Hours crept as slowly as molasses in winter. Silence reigned both in our room and out. Sir Walter had retired to his bedroom shortly after supper, and the rest of the staff had followed his lead not very long after. The closed room did not even allow noise from the drifting breeze I had noted earlier. The drop of a pin would have nearly echoed.
It did not, however, nor did any other sound break the heavy silence. Holmes finally pulled his pocket watch into view.
"Quarter to eleven," he announced, the muted words far closer to normal than our occasional whisper since supper. A firm grip on the headboard pulled him to his feet to offer me a hand up. "He will not come again tonight."
As I had expected, but I accepted the assistance without a word. I always preferred a late night that Holmes thought could be useful over occupying our rooms in ignorant waiting. We had chased more than one blackguard whose pride had pushed him to flaunting his actions instead of concealing them further, and capturing someone entering Sir Walter's home would have neatly accelerated Holmes' case. I could not fault him for trying.
Just as he could not fault me for releasing a large, contagious yawn.
"Sorry," I muttered, head down to conceal my smile. "You are tired as well, considering how early you woke this morning."
Something about "catching flies" served as his only reply—and widened my grin. Only when overly tired would Holmes voice the "illogical" thoughts he smothered the rest of the day.
His feigned scowl took issue with my amusement, but the late hour postponed the banter for daylight. Winding hallways and a flight of stairs finally reached our own rooms, and I waited only long enough to confirm he locked the door before limping toward my bed, the grumbling behind me sparking a relieved pleasure that escaped in a flickering smile. If five hours hidden in a dark, silent room could not render him uncomfortably wordless, then perhaps whatever had made him avoid me had solved itself.
Unlikely, but he had insisted on sharing the space behind the headboard rather than letting me sit behind the large chest, and several minutes after supper had gone to thumbing through the stonemasonry book. At the very least, he no longer seemed quite so irritated. I pulled my covers to my chin, daring to hope the rest of the case would continue the trend.
My dreams still alternated nameless worries with that ghastly dog.
"Do let me know if I can be of any help."
Holmes' sharp nod acknowledged the offer despite his gaze remaining on his horse's ears. I barely resisted the urge to answer for him as an awkward silence finished whatever he had been thinking.
"Expect us by Wednesday to give an update, though we may not need that long. If I am right, we will find nothing in Thrombak Manor, and I intend to explore the town for most of tomorrow."
"Certainly. Come back for the wagon if you need it, but Molly and Clyde can take you anywhere you might want to go." One hand landed fondly on his own mare. "If you get disoriented on the moor, follow their lead. They know the way home."
A small amount of tension drained from Holmes' shoulders, further proving his discomfort. We had both noted how repetitive this moor appeared, and Holmes' two detours had only highlighted the matter. Gorse, heather, broom, an abundance of birds, all served to render the open ground as confusing as it was beautiful. I would never admit how relieved I had been when Holmes accepted Sir Walter's offer to escort us within sight of the Manor. Harry and I had gotten ourselves lost on the estate a time or two, and the feeling of not knowing where we were or which direction to go was not one I wanted to repeat. Following the sunrise would take us toward Rossenthwaite, but it would not guide us to the manor, nor would we find the nearest town. Even the many streams would not reliably take us to help. Wandering the moor could quickly become a true problem.
One I intended to avoid. We crossed another trickling stream, the second since the one that Sir Walter had said flowed from town.
"A tributary." His gesture acknowledged my strategy. "Following the water upstream will lead to th' other river, which in turn leads t' town."
Good. A long look tried to pin the location to the list of directions I built in my mind, ignoring the silent question Holmes cast at me. He could not ask my reasoning behind a contingency plan when his own unease remained clear as the sky above. We traveled to a large house containing a sixteen-year-old boy who had been alone for over a week. Anything from blackmail to illness could have made him stay home rather than search for his missing father, and many scenarios would make one or both of us ride for help. Only a desire to keep Sir Walter safe prevented him from approaching the manor as well.
"You are sure you will not let me come with you?"
A desire on Holmes' part. Our host would have preferred to help search for his friend, but Holmes firmly indicated a negative.
"I have conflicting information," he admitted quietly, still thinking hard, "but I do not have enough data to decipher which is accurate. If I am wrong about speaking with Gideon at the manor, we need someone who can go for the police."
A deep frown announced how little Sir Walter liked that idea. "Then don't go. We can ride for town now an' direct them to the manor."
Holmes gave another negative. "They would not be able to enter, nor would they know where to look if they could. I need at least a day to get a general layout and gather enough evidence to constitute a warrant."
"Then a third person might help."
"Sir Walter." He turned away from Holmes, worried insistence fading slightly at my tone. "A third person would be useful if we find illness," I acknowledged, "but you would be another point of failure if we encounter blackmail. If Gideon is a hostage in his own home, you would only be someone else he cares about suddenly in just as much danger as his father. Better for you to raise the alarm if something goes wrong."
He hesitated, clearly trying to find a counter, but a sigh eventually conceded. "Fine. Four days it is. Does tha know a time?"
"Before dark," Holmes answered firmly, "but otherwise, no. That will depend on what I find both at Thrombak and in town."
He liked that even less than the idea that we might disappear the same way his friend had, but he gestured down the shadowed path instead of saying as much.
"Thrombak is just over the rise. This late, anyone in the manor can see you as soon as you can see the manor."
