The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [115]
Mycroft brushed the crumbs from his fingers and took the heavy paper by one corner, appraising the black lines of my portrait as if analysing a finger-print.
“What does it tell you?” I asked.
He considered the question, and his answer, then laid the drawing back on the table before he replied. “This is not a drawing Damian Adler would have done even a month ago.”
“Exactly!” I said, pleased that we were in agreement. It was an exquisite thing, a stirring use of delicate lines to depict strength in the subject: I did not for a moment think that I looked like the drawing, but I was very happy that Damian had imagined me so. “Holmes thought his son's mistrust of him had begun to fade, following the days they spent together. I should say this drawing indicates that Damian had a profound change of heart: If he accepts his father's wife to that degree, there could be little doubt that he accepts his father.”
“It is hard to imagine that even a fine artist could feign affection so thoroughly,” Mycroft agreed.
“And third, the newspapers. Damian had been in that house for days—perhaps since Friday, but certainly for long enough to ask for paints and a work-table. However, the only newspaper I found in the entire house was from Saturday. Since Monday morning the papers have been full of Yolanda's death, but if Damian has been in hiding since then, and if he has not seen a paper, he may still not know.”
Mycroft's eyes went out of focus as he reviewed everything we knew, taking pieces of the case out of their pigeon-holes and comparing them. Finally, he nodded. “I am not sure I agree unreservedly, but I can see that you would be willing to move your attentions off of Damian.”
Huge relief, that Mycroft saw firm foundations beneath my judgment. “However, I don't entirely understand the link between Brothers and Damian. Brothers hired Gunderson in October and started setting up the Children of Lights soon afterwards. Brothers is British—I heard him speak—but Gunderson thinks he was recently arrived, that he knew London a little but hadn't been here for some long time, certainly not since the War.
“Millicent Dunworthy was hired in December, to do a few hours of secretarial work—I didn't know that because her ledger only went back to January, and she seems to have become a convert to the Children by then. With both her and Gunderson, I should say their chief job was to function as Brothers' face. He hid behind one or the other of them for most of his transactions, from constructing a false identity to hiring a meeting hall.”
“Purchasing clothing for Yolanda Adler,” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes—someone will have to question Millicent Dunworthy. Now, Damian didn't get here until January, when—”
“December. They were here before Christmas.”
“Really? He claimed they passed us off the coast of France.”
“He told me that as well, but in fact, their ship docked on the twentieth of December. I check such things, as a matter of course.”
“You knew he was lying from the beginning?”
“A man may have any number of reasons for telling a lie. In this case, I assumed it took him some time to muster his courage and approach his father. Later, when it turned out he had delayed too long, he was embarrassed to admit it.”
“I suppose so.” I drank more coffee, and realised that although the morning was overcast, my mood was sunny. The relief of thinking that Holmes was right and Damian was an innocent made for a rising bubble of optimism.
“Do you not wish to talk to Lestrade about this?” Mycroft asked me.
I sighed. “What do you think Holmes would want?”
“My brother would give nothing to Scotland Yard until he felt his case to be safe from their meddling.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“However, in his absence—”
“No, we'll go along with that until he deigns to raise his head. In