“A villain whom you then let go.”
“What did I have to hold Gunderson on? He was the victim of assault in that house.”
“Do you know anything about the man?”
“He’s a thug. Spent some time in the Scrubs for robbery—bashed his upstairs neighbour and stole his cash retirement fund. Gunderson was lucky the old man had an iron skull, or it would’ve been a murder charge—but since then, he’s been clean, as far as I can see.”
“Do you know if he’s familiar with guns? Not just revolvers, but rifles?”
“He wasn’t in the Army. And hunting? Not likely for a city boy. Why?”
“Someone took a shot at me, a few days ago. Someone either very lucky or well trained with a rifle.”
“And you think it was Gunderson? What, at the orders of Brothers?”
“Brothers looks to be behind everything else we’ve faced since we returned to the country.” Precisely twenty-seven days ago—had I ever had a more hectic four weeks?
“Yes, and you keep saying that Adler has nothing to do with it, but then I find that he’s done artwork for Brothers’ book, and his wife was a devout follower of Brothers’ crank religion—” (So he did not know that Yolanda had actually been married to the man.) “—and I’ve seen at least three paintings he did of Brothers—one that his wife had on her wall, another in Brothers’ house, and a third in the gallery that’s selling his paintings. So you can’t tell me there isn’t some kind of link between Adler and Brothers.”
“Of course there’s a link—Brothers is trying to kill him!”
“So help me stop it.”
“Chief Inspector, I do not know where Damian Adler is, and the last I saw of Brothers was in Orkney last Friday, when he tried to murder Damian and was injured in the attempt.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kicked myself for giving away more than I absolutely had to. Lestrade leant slowly back in his chair, eyes narrowing; his expression had me reviewing the exits, for when he made a grab for my wrist.
“You want to tell me how you know that?”
“You want to tell me why you took Mycroft in for questioning?”
His expression shifted, from a hunter with his prey in sight to a guilty schoolboy. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it, Chief Inspector. You’re Scotland Yard. Mycroft was … Well, he was Mycroft. What on earth drove you to make a move against Mycroft Holmes, of all people?”
“He was standing in the way of a police investigation,” Lestrade said stubbornly.
I wished my eyes when they glared went grey and cold like Holmes’ instead of light blue, bloodshot, and concealed by spectacles. “Your going after him was not only unlikely, it was uncharacteristic. Add to that my growing suspicion that Brothers has been receiving help from high places, and …” I waved a hand. “That’s why I picked your lock at three in the morning rather than walking into your office.”
Lestrade’s face changed. “Are you accusing me of being a corrupt officer?”
“I would not be sitting here if I thought that. But it is clear that Brothers had help, and from someone other than Gunderson. Some person helped him set up a new identity in this country, back in November. Someone helped him cover up his deeds. I began to suspect it even though I’ve been on the run for the past two weeks. What I am asking is, did that person reach out to you as well, and influence you to intercept Mycroft’s wires and invade his home?”
He stood abruptly and went to rummage through a drawer, coming out with a mashed-looking packet of cigarettes. He got one lit, and stood looking out the dark window. The stove clicked as it cooled; somewhere in the house, a clock chimed four.
“It’s possible,” he said finally. He came back to the table, his face closed. “I don’t take bribes.
“But you want to know if someone got at me, if I gave in to pressure against my better thoughts. The answer is yes.
“Look,” he continued, “I follow orders. The nature of my job gives me a great deal of independence, but when orders are given, I follow them. And something very near to being a command came down to put some pressure on Mycroft Holmes.”
“Down from where?”
“Doesn’t matter. It didn’t originate with the man who gave it, which means it was high enough that it might have come from outside the Yard entirely. And frankly, I didn’t ask too closely about it. Society only works if the police are given a free hand to investigate where they will. No one should be above the rule of law. Even him. You and Mr Holmes have walked the edge any number of times, but always managed to keep close enough inside the bounds that I could tell the difference between personal affront and official wrongdoing.”
“Is that why you issued warrants for Holmes and me as well?”
“Not directly, but it helped move me in that direction. Truth to tell,” he said, “it wasn’t the first time I’d wanted to put handcuffs on your husband.”
“I know the feeling,” I said. He blinked, and laughed.
“This time, it was Mycroft Holmes walking the edge, and over. It didn’t take much to convince me that it was time to snap him back into line. Your brother-in-law is not God, you know.”
“A week ago, I might have disagreed,” I said sadly—and indeed, his use of the present tense testified that Lestrade himself was not altogether willing to quit his belief in Mycroft’s omniscience.
“However, I’ve come to wonder if I may have been wrong,” he said.
“About his divinity?”
“About treating him as the object of an investigation.” He clawed his fingers through his thinning hair. “Mycroft Holmes asked me to meet him privately, that same day he came into my office. He left at one o’clock. Twenty minutes later, I was handed a note that he’d left for me, telling me to meet him at the Natural History Museum, the statue of Charles Darwin, just before closing. He told me to keep it entirely to myself, and to come alone.”
