The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (22 page)

“On Tuesday I expect that you would have had Mr. Thomas keep me from my rooms, had you not been determined to make your way up yourself, despite a concussed brain and a raw back. I assume that you intended to arrive somewhat earlier than you did, and Mr. Thomas went off his guard, as he had been told that his services would after that time no longer be required. What held you up, that you did not arrive until six-thirty?”

“Six twenty-two. A positively diabolical series of happenstances. Lestrade was late for our meeting, the matron hid my clothes, the tramp was brought in, and I had to seize the opportunity to arrange a sleight-of-body with the hospital staff, and then when I arrived at the cottage it was swarming with police and I had to wait for them to amble off for their tea before I could get what I needed from the house and see what they’d left at the hive—thank God for Will, I’d never have managed without him. And I missed a train and there were no taxis at the rank in Oxford—positively diabolical, as I said.”

“Why didn’t you just telephone from the hospital? Or send a telegram?”

“I did send a telegram, to Thomas, from a station so small I doubt more than six trains stop there in a year. And when I finally made Oxford I telephoned to him and told him not to mention anything to you, that the little problem had been taken care of.”

“But, Holmes, what made you come? Did you have any cause to think I was in danger? Or was it just your generally suspicious mind?” He was looking very uncomfortable, and not because of his back. “Did you have any reason—?”

“No!” My last word made him shout, made us all aware of the glaring inconsistency of his actions. “No, it was a fixation visited upon an abused brain. Reason demanded I stay on the scene of the crime, with perhaps a telephone call to put you on your guard, but I…to tell you the truth, I found it impossible to retain a logical train of thought. It was the most peculiar side-effect of concussion I’ve ever experienced. At dawn on Tuesday all I could think of was reaching your door by dusk, and when I found I was able to walk—I walked.”

“How odd,” I said, and meant it. I would not have thought his affection for me would be allowed to interfere with the investigation of a case, shaken brain or no. And as for his obvious reluctance to trust me with the necessary actions—lying in wait for an attack, using my gun if necessary—that hurt. Particularly as he had not been altogether successful himself. I opened my mouth to confront him with it but managed to hold my tongue in time. Besides, in all honesty I had to admit that he was right.

“Very odd,” I repeated, “but I am glad of it. Had you not interfered, I should almost certainly have walked in the door, as the only indications of tampering were two tiny scratches on the keyhole and one small leaf and a spot of mud on a window that was across a dim passageway from where I would stand to insert my key.”

He let slip a brief flash of relief before an impassive reply. “You’d have noticed it.”

“I might have. But would I have thought enough of it to climb up the outside ivy, on a night like that? I doubt it. At any rate, you came, you saw, you disconnected. Incidentally, did you come up the ivy too, with your back like that? Or did you manage to disarm the bomb from outside the door?”

Holmes met his brother’s eyes and shook his head pityingly. “Her much learning hath made her mad,” he said, and turned back to me. “Russell, you must remember the alternatives. Alternatives, Russell.”

I puzzled for a minute, then admitted defeat.

“The ladder, Russell. There was a ladder on the other side of the courtyard. You must have seen it every day for the last few weeks.”

Both Holmes and his brother started laughing at the chagrin on my face.

“All right, I missed that one entirely. You came up the ladder, disconnected the bomb, put the ladder away, and came back through the hall, leaving one leaf and an unidentifiable greasy thumbprint. But Holmes, you couldn’t have missed Dickson by much. It must have been a near thing.”

“I imagine we passed each other in the street, but the only faces I saw were hunched up against the rain.”

“It shows that Dickson, or his boss, was well acquainted with my circumstances. He knew which were my rooms. He knew that Mrs. Thomas would be in the rooms and waited until she left, which I suppose he could see from the street below. He went up the outside ivy in the dark, carrying the bomb, went in the window, picked my lock, set the thing…” I thought of something to ask Mycroft. “Could he have left through the door after the bomb was set?”

“Certainly. It was triggered by a one-way toggle. He mounted it with the door standing open, and closing the door armed it.”

“Then he went out the window and made his escape, all of that in little over an hour. A formidable man, Mr. Dickson.”

