The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (80 page)

“Where are we going now, Holmes?” I felt weak but was not about to let him know.

“A visit to Mycroft’s rooms is, I believe, in order.”

I was surprised. I had expected him to answer by saying Scotland Yard, or one of the half-dozen bolt-holes he kept throughout the city—but Mycroft? His corpulent, indolent older brother might indeed throw some light on the matter at hand, were it to be connected with the arcana of international politics rather than mere civil crime. However, we had as yet no indication that this might be the case, and until we did, I could see no point in consulting him.

I voiced my objections, and when I had finished, I added, “And aside from that, Mycroft will not be home for some hours yet.”

Unruffled, Holmes laid a generous tip on the white cloth and escorted me to the door with that formality that masks an iron command.

He was silent in the taxi. I watched him covertly while the food and the purposeful movement of the taxi did their work and everyday reality took root, and by the time the housekeeper had let us into Mycroft’s unoccupied rooms, I had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about the effect this episode would have on Holmes. I sank into a soft chair and let Holmes pull up his chair and take out his tobacco. I cleared my throat.

“I really am most sorry for that lapse, Holmes,” I said quietly. “As you know, it is difficult for me to be indifferent when it comes to an automobile accident. I’m afraid that my imagination got the better of me for a moment.”

“Enough, Russell. Everyone is allowed a weakness, even a woman of the twentieth century. You have no need to convince me that you are no squeamish and fainting female. Now, if you are quite finished laying your abject humility at my feet, perhaps you would be so good as to give me the details of your investigation. Then I think you may be interested in mine.”

A thin haze of blue smoke filled the room by the time I finished. We sat for a few minutes, and then he stirred.

“That her papers were rifled is, of course, suggestive. I thought that might be the case. And I agree: It is most likely that the room was searched after she died. Had there been a chance of her returning to the room, they would have been more careful about returning the papers to their proper order. I think you might at some point have another look at her bag, to see if your memory of its contents on Wednesday differs from what remains in the hotel. Not immediately. Would you like a glass of wine, or some tea? No?” He rose and went over to the cabinet, rattled bottles, and added a swoosh from the old-fashioned gasogene to his glass, then came back and stretched his long legs out to the cold fireplace. “I, too, was not entirely unsuccessful. It did take me some time to uncover the restaurant, which was in an alleyway eight streets down. I walked past it twice. Fortunately, the maître d’ had been on duty Wednesday night as well, and he remembered our lady. And the gentleman she dined with was a regular. Fellow by the name of Colonel Edwards, and the man even gave me the address, for a small consideration. The colonel and Miss Ruskin were at the restaurant for nearly three hours, and it was the waiter’s impression that they were having a rather intense discussion that seemed to focus on some papers she had brought. He said that the colonel appeared to be very upset and even had to leave the room for a while, ostensibly to make a telephone call, but more, the waiter thought, to have a drink by himself and get back under control. Miss Ruskin, he said, was, if anything, amused rather than angry. Also, he told me that the colonel seemed unaware that his guest was to be a woman and that he was very taken aback when they first met. Incidentally, the man remembers that she had a large brown leather briefcase, which she took with her when she left. He even noted the brass letters
DR
on the top, because they were his initials, as well.”

“So, whoever ran her down paused long enough to take her papers with them. Or rather, the beggar did, I suppose, rather than the driver.
Those two witnesses must have been very drunk indeed.” My own brain seemed sluggish, and my eyes felt hot and tired.

“Russell, I have a proposal to make.” I eyed him through the smoke and the failing light. “I propose that you allow me to interview the colonel and whichever of our young couple I can lay my hands on, while you stay here, take a rest, and talk to Mycroft about it all when he comes in.”

I began automatically to object, then reconsidered. Action for the sake of proving myself capable was at least as ridiculous as abject humility. It was a measure of my state of mind that I agreed to his proposal without much argument.

D
ESPITE MY INTENTIONS
of using the time for careful introspection, I ended up inspecting no more than the backs of my eyelids. I woke at dusk from macabre dreams of leather briefcases and clouded blue eyes on a marble slab, to find myself on the bed in Mycroft’s guest room, the sound of voices coming from the sitting room. I washed my face many times with cold and hot water, pushed the pins back into my hair, and went out to join my husband and his brother.

“Good evening, Russell. I hope you slept well.”

“Not terribly. Hello, brother Mycroft. You’re looking well.”

“Good evening, Mary. A glass of sherry, or some tea?”

“It’s late for tea, but I am thirsty. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” He rang the bell. “Sherlock was telling me about your mysterious visitor and the day’s adventures. Most intriguing.”

“Good Lord, was it only this morning that we read about it? It seems a week ago.”

The housekeeper came to the door, and Holmes went to ask her for tea. He returned to the chair between Mycroft and me and reached for the inevitable pipe. Mycroft took a cigar from an elaborate chased silver humidor.

“Do you mind, Mary? Thank you.” He set to the ritual of clipping and raising a cloud of perfumed smoke and finally had it going to his satisfaction.

