The Beekeeper's Apprentice (31 page)

I went back to the cab then, and though there were numerous glances, they were directed into the dark night, and there were no more grumbles. When Lestrade was called away to attend to some matter, I held the lamp for Holmes.

“So you think I am slowing down, do you?” he said, amused.

“Your mind, I think not. I said that to encourage the troops, who were getting careless with having to stand about to no purpose. I exag-gerated, perhaps, but they will be attentive now.”

“I told you, I do not think we shall be attacked.”

“And I am beginning to suspect that this opponent of yours knows you well enough to take your thoughts into account when planning his actions.”

“Slow as I am, Russell, that idea had come to me. Now.” He sat back. “Your turn. I need you to go through and tell me if there are any scraps that are not from your things. It will take some time, so I will send over that tall young PC to help you, and another to find some hot

drink. I shall go and examine the neighbourhood.”

“Take someone with you, Holmes, please.”

“After your performance out there they’ll be tripping over each other in their eagerness to protect my doddering old frame.”

It took some time to sift through the cab’s contents, but eventually, with the help of young PC Mitchell, I had a large pile of paper and fabric scraps heaped outside, and three thin envelopes in my hand. We climbed out of the cab and stood stretching the cricks out of our spines, drinking mugs of hot, sweet tea until Holmes reappeared with his eager bodyguards.

“Thank you, gentlemen, you have been most dutiful. Go and have some tea, now. Off you go, there’s a good fellow,” he said, giving the most persistent constable a pat between the shoulder blades that shoved him off towards the tea station. “Russell, what have you found?”

“One button, with a scrap of brown tweed attached, cut recently from its garment by a sharp instrument. Another thick smudge of light brown clay. And one blonde hair, not my own, considerably shorter. Plus a great deal of dust and rubbed-about dirt and débris, indicating that the cab has not been cleaned in some time.”

“It has also not been used in some time, Russell, so your three finds are undoubtedly worthy of our attention.”

“And you, Holmes, what have you found?”

“Several things of interest, but I need to smoke a pipe over them, perhaps two, before I have anything to say.”

“Will we be here long, Holmes?”

“Another hour, perhaps. Why?”

“I have been drinking champagne, then coffee, now tea. I cannot last another hour without doing something about it.” I was determined not to be embarrassed about the problem.

“Of course.” He looked around at the noticeable dearth of female company.“Have the older man—Fowler—show you the ...facilities ... in the park. Take a lamp with you.”

With dignity I summoned the man and explained the mission, and he led me off through the park along its soft gravel paths. We talked inconsequentially of children and green areas, and he stood outside as I entered the little building. I finished and went to wash my hands, placing the lamp on the shelf that stood above the basin. I reached for the tap and saw there a smear of light brown clay. I took the lamp to look more closely, unwilling to believe.

“Mr. Fowler,” I called sharply.

“Miss?”

“Go and get Mr. Holmes.”

“Miss? Is something wrong?”

“No, something is not wrong, for a change. Just get him.”

“But I shouldn’t ...”

“I’ll be safe. Just go!”

After a moment’s hesitation, his heavy footsteps went off quickly into the night. I heard his voice calling out loudly, answering shouts, and the thud of several running men returning up the path. Holmes stood at the door of the Ladies’, looking in uncertainly.

“Russell?”

“Holmes, could the man we’re looking for be a woman?”

She eludes us on every side; she repudiates most of our rules and breaks our standards to pieces.

ussell, you have struck the very question upon which I proposed to meditate with my pipe. You have also saved me from the worst sin a detective can commit: overlooking the obvious. Show me what you have found.” His eyes gleamed fiercely in the lamp-light. More lamps were sent for, and soon the little stone building blazed with light. Fowler was consulted and confirmed that the build-ing had been cleaned about eight o’clock on what was now the previ-ous night. I stood back with Lestrade, watching Holmes as he worked, tensely examining every scrap of evidence, muttering to himself con-tinually, and occasionally snapping out instructions.

“Boots again, the small boots, square heels, not new. A bicycle rider I see. Lestrade, have you had the Men’s blocked off, and the street outside? Good. She went here, here she stood. Hah! Another blonde hair; yes, too long for a man in this day, I think, and quite straight. Mark these envelopes please, Russell. Mud on her heels, traces in the sink, yes, and the tap. But no fingerprints on the mud. Gloves?” Holmes looked up absently at his reflection in the mirror, whistling softly through his teeth. “Why should she have mud on her gloves, and wash them? A perplexing question. Another light over here, Lestrade, and have the photographer take another set of the cab, would you, after MacReedy has finished? Yes, as I thought, right-handed. Washed, shook the water from her hands, or rather her gloves, and to the door. Off the footprints, man! Heaven help us. To the street, then ...no! Not to the street, back on the path, here it is, and here.” He straightened up, winced, frowned vacantly up the bare branches overhead while we watched in silence. “But that makes no sense, unless—Lestrade, I shall need your laboratory to-night, and I want this entire park cordoned off—nobody, nobody at all to set foot here until I’ve seen it by daylight. Will it rain tonight, Russell?”

“I don’t know London, but it does not feel like rain. It’s certainly too warm to snow.”

“No, I think we may risk it. Bring those envelopes, Russell. We have much to do before morning.”

