The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (85 page)

“Take fifteen. I don’t mind climbing that cliff in the dark.”

“Ten. You get together some towels and the bathing costumes.”

Forty minutes later, we lay back in the shallow pool left by the receding tide, and I asked him what our neighbours had said.

“They saw nothing.”

“That is very peculiar, in the countryside.”

“Due entirely to a piece of bad luck. There was a “do” on at the Academy that evening, to welcome the new director, and the area was crawling with formal black automobiles, brought in from Brighton to ferry guests from the station. Several of them ended up in impassable lanes and farmyards before the night was through. Ours might have had another county’s registration code on its number plates, but if so, nobody noticed.”

“You should have—” I bit it back.

“Yes?”

“Hindsight. We should have had Old Will or Patrick come and keep watch that night.”

“I had thought of that, but decided against it. Having enthusiastic amateurs involved is a terrible responsibility, and usually a liability. Neither of them would have been able to resist a confrontation with the intruders.”

“You’re probably right. Old Will certainly.”

“I even considered, briefly, asking Constable Perkins to come out and sit in the bushes.”

“My goodness. Desperate times indeed.”

“I decided the measure was too desperate. Had I been absolutely certain they would come, I might have resorted to his involvement.”

“He would have fallen asleep anyway, and we’d be no further along.”

With which judgement we concluded our conversation, indulged
in a vigorous sprint through the dusky waters, which I won, and climbed the cliffs for our late and well-earned supper.

After we had polished off Mrs Hudson’s supper, down to scraping the bowls of the lemon custard, and after I had helped with the washing up, Holmes lit a small fire to dry my hair, and I told him about the letter. I sat on the hearth rug with my back to the heat, the pages of my translation spread out on the floor, Holmes curled up before me in his frayed basket chair, with his face half-illuminated by the flames, and I read him my translation of Mary’s letter. As I did so, I seemed to hear the woman’s calm, melodious voice through the open French windows, a murmur beneath the distant rumour of the incoming waves on the rocky shore.

“I have to admit, Holmes, that Miss Ruskin was right. There is something profoundly moving about this document, and I am more than halfway to believing that it could indeed have been written by Mary the Magdalene, a lost apostle of Jesus of Nazareth.

“The letter begins in the traditional epistolary style, naming both the author and the intended receiver, then a greeting, followed by the message itself. It is in Greek, with a few Hebrew and Aramaic words, two of the latter written in the Greek alphabet, and includes a passage from Joel, in Hebrew:

The fire subsided into rustling embers, and Holmes sat curled up in his chair, sucking at an empty pipe and staring into the glow. I took up my hairbrush and began to plait my hair for the night while the voice of a woman whose bones had long since turned to dust echoed softly in the dim room.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
was spent waiting. A singularly frustrating experience, waiting, made more so by the feeling that the labours of others are neither as quick nor as thorough as one’s own. I always envied Holmes his ability to switch off the frustrations of enforced inactivity and turn wholeheartedly to another project. He spent the morning pottering happily in the laboratory, while I turned resolutely to my books. I had intended to produce a first draft of my book (on the concept of wisdom in the Hebrew Bible) before the end of the year, but that was before Miss Ruskin’s letter hit my desk. Something told me that hunting down her murderers was going to take large chunks of time from the coming days, if not weeks.

Through sheer determination, I managed to focus my mind on the
words in front of me, though every time I came across a reference to
Sophia
, the Greek word meaning “wisdom,” the figure of Mary would stir gently in the back of my mind. Eventually, I was surrounded by journals and books, as I followed a phrase from Proverbs through a recently published religious text from ancient Mesopotamia and tried to recall a similar theme from an Egyptian hieroglyphic inscription. When the telephone rang, my mind was far, far away, and I took up the receiver irritably.

