“Yet they separated for large parts of the years between 1906 and 1912. What would have caused that if not marital discord? A child's health? Some threat here in California?”

“Threat from what?”

“In June 1906 your father also wrote the codicil to the will specifying that the house be closed to outsiders. Two months following the fire.”

“I imagine a catastrophe of those proportions would have caused many people to add codicils to their wills.”

“And two months following some incident that caused a shift in the relationship between your father and Micah Long.”

“Again, the experience of the fire itself could have done that. Or even Long's guilt and resentment that he had been seeing to the safety of my family when his own family was driven from their home and nearly killed.”

“That is true enough,” he conceded. He thought for a minute then asked, “And over the following years, whenever your father came to England, how did your parents seem?”

Russell looked uncomfortable at this autopsy of a marriage. “They seemed . . . normal. Well, when he first arrived we would all be somewhat stiff and formal. But within a few days everything would be fine. And Mother was always very sad when he left again.”

“So why leave, and so suddenly?” Holmes asked, but he was only musing aloud, not asking her.

“I was at school,” Russell said suddenly, as if a memory had been startled from her. “I came home from school one afternoon and found her throwing things into bags and telling me we had to go. I'd finished my exams, but I didn't even have a chance to say good-bye to my friends. I had to write home to Father from New York and ask him to send certain books I'd forgotten in the rush. I always assumed it was because they'd discovered the house wasn't safe to live in.”

“There was damage, but less than some of the neighbouring houses withstood. I think it more likely that the cause lay in some threat. Possibly linked to the happenings in the fire.”

“‘Possibly' this, ‘theoretically' that—you keep harping on some mysterious event of a criminal nature, Holmes. What sort of a crime are you imagining?”

“That I have yet to discover,” Holmes said calmly.

“Or even if there was one.” She rose and said coldly, “Holmes, I have things to do. I shall be out with Flo until late, so don't wait up for me. And please, I beg you, find something to keep yourself busy. This stirring about in my past is becoming a vexation.”

She walked away; he sat with his pipe, watching her retreat with hooded eyes.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven