The Language of Bees

by Laurie R. King

  “Well, at least there's a chance you won't have to stand bail for him in Newcastle or some equally remote place.”

  “There is that.”

  After we ate, I took over the dining table and began to make my way laboriously through the livestock report.

  As I had anticipated, there were dozens of animal deaths, from one end of the country to the next, and not one of them an obvious ritual sacrifice. Perhaps our man had a purpose other than bloody religion, I speculated with the half of my mind not taken up by dead cows. (Three had died in Cornwall during April, fallen one after another into an abandoned tin mine.) Maybe it was personal: He had a grudge against women—and this suicide in Yorkshire was unrelated. (An entire flock of laying hens had vanished in a night—but no, they were later found in a neighbour's henhouse.) Or perhaps Fiona Cartwright and Albert Seaforth were the two who were related, linked by an affair, or inheritance, or a place of employment. (A bull had been struck by a lorry, which fled the scene, although it didn't make it far since a bull is large enough to reduce an engine block to dead weight.) Or if “Smythe” had actually wanted a secretary and found Fiona lacking, then tried a male secretary at his next stop—but don't be ridiculous, Russell (A pig was killed by a Wiltshire farmer in June after it broke into his house and wouldn't leave.), there is no Smythe, your brain is fatigued, go to bed.

  I looked up. But there were jobs. And Seaforth was out of work just as Fiona Cartwright had been—and Marcus Gunderson. I dropped my pencil. “I'm going to York,” I announced. “Now. I'll telephone when I know where I'm staying—see if you can talk someone there into letting me read the police file on Seaforth's death. And maybe not arrest me, either.”

  “Take a room at the Station Hotel, I'll leave any message for you there.”

  I managed to catch a good train, and reached York while there was still life in the Station Hotel. They had a room, and a message:

  Inspector Kursall, central station, 11 a.m.

  I slept very little, ate early, and at nine o'clock stepped into the first on my list of York employment agencies. The question I had come here for was, if Cartwright, Seaforth, Gunderson, and Dunworthy were all jobless when he found them, did Brothers habitually use employment agencies?

  At half past ten, I found the right one: small, run-down, and specialising, apparently, in the chronically unemployable.

  “Yais, I dew recall him.” The thin, pallid, buck-toothed man adjusted a pair of worn steel spectacles on his narrow nose. “Mr Seaforth encountered some difficulties at his last place of employment.”

  “He was fired for making unwelcome advances,” I said bluntly.

  “Well, yais. I suggested that his expectations of finding another school willing to take him on might be overly optimistic. Unless he were to leave York, of course. The last possibility I sent him out on was the tutoring of a fourteen-year-old boy who had been expelled for setting fire to his rooms at school.”

  In other words, Seaforth had been scraping the bottom of his profession's barrel.

  “You're not surprised he killed himself, then.”

  “Not ectually, no.”

  “Did you meet this boy?”

  “Oh no. Just the father.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “Why should you—”

  “Please, I'll go away and stop bothering you if you just tell me.”

  Why that should convince him to talk to me, I don't know, but I thought it might, and so it did.

  “A pleasant man in his early forties, dark hair and eyes, a good suit. Seemed quite fond of his son, truly puzzled by the lad's behaviour.”

  “Did he have a scar?”

  “A scar? Yes, I believe he did. Like the splash of a burn, going back from his eye. I recall thinking that he'd been lucky not to lose his sight.”

  “Back from his eye—not down?”

  “Not really, no. A dark triangle extending towards the hair-line, wider at the back. My own dear mother had a scar on her cheek,” he explained, “from a pan of burning fat. I might not have noticed it, other.”

  “I see.” I did not know why it mattered, although it was helpful to have a description as accurate as possible, and if the scar ran one way rather than the other, it might jog the memory of a witness. “Did this gentleman give you a name, or any way to get into contact with him?”

  “His name was Smythe. He is new to this area, still looking at houses, but he was particularly concerned with his son's welfare. He took the names I suggested and told me he would be back into touch when he had chosen a man for the position.”

  “How many names were there?”

  “Er, only the one.”

  “Right. And do you know how Smythe found you?”

  “I suppose he saw my sign from the street. I don't advertise anywhere, and as for word of mouth, he was new to the area, and—well, to be frank he didn't look like my usual client.”

  It made sense, that a man searching for the most downtrodden of the unemployed, men and women of whom suicide would not be unexpected, should troll the streets for a store-front like this one, dingy and dispiriting.

  I thanked the man, shook his thin, damp hand, and left the musty office.

  On the street, it hit me: An eye with a long triangle of scar beside it might resemble that symbol on the books, in the rings, and tattooed on Yolanda Adler's body.

  But what did it mean?

  I got to my appointment early, but Inspector Kursall was waiting. He welcomed me into his office and handed me a thin file. “Not much there,” he said.

  But they had done an autopsy, and determined that Albert Seaforth had died late Tuesday or early Wednesday, 12 or 13 August, of exsanguination from wounds to his wrists. His cause of death was of secondary importance, however, for the in situ photograph of his hand with the knife beside it told me all I needed to know: The blade was covered with blood; the fingers were all but clean.

