Testimony, II:5
AS I SETTLED IN BEHIND THE WHEEL OF THE MOTORCAR, I noticed the red welts on my companion's hands, testimony to the disinclination of bees to be disturbed. “Are the hives well?” I asked him.
“All five needed an additional super,” he replied.
“It'll make Mr Miranker happy that you've paid them attention.”
“He has looked after them well, in my absence.”
“I like him.”
“You've met?”
“We met Wednesday, at the abandoned hive. I told you I solved that mystery—I should have said, he and I together did so.” As I negotiated the light Sunday traffic into Eastbourne, I described my investigation of the missing colony of Apis mellifera. We broke off so I could park the motor at the station while he bought tickets and showed the staff Yolanda Adler's photograph, then met again in an empty compartment (the week-end flow of travellers back towards London still being occupied with eking out their final hours of sun).
“None of the men working today was on duty Friday,” he grumbled, so I finished telling him about the bees, touching lightly upon my own suggestion concerning the remoteness of the hive and quickly going on to Mr Miranker's conclusion. The story went on for some time, since I thought he would like to know every small detail of the matter. At last I came to an end, and presented my conclusion. “The hive died because the queen was too soft-hearted, Holmes.”
He snorted at my interpretation of the hive's failure; belatedly, I heard the echo of wistfulness in my voice, and glanced sideways at him.
It had been not a snort, but a snore: Following one night spent staring out at the moon over the Downs, and the night before prowling the city in search of a son, Holmes had fallen asleep.
An hour later, his voice broke into my thoughts. “I trust you did not tell Mr Miranker that you believed the hive succumbed to loneliness?”
“Not in so many words, no. Although he did agree that it was possible the lack of proximity to another hive might have contributed to its extinction.”
“Loneliness alone does not drive a creature mad, Russell. However, I freely admit that an excess of royal benevolence is not a diagnosis that would have occurred to me. One can hope that Miranker's replacement queen proves sufficiently ruthless. Do you suppose Lestrade will be at the Yard today, or ought we to hunt him down at his home?”
“He might be at work, although you'd have to conceal your identity to have him admit it over the telephone.”
“True, the cases which have brought me into his purview have tended to demand much of his time. The same, now that I think of it, might be said of his father before him.”
The younger Lestrade had followed his father into the police, then New Scotland Yard, and thus inevitably into contact with Sherlock Holmes. I had seen a considerable amount of Lestrade the previous summer, during a complicated and ultimately uncomfortable case involving an ancient manuscript and modern inheritances. I doubted he would relish the opportunity of working with either of us again this soon.
“Do you suppose they will look into the meaning of her blisters?” I asked him.
“I should doubt it.”
“But you don't wish to tell them who she is?”
“I intend merely to say that this is a Sussex crime I have been asked to investigate by an anonymous party, no more.”
“Holmes, if you—”
“I will not come to their aid in this matter,” he snarled. “There is too much here I do not yet understand.”
“Well,” I said, “if I can find where the shoes came from, I might find who bought them for her.”
“Is that a line of enquiry you can begin today?”
“I can start, but the shops themselves will not be open.”
“Do what you can. In the meantime, I shall hunt down Lestrade and see what I can prise out of him.”
“I'd also like a copy of that photograph you have.”
He slid his hand into his breast pocket and drew out a note-case, handing me a freshly printed reproduction of the photograph Damian had given him. The facial details were not as crisp as the original, but would be sufficient for my purposes.
I studied it, as I hadn't before. Yolanda was not, in fact, as pretty as I had remembered. Her face was a touch too square, the eyes too small, but the face beneath the dowdy hat was alive and sparkling with intelligence, which made her far more attractive than any surface arrangement of features. The child in her arms was blurred and turning to the side, but the corner of her eye suggested an Asian fold, even though the child's glossy hair lacked the thick, straight texture of the mother's.
