Free Garment of Shadows by Laurie R. King Page A

down, haggled cheerfully with the driver, and carried his own bag inside.
    He recognised the figure at the desk, a Moroccan who pretended to be French; only after he had spoken to the man in that language did the man recognise him.
    “Monsieur … ’Olmes?”
    “The very same. Is my wife in?”
    “Monsieur, your wife left us, long ago.”
    Holmes’ arm checked; there was surely no reason for the cold sensation trickling into his chest. The film crew she was assisting had been delayed, that was all.
    “When is the crew expected back?”
    “Oh, Monsieur, the others, they returned three— pardon , two days past. Late on Wednesday. They remained here for one day, then early this morning—before dawn, even—they all boarded the sailing boat. To do the filming, you know? But they will be back tonight. Insh’Allah .”
    His hesitation before adding the final word had the sound of an ominous afterthought. Holmes gazed at the man, who shifted the desk register between them, as if a display of its names would assuage this glaring customer.
    Russell must have decided to change hotels again. To more comfortable rooms. “Did she leave a message?”
    “She did not. Her bags are here, of course. As is your—”
    “Bags?” he said sharply. “She left her bags here?”
    “One she left, the other was brought back.”
    “She abandoned her things?”
    Either the desk man was remarkably perceptive, or the creeping panic Holmes felt was visible in his face, or his voice.
    “Monsieur, please, there is no cause for concern. Bismillah . Her friends—if I may be blunt for a moment, I should say they were irritated, but not at all worried. She simply did not come back with them.”
    “My wife walked away from all her possessions, and none of the company was concerned?”
    “Put like that, it does sound remarkable, Monsieur, I agree. But I can only say again, they did not seem in the least troubled. They merely left her bag with me, rather than having it clutter the room of one of the others. Clearly, they expect her to return.”
    Holmes took a breath. “My wife had left one of her cases with you, you say?”
    “When they went off to the desert, the motorcars were very full of equipment. M. Fflytte asked his company to leave any excess luggage here. The others have retrieved theirs, of course. Your wife’s remains. With, as I said, the one brought back in her absence.”
    “Let me have them both.”
    “Certainly, Monsieur. Oh—stupid man that I am, I forgot—a gentleman left a message for you.”
    Aha—it was Russell, in disguise. But when Holmes looked at the envelope, in hotel stationery and the same ink as that in the register, one eyebrow rose. He ripped the envelope open, and read, in beautiful Arabic script:
My brother, if you are available to assist in a grave matter, you will come to Fez and drink coffee at the shop nearest the train station, when they open in the morning or before they shut at night .
    At the look in Holmes’ eyes, the desk man immediately recalled the need for the two bags from the storage-room. He placed them on the floor, hastily retreating behind the solid desk again. “Will, er, Monsieur be requiring a room?”
    “No—yes. Good idea.” He needed to go through Russell’s things, and it would give him a chance to clean up a little: In his current state, he would intimidate no one into parting with information. He held out his hand for the hastily proffered key, then asked, “Are there any of the film crew who didn’t go on the ship today?”
    “Only two or three of the local men, Monsieur, who were not needed.”
    “Where are they?”
    “I am not certain, Monsieur.”
    “They live in town?”
    “Yes, Monsieur. Or so I presume.”
    Holmes eyed him: That addendum had been too hurried, and his look of innocence too open.
    However, bags and bath were more urgent than pinning down whatever mild chicanery the desk man might be hiding. And in any event, the local help were less likely