  The pathologist had been thorough, both in his examination and in writing it up: middle-aged male, lack of muscle tone, no scars, mole on left shoulder, no wounds save those to his wrists, and so on. Then, in the third paragraph, it caught my eye: one-half-inch patch behind left ear where the hair was cut away. Had Fiona Cartwright's autopsy report been less perfunctory, I was certain that we would have seen a similar notation there.

  I handed the file back to Kursall. “You need to talk to Chief Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Read him the third paragraph.”

  It was the least I could do, for a man who hadn't arrested me on sight.

  I caught a train that would get me back into London by early evening, and spent the whole journey thinking about the full moon and murder.

  The sky grew darker as we travelled south, and when we reached our terminus in King's Cross, the close, restless atmosphere presaged a storm's approach. I flung myself and my valise into a taxi and offered him double if he would get me to Angel Court in half his usual time. The man tried his hardest, and I was inside Mycroft's flat before the first raindrops hit the window.

  My brother-in-law looked up, surprised, at my hurried entrance.

  “I'm going to the Children of Lights services,” I explained as I passed through the room. “I don't suppose you'd care to join me?”

  I glanced back to see one raised eyebrow: Habits die hard, and apart from the self-imposed discipline of walking Hyde Park, his lifelong disinclination to bestir himself was not about to change.

  “Anything from Holmes?” I called.

  “Not yet. The prints on the biscuit wrapper do not include any of those found thus far in the walled house. And your suspicions concerning the mushrooms found in the drink were justified: Amanita, not Agaricus.”

  “Hallucinogenic, then.”

  “If a person consumed several glasses of the drink you found, yes, mildly so.”

  “More to underscore the hashish, you would say?”

  “Indeed. And you—were you successful?”

  “Brothers defin
itely uses employment agencies to locate his victims,” I said, and threw snatches of my findings at him as I rummaged through the wardrobe for suitable clothing—something more orthodox than last week's costume, but still idiosyncratic. Despite the weather, I ended up with a shirtwaist topped with a bright, hand-woven belt from South America, an equally bright neck-scarf from India, and an almost-matching ribbon around the summer-weight cloche hat.

  Mycroft had long ceased to comment on the clothing I wore in and out of his flat, no doubt determining that I was incessantly in one disguise or another. This evening he merely glanced at the garish accessories, without so much as a remark at the clashing colours, and wished me a good hunt.

  Power (1): If all things are joined, if God has linked all

  creatures by ethereal threads, then Power is there to be

  absorbed. Primitive peoples see the shadow of this idea,

  when they eat the hearts of conquered enemies.

  Testimony, III:7

  I STOOD ACROSS THE ROAD FROM THE MEETING HALL until I was certain there was no police watch on the entrance. The rain was light, a harbinger of autumn and endings, but it was still enough to dampen me in the time it took to scurry across the evening traffic.

  At the door, I again hesitated, and climbed the stairs with all my senses tuned for a figure at the top. The vestibule was deserted, but for the table of pamphlets, and I eased the door open a crack to see within.

  The service was nearly over, and nearly empty: Last week's 120 attendees were three times that of tonight's. I did not think that due to the rain.

  Millicent Dunworthy was reading again, in her white robe between two black candles. Her text described a sin-soaked yet peculiarly free city in the East where the author had come into his knowledge of the interrelatedness of Light and Dark and the Truth That Lies Between Them, but I thought she was paying little attention to the meaning of the words. She read fast, the words tumbling out with no attempt at meaning, and she stopped occasionally as if her throat had closed. She was bent over the book, not looking up, her hands gripping hard.

  She was frightened, or angry. Or both.

  When the chapter ended, her eyes came up for the first time, a quick hot glance at a large figure in the back, hunched in a pale overcoat. I looked more closely, noticed the empty chairs all around him, and let the door ease shut: Lestrade had sent a presence. And the Children knew who he was.

  The hallway leading to the meeting room also continued in the other direction. I loosened the furthest light-bulb, and sat on some steps, waiting for the service to end. Before long, the doors opened and people made immediately for the stairs: no chatter, and no tea and biscuits. After a pause, the plainclothes policeman came out, followed a few minutes later by the brother and sister of the Inner Circle.

  When the hallway was empty, I walked down to the meeting room and found Millicent Dunworthy, packing the pamphlets into their boxes with sharp motions. She looked up, startled, when I came near.

  “I'm sorry, I missed the service,” I told her.

  “There was no service. There may never be,” she said, and slapped some cards on top of the pamphlets.

  “I heard. About Yolanda, I mean. I know it must be very disturbing.”

  “That's the least of it. No,” she said, “I don't mean that, it's terrible, of course, but the police have been all over, asking questions, insinuating—”

  She broke off, and picked up the box to carry it to the storage cabinet. I followed with the folding table. When we had the doors shut and the padlocks on, she turned to me.

  “What do you want?”

  “I'd like to talk about the Children,” I said.

  “You and everyone else!”

  “I'm not with the police. Or the newspapers. I'm just a friend.”

  “Not of mine.”

  “I could be. Look,” I said reasonably. “I noticed a café next door but one. We could have a bowl of soup, or a coffee, maybe?”

