Chapter Five

"Mister Archard."

"Mister Crombie."

The temperature of the air around our little gathering goes from hellish heat wave to dead of winter – except for the air between Simon and Crombie, which seems to waver with intense heat. Thepolous, who is standing forgotten against the wall, looks absolutely mortified. No, mortified doesn't describe it. He looks like he's wishing hard for the ground to open up and swallow him.

Simon regards Crombie with an expression of annoyance and disdain. Crombie's face is a picture of naked hatred and contempt. Charity Wyndham, I notice, is looking apologetically at me. I return her look in kind. Though I do not know her well, I know her enough to understand that we are in more or less the same situation, both charged with the duty of reining in our respective partners' faults – and it seems hopeless to try and perform that duty now.

The two men have been silently glowering at one another for a few very uncomfortable seconds now. Crombie lifts his chin haughtily. "What," he says venomously, "are you doing here?"

"Investigating a robbery," Simon replies in a surprisingly normal, conversational tone of voice – which, nonetheless, seems to make Crombie more upset than he already is.

"I have already conducted an investigation," Crombie informs him with a sneer.

"The Commissioner requested that I come here and assist him. I do not think you can object to that, since you are on your way out…" Simon moves aside (I automatically follow him), bows with the slightest bit of exaggeration and gestures for Crombie to pass him.

It is not Simon's habit to back down from a verbal duel with anyone, so I find his behaviour rather confusing. Crombie, judging by his livid colour, is positively infuriated. Fortunately Charity Wyndham prevents any violence from breaking out by putting a restraining hand on his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. She meets the frown he directs at her with a gentle but firm look. For a moment the two seem to be engaged in a silent argument; then Crombie turns to Simon again, this time making a better effort to control himself.

"Very well," he says curtly. His tone of voice still leaves a lot to be desired, but it does not bite as it did before. With that, Crombie storms past and deliberately refuses to meet Simon's gaze. Charity glides along behind him, and shoots me a brief, relieved smile as she goes by. I nod to her. I wish I could handle Simon that well!

When they are gone Simon turns to Theopolous once again. The Commissioner still looks terribly embarrassed, although not so much as he was before. "Shall we?" Simon says, indicating the stairs at the end of the hall with his cane.

Theopolous quickly regains his composure, and clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, let's be on our way." He takes the lead once more, brings us up the stairs and down another hallway to what remains of Lady Verinder's bedchamber and sitting room – which are as much of a wreck as the Museum Obscura was yesterday. He quickly excuses himself to speak to the Verinders and departs, leaving Simon and I by ourselves.

"Why did you do that with Crombie?" I ask as soon as Theopolous is out of earshot.

"Do what?" Simon makes a slow circuit of the sitting room, looking carefully at splintered chairs and a ripped sofa.

"I thought you were going to try to put him in his place," I say. "That's what you usually do – even when it isn't necessary. What you did just now seemed very unlike you."

"Ah, but I did," Simon replies. "Iain Crombie seems to think that he can prove himself my equal by drawing me into an argument with him. I shall not give him the satisfaction."

So it wasn't unlike you, after all. I smile. "I suppose I should feel flattered, then."

Simon looks up from his contemplation of a shattered vase. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you let me draw you into arguments all the time."

He seems amused by that. "That is because you argue with me only to prove a point, not to prove yourself. But since I respect such straightforwardness, you may continue to feel flattered, if you wish."

I would tease him for going against his character by professing to have even a little respect for me, but his remark about straightforwardness reminds me of what I am concealing from him. My good mood is nipped in the bud. Instead of replying to him – for I cannot bring myself to respond as I normally would – I start looking around the room myself, although I have no idea what would constitute a significant detail under these circumstances.

We find no significant clues in Lady Verinder's chambers, or in those of her daughters. Nor do we find out anything new when we question the women themselves – except that it is Lord Verinder, not his wife and daughters, who favours Crombie over Simon. The ladies are quite willing to cooperate, while Lord Verinder, though he makes no overt objection to their doing so, glowers quietly at us all the while. When Simon concludes by giving him a business card, Lord Verinder takes it in the same brusque and reluctant way that Helena Romanelli did the day before.

We have at least made one significant observation, or so we hope: while the gargoyles that robbed the Museum Obscura killed Brother Mallory, the ones that robbed the mansion did not go out of their way to harm Lady Verinder and her daughters. Simon says that may just be because the ladies got out of the way in time, and Brother Mallory did not, but he can think of a few other possible reasons for this discrepancy. Unfortunately he has no reason as yet to favour any one of those possibilities over the rest, which means that no amount of questioning, cajoling or badgering will convince him to disclose said possibilities to me.

