The Plague of Thieves Affair by Marcia Muller Page B

mean, pray tell?”
    â€œIt means he responded to a personals ad I placed in the newspapers and that I spoke to him briefly.”
    â€œWhy briefly?”
    â€œCircumstances prevented a longer discussion.”
    â€œWhat circumstances?” Then, when Sabina didn’t respond, “Did Charles consent to speak with my husband?”
    â€œI told him he could be reached here at the Baldwin.”
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question. Does he intend to speak to Roland? Does he intend to return to Chicago to claim his inheritance?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI would rather wait until your husband returns before I explain.”
    â€œThat’s not necessary. Roland and I have no secrets from each other.”
    â€œJust the same, I’d rather wait.”
    â€œAt 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?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œI don’t agree, Mrs. Fairchild.”
    â€œYou’re not qualified to judge. You hardly know the man.”
    â€œNor 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.
    â€œMrs. Carpenter,” he said. “Ah … where is my wife?”
    â€œIn the bedroom, I believe.”
    â€œBedroom? 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.
    â€œYou have news of my cousin? You’ve found him?”
    â€œNot exactly. He is