Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [108]
“Tell me,” Holmes commanded, when the cheeses’ trio of escorts had left us.
“It was about six weeks ago. He had purchased a piece of furniture from Mme Hughenfort—a cabinet or trunk of some sort, although the word he used was unfamiliar to me. Whatever it was, it was massive, such that he could not move it down the stairs on his own—that he made clear. One evening his wife’s brother arrived, and the two men decided to go and fetch the thing. They went upstairs and knocked at her door. There were voices on the other side, and the woman’s voice, which the customer recognised as that of Terèse Hughenfort, continued speaking as she came to the door.
“My informant gained the impression that she was expecting someone, possibly her son, who came up the stairs as they were going down again, so that she opened the door without asking who was there. She seemed startled at seeing her visitors, and turned to look over her shoulder at the man in the room, but he was standing in plain view, so Madame merely allowed them to take the object and leave.
“The man was quite definite. He even thought the visitor was English, although he couldn’t decide if the man had just looked that way, being tall, blond, and aloof, or if he’d said something and had an accent. He looked at the photograph of Sidney, and said it could have been him, although he wouldn’t swear on his son’s head that it was. All Englishmen look rather alike to him, it would seem.”
Our pleasure in the delicate cheeses was surpassed only by the savour of being able to tie Darling in with Mme Hughenfort. Still . . .
“It doesn’t actually prove anything, though, does it?” I asked. “Darling could easily say that he wanted to see the boy for himself, to try to save Marsh the trouble. There’s no evidence that it was Darling who suggested that Madame dye the boy’s hair, or that she insist on going to London rather than invite the family to her home ground. That is to say, if Darling was out to present Marsh with an adequate heir so that Marsh would clear out of Justice and leave it to the Darlings to run for him, he’d hardly have sent her a signed letter of instruction, would he?”
Holmes, looking ever more pleased, folded his table napkin and drained his glass. “There is but one way of knowing.”
“Oh, Holmes. You don’t intend—”
“A spot of burglary? But of course.” He looked over to catch the eye of the attentive waiter, and smiled. “L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”
We made a detour to our rooms so I might assume a more practical outfit for the role of burglar. When eleven o’clock had rung, we slipped out of the service entrance into the dark streets. A light rain had begun, all the better for our purposes since it sent passers-by scurrying for shelter with their heads tucked down. I led Holmes up to my friendly brasserie, and nodded down the street at the house.
“The door between the florist’s and the ironmonger’s,” I told him. “Their appartement is on the top floor, facing the street.” It was a three-storey building, flush to a taller building on one side and with a narrow alley on the other. “I don’t know if their flat goes all the way to the alley, or if the corner room is attached to the neighbour.” The entire floor was uniformly dark.
“I propose we find out,” Holmes said, and launched himself out across the street. Rather wishing that we’d remained disguised by the priests’ robes, which might stay the gendarmes from actual assault, I followed.
I had been inside the building earlier that day, so I already knew which flats were inhabited by nervous dogs and which by deaf old ladies. The central vestibule was not locked, and we encountered no-one on the stairs, although twice dogs began to yap frantically inside their doors and caused us to quicken our steps. Outside the Hughenfort door, Holmes took out his pick-locks and bent to work.
The lock was old and simple, a matter of a few moments’ nudging before we were inside. The curtains were shut tight, which made matters easier yet, and we