Holmes came to the desk with an armload of books.
“What have you found?” I asked.
What he had found were three copies of Testimony. He dropped them onto the desk litter and opened the first to the frontispiece: the usual figure, followed by a numeral written in a dry brown ink, its rough outlines suggesting a nib other than metal:
“Six? Oh, sweet God, six? Is that—” My head filled with a rushing noise. I sat down.
“Blood,” he said. “Yes. Although it may as well be that of a sheep rather than a human being.” The words were dispassionate, almost academic: The iron control in his voice said something else entirely.
“Still.” I realised that I was sitting in Brothers' chair and stood up hastily, while Holmes opened the other two copies. One had a 7, although its brown colour was nearly obscured by the blotting sand stuck to it; the next, with an 8, looked like the others I had seen.
“The Adlers' copy,” I said abruptly. “That smear on its title page is actually the numeral one.”
Holmes left the three books open under the desk lamp and went back to the shelf. “The binder told you he made eight?”
I forced my mind to his question. “Brothers seems to like the number eight—eight books, eight sections in each of the four chapters of the book. It would suggest that he has given away three others.” Millicent Dunworthy possessed number two, but I thought I could identify the other Inner Circle members who had received three, four, and five: the nurse, her brother, and the sharp-nosed woman.
“It would also suggest that he took his Book of Truth with him,” Holmes said. “Here's his blotting sand.” He pulled the top off of a surprisingly large decorative tin, and picked up a pencil to stir its contents.
“What a lot,” I said—there must have been a pound of the stuff, easily. I had seen blotting sand used at a solicitor's office, but it was generally a small sifting, easily dusted away. I reached out and took a pinch from the tin, rubbing it through my fingers. Blotting sand. And all those blank pages that wanted filling.
“Holmes—the sand. You found too much. Far more than he would need for just one numeral. And the repeated quill-sharpenings. The Book of Truth is his journal. He's setting down an account of the killings, then and there.”
Holmes looked at the sand, and murmured, “‘It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.’”
The power of the stuff in our veins: Professor Ledger had told me, and I had not taken it far enough. I had failed to imagine how full-blown the man's madness might be.
At least, I thought, grasping for some relief—at least this was not Damian Adler's madness. Although, even now I had to admit there was nothing to guarantee that Damian was not one of Brothers' acolytes. Nothing, that is, but the impossibility of his participation in the murder of Yolanda Adler, beloved wife, mother of his child.
“However,” Holmes said, bent over the books with his strong glass, “I should have said this number seven has used some material other than blotting sand.”
I took a look, and agreed: The material used to blot this number was fine enough that much of it had stuck. What that meant, if anything, there was no telling.
We replaced the copies of Testimony on the shelf, and while Holmes turned his attention to the walls, I settled to the desk (carrying over a stool, rather than sit again in Brothers' chair). The surface was covered in notes, books, pamphlets, and well-marked guidebooks to Scandinavia, Germany, and Great Britain. I found a desk-diary, which told us that Brothers had been away for the first three weeks of May, and a pamphlet extolling the charms of Bergen, Norway.
His current project, Text of Lights, took up most of the desk, in the form of notes made by a tight hand in a pen that leaked, typescript pages with cross-hatchings and notes, and the occasional torn-out page of a book or magazine with a paragraph circled. This would be Testimony for the masses, with simpler language, lots of Biblical references, astrological details, and concrete examples of the miraculous side-effects of becoming a Child of Lights.
I fished three crumpled sheets from the waste-paper basket, ironing them out with the side of my hand, but found they were only notes he had transferred to the typescript, and in one case, a fresh note spoilt by a gout of ink. I studied the smear, then searched through the debris for the pen that I had spotted, finding it under a discussion of astrological birth-charts. It was an ornate instrument with a twenty-four-karat gold nib, but ink clotted the lower edge of its barrel.
I said to Holmes, “Did you agree that the stain on Yolanda Adler's fingers looked like ink?”
“I did.”
“Because it's possible she wrote that final letter to Damian at this desk, with this pen.” I showed him; he said nothing, just turned his attention to the wall safe that he had found beneath a painting of Stonehenge under a full moon (amateurish and melodramatic and markedly not by Damian Adler).
I opened the desk's upper drawers and found, among the discarded pens, stationery, and paper clips, a wooden box containing half a dozen of the heavy, crude gold rings worn by the Inner Circle, in various sizes. Despite their solid appearance, they felt like gold plate. The next drawer down held maps of England, Scotland, Iceland, Germany, and all of the Scandinavian countries.
The bottom drawer held an assortment of rubbish, including a dog's collar that had clearly been buried for years, a pair of new-looking leather bedroom slippers, and a pretty little dollies' tea-cup.
I did not find a master journal filled with bloody writing, nor did Holmes.
He did, however, find something nearly as obscene.
Holmes finally gave a grunt of satisfaction, and the safe door came open. I went to look over his shoulder.
There was money, quite a bit of money, in the currencies of several countries. Two passports, one well-used British document under the name of Harris, the other for a resident of Shanghai named Hawthorn. A velvet pouch containing a palmful of diamonds, cut and polished and splashing a startling brilliance across the dim-lit room. A bottle holding several ounces of unidentified liquid, with three small glass phials waiting to be filled. And seven envelopes of heavy white paper, folded shut but not sealed.
