The Language of Bees (39 page)

Magic (1):
The world is an alembic writ large, where
forces may be brought to bear on Elements. Elements are
Power, pure and simple. The greater the Elements, the
greater the Power summoned, that the man of knowledge
may free and take into himself
.
Testimony, III:5

L
ESTRADE RANG ASKING IF YOU WERE HERE,” MYCROFT greeted me the next morning. He was beheading his second egg; I had not wakened him when I got in the night before—or rather, earlier that morning. I squinted at the clock.

“Already?”

“He seemed quite determined.”

“You told him I wasn’t here, I trust?”

“I rarely tell direct lies to the police,” he replied, then to my relief added, “I merely said that I had not seen you for some time.”

“You’d think he would know, after all these years, how to listen to a Holmes.”

“Oh, you may find he does. In any case, I don’t think the Chief Inspector entirely believed me.” He tipped his head at the window; I
took a swig of the coffee Mrs Cowper had poured for me, and took up a position behind the curtains to study the street: In thirty seconds, I had him. “Damn. He’s already got a man down there. I’ll have to borrow Mrs Cowper’s dress to get out of here.”

“Disguise will not be necessary,” Mycroft said. “After the last time, I thought it expedient to arrange a back door. I now have not one, but two concealed exits—one onto St James’s Square, the other into Angel Court.”

“Don’t tell me—the entrance is behind a moving bookshelf in the study?”

“I admit, I could not resist.”

I laughed, but at his next remark, my amusement died.

“I’m afraid Lestrade has also loosed the dogs on Damian.” Mycroft pushed the morning paper over to me: front and centre, Damian’s face. The article that went with the photograph made quite clear that The Addler was wanted for arrest, not just questioning, and should be considered dangerous.

“Dangerous?” I exclaimed. “Didn’t Lestrade see the walled house last night? Didn’t he question Gunderson?”

“The police saw that Damian had been there, but was no longer. And they haven’t been able to question Gunderson yet; he keeps falling asleep.”

“Hell,” I said. The only faint hope was that the newspaper’s image of Damian showed a man with freshly cut hair and a beard, trimmed back to the jaw-line; when I’d seen him last night, his hair was to the collar and his beard full.

“Am I to understand that you now entertain the possibility of Damian’s innocence?” Mycroft asked.

“There were no newspapers,” I blurted. He raised an eyebrow, and I realised that I needed to be methodical about this. I began by retrieving the things I’d taken from the walled house; when I returned, Mrs Cowper laid my breakfast in front of me. When she was in the kitchen again, I went on.

“Last night was indeed a meeting of the Children of Lights’ inner circle. Hmm,” I said, distracted by a thought:
Circle
. Was that in some
manner related to that shape they used? I shook my head and set before Mycroft a sturdy capped glass jar filled with a bilious green liquid in which floated an assortment of objects that looked a bit like shoe-leather. “This is what the Circle were drinking. I found several of these bottles in the pantry—whatever those things are, the liquid they’re steeping in is honey wine, despite the colour. Judging by their reaction, it’s considerably stronger than mead. Can you have the contents analysed?”

He eased off the cork and held the bottle under his nose. “An unconventional choice of beverage.”

“Yes, but I don’t know that it has any relationship with Holmes.”

He set it aside; I went on.

“The man they call The Master was there—and yes, Gunderson and the estate agent agreed that he has a scar beside his eye, and yes, Gunderson was under the impression that this is the author of
Testimony
. He even helped transport the copies of
Testimony
from the printers. Unfortunately, I only caught glimpses of The Master, mostly from the back. Brothers, or whatever his name is, talked to them for a few minutes, but before he could start their services, a dog belonging to one of the Circle found me.” No need to tell him that the creature would have fit into the pocket of his overcoat.

“I managed to get away from the animal, but the Circle left, and then Gunderson, Brothers, and Damian got into a car and drove away—that was the number plate I gave you. Damian was carrying a child with black hair.”

“Ah, that is a relief.”

“Yes. I went into the house and saw where they had been staying, but then Gunderson came back and I had to deal with him.

“But three things happened to … not ‘change my mind,’ because my mind was not made up, but let us say, shift my point of view. First, when Damian came out of the house with the child, he deliberately stood with his face to the light, as if he knew someone might be watching, and wanted to reassure us that he was fine. Second, this.” I slid over the ink drawing I had found—I had gone through that room
to remove anything that might link Damian to Holmes, but this particular drawing I would have taken in any event.

Mycroft brushed the crumbs from his fingers and took the heavy paper by one corner, appraising the black lines of my portrait as if analysing a finger-print.

“What does it tell you?” I asked.

He considered the question, and his answer, then laid the drawing back on the table before he replied. “This is not a drawing Damian Adler would have done even a month ago.”

“Exactly!” I said, pleased that we were in agreement. It was an exquisite thing, a stirring use of delicate lines to depict strength in the subject: I did not for a moment think that I looked like the drawing, but I was very happy that Damian had imagined me so. “Holmes thought his son’s mistrust of him had begun to fade, following the days they spent together. I should say this drawing indicates that Damian had a profound change of heart: If he accepts his father’s wife to that degree, there could be little doubt that he accepts his father.”

“It is hard to imagine that even a fine artist could feign affection so thoroughly,” Mycroft agreed.

“And third, the newspapers. Damian had been in that house for days—perhaps since Friday, but certainly for long enough to ask for paints and a work-table. However, the only newspaper I found in the entire house was from Saturday. Since Monday morning the papers have been full of Yolanda’s death, but if Damian has been in hiding since then, and if he has not seen a paper, he may still not know.”

