The God of the Hive (15 page)

“No, I think you should steer clear of his apartment, and do not make any approach to Scotland Yard. If you hear that my brother is at home again, you might give him a ring from a public box, but don’t go beyond that. I’ll be back in a few days, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

“I hope so.” The Cockney voice sounded apprehensive: Billy thought Holmes had meant that the arrest was due to a misunderstanding, not that Billy had misunderstood Mycroft’s absence to be an arrest. Still, there was no point in correcting him. In any event, if the Dutch operators were anything like the English, he risked being cut off soon. However, he had to venture another question before getting down to business.

“What about … the rest of my family?”

“Your wife?”

“Yes.” No one but Mycroft and Russell—and now Dr Henning—knew who Damian was.

“Haven’t heard from her. You want me to ask around?”

“Don’t worry, she’s been out of town. I expect she’ll get into touch before long.”

“Anything you want me to tell her when she does?”

“To keep her eyes open. The same goes for you.”

“I understand.”

“I need you to do something.”

“Anything.”

“A man who calls himself Reverend Thomas Brothers, who runs a somewhat shady church called the Children of Lights on—”

“The Brompton Road, yes.”

No moss grew on Billy when it came to the goings-on in London, that was for certain. “See what you can find out about Brothers, and about his assistant, a felon named Marcus Gunderson, who did time in the Scrubs.”

“Marcus Gunderson,” Billy repeated. “Thomas Brothers. Anything in particular?”

Holmes had had time to think about the ill-fitting elements in the Brothers case, and here was the place where the design was most baffling—and although it would have been far better to investigate it himself, Billy would make an adequate stand-in. “I want to know how Brothers managed to create a new identity for himself in such a short time. He stepped foot off the boat from Shanghai last November, and in no time at all had a new identity, a house, an assistant like Gunderson, and a building to start his new church.”

“You think he had friends before he came here?”

“I think he was in touch with the criminal underworld, yes. I want to know how.” He did not say to Billy that such information might provide Lestrade with a more attractive suspect than an artist who wakes up one morning and decides to murder his wife in cold blood. Brothers’ death would be a complication. However, with both Gordon and Dr Henning at hand to bear witness to Damian’s injuries, the police might quietly decide that to have lost a man like Brothers was not entirely a bad thing.

“And, Billy? Brothers is dead, although it is possible no-one knows
that yet. Watch how you walk: I don’t know what ties he might have had to the crime world, so I don’t know if it was merely a business matter or if they would be out for revenge.”

“I had this teacher, once, schooled me always to keep my eyes open.”

“Good man. You remember the place where my family and I leave messages for each other? Don’t say it.”

The lengthy dim crackle down the line was Billy reflecting on the likelihood of this conversation being overheard. However, whatever Holmes suggested …

“I remember,” the younger man said.

“I want you to visit that place for a few days. If we need you, we’ll leave a message there.”

There came a longer pause, while Billy worked it out.

“In the morning, right?” Billy asked.

Holmes smiled in relief:
The Times
was a morning paper. “Correct. And if you have any message for me, you can do the same. Although I’m sure you’re a busy bee these days.”

“A busy—ah, right you are, Gov. And if there’s anything else, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“We won’t.”

Holmes returned the earpiece to its hooks. After a minute, he took it down, then hung it up again, and sat thinking. No, he decided: He might get into touch with the Dutch gambler tomorrow, but not today. Instead, he plucked a white rose-bud from the floral arrangement on the desk to thread into his button-hole, put his (new, French) hat back on his head, and left the hotel.

Half an hour’s walk later and a mile to the north, he stepped into a telegraph office to send reassurances to Wick and to Thurso, for his inadvertent companions.