“And yet, thirty hours later he makes a fatal mistake and dies in blowing up an empty house,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

“Your young lady has brought up another point worthy of consideration,” Mycroft Holmes said. “That is the fact of Dickson’s familiarity with her habits. The same could surely be said of his—their—awareness of your own movements.”

“That I check my hives before retiring? Surely most beekeepers do so?”

“But you yourself state that to be your habit, in your book?”

“I do, yes, but had it not been then, it would have been in the morning.”

“I cannot see that it would have made much difference,” agreed Mycroft.

“I suppose I ought to purchase a dog,” said Holmes unhappily.

“However, no published account that I know of includes Miss Russell.”

“Our collaboration is no doubt common knowledge in the village.”

“So, this opponent has read your book, knows the village, knows Oxford.”

“Lestrade must be made aware of these facts,” said Holmes.

“There is also the matter of the use of children as messengers.”

“An uncomfortable similarity with my Irregulars, you feel?”

“I do. You said, though Watson forgot today, that they are invisible.”

“I dislike the idea of a murderer employing children,” said Holmes darkly.

“It is, I agree, bad for their morals, and interferes with their sleep.”

“And their schooling,” added Holmes sententiously.

“But who?” I broke in desperately. “Who is it? Surely there cannot be all that many of your enemies who hate you enough to kill off not only you but your friends as well, who have the money to hire bombers and watchers, and who have the wits to put all this conspiracy together?”

“I sat up until the wee hours contemplating precisely that question, Russell, with absolutely no results. Oh, there are any number of people who fit the first category, and a fair handful of those would have the financial means, but that third characteristic leaves me, to borrow your word, baffled. In all my varied acquaintance I cannot call to mind one who fits with what we know of the mastermind behind these attacks.”

“There is a mastermind, you would say?” I asked.

“Well, a mind, certainly. Intelligent, painstaking, at the least moderately wealthy, and absolutely ruthless.”

“Sounds like Moriarty,” I said jokingly, but he took it seriously. “Yes, remarkably like him.”

“Oh, Holmes, you can’t mean—”

“No, no,” he hastened to add. “Watson’s account was accurate enough; the man is dead. No, this feels very like another Moriarty, come on us unawares. I think the time has come for me to renew my contacts with the criminal world in this fair city.” His eyes gleamed at the prospect, and my heart sank.

“Today? Surely your brother here—”

“Mycroft moves in circles rather more exalted than those I have in mind. His is the realm of espionage and political backstabbing, with only a peripheral interest in the world of retired bombers and hungry street urchins. No, I must go and ask questions of certain friends.”

“I shall join you.”

“That you most definitely will not. Don’t look at me like that, Russell. I am not protecting your gentle virtue, although I admit that there are sights to be seen underground in London that might give even your eyes pause. It is a job for a specific old man, a man already known to be an occasional visitor to the dregs of London society. A companion would cause comment, and tongues would not flap so freely.”

“But your back?”

“Is very well, thank you.”

“What did Watson say?” I persisted.

“That it was healing more quickly than I deserved,” he said in tones that said very clearly that the matter was closed. I gave in.

“You wish me to remain here today?”

“That will not be necessary, as long as you are not followed. In fact, it is probably best if you are not here, and if they are aware of that. How shall we—ah, yes,” he breathed, with the satisfied air of genius operating. “Yes, that will do nicely. Where did we stash the box of make-up last time, Mycroft?”

His brother heaved his weight from the relieved chair and padded off. Holmes squinted at me.

“Russell, if I have learnt nothing by seven o’clock, there will be little point in persisting, and it is an Italian night at Covent Garden. Shall we agree to meet there, at seven-forty-five? After that, depending on what the day’s results are, we can decide to come back here or to go home for our Christmas preparations.” This last I took as a symbol for carefree frivolity rather than any actual possibility. The previous year we had both spent Christmas Day dissecting a poisoned ram. “You will, I trust, have a greater than normal caution during the day, stay in crowds, double back occasionally, that sort of thing? And you will keep your revolver close to hand?” I reassured him that I would do my best to make our rendezvous that evening, and he gave me specific instructions both for shedding the disguise in which I would make my escape, and for getting to Covent Garden.

