Page 31 of The Hollow of Fear
Briefly.
It was all well and good to send an ally, but this Mr. Holmes...
He was barely medium height and surprisingly portly for his age, which, despite his abundance of facial hair, couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. Notwithstanding his rotundity, he was dressed nattily, his clothes of good material and superior workmanship. In fact, there was a great deal more than nattiness here: Mr. Holmes was dressedextravagantly.
The gold-and-sapphire-striped velvet waistcoat; the complicated, multi-tiered knot of the necktie; the boutonnière of three round, bright yellow craspedia flowers arranged against the iridescent eye of a peacock feather. From his watch fob hung an enamel peacock feather that matched the real one on his lapel. As he drew his watch out to check the time, he also extracted a monocle and screwed it into the socket of his right eye—a monocle the rim of which was actually, when Mr. Walsh looked closely, a serpent eating its own tail.
In his most desperate hour, Lord Ingram had received, for his only ally, a raging dandy.
“And you are just the person I wish to see, Mr. Walsh,” said the dandy. “I will need to speak to the outdoor staff first thing tomorrow—and will depend on you to take the arrangement in hand. But tonight, the indoor staff are my object.
“You will please send me, one by one, those who have already spoken to the police. Any lists you have of their names, ages, positions, et cetera, would be profoundly appreciated. I shall need to borrow a corner of the domestic offices, preferably a quiet and secluded one, to conduct these interviews. And if Mrs. Sanborn would kindly make ready a room on the nursery floor, so I will be out of the other guests’ way, she would have my eternal gratitude.”
Mr. Walsh blinked again. “Would that be all, Mr. Holmes?”
“I should like to take a quick look at his lordship’s and her ladyship’s apartments before I speak with your underlings. Would you be able to accompany me there?”
Mr. Walsh hesitated.
“Is Lord Ingram speaking to the police at the moment?” inquired Mr. Holmes.
“Yes.”
“If you need to, please ask him right now whether he will permit me into his rooms. Otherwise time is of the essence.”
Mr. Walsh acquiesced. The tour of Lord Ingram’s rooms was quick. That through Lady Ingram’s, even quicker.
When Mr. Holmes had taken a seat at Mr. Walsh’s desk and poured himself a cup of tea, he said, “By the way, even though Her Grace is more than capable of holding her own with His Grace, there’s no need to mention my presence to him or anyone he sends.”
“How should I tell the rest of the staff who you are, then?”
“You may say that I am a friend of Lord Ingram’s, here to do a friend’s duty.”
He smiled as he spoke, a rather ironic smile at that, but his tone was firm to the point of severity. Mr. Walsh took note: Mr. Holmes’s arrival in Stern Hollow was not to be breathed to anyone from Eastleigh Park.
“Do you think, Mr. Holmes, that anything we do can be of the slightest help to Lord Ingram?”
The question wiped the smile from Mr. Holmes’s face. He sighed. “It is not a good situation, Mr. Walsh. There will not be any direct evidence linking Lord Ingram to Lady Ingram’s death, but circumstantial evidence will be profuse and, almost without exception, unfavorable.”
Mr. Walsh swallowed.
Mr. Holmes looked him squarely in the eye. “But I am here now. And I am his last, best hope.”
8
It waseleven o’clock at night when Charlotte finished speaking to the last of the indoor staff. She jotted down a few notes from the final interview and looked over the list of men and women to whom she had spoken.
Normally she wouldn’t need notes. But normally she did not meet forty strangers in a row.
A knock came at the door. “Enter,” she said, expecting Mr. Walsh, back to conduct her to her room.
Lord Ingram walked in. He looked drained. But as he saw her, a glimmer of light returned to his eyes.
She leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her chest, her elbows resting comfortably upon the padding that formed Sherrinford Holmes’s paunch. “Hullo, Ash.”
“I thought I heard the sound of cake disappearing from the—” He glanced at the tea tray, back at her, then at the tea tray again. “What is this? Did Mr. Walsh replenish the cake plates recently—or did you not touch anything?”
Sweet things placed before her usually disappeared: Hunger wasn’t necessary; cake tasted just as good accompanied by preoccupation, concern, or even boredom. The moment she’d read Livia’s letter, however, it was as if her stomach had turned into stone. The refreshments Mr. Walsh had laid out might as well have been made of wax, for all the interest they stirred in her.