Beside them, Damian's right hand rested on Yolanda's shoulder, giving that half of his image the air of a Victorian paterfamilias; the other half with its encircling arm suggested a person more relaxed and modern. He looked happy, prosperous, proud, and amused at that incongruous frock suit.
Yolanda's skirt was not, I noted, flowered. Its cut and hem-line seemed out of date to me, although not as archaic as his coat. No doubt one should not expect the latest in fashion from a Bohemian matron—here in London, Bohemians tended to resemble gipsies or pipe-fitters. “I wonder why they chose such conventional dress and setting for a portrait? It's almost as if they were in disguise.”
“Or fancy-dress,” Holmes said.
“Yes. Especially when you look at the expressions on their faces.” Perhaps Yolanda's face was sparkling with humour rather than intelligence. It made her more sympathetic, somehow.
I was about to put the photograph into my pocket, but Holmes took it from me, laid it face-to against the window, and folded the top down at the line of Damian's shoulders. He ran his thumb-nail hard against the fold; when he handed it back, Damian had been reduced to little more than a black back-drop and a hand on the child's torso. “If you're looking for her, his image will only confuse matters,” he told me.
It was true, the eye focused on a lone woman more easily than with a bearded man looming above her. Still, I couldn't help being aware of the symbolic aspect of the fold as well: Holmes wanted Damian left out of this enquiry.
When we reached Victoria, Holmes, impatient to be about his business, set off on foot towards Westminster and Scotland Yard while I took my place in the taxi queue. I frowned at his back until it disappeared around the corner, then took out the photograph and studied it.
Was it conviction, or apprehension, that made him so determined to exclude Damian?
My club, the Vicissitude, was not an ideal beginning for a hunt into the world of fashion—one was more likely to find expertise on Attic Greek or the missions of China than on expensive clothing—but as it happened, I drew a lucky straw, and some time later sat down to tea with a cousin of the sister-in-law of the Vicissitude's manager, a dangerously thin individual wearing a Chanel dress that was too large for her. She had, until her recent illness, supervised the millinery section of one of London's large department stores.
“I am trying to trace a pair of shoes. The woman who wore them is dead,” I added, before she could suggest I ask their owner. I described the shoes closely—the shape, the quality of the leather, the tiny bow on the heel. “They didn't look like ready-made shoes, but if they were bespoke, they were for someone other than the woman wearing them. They didn't fit her.”
The thin face made a moue of disapproval. “You would have mentioned if there were an identifying name in them,” she said. I agreed, I would have. “The bow suggests a recent line of quality footwear out of Cardiff, of all places. Harrods carries them, in several styles and colours, although I believe Selfridges is trying one or two lines as well.”
“The woman's frock was from Selfridges,” I reflected.
“Then perhaps you should begin there.”
“I shall, first thing in the morning.” I took care, in shaking her hand, not to bear down with any enthusiasm, lest I crush the bird-like bones.
I came out onto the street to the sound of bells from nearby Westminster cathe
dral. To my surprise, considering all that had happened that day, it was not yet half past four. The streets were dead, but then, even Oxford and Regent streets would be echoing and empty. On a Sunday in London, one could walk, worship, or improve oneself.
I chose the last option, making my way down to the Tate to spend an hour meandering among paintings that might have looked modern had I not been recently introduced to the work of one Damian Adler.
When I was thrown out at closing, I found a tiny café that offered a meal it called dinner, and dawdled the dusk away, strolling down the river and through the by-ways into Chelsea, waiting until half past eight, when it would be nearly dark enough to break into the Adler house unseen.
Except that I ran into a slight problem.
The police were there first.
The Elements (1): A word (which is air) written on a
piece of paper (which is earth) and burnt (thus, fire) with
the ashes stirred into a glass of water, awaits the throat of a
man. But the glass does not hold the word's essence,
unless it has employed the keys of Time and Will.