  She hesitated, but just then the heavens contributed their opinion, and a growl of thunder accompanied by a thrust of drops against the window warned her how wet she would be if she walked home now. She agreed, grudgingly, and we scurried through the rain to the café. I moved with my arm across my face, holding my hat against the wind, but the police watcher appeared to have waited only to be certain that Brothers did not appear, then gone home.

  Millicent—we soon graduated to the intimacy of first names—unblushingly ordered cocoa; I did so as well, although I had not downed a cup of the cloying liquid since my undergraduate days, and frankly I would have preferred strong drink for both of us. And when I pressed upon her the necessity for keeping her energy up, she added a request for a slice of sponge cake, “although I shouldn't.”

  “Make that two,” I told the waitress, joining Millicent in her naughtiness. When the tired woman had taken herself away to fetch our drinks, I said, “Oh, I haven't had a slice of Victoria Sponge in yonks.”

  “It has rather passed out of popularity, hasn't it?”

  I pounced, before she could redirect the conversation. “Even the name Victoria has gone out of fashion. What does that remind me of? Oh, I know—I've been thinking about the Adler child, Estelle, this week, another uncommon name. So sad, isn't it? And what do you imagine has become of Damian?”

  She picked at the bundle that contained her robe and shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I can't believe he had anything to do with her death, as the newspapers would have us think,” I persisted. “I mean to say, he's odd, but not like that.”

  She sat up straight. “I think it's very possible. He's a very peculiar young man, is Damian Adler. The sooner they find him and take the child into safe keeping, the better.”

  “Really? Well, you know him better than I do. But it must be making a lot of trouble for you, in the Children, I mean. To have Yolanda a member and Damian missing. Plus that, your leader—The Master, don't you call him? It can't be easy to have him gone, too.”

  “The Master is here when we need him,” she snapped. She might have stormed out but the waitress appeared at that moment. When the cocoa and sponge had been arranged before us, I turned the questions in another direction.

  “I greatly look forward to meeting him, once this uproar is passed. Tell me, is there some kind of a study group, in addition to the services, where one might read more of the book you use?”

  “We had been discussing that need, before … Perhaps in a few weeks we can find the time to arrange one. There is a weekly meeting of advanced students of the Lights, but the need is, as you say, for beginners. The Master is preparing an introductory text, the Text of Lights, with the message of Testimony but in a form that is more easily understood.”

  “Oh good,” I enthused.

  “This is very nice,” she said, chewing on her cake.

  In truth, the sponge was stale and the cocoa so hot it had cooked into a skin: As a memory of undergraduate days, it was a bit too realistic. But Millicent enjoyed it.

  “You seem terribly knowledgeable about Testimony,” I said. “How long have you been studying it?”

  “I received my copy in May, although I had been hearing it for some months before that. It is a book that rewards close study.”

  “Tell me about The Master. He must be an attractive person, to bring together such an interesting group of people.”

  She blushed. “It is an honour to serve the Children.”

  “That book, Testimony—is by him?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “It is not ‘by’ any man, no more than the New Testament is by any man. Portions of it were transmitted through The Master.”

  “Sure, I understand. Say, I don't suppose The Master needs a paid assistant, does he? I'm looking for work, and I'm happy to do typing, shopping, what have you.”

  “What he needs, I do.”

  “Oh, I see—you work for him as well. That's fine, but if you need help, keep me in mind.” I swallowed some m
ore of the drink, now gone tepid, and wondered if there was anything else to be had from her. Although come to think of it, there was one question she had sidestepped rather markedly.

  “Do you think it's possible The Master will be here for next week's service?”

  “The needs of the Lights may keep him away for another week, but he should return after that.”

  She pushed away her cup, making it clear that we had reached the end of our refreshment and our conversation. I called for the bill and looked towards the front windows, to see if it was still raining. A small man in a dark rain-coat was standing at the window, looking in; drops were coming from the brim of his hat, but not in a stream: Millicent would not drown on her walk home.

  We chatted until the bill arrived, and I paid it. She thanked me, I told her I looked forward immensely to seeing her again, and we climbed back into our damp outer garments. At the door, I suddenly remembered a personal need in the back.

  “But don't you wait for me, the rain's let up for the moment and you may be able to make it home before it starts again.”

  She peered at the sky, opened her umbrella, and scurried off. My original thought had been to share a taxi and accompany her home, but the face at the window had put an end to that idea. I waited until she was securely across the street, then stepped out to greet the man in the hat.

  “You were looking for me?” I asked him. Had he been more obviously a policeman, I should have left through a back door.

  “Mr Mycroft Holmes sent me to find you.”

  “And the skinny little bureaucrat wants to drag me clear across town?” I responded.

  The man looked at me oddly, then realised what I was doing. He reached up to tip his hat in acknowledgment. “I'd hardly call Mr Holmes skinny, even now,” he replied, “and Pall Mall is no distance at all.”

  He knew Mycroft; it was safe to climb into the car with him.

  I glanced down the street, found Millicent Dunworthy gone, and got into the passenger seat of the car belonging to Mycroft's operative.