On each was written a number; in each was a sample of hair. As Holmes had anticipated, several were from animals—envelopes one and two had tufts of sheep's wool, while number four had three tail-feathers from a rooster. Number three, however, was definitely human, grey and about eight inches long. Number five was from a man, brown with a few grey hairs, its pomade staining the envelope. Number six held half a dozen strands of a horse's tail. And number seven: heavy black hair four inches long, one end neatly bound with white silk thread, attaching it to a beautifully worked gold wedding ring, a delicate version of the one I had seen on Damian's hand.
Yolanda.
Holmes took a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and spread it on the desk, tipping the black lock and ring into its centre. The empty envelope went back into the safe; the handkerchief he folded over and tucked into his pocket. I did not object: Its incriminating value in Brothers' possession was not worth the revulsion of leaving it here. He shut the safe, and came back to where I sat.
“Anything of interest?”
I pointed out several oddities that I had come across in the drawers but took care to leave in place. Now, Holmes pulled each out, tossing them onto the blotting-paper: Clearly, he cared no more for alerting Brothers to the search than he did about leaving finger-prints. “The blade is the wrong shape,” he said of the stiletto I had found in the top drawer. He glanced through the pamphlet on Norse gods published by the United Kingdom Associated Sons of Scandinavia, but the rest—the monographs on Stonehenge and Hadrian's Wall, a Times article on a hoard uncovered in Devon, a booklet about the northern constellations, the dollies' tea-cup—those he flicked over with a dismissive finger before returning to the shelves, to pull down and shake out each book, one after another.
I fitted the tiny porcelain cup onto the end of my little
finger. It was an odd thing to find in the possession of this man. And exactly a week before, I had seen a set the precise match of this one, three cups on a diminutive enamel-ware tray. Had we found this missing cup with the other trophies in the safe, it would have had a very different meaning, but dropped with other things into a drawer …?
And now, the object started off a series of thoughts that I had tried to keep at the back of my mind. However, it had to be brought to light, and when, if not now?
“Holmes, do three-year-olds play dollies' tea-party?”
“My experience with three-year-olds is limited,” he replied.
“The Adlers' neighbours, at number eleven, have a daughter of eight or nine. She plays dollies' tea-party. I did myself when I was her age. And she is in the habit of playing with Estelle Adler when they meet in the park. She made reference to books as well. Although some children do read at a young age. I did, myself.”
“Does this fascinating narrative have a direction?”
I took a bracing breath. “All along, Holmes, Damian has been … less than completely forthcoming with us.”
“He has lied?” Holmes said bluntly. “People generally do, although I have told you his reasons.”
“But, about the child.”
He stopped what he was doing. “What about her?”
I spun the tea-cup around the end of my finger, so as not to meet his eyes. “That photograph, of the Adlers. It looked out of date.”
“How do you mean?”
“Yolanda's dress and hair. Fashion changes rapidly these days, particularly skirt lengths. The dresses in her house reflected current tastes-even those that were not new had had their hems adjusted. I noticed, because it struck me as incongruous, a Bohemian so attentive to fashion.” I lifted my gaze from the cup on my finger. “I'd have said the skirt in that photograph is three or four years old. And the hair-cut.”
“The photograph was taken in Shanghai,” he pointed out.
“Where, I agree, styles may be behind the times. It is equally possible that Yolanda only discovered a sense of fashion after she came to London. But—”
“You are suggesting that the picture was taken some years ago? Why should Damian—”
He stopped.
I finished the thought. “If the photograph was in fact taken some years ago, then the child is older than Damian permitted us to believe. Would the neighbour's girl be as interested in exchanging books, were Estelle three and a half years old?”
“This could not be the child born in 1913,” he declared.
“Dorothy Hayden? No, I agree, not unless this photograph is a remarkably good fake. But even if Yolanda and Brothers—Hayden—this man has entirely too many names! Even if they separated in 1917, a child could have been born after that, and been small when Damian arrived in 1920.”
“You are proposing that, were Damian concerned that I would not search for his wife once I knew her history, it would apply doubly were I to suspect the child was not even his. And it would,” he conceded, “further explain Yolanda's continued contact with her former husband, were he the father of the child.”
He turned back to the shelves, but I thought his mind was not on his actions. Nor, in truth, was mine.
We found nothing of further interest, although I was grateful Brothers had been here for less than a year, and had not filled the house with a lifetime of macabre treasures.
When we had finished, Holmes wrapped a sheet of paper around a glass paperweight from the desk, for the finger-prints, and slid it into his pocket, along with a phial of the unidentified liquid from the safe and a sample of the blotting sand. He stood looking down at the desk with its litter of pamphlets and objects—not the tea-cup, which lay in my pocket—and then picked up the stiletto. He considered it with his thumb for a moment, then raised it high and drove it viciously down: through a postcard photograph of an Irish stone cross; through the train time-table below that; through the cheaply printed pamphlet of Norse churches in Britain and the almanac page showing the phases of the moon for 1924 and the stained green blotter, deep into the wood of the desk itself.