Testimony, II:6
IT WAS A SHOCK TO CROSS THE ENTRANCE TO BURTON Place, expecting a quiet cul-de-sac with a dark house at its far end, and to see the road crowded with onlookers and official motorcars, and every light in number seven burning. I drifted into the street, coming to rest amidst a group of ogling neighbours, and primed the gossip pump with a few innocuous questions.
The police, according to one of the children, had been in residence for less than half an hour. They had brought a locksmith, a servant volunteered, who worked on the door for a good ten minutes before it had opened. The people in number eleven had 'phoned the police at tea-time, another maid was eager to say, after some woman had come asking about the Adlers the night before.
I watched for a few minutes, then faded away, to circle around the back of the house through the service alley. I stood on tip-toes to peer over the wall, seeing with disgust the signs of a house being thoroughly searched: constables framed by the sitting room window off to the left, more constables in an upstairs bedroom, the noise of loud constabulary voices and heavy constabulary shoes.
I decided to wait for a while, but before five minutes had passed, I heard the sound of running feet behind me. I ducked behind a bush, one with an unfortunate number of prickles in it, then noticed that the person fast approaching not only lacked a torch, but was trying to run quietly on the dirt surface. As he darted past, I saw his silhouette, and hissed loudly.
His feet stopped instantly although the rest of him did not, and he slid along the loose surface for several feet, arms flailing. He did not fall, but whirled and came back to where I stood.
“Well done, Holmes,” I said in admiration. I was not at all sure that I could have performed the manoeuvre without going down.
“The police traced her,” he whispered.
“My fault, I'm afraid. One of the neighbours I talked to last ni—”
“I thought to have more time,” he cut in urgently. My own pulse quickened.
“Time for what?”
“There is an object I must remove from the house before the police find it.”
“What is it?”
“Later, Russell. Come.” He dragged me to the gate, raised his head to look over, then went up on his toes and stretched his arm down; I heard the click of a latch.
The house had two doors that opened onto the garden: one near the sitting room, the other to the kitchen at the right. The kitchen door stood open, light spilling out, but at the moment there was no constable outside of the house. We slipped into the garden, closing the gate, and Holmes pointed to the stairway one could see through a window above the kitchen.
“In five minutes, anyone in the upper storeys will come down those stairs. One minute afterwards, I will go up them; I will need no more than three minutes, then I will come down again. If anyone starts up the stairs while I am still inside, you must create a diversion. Any diversion at all, I don't care, just so you are not caught. An arrest would be disastrous.”
“Holmes—”
“Russell, we have no time. I will meet you at Mycroft's later.”
“Fine, a diversion. Go.”
To my surprise, he headed not for the house, but back out of the gate into the alley-way. I patted through the soil at my feet and came up with soil, pebbles, some bits of bone, and a soft object that startled me until I decided it was a child's doll. Finally my fingers encountered a solid chunk of rock, then a fist-sized corner of brick. From next door came a faint sound of breaking glass, muffled perhaps by cloth. Two minutes after that, the sound of a telephone, ringing in the Adler house.
Two uniformed constables in the sitting room turned and looked across the room, but neither moved to answer the machine. It rang again, and another constable appeared. He said something, but the others hesitated. I was aware of movement off to my right, as of someone scrambling over a wall; at the same moment, I saw a figure in brown scurry across the half-landing window, fast descending the stairs. It was Lestrade, with two more constables at his heels; I caught a glimpse of the men as they went down the hallway behind the kitchen, then saw them enter the sitting room. Lestrade snatched up the telephone receiver, and in a flash, Holmes bounded up the kitchen steps and into the house, disappearing in the direction of the stairway. I began to count: at five, his form darted past the half-landing window and continued up the stairs.
Lestrade spoke into the telephone, frowned, spoke again, then reached down to rattle the hook: twenty-three seconds. After another sixty-four seconds, the exchange gave the Chief Inspector the information he needed. He dropped the instrument back on its rest, and stood for seven seconds, deep in thought.