“Russell. Yes, this is she.” Where was that? I racked my brains. It was a reference to the goddess Ma’at, surely. Budge’s book on—“Yes? Who? Oh, yes, certainly, I’ll wait. Holmes!” I shouted, books forgotten. “Holmes, it’s Mycroft.” I listened hard for a minute over the sound of his descending footsteps, the earpiece glued to my ear. “He wants to see us, and could we get to London for dinner tonight? What’s that?” I shouted into the telephone, then strained to hear across the distance and the numerous exchanges the call was coming through. “Oh. He says he has some grouse and a new port he’d like you to try,” I told Holmes. “At least, I think that’s what he said. Either that or he’s in the house and has a few darts he’d like to let fly. In either case, perhaps we ought to go? Right.” I drew a deep breath and readdressed the mouthpiece. “We’ll be there by seven o’clock. Seven! Right. Good-bye.”

In the typically contrary nature of the beast, the telephone, which had sat obstinately silent all morning, rang again almost immediately. I picked it up and the operator informed me that it was another London call, would I please wait a moment, dear, so I did, until the line crackled into life. I bellowed my name into it, and that must have come near to rupturing Lestrade’s eardrum, for his voice when it came was as clear as if he were standing in the room beside me.

“Miss Russell?” He sounded a bit tentative. I hastily lowered my own voice.

“Good day, Inspector. Sorry about that. I’ve just rung off from a very bad connexion, but this one is all right. Have you any news?”

“A few things have come in, and I’m expecting more this afternoon.
Shall I give it to you over the telephone, or send it to you? I’m tied up here, unfortunately.”

“Look, Inspector, we’re coming into Town ourselves later today. Will you be at the Yard around, say, six o’clock?” Holmes, who had turned and come back downstairs at the second ring, gestured at me. “Just a moment, Inspector, Holmes is saying something.”

“Invite him for dinner with Mycroft. There’s sure to be enough grouse for a regiment,” Holmes suggested.

“Inspector Lestrade? Are you free for dinner tonight? About eight o’clock, at Mycroft Holmes’ rooms? Good. And you remember where he lives? That’s right. You what? Oh yes, certainly, he would be flattered. Right. See you tonight, then.”

I rang off, then got the operator back to place a call to Mycroft. While waiting, I spoke to Holmes.

“Lestrade would like a bottle of your honey wine to present to a lady friend of his on the occasion of her birthday.”

“I am honoured.”

“I thought you might be. He even promises not to tell her where it came from. He wants the substance for its own true self.”

“Good heavens. Am I to become a rival to France? A honey wine to make you weep?”

“Weak, perhaps,” I said under my breath, but I was saved from repetition by the call coming through. Mycroft was more audible this time, and when I told him he’d have to pluck another bird for Lestrade, he replied that he should be happy so to do, even if it meant performing the task with his own pale hands, which I doubted. I hung the earpiece back on its rest.

“I’ll go pack,” I volunteered. Leaving such a thing to Holmes could mean some interesting outfits. “Anything in particular you want?”

“Only the basic necessities, Russell. Anything undamaged is likely to be unclean, and we will be making purchases in London for our personae. I shall go tell Mrs Hudson of the change in plans—she had thought to leave tomorrow, but we can take her with us to the station.”

“What about the box? Back in the beehive?”

“I think not. That was a temporary measure and would hardly stand against a concerted search. I recommend either putting it in a place they’ve already searched or else taking it with us.”

“To Mycroft? Of course! If anyone could keep it safe, Mycroft could.” I stood up and began to put away my papers and books, then paused. “Holmes, I should hate to have this mangled again; a good many hours have gone into it. What do you think of our chances of being invaded a second time?”

“Take anything precious with you. I don’t think there’s much risk, but there’s always the chance. I did ask Old Will and his grandson to keep an eye on the place this time. The boy understands that he is to keep the old man out of trouble, even if it means sitting on him.”

