Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [126]
Holmes looked more substantial after his soup and boiled egg, and I decided not to press for putting him to bed. Not that I would have succeeded; the most I could have hoped for was that he would occupy the sofa while Mycroft and I retreated to our beds. However, I judged that he would stand up to further conversation, so I told him how far I’d got in tracking down the green-eyed Hélène. Which admittedly was not far, so that with the social aspects of my hours with Gwyn left out, my narrative was brief.
“And you, Holmes? Did your crawl through the War Offices records bring you anything? Apart from a beating, that is?”
“Sidney Darling was a staff officer in France, although when I telephoned to Justice this afternoon, neither Alistair nor Marsh could say that Darling and Gabriel ever came into contact over there.”
“I have to say, neither of your attackers resembles Darling in the slightest.”
“Another name did come up,” Holmes continued. “Also a staff major, also posted to that section of France. Ivo Hughenfort.”
“Alistair’s cousin?”
“The same.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the cushions, leaving me to glance at Mycroft, see his questioning raised eyebrow, and offer a word of explanation.
“Ivo would be fourth in line to the title,” I said. “After the boy Thomas, then Alistair.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said, threading his fingers together across his substantial waistcoat. “I see.”
Mycroft and I between us succeeded in bullying Holmes to take to the guest-room bed, and we passed a restless night. In the morning Holmes looked worse but felt better, as the bruises coloured richly while the bone and muscle beneath them eased somewhat. Or so he claimed, although his movement remained cautious and he chewed a lot of aspirin. More telling, he did not insist on venturing out into the City in search of further information. He settled before the fire with another heap of unread newspapers and a fistful of tobacco, and dismissed us from his mind.
Mycroft climbed into his overcoat and left at his usual hour—the world of Intelligence never rests—and I rang the Qs to ask that they telephone to Mycroft’s number if Gwyn came up with a name and number for me. I then went out myself (rather nervously eyeing all passers-by) to examine closely the site of Holmes’ assault. I spent a sodden and dirty half hour in the alley-way that failed to reward me with a dropped calling card or conveniently traceable bespoke hat or boot, then another forty minutes knocking on doors to confirm that at seven o’clock on a wet Tuesday evening there had been no busy pubs or nosey neighbours to witness the event. Without having been set upon by thugs, I returned to Mycroft’s flat.
Holmes started up from his snooze on the sofa-cushions and made as if his cold pipe had just that moment gone out. I assembled a pot of tea and reported on nothing.
At one o’clock the telephone rang, with Mr Q’s voice shouting down the line to give me a name and address. “The young lady who telephoned to you asked that you be told that Miss Cobb is not on the telephone, but that she should be happy to receive callers today, or in the morning before ten o’clock. I regret that was the sum total of her message, Miss Russell.”
“That’s fine, Mr Quimby. Thank you for phoning the information to me.”
“My pleasure, madam.”
I put the receiver up on its hook and folded the address into my pocket. “I’m going out for a while, Holmes. Gwyn Claypool found a woman who might know a VAD driver named Hélène.”
“Shall I come?”
“I don’t see why. Girl talk will, I fear, prevail.”
“Very well,” he said, but he discarded his newspaper in any event and climbed to his feet. “I believe in that case I shall spend the afternoon at the baths. Steam and an expert massage are the only means of dispersing a beating. I shall, however, need you to do up my shoes first.”
He dressed, I tied his boot-laces, and we parted.
Dorothea Cobb was the classic VAD