stunning.
“What is this cottage he's done several times, the one with the pond in the garden?”
“His mother's house, outside of Paris in Ste Chapelle.”
“Where he was born.”
“Yes. I went to see it that day, after we'd seen him in gaol.”
I turned the page, and recognised the ivy-draped face of the Ste Chapelle gaol. A tall, thin, middle-aged Englishman filled the doorway, his face in the shadows.
I reached the end, and turned back to the first page, considering. On the surface, the book was a son's demonstration to his father of skill and personal history. But there was more to it than that.
Take this first drawing: a portrait of Irene Adler. Holmes' other album also began with her, as a woman beautiful and filled with life; here, she was still lovely, but it was the ethereal beauty of a woman ground down by troubles. She seemed to be contemplating a deep well of sadness within. Had that particular woman ever borne that expression? Had Irene Adler ever been ethereal?
The next sketch, showing a dark-haired little boy on a deserted beach, had a similar air of loneliness to it.
And, looking more closely, the man in the doorway of the gaol was unnaturally rigid, cold amidst the warmth of old stone and luxurious vines.
No: This was not a collection of work brought together to please a father. The paper was the same, beginning to end: Each piece had been done expressly for the purpose of this book.
For what? So that Damian could come home to lay his accomplishment at the feet of a father he hoped to know? Or so he could shove his hard life and his current success into his father's face? The overkill of the book, so ornate the binding nearly overshadowed the art within, made one aware of anger in its beauty.
The book had been designed to make Holmes wince.
I closed the cover and looked at Holmes. He was slumped into the chair, outstretched ankles crossed, eyes shut. This was not the moment to address the question of filial affection.
“Do you really-” I started, but he cut me off.
“He did not anticipate liking me,” he said. “It galled him, to ask for my help, but he put his feelings aside because he loved his wife. Three days in my company changed him. I'm not certain he would have given me that book, in the end.”
“Do you think you can keep Lestrade from finding out that Damian is your son?”
“All it requires is inefficiency and misfiled information. Mycroft can arrange that.”
“I hope you know what you're doing, Holmes.”
One grey eye came open. “My dear Russell,” he said lightly, “I have been deceiving the official police since before you were born. At that art, I am the expert.”
25
the Elements. As his Guide had taught him to control the
weak, now his inner Guide led him in turning the
Elements to his divine will.
Testimony, II:6
WE TOOK OUR INNOCENT FACES TO NEW SCOTLAND Yard bright and early on Monday morning, and were only kept cooling our heels for half an hour before Lestrade came to lead us into his office.
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
“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