“They’ll be thrilled.” I grinned at the thought. Will was the gardener, but during the reign of Victoria he had also been an agent of what would now be called “Intelligence.” Sessions in the herbaceous border or amongst the runner beans were invariably filled with anecdotes of spying behind the lines during “the War” (which was more likely to be the one on the North-West Frontier or the Crimea than the recent engagement in Europe). The boy, now sixteen, had been infected with his grandfather’s enthusiasm, and he positively ached to be asked for such tasks by Sherlock Holmes himself. “Have you spoken to Mycroft yet about the lad?”

“I have. He was interested but agreed to wait until the lad has finished his schooling.”

“Mycroft’s people would pay for university, wouldn’t they?” Whoever his “people” were, I added to myself.

“They would. They prefer gentlemen spies, or educated ones, at any rate. Look, you finish up here while I move up the arrangements with Mrs Hudson and Will. Don’t take too many books, though. You may have to leave everything with Mycroft.”

My brother-in-law, Mycroft, was much on my mind as I packed my papers and a few books and a toothbrush. I was very fond of that fat
and phlegmatic version of his brother but had to admit that at times he made me nervous. He was possibly the most powerful individual in the British government by then, and power, even when wielded by such a moral and incorruptible person as Mycroft Holmes, is never an easy companion. I was never unaware of it, and always there lurked the knowledge that his power was without checks, that the government and the people lay nearly defenceless should he choose to do harm or, an appalling thought, should his successor prove neither moral nor incorruptible. I was fond of Mycroft, but I was also just a bit afraid of him.

His exact position in the governmental agency into whose offices he walked daily was that of a glorified accountant. It amused him to think of himself that way, though it was quite literally true: He kept accounts. The accounts he kept, however, seldom limited themselves to pounds, shillings, and pence. Rather, he accounted for political trends in Europe and military expenditures in Africa; he took into account religious leaders in India, technological developments in America, and border clashes in South America; he counted the price of sugar in Egypt and wool in Belgium and tea in China. He kept account of the ten thousand threads that went to make up the tapestry of world stability. He had a mind which even Holmes admitted to be his own superior, but unlike Holmes, Mycroft preferred to sit and have information brought to him rather than stir himself to gather it. He was, in a word, lazy.

I
HAD HEARD
him correctly, despite the telephone: He did have grouse and a superb port for us, although the heat and humidity of London took the edge off the appetites of at least three of us. By unspoken agreement, we ate without discussing the Ruskin case, and we took our port to his sitting room. The windows were opened wide in the hope of a breath of air, and the noise of the Mall at night poured in as if we were seated on the pavement. I put my wine to one
side and brushed the damp hair from my forehead, wishing I could wear one of the skimpy new fashions without revealing parts of myself I did not care to reveal—automobile accidents and gunshot wounds leave scars.

“So,” purred Mycroft, “you bring me another interesting little problem. Do you mind if we smoke, Mary?” The invariable question, followed by my customary permission. Mycroft offered cigars, and I settled myself into the chair that I calculated would be clearest of the drift of smoke. After the interminable fuss of clipping and lighting, Mycroft nodded at the Scotland Yard inspector, who was looking a bit stunned with the food and drink and, I think, with the august company.

“Chief Inspector Lestrade, if you would begin, please.”

His small eyes started open, then blinked rapidly as he fumbled in an inner pocket for his notebook. As I watched him awkwardly holding the big cigar in one hand and trying to manipulate the pages with the other, I wondered how a man with such structurally unappealing features could manage to possess a certain degree of charm. His suit was ill-fitting, he needed a shave and a haircut, his collar was worn, his eyes were too small and his ears too large, but I warmed to him nonetheless. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my feelings towards the little man were distinctly maternal. Good God, I thought, how utterly revolting, and I turned my mind firmly to the problem at hand. Lestrade cleared his throat, looked doubtfully at the cigar, and began his report in official tones and a formal manner.

