The God of the Hive: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes

by King, Laurie R.

  He returned two and a quarter hours later, stomach filled, beard trimmed, wearing a clean shirt, carrying the tools he needed to break into the watcher’s motorcar.

  The motorcar was gone.

  The old man in the tea stand informed him that the big man in the tan great-coat had gone into the hotel, then come out and left in a hurry, less than half an hour before. A telephone call, Holmes thought.

  Another trail lost.

  The delay in Harwich cost him five hours, and his residual wariness drove him to take a most indirect path to London. An eleven-hour trip from the Hook of Holland to Liverpool Street took nearer to twenty-four, landing him in town well after dark on Saturday at London Bridge station, which he judged to be nearly as unexpected for a traveller out of Holland as it was inconvenient. And to prove it, there were no large men lurking near the exits.

  Nonetheless, things soon became very interesting, which was how he found himself in a walled-up window, twelve feet above the ground.

  Because of the question about the safety of telephones—any organisation capable of manipulating Scotland Yard would have no trouble buying the services of telephone exchange operators—he had not tried to reach Billy beforehand. He set off from the London Bridge station on foot, keeping to the darker streets.

  Even with all his senses at the alert, they nearly had him.

  He was standing across the street from Billy’s house, wondering if the darkness of its windows and the lack of sound from within were possible on a Saturday night, when the blast of a constable’s whistle broke from a window over his head. One glance at the men who emerged from both ends of the street told him that, whistle or no, these were not the police—and then he was running.

  Sherlock Holmes was unaccustomed to having difficulties making his way around London. He once knew intimately all the patterns and sensations of the city (although he had never much cared for the image of a spider web that the great romanticist Conan Doyle insisted on using) and in any neighbourhood within miles of the Palace, he knew the doors left ajar, the passageways that led nowhere, the stairways that gave onto rooftops, the opium dens full of men who would be blind for a trace of silver across their palms.

  Then came the War, and the aerial bombing, and the inexorable changes in the city during the years since. He’d been retired for two decades now, and loath as he was to admit it, the speed with which life changed was growing ever faster. Added to eight months of absence from his home, it was making him feel like a man resuming a language once spoken fluently, whose nuances had grown rusty.

  He did not care for the sensation, not in the least. And although the older parts of Southwark were little changed, even here his urban geography proved to be ever-so-slightly out of date, gracing a long-disused alleyway with builder’s rubbish, filling an easily prised window with brick. He was grateful the builders had taken the short-cut of bricking the hole in from within, which left just enough of a sill outside for a precarious perch.

  Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that his city had passed to other hands.

  A figure appeared at the end of the passageway; a torch-beam snapped on. The man saw the scaffolding and came to give it closer consideration, not thinking to do the same to the walls on the opposite side. Holmes kept absolutely still, willing the man to come closer, to stand below him—but then a second torch approached, and this man went to join his partner.

  When the passageway was empty again, Holmes cautiously shifted until he was sitting on the ledge, his long legs dangling free. When his circulation was restored, he eyed the ghostly lines of the scaffold. Instead, he wormed his way around and climbed sideways, following a route that he had practiced under the tutelage of a cat-burglar, twenty-three years before. In five minutes, he was on the roof; in forty, when the first faint light of Sunday’s dawn was rising in the east, he was crossing Waterloo Bridge.

  Not altogether shabby for a man of his years, working under outdated information.

  Still, the day had proved sobering. He’d told Dr Henning that he had resources in London, were he only able to reach them, but with all else that had changed in this city, he was beginning to wonder if that was true. Lestrade bought off, Mycroft under arrest, even Billy driven from his house and his neighbourhood taken over. Would this new Prime Minister—a Socialist, after all—see Sherlock Holmes as a living fossil? If he could make it through the guards at the Palace …

  No, he would not play that card unless he had no other.

  He was free, fit, and on home ground. He paused at the end of the bridge, looking upstream. As the light strengthened, he could see the Embankment path, and in the farther distance, Ben’s tower riding over the bulk of the Houses of Parliament and the brick monstrosity of New Scotland Yard. However, his eyes looked not at those centres of authority, but at the Underground entrance that stood, waiting.

  Four stops up the Metropolitan Rail line to Baker Street. Half an hour to reassure himself that Russell had made it to Town, that she and the child were safe.

  And if he did not appear? She would remain where she was as long as possible; when she did emerge, she would be even more cautious than usual.

  He turned his back on the Metropolitan line. There was much to do before the funeral.

  Chapter 48

  Back at the bolt-hole, I found Goodman reading in front of a low-burning fire. He rose, stretching like a young whippet, and dropped the book onto the chaise longue.

  “You look tired,” he observed.

  “Very.”

  “I, on the other hand, am rested and in need of air. I shall return.”

  I started to protest, then decided against it. Even two or three hours of sleep would make all the difference to the day. And after all, no one in the city was looking for Robert Goodman: He was the one person among us who could walk with impunity among police constables and hard men alike, invisible in his innocence. If he had wanted to give Estelle and Javitz to the police, he’d have done so long before this; as for leading the police back here—deliberately or inadvertently—I was safe, as he could have no idea where the back exit debouched.