“But you didn’t go?”
“In fact I did, although I’d put it off to the last possible instant. He wasn’t there. The next I heard of him, he was dead.”
Chapter 46
The thud of that word, dead. Inconceivable, inescapable, dead: Mycroft.
I shook away the memory of his prodigious appetite and more prodigious memory, and—
Tell no one.
Come alone.
Where does faith part from loyalty?
I looked at Lestrade, thinking, Russell, you need some sleep, before you forget how to think. “Did you, in the end, keep the meeting to yourself?”
“I did.”
“Surely being instructed to come to a meeting alone must raise a policeman’s suspicions? You weren’t concerned that it might be some kind of a trap?”
“Had it been another man, I’d have been a fool not to tell someone where I was going. But this was Mycroft Holmes—I did check, and it was he who left the message. And although in theory I know nothing about him, in truth I know enough to be sure that if the man wanted to dispose of me, he hardly needed me to come to him. No, I figured the reason for the meeting was the same reason he couldn’t tell me in my office.”
“That being …?”
“One possibility was, he wanted to test me, either to see if I’d do as he asked, or because he wished to propose something so illegal it could bring down his career or mine, and didn’t want to risk being overheard. Or, he suspected a traitor in the ranks.”
I mentally apologised to the man in front of me, for Holmes’ disparaging remarks over the years.
“Your ranks, or his?”
“I thought at the time he meant mine. Why else did he want to get me away from the Yard? And although I have considerable faith in the trustworthiness of my officers, the bald truth is, there’s always an apple in any barrel ripe for spoiling. Bribery or threat—a determined man can usually find a police officer to corrupt.”
“Do you still think it’s one of yours?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, a look that would have been pure Holmes had his features not resembled those of a sleep-ruffled ferret. “I’m not the one going into the ground tomorrow,” he pointed out brutally.
I blew out a slow breath. “It does make one rather wonder.”
“About what?”
“Who could have got close enough to Mycroft for him to let down his guard.”
“You think his organisation—whatever that might be—could have a traitor? Is that why you asked about Sosa?”
“Mycroft was talking to a friend recently, and out of the blue, brought up the topic of loyalty. Who better to betray a man than his secretary? And what more painful treason?”
“What friend was that?”
I shook my head. “Mycroft passed on no information, merely indicated that the idea of loyalty had been on his mind.”
“I need to know who he was talking to,” he said sharply.
“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, I am not going to tell you. You’ll simply have to trust that if there had been anything more substantial to learn, I’d give it to you.”
He mashed out the cigarette stub with unwonted violence, and snapped, “Tying my hands like this, we might as well turn the country over to the SIS and let us all go back to being rural bobbies.”
“I think we’ll find there’re ways around it. You were asked to investigate Sosa’s disappearance. Surely you would be expected to follow that up, until you can speak with the man himself?”
He looked at me. “I could lose my job.” It was less objection than observation.
“I hope that’s all you could lose.”
He snorted in disbelief. “I’m Scotland Yard—they come after me with paperwork, not weapons.”
“And Mycroft?”
After a moment, his eyes involuntarily flicked upwards, towards his sleeping family.
“Yes,” I said.
“But Sosa is a secretary!”
“I was not thinking directly of Sosa. But it may be that someone has control over Sosa. Someone who has his hand on Scotland Yard as well.”
“But who? And why Mycroft Holmes?”
I could think of any number of nations who would pay to end Mycroft’s meddling. Sixteen of whom had written explosive letters currently resting beside Mycroft’s oven. But without facts, I might as well throw darts at a spinning globe.
“That’s what I need to find out. First off, can you find out more about Sosa?”
“I can try.”
“And beyond that?”
“I’ll be locked out of anything with international significance.”
“Which is interesting, considering Reverend Brothers spent so many years in Shanghai.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Brothers again.”
“If Mycroft’s death and Sosa’s disappearance are not somehow tied in with the machinations of Reverend Brothers, I may be forced to believe in coincidence. I’ll never be able to look my husband in the face again.”
Lestrade picked up his empty cup, and put it down again. “Do you want a drink? Hard drink, I mean?”
“No thanks. You have one, though.”
“If I went to church with whisky on my breath, my wife would leave me. Look, maybe you’re right. I’ll see how far I can get before someone pushes back. That should tell us something.”
“But about Mycroft. If I don’t have to worry about being arrested, there’s nothing to stop me from going to his superiors and asking what they know about Sosa, is there?” Nothing other than sharpshooters and hard men.
“God knows I’ve never been able to stop you from asking questions. I’m not sure how they would like it.”
“What, a bereaved private citizen, broken-hearted over her brother-in-law’s death, concerned that his assistant—to whom Mycroft was very close—might be even more troubled?”
He came very near to laughing, and said in admiration, “It’s not a track I’d have thought of, but I wish you luck with it.”
