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

by Laurie R. King

  I shook myself. Come, Russell, don’t be absurd. Mrs. Thomas often set a light burning at dark for me and laid a coal fire in the grate. There was nothing to be concerned about. I was on edge still, from the vile weather and the delay of my escape to Berkshire, my nerves were raw from the tutorial I had been through, nothing more. Nothing but an ordinary room on the other side of the door, as I could even see when I bent down and looked, through the keyhole and, feeling ever more ridiculous, under the door.

  I reached again with my key, but my antennae were well and truly quivering now, and I drew back and looked around me, for confirmation of one attitude or the other, but no omens presented themselves. However, looking down the corridor, I was aware of a vague feeling that I had indeed seen something, some tiny thing. I went slowly back down towards the stairway and saw, on the sill of the window that had been built to illuminate the landing, a smear of mud, two ivy leaves, and a scattering of raindrops.

  How did those get in? How did that smear of soil escape Mrs. Thomas’s vigilant cleaning rag?

  No, Russell. Your imagination is going berserk. It must have been Mrs. Thomas herself, opening the window to let out a moth and letting in the drops and the leaves and…No? The crew that had trimmed the ivy so inadequately last spring, returned to finish the job? But why should they have the window open…

  I took hold of myself firmly and strode down the hall to my door, and there I stood for several minutes, the key in my hand, and I could not bring myself to use it. More than anything I wished I had the revolver that Holmes had insisted I take, but it sat in my chest of drawers, as useless as if it had been in China.

  The truth of the matter was that Holmes had enemies, many of them. He had explained this to me a number of times, drilled me on the precautions I had to take, forced me to acknowledge that I too could become a target for vengeance-seeking acquaintances. I thought it highly unlikely, but I had also to admit that it was not impossible. And right now, all the suspicions Holmes had so laboriously implanted in me wondered if tonight, in my lodgings house, on this wet night in Oxford, someone’s animosity against Holmes had not spilled over onto me.

  I was sorely tempted to go back downstairs and have Mr. Thomas ring the police, but I found the thought of the Oxford constabulary walking through here with their big shoes and heavy manner little comfort. They might frighten off an evildoer temporarily, but I could not imagine myself sleeping any better after they had gone.

  Discounting the police, then, I had two choices. I could use my key after all and confront whomever I found inside my rooms, but that was an action my association with Holmes made me loath to carry out. The other was to approach my rooms by another means than the door. Unfortunately, the only other entrance was through the windows that looked out onto a stone courtyard twenty-five feet below. In the summer I had once climbed the ivy in the nonalcoholic exhilaration of a long midsummer’s dusk, but it had been warm and light then, with nothing more dangerous at the end of the climb than a fall forward through an open window. I did know that the vines would hold my weight, but would my fingers?

  “Oh for God’s sake, Russell, it’s only twenty-five feet. Oxford is making you lazy, sitting on your backside in the library all day. You’re afraid of the cold? You’ll warm up again. There’s really no other choice, now is there? Get on with it.” My father’s American drawl often surfaced when I spoke to myself, as did his irritating tendency to be right.

  I went silently back down the hallway, down one flight of stairs, up that hallway, and down the stairs at the far end. These led into the building’s inner quad rather than out onto the street. I removed my wool stockings and jacket and left them with my boots and book bag in a dark corner. My glasses I buttoned carefully into a shirt pocket and, taking a deep breath, let myself quietly out into the wicked hands of the storm.

  The temperature had dropped further since I had been out on the street, and I stood in wool clothing that might have been gauze when faced with a downpour that was perhaps three degrees from freezing. It took my breath away as the icy wave drove over me, plastering my shirt against my shrivelled breasts and encasing my legs in a thick layer of frigid wool. I pulled myself up into the greasy ivy with fingers that already had trouble moving and thrust into the branches with unfeeling toes. I really ought to get Mr. Thomas to call the police, I thought, but my body had taken over and numbly continued the climb.

