The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(67)

“You always assume I don’t know these things,” Milo said. He splashed more whiskey into his glass. “You never learn, do you.”

I swallowed. “Why are you here, Milo?”

“Jamie,” he said, with extravagant scorn. “I’m being so rude, forgive me. Perhaps you’d like a change of clothes? Either of you?”

“No, thank you. Milo—”

“Stop looking at me like a pair of frightened rabbits.” He brought the glass to his lips. “I wanted you here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Holmes watched his throat as he swallowed. “Are you in touch with DI Green?”

“Detective Inspector Green was the one who reached out to me, girl.” That, from a voice booming down the stairs. “Hold on, hold on. Yes, hello.” Merrick Morgan-Vilk was a bit out of breath. He had a document box balanced on his well-fed waistline, and he greeted us with a politician’s smile. By habit, I jumped to my feet. Holmes extended her hand up from her chair.

“Merrick,” Milo said. “Miss Holmes would like to know what’s ‘going on here.’” The air quotes were almost visible.

He dropped the document box down on the table. “Our friend Milo here—”

Milo saluted.

“—has introduced me to his friends on the United Nations Security Council. I’m here working with an exploratory committee.”

“I see,” I said. I really didn’t see.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Milo said. “I’m here because I don’t think the Americans will extradite me back to Britain. Well. They might not. Perhaps they will. Who knows! It’s a party, really.”

Morgan-Vilk’s mouth tightened. “We’ve had some . . . new developments these past few days.”

Milo took another sip. “Security footage. Of all things. Security footage from the camera on my property, that I set up, footage that I wiped so clean it was sparkling, and somehow it ended up on some idiot’s desk at Scotland Yard, someone who didn’t know the score—”

“Footage. Of you—of you shooting—” I couldn’t make my mouth say the words. Say August Moriarty.

For a moment, Holmes put her head into her hands. “And what? Now you’re feeling all the guilt that you’d been suppressing?”

“Guilt?” Milo held his glass up to the light. “Is this guilt? I just don’t particularly want to go to prison.”

Holmes looked like she was about to launch herself across the table at him, claws extended. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” I said to her.

She stiffened, then relaxed. Then nodded.

Milo watched this with some interest. “Disgusting,” he said, to no one, and drained the rest of his whiskey.

Morgan-Vilk cleared his throat. “Charlotte,” he said. “We were talking about the UN?”

“Right,” she said, her eyes still on Milo. “And your mistress, of course.”

To his credit (or actually, maybe against his credit), Morgan-Vilk smiled.

“What? Wait. I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m still sort of lost.”

“Mr. Morgan-Vilk, in the interest of time, would you mind terribly if I explained to Watson here your current situation, and what we’re all doing here?”

Merrick Morgan-Vilk looked delighted. He would have liked my father. “Yes, go on.”

“Where should I start?” Holmes asked, scanning him with her eyes.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, my mistress isn’t my mistress anymore—”

“No, of course not,” she said. “Your mistress isn’t your mistress anymore, she’s your wife. That’s easy, the wedding band. But she’s not here with you—I’ve noticed you turning it around on your finger, perhaps because you’d forgotten to call her today and now it’s too late to reach her in Britain. What was your district, when you were an MP? Is she back at the old family pile? No—that would upset your children. A flat, then, in London, because if anyone is avoiding the countryside and has your means, they’re there. And, by the way, you’re not running for office, so I’m not sure why you insist on calling whatever you’re doing here an exploratory committee.”

“Oh?” he asked. “And how do you know that?”

“You’re sleeping well, eating well, and you look like you’re at peace.” Holmes paused, her eyes tracking into the distance, and then she continued. “Any man who’s running for office again after a sex scandal wouldn’t be so comfortable. He also wouldn’t be in America. It would be absurdly stupid to raise American money to run for British office. You’re meeting with a member of the UN Security Council? You’re done running for office. You’re trying to drum up support for a nomination for an ambassadorship, which is not precisely legal but not precisely illegal, either. Hence the cloak and dagger.”

Mr. Morgan-Vilk applauded. He had a wonderful, jolly smile. “Oh, excellent,” he said to Milo. “I like your sister. How fun.”

Milo shook his head. “She’s missing all the important bits. Like telling us what on earth she’s doing here.”

Holmes scowled. “I phoned Scotland Yard in need of a safe house.”