The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [113]
“Sophy Melas,” he said, when I told him the last.
“You know her? I mean to say, you know her from before, but recently?”
“We’ve met. And I knew that Mycroft had continued dealings with her, after she returned to this country. That was she at the funeral, in the veil.”
“The only one in tears,” I said. Then, distracted from my train of thought, I asked, “I saw the Prime Minister there, but who was the grey-haired man with the entourage?”
He gave the name of a high-ranking but painfully introverted Royal, commenting that Mycroft had assisted the man some years before. Other mourners had included Sinclair, head of the SIS, and Vernon Kell, the man in charge of the domestic Secret Service. Not, apparently, Peter James West, nor Richard Sosa.
“And of course Lestrade was there,” I added.
“You went to his house, you say?”
“I let myself in during the wee hours, and found him waiting.”
“I imagine he was well pleased.”
“Well, I didn’t want to wake his family. And he ought to have a better latch.”
“Did his note alone lead you to believe a visit to his house would not be a trap?”
“It didn’t strike me as his kind of ruse. Besides which,” I added, “it was three in the morning and I’m a lot quicker than he is. I thought it a reasonable risk.”
“As, too, breaking into Richard Sosa’s flat.”
“The only indication that I was there was a small ivory carving I knocked to the floor when I moved the curtains. I put it back, but I can’t be sure I had the precise place. If there was one—Sosa seemed an odd mixture of great caution with slips of carelessness.”
“Which might make one wonder, were not most criminals apprehended because of a moment’s carelessness.”
“So, Holmes. What next?”
“This pilot of yours: Will he keep the child—will he keep Estelle safe for another day or two?” I was glad he’d finally come around to his granddaughter.
“Captain Javitz is a determined and honourable man, and he and Estelle get along like a house afire. And he’s a bit embarrassed at one or two recent displays of weakness, which means he’ll be scrupulous about guarding her. As for Goodman, I’m not sure what he’ll do. The last I saw of him—other than at the head of that awful band—was at the bolt-hole this morning. He’s like a jack-in-the-box, always popping in and out. Later I saw that he’d taken the letter I’d written to you, giving details about this past week—I thought I should set it all down in case Lestrade decided to arrest me. I put the Sussex address on the front, and stamps. I hope he remembers to put it into the post.” And to seal it first.
“You have doubts?”
“It is beyond me to predict what the man will do. He’s an extraordinary creature, like something from another world.” Time enough later to tell him what I knew of the man’s history. “Perhaps we’d best go back to Baker Street, just to be sure. I’ll need a change of clothes, in any case; it might as well be from there.”
“A man who cannot be trusted to post a letter is someone you trusted with the bolt-hole?” He did not sound angry, merely curious.
I could not explain my confidence in this odd man, not even to myself.
“I had to do something with him, Holmes. Billy was out of the equation, most of our friends are known, Mycroft’s flat felt exposed, and I didn’t want to risk an hotel. When you meet him, you can decide if I’ve compromised the place too badly.” And you have five other bolt-holes, I thought but did not say.
“Very well, let us go now. There will be rough garments there, I believe.” He picked up the tea-pot and cups, returning them to the sink.
“Rough?” I repeated to his back. I did not care for the sound of that word. “Why do we need rough garments, Holmes?”
He turned in