We left it there, a declaration of war.
Back at Mycroft's flat, which was silent but for the snores rumbling down the hallway, we assembled a dinner of bread and cheese, drank some tea, and took ourselves to bed.
Most unusually, it was Holmes who fell asleep and I who lay, gazing at the patterns of street-lights on the ceiling. After an hour, shortly after four a.m., I slipped out into the sitting room and settled with a rug over my legs and another pot of tea at my side, reading Monday's newspapers.
Something was stirring in my mind, and I did not know what it was. It was in part the awareness of tension: Yes, I was relieved that Damian seemed to be in the clear, but that had been replaced by the growing conviction that he and the child had driven away into mortal danger.
More than that, some combination of events, or of objects witnessed, prowled in the back of my mind; some alarming shape was growing in the darkness, and the only way of encouraging it to emerge into the light of consciousness was to ignore it. I turned resolutely to the news, important and trivial, and drank my tea until it was cold and bitter. Finally, I switched off the light and sat in the gathering dawn.
Today I should have to have another conversation with the Adlers' maid, Sally. Nothing she had said gave a shape to the child's age, but surely if I asked, she would be able to tell me just how old Estelle was. Other than size, what were the determining differences between an ordinary eight-year-old and a precocious four-year-old? Teeth, perhaps? I should have to find out first. And why hadn't I thought to confirm her age with that neighbour?
(Something I had read, days ago, teased at the back of my mind. That heap of papers in Sussex, it must have been, month after month of news items that blurred into one another. A murder here, a drugs raid there, given equal weight with a photograph of a hunt breakfast and a June excursion to the seaside … I firmly withdraw my mind from the direct approach.)
Also today, we should have to find the owner of that trim terrace house a short walk from three train stations. Whether Brothers owned it or let it, there would be paperwork—which could be why he had taken such care to keep Gunderson from knowing about it.
(An excursion to the seaside. But, not the seaside …)
Should I ask Holmes to review with Mycroft the crimes of the full moons? Perhaps the two brothers together would see a pattern I had missed.
(She died on a full moon, and I'd been reading the newspapers that week and come across something….)
My days in Sussex had, actually, been a lovely holiday, four entire days of solitude and bees, brought together, now that I thought of it, in Holmes' book. A man who retired at a remarkably early age from the busy hive of humanity that was London, resigning himself to the conviction that the person he called “The Woman” was lost to him, that his life was—for all he knew—sterile. He had disappeared, freeing me to enjoy the peace and the book and the skies—first the meteors, then that remarkable eclipse of the moon. What a pity he had been in the city, where the skies were no doubt too light—
(An advert! For a Thomas Cook tour, to the eclipse—but not to the lunar eclipse; why run a tour to something visible from one's back garden? That meant—)
I threw off the rug and padded down the hallway to Mycroft's study, impatiently running my grit-filled eyes across the shelves until I spotted his 1924 almanac.
I found the page, read it, and looked up to see Holmes in the doorway, summoned by my footsteps, or by my brain's turmoil.
“What have you found?”
“It may be nothing.”
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“Thomas Cook was advertising an expedition to Scandinavia-well, that's not important.” I tried to order my thoughts. “Holmes, it may not be the September full moon that Brothers is waiting for. Full moons enter into it, but I think he's picking off celestial events. The ram at Long Meg died on the first
of May, the Celtic festival of Beltane. Albert Seaforth died on the night of the Perseids. Brothers may be aiming for the solar eclipse.”
“An eclipse? In England?”
“No, it's mostly Arctic. Parts of northern Scandinavia will see it, although it looks as if Bergen, Norway, might be on the very edge. However, Holmes, I—”
“When?”
I looked back at the page, hoping I had read it wrong, but I had not. “August the thirtieth.”
Four days away.
The Tool: A Tool must incorporate all four Elements.
Beyond that, the Tool must be shaped by the Practitioner
to have a life of its own, both to draw in and to give out
Power The Tool must move the hand even as the
hand moves it.
Testimony, IV:3
HEAVY SILENCE PRESSED ON US. HOLMES STARED at me for the longest time before his eyes flicked down to the almanac, and he drew a ragged breath. His mouth was coming open as he turned to the door.
“Mycroft!” he shouted.
With a crash of feet on the floor, Mycroft Holmes woke to his brother's need. Within minutes, the telephone was summoning help from near and far. The voices of the Holmes brothers were soon joined by others, and I listened through the open study door as the complex machinery of Mycroft's department was seized and turned towards finding a pair of men, the younger of whom could possibly appear ill or intoxicated, with a child, age three to eight. Borders; ferries; telegrams: By seven-thirty, the sitting room sounded like a general headquarters on the eve of battle.
All the while, I sat at Mycroft's oversized desk, trying to order my thoughts. A part of my mind was occupied with drawing up a list of possible sites Brothers might choose that were within striking distance of Bergen: Viking country, whence the raiders had set off to conquer the British Isles; home of Woden, the Viking's chief god and a figure who occupied much of Brothers' image of himself.
The Language of Bees Page 33
