Laurie King Mary Russel 06 Justice Hall (v1.0) [lit]

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Ivo had been in a position to watch Gabriel, and indeed to nudge him from one
place to another, although there was no immediate indication that he had done
so, nor was there any sign of an impromptu trip out of Paris in the early
hours of August the third.
The records, however, were both voluminous and ill-organised for our
purposes. Five years after Armistice, clerks were still filing, and there was
nothing to say that another Hughenfort had not been in the wings, a South
African son of Philip Peter, say, or the Australian Ralph.
The key element in Gabriel s death, the letter that had driven the nail into
his coffin, had been the letter from Haig confirming the divisional
commander s sentence of death. That, too, had vanished along with Gabriel s
records, and copies of either letter had yet to come to light.
I ve an appointment with Haig himself tomorrow morning, Mycroft said. I
cannot imagine he will have forgot a letter such as that.
I wished I had his faith in the memory, and the sense of moral
responsibility, of the commanding officer in question. Still, if the man knew
anything about the condemnatory letter, Mycroft was better suited to prise it
out of him than any person I knew.
Except, perhaps, one other.
Have we heard any news of Mah Marsh, I mean to say?
I took advantage of Mycroft s offices this afternoon to place a trunk call
to Justice, Holmes replied. He is having a bad time of it, with some
blood-poisoning in one arm, but he retains sufficient strength for his voice
to be heard from across the room and down the telephone, demanding that we
report to Justice Hall without delay or else he will come after us and take
matters into his own hands. I quote.
Sounds like he s better. Now, do you wish to know who Gabriel s VAD friend
was?
They did, and I described how I had traced Philippa Helen O Meary through the
dusty papers of the VAD. As with most aspects of an investigation, the telling
took considerably less time than the doing, and lacked any shred of the
dramatic.
At the end of my recitation, Canada seemed farther away than ever.
I shall write to her immediately, I concluded. Or, as soon as I can
compose a letter. How exactly does one ask a complete stranger, Were you once
in love with a young soldier, and did he leave you any letters that might
incriminate those who arranged his death? It is not going to be an easy
letter to write.
I stared into the fire for a minute or so, turning over phrases in my mind,
before I slowly became aware that I was seated within a fairly ringing
silence. I looked up, and found the two Holmes brothers engaged in a wordless
conversation over my head. My husband broke it off first, to lower his gaze to
mine.
Russell, he said. At the first touch of that gentle, affectionate voice, I
nearly leapt to my feet and planted my back against the nearest wall: When
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Holmes stoops to wheedle, God help us all. My dear Russell, how right you
are. As always. This is precisely the sort of sensitive query that demands a
more personal touch.
What do you mean? I asked, bristling with suspicion while trying to see
from which direction the threat was coming.
Why, Russell, I am merely agreeing with you. It would indeed be an excellent
idea to confront this O Meary woman to her face when you ask for the return of
Gabriel s letters.
Now I really was on my feet. Oh, no. Cross the Atlantic and half of America
to ask some woman if a British soldier had once confided in her? In November?
Are you mad? No. Absolutely not.
There s a boat for New York that sails tomorrow afternoon, Mycroft noted,
studying his fingernails.
Don t be absurd. I m not going anywhere. Except perhaps Oxford. Yes, I
declared, warming to my theme, I think I ll take the train up to Oxford and
get back to work on my paper. You two can continue to hunt down your red-tab
major if you like, but as far as I m concerned, Marsh Hughenfort can accept
that nice boy Thomas as his heir and hie off back to Palestine. You identify
who set Gabriel up, the child will be safe, Marsh and Alistair can go back to
their tents, I can go back to my books and Holmes to his beehives. How happy
we all will be.
You can write your paper on the boat, Holmes told me. You re always
complaining that you never have the leisure to work properly. You ll be in New
York by the middle of the week, take the train to Toronto Thursday or Friday,
and be back on board by the Monday sailing. Two weeks, total, to solve our
case. Maybe three.
You go. I felt like a rat cornered by two determined terriers; I was not
going down without a fight.
And I did not. Go without a fight, that is, although in the end, go I did,
and on the Friday boat as Mycroft had said. With hastily packed trunks holding
clothes scavenged from my flat and Mycroft s guest-room cupboards, and bearing
only the most rudimentary books to keep this fool s journey from being an
utter waste of time, I was flung onto the ship as by a tornado, the gang-way
pulling back almost as soon as I had cleared it. I stood on the vibrating deck
to watch England retreat into the fog, knowing that I should be very lucky if
this exercise in futility were to cost me only three weeks. I put together a
complicated Arabic curse worthy of Ali and gave it to the wind; feeling
somewhat better, I went below to find my rooms.
As I was shaking my head at the peculiar selection of out-of-date and
unseasonable clothing I had at my disposal, and wondering if I might slip
beneath the ship s social eye by keeping to my cabin at meal-times, a
rapid-fire knock sounded at my door. If that was a purser bearing propitiatory
flowers from Holmes, I swore under my breath, he d be fortunate to escape with
his head on his shoulders. I went back through the rooms, yanked open the
door, and felt as if I d walked into a solid wall.
It was not a purser, flowers or no. Nor a maid, nor a first officer welcoming
me on board, nor a boy with a telegram, nor any of the dozen other likely
candidates for disturbing me. It was not even Holmes, whose capacity for
appearing where he could not possibly be was unparalleled in human experience.
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Standing in the corridor was Iris Sutherland.
Hallo, Mary. I see by your face that the news I was coming along did not
reach you.
It most certainly did not.
Hardly surprising I didn t know myself until about six hours ago, and there
was some question I d actually make it. You going to invite me in?
Of course, please. Sorry it just surprised me so. But it s an absolute joy
to see you.
And it was. Suddenly this voyage, and the arduous land journey at the end of
it, did not seem so much of a burden on my soul.
My, my, she was saying. This is posh. They ve stuck me into a broom closet
seventeen levels below the water-line, said they d try for something with air
when they got sorted out.
My own arrival was nearly as hastily arranged, but either Mycroft s strings
or my own cheque-book had kicked me upstairs.
I ll have a word with the captain, I told her.
Don t bother, I already have. Using Marsh s name, Iris added, with a look
of mischief. Yes: The knowledge that they had placed a Hughenfort in steerage
would set the feathers flying, all right.
I laughed. The next knock on the door will be some gentleman with a lot of
gold braid telling me ever so apologetically that a mistake s been made, that [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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