“How does it take you, Sherlock? Could it have been simple robbery? Might she have had something of value?”

“Insufficient data, I fear, Mycroft. Russell—ah, here’s your tea. No, don’t get up. There. Biscuit?” I declined. “Do have one of those sandwiches, at least. They may be your supper. Russell, I did succeed in reaching Colonel Edwards, just before he left for a weekend shoot in Berkshire, but he gave me a few minutes. He and Miss Ruskin spent the time reviewing her proposed dig, looking through photographs of the site and the location of the exploratory trenches. He was ‘favourably impressed,’ and he intends—or perhaps I should say intended—to recommend that his organisation support the project.”

“What organisation is that?”

“Something called the Friends of Palestine, a group of retired military officers and churchmen. They raise money to support various projects, mostly in the Holy Land. From what he said, I gather it’s a combination of drinks club and Bible-study group.”

“Men only?”

“Men only. In fact, he admitted that he was surprised when D. Ruskin turned out to be a woman.”

“Didn’t do his homework, then.”

“Apparently not. He did appear to be genuinely shocked at hearing
of her death, though it didn’t put him off his weekend. He has a garage normally inhabited by three cars, only two present this evening, neither showing signs of any recent repairs. According to the driver—calls himself the chauffeur—the third car is a roadster that belongs to the colonel’s son, who is in the machine on his way to Scotland at the moment, some sort of informal motoring competition called a rally. Sounds a considerable danger to livestock and unsuspecting Scots pedestrians. The tyre marks are of an appropriate width for a roadster rather than a saloon car, and several marks on the wall on that side indicate black paint from a low-slung mud guard and a driver who is either exceedingly careless or often intoxicated.”

“Speaking of intoxicated, any trace of the witnesses?”

“Miss Chessman and Mr O’Rourke left directly from their respective offices to catch a train for her parents’ house near Tonbridge. Her neighbour, who should know better than to trust an old man asking questions, said that Miss Chessman was severely upset over an accident she had witnessed in the wee hours of Thursday morning. Or, to use the neighbour’s au courant phrasing, she was severely traumatised by the event and was, in her neighbour’s judgement, not far from a nervous breakdown. What I suppose Watson would term ‘brain fever.’ End of relevant data.”

“And the letter?”

“Ah yes, the letter. This must go into the hands of Scotland Yard very soon. Will Chief Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues believe that Sherlock Holmes has possessed the thing and not opened it? Never. Therefore, we may as well steam it open. Is there hot water left in that pot?” I picked it up and sloshed it about by way of an answer. “Good. Toss the biscuits out and pour the water into their bowl. Have you done this before, Russell? Yes, of course you have. Then you know that impatience is not the thing. Too much steam, too fast, warps the paper and tells a tale. Slow, see? Here comes the end. Good-quality glue and paper make it easy. That knife, please, Mycroft—Wipe off the butter first, man! That’s better. Come, now, just a bit more—there. I think
I’ll use tweezers on this, in case the Yard decides to look for prints. Probably useless—the paper’s a bit on the rough side—but mustn’t take the chance of confusing their poor little heads. Move the tray, please, Russell. Thank you.”

Holmes laid the letter down on the table, and we all bent over it. He automatically noted the more obvious characteristics.

“Woman’s hand, fussy. Dated Wednesday, would have arrived yesterday. Not old enough to be from the mother, who must be in her nineties. Perhaps a sister.”

We read:

“Oh God, Holmes, I can’t bear the thought of telling that woman that her sister was—that her sister is dead. Isn’t it time to turn this over to the police?”

However, Holmes was not listening. He frowned over the pages in his hand, then thrust them at his brother.

“What do you make of the writing, Mycroft?”

“I admit that you are my superior in graphological analysis, Sherlock, but this is not exactly what I might have expected, either from the contents of the letter or from a sister of the woman you described. The lack of education in words and writing indicates only that Miss Ruskin achieved what she did through the sheer force of her mind, but still, I should have expected a greater degree of intelligence and independence here.”

“But she’s clever—look at those overstrokes!”

“Clever, yes, but with an undercurrent of anger that wells up in the full stops.”

“And the hooks on the t-bars, why, I don’t believe I’ve seen such tenacity since the time—”

“Holmes!”

“Yes, Russell?”

“We have to give this to the police. To Scotland Yard.”

“She’s quite right, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Much as it goes against your grain, it is their job, and they might take it amiss were you to withhold it from them. They have become quite competent at leg-work, you know. I can also make enquiries over the weekend. Fellow at
the club knows everything and everyone in the Middle East. He may have some idea of what’s going on.”

I was tempted to ask how a fellow member of a club dedicated to non-communication and misanthropy had managed to make known his peculiar talents, but I was distracted by Holmes, who had risen and was pawing vigorously through a desk drawer, finally to emerge with paper, pen, and a pot of glue. He shrugged as he bent to daub the flap of the envelope.