"Then you should stay here," Holmes replied immediately, adding, "Someone already knows we are here at your invitation."
Sir Walter's grimace declared his opinion, but rapid pleasantries and a handshake sent us slowly up the path. Holmes followed one length behind me, gaze probably boring through my back though I did not turn to confirm the suspicion. Something last night had started him pacing well before I woke, and only breakfast and packing had prevented him from continuing the motion. He would have worn a hole in the stone had I let him.
The concern probably stemmed from our plans today. We both despised walking into an uncertain situation, but we had no way of gathering more information without entering the manor. The ground fell away to reveal a looming mansion slightly smaller than Rossenthwaite, and another mile or so finally reached the front walk. Holmes' knock echoed in a silent house.
Though only silent for a moment. Hesitant footsteps quietly approached the door, then two locks clicked to reveal a pair of eyes.
"Can I help you?"
"Good evening," Holmes answered, strangely keeping his words gentle and his posture non-threatening. "Are you Mr. Thrombak?"
"I am."
"I am Mr. Holmes. My friend and I heard about your father's disappearance and would like to offer our assistance."
"That's very kind of you." The eyes scanned us, but the door remained mostly shut. "He went to town. Told me not to have anyone over, and he'd be home soon enough, but he didn't come back. Trail'd start there."
"It does," Holmes agreed despite finding no such thing on our way through, "but to continue the search, I need information I can only find by speaking with you and seeing your home. Will you let us help?"
"I—" The word cut off. Gideon looked at me, then at something inside the house. Several seconds sparked a decision I did not understand. "I suppose I could give you two of the guest rooms."
The door clicked shut, then metal clattered against wood to open the door completely. I barely prevented my expression from betraying me.
"I haven't been able to find anything," Gideon murmured as we joined him in the entry, downcast eyes thankfully missing my reaction, "but I also don't know where to look. You really think you can find him?"
"I am sure I can," Holmes promised. His hand twitched to prevent me from glancing back, then the clip clop of horse hooves announced a stable hand. "I just need some time. Why did your father go to town?"
"Food." He turned toward the west wing, hesitated, then directed his steps toward the east wing. "I should've gone myself today, but I couldn't make myself leave. I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you."
"You were not expecting company," Holmes replied, the words far more gracious than the keen gaze studying Gideon's every movement. He had seen that hesitation, too. "We have enough for tonight, and we can ride to town either with or for you in the morning. Where are your father's rooms?"
"The next floor on this wing. Mine are on the top level, but Father likes being near the library."
Liar.
Alarms sounded in my mind. Sir Walter had told me the third level in the west wing, and the smallest sidestep planted my cane on smooth wood. The sudden lack of traction ruined my balance to send me falling straight at Holmes.
Who merely steadied me by the arm, a minute shake of his head refusing to heed my warning. Something more than simply information had brought us here.
"This'll be your room, Mr. Holmes." Gideon stopped at a familiar door before I could find a way to pass my other message. "The bedroom on the left is serviceable, but one of Father's friends slept in the other one last night. I haven't had a chance to change the bed linens."
Which provided a reason for him to separate us, I finished. My estimation leaned far closer to blackmail—or worse—than illness, but a silent question received another no from Holmes. We would play along for a while.
"Then which is mine?"
"This way."
Gideon scowled when Holmes followed, but he evidently decided not to comment. Two minutes' walk took us to a room on the opposite corner of the wing. He could not have divided us further without changing wings or stories.
"It has only the one bed, but it's clean."
"It'll do," I promised calmly as Holmes turned to leave. "Thank you."
Pleasantries prevented him from seeing me drum my fingers against my cane, but Holmes noticed. The instant the boy's footsteps faded around the corner, my friend slipped through the door.
"Watson?"
"I know you caught every red flag about that entire exchange." The smirk I expected instead became a single nod, further confirming my own feeling of danger. "I saw him in the tunnel that morning. Sir Walter would unhesitatingly welcome him through the front door. Why would he feel the need to use a tunnel to enter?"
"Because he is not who he says he is."
Confusion escaped in a frown. Sir Walter would have called out a stranger, but the silent question received only a mute no.
"I do not yet have anything concrete, but I need only tonight. Search your room for tunnels, then look for the household staff. Cook would know why Gideon has run out of food, and Brent should have a good idea of why Lord Thrombak left that day."
"Meet at your room after sundown?"
"No." He displayed a wariness the next moment decided to ignore. "We will only be here the one night, and I have no proof of wrongdoing. Separate rooms will not make a difference."
Gideon might react poorly, that said. He cared more about keeping the boy calm than acting on the concern that had only grown with Gideon's every action. I did not like how little the boy apparently knew about his own home, nor that he had been sneaking around his "second" home as if he did not belong there.
Holmes had more information than I did, however, and I knew better than to hope he would share. He would not do something to compromise either the case or one of us.
Unless Holmes did not want to share rooms?
No. I firmly pushed the thought aside as Holmes hurried down the hall. My friend was catering to an obviously uncertain young man, not avoiding me. He did not like the danger posed by half the manor between us any more than I did, and we would be leaving tomorrow. Separate rooms meant nothing more than an inability to guard each other tonight.
I hoped, but I focused on the small bedroom rather than dwell on the worry. Any one of the many decorations and pieces of furniture could hide a door. I would start with the tapestries.
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