The Beekeeper's Apprentice (13 page)

“Another half mile,” I said between clenched teeth, “and we as-sume either that the man was not on foot, or that the imperial nose is not what it was. Come on, Justinian.” I took the cloth and waved it under his nose. “Find! Find!”

He paused in his delicate examination of a flattened toad at the side of the road to savour the hammy cloth, his eyes lowered pensively. He stood for a moment, thinking deep thoughts inside his unkempt head, sat down to scratch a flea in his left ear, stood up, sneezed vigor-ously, and set off firmly down the road. We followed, more quickly now, and in a few minutes he dove off onto a thin track, under a fence, and into a field. Holmes signaled the car to wait where it was, and we clambered over in Justinian’s wake.

“I hope this is not the field with the bull in it,” I muttered.

“There is a path, so it is doubtful. Hello, what is this?”

It was a ten-shilling note, crushed into a patch of soft soil by a bovine hoof. Holmes carefully extricated it and placed it in my hand.

“Not the most professional job in the world, would you say, Russell? He couldn’t even wait to get home to gloat over his booty.”

“I did not take up this investigation for its intense mental stimula-tion,” I snapped. “I only wished to help out a friend.”

“One cannot be too demanding, I suppose. Still, I may be home in time to resume the haemoglobin experiment. Ah yes, I believe we—I believe you have found Mr. Sylvester’s house.”

The faint path went through another fence and dwindled away at a small stone farmhouse that had a faintly desolate air. There was no sign of life, no answers to our calls. Justinian tugged us along to a little smokehouse that stood apart, gently emitting curls of fragrant smoke. He went up to it and stood, nose to the crack, whining irritably. I opened the door, and in the dark, smoke-filled interior saw three whole hams and part of a fourth. I took my knife from my pocket and cut off a large piece, tossing it to the ground in front of Justinian.

“Clever dog.” I patted him and snatched my hand back when he snarled at me. “Stupid dog, I’m not about to give it to you and then take it away.”

“Where will you look for the cash box, Russell?”

“It’s bound to be someplace inconvenient, such as in the rafters of this smokehouse or down the pit in the privy. Nothing that requires a great deal of imagination or intellect: I admit it was a nice touch to hide the hams in an active smokehouse, but I’d have thought that an indication of sound criminal instinct rather than brains; even an ur-ban investigator might think it odd to find the remains of a pig blessed with two pairs of hams but neither trotters nor bacon.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “My life has been plagued by criminals with in-stinct and no sense; I shall leave this one to you. You search, while I walk back and bring the driver. Shall I open the house for you before I go?” he asked politely, holding out his ring of picklocks.

“Yes, please.”

The inn’s box was not in the smokehouse rafters, nor down the odoriferous pit. Nor did I find it dangling in the well or, moving inside, under the man’s bed or on the attic rafters or even under a loose floor-board. The driver outside was deeply entrenched in a cheap novel, happy enough to wait, but it was getting late. Holmes and I met in the tiny kitchen over the dirty dishes. Sylvester had eaten beans for supper the night before, and the pan stood on the sideboard, well crusted over. The remainder of the fourth ham was on a plate in the cupboard. The flies were enjoying it.

“He wasn’t too clever in the taking of it, but he has hidden it well,” I said.

“Yes, has he not? What time did Mrs. Whiteneck say he was re-lieved? That’s right, seven o’clock. It’s six-thirty now, so the car must go. May I suggest we send him off with a note to our good constable, whose presence might be of some service at about, shall we say, seven-thirty?”

“Perhaps slightly later. It will take Sylvester at least twenty minutes to bicycle back here from the inn. It wouldn’t do to have him over-taken by the police on his way home.”

“You are right, Russell, make it seven-forty-five. Good. I’ll give a note to the driver and have him take it to Constable Rogers.”

“Have him take Justinian back, too. Let him go home in glory.”

The car turned around in the front of the house and departed, and Holmes disappeared into one of the outhouses and returned with a rusty chisel and hammer, with which he approached the open door.

“What are you doing, Holmes?” I asked. He stopped.

“I beg your pardon, Russell, I was forgetting myself. Old habits die hard. I shall just return these to their place.”

“Wait, Holmes, I was only asking.”

“Ah. Well, I have occasionally taken advantage of the fact that a person who sees a clear danger to something he or she values tends to reach immediately for that object. You undoubtedly have another plan. Forgive me for interfering.”

“No, no, that’s fine. You go right ahead, Holmes.” I stood watching while he deftly locked the kitchen door with his picklocks, then de-stroyed the lock in a shower of splinters with the hammer and chisel. He went to return the tools, and I stepped into the kitchen to liberate four stale bread rolls from a parcel on the table and then returned to the smokehouse to help myself to a few slices of one of Mrs. White-neck’s purloined hams that had not already fed half the houseflies in Sussex. I do not normally eat pork, but decided that this time I might make an exception. I brushed a dirty smear from the greasy surface, sliced the ham onto the rolls, and looked thoughtfully at my hand, then at the ham, then at the floor.

“Holmes!” I called.

“Found something, Russell?”

“Is senility contagious, Holmes? Because if so, we’ve both got it.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“This ham has been put down in a patch of red clay soil, and a foot has deposited red clay soil onto the floor of the smokehouse. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to investigate further that outcropping of red clay soil? Here’s a sandwich; sorry there’s no beer to go with it.”