The rest of the day was given over to the tedium common to so many investigations, with time crawling as the apprehension gnawed at the back of his mind. He told himself firmly that Russell and little Estelle were sure to be fine, that Damian was as safe in the artists’ community as anyplace on earth, that he would soon be back in London where Mycroft would tell him what the deuce was going on. That an
enforced holiday did no one any harm. He walked the canals, visited a museum, ate a leisurely luncheon he did not want, and addressed everyone in the purest of French. He shopped, including a change of clothing for the doctor—who had been forced to borrow an ill-fitting frock the previous day—and for Damian—whose choice of apparel was distinctly bohemian and thus far from invisible. In the window of a stationers, he spotted a handsome sketch-book, and added that and a set of pastels to his parcels: They might keep the lad occupied, once his arm began to heal. And down the street, a shop sold him French cigarettes and English pipe-tobacco.

The newsagent had said the foreign papers would arrive by three o’clock. At twenty minutes past the hour, Holmes returned to the small shop near the station, and asked for both papers. The French one was in, the English one was expected any time. He gave the man a very French shrug, bought the one, and went back to the café.

It was after four when he spotted a small delivery van pulling up to the news stand. He finished his long-cold second cup of coffee, leaving a tip to acknowledge his long occupation of the table, and strolled back to the shop. Wordlessly, the man held out the day’s
Times
. Holmes tucked it under his arm and walked to the station, passing the time until his train arrived by examining its front pages.

He had not actually expected to find a message, had he? So why should he feel so let down?

The train came, and he began the voyage back to the village by the sea. With every mile, he pushed away a growing conviction that he needed to be heading out of Holland, not settling more deeply into it.

Chapter 25

P
eter James West looked down at the figure in the chair. Curious, he thought, how small the dead become.

“He put that knife right in your hand,” Gunderson said in astonishment. “Never occurred to him you might use it.”

“Remarkable, considering how ruled Brothers was by his imagination.”

“Deluded to the end, he was.”

The two men glanced at each other, a quick and unspoken dialogue passing between them.

You’d better believe it’s occurred to me
, Gunderson’s eyes said.

So you’ve told me
, replied West.

Which is why I also let drop about that little insurance policy I set up. Just in case you ever think I’m no longer useful
.

But West turned away before Gunderson could see his reply:
Yes, and I’m glad you mentioned that letter, my friend, since it allowed me to take care of it. It wouldn’t do, to leave that sort of thing lying about
.

The criminal classes were such refreshing employees: Money and fear were what men like Gunderson understood. Of money, it took surprisingly little to purchase muscle and a modicum of brain-power. One had only to remember that money might buy service, but not loyalty: For that, one required fear.

After tonight, Gunderson would think twice about betrayal.

West took off his suit coat and gloves, then rolled up one sleeve of his
shirt, methodical as a surgeon, before retrieving the knife. Blood welled, but, without the heartbeat to propel it, there was neither gush nor splatter. It was a lesson to remember: A quick death leaves little mess. He wiped the blade on the victim’s trouser leg, then pulled a clean handkerchief from Brothers’ breast pocket to finish the job, tucking the scrap of linen back into place when he was finished. He held the vicious blade to the light.

“I understand he thought this to be meteor iron.”

“That’s what he said.”

“One might almost believe him. It’s a handsome thing.” West bent again to free the scabbard, then slid the knife into the leather and the whole into his coat pocket. “You failed at the aeroplane, then.”

“Looks like. I thought I’d hit it, but I haven’t heard anything about it coming down. Have you?”

“No. Never mind, it was a slim chance and not our last. Do we know if the woman was in it?”

“MacAuliffe heard that she and the child were both in the ’plane.”

“Leaving the men to their fishing boat, I suppose. Any idea how much nosing around she got up to before she left Orkney?”

“Far as I know, none at all. There wasn’t a word of her between the time she and the American landed and when they took off.”

“Good.”

“However, Brothers left his passports behind. In that hotel he had MacAuliffe set fire to the week before.”

“What, he and Adler were staying there?”

“That’s right.”

“Idiot. Well, the passports are clean, never mind. What about the others in Orkney?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t act the imbecile, Gunderson, it doesn’t suit you.”

“They’re still breathing, if that’s what you mean.”

“Was that wise?”

