Change slowly penetrated, pulling me from the depths of sleep. Something had altered, shifted. Not threatened, yet, but any change sparked curiosity at minimum. I stretched, then rolled toward the door. What had woken me?
Silence. Still quiet permeated my bedroom, and a frown escaped. Even Holmes' more sedentary mornings could not achieve perfect silence. I should hear clinking of dishware, at least. Perhaps even Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs.
Blurred vision found stone walls. Tapestries hung here and there, and large rugs covered everywhere I might conceivably step. Memory bloomed the next moment. Rossenthwaite. Right. Holmes could not be below me when Raynolds had led us to ground level rooms last night, but that did not explain the strange stillness making the entire room feel uncomfortably heavy. Holmes must have slept later than normal, for our shared rooms to be so still.
I would not be able to sleep any longer, however, and several seconds stretched once more before I slipped out from under the covers to move to the sitting room. I could doze on the sofa until Holmes woke.
Or I could occupy myself while he worked the case alone. Wandering out of my room found his door standing open and my friend nowhere in sight, and I saw no reason to restrain a sigh as I turned around to freshen up. Holmes would find me soon enough.
Like when he decided to work this case together. While most cases in London did not require my help until much closer to the denouement, jobs outside of London often passed faster and safer if we both gathered information, both learned the general situation, and both drew conclusions. That Holmes had left before I woke more strongly suggested the problem his actions yesterday had only hinted.
Had I done something to make him avoid me?
I hoped not, but I could no longer fully ignore the possibility. Not when everything he had done over the last day tried to restart that long year before Reichenbach. So many years ago, he had gone from thrice weekly visits to ignoring my messages, and now everything from standing to pace when I chose a nearby seat on the train to occupying the entire bench in the four-wheeler followed the same pattern I remembered from the month prior to the first ignored telegram. If he had not accepted a case in Yorkshire, he would have chased me from the sitting room within an hour of Sir Walter leaving.
Could anything else prompt such a sudden change?
A hidden injury, perhaps, but he had not displayed any sign of a problem before Sir Walter arrived, and we had stayed within twenty feet of each other almost every minute since. If he concealed a medical problem, he had done so a lot more subtly at home.
What about a danger he could not put to words without ruining something about this case?
Possible, I admitted, but also unlikely. He had barely started investigating. I could not imagine him locating anything concrete this early.
Which left only the more troubling problem I could not fully identify. I would need to keep watch—to find the problem and to search for a way to apologize for whatever I had done—but I firmly shoved the plan from my mind. I could do nothing about it now, and I much preferred Holmes finding me ready rather than still in my nightclothes.
Except my carrysack did not lay where I had expected. While kicking the bag off my feet last night would certainly have sent it to the floor, the area around my bed remained empty. Had it landed near the washbasin?
No, nor did it hide under the bed. I finally stepped back to survey the room as a whole.
A wardrobe, a desk, a bed, and a washstand furnished a simple guest space obviously left vacant for months on end. Fine lines on the ground indicated a recent sweeping, and the window had been open when I entered last night—probably airing out the mustiness of disuse. Blue and golden yellow formed the predominant color theme, but those only applied to the bedclothes and the curtains. Rugs covered the floor in a variety of patterns. One pillow's red and white theme had obviously migrated from another room. Tapestries on several walls told stories rather than simply providing color.
Three of which distracted me. Fatigue had narrowed my attention to my bed last night, but the stories held more detail than I had thought possible. One depicted a gathering straight out of folklore, complete with centaurs, faeries, and two humanoids far too tall to truly be human. Another displayed a historical scene apparently from Yorkshire's Middle Age. Two armies formed ranks on either side of the view, each man wielding a large sword such as I had not seen except in museums. The third functioned as a pseudo-window, with rolling hills and a large quantity of the flowering heather that a true window would show in a month or two. I let myself stare, enjoying the colors. The weavers had used an elaborate mixture of brighter threads with muted tones that accentuated every bloom.
The tapestry also carried signs of wear, such as the frayed thread along the edge and the slight discoloration near the bottom. Both announced an age longer than first apparent, and I distantly wondered if the tapestry had been made for the house.
Not that it mattered. Another few seconds noted the person apparently wandering the moor before I shook myself back to the present. My bag. Where had my bag landed last night?
Not near the desk. Not in front of the door. Not in the corner. I eventually found it under the wardrobe. How my carrysack had managed to bounce all the way to the wardrobe, I had no idea, but I ended up kneeling to reach the closest strap. When Holmes had still not returned by the time I finished dressing, I made my way toward the front of the manor.
"Good mornin', Doctor." Nara breezed through the dining room, setting a dish on the table and adjusting three other plates as she passed. "T'master'll be down soon enow, 'n thy friend has done come an' gone three times this mornin'. Good luck catchin' up wi' 'im."
As was typical when he had found something. I merely smiled an acknowledgement, stationing myself against a wall to wait. Repeated glances monitored the door even as I watched her bustle back and forth.
"What are ye waitin' on?" she asked on the next pass. "Tha has no need t'wait on t'master, if that's what tha'art doin'."
I shook my head. "Holmes will note the time eventually. I can give him a few minutes."
My stomach let out a low growl on the heels of my statement, and my face flamed when Nara chuckled.
"Thy middle disagrees. Grab thisen a plate an' set to it. 'E can see t'his own victuals."
He would have to, if he did not hurry up, but another smile and a silent negative sent her back to the kitchen, shaking her head all the way. At least I had escaped the more insistent prodding she had employed yesterday when Holmes proved himself too deep in thought to eat. Raynolds and Sir Walter had both stifled amusement when Holmes' decision to sit beside Nara backfired in such a fashion.
I had hidden a laugh, too, of course, but too much of my attention had gone into not thinking about Holmes' actions to let me truly enjoy the encounter.
Nara herself served as my distraction now, however. A casserole I remembered from last night landed beside fresh eggs and bacon. A bottle of milk took the table's center next to a pot of coffee and some juice I did not recognize. Another bowl looked like a pudding of some sort. She reorganized the dishes twice to fit something else, and every new scent made my hunger grow. My increasing discomfort had just made me retrieve a plate when footsteps finally breezed through the door.
"Lose track of time?"
"Essentially." Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Holmes buttered a piece of toast before joining me at the table's other end. He said nothing, however, apparently content to watch Nara as I had earlier.
"What were you doing?"
"Confirming a deduction." He abruptly stood and retrieved another slice of toast. Nara would have chided him to use a plate, but I simply waited for him to return.
"Have you found anything?"
"Very little."
The short reply joined an equally short tone to make me look up in surprise, but the pointed wait directed at Nara prevented me from falling into a cautious silence. Better a distrust for a stranger—and one that had irritated him yesterday, at that—than a true desire to keep me in the dark. Small bites affected eating until Nara disappeared toward the kitchen, then quiet words barely reached my hearing.
"I have something I want to do before we go to Thrombak. Ask Sir Walter about Thrombak Manor. The layout, history, how long Lord Thrombak and Gideon have been there. Anything may be a clue."
I could do that. "Are you going to tell me what you found this morning?"
Silence answered me for slightly too long. "All in good time."
He refused to meet my gaze, and picking at his food could mean either the confusion that prevented words or a disinterest in sharing. The sudden movement to claim three strips of bacon suggested the latter, but I would not call him on it. Not yet. I needed more information before I could form my own question into words.
Letting me help at least indicated a relatively minor problem. I would find our host as soon as I finished eating.
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