  I reached the second layer of dark windows and could see the lighted squares of my own just above my head. With renewed caution I reached for the next handhold, only to find that my hand had not loosed from the previous hold. From then on I had to consciously think the muscles of my hands open and, more important, shut on the vine. Slowly, slowly I pulled myself up beside the first of my windows and peered in the inevitable crack between the scant curtains. Nothing there, only the room fire blazing merrily. Cursing gently to myself I forced my fingers to carry me across to the other window. The ivy was thinner here, and once, when my hand did not completely close, I nearly fell to the stones below, but my other hand kept hold, and the wind hid my noises. I made it to the second cheerily lit rectangle and dangled myself like a sodden monkey to peer into the narrow curtain-crack.

  This time I was successful. Even without my spectacles I could see the old woman Mr. Thomas had described, sitting before the fire, bent over a book, her stockinged feet propped upon the rail. I fumbled with the sensationless protuberances on my hand and managed to pop the button from my shirt pocket, lay hands on my spectacles, nearly dropping them to destruction twice, and finally draped them crookedly across my nose. Even from the side she was extraordinarily ugly, with a black mole that resembled a large insect crawling across her chin. I pulled back, trying to think. I should have to do something quickly, as my hands were on the verge of becoming completely useless.

  A stream of liquid ice was running down the back of my shirt and streaming off my bare foot. My brain was sluggish with the penetrating cold, but something stuck in my mind about this old woman. What was it? I rested one foot on the mossy stone sill, leant precariously forward, and studied the figure. The ear, was it? And then suddenly it all fell together in a neat pattern. I wedged my poor frozen fingers under the edge of the window and pulled. The old woman looked up from her book, then rose and came to open the window more fully. I looked up at “her” bitterly.

  “Damn you, Holmes, what the hell are you doing here? And for God’s sake help me in this window before you have to scrape me up off the pavement.”

  Soon I stood shivering and dripping on my carpet, and awkwardly dried my spectacles on the curtain so I wouldn’t have to squint to see Holmes. He stood there in his dingy old lady’s dress, that horrid mole on his face, looking not in the least apologetic for the trouble he had put me to.

  “Damn it, Holmes, your flair for the dramatic entrance could have broken my neck, and if I avoid pneumonia it’ll be no thanks to the last few minutes. Turn your back; I must get out of these clothes.” He obediently turned a chair to a blank wall, one with no reflecting object, I noticed, and I peeled off my clothes clumsily in front of the hot little fire, put on the long grey robe I had left folded over the stool that morning, and got a towel for my hair.

  “All right, you may turn around now.” I pushed the sodden clothing into a corner until I could deal with them later. Holmes and I were close, but I didn’t care to wave my underclothing about in front of his nose. There are limits to friendship.

  I went to the night table for my comb and, pulling a stool in front of the fire, I began to undo my wet braids to steam in the heat. My fingers, toes, and nose were fiery with returning sensation. The shivering had subsided somewhat, but I could not suppress the occasional hard shudder. Holmes frowned.

  “Have you any brandy?” he asked in a low voice.

  “You know I don’t drink the stuff.”

  “That is not what I asked,” he said, all patience and condescension. “I asked if you had any. I want some brandy.”
r />   “Then you’ll have to ask my neighbour for some.”

  “I doubt that the young lady would appreciate a figure like myself at her door, somehow.”

  “It doesn’t matter, she’s home in Kent for the holidays anyway.”

  “Then I shall just have to assume that she gave her permission.” He let himself out into the hallway, then put his head back in the door. “By the way, don’t touch that machine on the desk. It’s a bomb.”

  I sat eyeing the tangle of wires with the black box in its centre until he returned with my neighbour’s bottle and two of her magnificent glasses. He poured generously and handed me a glass, and poured a smaller amount for himself.

  “Not a very nice brandy, but it will taste better in these glasses. Drink it,” he ordered.

  I dutifully took a large mouthful and swallowed. It made me cough but calmed my shudders, and by the time I finished it I was aware of a warm glow spreading out to my very fingertips.