Mycroft’s eyes went out of focus as he reviewed everything we knew, taking pieces of the case out of their pigeon-holes and comparing them. Finally, he nodded. “I am not sure I agree unreservedly, but I can see that you would be willing to move your attentions off of Damian.”

Huge relief, that Mycroft saw firm foundations beneath my judgment. “However, I don’t entirely understand the link between Brothers and Damian. Brothers hired Gunderson in October and
started setting up the Children of Lights soon afterwards. Brothers is British—I heard him speak—but Gunderson thinks he was recently arrived, that he knew London a little but hadn’t been here for some long time, certainly not since the War.

“Millicent Dunworthy was hired in December, to do a few hours of secretarial work—I didn’t know that because her ledger only went back to January, and she seems to have become a convert to the Children by then. With both her and Gunderson, I should say their chief job was to function as Brothers’ face. He hid behind one or the other of them for most of his transactions, from constructing a false identity to hiring a meeting hall.”

“Purchasing clothing for Yolanda Adler,” Mycroft suggested.

“Yes—someone will have to question Millicent Dunworthy. Now, Damian didn’t get here until January, when—”

“December. They were here before Christmas.”

“Really? He claimed they passed us off the coast of France.”

“He told me that as well, but in fact, their ship docked on the twentieth of December. I check such things, as a matter of course.”

“You knew he was lying from the beginning?”

“A man may have any number of reasons for telling a lie. In this case, I assumed it took him some time to muster his courage and approach his father. Later, when it turned out he had delayed too long, he was embarrassed to admit it.”

“I suppose so.” I drank more coffee, and realised that although the morning was overcast, my mood was sunny. The relief of thinking that Holmes was right and Damian was an innocent made for a rising bubble of optimism.

“Do you not wish to talk to Lestrade about this?” Mycroft asked me.

I sighed. “What do you think Holmes would want?”

“My brother would give nothing to Scotland Yard until he felt his case to be safe from their meddling.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“However, in his absence—”

“No, we’ll go along with that until he deigns to raise his head. In
which case, I think I had better change my plan for today and go to Sussex.”

“Is there something I can do for you here, Mary?”

“Well, we need to find Brothers’ home. He didn’t live in that mausoleum of a place behind walls. He and Gunderson used to meet on Chalton Street, between Euston and Phoenix roads.”

He gave me a look.

“I know,” I said. “Three train stations and six lines of the Underground to be had in five minutes’ walk. Still—”

“—it has to be done,” he finished my sentence. “I shall put a man on it.”

“He has to be discreet.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, of course you know that. Thank you. Tell Mrs Cowper I’m not sure if I’ll make it back in time for dinner.”

When I was ready, Mycroft let me out through the pivoting bookcase in his study, showed me where the candles and matches were, and told me how to work the locking mechanism from the other end. The odour of honey from the bees-wax carried me through a dim, narrow labyrinth; I came out well clear of any of Lestrade’s men.

Many long hours later, I extinguished the candles and stepped back through the bookcase into the study. Mycroft spoke when I entered the sitting room, although he sat with his back to me.

“I should think you need a glass of wine. I opened one of Sherlock’s bottles, if that appeals.”

“No,” I said, then modified the sharp response to, “I feel I’ve had a surfeit of honey, between one thing and another.”

“A nice Bordeaux, then,” he said mildly and handed me a full glass. I dropped the parcel I carried onto the table, and looked without enthusiasm at the plate he set in front of me: Mrs Cowper’s cooking was not improved by two hours in a warming oven.

“Not just now, thanks,” I told him. “But, in case Lestrade decides to
raid your flat looking for me, perhaps you should lock up that envelope. It contains everything I could find at home that might suggest a link between Holmes and Damian.”

When I’d got to Sussex that morning, I found that the police had been to our house, and been stoutly repelled by Mrs Hudson. However, if this went on for much longer, they would return, this time with the authority to conduct a search. Now, they were welcome to do so.

Mycroft picked up the parcel to take it away, but I said, “There is a biscuit wrapper in there. It might be best to give that to a laboratory, for the finger-prints.”

Mycroft nodded, and took the evidence to his study, coming back empty-handed.

“Anything from Holmes?”

He scooped up a letter from the side-board as he passed. It was addressed to him, in Holmes’ writing, but opened without salutation and in an almost telegraphic brevity.

Wednesday, 21st

The death of Fiona Cartwright at Cerne Abbas was murder, not suicide. Details when I see you.

Poole employment agency describes Smythe as a middle-aged man wearing a good suit, dark hair and eyes, well spoken, a scar beside his left eye. No record of the company he claimed to represent.

Tourist charabanc to Salisbury and Stonehenge leaves in two minutes, I have bribed the conductor to begin with the latter. Have already been informed twice that I look like Sherlock Holmes. Kindly pray I do not have to ask you to stand me bail for murdering a visitor to Olde England.

S

When I had finished laughing, Mycroft handed me an actual telegram:

TO CUMBRIA AFTER DEAD RAM STOP WILL NEED INFORMATION REGARDING ALBERT SEAFORTH OF YORK FOUND DEAD THURSDAY LAST STOP

“How does Holmes intend to get this information from us?” I wondered.

“I took the otherwise unnecessary ‘will’ in the telegram to indicate that he would need it at some point, although not immediately.”

“You’re probably right. Still, it would be nice to let him know that Lestrade’s on the war-path, so he can keep his head down.”

“Sherlock tends to keep his head down in any event. I was pleased to find that you made it through the day without having hand-cuffs dropped around your wrists. Lestrade has telephoned twice more today. He sounded increasingly vexed.”