I glanced at the window, wondering if the darkness was less profound than it had been. Should I ask him to trace the telephone numbers? No: If he decided to search Sosa’s flat, he would find the numbers himself. “One last thing. I know that, theoretically speaking, you have no knowledge of Mycroft’s work. However, have you any idea how I might get into touch with a colleague of his by the name of Peter West? I think he may work for the SIS, and he may be more willing to talk than Admiral Sinclair would be.”
“I’ve heard of him, haven’t met him.”
“I’d like to reach him before Monday.”
“It might take some doing to hunt down an Intelligence fellow on a weekend.”
“If you can locate West without having anyone take notice, it would be good if I could talk with him before the funeral. However, don’t draw any more attention to yourself than you must.” I drained my cup and stood, but he remained stubbornly in his chair.
“Miss Russell, I really need to speak with Damian Adler.”
“I swear to you, Chief Inspector, I do not know where he is.”
“And his daughter?”
“I am keeping her safe.”
I looked at his tired face, feeling badly for having robbed him of what little sleep he might have expected this night. However, giving him talkative little Estelle would be giving him the information that Damian was Holmes’ son. And until Damian was safe, until he was no longer regarded as a suspect, I could not risk that.
I put out my hand. “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
He looked at it, then stood and took it. “Ring me later. I’ll see if I can come up with an address for Mr West.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Miss Russell? Watch yourself. Brothers and Gunderson are still out there, to say nothing of Sosa’s lot. All in all, a number of people you don’t want to be meeting in a dark place.”
“I rarely want to meet anyone in a dark place, Chief Inspector,” I replied. At the door, I let him open it for me, then paused. “Will you be at the funeral this afternoon?”
“I will.”
“Thank you,” I said. And astonished us both by leaning forward to kiss his unshaved cheek.
Chapter 47
New experiences were salutary, Holmes reflected. In four decades of creeping through the back-streets and by-ways of London, he had never had quite such an unrelenting series of setbacks, and although his body might protest at being folded up into its narrow recess a dozen feet above the paving-stones, no doubt it was good for him to be challenged. He wished that, in exchange, he might learn a bit more about his pursuers than he had so far.
Take the man who had been waiting on the pier at Harwich.
The man had been standing among those waiting to greet the boat, but it would have taken a larger crowd than that to conceal his presence: large, alert, and armed.
Holmes saw him, and kicked himself for not having anticipated the problem. Short of an hour with make-up (neither of which he possessed) and a change of clothing (almost as difficult) there was no way of getting down the gangway without being seen. Which left him with two options: Stay on board and return to Holland, or use another exit.
The steamer’s lavatories were conveniently near the exit, and its attendant had gone to assist with the disembarking process. When the last gentleman had finished, it was the work of moments to set a fire blazing in the waste bin (placing it by itself amidst the tiles, since he had no wish to burn the ship to the water-line) and slip away.
When the alarm was raised, every crew member within shouting distance responded at the run, leaving several tills unguarded. Holmes helped himself and made for the lower decks.
A sad story to a likely face (about a bill collector waiting on the docks, to a man whose nose bloomed with the veins of strong drink) and one of his stolen bills into a meaty palm, and Holmes became an honorary member of the crew off-loading Dutch goods and passenger rubbish.
He pulled on his newly acquired jacket and a cap he fervently hop
ed was not inhabited, then set a large bag of post onto his shoulder and joined the trail of laden men, trudging along the gangway, down the pier, and past the watcher. Few passengers trickled off the steamer now, and the feet beneath the tan coat—which were all Holmes could see of him around the burden—moved restlessly. Holmes moved down the boards to deliver his sack to His Majesty’s waiting lorry, then kept walking, along the front to a warehouse. There he found a place where he could watch the watcher.
The man waited long after the last passenger came off, but he did not, Holmes was interested to see, then go on board and conduct a search. This could mean he had no authority to do so, or that he had been told not to draw attention to himself. On the other hand, it could indicate an excess of confidence in his own invisibility and his quarry’s lack of skill.
Eventually, the man abandoned his position and strode down the pier. Holmes eyed the few remaining taxis, but the man did not turn towards them, nor towards the nearby parked motorcars. Instead, he went into the hotel directly across the way.
Checking out? Having a meal? Reluctantly, Holmes settled into his corner, but in the end, the man was back out on the street in four minutes, and walked directly to a car parked on the front. Holmes readied himself for a sprint to the taxis, but to his surprise, the man walked around to the passenger side, tossed in his hat and coat, and got in. There was a flash of white: a newspaper.
He was waiting for the next steamer.
Holmes stayed in the shadows.
Half an hour later, a boat drew in, but the man merely leant forward to see where it was docking, then went back to his paper.
He was not waiting for just any steamer, but specifically the next one from Holland. Which would be the boat from Amsterdam, arriving in—Holmes checked his pocket-watch—approximately two and a half hours. Adding the forty minutes the man had waited before abandoning his watch the last time, that gave a tired and hungry detective nearly three hours in which to assemble the materials he required.
Holmes turned and went into the town.
The God of the Hive: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Page 22
