The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [118]
“—ask my colleagues in Shanghai to factor that description into their search.”
I was on the edge of asking when we might expect to hear from them, but bit back the question: Mycroft would be as attentive as I to the problem.
“One thing more,” he said. “Damian's finger-prints are not on the biscuit packet.”
“You had them? To compare?”
“Enough of them. If he touched it, he wiped it thoroughly before it was handled by at least three others. I am having the workers at Fortnum and Mason volunteer their prints, for comparison. One of the hands was small; I suggest it will match Yolanda's when we receive those prints. I will also see if I can get the prints from the walled house, for comparison.”
“Not Damian's,” I said. “Thank God for small blessings.”
I hugged to me that minor confirmation of innocence as I went to bed that night, and it helped me to sleep.
Magic (2): What does this mean, to summon, free, and
take into one's self? When a word is spoken, writ, burnt,
and stirred into water, this is simple Power, a child's
magic. But it contains a grain of the Truth.
Testimony, III:5
FRIDAY OPENED WITH A TELEPHONE CALL FROM Lestrade. Mycroft answered the ring at a quarter to seven in the morning, and I knew instantly who it was when his eyes sought mine. I went back to his study, and eased up the earpiece of the second instrument.
“—not believe that you have no idea where your brother and his wife are, Mr Holmes.”
“Chief Inspector, I am shocked that you would accuse me of lying to you.”
“I'll just bet you are. I want to know what Miss Russell was doing rolling a villain like Gunderson up in a carpet, and then running off before we got there. I want to know what connexion your brother has with Yolanda Adler. And I'd really like to ask how he knew we'd find grains of Veronal in Yolanda Adler's stomach?”
“Did you?”
“We did. Along with some nut pâté and biscuits washed down by wine.”
“Clever you. Have you had any luck in finding the men who left the house before Gunderson?”
“They abandoned their car in—wait a minute, how do you know about them if your brother isn't there telling you?”
“I have not seen my brother since Tuesday, Chief Inspector. I merely speak from what is already general knowledge.”
“I don't think so. Maybe I ought to bring you in for questioning.”
“Do you seriously think you have the authority to do that, Chief Inspector?” Mycroft sounded more amused than threatened.
Lestrade was silent, no doubt reflecting on the possibility of asserting any kind of authority over Mycroft Holmes. However, it is not always a good idea to point out a man's limitations.
“I may not. But I'm putting out a warrant for the arrest of your brother and his wife. They're concealing vital information, and I won't have it.”
He banged down the phone. When I went back into Mycroft's sitting room, he was looking at the telephone, abashed.
“A new experience for me,” I remarked, “being wanted by the police.”
“I'm sorry, Mary. I should have known that remark would tip him into spite.”
“I'm not sure it will make a lot of difference; he was looking for us already.”
“If Sherlock is arrested on his way home, I shall have some explaining to do.”
“Holmes will manage.”
“If he does not manage to evade them, I shall have the dogs of the press on my door-step.”
My first stop that morning was at the Save the Soul Prison Reform group, to look at their list of would-be reformed criminals. The police had not been there yet, which made my job easier, even as it convinced me that they were interested only in Damian Adler. The group's director was a thin, pale man with trembling hands and a wide clerical collar; I gave him a description of the black-haired man with the scar.
“Oh yes,” he fluttered. “Reverend Smythe, I remember him well, he was so eager to help, made a most generous contribution, and met with a number of our former prisoners with an eye to employing one of them.”
“And did he?”
“I believe so. Yes, I recall, it was Gunderson.