“In conversation with Mr Holmes on Saturday and Sunday, and subsequently confirmed by my superiors, we agreed to extend our investigations in three directions, each representing one area of known contact Miss Ruskin had in this country since she arrived. These areas are, first of all, Miss Ruskin herself, and any bank accounts, wills, et cetera, which she may have established while she was here. Second is her sister, Mrs Erica Rogers, and third is the gentleman she dined with just before she died, Colonel Dennis Edwards. We agreed that, for the
moment, the possibility that people from outside the country were involved would be left in the hands of Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“I should like to say a few words when you have finished, Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft.

“I’ll be as brief as possible. Miss Ruskin herself creates something of a problem. She entered the country from France on Friday, reached Town just before noon, checked into her hotel at two-ten, and stayed there until the following morning, when she went up to Cambridgeshire to see her mother and sister. She remained with them until Monday evening, when she checked back into the same hotel. Tuesday morning, she went out and was not seen again until after ten o’clock in the evening. As yet we’ve no idea where she went.”

“Two hours from Victoria Station to the hotel, you say?” murmured Holmes with a brief smile touching his lips, but did not elaborate.

“You’ve looked at the museums, for the missing Tuesday?” I asked.

“I have a man on it, working his way through a list of the more likely museums and libraries. I don’t suppose she mentioned anything to you?” he asked without much hope, and I answered.

“No, she didn’t, sorry. Did you try Oxford? She did say something in a very general way about being there.”

“I haven’t been able to spare a man for it yet, but I did direct the local force to begin enquiries. Nothing to date.”

“If it would help, I could give you the names of some people in Oxford who might know if she’d been in town. There’s an old man in the Bodleian Library who’s been there forever and a day; he’s sure to know her. It might save a few hours if you could reach them by telephone. Not that the old man would talk on the infernal machine.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Lestrade flipped to a blank page in his lined notebook, and I wrote down several names and where they might be found. He looked in satisfaction at my scrawl, then turned back to his place.

“Wednesday, she reached you at midday, which means she had very little time in the morning to see anyone, though the hotel was not certain just when she left. She came back to the hotel for a very short
time Wednesday night, apparently to change bags, but not clothes, and met the colonel for dinner at nine o’clock.”

“Tell us about the colonel,” suggested Holmes, who looked deceptively near sleep in the depths of his armchair. Lestrade flipped pages, dropped ash onto his trouser leg, and cleared his throat again.

“Colonel Dennis Edwards, age fifty-one, retired after the war—a widower with one son, aged twenty-one. He was in and out of Egypt before the war, and in 1914 he was posted to Cairo. Went into Gallipoli in March of 1915, and stayed until the end, the following January. Given a fortnight’s home leave and then was shifted to the Western Front. Decorated in 1916 when he pulled three of his men out of a collapsed trench under fire. Wounded in March of ’17, spent six months in hospital, and returned to active service until the end of the war. There seems to have been some unpleasant business about his wife, though the exact story is hard to pin down. She died in York in July of 1918—he was in the thick of things at the Marne—though why York, nobody seems to know, as she had no family there. The boy, by the way, didn’t go to her during the school holiday—he’d been sent off to an aunt up in Edinburgh.”

“What did she die from?” I asked.

Lestrade rumpled his hair absently, thus adding another endearingly unattractive characteristic. “Funny thing, we haven’t been able to find out. The hospital moved their offices three years back, and some of the records went missing. All they’ve been able to come up with is one of the older nurses, who remembers a woman by that name dying either, she says, of pneumonia or childbirth fever; she can’t remember which. She thinks the woman was brought in by a handsome young man but couldn’t swear to it. Don’t know if I’d trust her if she could, anyone who can’t even remember whether a patient was in the maternity ward or in with the respiratory diseases. However, it does seem that Mrs Edwards was brought in by a man, according to the one piece of paper the hospital found relating to her admission, but he signed his name as Colonel Edwards. The real colonel was, as I said, in
France, had been for more than eight months, and the signature was not his.”