Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [131]
The records, however, were both voluminous and ill-organised for our purposes. Five years after Armistice, clerks were still filing, and there was nothing to say that another Hughenfort had not been in the wings, a South African son of Philip Peter, say, or the Australian Ralph.
The key element in Gabriel’s death, the letter that had driven the nail into his coffin, had been the letter from Haig confirming the divisional commander’s sentence of death. That, too, had vanished along with Gabriel’s records, and copies of either letter had yet to come to light.
“I’ve an appointment with Haig himself tomorrow morning,” Mycroft said. “I cannot imagine he will have forgot a letter such as that.”
I wished I had his faith in the memory, and the sense of moral responsibility, of the commanding officer in question. Still, if the man knew anything about the condemnatory letter, Mycroft was better suited to prise it out of him than any person I knew.
Except, perhaps, one other.
“Have we heard any news of Mah—Marsh, I mean to say?”
“I took advantage of Mycroft’s offices this afternoon to place a trunk call to Justice,” Holmes replied. “He is having a bad time of it, with some blood-poisoning in one arm, but he retains sufficient strength for his voice to be heard from across the room and down the telephone, demanding that we report to Justice Hall without delay or else he will come after us and take matters into his own hands. I quote.”
“Sounds like he’s better. Now, do you wish to know who Gabriel’s VAD friend was?”
They did, and I described how I had traced Philippa Helen O’Meary through the dusty papers of the VAD. As with most aspects of an investigation, the telling took considerably less time than the doing, and lacked any shred of the dramatic.
At the end of my recitation, Canada seemed farther away than ever.
“I shall write to her immediately,” I concluded. “Or, as soon as I can compose a letter. How exactly does one ask a complete stranger, ‘Were you once in love with a young soldier, and did he leave you any letters that might incriminate those who arranged his death?’ It is not going to be an easy letter to write.”
I stared into the fire for a minute or so, turning over phrases in my mind, before I slowly became aware that I was seated within a fairly ringing silence. I looked up, and found the two Holmes brothers engaged in a wordless conversation over my head. My husband broke it off first, to lower his gaze to mine.
“Russell,” he said. At the first touch of that gentle, affectionate voice, I nearly leapt to my feet and planted my back against the nearest wall: When Holmes stoops to wheedle, God help us all. “My dear Russell, how right you are. As always. This is precisely the sort of sensitive query that demands a more personal touch.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, bristling with suspicion while trying to see from which direction the threat was coming.
“Why, Russell, I am merely agreeing with you. It would indeed be an excellent idea to confront this O’Meary woman to her face when you ask for the return of Gabriel’s letters.”
Now I really was on my feet. “Oh, no. Cross the Atlantic and half of America to ask some woman if a British soldier had once confided in her? In November? Are you mad? No. Absolutely not.”
“There’s a boat for New York that sails tomorrow afternoon,” Mycroft noted, studying his fingernails.
“Don’t be absurd. I’m not going anywhere. Except perhaps Oxford. Yes,” I declared, warming to my theme, “I think I’ll take the train up to Oxford and get back to work on my paper. You two can continue to hunt down your red-tab major if you like, but as far as I’m concerned, Marsh Hughenfort can accept that nice boy Thomas as his heir and hie off back to Palestine. You identify who set Gabriel up, the child will be safe, Marsh and Alistair can go back to their tents, I can go back to my books and Holmes to his beehives. How happy we