Judging by the look on Simon's face when we ride back from the Verinders' to the Residence, he has not found anything else though his efforts, or at least anything he didn't anticipate finding. But he had other plans for investigating the case even before we got word of these new incidents – so perhaps coming up empty-handed will not be so bad for him.

The constable lets us off near the front entrance of the Residence. A familiar boy sitting on the steps catches my eye – Cecil, with his pet monkey Jennifer sitting in his lap. He straightens up and grins at me as I approach. Jenny squeaks and raises a hand in greeting.

Simon joins us as soon as he has bid farewell to the constable – policemen are included on the short list of people he considers worthy of politeness. Jenny eeks at him and scrambles onto Cecil's shoulder as the boy stands up. "Afternoon, boss, Miz Emma," he says, making a gesture that falls somewhere between a salute and a tug of his hat-brim. "I gots some intrestin' news from Bartlesby."

"Inside." The word is not a command so much as a strong suggestion. In one smooth motion Simon takes his ring of keys from a coat pocket, unlocks the front door and pulls it open. He gestures for Cecil and myself to enter. As soon as we get inside, Jenny jumps off Cecil's shoulder, runs to the stairs and proceeds to amuse herself by scampering up and down them.

"She won't run off, will she?" I ask Cecil. Simon will be very displeased if we have to chase Cecil's pet monkey through the Residence – especially since Jenny has a habit of pilfering things.

Cecil shakes his head vigorously. "Naw, Miz Emma, she'll stay close by. She just likes dem big stairs an' all."

Jennifer eeks in agreement as she slides down one of the banisters.

Simon, having closed and locked the front door, turns to Cecil. "Now then – what message do you have from Bartlesby?" he asks. Despite Cecil's assurances, which he surely must have heard, Simon appears to be keeping an eye on the frolicking Jenny.

"E's been followin' dat Crombie so-"

I clear my throat loudly and shoot Cecil a warning look.

The boy looks at me and reddens. "pologies, Miz Emma," he says with a humble bob of his head. He turns back to Simon. "Anyways, e's been following Crombie like ya said to," Cecil finishes. "E went to the Adelphi 'bout twelve-thirty, stayed till one. Dunno what 'e was doin' there…"

"I do," Simon says gravely. I'm sure I know, too, and the implications are troubling, to say the least. "Where did he go after that?"

"Back to 'is office, boss. E's still there, far as I know."

Simon nods. "Anything else?" he asks.

Cecil shrugs. "Dat's all, boss. Bartlesby is still keepin' an eye on 'im, though. If ya don't mind my askin'…"

"I'm afraid I do mind," Simon tells him.

"Oh." Cecil looks apologetic. "Sorry. Just curious."

Simon nods. "Keep a watch on him, and report back to me this evening." He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a few shillings, which he gives to Cecil. "If he goes back to the hotel, or any of the other places I mentioned, tell me immediately."

"Yessir." Cecil pockets the coins and turns to face the stairs. "Oy, Jenny! Time to go!"

Jenny, who was gleefully sliding down the banister, stops abruptly to look at her young master, then jumps to the floor and reluctantly plods back to him.

"Cecil," I say, bending a little so I'll be closer to his level, "Would you and Jenny like something to eat before you go?"

"Thanks, Miz Emma, but I 'ad me lunch already," he says. "An' I can't stay. Bartlesby'll need me if somethin' 'appens."

"Are you sure?" I ask as Simon unlocks the front door again.

"Yes, Miz Emma." He tugs his hat-brim at me as Jenny climbs onto his shoulder again. "I'll see ya tonight," he says. Simon opens the door, and Cecil scampers back out into the street.

"Twelve-thirty," Simon mutters thoughtfully as he closes and locks the door. "He must have gone there directly from the Verinders'."

Now that Cecil is gone, I am free to glare accusingly at Simon. "You didn't tell me you were having Crombie watched."

"Only since this morning – before you woke up." Simon heads for the stairs. I move quickly to follow him. "His talent more than makes up for his lack of training, and he's just clever enough to be dangerous. I did not think it likely that he would find out about what happened at the cathedral yesterday, but I wanted to make sure."

"That I understand," I say, marching up the stairs after him, "but for the thousandth time…"

"Three hundred and eighth, actually…"

"…you should tell me these things!" I finish as I reach the top of the stairs. Only then do his words register on me. Bewildered, I pause for a moment, then scramble to catch up with him. "Three hundred and eighth? You kept count?"

