“Millicent Dunworthy was hired in December, to do a few hours of secretarial work-I didn't know that because her ledger only went back to January, and she seems to have become a convert to the Children by then. With both her and Gunderson, I should say their chief job was to function as Brothers' face. He hid behind one or the other of them for most of his transactions, from constructing a false identity to hiring a meeting hall.”
“Purchasing clothing for Yolanda Adler,” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes-someone will have to question Millicent Dunworthy. Now, Damian didn't get here until January, when-”
“December. They were here before Christmas.”
“Really? He claimed they passed us off the coast of France.”
“He told me that as well, but in fact, their ship docked on the twentieth of December. I check such things, as a matter of course.”
“You knew he was lying from the beginning?”
“A man may have any number of reasons for telling a lie. In this case, I assumed it took him some time to muster his courage and approach his father. Later, when it turned out he had delayed too long, he was embarrassed to admit it.”
“I suppose so.” I drank more coffee, and realised that although the morning was overcast, my mood was sunny. The relief of thinking that Holmes was right and Damian was an innocent made for a rising bubble of optimism.
“Do you not wish to talk to Lestrade about this?” Mycroft asked me.
I sighed. “What do you think Holmes would want?”
“My brother would give nothing to Scotland Yard until he felt his case to be safe from their meddling.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“However, in his absence-”
“No, we'll go along with that until he deigns to raise his head. In which case, I think I had better change my plan for today and go to Sussex.”
“Is there something I can do for you here, Mary?”
“Well, we need to find Brothers' home. He didn't live in that mausoleum of a place behind walls. He and Gunderson used to meet on Chalton Street, between Euston and Phoenix roads.”
He gave me a look.
“I know,” I said. “Three train stations and six lines of the Underground to be had in five minutes' walk. Still-”
“-it has to be done,” he finished my sentence. “I shall put a man on it.”
“He has to be discreet.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, of course you know that. Thank you. Tell Mrs Cowper I'm not sure if I'll make it back in time for dinner.”
When I was ready, Mycroft let me out through the pivoting bookcase in his study, showed me where the candles and matches were, and told me how to work the locking mechanism from the other end. The odour of honey from the bees-wax carried me through a dim, narrow labyrinth; I came out well clear of any of Lestrade's men.
Many long hours later, I extinguished the candles and stepped back through the bookcase into the study. Mycroft spoke when I entered the sitting room, although he sat with his back to me.
“I should think you need a glass of wine. I opened one of Sherlock's bottles, if that appeals.”
“No,” I said, then modified the sharp response to, “I feel I've had a surfeit of honey, between one thing and another.”
“A nice Bordeaux, then,” he said mildly and handed me a full glass. I dropped the parcel I carried onto the table, and looked without enthusiasm at the plate he set in front of me: Mrs Cowper's cooking was not improved by two hours in a warming oven.
“Not just now, thanks,” I told him. “But, in case Lestrade decides to raid your flat looking for me, perhaps you should lock up that envelope. It contains everything I could find at home that might suggest a link between Holmes and Damian.”
When I'd got to Sussex that morning, I found that the police had been to our house, and been stoutly repelled by Mrs Hudson. However, if this went on for much longer, they would return, this time with the authority to conduct a search. Now, they were welcome to do so.
Mycroft picked up the parcel to take it away, but I said, “There is a biscuit wrapper in there. It might be best to give that to a laboratory, for the finger-prints.”
Mycroft nodded, and took the evidence to his study, coming back empty-handed.
“Anything from Holmes?”
He scooped up a letter from the side-board as he passed. It was addressed to him, in Holmes' writing, but opened without salutation and in an almost telegraphic brevity.
Wednesday, 21st
The death of Fiona Cartwright at Cerne Abbas was murder, not suicide. Details when I see you.
Poole employment agency describes Smythe as a middle-aged man wearing a good suit, dark hair and eyes, well spoken, a scar beside his left eye. No record of the company he claimed to represent.
Tourist charabanc to Salisbury and Stonehenge leaves in two minutes, I have bribed the conductor to begin with the latter. Have already been informed twice that I look like Sherlock Holmes. Kindly pray I do not have to ask you to stand me bail for murdering a visitor to Olde England.
S
When I had finished laughing, Mycroft handed me an actual telegram:
TO CUMBRIA AFTER DEAD RAM STOP WILL NEED INFORMATION REGARDING ALBERT SEAFORTH OF YORK FOUND DEAD THURSDAY LAST STOP
“How does Holmes intend to get this information from us?” I wondered.
“I took the otherwise unnecessary ‘will’ in the telegram to indicate that he would need it at some point, although not immediately.”
“You're probably right. Still, it would be nice to let him know that Lestrade's on the war-path, so he can keep his head down.”
“Sherlock tends to keep his head down in any event. I was pleased to find that you made it through the day without having hand-cuffs dropped around your wrists. Lestrade has telephoned twice more today. He sounded increasingly vexed.”
“I'll ring him from a public box tomorrow, and see if I can placate him. I take it your man didn't locate Brothers, or Smythe, or whoever he is?”
“Several shop-keepers and residents thought the description sounded familiar, but without a photograph, or even a drawing, there is little to trigger memory. He will continue tomorrow, further afield.”
“I had no better luck today.”
I had gone immediately home, where I had offended Mrs Hudson for a third time by being unwilling to settle to a conversation or take a meal. I got what I needed and left, but no taxi driver or railway employee recognised either my photograph of Yolanda Adler or the vague description of a black-haired man with a scar next to his eye.
“However, I'm interpreting the lack of response as a positive negative: If Yolanda Adler took a train to Sussex last week, someone would have remembered her,” I told Mycroft. “And Gunderson said his boss had driven the motor some time between Thursday night and Monday morning. He didn't notice the mileage, but he said it was nothing unusual for The Reverend to drive himself. I wonder if Lestrade has got any more out of him than I did?”
“The ears I have within Scotland Yard tell me no, that Gunderson is just a hireling. If he knew where Brothers and Damian had gone, he would give them up in hopes of winning some points for himself.”
“They're not letting Gunderson go, are they?”
“Indications are that they will hold him, if for nothing else than the gun. Scotland Yard does not approve of felons with guns. I imagine, however, that he will have given Lestrade an adequate description of the Amazon who trussed him and poked holes in his epidermis.”
“Lestrade will be steaming,” I said with regret. “Apart from the search for Brothers' house, have you had any results?”
He had, clearly, been waiting for me to ask: He had been busy that day, and between what his “ears” at Scotland Yard had passed on, and what his own operative had been set to find, he had quite a bit. Reverend Thomas Brothers, newly born in November 1923, had a British passport under that name, issued four weeks later, and a sizeable bank account. His man was tracing the deposits and cheques written, but the preliminary report was that Brothers was inordinately fond of cash, even when it came to large amounts. Brothers either had a laden safe, or another account that received systematic deposits of bank notes.