A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [83]
When we arrived at Mycroft's, Holmes parked the car with neither incident not illegality and turned to look at me through the glass partition.
"No one on our tail?"
"None I could see, and I was watching carefully."
"So I observed. Do you know, Russell, it is a distinct pleasure to look upon your features again. The floor of Mrs Rogers's shed was both hard and cold. Now," he went on before I could answer, "I just need to get something from the back."
The something from the back was a wooden crate that rattled metallically. He volunteered no information, and I did not spoil the surprise by asking. The doorkeeper eyed us closely before admitting us, and Lestrade opened the door with a glass in his hand.
It was, as always under Mycroft's roof, a superb dinner with agreeable conversation. Holmes, more formally clad now in clothing he kept in his brother's guest room, entertained us with stories about a one-armed tattooist in the West End, a woman who had a counting horse up in Yorkshire, the craft of stained glass, and the distinctive familial patterns of Kashmiri rug makers. Mycroft, more phlegmatic but with a nice line in what the Americans call "deadpan humour," contributed a long and absurd story concerning a royal personage, a hen, and a ball of twine, which may even have been true. Even Lestrade kept up his end, laying out for us the latest escapade of his nephew— an episode which had convulsed the lad's boarding school for a week and left the headmaster with a red face even longer. His tale ended with him saying, "Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. That lad'll make a fine detective." When the laughter had subsided, Mycroft stood up.
"Shall we take our coffee and brandy in the next room? Mary, would you—"
"No, I do not mind if you smoke."
"Thank you, but I was going to ask if you preferred something other than brandy. A glass of sherry, perhaps?"
"God no!" All three men looked at me in varying states of astonishment at my vehemence. "I'm sorry, it's just that sherry seems to have played a somewhat excessive part in my life the last few days. I don't think I'll drink a glass of the stuff by choice for several weeks. Just the coffee, thanks."
"I do understand," said Mycroft. "I'll just see to it. Sherlock, perhaps you would stir up the fire." Lestrade followed him, leaving Holmes and me to choose chairs in front of the fireplace. Holmes threw some coal on the glowing remnants, then lowered himself into his armchair. With great deliberation, he stretched out first one long leg and then the other, and sighed deeply.
"Are you well?" I asked. His reply was to open one eye and look at me. "You drank rather more wine at dinner than is your custom, and you seem in some discomfort."
"I am getting old, Russell. Gone are the days when I could scramble about on the moors all day and curl up happily at night with a thin blanket and a stone for a pillow. Three nights on floorboards and one night without sleep following three days at strenuous labour make me aware that I am no longer a callow youth."
"Have the results matched the effort?"
"I think so, Russell. I believe they have. But it is a fine thing to stretch to one's full height in a soft chair. As you would no doubt agree," he added. My normal five feet eleven inches was intimidating for many people, so Mary Small stood a full two inches shorter. My back, too, had ached since Wednesday.
Brandy and coffee arrived, and with them a certain reticence, a hesitancy to cut into the festive mood with the hard edges of information and analysis. We each sipped our coffee with undue attention, then gathered ourselves, until finally I put down my cup with a shade more clatter than necessary and cleared my throat.
"Ladies first, I suppose, particularly as I was so remiss over the dinner table. Also, it will allow me to go through my material before my brain gets too fuzzy. Very well, then: Wednesday. You know where the colonel lives, and as you all know London better than I, you also no doubt are aware that