The Beekeeper's Apprentice (44 page)

“Are you going to tell me how you came to be in Oxford? And what your plans are for the next few hours?”

“Russell, I really think you ought to slow this machine down. We cannot know when we will come across our opponent’s minions, and we do not wish to attract their attention. They believe you are in Ox-ford and I am in bed.”

I allowed the speedometer to show a more sedate speed, which seemed to satisfy him. Hedgerows and farm gates flew past in our head-lamps, but it was still too early for the farmers themselves.

“I came to Oxford by train, a commonplace method of transport considerably more comfortable than your racing car.”

“Holmes, it’s only a Morris.”

“After tonight I doubt the factory would recognise it. At any rate, I regret to inform you that your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has taken a definite turn for the worse. It seems that last week he foolishly al-lowed himself to take a chill and was soon in bed with pneumonia. He refused to go into hospital; nurses were in attendance around the clock. The doctor came regularly and looked grim when he left. Rus-sell, have you any idea how difficult it is to find a specialist who can both lie and act? Thank God for Mycroft’s connexions.”

“How have you kept Watson away?”

“He did come to see me once, last week. It took me two hours to apply the make-up to convince him, and even then I had to refuse to let him examine me. If he had come bouncing out of my cottage like a cat hiding the feathers, can you imagine what that would have done with the trap? The man never could prevaricate. Mycroft had to con-vince him that if anything were to happen to my dear friend Watson it truly would do me in, so he is back in hiding.”

“Poor Uncle John. We shall have a lot of explaining to do when this is over.”

“He has always been most forgiving. But, to continue. I had thought that my grave illness might increase the pressure on the woman and force a move out of her. I was going to speak to you about it when you came down this week, as I knew you should when you got Mrs. Hud-son’s weekly letter tomorrow—or, rather, today—but it began to move faster than I had anticipated, so I came to Oxford to consult. Only to find that you in turn were coming here.”

“What happened to make you come?”

“You know my hillside watchers? They’ve really become most care-less, glints of light from their glasses and lighting cigarettes in the dark. One of Mycroft’s little gifts last month was a high-powered tele-scope, so I’ve spent a great deal of time behind my bedroom curtains, watching the watchers. Their routine is quite predictable, always the same people at the same times. Then suddenly yesterday, or rather the day before yesterday—Sunday evening it was—as I was watching them watch me, they all disappeared. A man whom I hadn’t seen be-fore came from the back side of the hill, they talked for a few minutes, and then off they went, leaving their equipment behind them. I hadn’t dared hope for something like that, but given the opportunity I wasn’t about to let it go by. I sent old Will up to take a look and bring back what he could find for me. He’s retired, but in his day he was the best, and when he doesn’t want to be seen, a hawk wouldn’t find him.

“He came back two hours later, just after dark, with a fine sack of rubbish for me to pick over. Cheese rinds, an old boot heel, some biscuit wrappers, a wine bottle. I took it into the laboratory, and what did I find? Oxford cheese, Oxford mud on the old heel, and a wrapper around the biscuits from a shop in the Oxford covered market. I smoked a cou-ple of pipes and decided to spend the day in bed while catching the morning train. The doctor, by the way, gave a slightly more hopeful prognosis this afternoon, the night nurse has been dismissed, and the sound of my violin has been heard from behind the bedroom curtains on and off throughout the afternoon. You know, Russell, of all the mir-acles of modern technology, I have found the gramophone the most use-ful. Incidentally,” he added, “Mrs. Hudson is in on the charade now.”

“You could hardly keep it up without her, I’d have thought. How is she doing at the game?”

“She was absolutely delighted to join in and has emerged as a very competent actress, to my surprise. Women never cease to amaze me.”

I did not comment, not aloud. “That explains it until now. What comes next?”

“The signs all point to a rapidly approaching dénouement. Would you not agree, Russell?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Furthermore, all my instincts tell me that she will want to meet me face to face. The fact that she has not lobbed an artillery shell into the cottage or poisoned my well is an open statement that it is not just my death that she wants. I have been dealing with the criminal mind for forty years now, and of this I am certain: She will arrange a meet-ing, so as to gloat over my weakness and her victory. The only ques-tion is, will she come to me, or have me brought to her?”

“Not exactly the only question, Holmes. I should think even more important the question of our response: Do we meet, or not?”

“No, dear Russell. That is no question. I have no choice but to meet her. I am the bait, remember? We have simply to decide how best to position you, to give you the best opportunity to strike. I must ad-mit,” he mused softly, “I am quite looking forward to meeting this par-ticular adversary.”

I braked hard to avoid running over a badger, and resumed.

“Holmes, if I didn’t know better, I might think you were becoming quite infatuated with Patricia Donleavy. No, you needn’t answer. I shall just have to remember that if I ever want to catch your atten-tion, all I need do is threaten to blow you up.”

“Russell! I should never have thought—”

“Never mind, Holmes, never mind. Really, Holmes, you are a most exasperating partner at times. Would you please get on with it? We’ll be at my farm in two minutes and you still haven’t told me your plan of campaign. Talk, Holmes!”

“Oh, very well. My telephone call was to Mycroft, asking him to bring a few of his most discreet individuals into the area after dark to-night. Last night there were too many people coming around my cot-tage to allow your Miss Donleavy to make her move, but today my medical friend will announce that I am recovering and need peace and quiet. Mrs. Hudson will take herself to bed early, at her end of the cot-tage, and we shall lie in wait. I believe your manager, Patrick, is trust-worthy?”

