Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [39]
The usual complaint. “Is Marsh down yet?” I expected to be told he was still abed, nursing a pounding head, but apparently not.
“Here and gone,” his cousin replied. “I believe he is interviewing the cow-man Hendricks in the estate offices.” I could not but wonder if a hung-over Marsh Hughenfort would be an ill-tempered creature or an exquisitely silent and sensitive one, but I did not see that I could enquire. I should, no doubt, see for myself before the day was through. Alistair went on. “Phillida and Sidney are in London for the day. Marsh asked me to show you the house this morning. If you wish.”
“I should love to see Justice Hall,” I said with pleasure.
He looked taken aback at the enthusiasm in my voice, and retreated into his newspaper, leaving me to ladle out a bowl of porridge and reflect on, as Holmes had put it, the workings of cause and effect. In Palestine, Ali had kept me—Holmes, too, but particularly me—at arm’s length, if not at actual knife’s point. He resented my presence, grumbled at the extra work we created, refused to grudge me an iota more responsibility than was absolutely necessary. He would happily have abandoned us in the desert, had it not been that Mahmoud developed an inexplicable interest in us.
Now, the basis of our relationship was turned upside-down. He had actively sought us out to ask for help; his present identity, though to all appearances a comfortable fit, left him stranded on unfamiliar territory when it came to action. In Palestine, he had deferred only to Mahmoud; in England, his bone-deep yeoman nature demanded a banner to follow. He was not exactly lost, but with Mahmoud so vehemently refusing to lead anyone anywhere, Alistair was definitely casting around for familiar landmarks. To put himself into a friendly footing with “Amir” was jarring, but if it helped move Marsh a few inches more in the direction of Palestine, he was willing to try. In Palestine, he had willingly walked thousands of miles on foot in the service of king and country; he had baked and frozen and scratched at flea bites; killed, spied, defused bombs, and even committed torture when it proved necessary; in England, it would seem, he was willing to bring me a cup of pallid coffee and offer us a tour of Justice Hall.
Holmes, however, demurred. With Alistair’s warning about the eye-to-the-key-hole propensities of the Darling clan, to say nothing of servants, clearly in mind, he folded his newspaper onto the table and said, “I too shall venture into London for the day. A matter regarding the young man of whom we were speaking yesterday afternoon. Solid information concerning his actions has become a priority.”
“Do you want—,” I began, but he was already dismissing my offer.
“I shouldn’t dream of cutting short your week-end, Russell. You enjoy yourself while I expend shoe-leather on the dirty cobblestones.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said dryly.
I made haste to finish my toast, then followed him up the stairs and helped him pack a few things in a rucksack. He still maintained his secret bolt-holes across London, and would no doubt retrieve from them anything else he needed, from false moustaches to armament.
“I should really rather come with you, Holmes,” I told him in a voice too low to be heard beyond the door.
“Of course you would. But I believe the cause will be better served by dividing our forces.”
“And inevitably I must be the one to remain behind and make tedious conversation over the dinner table.”
“My dear Russell, had you spent the last few years nurturing informants and contacts in the less salubrious portions of London instead of frittering away your time in lecture halls and libraries . . .”
“I know, I know. When will you return?”
“Saturday, or perhaps the following morning.”
Which only indicated that he planned to be away for less than a week. Unless, that is, something