“Very well, if two minds greater than mine own agree, I can only plead force majeure. Russell, would you be so good as to write a note to Lestrade to accompany this virtuously unopened letter?” He paused to examine his handiwork, then bent to reapply a microscopic quantity of glue to a recalcitrant bubble, and continued. “You will tell him that we happened to come across it and thought it might have come from the sister whom Miss Ruskin mentioned during her visit to us. Also stress that he is to do nothing about contacting the lady until he has seen us, and invite him to join us in Sussex at his earliest convenience. Throw in whatever threats or entreaties you consider appropriate, and tell him I said it would do him good to get out of London.” He ran a nail along the edge and angled the envelope to the light critically. “You should also mention that a Yard photographer might prove a useful companion. I can do any necessary fingerprints myself.”

I looked up from my paper.

“Sorry?”

He lifted his eyes, and his face went carefully, dreadfully blank. He glanced at Mycroft, then looked down at the somewhat overworked envelope in his hands.

“What a noble mind is here o’erthrown,” he remarked conversationally, and keeping his voice light, added, “Russell, that theology of yours is rotting your brain even more rapidly than I had anticipated. You did read the sister’s letter.”

“But you don’t think…” I trailed off as he raised his face to mine, a face awful in judgement and disappointment.

“What else am I to think, Russell? She visits us, she dies violently, her papers are searched, and her briefcase is stolen. Someone has asked after us and been given our address. It is possible they found what they sought, but if not, can we be anything but their next goal? I only hope that when they didn’t find what they were looking for, they didn’t vent their irritation on the furniture.”

I felt my brain begin sluggishly to move, and my heart sank.

“The box. Oh, Holmes, I left it on the dining room table.”

“You left it there, Russell. I did not.”

“You moved it? Why?”

“No particular reason. Call it tidiness.”

“You? Tidy?”

“Don’t be rude, Russell. I put it away.”

“Where? No, let me guess.” He winced. “Sorry, poor choice of words. Let me deduce. When I went to get the car, you went out the back and came around the house. The toolshed?”

“How utterly unimaginative,” Holmes said, offended.

“Sorry, again. The hole in the beech? No—oh, of course. You were scraping off a stinger—you shoved it into one of the beehives.” How ridiculous, the relief engendered by a mere nod.

“Not shoved, Russell, gently placed. The third hive from the end is making queen cells at a tremendous rate, so I thought I might give them something else to think about. They’ve also been very active of late, and most people would think twice about putting a hand in there, even at night.”

“Except you. But do you mean to tell me that you anticipated…visitors, even this morning?”

“Merely a precaution.”

My warming brain gave another, more alarming lurch.

“Mrs Hudson! Good Lord, she’s there alone. We must warn her!”

“She is not there. I telephoned from the café and told her to take a day or two away. She’s with her nephew in Guildford.”

“You knew then? Already?”

“We do not know that anything has taken place. We are merely talking about likelihoods,” he said with asperity, and placed the envelope in a breast pocket. I began to laugh.

“My dear Holmes, if I hear you use the word
senility
again, I shall stuff it down your throat. You are still too fast for me. I didn’t see the possibilities until I read the letter.”

He did not laugh, merely looked at his brother.

“You see why I married her, Mycroft? The exquisite juxtaposition of ladylike threats and backhanded compliments proved irresistible.” He turned back to me, and his voice and face hardened. “Russell, if you were occasionally to raise your sight from your Hebrew verbs doubly weak and irregular and your iota subscripts, you might take more notice of the world around you. Your preoccupation with your studies could kill you.”

He was dead serious, and Mycroft’s fat face mirrored the grim expression of his brother. My voice was small in response.

“Yes, I see. Could we go home now?”

“Do you wish to equip yourselves with some of what the Americans would call ‘firepower’ before you go?” suggested Mycroft with the air of a housewife offering provisions for a journey. “Or, given an hour, I could arrange an escort.”

“No escort, thank you, Mycroft. I’ve never much fancied myself as a leader of men, and this is no time to begin. Your old revolver would be a welcome addition, on the stray chance that Mr ‘Mud’ or one of his companions has chosen to wait for us to appear. I should doubt it, but still…”

“Quite,” his brother said with an admirable lack of concern, and heaved himself upright. He padded out of the room and returned a short time later with a huge and, I was relieved to see, well-oiled pistol, which he handed to Holmes along with a box of ammunition sufficient to withstand a minor invasion of the southern coast. Holmes gave the weapon a cursory inspection and inserted it and the box with difficulty into his pockets.

We took our leave of Mycroft, found a taxi, retrieved the car, left the letter and its covering note at Scotland Yard, and plunged into the darkening countryside of south England, our noses turned for home.

Shortly after midnight, the car’s headlamps caught the final sign-post. The hedgerows pressed close on either side. A fox with something white in its jaws flickered away into the dark. For the last hour, Holmes had been either stiffly asleep or engaged in a silent contemplation of events. In either case, I interrupted him.