The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [82]
The newspaper headlines that morning had read: Third Outrage in Prehistoric Monuments, with details of Yolanda's death, but not yet her name.
“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, his joviality forced, but still a relief: He did not suspect that there might be a link between our presence and the young woman whose search for Yolanda Adler on Saturday had led to his presence on Burton Place last night. “Sorry to have missed you yesterday, I was told you had been by. Did you get the message I left with your brother?”
“I did, although not until late. Has the dead woman in fact been identified?”
“Oh yes,” he said over his shoulder, “there's no doubt. Her husband is missing, and their child.”
“A child as well? How unfortunate. Do you expect to find all three dead?”
“I expect to find that he killed her and fled the country with the child. He's foreign, you know—or anyway, only English on paper.”
“Of course, it is so often the husband, particularly with foreigners. I don't suppose you have such a thing as a motive?”
“He's an artist, Mr Holmes, a dyed-in-the-wool Bohemian. Probably a Bolshevik as well, most of them are.”
“Yes, that certainly explains it. You are doing an autopsy?”
“Later today, yes, although there's little question as to the cause of death.” We'd reached his office; he held the door.
“So I understand, however, the possibility of drugs …?”
“Was she involved in drugs?”
“How should I know that?” Holmes said in surprise. “I don't even know who she is, merely that she was found near the Long Man.”
“She doesn't look much like a drugs user.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of sleeping-tablets.”
Lestrade's suspicion faded. “But even if we find that she was up to her pretty eyebrows in cocaine, it makes no difference in the investigation.”
“It might point you to suspects other than the husband,” I interjected before Holmes could bristle.
“Ah, Mrs—er, Miss Russell, you're looking well. I see you have joined the smart set. The hair-cut,” he explained.
“Chief Inspector Lestrade,” I replied, holding out my hand.
“Er, do sit down. Now, Mr Holmes, explain again your interest in this woman?”
“In fact, it is the pattern I am investigating.”
“Yes, I wondered if that might not be the case. The ‘pattern’ is a figment of a newsman's imagination. Evidence suggests that the suicide at Cerne Abbas was just that, and Stonehenge was random violence among a group of religious nut-cases. Next you know, they'll be mounting a campaign to set guards over that white horse up in Oxfordshire and along the length of Hadrian's Wall. Anything to sell papers.”
“And yet I see you have the two files out on your desk. Shall I look them over, and let you know if anything in particular catches my eye?”
From Lestrade's expression, he was remembering Holmes' habit of taking over his investigations, if not his life. No doubt he would have preferred us to stay in America.
“I don't know that I should permit that,” he began.
Holmes studied his finger-nails. “I can, if you wish, summon recommendations from your chief, or the Lord Mayor, or the Prime Minister, or even—”
The Chief Inspector gave a sigh of resignation. “That won't be necessary, Mr Holmes. I need not remind you not to remove anything from either of these files, and not to speak of the cases to others.”
“Of course. But, may I ask, was there in fact a ram found, in Cumbria?”
We both stared at him. “A ram?” Lestrade demanded.
“Yes, there was a—”
“You think Scotland Yard investigates dead livestock?”
“Only if there is—”
“Mr Holmes, I have never lived outside of London, but even I know that sheep die sometimes, and that foxes and dogs eat them. No ram was slaughtered.” Lestrade's chair squealed back. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an investigation to run, and I'd like to keep one step ahead of the papers. Artists,” he declared, shaking his head as he put on his hat. “Interviewing artists makes me bilious.”
Rather to my surprise, he did not plant a uniformed constable