Page 27 of A Ruse of Shadows
“My dear boy, do you think it’s remotely possible that your brother would do so much, including taking Miss Bernadine hostage, merely because he’s concerned for a henchman?”
Miss Charlotte, who was more interested in the small sandwiches that had come with the tea service, had given her dinner to Lord Ingram. He sliced a spear of asparagus into several smaller morsels and looked up with a frown. “The answer should be no. But I’m not the best person, ma’am, to give you that emphatic no you were looking for. I—I still think that under the right circumstances, my brother might do someone a great favor.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart ached. She herself despised Lord Bancroft with a great purity, but for Lord Ingram, it could not be so simple. She pushed aside her plate altogether. “You’re thinking of the drawing lessons he gave you when you were younger?”
Lord Ingram’s three brothers were all much older than he. He got on the best with Lord Remington, the next youngest. The current duke, the eldest, had always been too much of a second father—and far sterner than the old duke had ever been. And Lord Bancroft, that cold fish, had never been anyone’s favorite.
But Lord Bancroft, confined to the family estate for long stretchesin his youth because the old duke didn’t want him out and about being profligate, had occasionally taken his baby brother under his wing.
Mrs. Watson, then the widowed old duke’s mistress, had spent a fair amount of time at Eastleigh Park. Lord Ingram used to show her his latest sketches and illustrations, pointing out where Lord Bancroft’s comments and examples had improved his technique and composition.
And of course it had been Lord Bancroft who had advised him to take up drawing in the first place, or at least drafting, to become a better archaeologist.
“I know the logical conclusion is that Bancroft was simply bored at Eastleigh Park,” said Lord Ingram, “and not that he was invested in me or my hobbies. One could even make the argument that he decided to be nice to me because someday I might inherit my godfather’s fortune.
“I would not dispute those theories. But it remains that I benefited greatly from the drawing lessons he gave me. And so, despite what he did later, I do not consider it out of the realm of possibility that he could do something nice for Underwood.”
Mrs. Watson touched him on the shoulder. Lord Bancroft did not deserve such tender opinions, but she could not fault Lord Ingram for seeing the best in him—it was what she admired so much about the dear young man.
He smiled at her. But when he glanced at Miss Charlotte, his eyes were troubled. “That said, do I believe that my brother is acting out of the pure goodness of his heart? No. In the search for Underwood, there must be either a gain he cannot pass up or a loss he must prevent.”
“What kind of gain? What kind of loss?” asked Mrs. Watson, both afraid and desperate to know.
He, too, set down his knife and fork. “The greatest gain, at this point, is his freedom. If there is a plot to spring him from Ravensmere, and Underwood happens to be the linchpin of the entire plan,then of course a missing Underwood must be found, or at least accounted for. As for the greatest loss, that would be his life. But do you see his life being in immediate danger, Holmes?”
Miss Charlotte took a piece of the fillet of sole that he had scarcely touched. “If my lord Bancroft doesn’t have his talisman of compromising royal letters, then maybe he ought to worry about his safety. But have you heard from anyone that those letters have exchanged hands?”
Lord Ingram shook his head. “No, and I don’t think he would have entrusted something that crucial to Underwood. Now it’s possible that Underwood knows where his money is—the money that the crown has been trying to recover. If Underwood’s disappearance means Bancroft no longer has his money, then finding Underwood also becomes a priority.”
He looked back at Mrs. Watson. “You’re disappointed, ma’am, because we have no definite answers?”
Mrs. Watson sighed inwardly. “I should be more accustomed to uncertainties, at this point. Yet because Lord Bancroft is someone we all know, I want a surer grasp on the situation.”
“If it makes you feel any better, when Holmes investigated the death at Stern Hollow, she did not eliminate me from consideration—not right away, in any case. By comparison, none of us knows Bancroftthatwell, so how can we say with any confidence his exact purpose?”
Miss Holmes had just served herself a scoop of berry fool. She did not dig into the fruit-swirled custard right away but glanced at Lord Ingram’s plate. “You haven’t eaten much.”
He smiled at her warmly, but with more than a trace of fatigue. “I’m still thinking about the situation in Paris. But don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll be back in Stern Hollow, and Cummings will feed me properly.”
To maintain his convalescent façade, he needed to make an appearance at home once in a while.
Miss Charlotte settled a hand briefly on his elbow. “Very well, then. Make sure you feast on the morrow.”
Then she turned to Mrs. Watson. “Have you made any progress, ma’am, in the search of Mr. Underwood’s boxers?”
?At quarter past two in the morning, the heat of summertime Provence had at last become gentler, like that of an oven that had baked its last loaf hours ago.
The man who lay crouched atop the roof, however, still perspired—not so much from the heat as from the height of the damned roof. He was five stories up and had absolutely no assurance that he wouldn’t slip off.
An upper-story window of the house across the street was still lit. All the other residents of the elegant boulevard had gone to bed, but this one still lingered, unable or unwilling to sleep.
Occasionally, the man on the roof thought he could make out a silhouette moving about behind the curtain.
He pulled the slingshot in his hand. The Cours Mirabeau was famous for its proportions: The town houses that lined its sides were exactly as tall as the boulevard itself was wide. He had practiced the parabolic trajectory needed for a pinecone to cover the one hundred forty feet across and knock very gently into the lit window, so gently that the sound would not be heard in any other rooms.
His first shot went wide. He swore, loaded the slingshot with another pinecone, and forced himself to wait until his pulse and breaths both slowed.
He let go. The pinecone sailing toward the window. Thankfully, the light emanating from behind the curtain was enough to show the change in the pinecone’s trajectory—it bounced off the window at an oblique angle.
