Despite my intentions of using the time for careful introspection, I ended up inspecting no more than the backs of my eyelids. I woke at dusk from macabre dreams of leather briefcases and clouded blue eyes on a marble slab, to find myself on the bed in Mycroft's guest room, the sound of voices coming from the sitting room. I washed my face many times with cold and hot water, pushed the pins back into my hair, and went out to join my husband and his brother.
'Good evening, Russell. I hope you slept well.'
'Not terribly. Hello, brother Mycroft. You're looking well.'
'Good evening, Mary. A glass of sherry, or some tea?'
'It's late for tea, but I am thirsty. Do you mind?'
'Not at all.' He rang the bell. 'Sherlock was telling me about your mysterious visitor and the day's adventures. Most intriguing.'
'Good Lord, was it only this morning that we read about it? It seems a week ago.'
The housekeeper came to the door, and Holmes went to ask her for tea. He returned to the chair between Mycroft and me and reached for the inevitable pipe. Mycroft took a cigar from an elaborate chased silver humidor.
'Do you mind, Mary? Thank you.' He set to the ritual of clipping and raising a cloud of perfumed smoke and finally had it going to his satisfaction.
'How does it take you, Sherlock? Could it have been simple robbery? Might she have had something of value?'
'Insufficient data, I fear, Mycroft. Russell— ah, here's your tea. No, don't get up. There. Biscuit?' I declined. 'Do have one of those sandwiches, at least. They may be your supper. Russell, I did succeed in reaching Colonel Edwards, just before he left for a weekend shoot in Berkshire, but he gave me a few minutes. He and Miss Ruskin spent the time reviewing her proposed dig, looking through photographs of the site and the location of the exploratory trenches. He was 'favourably impressed,' and he intends— or perhaps I should say intended— to recommend that his organisation support the project.'
'What organisation is that?'
'Something called the Friends of Palestine, a group of retired military officers and churchmen. They raise money to support various projects, mostly in the Holy Land. From what he said, I gather it's a combination of drinks club and Bible-study group.'
'Men only?'
'Men only. In fact, he admitted that he was surprised when D. Ruskin turned out to be a woman.'
'Didn't do his homework, then.'
'Apparently not. He did appear to be genuinely shocked at hearing of her death, though it didn't put him off his weekend. He has a garage normally inhabited by three cars, only two present this evening, neither showing signs of any recent repairs. According to the driver— calls himself the chauffeur— the third car is a roadster that belongs to the colonel's son, who is in the machine on his way to Scotland at the moment, some sort of informal motoring competition called a rally. Sounds a considerable danger to livestock and unsuspecting Scots pedestrians. The tyre marks are of an appropriate width for a roadster rather than a saloon car, and several marks on the wall on that side indicate black paint from a low-slung mud guard and a driver who is either exceedingly careless or often intoxicated.'
'Speaking of intoxicated, any trace of the witnesses?'
'Miss Chessman and Mr O'Rourke left directly from their respective offices to catch a train for her parents' house near Tonbridge. Her neighbour, who should know better than to trust an old man asking questions, said that Miss Chessman was severely upset over an accident she had witnessed in the wee hours of Thursday morning. Or, to use the neighbour's au courant phrasing, she was severely traumatised by the event and was, in her neighbour's judgement, not far from a nervous breakdown. What I suppose Watson would term 'brain fever.' End of relevant data.'
'And the letter?'
'Ah yes, the letter. This must go into the hands of Scotland Yard very soon. Will Chief Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues believe that Sherlock Holmes has possessed the thing and not opened it? Never. Therefore, we may as well steam it open. Is there hot water left in that pot?' I picked it up and sloshed it about by way of an answer. 'Good. Toss the biscuits out and pour the water into their bowl. Have you done this before, Russell? Yes, of course you have. Then you know that impatience is not the thing. Too much steam, too fast, warps the paper and tells a tale. Slow, see? Here comes the end. Good-quality glue and paper make it easy. That knife, please, Mycroft— Wipe off the butter first, man! That's better. Come, now, just a bit more— there. I think I'll use tweezers on this, in case the Yard decides to look for prints. Probably useless— the paper's a bit on the rough side— but mustn't take the chance of confusing their poor little heads. Move the tray, please, Russell. Thank you.'
Holmes laid the letter down on the table, and we all bent over it. He automatically noted the more obvious characteristics.
'Woman's hand, fussy. Dated Wednesday, would have arrived yesterday. Not old enough to be from the mother, who must be in her nineties. Perhaps a sister.'
We read:
Dear Dorothy,
It was so very lovely to see you over the weekend. It made a deep impression on Mama (you may not be able to tell, but I can). I hope you can return before you have to leave, though I will understand if you cannot.
I am writing because shortly after you left, two gentlemen came here looking for you, something regarding a donation to your project in the Holy Land. They told me their names, but I'm afraid I can't remember them, as they were very long and foreign. Perhaps I should have written them down, but I was a bit flustered and could hear Mama calling from upstairs. But you must know them, as they knew you. They were both very dark and tall and looked a bit like the photographs you sent of the people who worked on your excavations, those same sharp noses. Very proper, though— educated gentlemen in proper suits. One of them had a name that sounded something like