Truth to tell it was Holmes who had much to do, as there was but one microscope and he refused to say what he was looking for. I la-belled a few slides, my eyes heavy despite strong coffee, and the next thing I knew it was morning, Holmes was standing at the window tap-ping his pipe on his teeth, and I was nearly crippled from being asleep with my head on the desk for several hours. My spine cracked loudly as I sat back in the chair, and Holmes turned.

“Ah, Russell,” he said lightly, “do you always make such a habit of sleeping in chairs? I doubt your aunt would approve. Mrs. Hudson def-initely would not.”

I rubbed my eyes and glared at his ever-tidy person bitterly. “I take it that your revolting good humour means that something from last night’s exercise has pleased you?”

“On the contrary, my dear Russell, it has displeased me consider-ably. Vague suspicions flit about my mind, and not one of them pleases me.” His manner had grown distant and hard as he gazed unseeingly at the slides sprawled out on the workbench. He looked back at me with his steely eyes, then relaxed into a smile. “I shall tell you about it on our way to the park.”

“Oh, Holmes, be reasonable. You may be presentable, if a bit idio-syncratic in topper and tails, but how can I go out like this?” He took in my rumpled gown, my town stockings and impractical shoes, and nodded. “I’ll ask if there’s a matron who can help us.” Before he could move, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

A tense young PC with an untamed cowlick stood in the doorway.

“Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade asked me to tell you that there’s a parcel for the young lady at the front desk, but—”

Holmes exploded out of the room, giving lie to any rumours of slowness, pain, or rheumatism. I could hear his voice shouting “Don’t touch that parcel, don’t touch it, get a bomb disposal man first, don’t touch it, did you catch the person who brought it, Lestrade ...”

His voice faded as I followed him down the hall to the stairs, the young policeman jabbering away at my side.

“I was going to say, but he left, the package is with the bomb squad now, and Inspector Lestrade would like Mr. Holmes present at the questioning of the young man who brought it in. He didn’t give me a chance to finish, sir.” This last to Lestrade, who had intercepted Holmes in his precipitous flight. We could see the men at work down-stairs, one with a stethoscope to the paper-wrapped parcel on the desk. We watched tensely, and I became aware of the unaccustomed silence. Traffic had been diverted. Holmes turned to the inspector.

“You have the man who brought it?”

“Yes, he’s here. He says a man stopped him in the street an hour ago, offering two sovereigns to deliver this package. Small blond man in a heavy coat, said it was for a friend who needed it this morning but he couldn’t take it himself. Gave him a sovereign then, and took his address to send the second after he’d confirmed delivery.”

“Which will never arrive.”

“The boy expects it to. Not too bright, this one. Not even sure he knows what a sovereign’s worth, just likes the shine.”

We had watched the two men work this whole time, their strain palpable as they gently snipped twine, cut away paper, and uncovered the contents, which had the appearance of folded clothing. Gently, slowly, the package was disassembled. In the end there lay draped over the police desk one silk shirt, a soft wool jacket, matching trousers, two angora stockings, and a pair of shoes. A folded note fell out of this last set of items and fluttered to the floor.

“Use your gloves on that,” called Holmes.

The puzzled but relieved bomb man brought the note to Lestrade in a pair of surgical tweezers. He read it, handed it to Holmes, and Holmes read it aloud in a voice that slowed and climbed in dismay and disbelief.

“Dear Miss Russell [he read],

Knowing his limitations, I expect your companion will neglect to

provide you with suitable clothing this morning. Please accept these

with my compliments. You will find them quite comfortable.

—An admirer”

Holmes blinked several times and hurled the note at Lestrade. “Give this to your print man,” he snarled. “Give the clothes to the laboratory, check them for foreign objects, corrosive powder, every-thing. Find out where they came from. And, for the love of God, can someone please provide Miss Russell with ‘suitable clothing’ so this case will not come to a complete standstill?” As he turned away in a cold fury I heard him breathe, “This becomes intolerable.”

A variety of clothing appeared, part uniform, part civilian, all un-comfortable. We set off for the park in a police automobile, Lestrade in front with the driver, Holmes beside me, silent and remote and star-ing out the window while his long fingers beat a rhythm on his knee. He did not divulge his laboratory findings. At the park he dashed up and down the paths for a very few minutes, nodding to himself, then bundled us brusquely back into the car. He turned a deaf ear to Lestrade’s questions, and we rode in silence back to New Scotland Yard to make our way to Lestrade’s office, where we were left alone. Holmes went over to Lestrade’s desk, opened a drawer, took out a packet of cigarettes, removed one, lit it with a vesta, and went to the window, where he stood with his back to me, staring unseeing out onto the busy Embankment and the river traffic beyond, smoke curl-ing through the dirty glass. He smoked the cigarette to the end with-out speaking, then walked back to the desk and pressed the stub with great deliberation into the ashtray.

“I must go out,” he said curtly. “I refuse to take any of these heavy-footed friends of yours with me. They will send the wildlife scurrying for cover. While I am away, draw up a list of necessities and give it to the matron. Clothing for two or three days, nothing formal. Men’s or women’s, as you like. You’d best add a few things for me as well—you know my sizes. It will save me some time. I shall be back in a couple of hours.”

I stood up angrily. “Holmes, you can’t do this to me. You’ve told me nothing, you’ve consulted me not at all, just pushed me here and there and run roughshod over any plans I might have had and kept me in the dark as if I were Watson, and now you propose to go off and leave me with a shopping list.” He was already moving toward the door, and I followed him across the room, arguing.

“First you call me your associate, and then you start treating me like a maid. Even an apprentice deserves better than that. I’d like to know—”