He finished making the tea in silence, fetched a bottle of milk in silence, brought two mugs to the table in silence.

I blew across the hot surface, thinking. Then: “Why were you at Richard Sosa’s flat?”

“Who?” His face showed a moment of incomprehension, followed by puzzlement, as if he’d recognised the name but couldn’t think why I had brought it up.

“Richard Sosa. In Mayfair? You left your card on the table?”

“I leave my card on a lot of tables. It’s a steady drain on the finances, it is.”

“But why were you there?”

“Oh, for-” He threw up his hands and reached for the sugar pot, flinging in two spoonsful, clearly irritated by a non sequitur. “He’s a government employee with a busybody of a mother who is friends with the sorts of people you might imagine, living in Mayfair as she does. She got all in a tizzy when little Dickie didn’t come home one night, and got onto the PM’s office and he himself rang to me-at home, mind you-the next morning asking if I’d do him a favour and look into this missing-person case. Ridiculous-and to top it off, the son hadn’t even been gone a day! But I went past on my way in, got the key from Mama, who lives upstairs, made sure her darling boy wasn’t lying in a puddle of blood, left my card on his table, and told her she could report him as a missing-person the next day. Friday. Two hours later I’m in my office after one of the most unpleasant meetings I’ve ever had and the telephone rings and it’s the butler-the butler!-ringing to say never mind, the boy’s home. Not even Mama herself, and nothing resembling an apology. Biddies like her cause us a lot of trouble. Now are you going to tell me why you want to know about him, or are we going to go on to another completely unrelated crime?”

“Richard Sosa is Mycroft’s secretary.”

He stared at me. “Mycroft Holmes’ secretary?”

“His right-hand man. Which may be a better explanation of why you were asked to look into his disappearance than a mother’s connexions.”

“Jesus,” he said.

“You’re certain he was home on Thursday?”

“Like I said, the butler rang. I did then ring back the house-Mrs Sosa’s number-to make sure the call actually came from there. When the same voice answered, I let it go. Why, is he still gone?”

“I think someone broke into his house recently, causing him to panic and run.” I described briefly the netsuke I had found, well aware that I was delivering myself up to yet more charges. How many books was one permitted in a gaol cell? I wondered.

“He’s not staying there, and you say his mother has not seen him. Without going into too many of the sorts of details you might prefer not to hear, I can say that Sosa has information about Brothers in his safe, and his bank book records some hefty payments of nice round sums. Including one for five hundred guineas dated the day after Mycroft disappeared. One must ask oneself what the man knows.”

He sat back in his chair, frowning. “That’s a considerable sum.”

“Mycroft was a considerable man.”

“You think the secretary was paid to give him up?”

“I think you might like to talk to Sosa. And although the mother obviously frets when he doesn’t come home, and one might ask if she made occasional gifts to her son, something Mycroft once said about Sosa indicated that he and his mother don’t get on very well.”

He looked thoughtful, rather than convinced. However, I had another question for him. “Chief Inspector, can you tell me if you’ve had news of a death in Orkney? Specifically, at the Stones of Stenness.”

“A death? When?”

“A week ago Friday.”

“No. Although there was an odd report from up there. What was it? A prank? That’s right, some boys set a fire that sounded like gunfire, but when the local constable arrived he found only scorch-marks. Why? Who did you think had died?”

It was confirmation of what I had feared: The lack of police interest at the Stones that night was because there was no body. Which meant that, unless someone had retrieved his dead body almost instantaneously, Brothers remained an active threat. Perhaps more than active: Having his intentions for Transformation crushed would surely add a thirst for revenge to his murderous plans.

I did not answer directly. Instead I asked, “Do you still think Damian Adler murdered his wife?”

“What is the interest you two have in that young man?” he demanded.

I was glad to hear the question, since it meant he did not know who Damian was. “As you are aware, Chief Inspector, Holmes attracts a wide variety of clients, including bohemian artists. Do you-”

“I need to question Adler. You need to tell him he’s not helping himself any by avoiding us.”

“I swear to you, Chief Inspector, that Damian Adler is not the man you are looking for in his wife’s death.”

“Well, he’s certainly not the only one I’m looking for.” He picked up the tea-pot to refill his cup. “I don’t suppose you know where I might find this Brothers maniac either?”

“So you are looking for Brothers now?”

He slammed the tea-pot onto the table so hard liquid spurted from its spout, and snarled, “He’s connected with two people dead of knife wounds and a third from gunshot, so yes, you might say I’m looking for him.”

I protested, “Chief Inspector, we tried to tell you about Brothers and his church weeks ago. Don’t-”

“Yes, and now everywhere I go, I’m tripping over you two. You’re in Brothers’ church; your finger-prints are all over his house, including a knife left stabbed through the desk blotter; you have the police in York ring me up to ask if I might shed some light on one of their deaths; and you bundle a villain like Marcus Gunderson into a carpet and have me come pick him up.”

“A villain whom you then let go.”

“What did I have to hold Gunderson on? He was the victim of assault in that house.”

“Do you know anything about the man?”

“He’s a thug. Spent some time in the Scrubs for robbery-bashed his upstairs neighbour and stole his cash retirement fund. Gunderson was lucky the old man had an iron skull, or it would’ve been a murder charge-but since then, he’s been clean, as far as I can see.”

“Do you know if he’s familiar with guns? Not just revolvers, but rifles?”

“He wasn’t in the Army. And hunting? Not likely for a city boy. Why?”

“Someone took a shot at me, a few days ago. Someone either very lucky or well trained with a rifle.”

“And you think it was Gunderson? What, at the orders of Brothers?”

“Brothers looks to be behind everything else we’ve faced since we returned to the country.” Precisely twenty-seven days ago-had I ever had a more hectic four weeks?

“Yes, and you keep saying that Adler has nothing to do with it, but then I find that he’s done artwork for Brothers’ book, and his wife was a devout follower of Brothers’ crank religion-” (So he did not know that Yolanda had actually been married to the man.) “-and I’ve seen at least three paintings he did of Brothers-one that his wife had on her wall, another in Brothers’ house, and a third in the gallery that’s selling his paintings. So you can’t tell me there isn’t some kind of link between Adler and Brothers.”

“Of course there’s a link-Brothers is trying to kill him!”

“So help me stop it.”

“Chief Inspector, I do not know where Damian Adler is, and the last I saw of Brothers was in Orkney last Friday, when he tried to murder Damian and was injured in the attempt.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kicked myself for giving away more than I absolutely had to. Lestrade leant slowly back in his chair, eyes narrowing; his expression had me reviewing the exits, for when he made a grab for my wrist.

“You want to tell me how you know that?”

“You want to tell me why you took Mycroft in for questioning?”

His expression shifted, from a hunter with his prey in sight to a guilty schoolboy. “What does that have to do with anything?”