The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [80]
I gave him coffee, with brandy in it, and sat down with my own.
“When I was searching the house early Saturday,” he told me, “I noticed a package addressed to me, on a shelf in Damian's dressing room. At the time, I had no reason to remove it: Damian could give it to me when he chose. However, if Lestrade had come across it—and he would have, within minutes—the link between Damian and me would have made things exceedingly complicated. Without it, Lestrade will have to follow his usual channels of enquiry.”
“But he'll trace Damian Adler to Irene Adler eventually.”
“Not if Mycroft interferes.”
“Oh, Holmes. A formal intervention will be a red flag to a bull. If Lestrade finds out you blocked his investigation, he'll never speak with you again.”
“If Lestrade finds that I have a personal interest in this case, he will not only cut me off, he will actively harass me and dog my every step. Worse, he will pour all his efforts into Damian, and dismiss outright any information or suspects we may uncover. An invisible intervention means that the name Adler may catch his eye, but what does that matter? Irene's married name was Norton, and Adler is a common enough surname. If Lestrade sees no link, then I appear to be merely looking into the death of a woman, and he will see no reason to hamper my investigation. No, it's best if the information simply ceases to exist.”
I studied him. I had known Holmes to be unscrupulous, even cold-hearted when it came to manipulating others for the sake of an investigation, but this was personal. Frankly, I hadn't thought him capable of that.
Except, perhaps, to protect me.
And now, Damian.
I did not like it: Holmes had been known to act as judge, jury, and very nearly executioner, but never had he done so without cost to himself.
He put down his half-empty cup and examined it minutely. “He has nightmares. Damian. Night after night he wakes, drenched in sweat, shivering. He must have the lights on, needs the windows open wide, even in the winter. From his words, and from his art, I believe he dreams of trenches whose walls are crumbling in on him. Of being at the bottom of a well, looking up at a circle of stars. Of being in the hold of a ship and hearing the scrape of collision. Of being buried alive in a casket.
“The key element is enclosure. A horror of being closed in, locked up, kept from the sky. I believe it may be why he so often paints the sky.” He sighed, and dry-scrubbed his face. “Russell, Damian Adler is a damaged man on a solid foundation. His wife's death will threaten everything he has built. If his daughter is gone as well, I do not know if he will recover. Locking him away would guarantee that he does not. If he is arrested, I fear for his sanity. And they will arrest him, if they find him. I must maintain open communication with Lestrade so I know what they are doing, and so I can find Yolanda's murderer for them. Because you know that Scotland Yard will not look beyond Damian.”
I said nothing; he raised his eyes to mine. They were set with unwavering intent.
“Damian did not kill his wife,” he said flatly.
“Holmes, you can't—”
“I must. He did not kill her. Yes, he is capable of killing—which of us is not?—but not this murder. Not a cold-blooded slaughtering of his wife and his child.”
I looked into his grey eyes, and slowly nodded. “All right.”
The tension seeped out of him, and he got up to retrieve the parcel he had left beside the door. As I watched him cross the room, I reflected that in any other man, the relaxation would have been from relief, that he had talked his wife into agreement.
I knew him too well to think that. Tension in Holmes was not the sign of a disagreement with others—even me—but with himself. I must, he'd said. He had to believe that his son did not do this dreadful thing, and I, for the moment, had to go along with that decision.
But that did not mean I had to believe it as well.
He put the flat package on the table in front of me. “I hadn't time to fetch the book you wanted. We'll go back,