Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [89]
“Which I don't,” she retorted angrily. “Holmes, I tore that place apart today, attic to cellar, and didn't find so much as an out-of-the-way broom closet. I'd have to take a wrecking hammer to it to find any more.”
He nodded: Having measured the rooms scrupulously on Wednesday morning, he would have been astonished had she found any hidden spaces larger than a few inches wide. “When you discover the dream's message,” he told her, “I believe it will be, as it were, out of the corner of your eye, not through use of a sledge hammer and crow-bar. Ah, here comes Mr Long.”
The bookseller was being led through the room by the entrance crone, but his progress was uneven, as one table after another called its greeting and caused him to detour to shake a hand here and exchange a word there. Half the people in the restaurant seemed to know him; all greeted the small man with affection and respect. Even the elderly door-guard seemed to be smiling when they finally reached the table.
He shook hands with the only two Caucasians in the place, then turned to the old woman and began a vigorous conversation. They were joined after a minute by the waiter and, shortly afterwards, by one of the cooks from the kitchen. The discussion escalated into an apparent argument, voices climbing and gestures becoming ever wilder—Long ticking off points on his fingers, the cook's face twisting in incredulity. Then it ended as abruptly as it had begun. Waiter, woman, and cook all turned on their heels and set off in separate directions, leaving Long to sit down, looking pleased.
“What did that concern?” Holmes asked.
“That? Just dinner.”
“Dinner? They weren't asking that you remove us?”
“My goodness, why would they want that? No, we just had to settle the menu. I needed to reassure them that you did not require a slab of beef and boiled potatoes, but to assert that you did not eat pork or shellfish. I recall hearing of this religious peculiarity of your mother's, Miss Russell, and thought perhaps it was yours as well.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” she said.
“Not at all,” he responded, but he looked pleased as he shook out his linen table napkin and draped it across his lap. “So, have you two been busy since we met? I don't suppose you've had a chance to look at the feng shui book?”
“I have, actually,” she replied, dredging up intellect from the muddying effects of drink. “It presents an interesting theory of geomancy, but I have to say, it leaves out a great deal of the practicum. I had understood that feng shui includes the idea that a building's . . . energies can be influenced by the judicial placement of certain items. Water, plants, mirrors and the like.”
“That is true,” Long said, “although its precepts are used not only for architecture, but for investments, farming, planning battles, and a thousand other activities. Here, let me show you.” He patted through his pockets until he found a mechanical pencil and a scrap of paper, smoothing it out on the table-cloth and sketching an octagon. He then connected each angle with the centre, and ascribed to each of the eight resulting triangles an area of influence: family, wealth, knowledge, and so on, with the all-important health at the confluence. After a few minutes, the minutiae of detail became more than even a sober Russell might have asked for, and she interrupted his explanation of the “chien” side of the octagon.
“What I would really like to know is, why would someone put a mirror, a bowl of water, and a pot-plant in a kitchen?”
He unfolded another piece of paper and pushed it across to her, laying his pencil on top. “To answer that, you will have to draw the room for me.”
“It's the kitchen in the house here. I would assume that your parents were responsible for the items.”
“My mother. Although she would have called in an expert. Yes, I see. However, it has been some years since I was inside that room.”
She took up the pencil and sketched the kitchen's