“Tiny place like that, three bodies would’ve been noticed—getting rid of MacAuliffe and his woman might’ve been explainable, but adding to
it the doctor who patched Brothers together seemed risky. I didn’t think you’d want a trail of bodies pointing at you.”

“What about the telegram I sent?”

“Burned.”

“Perhaps we ought to consider the telegraphist as a fourth candidate for attention. A clever investigator might ask all kinds of questions, and find it odd that a man like MacAuliffe would send a wire to London.”

And the brother, Sherlock, was nothing if not clever. And tenacious.

“So you want me to go back up there and take care of them all?”

“Not yet,” West said. Gunderson tried to hide his uneasiness, but it was there: For some reason, the man disliked killing women. He could send Buckner—but no, Buckner had the wits of a turnip. Cleaning Orkney required a deft touch. However, there was no rush: Even after Brothers was found, and identified, it would take days for news to trickle north to alarm MacAuliffe. After tomorrow night, Gunderson would be free; then he could go north and finish things up.

Gunderson started around the room with a handkerchief, wiping down surfaces. West joined him, taking care to cover the same places Gunderson had treated, on the off chance the man might think to set him up. At the end, they went through Brothers’ valises, transferring several items into a worn rucksack.

When it was fully dark, Gunderson left, taking the rucksack with him. West watched him closely, then shut the door, satisfied: Gunderson had avoided meeting his eyes whenever possible. The lesson of fear had got through.

He climbed the stairs to open a window on the back of the house, returning to sit in the chair opposite the dead man. The room was quite cosy now.

“Once the flies get inside, I’m afraid there won’t be much left of you,” he told the would-be god. “It’s a shabby way to treat a friend, Brothers, but I’ve no doubt you would have done the same to me, had it proved necessary.”

The two men sat together for another hour, one man cooling while the other grew uncomfortably warm. The warm man spoke from time
to time. He found the dead restful: They never argued, rarely raised any objection to one’s actions, and encouraged the sort of calm reflection that was difficult around the living. At the end of their conversation, both agreed how appropriate it was that the archaic madness that had driven Brothers would help unseat the dinosaur of Intelligence, and free it to become a piece of modern machinery.

Eventually, Peter James West buttoned his overcoat and took his leave of the man who had, all unknowing, been so useful to him. He turned the gas down a fraction, switched off the lights, and locked the door.

On the way to the train station, West paused to slip the house’s key into a storm drain.

Just in case.

Chapter 26

T
he train reached King’s Cross shortly after ten-thirty Tuesday night. West was one of the last to disembark, and he walked past the left luggage office where Gunderson would have stored the rucksack. He would send another to retrieve it.

Just in case.

He had the taxi take him to the office, deserted but for the night staff. There he checked his mail, made a few notes for his secretary, and read the reports that had come in since the afternoon. Among them was one concerning the disappearance of Mycroft Holmes.

When his desk was clear, he walked on to his more private office in the shadow of Westminster Cathedral, where he read with greater interest the unofficial reports from the British and European ports. He then sent three coded telegrams and placed a long telephone call to Buckner, giving him the change in the next day’s orders.

Back on the street, a light drizzle had begun to fall. He lit a cigarette in the portico of the building, then set off on foot in the direction of the river.

He was damp through by the time he unlocked the door of the quiet modern apartment in its deceptive warehouse. He hung his coat and hat to dry, and stuffed newspaper in the toes of his shoes before adding them to the airing cupboard.

He bathed, and ate. It was one o’clock Wednesday morning before he
took up his god-like post at the window, drink in one hand and cigar in the other.

It was not that West enjoyed killing. During the War, of course, it had been part of the job—although it was hard to compare that hellish cacophony with the calm execution he had performed hours earlier in St Albans. Still, he had to confess (to himself, in that quiet room, alone) that on the few occasions when he had been required to end a life, the exercise of ultimate power had brought him a certain frisson of satisfaction. And without a doubt, death was a process that held considerable fascination for a thoughtful individual such as himself, transforming a complex, breathing machine, the image of God and little short of the angels, into so much cold meat.