A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [20]
"Good Lord, was it only this morning that we read about it? It seems a week ago."
The housekeeper came to the door, and Holmes went to ask her for tea. He returned to the chair between Mycroft and me and reached for the inevitable pipe. Mycroft took a cigar from an elaborate chased silver humidor.
"Do you mind, Mary? Thank you." He set to the ritual of clipping and raising a cloud of perfumed smoke and finally had it going to his satisfaction.
"How does it take you, Sherlock? Could it have been simple robbery? Might she have had something of value?"
"Insufficient data, I fear, Mycroft. Russell— ah, here's your tea. No, don't get up. There. Biscuit?" I declined. "Do have one of those sandwiches, at least. They may be your supper. Russell, I did succeed in reaching Colonel Edwards, just before he left for a weekend shoot in Berkshire, but he gave me a few minutes. He and Miss Ruskin spent the time reviewing her proposed dig, looking through photographs of the site and the location of the exploratory trenches. He was 'favourably impressed,' and he intends— or perhaps I should say intended— to recommend that his organisation support the project."
"What organisation is that?"
"Something called the Friends of Palestine, a group of retired military officers and churchmen. They raise money to support various projects, mostly in the Holy Land. From what he said, I gather it's a combination of drinks club and Bible-study group."
"Men only?"
"Men only. In fact, he admitted that he was surprised when D. Ruskin turned out to be a woman."
"Didn't do his homework, then."
"Apparently not. He did appear to be genuinely shocked at hearing of her death, though it didn't put him off his weekend. He has a garage normally inhabited by three cars, only two present this evening, neither showing signs of any recent repairs. According to the driver— calls himself the chauffeur— the third car is a roadster that belongs to the colonel's son, who is in the machine on his way to Scotland at the moment, some sort of informal motoring competition called a rally. Sounds a considerable danger to livestock and unsuspecting Scots pedestrians. The tyre marks are of an appropriate width for a roadster rather than a saloon car, and several marks on the wall on that side indicate black paint from a low-slung mud guard and a driver who is either exceedingly careless or often intoxicated."
"Speaking of intoxicated, any trace of the witnesses?"
"Miss Chessman and Mr O'Rourke left directly from their respective offices to catch a train for her parents' house near Tonbridge. Her neighbour, who should know better than to trust an old man asking questions, said that Miss Chessman was severely upset over an accident she had witnessed in the wee hours of Thursday morning. Or, to use the neighbour's au courant phrasing, she was severely traumatised by the event and was, in her neighbour's judgement, not far from a nervous breakdown. What I suppose Watson would term 'brain fever.' End of relevant data."
"And the letter?"
"Ah yes, the letter. This must go into the hands of Scotland Yard very soon. Will Chief Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues believe that Sherlock Holmes has possessed the thing and not opened it? Never. Therefore, we may as well steam it open. Is there hot water left in that pot?" I picked it up and sloshed it about by way of an answer. "Good. Toss the biscuits out and pour the water into their bowl. Have you done this before, Russell? Yes, of course you have. Then you know that impatience is not the thing. Too much steam, too fast, warps the paper and tells a tale. Slow, see? Here comes the end. Good-quality glue and paper make it easy. That knife, please, Mycroft— Wipe off the butter first, man! That's better. Come, now, just a bit more— there. I think I'll use tweezers on this, in case the Yard decides to look for prints. Probably useless— the paper's a bit on the rough side— but mustn't take the chance of confusing their poor little heads. Move