Marcia Muller - The Plague of Thieves Affair

As it was, she feared that she had provoked him into fleeing the city or hiding himself so well in its darker recesses that no one could find him. In either case, she might never lay eyes on him again — a bitter prospect because it meant she’d failed in her responsibility. The one slim hope she had was his passion for the cat-and-mouse detective game, particularly a case in which he had personally involved himself. The allegedly planned attempt to steal the Marie Antoinette bag might, just might be enough to lure him back to the Rayburn Gallery, if not tonight, then on one of the subsequent evenings.

No matter what happened, she owed it to herself as well as her client to own up to her mistake and, if possible, make amends for it.

From an obsequious clerk at the desk in the Baldwin’s ornate lobby she learned that Mr. and Mrs. Roland W. Fairchild occupied room 311. The absence of a key in their room box indicated that they were in residence. She waited while a bellhop took her card upstairs, and when he returned he conducted her into a hydraulic elevator similar to the ones at the Palace and left her outside the door marked 311.

Her discreet knock was immediately answered. The large-boned woman who opened the door was approximately Sabina’s age, raven-haired, attractive in a severe and rather haughty way. No welcoming smile, merely a long appraising look out of cool gray eyes. She wore a pinch-bodice shirtwaist that accented an overlarge bosom, and a trumpet-shaped skirt that fit closely over broad hips and flared just above the knee. The hourglass figure she presented, Sabina thought, was considerably aided by a tightly laced corset.

“Mrs. Fairchild?”

“I am Octavia Fairchild, yes.” Her voice was as cool as her gaze. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected, Mrs. Carpenter.”

“No? And why is that?”

“I always thought lady detectives were a middle-aged and masculine lot. My husband didn’t tell me his was young and rather comely.”

The remark was not in any way a compliment. In fact, the reference to her being “his” lady detective was mildly insulting.

“Is Mr. Fairchild here?”

“Not at the moment, but I expect him back shortly. You may as well come in and wait.”

The sitting room was small by Baldwin standards, its windows overlooking the Powell Street cable car tracks. This coupled with the fact that it was on a lower floor and thus lacked the panoramic views of the larger rooms and suites on the upper floors, caused Sabina to revise her opinion of the Fairchilds’ financial situation. Not wealthy, just moderately well-to-do. Putting up at the Baldwin, like the expensive clothing each wore, was more a façade calculated to make their station seem loftier than an expression of good taste.

Not very graciously, Octavia Fairchild invited her to sit on a tufted red plush settee. “Have you come because you’ve located my husband’s cousin?” she asked as she lowered her corseted hips onto a matching chair.

Sabina said, “I’ve learned that he is still in San Francisco, yes. Or was last night.”

“What does that mean, pray tell?”

“It means he responded to a personals ad I placed in the newspapers and that I spoke to him briefly.”

“Why briefly?”

“Circumstances prevented a longer discussion.”

“What circumstances?” Then, when Sabina didn’t respond, “Did Charles consent to speak with my husband?”

“I told him he could be reached here at the Baldwin.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Does he intend to speak to Roland? Does he intend to return to Chicago to claim his inheritance?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask him.”

Three horizontal lines marred the smooth surface of Octavia Fairchild’s forehead. “Why not?”

“I would rather wait until your husband returns before I explain.”

“That’s not necessary. Roland and I have no secrets from each other.”

“Just the same, I’d rather wait.”

“At least tell me this,” the woman said through pursed lips. “Does Charles still retain the mad notion that he is that British detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“He should be put in an asylum. I’ve said that all along and Roland agrees with me. He’s a danger to himself and quite possibly to others.”

“I don’t agree, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“You’re not qualified to judge. You hardly know the man.”

“Nor do you. From what your husband told me, no one in your family has seen Charles in years.”

Octavia Fairchild fixed her with a gimlet eye. Sabina met and returned the gaze stoically. This silent clash of wills lasted for some fifteen seconds; then Mrs. Fairchild got abruptly to her feet and, without a word, walked to the bedroom in an exaggerated regal stride, entered, and closed the door sharply behind her.

Sabina sat with a tight curb on her temper. She hadn’t much cared for Roland W. Fairchild, and she actively disliked his wife. Among other things, the woman was artificial, overbearing, contrary, and downright rude. In short, she was what Stephen had referred to as a provider of a severe pain in the gluteus maximus.

Waiting, Sabina wondered if she might have been a little hasty in defending Charles the Third. Was he in fact a danger to others, if not to himself? She remembered the incident in October, her discovery of the body of Artemas Sneed, the scruff who had attempted to blackmail Carson Montgomery, and her surmise that it might well have been the crackbrain Sherlock who had skewered him with a sword cane. In self-defense, if so, she’d thought at the time, but it could have been otherwise — a lunatic’s premeditated act of vigilante justice. Even if she’d confronted him, Charles the Third would not have admitted to the slaying no matter what had transpired in Sneed’s waterfront lair. So there was no way for her to know one way or the other.

The sound of a key turning in the door latch heralded Roland Fairchild’s return. Sabina remained seated as he entered and closed the door behind him. When he spied her he halted, blinking, and glanced around the otherwise empty room. His surprise at finding her alone in the sitting room was obvious, as well it should be.

“Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “Ah... where is my wife?”

“In the bedroom, I believe.”

“Bedroom? Why?”

Sabina had no doubt the woman was listening behind the closed door. She said, “You’ll have to ask her, Mr. Fairchild.”

He made a vague dismissive gesture, as if his wife’s actions were of no particular consequence to him, removed his bowler hat, and seated himself in the same chair she had occupied. His attire was as natty today as it had been on Thursday, dominated this time by a Lombard houndstooth silk vest and a cravat the color of burgundy wine.

“You have news of my cousin? You’ve found him?”

“Not exactly. He is still in San Francisco, or was last evening, but I wasn’t able to find out where he’s residing.”

“Then how do you know he’s still here in the city? Did someone see him?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Where?”

“At an art gallery on Post Street. As I told your wife, I spoke to him briefly.”

“Did you tell him you know his real identity?”

“Yes.”

“Well? What did he say?”

“He refused to admit it.”

“Of course he still believes he’s Sherlock Holmes,” Fairchild said, as if he were neither surprised nor displeased at the fact. There was what Sabina took to be a hopeful note in his voice when he asked, “Is it your opinion that his delusion is such that he has completely suppressed the truth about himself?”

“For the most part, yes, though I should say he has moments of awareness.”

“He may be certifiably insane nonetheless. What was his reaction to the news of his father’s death and the inheritance awaiting him in Chicago?”