“Completely. We can leave the car in the barn and walk to the cot-tage across the downs. I assume that’s what you have in mind.”

“You do know my methods, Russell. Ah, here we are.”

I drove through the gates and up to the doors of the old barn that lay apart, next to the road. Holmes jumped out and opened the door for me. Once we had shifted a few hay bales the vehicle fit in snugly between the stalls, and Vicky and her various family members peered at the odd black intruder with mild curiosity.

“I’ll go tell Patrick it’s here, so he’ll keep the doors shut. Back in a few minutes.”

I let myself into Patrick’s house and climbed the stairs to his room, whispering his name at regular intervals so that he wouldn’t take me as a burglar. He was a sound sleeper, but I finally roused him.

“Patrick, for God’s sake, man, the barns could burn and you’d sleep on.”

“What? Barns? Fire? I’m coming! Who’s that? Tillie?”

“No, no, Patrick, no fire, don’t get up, it’s I, Mary.”

“Miss Mary? What’s wrong? Let me get a light.”

“No light, Patrick. Don’t get up.” I could see by moonlight that the top half of his body was unclothed, and I had no wish to find out about the other. “I just had to tell you that I’ve hidden my car in the lower barn. Don’t let it be seen: It’s very important that nobody knows I’m here. Even my aunt. Will you do that, Patrick?”

“Certainly, but where are you, here?”

“I’ll be at Holmes’ cottage.”

“There’s trouble, Miss Mary, isn’t there? Can I help?”

“If you can, I’ll get a message to you. Just don’t let anyone see my car. Go back to sleep now, Patrick. Sorry to wake you.”

“Good luck, Miss.”

“Thank you, Patrick.” Holmes was waiting for me outside the house. We set off in silence across the dark downs, empty but for the foxes and owls.

It was not the first time I had walked that way at night, though the setting moon lit the first couple of miles. I was concerned at first that his confinement might have lessened Holmes’ normally iron constitu-tion, but I needn’t have worried. It was I who breathed heavily at the tops of hills from the hours spent in the library, not he.

Sounds carry at night, so our conversation was low and terse, dwin-dling to a few muttered words as the miles passed and his cottage neared. The moon had set, and it was the darkest time of night before the stars faded. We stood on the edge of the orchard that backed the cottage, and Holmes leant close to breathe words into my ear.

“We’ll circle around and go in through the end door, then straight up to the laboratory. We can have a light in there; it won’t be seen. Keep to the shadows and remember there’s a guard about somewhere.”

He felt my nod and slipped away. Five minutes later the door clicked lightly to his key, and I stood inside the dark cottage breathing in the mingled smells of pipe tobacco, toxic chemicals, and meat pies, the fragrance of home and happiness.

“Come, Russell, are you lost?” His low voice came from above me. I pushed away the feelings of reunion and followed him up the worn steps and around the corner, not needing a light, until my hand touched the air of an open doorway and I stepped inside. The air moved as Holmes swung the door closed.

“Stay there until I make a light, Russell. I’ve moved some things about since you were here last.” A match flared and illuminated his profile, bent over an old lamp. “I have a cloth to tack up over the door edges,” he said, and adjusted the flame to give the greatest light, then turned to set it on a worktable.

“My nose tells me that Mrs. Hudson produced meat pies yesterday,” I said, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the peg on the door. “I’m glad she is convinced of your approaching recovery.” I turned back to Holmes, and I saw his face. He was looking across the lamp to the dark corner, and whatever it was he saw there bathed his face in dread and despair and the finality of defeat, and he was utterly still, slightly bent from depositing the lamp on the table. I took two quick steps forward so I could see around the bookshelf, and there, dominat-ing my vision, was the round reflected end of a gun, moving to point directly at me. I looked at Holmes and saw then the first fear I had ever witnessed in his eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said a familiar voice. “Miss Russell.”

Holmes straightened his long body slowly, looking terribly, utterly exhausted, and when he replied his voice was as flat as death.

“Miss Donleavy.”

...there being not room for many emotions in her narrow, barbarous, practical brain.

hat, mr. holmes, no bon mots? ‘I perceive you have been in Afghanistan,’ or New York? Well, not every utter-ance a gem, perhaps. And you, Miss Russell. No greeting for your tutrix, not even an apology for the inadequacy of your final essay, which was not only sodden but hurried as well?”

At the sound of her precise, slightly hoarse voice I was overcome, pierced to the core of my being. Her voice, sweeping me into memo-ries of her dim and opulent study, the coal fire, the tea she served me, the two occasions when she had given me a glass of rare dry sherry to accompany her rare, dry words of praise: I had thought ...I had thought I knew what her feelings towards me were, and I stood before her like a child whose beloved godmother has just stabbed her.

“You do look like a pair of donkeys,” she said in irritation, and if her first words had left me stunned, her quick ill humour jolted me back into life, an automatic response learnt early by all of her students: When Miss Donleavy snaps, one gathered one’s wits with alacrity. I had seen her reduce a strong man to tears.

“Sit down, Miss Russell. Mr. Holmes, while I have this gun pointed at Miss Russell, would you be so good as to switch on the electrical lights I see over our heads? Move very carefully; the gun is already cocked, and it takes very little pressure to set the trigger off. Thank you. Mr. Holmes, you look considerably further from Death’s door than I was led to believe. Now, if you would please bring that other chair and place it at the table to the left of Miss Russell. A bit farther apart. Good. And the lamp, extinguish it and place it on the shelf. Yes, there. Now, sit down. You will please leave your hands on top of the table at all times, both of you. Good.”