noticed that one of the carved pelicans was standing on a knob set with the date 1612. Its builder had either been to Knole or had been responsible for that stairway as well, I thought as I continued slowly down the stairs, studying the chipped, faded, glorious walls, until I was nearly flattened by an oncoming maid intent on her burden. I dived to one side, so surprising her with my sudden movement that the tea tray nearly came to grief despite her concentration.
“Ooh!” she squeaked. “Oh, you didn’t half give me a turn. That is to say, begging your pardon, mum, I didn’t see you there. Was there something I could do for you?”
“The breakfast room,” I said. “I forgot to ask directions last night—no, no; just tell me which way it is. If you take me there, that tea will get cold. But first, tell me your name?”
“It’s Emma, mum. And you’re sure you don’t want me to take you? Well, when you get to the foot of these stairs you go through that door there, and straight down the corridor for just a little way and then to your right. Then—”
Her instructions seemed to send me in a circle and the tea was probably cold anyway when she had finished, but I thanked her and went on. How hard could it be?
Had I depended on her verbal map, I might have found the breakfast room in time for luncheon, but by following the odours instead of her directions I had no great trouble.
The room was, as I had expected, a more intimate chamber than the formal dining room of the night before, although no less ornate in its way. It was on a more human scale, for one thing, so that one could crackle toast without being intimidated by echoes, and although the ceiling was thick with gilded grape-vines from which swung an exuberance of frescoed putti, and the walls were more than half mirror, the fat cherubs seemed happy enough to oversee the meals taking place below, and the silver in the mirrors had tarnished to a comfortable dimness.
Alistair was there, bent over a plate with a folded newspaper beside it; Holmes presented a similar figure across the table from him. Both men looked up at my arrival, and Alistair rose to pour me a coffee from the steaming samovar-style pot.
“Are ladies permitted in this club, gentlemen?” I asked.
“Difficult to keep them out, I should think,” Holmes answered, holding my chair for me. He was his usual self again, last night’s rage well concealed.
“What excitement is occupying the world today?”
“One Lady Diana Hamilton was sent to prison for stealing two rings and three brooches from friends who had rescued her from an ‘unfortunate and distressing situation’ in a Paddington hotel. And the Chancellor of the Exchequer acknowledges the receipt of two pounds sixteen shillings’ conscience money from ‘X.Y.Z.’ The world of crime is, I fear, not only singularly dull, but not even terribly remunerative.”
The usual complaint. “Is Marsh down yet?” I expected to be told he was still abed, nursing a pounding head, but apparently not.
“Here and gone,” his cousin replied. “I believe he is interviewing the cow-man Hendricks in the estate offices.” I could not but wonder if a hung-over Marsh Hughenfort would be an ill-tempered creature or an exquisitely silent and sensitive one, but I did not see that I could enquire. I should, no doubt, see for myself before the day was through. Alistair went on. “Phillida and Sidney are in London for the day. Marsh asked me to show you the house this morning. If you wish.”
“I should love to see Justice Hall,” I said with pleasure.
He looked taken aback at the enthusiasm in my voice, and retreated into his newspaper, leaving me to ladle out a bowl of porridge and reflect on, as Holmes had put it, the workings of cause and effect. In Palestine, Ali had kept me—Holmes, too, but particularly me—at arm’s length, if not at actual knife’s point. He resented my presence, grumbled at the extra work we created, refused to grudge me an iota more responsibility than was absolutely necessary. He would happily have abandoned us in the desert, had it not been that Mahmoud developed an inexplicable interest in us.
Now, the basis of our relationship was turned upside-down. He had actively sought us out to ask for help; his present identity, though to all appearances a comfortable fit, left him stranded on unfamiliar territory when it came to action. In Palestine, he had deferred only to Mahmoud; in England, his bone-deep yeoman nature demanded a banner to follow. He was not exactly lost, but with Mahmoud so vehemently refusing to lead anyone anywhere, Alistair was definitely casting around for familiar landmarks. To put himself into a friendly footing with “Amir” was jarring, but if it helped move Marsh a few inches more in the direction of Palestine, he was willing to try. In Palestine, he had willingly walked thousands of miles on foot in the service of king and country; he had baked and frozen and scratched at flea bites; killed, spied, defused bombs, and even committed torture when it proved necessary; in England, it would seem, he was willing to bring me a cup of pallid coffee and offer us a tour of Justice Hall.
Holmes, however, demurred. With Alistair’s warning about the eye-to-the-key-hole propensities of the Darling clan, to say nothing of servants, clearly in mind, he folded his newspaper onto the table and said, “I too shall venture into London for the day. A matter regarding the young man of whom we were speaking yesterday afternoon. Solid information concerning his actions has become a priority.”
“Do you want—,” I began, but he was already dismissing my offer.
“I shouldn’t dream of cutting short your week-end, Russell. You enjoy yourself while I expend shoe-leather on the dirty cobblestones.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said dryly.
I made haste to finish my toast, then followed him up the stairs and helped him pack a few things in a rucksack. He still maintained his secret bolt-holes across London, and would no doubt retrieve from them anything else he needed, from false moustaches to armament.
“I should really rather come with you, Holmes,” I told him in a voice too low to be heard beyond the door.
“Of course you would. But I believe the cause will be better served by dividing our forces.”
“And inevitably I must be the one to remain behind and make tedious conversation over the dinner table.”
“My dear Russell, had you spent the last few years nurturing informants and contacts in the less salubrious portions of London instead of frittering away your time in lecture halls and libraries . . .”
“I know, I know. When will you return?”
“Saturday, or perhaps the following morning.”
Which only indicated that he planned to be away for less than a week. Unless, that is, something came up. Which it generally did. I handed him his shaving case.
“I’ll let Marsh know. Will you go as yourself?”
“I think not,” he replied. “This investigation needs to remain sub-rosa. The combined drawing power of the names Hughenfort and Holmes would start a fox before the hounds. We wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think, for the ‘view halloo’ of the tabloid journalists.” He did up the buckles on the rucksack, then paused. “See what you can turn up about the boy yourself. Ask to see the letters he wrote his father, particularly that last one. Look closely at any belongings he may have left. I should be particularly interested if he left a diary, papers, whatever. You know the drill.”
I did indeed.
“And over the week-end, particularly when the house guests arrive, listen and watch closely. Map out currents, as it were. And before you protest that you do not know what we are looking for, I am aware of that minor problem, and can only trust that you have sufficient mental flexibility to work a case that is not yet a case.” He swung the rucksack over his shoulder, and then, with his hand on the door-knob, paused. “But, Russell? Watch yourself. I believe that as the investigation develops, we will find that these placid waters have been concealing any number of powerful tides.”
He closed the door on my “good-bye,” leaving me alone with Justice and her populace.
When Holmes had driven off for the day—or the week—Alistair and I descended the decorated stairway and passed through a door set into the wall opposite the foot of the stairs, nearly at the end of the old, western wing. It led to a tiny room, little more than three doors and a scrap of wall. Alistair closed the first door behind us, then sidled past me to that on our right, which was tiny, off-square, and locked. He had the key, an object no more than a century old.
