Page 84 of Holmes Is Missing

Grey gave a tight shake of her head.

“Of course not,” said Paul. “Not yet. I’ve been waiting for all of you.”

Poe had his pistol aimed directly at Paul’s mouth. One clean shot through the brain stem. That’s all it would take. But he couldn’t chance it. Not with Paul’s finger on the trigger. Not with Helene so close. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holmes shift right, looking for a better angle. Paul noticed it too.

“Look at the two of you,” he said with mock approval, “working as a team.” He cocked his head toward Holmes. With his one unfocused eye, it was hard to get a bead on exactly where he was looking. “But not for long—right, Sherlock?” Then he turned back toward Marple. “How about you, Miss Marple? No gun today? All out of pepper spray?”

“What’s this about, Oliver?” asked Holmes. “What do you want with her? She doesn’t fit your profile. She’s not a mother.”

“No,” said Paul, “but close enough.” He reached over with his free hand and stroked Grey’s belly. “Mother to be. A variation on my theme.” Grey tried to twist away. Paul yanked her back.

“Goddamnit!” Poe shouted. “Don’t touch her!” He grimaced and tightened his grip on his pistol.

Paul ignored him. “I haven’t figured out the right accident yet. Or the right venue. It has to be perfect for Helene. Someplace special.” He flicked his wrist to look at his watch. “But no worries. I have a few hours left.”

“And you think we’re going to just let that happen?” said Holmes. “Let you walk out of this room with her?”

“Actually, he does.” A woman’s voice. “He’s a bit mad that way.”

CHAPTER90

MARPLE FLINCHED ASshe felt the cold metal against her neck.

“Perfect, my dear,” said Paul. “Like clockwork.”

Glancing down, Marple saw the barrel flick toward Holmes and Poe. “Guns down, please.” The woman’s voice was in her ear. British accent.

Across the room, Paul had a sick, satisfied smile on his face. “Miss Marple. Mr. Poe. I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Irene.”

Marple felt warm breath on her neck. “I said,guns down!” Marple watched as Poe and Holmes laid their pistols carefully on the floor. “Kick them away!” Irene ordered. They did.

“Now,” she said, “you will both stand aside so that Oliver and Helene can leave without interference. Otherwise, Miss Marple will be as dead as her London girlfriend.” Marple felt a hand tighten around her upper arm. “Sorry about Rebecca Tran, Margaret. She was getting too close.”

The voice. The accent. The Yorkshire dialect. Marple recognized it now. She’d listened to the same voice last night—for hours.

“I’m sorry too, Agnes,” she said.

Holmes glanced at Marple. “What’s going on?”

“This is not Irene Paul,” said Marple. “Her name is Agnes Matts. She’s behind all the kidnappings, and at least one murder. She believes in making the world safe for white people, and to hell with everybody else.”

“Oliver has his passions,” said Matts. “I have mine. We’re lucky we found each other.”

Something else clicked for Marple. “Right. Because you needed someone who could decipher a security band for you. And make exact replicas.”

“Oliver is very good with small objects,” said Matts.

Marple looked at Holmes. “That’s why he was at St. Michael’s. For a test.”

Paul grinned. “See that, Sherlock? Another mystery solved without your help. Maybe you were right. Maybe you never had the magic. Maybe all you inherited was a dog-eared letter.”

Holmes was shaken. Confused. Marple could see it. His face paled. He glanced past Matts into the hallway. “Your daughters! Brenda! Lily! Where are they?”

“Sold,” said Paul curtly.

For a second Marple thought Paul was making a cruel joke. But then she realized that he was dead serious.

“We were just holding them temporarily,” said Paul. “They’re both in new homes now. Superior homes. With excellent values.”