travel. Mr Lofte now holds the record.”
“Won a tenner, too,” our Twentieth-Century Mercury murmured. “ Harrison bet me I couldn't do it in under eight days. My partner in Shanghai,” he explained.
Holmes resumed the photograph, tilting it for me when I looked over his arm.
“My reporter friend became interested in Hayden a year ago when he heard a rumour that the good Reverend was quietly selling up church holdings-several buildings, in good parts of town, a lot of stocks and valuables that members had donated for charitable works which somehow didn't come to fruition. There were also rumours of darker doings, several deaths among his congregation. The photo was taken the tenth of September last year; the next day, the Reverend was on a boat for England. The reporter reckons various officials were paid off, not to notice. Hayden won't be prosecuted, but on the other hand, he won't be welcomed back.”
Hayden's image was quite clear, despite having been taken across a busy street. The man, strong in body and haughty in manner, was dressed in a beautifully cut summer-weight suit and a shirt with an ordinary soft collar and neck-tie. He had his straw hat in his hand as he prepared to climb into a car waiting at the kerb. Something must have caught his attention, because he was turned slightly, face-on to the camera. He looked vaguely familiar, although I had only seen the back of his head, so far as I knew. His eyes were dark and compelling, his mouth full, his hair sleek and black. And his left eye was elongated by a stripe of darker skin, a scar like the tail of a comet. Like the reappearing shape of the Children of Lights.
Holmes passed it over to Mycroft. “We need copies.”
“Certainly. Lofte, did you have anything else for us?”
“A few clippings about the church, but that's it.”
I shifted, and three pairs of eyes turned to me. Not that I wished to be greedy, however: “The Adlers have a child. Estelle. Did you come upon any birth record for her?”
Lofte's tired face sagged with remorse. “I was told to investigate the background of Damian Adler's wife, Yolanda, at all haste. I interpreted that to mean her background before their marriage. I did not pursue copies of their marriage certificate, or their current bank accounts, or the child's papers. I can get that information in a day, if you need it.”
“The only urgent piece of information we need is, did she have another child, after Dorothy Hayden in 1913 but before she married Damian?”
“I was working at speed and may have missed some details. To be honest, I don't know if I would have caught sight of another child, had there been one.”
“That's all right. Thank you.”
Mycroft rose. “We shall turn you free to sleep the sleep of the righteous. You have a room?”
“The Travellers' will have one.” He stood, a trifle stiffly, and shook hands all around. Mycroft led him to the door, but Holmes interrupted.
“Lofte?” The man turned to look back. “Altogether, a most impressive feat.”
The younger man's face was transformed by a sudden grin. “It was, wasn't it?” he said, and left.
When Mycroft came back, he was not carrying the photograph.
35
evil. A man born twice sees good and evil, within and
without. Very few achieve a third birth: birth into divinity,
knowing that good and evil are not opposing forces, but
intertwining gifts that together make the burning heart of
Power. A third-born man is little less than the angels. A
third-born man is the image of God.
Testimony, III:8
MYCROFT CLEARED AWAY THE EMPTY PLATTER and the glasses, and returned with an antique-looking bottle and smaller glasses. Having cocoa and red wine already arguing in my stomach, I turned down his offer.
“I've been saving this for you to try,” Mycroft told his brother. “I'd have brought it out for Mr Lofte, but I judged that in his condition, strong drink might render him unconscious.” The two men sipped and made appreciative noises and traded opinions on districts and pre-war (pre-Boer war) vintages before my ostentatious glance at my wrist-watch returned us to the task at hand.
“I had two more telephone calls from Lestrade today,” Mycroft said. “On the first, he informed me that he had, in fact, put out arrest warrants for both of you. On the second, he asked if you had fled the country with Damian Adler.”
“Has Damian fled the country?” I asked.
“So far as I could determine, Lestrade's evidence consists of Scotland Yard's inability to find him. So, Sherlock, what have you found for us amongst the primitive monuments?”
Holmes pulled a travel-stained rucksack out from under his chair, undoing the buckle and upending its contents onto the low table: three large and lumpy manila envelopes, their ties securely fastened.
Mycroft went to his desk for a stack of white paper, while Holmes picked up the first envelope and undid the tie, pulling out six sealed standard-sized envelopes of varying lumpiness.
One by one he slit the ends, shaking the contents of each onto a fresh sheet of paper: sandy soil in one; a coin in the next; two burnt matches; a handful of leaves and blades of grass, each stained with what could only be blood; four tiny, dark lumps that looked like pebbles; two different shoe-prints on butcher's paper, from a woman's heeled shoe and a larger man's boot, taken from the plaster casts Holmes had made, inked, and abandoned at the site-plaster casts make for a considerable weight to carry about the countryside.
When the six sheets were displaying their wares, he waited for us to look at them more closely, then began to return the objects to their envelopes. I picked up one of the pebbles, and found it softer than rock. Wax, perhaps. Or-gristle from a picnic lunch? Yes, I had seen their like before.
The second large envelope used four sheets of paper: one for grass with the same stains, one for a piece of cotton cording not more than half an inch long, and a third for a pinch of bi-coloured sand, light and dark brown. The fourth appeared to have nothing on it, except I had watched Holmes upend the envelope with great care. He handed me his powerful magnifying glass; I got to my knees for a closer look, and saw two tiny objects approximately the colour of the paper, little larger than thick eye-lashes. Like finger-nail clippings, without the curve.
With care, I slid the paper across the table to Mycroft and gave him the glass. When we had finished, Holmes packed this manila envelope away, and reached for the third.
This was the thickest, and its contents were similar to that of the others: spattered grass; twists of paper containing three different samples of soil, one of them pure sand; four identical wooden matches; a chewing-gum wrapper; six cigarette ends, none of them the same and two with lipstick stains, pink-red in one case and slightly orange in the other; half a dozen of the soft pebbles; a boot-print that apppeared identical to that in the first envelope; one white thread and the twig that had caught and pulled it; and a final object that Holmes had wrapped first in cotton wool, then in Friday's
“This is from a remote site in the Yorkshire Moors, a stone circle known as the High Bridestones. Albert Seaforth chose it as a place to commit suicide. I found it interesting that, after slitting his wrists, he drove the blade into the soil to clean it.”
“He was found with a knife in his hand,” I said. “The blade was bloody, his fingers were not. The blade was not this shape.”
Holmes said, “The hilt left an oval impression on the ground, with the slit in the centre. You can see where the