  I changed my protest to a nod, and reminded him to check his surroundings with care before he stepped into or out of the hidden entrance.

  As I curled up on the sofa with the travelling rug, I wondered where in this almighty city Holmes might be hiding. I noticed my certainty, and smiled: I had not even questioned that he would be here.

  Then the smile faded. If Mycroft lay cold in his coffin, who among us was safe?

  * * *

  When I woke, the coals were grey, the building was silent, and there was no sign of Goodman. I glanced at the clock, and saw to my surprise that it was nearly ten: I had slept almost five hours.

  I took a cursory bath and dressed, and still no Goodman. As I took up the pen to write a note, telling him that I would be back shortly, I saw that the letter I had written to Holmes was not on the table. I had not been so heavily unconscious that I would not have heard him pass through, which meant that Goodman had taken it with him when he left.

  Why?

  I could think of no reason that did not make me uneasy. On the other hand, I could think of nothing Goodman had done or said to threaten betrayal. Perhaps he’d decided to deliver it himself—he knew where the funeral was. I shook off my apprehension, then walked the exit route nearly to its end before diverting into the adjoining building.

  The surgeon’s offices might well shut down their telephones with close of business on Friday, but on the other side was a firm of solicitors, some of whom had been known to come in on a weekend. Fortunately, none of the desks were filled with a hard-working junior partner; equally fortunately, the telephone earpiece emitted a lively buzz. So I helped myself to a desk in one of the more impressive offices, dragged a London telephone directory onto the blotter, and phoned Lestrade.

  I’d caught him going out, he said, but before I could apologise, he told me to wait a minute. Footsteps crossed the floor, and
I heard his voice and those of two females, one older and one young. I heard him say that they were to go ahead, he’d join them as soon as he’d finished this telephone conversation.

  The voices retreated, a door closed. The footsteps came back.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to keep you from church,” I said. “I was only wondering if you’d found a telephone number or an address for Mr West?”

  “It took some time, the gentleman doesn’t appear to want casual callers. The telephone number’s more difficult, that has to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Whom did you have to ask?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “my wife has an old friend who works with the voters’ registration lists, she popped into the office for me and looked him up. She’ll say nothing.”

  He gave me an address across the river from Westminster. I wrote it down, and remarked, “That doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “I know, there’s not many houses down there, but you’ll always find one or two residences even in that sort of district.”

  “I’ll try it,” I said, and told him I hoped he enjoyed the sermon. A glance at the solicitor’s clock told me I had plenty of time to stop at West’s address before the funeral.

  But first, another telephone call, this one to Richmond.

  The butler answered. After a minute or two of silence, Javitz’s loud American accents were assaulting my ear.

  “Yeah? Is that Mary Russell?”

  “Hello, Captain Javitz, I thought—”

  “You gotta get us out of here,” he said sharply. “Like, now.”

  Cold air seemed to blast through the stuffy office, and I found I was on my feet. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “You know who your crazy hermit Goodman is?”

  “I know whose house that is, but—”

  “But you don’t know who he is?”

  “No, who is he?”

  “I’d have thought—oh, look, I really can’t go into it here. Just, how soon can you come get us?”

  “Hours. I don’t know the train schedule.”

  “Then the kid and I are setting off now, we’ll be at Waterloo when we can.”

  “Wait! You can’t set off on crutches, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  “I’m not staying here. Get a car and come.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what is going on?”

  “One hour, we leave.” The instrument went dead.

  I swore, and looked at my wrist-watch: It had to be twenty-five miles, even if I left this instant … But first, one last call.

  “The Travellers’ Club,” the voice answered.

  “I’m looking for Captain Lofte.” Lofte was my last hope, this fleet-footed traveller from Shanghai, Mycroft’s man who had given us key information about Brothers. No one working with Brothers would have given us what Lofte did.

  “I’m sorry,” the smooth voice said, “Captain Lofte is no longer with us.”

  For a horrible moment, I thought the man meant—but he went on. “I do not think he will be returning for some time.”

  “Has he gone back to Shanghai?”

  “I am sorry, Madam, but The Travellers’ does not divulge the destination of its members.”

  “This is terribly important,” I begged.

  Something in my voice must have taken him aback, because after a moment’s silence, he said, “He left a week past. I believe the gentleman had a message on the Friday, directing him to return to the East.”

  Rats, I thought; Lofte would have made a resourceful colleague. Billy was beyond reach, Holmes was gone, none of Mycroft’s other agents were beyond taint. I should have to make do with what I had. Namely, myself.

  I thanked the person at the club, put up the earpiece, and scurried back into the bolt-hole to cram a valise with everything I thought I might need.

  Goodman had not returned. I thought of leaving him another note, but couldn’t decide what that should say. So I shut off the lights and stepped into the corridor—and then I stopped.

  My hand went to the pocket in which I was collecting all the bits concerning the case, and thumbed through the scraps until I found the notes I’d made in Richard Sosa’s flat.

