The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [101]
I will not apologise, however, for having got to know you somewhat during the past days, even under such trying circumstances. I had anticipated—this will be no surprise to you—that matters between us might be less congenial than in fact they turned out to be. When things settle somewhat, I shall be back into touch and we can begin afresh, with a proper meeting and introductions all around. I can only trust that the manner in which you “met” Yolanda will not overly influence your future relations with her.
D
P.S. You were right about my mother. She was an extraordinary woman, and she had a lovely laugh.
I sat down, and read it again.
Then I took off my hat, and read the letter a third time, slowly.
Written Friday, picked up from a letter box Saturday, arrived in Sussex late on Monday, back into the post there on Tuesday, and thus to London.
At last, I told myself, a piece of evidence supporting Damian's innocence.
Or, was it? Could this letter be the work of a very clever villain, laying a false trail?
Cold facts and impartiality pointed out the two possibilities: One, on Friday afternoon Damian Adler was in London, writing a graceful apology to his father before reuniting with his wife and child. Or two, on Friday afternoon, an associate of Damian Adler's had posted a previously written letter to lay the groundwork for an alibi.
If this letter was the work of a villain, then he was not only immensely clever (and Damian was certainly that) but highly practiced: Holmes himself could not have composed a more disarming note.
No, this proved nothing.
I looked at the silent telephone, cursing the poor timing of this missive's arrival, then thought of how it might change my plans for the day.
Today was Wednesday, with its regular evening meeting marching through the weeks of Millicent Dunworthy's desk-diary. If the police had not already shown Yolanda's photograph to the railway personnel in Eastbourne, Polegate, and Seaford, asking if she had passed through on Friday, and with whom, then this letter made it ever more urgent that I do so.
However, travelling to three towns in Sussex would put me back in London too late to follow Miss Dunworthy to her meeting. I could not go south today.
It was on the edge of my tongue to add to my message for Holmes, but the letter was not the sort of thing I wished to convey through the offices of Mrs Cowper—neither the message that his son had written to say he was safe, nor the equally likely message that his son was in danger.
Instead, I put the letter back in its envelope, put my hat back on my head, and went out to hunt down a maid, a chemist, and a provider of high-class picnics.
The Adlers' maid, Sally Blalock, told me little about the Adlers that I could not have guessed (were guessing permissible in the vicinity of Holmes). Yolanda was a woman of whims and peculiar habits (“The things that family eats!” Sally declared. “Garlic, in everything! And Missus Adler doesn't touch meat, can you imagine? How can a person survive on nuts and such?”) and even more peculiar interests, fond of the child but not permitting child-care to interfere with the important matters of her life. Nannies came and nannies went—three of them inside six months, lost through odd foods and peculiar attitudes concerning discipline and education—and only her husband's firm insistence prevented Mrs Adler from dragging Estelle to Spiritualist meetings, interminable lectures from the Vedanta Society, and week-end spiritual courses in Yoga or Numerology or Egyptian Meditation, whatever that might be.
Not that her husband kept her from her interests—far from it. He encouraged her, merely requiring her to arrange for some appropriate care for Estelle before Yolanda went off to Cambridge