  “I suppose you know that alcohol is not the optimum treatment for hypothermia?” I accused him, somewhat truculently. I was really most annoyed at the whole charade, and the melodramatic touch of the bomb was tiresome.

  “Had you been in danger of that I would not have given you brandy. However, I can see that it has made you feel better, so finish combing out your hair and then sit in a comfortable chair. We have a long conversation ahead of us. Ah, how forgetful I am in my old age.” He went over to the old lady’s shopping basket and drew out a parcel that I immediately recognised as Mrs. Hudson’s handiwork. My attitude lightened immediately.

  “What a life-giving surprise. Bless Mrs. Hudson. However, I cannot eat sitting across from a dirty old woman with an insect crawling up her chin. And if you leave fleas in my rooms, I shan’t forgive you easily.”

  “It’s clean dirt,” he assured me and peeled off the gruesome mole. He stood up and removed the skirt and loose overshirt, moving stiffly, and sat down again as Sherlock Holmes, more or less.

  “My appetite thanks you.”

  I finished towelling my wet hair and reached greedily for one of Mrs. Hudson’s inimitable meat pies. I did keep bread and cheese for informal meals, but even two days old, as this one seemed to be, it was much superior even to the Stilton that lay festering nobly in my stocking drawer.

  I emerged from the feast some time later to find Holmes watching me with a curious expression on his face, which disappeared instantly, replaced by his customary slightly superior gaze.

  “I was hungry,” I declared unnecessarily, somewhat defensive. “I had a murderous tutorial, for which I skipped lunch, and then worked in the Bodleian all afternoon. I don’t remember if I had breakfast. I may have done.”

  “What so engrossed you this time?”

  “Actually, I was doing some work that might interest you. My maths tutor and I were working with some problems in theory, involving base eight, when we came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours.”

  “I assume you speak of Professor Moriarty?” His voice was as cold as the ivy outside my window, but I refused to be subdued.

  “Exactly. I spent the day hunting down some articles he published. I was interested in the mind and the personality as well as the mathematics.”

  “What impression did you have of the man?”

  “‘The subtlest of all the beasts in the garden’ comes to mind. His cold-blooded, ruthless use of logic and language struck me as somehow reptilian, although that may be unkind to snakes. I believe that had I not known the identity of the writer, the words alone would have succeeded in raising my hackles.”

  “Being a good mammal yourself apparently, rather than a cold-blooded thinking machine such as your teacher is known to be,” he said drily.

  “Ah,” I said, speaking lightly with the freedom of the brandy’s glow, “but I have never called you cold-blooded, now have I, my dear Holmes?”

  He sat very still for a moment and then cleared his throat. “No, you have not. Have you finished with Mrs. Hudson’s picnic?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I allowed him to pack away the remnants. His movements seemed terribly stiff, but as he hated to have his ailments noted, I said nothing. He had probably taken a chill in his old woman’s clothes, and his rheumatism was acting up. “If you would just put it over there, I will enjoy it greatly for lunch tomorrow.”

  “No, I am sorry, but I shall have to put it back in my shopping basket. We may need it tomorrow.”

  “Holmes, I don’t much like the sound of that. I have an engagement for tomorrow. I am going to Berkshire. I have already put it off for three days, and I have no intention of further delaying it because of some demand of yours.”

  “You have no choice, Russell. We must be away from here, before they find us.”

  “Who? Holmes, what is going on? Don’t tell me you suggest we go out again into that.” I waved my hand at the window, where the damp, splashing drops told of rain halfway to being snow. “I’m not even dry from the first time. And what is that thing you’ve brought—is it really a bomb? Why did you bring it here? Talk to me, Holmes!”

  “Very well, to be succinct: We shall go out, but not yet; the bomb was here, attached to your door when I arrived; and ‘what’s going on’ is nothing less than attempted murder.”

  I stared at him aghast. The tangled object on the desk seemed to writhe gently in the edges of my vision, and I felt cold fingers running up my spine. When I had my breath back I spoke again and was pleased to find that my voice was almost firm.