  A number jumped out at me, because I’d just rung it. Sosa had written down the number of The Travellers’ Club on Thursday, on the diary page beside the telephone. And, I thought, he rang the number, either then or on the Friday, to send out of the country the only person apart from Holmes and me who could link Mycroft to the investigation of Thomas Brothers.

  I hoped to God he’d only sent Lofte away. I did not want that valiant individual on my conscience as well.

  Somewhere in the building, a clock chimed the quarter. I woke with a start, and hurried down to the street to hail a taxicab.

  Chapter 49

  Javitz was standing outside the gates of the house on the quiet and dignified road, a large, bruised man looking very out of place with a small girl on one side and a white-haired housekeeper on the other. He leant heavily on his crutch, the child kicked her heels from the top of the low wall, the woman was wringing her hands. He had acquired an elderly carpet-bag, now lying at his feet; his hand was on the taxicab’s door-handle before the hand-brake was set.

  “Come on, ’Stella-my-heart,” he said, sounding more like a father than a man on whom a stray had been pressed. She hopped down and scrambled into the taxi, Dolly in hand, to stand at my knees and demand, “Where is Mr Robert?”

  “I don’t really know,” I told her. “Mr Jav—”

  She cut me short. “But he was with you. When will he come back?”

  “He didn’t tell me,” I said. “Mr Javitz, do you need a hand?”

  By way of answer he threw his bag and crutch inside and hopped against the door frame to manoeuvre himself within.

  “I want to see him,” Estelle persisted.

  “But sir,” the housekeeper was saying.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said to Estelle. “Here, let’s pull the seat down for you.”

  “Terribly good of you to put up with us,” Javitz was saying to the woman. “We have to be away, see you around.”

  And then both his legs were inside and he was shutting the door in her face.

  The driver slid down the window to ask where we wanted to go, and I merely told him to head back towards London while we decided. He slid up the window. I turned to Javitz.

  “What on earth was all that about?”

  He cast an eloquent look at Estelle, who blinked her limpid eyes at me and said, “That means he doesn’t want to talk in front of me. Papa looks like that sometimes.”

  “I imagine he does,” I said. “Does your Papa also tell you that you’re too bright for your own good?”

  “Sometimes. I don’t think a person can be too bright, do you?”

  “Certainly too bright for the convenience of others,” I said, then told Javitz, “I’m not sure where to take you. They could be watching my friends’ houses. For sure they’ll be keeping an eye on the local hotels. I even tried to reach Mr Lofte, who struck me as a valuable ally in any circumstances, but he’s gone back to Shanghai.”

  “Do you know yet who this mysterious ‘they’ is?” he asked.

  It was my turn to cast a significant “not in front of the children” glance at the small person on the seat across from us. She rolled her eyes in disgust and looked out of the window.

  “What about a park?” Javitz suggested in desperation.

  A park it would have to be. It had the advantage of being one of the last places any enemy of Mary Russell’s would expect to find her on a Sunday morning.

  I paid the driver, unloaded my crew, and we set off slowly across the manicured paths on what was surely one of the last sunny week-ends of this lingering summer. Estelle tipped her head up at us and asked in a long-suffering voice, “You probably want me to go away, don’t you?”

  “Not too far,” I agreed.

  She turned away with a
soft sigh, but I dropped the carpet-bag and said, “Estelle?”

  She turned, and I knelt down and, cautiously, put my arms around her.

  She flung hers around me and held on for a long time, the only sign she’d given of being frightened or lonely. I murmured in her little ear, telling her that I hoped we’d see her Papa soon, and that she’d meet her Grandpapa. That she was a very brave and clever girl, and her parents would be as proud of her as I was. That she’d have to be patient, but I was working hard to straighten everything out. When she finally let go of me, there was a bounce in her step.

  Javitz had settled gingerly onto a bench.

  “How is the leg?” I asked him, sitting down beside him.

  He stretched it out with a grimace, which he denied by saying, “Not too bad,” then modified by adding, “Getting better, anyway.”

  “I am so sorry about all of this.”

  “Hey, not to worry. The War didn’t stop altogether with Armistice.”

  “Yes, but you were hired for a piloting job, not as nurse-maid to a small child.”

  “Yeah, well, you did hire me to help you save the kid and her father,” he pointed out cheerfully. “That’s more or less what I’m doing.” Why was he sounding so hearty, I wondered? Over the telephone he’d been in a state of agitation.

  “This whole thing is taking rather longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “I have nothing else on at the moment. Couldn’t fly for a while, now, anyway.”

  “Again, sorry.”

  “You didn’t crash the crate, I did.”

  “After someone took a shot—” I stopped; this was getting us nowhere. “What did you need to tell me about Robert Goodman?”

  “That’s not his name.”

  “I never imagined it was.”

  “Then you know who he is?”

  I shook my head, since the family whose house we had motored away from was one I did not know personally and Holmes had neither investigated, nor investigated for. “I’d have to look him up in Debrett’s.”

  “The Honourable Winfred Stanley Moreton. His father’s an earl.”