Moon shook his head in bemusement. “What the devil will I do with this?”
“I like your friends,” Charlotte said playfully as they walked inside. “They’re… unusual.”
They went directly to Moon’s suite where Mrs. Grossmith was waiting for them, her gangly beau by her side.
“There’s a visitor here to see you,” she said. “He’s been waiting for almost an hour.”
“I’ve just seen him,” Moon said briskly. “Mr. Speight, yes?”
Mrs. Grossmith sniffed. “I wouldn’t let that one in if he tried. No, this is quite another class of gentleman. The inspector.”
Moon turned to his sister. “What were you saying about my friends?” he asked, and, as if on cue, Merryweather barreled into the room, accompanied by peals of laughter, the kind one usually hears only upon feeding pennies into seaside mannequins. The Somnambulist strolled beside him; both men had half-empty glasses of milk in their hands.
“Well, well,” the inspector said, once the handshakes and introductions were over, “this is an improvement on your old lodgings and no mistake.”
“I loathe it,” Moon said evenly.
“What’s that sign you’re carrying? Looks familiar.”
“I doubt it’s important.” Moon propped the placard up beside the door. “So, is this purely a social call?”
“No such luck,” the inspector said ruefully. “You remember the Honeyman case?”
“Of course.”
“Seems I owe you an apology. You were right, Mr. Moon, and I was wrong. It’s not quite as finished as I’d thought.”
Moon was suddenly alert. “What’s happened?”
“The boy’s mother…”
“Tell me.”
Merryweather cleared his throat. “It’s Mrs. Honeyman,” he said. “She’s disappeared.”
Chapter 13
Mrs. Grossmith bent over the kitchen sink and busied herself with the final dishes of the day, soapsuds swilling greasily about her wrists. With uncharacteristic stealth, Arthur Barge crept in behind her and nestled himself snugly against her amply proportioned frame. Silently he stroked her sagging cheeks, smoothed away a stray strand of iron-gray hair and entwined his wrinkled hands with hers. She said nothing but he could feel her beneath him, trembling and pulsating with secret pleasure. Awkward, graceless, out of practice from years of bachelorhood, he tried to maneuver his mouth around to meet hers. Grossmith made a perfunctory effort to shoo him away, muttering something about the washing-up, but soon allowed herself to be silenced by his ardor, his lips, his plunging, delving tongue.
Hesitant at first, wary, but growing in confidence and vigor, they came blissfully together. Locked in an embrace, they kissed long and hard, resembling two antediluvian lizards mating for the final time on the blasted plains of primeval Africa.
This at least was the colorful image which sprang unbidden to the mind of Charlotte Moon as she stood and watched them from the doorway. She cleared her throat as noisily as she could and, like characters in a farce, the couple sprang apart. Bashful and flustered, Mrs. Grossmith’s cheeks flamed a hectic shade of red, but Barge just stood there dumbly, a smirk flickering across his face, like a schoolboy whose embarrassment is mostly feigned, a child perversely proud to be discovered in the midst of impropriety.
“Mrs. Grossmith,” Charlotte said icily. “So sorry to interrupt.”
“Forgive me, miss.” The housekeeper smoothed down her skirt and fumbled an awkward curtsey. “I thought you’d gone out, with your brother and the policeman.”
Charlotte ignored the question. “Why are you washing dishes? Surely that’s up to the hotel staff?”
“Mr. Moon is my responsibility. I like to look after him the best I can.”
Charlotte passed her a folded slip of paper. “Will you make sure my brother gets this?”
“You’re leaving us?” The housekeeper didn’t sound especially disappointed at the prospect. “Can’t you stay an hour or so? Mr. Moon will be back soon and I’m sure he’d like to say goodbye himself.”
“It’s best I go now.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Quite.”
“Can I ask you something?” Mrs. Grossmith paused uncertainly. “In all the years I have been in his employ, he has never once mentioned you. I don’t mean to pry but-”
“You want to know why?”
“Suppose I do.”
“My brother and I have an unusual relationship. If we spend too long together,
“No, dear. Frankly, I don’t.”
“Believe me, it’s for the best we stay apart.” Charlotte turned toward the door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Grossmith. Mr. Barge.”
Arthur gave a gawky wave of farewell and Charlotte stalked from the room.
“Strange little girl, isn’t she?”
“Can’t say as I noticed,” Barge said. “I was looking at the other lady in the room. The one that has my heart.” He reached out to touch her but Grossmith brushed him firmly aside.
“Later,” she said, stowing Charlotte’s message discreetly in the sleeve of her pinafore. “There’s plenty more pots need scrubbing before bedtime.”
Mr. Honeyman was almost exactly as Moon remembered him — a stubborn, gray-skinned man, permanently harassed. He seemed rather bolder on this occasion, due perhaps to the absence of the gorgon who passed as his wife.
Moon and Merryweather had barely been ushered in before the man started to complain: “I believe I insisted on seeing an official investigator,” he barked, glaring at Moon.
Merryweather did his best to placate him. “I can vouch for his trustworthiness, sir. He’s helped me out on more occasions than I care to remember and I don’t mind admitting there’s a goodly number of villains behind bars today who’d still be out and fancy free if it weren’t for his assistance.”
“Is that so?” Honeyman snapped sarcastically. “I haven’t allowed you into my home, Inspector, so you can stand here and eulogize this amateur. Besides, my understanding is that since that deplorable incident in Clapham, Mr. Moon is no longer considered quite as infallible as he once was.”
“My apologies,” the inspector said gently and changed the subject. “I’ve no wish to hurry you, sir, but could you tell us a little more about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance? Try to remember as much as you can. Anything might prove important. What may seem an insignificant detail to you, sir, could be a vital clue to the trained eye of a policeman.”
“I woke early in the morning,” the man said stiffly, “at around six, as is my habit. Often walk the grounds, you understand. Admire my fish. And she’d gone. It was as simple as that. Taken a suitcase with her and just upped stumps. None of the servants saw her go.”
“You think she chose to leave?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“The suitcase would seem to rule out abduction. Don’t you think so, Mr. Moon?”
The conjuror yawned, bored by the predictable plod of police procedure.
“Mr. Honeyman,” Merryweather persisted, “do you have any idea where your wife might have gone?”
“None. Her whole life was here. I’m worried she might have done something… unnecessary.”
“You’ll forgive me,” Moon said acerbically, “but when I last met your wife she hardly struck me as the kind of