“Just a moment.” Holmes walked back through the broken door and, after several heavy thuds and the crash of breaking glass, returned with a large bottle of Bass ale and two glasses, which he rinsed off un-der the pump. “Shall we go?”

We carried our picnic up the slope that lay near the house and found the red clay lying at the side of an upthrust cliff of tumbled boulders. It was now after seven o’clock, and it would take some time to scramble over the rocks and look for possible hiding places. An ex-amination of the soil showed several mates to the print we had seen on the inn’s carpet. Red smudges led up the cliff. I took a bite of my sandwich and grimaced at the bread.

“I propose we let him bring the box down for us, Holmes. I should like to enjoy this ham and have something to drink.”

“It is a very nice ham, despite the second smoking. Perhaps Mrs. Whiteneck could be persuaded to part with some, in lieu of payment. I believe, Russell, that if we take up a position among those shrubs there, it will afford us both cover and an excellent view of house and hillside.”

That is precisely what we did. Holmes opened the bottle and we refreshed ourselves. Soon our quarry appeared, pedalling rapidly down the road and into his gate. From there it went rather like a well-constructed fall of dominoes, set off by the splintered lock on the back door. We munched and drank and peered through the leaves at the sight of Sylvester standing shocked at his door, disappearing inside, where he found all the signs of a violent search, then bursting outside again and hurtling up the hill towards us. His face was red and sweat-ing as he scrambled up the rocks, and I winced as he slid hard and bashed his shin. At the halfway point he lay down and reached far back behind two large rocks, and we could see his entire body relax as his hand encountered the box.

“Come, now,” murmured Holmes, “bring it down like a good boy, and save us a climb. Ah, good, I thought you might like to play with it again.”

Sylvester, hugging the metal box awkwardly to his chest, worked his way slowly down the rocks. He nearly fell once, and I held my breath in anticipation of broken bones and scattered money, but he re-covered with no more than a torn knee and made it safely to the bot-tom. His face was eager and gloating as he trotted off to his house, cradling the heavy box in his arms. Holmes and I finished the beer and followed him.

“Russell, I believe this is the point at which your reinforcements come into play. I shall wait here while you go up the road and bring PC Rogers—quietly!”

“Holmes, the Barkers’ dogs may listen to me, but PC Rogers does not. I think if there is any fetching and commanding to be done, you had best do it.”

“Hum. You may be right. However, if you remain here you must under no circumstances approach Mr. Sylvester. If he leaves, then fol-low, at a very discreet distance. Cornered rats bite, Russell: no heroics, please.”

I assured him that I had no intention of taking on the man single-handed, and we separated. I took up a position behind the smoke-house, where I could see if he made a dash for the river, and picked up a handful of stones to practise my juggling. I had managed to work my way up to keeping five stones in the air when something invisible and inaudible to me set off another series of rapid events.

The first indication was a scrabble and thump from within the house. The kitchen door crashed open and a young thief with black hair and a frightened face exploded out, trailing currency notes like autumn leaves. Shouts and the pounding of heavy feet came from the front of the house, but Sylvester was fast and had a considerable lead. He flew past me, accelerating, and without thinking I plucked one of my remaining stones from the air and sent it spinning after him. It took him on the back of his leg and must have numbed it for an in-stant, because the knee collapsed and he tumbled heavily onto the ground. I reached down to snatch up another rock, but Holmes and Rogers came up then, and it was unnecessary.

e dined that night at Mrs. Whiteneck’s inn. Holmes had the ham, and I enjoyed mutton with mint sauce, and we helped ourselves from bowls of tiny potatoes and glazed carrots and a variety of other delicacies from the good earth of the Sussex country-side. Mrs. Whiteneck herself served us with an unfussy competence and withdrew.

Some time passed before I sat back and sighed happily.

“Thank you, Holmes. That was fun.”

“You find even such rustic and unadorned sleuthing satisfying?”

“I do. Did. I cannot see spending my life pursuing such activities, but as a romp through the countryside on a summer’s day, it was most pleasurable. Don’t you agree?”

“As an exercise, Russell, you conducted the investigation in a most professional manner.”

“Why, thank you, Holmes.” I was ridiculously pleased.

“By the way, where did you learn to throw like that?”

“My father thought all young ladies should be able to throw and to run. He was not amused by cultivated awkwardness. He was a great lover of sports, and was trying to introduce cricket into San Francisco the summer before...the accident. I was to be his bowler.”

“Formidable,” my companion murmured.

“So he thought. It is a useful skill, you must admit. One can always find chunks of débris to heave at wrong-doers.”

“
Quod erat demonstrandum.
However, Russell . . .” He fixed me with a cold eye, and I braced myself for some devastating criticism, but what he said was, “Now, Russell: concerning that haemoglobin experiment . . .”

The Vagrant Gipsy Life

Seize her, imprison her, take her away.

he monk’s tun case was, as I said, but a lark, the sort of non-case that even a dyed-in-the-wool romantic like Watson would have been hard put to whip into a thrilling narrative. The police would surely have caught Sylvester before long, and truly, thirty guineas and four hams, even in those days of chronic food shortages, were hardly the stuff of Times headlines.