  “Who wishes to kill me? And how did you know about it?” I did not think it necessary to ask why.

  “Well done, Russell. A quick mind is worthless unless you can control the emotions with it as well. Tell me first, why did you come up the ivy, rather than through the door? You did not have your revolver and could hardly have expected to leap in the window and overpower your intruder.” His dry voice was marginally too casual, but I could not see why this was so important to him.

  “Information. I needed to know what awaited me before making a decision. Had I found an armed reception party I’d have gone down and had Mr. Thomas telephone for the police. Am I correct in assuming that you left the black smudge on the doorknob for me to find?”

  “I did.”

  “And the mud and leaves on the opposite window ledge?”

  “The mud was there before I came. One leaf I added, as assurance that you should notice.”

  “Why the charade, Holmes? Why risk my bones coming up the wall?”

  He looked straight at me and his voice was dead, flat serious.

  “Because, my dear child, I needed to be absolutely certain that despite being tired, cold, and hungry, you would pick up the small hints and act correctly.”

  “The business of the note in my pigeonhole was hardly a ‘small hint.’ A bit heavy-handed for you. Why didn’t you ask Mrs. Hudson which room I was in? She has been to my rooms before.” There was something here I was just not seeing.

  “I have not seen Mrs. Hudson for some days.”

  “But—the food?”

  “Old Will brought it to me. You may have seen that he’s more than just the gardener,” he added with apparent irrelevance.

  “I surmised that some time ago, yes. But why have you been away—?” I stopped, and my eyes narrowed as various facts merged and his stiffness came back to me. “My God, you’re hurt. They tried to kill you first, didn’t they? Where are you injured? How badly?”

  “Some distinctly uncomfortable abrasions along my back, is all. I’m afraid I may have to ask you to change the dressings at some point, but not immediately. The person who set the bomb thinks I’m dying, fortunately. Some poor tramp was run over just after they took me to the hospital, and he’s there still, with bandages about his head and my name on his chart. And, I might add, a constable at his side at all times.”

  “Was anyone else hurt? Mrs. Hudson?”

  “Mrs. Hudson is fine, although half the glass
in the south wall is out. The house is miserable in this weather so she’s off to that friend of hers in Lewes until repairs are made. No, the bomb was not actually in the house; they set it in one of the beehives, of all places. He, or they, must have laid it the night before, expecting it to catch me on my morning rounds. Perhaps he used a radio transmitter to trigger it, or else motion at the adjoining hives was enough. In any case, I can only be grateful that it did not go up in my face.”

  “Who, Holmes? Who?”

  “There are three names that come to mind, although the humourous touch of using the hive is of a level I should not have credited to any of the three. There are four bombers I have put away in the past. One is dead. One has been out for five years, though I had heard that he had settled down and become a strong family man. The second was let out eighteen months ago and has apparently remained in the London area. The third escaped from Princetown last July. Any one of the three could have been responsible for my bomb, which was professionally laid and left very little intact evidence. Yours, however, is a different matter. A thing like that is as individual as a fingerprint. Not being entirely up to date on bombs myself, however, I need an expert to read this particular fingerprint. We shall take it with us when we go.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked with considerable patience, I thought, considering the havoc I could see this was going to wreak on my plans for a lovely holiday.

  “To the great cesspool, of course.”

  “Why London?”

  “Mycroft, my dear child, my brother Mycroft. He possesses the knowledge of Scotland Yard without the obsessional reticence of that good body, which tends to hoard information like a dragon its gold. Mycroft can, with a single telephone call, tell me the precise locations of our three possibilities, and who is the most likely author of your mechanism here. Assuming my attempted murderer still believes me to be in hospital, he would not connect you with Mycroft, as the two of you have never so much as met. We will be safe with him for a day or two, and we shall see what trail turns up. The scent in Sussex is, I fear, very cold. I did come up here as quickly as I could, but I was not in time to catch him at his work. I am sorry about that. You see before you a distinctly inferior version of Sherlock Holmes, old, rusty, and easily laid out.”