Mycroft came in carrying a bulky carpetbag, which he set down in front of Holmes, and looking vaguely worried.

“You will take luncheon before you go, please, Sherlock. Do not drag Miss Russell out into the cold again without allowing her to eat first, I beg you.”

It was barely two hours since the breakfast things had been cleared away, but Holmes answered his brother soothingly.

“But of course. The preparations alone will take an hour. Order some lunch, while I make a start.”

“But first,” I said, “the telephone.” I made Holmes speak with Mrs. Hudson. It was a long conversation, cut off once by the exchange and threatened twice more, but in the end she agreed to stay where she was for a few days, and not approach the cottage or the hospital. My own conversation with Veronica Beaconsfield was briefer and even less amicable; lies to friends are usually less successful than lies to strangers or villains, and I did not think she believed in my sudden emergency. I returned saddened to the meal that arrived while Holmes was making his disguise.

Sherlock Holmes had invented his profession, and it fit him like a glove. We watched in admiration that verged on awe as his love of challenge, his flair for the dramatic, his precise attention to detail, and his vulpine intelligence were called into play and transformed his thin face by putty and paint into that of his brother. It would not stand up to close supervision, but from a few yards the likeness was superb. He removed the putty pads to speak, and I hurriedly swallowed the last of my lunch.

“Fortunately, if uselessly, Watson has sacrificed his moustache for his own masquerade, or we should have to glue some hair under your nose, Russell. Mycroft, would you kindly go and lift the trousers and coat worn by our friend from his bed, and also find us some suitable padding and a large quantity of sticking plaster?” Under his hands I felt the putty fill out my cheeks, hair was added to my eyebrows, lines and creases painted on. He eyed me critically. “Don’t move your face too much. Now, I’ll tear up some of these blankets while you tape yourself to reduce your height. Take off your shirt, Russell,” he said absently, and so matter-of-fact was his command that I had my hand on my shirt-collar when Mycroft cleared his throat gently behind us.

“Is that really necessary, Sherlock? Perhaps the sticking plaster could be put on over her clothing?”

“What?” Holmes looked up from his bundles and scraps and realised what had just happened. “Oh, yes, I suppose so.” He looked slightly flustered. “Come here, then.”

Layers of padding gave me Watson’s outline; his hat, scarf, and gloves left only my made-up face exposed; and his spectacles were close enough to mine in appearance to allow me to retain my own, a great blessing.

Holmes added similar padding to himself, and we stood resembling two obese Egyptian mummies risen from our rest. He worked himself carefully into his brother’s clothing and gave his make-up a final adjustment.

“Now to review our plan—Ah, Watson, you’re just in time.”

“Holmes? Is that you? Where are my trousers? What are you doing?” Watson’s puzzled, sleepy voice brought home the absurdity of this entire venture, and I started to giggle. Holmes/Mycroft looked askance, but the real Mycroft joined in, and soon even Holmes was smiling half-willingly.

“My dear Watson, we are making our escape. The enemy followed you here, I’m afraid, or were here already. If they followed you, they may not yet realise that I am at liberty, and assume that only Russell is here. There are too many ‘ifs’ here for my pleasure, but there’s no helping that. Yet. I will leave here now, dressed as my brother. Russell will leave in twenty minutes, dressed as you, Watson. I shall turn to the right out the door, as my disguise is the more realistic. Russell will turn left, so they will see her clearly only from a distance. Twenty minutes after she leaves, the two of you shall depart, together, hatless, and stroll slowly down the street to the right. You will both have revolvers, but I believe they will be more interested in catching up with us than they will in committing double murder in broad daylight. You go with Mycroft, Watson, and you will be quite safe. We will meet up when we may.”

He put Mycroft’s hat onto his head, where it slid down to his eyebrows. Imperiously ignoring our smiles, he put multiple layers of sticking plaster inside the brim and returned it to his head. Mycroft’s thick scarf went around his neck, leather gloves puffed up his hands. Holmes’ own eyes looked out from Mycroft’s face. “Seven-forty-five, then, Russell, at the theatre. You know what to do. And for God’s sake, be careful.”