Page 48 of Holmes Is Missing

“Twins?When were you planning to tell us?” asked Holmes.

“I knew it,” said Virginia softly, almost to herself.

“What do you mean?” asked Poe.

“I could feel it,” said Virginia. “The day Mr. Holmes came home from Ithaca. Helene was here waiting for you. I could tell there was something different about her. It was a very confusing vibe, so I didn’t want to say anything. Now it makes total sense. She was pregnant. Pregnant with twins.”

“So she’s taking a leave from work?” said Holmes.

“Not a leave,” said Poe. “She left. She quit her job.”

Holmes looked incredulous. “Quit? For God’s sake. To go where?”

“No idea,” said Poe. “She didn’t want me to know. She just got in her car and drove off.”

Poe could feel Virginia’s energy building, ready to burst. “I’m not pushing,” she said, “but I could track her social, find her relatives, friends, reach out to her FBI contacts, check her OB-GYN’s office…”

Poe shook his head. Nothing there he hadn’t already thoughtof. “No,” he said. “If Helene wants to disappear, she knows how to do it. For all I know, she could have a whole new identity by now. She could be running a coconut stand in Belize. The fact is, she wanted some space, and I’m giving it to her. She didn’t really give me a choice.”

Holmes set his coffee mug down and stared across the table at his partner. “So there we have it, Auguste. The women in our lives have totally abandoned us.”

Virginia looked from Poe to Holmes and waved her hand in front of their faces. “Hello. Noteverywoman.”

CHAPTER53

MARGARET MARPLE’S PLANEhad touched down on Heathrow’s rain-drenched northern runway at half past nine in the morning, London time. Marple hated red-eye flights, especially in this direction. She’d been fitfully awake for almost the entire journey across the Atlantic. Now she was exhausted and ready for a nap—just when she knew she needed to be at her most alert.

It didn’t help that she’d been thinking about Brendan Holmes the whole way. But now it was time to focus. She needed to compartmentalize. Missing children—that was what she needed to concentrate on.

As she walked through the Jetway into the terminal, Marple hoped the passport control queue wouldn’t be too long. As soon as her shoes touched the carpet of the arrival gate, she heard her name called.

“Miss Marple!”

She looked up. Standing right outside the area of disembarkation was an attractive young police constable. He wore the familiar trim, multipocketed uniform jacket and matching trousersof the Metropolitan Police, with a tie knotted neatly beneath a crisply starched white collar. He held his helmet with its royal insignia under one arm, and his beaming smile showed off his perfect white teeth.If somebody were hiring a model for a British bobby,thought Marple,this fellow would be a good choice. He looks like a bloody recruitment poster.

Well done, Virginia,she thought.

Marple stepped out of the flow of exiting passengers and walked up to the officer. “I’m Margaret Marple,” she said. “And you must be…”

“PC Ben Dodgett, ma’am. Welcome to London.”

“Please. It’s Margaret.”

Dodgett gestured toward a narrow corridor markedNO ENTRANCE—OFFICIAL USEin several languages. “Shall we, Margaret?” The entrance was guarded by a solider in camo fatigues.

Margaret fumbled with her passport. “What about customs?”

Dodgett was already moving past the soldier and toward an alarmed exit door. “Already sorted,” he said, looking back. “Need help with the rest of your gear?”

Marple straightened the straps of her bag across her shoulder and slid her passport back into her purse. “No, I’m fine, thank you very much.” She already felt her accent thickening, as it always did when she touched English soil.

The door was guarded by two more soldiers, these two in black tactical gear.

Dodgett pulled out a thin plastic card. One of the soldiers took it and placed it against a scanner. Marple heard the door release. The other soldier pressed his back against it, his rifle slung across his chest. The door swung open to a caged metal stairway, which led outside, where the damp English air was filled with the smell of jet fuel and the rumble of taxiing planes. On the edge of the airfield tarmac, an unmarked sedan was idling. A driver in adark suit stood by the open rear door. Marple immediately spotted the thick armor plating and ballistic glass. This was no Uber.

“Here we are,” said Dodgett.

The interior of the car smelled of polished leather and a faint, pleasant hint of tobacco, and it seemed to be soundproofed.

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