The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [43]
“I have been trying to do that for two days.”
“I am not criticising, merely saying, he needs quiet.”
“And this cousin of yours can offer that?”
“Well, stillness certainly. Although now that I think of it, the quiet will depend on how many guests are in residence.”
He turned on her a raised eyebrow. “Guests?”
“Never mind. If the main house is full, he’ll put us in one of the cabins.”
“Dr Henning, it is not too late to—”
“No no, it’ll be fine, don’t worry. Eric regards himself as a patron of the arts. He’s very wealthy and quite a character. He’s also an expert on the American Civil War, and he occasionally stages re-enactments of the major battles. However, they never last more than a day or two. Of course, there’s also the artists. When Eric retired ten years ago, he decided the best way he might serve the arts was to provide a congenial place in which they might concentrate. So he bought up half this village, and invites painters and sculptors to live here while they are working.”
“This is most unfortunate.”
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “You object to artists?”
“By no means. But have you not discovered in the course of conversation with your patient that Damian is an artist?”
“Half the people in London regard themselves as artists,” she said dismissively. “Those that aren’t poets or playwrights.”
“Damian Adler is the real thing. He is, in fact, rather a well-known painter, among certain circles. A collective of artists is not an ideal place in which to keep him under wraps.”
“I see,” she said.
Holmes rubbed his face in self-disgust. When he was young, lack of sleep had only sharpened his faculties. Now, it only took two or three sleepless nights to turn his brains to cold porridge. He was soft, old and soft, and easily distracted by thoughts of bed and bath and how much he disliked this beard under his finger-nails.
Holland. What other choices were there? He had a colleague in Amsterdam—or not precisely a colleague: The man was a criminal who ran a series of illegal gambling establishments, but he had proved useful once or twice.
But trust the fellow? The temptation to sell Damian to the police might prove too great.
“We’ll have to keep Damian closeted, and avoid using his name,” he told the doctor. “As soon as he can be moved, we’ll be on our way.”
“I am sorry, I didn’t think to mention it.”
“The fault is mine,” he said in a tired voice, and went down to explain the situation to the patient.
Two hours later, they were nearing the mouth of a small bay. Holmes stood at the rail beside the doctor, watching the approach of a noble white house with several acres of lawn spreading down to the water and six small white cottages back among the trees. The whole resembled a plantation mansion, complete with slaves’ quarters, more at home in colonial Virginia than on the coast of Holland.
“That’s it. We can put in at the boat-house,” she said, and turned to call instructions to Gordon. That was something, at any rate: A boat-house would reduce their chances of being spotted, and of being asked inconvenient questions as to passports and permissions to dock.
When they had tied up, Henning stepped lightly to the boards and trotted off to the big house. When she was halfway across the lawn, a round man in a brilliant white suit came down the steps to greet her. She disappeared inside his embrace, then freed herself, straightening her hat as she gazed up at him. Explanations took but a moment before the man turned to the figures on the terrace behind him to wave orders. Three of the figures turned instantly away to the house, two of them returning with an object that, as they drew nearer, became a rolled-up Army stretcher.
Getting Damian up the boat’s tight companionway was tricky, but the servants managed. They marched away in the direction of the farthest white cottage, the doctor scurrying after.
Holmes, Gordon, and the second-cousin-twice-removed studied each other in bemusement. Holmes put out his hand. “Terribly sorry about this, we