The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [174]
“I know. The fellow's friends are planning his funeral.”
“He was hale and more or less dry when I rowed away in his dinghy. He dropped anchor near Stromness, said he would stay there until the wind dies.”
I gave him an equally laconic description of my own hair-raising journey, and poured us both tea, filtering it through a sterling tea-strainer.
“What, no milk?” Holmes asked.
“Pretend you're Chinese,” I said. The little cook stove was taking the edge off the bitter cold of the room; Holmes had energy for a joke, and was no longer the colour of chalk.
I cradled my hands around the steaming cup. “How much detail was in the wire you sent Mycroft?”
“Knowing that police eyes were on him, very little. However, I said I was joining you, and if either of his men were less cautious in their information—”
“Then we'll find Orkney's finest waiting for us. Holmes, you don't imagine anything has happened to Mycroft? Another heart attack, brought on by outrage?”
“I think it more likely we'll find him arrested for assaulting a police officer,” he replied. “Mycroft takes the authority of his position seriously.”
I suddenly thought of something. “Good heavens. I wonder if the local forces have arrested poor Captain Javitz?”
“Your pilot? Would you anticipate he might tell the police all?”
“He's as gallant as they come, and in any event, he doesn't know my plans. Speaking of which, Holmes, what are our plans? I had intended to wait until Brothers came out and pull a gun on him. Would you prefer to storm the house?”
He shook his head. “The chances of breaking in without noise are slim, and I fear the child would have a knife at her throat before we reached the stairs.”
“So we wait until they come out?”
“We wait until the child is clear of danger.”
I took a breath. “Holmes, have you—”
“Yes,” he said. “I know. The question of Damian. Russell, I may be a fool, but I'm not blind. Despite the improbability of my son's ignorance, I do not believe he is fully au fait with what Brothers intends. However, I was wrong about his mother from the moment I laid eyes on her, and I could be wrong about him.”
“I agree, that he does not know,” I said, to his surprise. “In fact, he may still not know of Yolanda's death.” I explained my reasoning: the largely amiable relationship between the two men; Brothers' odd disinclination to keep to one place.
“So why the devil does Damian remain with Brothers, if he is neither prisoner nor true believer?” Holmes fretted.
“Wouldn't he stay with Brothers if he thought it was what his wife wanted? If Brothers has convinced him that they're to meet Yolanda in this strange place, because she's utterly determined to carry out a ritual?”
“My son is not blind, either.”
“No, but his wife was notoriously unpredictable. Remember that letter she wrote, telling Damian that she was in the country with friends? What if there was a second letter, that Brothers gave him when he got to the walled house, explaining that she was going off on one of her dotty adventures, and pleading with him to join her?”
Holmes shook his head unhappily. “I see no alternative to letting the play work itself out until the final act, and determine the villains then. All I ask is that you refrain from using your gun on my son unless you are absolutely certain.” He drained his tea and dropped the blanket, turning off the small stove. The light died with it.
I turned on the small torch and followed Holmes out of the storage room, bringing with me two of the dark grey woollen blankets. Outside of the shed, it was nearly as dark as it had been inside, but at least the stiff breeze had subsided a bit. It was the first time in what seemed like weeks that I had not felt battered by wind; it was a pleasure to stand in the lee of the building while our eyes adjusted to the darkness, listening to the whisper of loch-waves licking the shore.
Slowly, stars appeared overhead; the faintest trace of light still marked the western sky. Holmes, who possessed the night-vision