Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [141]
She blinked, and seemed to see me for the first time.
“Iris, you need food and rest and time for quiet reflection. In that order. It won’t do anyone any good if you stretch yourself until you break. Now: What do you want to eat?”
An omelet was what she would eat, so I joined her. Also toast, and cheese, and water biscuits, and an apple tart, with coffee at the end. I poured a measure of brandy into our cups, in the absence of calvados, and noted with satisfaction the colour in her cheeks. With the coffee, the purser had brought the information that all of Iris’ belongings had been transferred to a vacant stateroom not far from mine. Leaving her in my rooms, I followed the purser down the corridor to her new accommodations to retrieve a change of clothing, and when she had dressed I brought out my hair-brush and stood behind her to draw it through her short hair, as a means of giving her the physical contact I thought she needed, in a manner she might permit. She sat stiffly at first, and then more easily, finally allowing her head to loll with the strokes of the brush.
“Ninety-nine,” I said. “One hundred.”
“Did your mother tell you to brush your hair a hundred times each night?” she asked me.
“Oh yes. Not that I bother, you understand, but she certainly did. My father would sometimes brush it for her.” Now where did that bit of ancient history emerge from?
“Well, thank you. My hair has never been so tamed.”
“More coffee?”
“No, thanks. Mary, what are we going to do?”
I smiled as I cleaned the brush of hair. “I’m glad to hear you say ‘we.’ ”
“Well, it would appear that we’re all in this together.”
“Iris, Holmes is very, very good at what he does.”
“Yes. He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? Can he prove it was Sidney who did that . . . I can’t even think of a word for such a despicable act.”
“Murder,” I said grimly. “It was murder.”
She studied my face, and saw there something that seemed to reassure her more than my assertion of Holmes’ competency.
“However,” I told her, “we can’t actually be sure that it was Darling, not yet.”
“Of course it was Sidney. Staff major, ‘my uncle,’ Gabriel called him. The boy only had two uncles, Sidney and Marsh.”
“He called Alistair ‘uncle,’ ” I reminded her.
“Did he? Good Lord, so he did. But to consider Ali as ‘the Major’ is every bit as preposterous as accusing Marsh.”
“I don’t mean that Alistair is a suspect, Iris. I meant that Gabriel seems to have used the term ‘uncle’ for any male relative of his father’s generation. Marsh, Sidney, and Lionel, yes, but also Alistair, who was sort of a distant cousin.”
“He called Ali’s sister Rose ‘aunt,’ ” she conceded reluctantly. “I do remember that.”
“And probably their brother Ralph was ‘uncle.’ Which means that Ivo Hughenfort, who was definitely present in that sector of the Front at that time, might conceivably also have qualified as an uncle,” I reminded her.
“Ivo? Are you saying—oh,” she said. Then, “Oh, Good Lord. Ivo was at the shoot, the day Marsh—we’ve got to—”
I broke into her growing panic. “They know. Marsh has both Ali and Holmes with him. Nothing will happen.”
She did not look too sure about this. Perhaps my voice lacked the requisite note of absolute certainty. I tried again. “Iris, Marsh and Ali have spent their whole adult lives walking in and out of lethal situations. Both he and Ali made the mistake once of thinking England was safe. Neither of them will make it a second time. Iris, I swear to you: I’ve seen those two in action. Nothing will get past their guard.”
“You’re right. I always forget about that side of them. Marsh is a good friend, and such a gentle person that thinking of him as some kind of behind-the-lines soldier is always difficult. Ali is different—him I can see as dangerous. Not Marsh.”
I did not think it my responsibility to tell her just how dangerous that husband of hers was—in the end, considerably more deadly than Ali. Let her simply settle her mind as to their safety and allow her thoughts