The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [65]
I had him leave me at the end of the drive, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson with the sound of wheels on gravel in the wee hours of the morning. I walked along the verge in the bright moonlight, listening to the engine noise fade and the ceaseless downland breeze rise to take its place.
The house was locked, as I expected. I used my key and stepped inside—then my head came up in surprise: The odour of tobacco was considerably fresher than five days old. A small creak of descending weight on the stairs confirmed it: Holmes was home.
He stood on the landing, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown; the touch of his eyes, running with amusement across my person, was an almost physical thing.
“A pity,” he remarked in a mild voice. “I was rather fond of that suit.”
I gazed ruefully down at the sagging trousers with their well-scuffed hems. “I'll buy you another one. Holmes, where have you been?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“Is Damian with you?”
“I have not seen him since Friday. You've come from London?”
“The last train.”
“I thought I recognised the sound of the motor. Harry Weller's cab, was it?”
“Yes, although his brother was driving tonight. Holmes, did you—”
He put up one hand, and came the rest of the way down the stairs. “I suggest you go up and draw a bath. I shall bring you tea and a slice of Mrs Hudson's unparalleled squab pie. We can talk afterwards.”
I was abruptly aware of how simultaneously ravenous, parched, and filthy I was. “Holmes, you're a genius.”
“So I have been told.”
The water was hot and plentiful; the tea was the same; the pie, although it gave me a brief frisson of unease at its evocation of mouse-gnawed scraps on a newspaper, was of sufficient excellence to make the comparison fade away. Replete and cleansed if not exactly easy, I wrapped myself in a robe and went into the bedroom. There I found Holmes gazing out of the bedroom window, pipe in hand.
I walked over to lean against his shoulders.
“I see you fastened your mother's mezuzah on the door,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He allowed his weight to push back, to the balance point where we held each other upright.
“You heard of the body at the Giant?” I asked after a while.
“I did.”
“Have you seen it?”
“They took it to Lewes. When I rang there, it proved too late to reach the coroner's offices. Why do you ask?”
Why indeed?
If any question was heavy with unvoiced consequences, it was that one. On the surface, it was obvious why I should wonder if this particular dead Oriental woman might not be the missing Yolanda Adler. Below that, the responses waited to pour forth like the plagues from Pandora's box: Why should a dead Yolanda Adler be found virtually at our doorstep, if it weren't her husband who left her there? Why had Holmes not given me a full answer, but side-stepped the key detail of what time on Friday Damian had left him? And why had I not immediately asked him what time? Why was Holmes not treating the husband as suspect, unless that possibility was one he could not bear to consider?
I found that I had detached myself from his comforting shoulders; to cover my involuntary retreat, I went to the dressing-table and took up my brush, passing it through my damp hair, unwilling to voice my thoughts. What were my thoughts, anyway, other than the stark awareness that, if Holmes were able to give his son an alibi, it would have been the first words out of his mouth?
“The newspaper described the woman as ‘Oriental,’” I began.
“Which is precisely why I intend to see her, at the earliest possible moment.”
“When will that be?”
“I was told the coroner would make himself available at ten o'clock. It's Huxtable;