there all night, and bent to work with my pick-locks.

Like most policemen, Lestrade was convinced of his invulnerability. The lock took me six minutes, working entirely by touch and hearing. When it gave way, I turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door silently.

And stopped.

If it is difficult for a watcher to stand motionless, it is nearly impossible to remain utterly silent for more than a few seconds: the faint brush of clothing, the pull of breath through tense nostrils, the catch of air in the throat while the person tries to listen.

The hairs on my skin rose with the awareness of someone standing very close.

“Chief Inspector?” I said in a low voice.

A brief shift betrayed the other’s position. I said, “I apologise for the intrusion, but it was important that I speak with you unseen. This is Mary Russell.”

A sharp exhale of breath, the rustle of clothing, then the vestibule light blinded me.

I winced, and saw Lestrade: his thin sandy hair awry, his feet bare, in dressing gown and striped pyjamas, a cricket bat in his grip.

“I nearly took your head off,” he said furiously. His low voice told me that either there were others sleeping in the house, or he too feared discovery. At this point, it did not matter.

“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” I replied.

“Hardly evening. And what’s good about waking to find someone breaking into the house?”

“You said at my earliest possible convenience. Which this is. I didn’t want to wake your family.”

“You triggered an alarm.”

Perhaps I was hasty in judging Lestrade one of those too-confident policemen. “That note you left, at Mycroft’s,” I said. “Were you serious about withdrawing the warrants?”

He stared at me, shook his head in dismay, then leant the bat against the wall and stepped into a pair of beaten-down slippers left to one side. “Come in here, we can talk without disturbing my wife.”

“Here” was the kitchen, two steps down towards the garden. I eyed the window, decided that to worry about his neighbours playing host to villains was to court paranoia, and continued down the steps. He indicated a chair. I sat.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, filling the kettle at the tap.

“Yes.”

“Not been hiding out too badly, then?”

“Merely cautious. Were you serious-”

“Yes.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t like the idea of arresting you at a funeral. Besides, I wasn’t entirely convinced in the first place that the threat served any purpose. Tea, or coffee?” The gas popped into life under the kettle.

“Uh, tea, thanks.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him in a week.”

He dropped into a hard kitchen chair, looking tireder than a night’s interrupted sleep could explain. “And Damian Adler?”

“Last I heard he was out of the country.”

“What about the child?”

“She is safe.”

His weariness snapped off. “You know where she is, then?”

“She’s safe,” I repeated, and before he asked again, I got in a question of my own, even though I was fairly certain of what the answer would be. “You’re not in charge of the investigation around Mycroft?” Extraordinary, how difficult it was to use the words death and murder when it was personal.

“No. I’m sorry, by the way.” He caught himself, and started again. “I mean to say, I was very sorry to hear of your loss. Mycroft Holmes was a fine man. He will be sorely missed. Which makes the whole thing all the harder.”

“What is that? Who’s in charge?”

“No one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No one I know. It’s being kept in-house, you might say. Seems that Mycroft Holmes is too important for the grubby likes of Scotland Yard.”

I sat forward sharply. “Would you please explain?”

“I wasn’t on duty, Wednesday night. The man who was got the call at a quarter to midnight: man found dead in an alley. Gets dressed, goes with the car, arrives, and finds a man in a suit there before him, flashing the kind of identity card you can go your entire career without once seeing. This fellow hands over the papers found on the corpse, tells my colleague that Intelligence takes care of its own, and leaves. Taking the body with him. My fellow scratches his head, can’t think what to do about it, and goes back to his bed.”

“‘Intelligence takes care of its own’-that’s what he said?”

“The very words. I didn’t hear about it until the next day. When I did…”

The kettle had begun to boil. He stood and went to the stove, pulling down tea and pot, keeping his back to me. “I had him in for questioning, ten days ago-Mycroft Holmes, that is. The very next morning, his housekeeper is raising a stink because he’s not home. Nobody sees him for a week, until he’s found in an alleyway, then snatched away by someone flashing SIS papers. So I get on the telephone and start hunting down the body. Twenty minutes later, my chief comes in and orders me to stop.”