He then spoke to one of the men in uniform: that took thirty seconds. The man left the room, no doubt heading for the empty house next door whence the call had come. Lestrade stayed where he was for another nineteen seconds, talking with the men, then went back to the door, and out.
I couldn't be certain he would return upstairs, but I moved onto the lawn, just in case. Sure enough, seconds later I saw a brown figure move past the doorway in the direction of the stairs—two and a half minutes were all Holmes was getting.
I trotted across the lawn, took aim, and heaved the rock through the exact centre of the sitting room window; an instant later, the brick punched a hole in the narrow window beside the garden door. Breaking glass makes a most satisfying noise, exploding through the night; the constables in the sitting room ducked down and I ran, out of the gate and down the service alley to the street beyond, where I dropped to a quick walk. I maintained the pace to the corner, then slowed to an amble until I was safely among the crowd in Burton Place.
When five minutes went by and Holmes was not dragged out in handcuffs, I rubbed my damp and shaking palms down the front of my skirt, and walked innocently away.
Had it not been a Sunday, I would have gone straight into the nearest public house and had a drink. Or two.
It being a Sunday, I had to wait until I reached Mycroft's flat. I went on foot, past the meeting hall where the Children of Lights had met (dark and locked up tonight) then up Knightsbridge and around the Palace to Pall Mall. I half expected Holmes to catch me up; he did not.
Mycroft made haste to provide both the drink and an explanation of Holmes' sudden appearance in Burton Place: He had been here when Lestrade telephoned.
“The Chief Inspector asked if I had seen my brother. I naturally said no.”
“Naturally.” Why should one co-operate with the police, after all?
“When Sherlock is working, I volunteer no information until I can see the ramifications. Lestrade had heard that Sherlock was at Scotland Yard this afternoon, asking about the body of an Oriental woman found in Sussex, and he wanted to say that if Sherlock was endeavouring to discover the young woman's identity, not to worry, Scotland Yard had not only her name, but her address. Appare
ntly one of the neighbours reported an entire family missing, among whom was a young Oriental woman. When Lestrade sent one of his men over with a morgue photograph, the neighbour confirmed that it was she. The Chief Inspector offered to let Sherlock see the files in the morning, if he was still interested.”
“And instead, Holmes flew out of here as if the house were on fire.”
“Faster than that, I should say.”
I took a swallow from my glass, which emptied it. Without comment, Mycroft refilled it. I told him, “Holmes was there, behind Damian's house. He came running up, asked me to make a diversion, and went inside to get something. That's what he said, anyway.”
“You doubt it was so?”
“Mycroft, I don't know what to think. He said he'd meet me here and explain it all. I left Chelsea a good hour ago. I expected him back before me.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Eat? I don't know. I'm not hungry.”
“Nonetheless.” He got up—easily, without the grunt of effort he'd have given a year ago—and crossed the room to the telephone, to debate the options available with the invisible staff somewhere in the depths of the building.
While he was doing that, I decided to draw a bath—with Holmes, it was always best to be prepared for an instantaneous departure, and I felt grubby. I closeted myself in Mycroft's enormous bath-tub with a lot of hot, fragrant water; when I emerged, the food had come. Holmes had not.
I ate largely in silence. I wanted to dive into my brother-in-law and prise out every scrap of information he had regarding Damian, Irene Adler, Holmes' past—everything. But pressing Mycroft would put him in an awkward position: If Holmes wanted me to know these things, Holmes would tell me. It wasn't fair to Mycroft to ask.
Apart from which, as he'd said, he tended to volunteer no information—to the police, and perhaps to me. And I did not want his refusal to stand between us.
Better to fume in silence.
An hour later, Mycroft had retired for the night and I had reached that stage where concern and irritation were piling atop one another to create a volatile mix. However, when Holmes finally walked in, one look at him and my anger deflated.
The Language of Bees Page 18