"It's more of an estimate. A close estimate." Simon doffs his cloak and then his coat, throwing them over one arm as he approaches the hall closet. He opens the door and steps inside to hang them up.

I stand outside, my arms crossed menacingly (or as menacingly as I can manage, anyway). "You know that I've said it approximately three hundred and eight times, and yet the actual message has failed to sink in," I say dryly. "I'm absolutely awed. I doubt that anyone in the world can equal you for sheer obstinacy."

Simon steps out into the hall and closes the door. "You have made the same protest to me three hundred and eight times, without making any impression on me or harbouring any reasonable hope of doing so, yet I have no doubt that you will continue to protest in the future. I may have no equal in this world for sheer obstinacy, but you, Miss Bishop, are quite clearly my superior." With that he turns around and continues down the hallway.

Under normal circumstances Simon would have been (reluctant though I am to admit it) absolutely right. As it is, there isn't really much of a future in which I can upbraid him for keeping things from me. I do not have the heart – or, I think, the right – to reply to him as I normally would.

Did I ever really have the right to demand that he not conceal things from me, since I have concealed so many things from him myself?

I've never considered that question before. A sharp, icy, nauseating sensation grows in the pit of my stomach as I follow Simon into the kitchen.

Lunch, like last night's supper, is simple and taken at a later hour than usual. We get some food out of the icebox, set our places and sit down. I am not really interested in the salad and cold cuts on my plate, but I force myself to eat. Experience from my theatre days taught me the art of behaving naturally in the face of anxiety: I have made use of that skill many times during the past three years, and I am exceedingly grateful for it now.

Apropos of behaving naturally...neither Simon nor I have said anything since I failed to respond to his jibe in the hallway. Had our places been reversed I would have been worried enough to ask why he had suddenly gone quiet. Simon has not made such an inquiry of me.

But I can no longer delude myself into thinking that he's overlooked my odd choices of words, or my silences. There have been too many of both today. So why hasn't he said anything about it?

Perhaps he thinks I am doing what he often does – keeping my reasons to myself until I am ready to explain them. But that is not usually my way, and it is not in Simon's nature to refrain from asking questions when there are secrets to be found out. There must be some other explanation.

I remember his question of me three weeks ago; just who is Emma Bishop? Simon had never inquired about my past before, and has not done so since. I still haven't figured out why he only asked me once, and why he did not press me when I refused to answer. Perhaps his personal experience has instilled in him the belief that some secrets are better left alone.

Or he may be as afraid of hearing the answer as I am of divulging it. The thought comes as if out of some dark, mostly neglected place in my mind. But that doesn't make sense…actually, it does. Danik had as strong an effect on Simon's life as he did on mine; Simon may not know the details as I do, but he may have drawn some connection between my powers and…

I realize that I am not doing myself any good by indulging in such speculation. What I should do is focus on the current case – for the sake of duty and my sanity both.

Simon provides me with unwitting and invaluable assistance in this regard by broaching the topic himself. "The crimes at the Eismores' and the Verinders' did not provide us with any useful information," he begins, "so we shall consult Adeline and – brace yourself – Fenton Crombie, as originally planned."

"I hope you've figured out a way for us to talk to Crombie by now?" Were it not for my other concerns I would find that issue quite troubling.

Simon leans forward in his chair and folds his hands on the tabletop. "Fenton Crombie describes himself as the world's foremost grottecologist – and he demonstrates his son's flair for unprofessional rivalry whenever someone dares to challenge him for that distinction. One incident in particular comes to mind: some years ago, a prominent natural scientist named Dr. Martin Fitzhugh came to Partington to study the gargoyles himself. After two years of observing, dissecting and experimenting with the creatures, he gave a lecture on his findings at the university."

"And what exactly does this have to do with your plan?" I ask.

"You'll find out if you listen," Simon answers curtly. He pauses to take a sip from his water glass before continuing. "I attended the lecture. Mr. Crombie came as well, but only so that he could humiliate Dr. Fitzhugh by interrupting and arguing with him at every turn." Simon pauses for a sip from his glass of water before continuing. "The fact that he was embarrassing himself into the bargain did not seem to deter him in the least."

"So you think he'll be falling all over himself to help us if he thinks we're going to consult someone else?"

Simon leans back in his chair and does his geste de pense. "Something like that. But what I have in mind is a bit more…interesting."

Why do I suspect you mean "interesting" in the sense of the Oriental curse?