Beekeeping for Beginners (Short Story)

by Laurie R. King

  Far too sophisticated for an adolescent boy. Someone had put him up to it.

  Very well: I cranked the gun of open rudeness into position and let fly. “My God,” I drawled. “It can think.”

  A jolt of startlingly adult fury brought the child’s smooth chin up, made the blue eyes blaze behind the scratched glass. “My God, ‘it’ can recognise another human being when ‘it’ is hit over the head with one. And to think that I was raised to believe that old people had decent manners.”

  It was clever. I was almost tempted to respond—on another day, I might have lingered to trace this mild puzzle to its source. But if an enemy had sent the lad, it was an enemy who would soon be beyond my personal concern; if a newspaperman (assuming there was a difference between the two categories), then he would soon have a new and unexpected story for his front page.

  I bent to retrieve my rucksack, hearing the bottles trill their delicate siren song as I raised them up. The third bottle would have to come into play somewhere else. Which was rather a pity: This would have been a pleasant site for a last view of the world.

  “Young man,” I began tiredly—

  But I was to get no further. Had the child pulled out a revolver and fired it at me, he could have silenced me no more effectively.

  “Young man?” he raged. “Young man! It’s a damned good thing you did retire, if that’s all that remains of the great detective’s mind!” And with that he snatched off his oversized cap. A pair of long blonde plaits slithered down the woollen garments, turning him into a her.

  Thus, my first meeting with Mary Russell.

  2

  “I tell you, Watson, I haven’t laughed like that in months. Years, even.”

  The doctor’s hand, wrapped around the glass, remained suspended in the air for quite a long time before it slowly lowered to the arm of his chair. “A girl?”

  Sherlock Holmes gave a wry shake to his head. “I will freely admit, it surprised me no end. I’m getting old and blind and feeble, Watson.”

  “Well, you sound remarkably cheerful at the prospect.”

  “I do, don’t I? Ah, old friend, you of all people know how I chafe for lack of a puzzle in life. And here’s one, ready made.”

  “She walked up, dressed in her father’s old suit, trod on you, insulted you, and made you feel an idiot. And you laugh?”

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  The doctor carefully moved his glass to the table, and leaned forward. “Er, Holmes. I know you … That is, we’ve never discussed … That is to say …”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson, don’t be absurd. I may be old and foolish, but I’m not an old fool. The child has brains, Watson. Do you know how rare that is?”

  “So I’ve been made to understand,” the doctor replied, a touch grimly.

  Holmes went blithely on. “She’s an orphan, under the care—if one can describe it as such—of an aunt, although the house and land belong to Russell, not to the aunt.”

  “Sussex is far from the centre of things, for a young girl.”

  “Not altogether a bad thing, considering the vulnerability of London.”

  “You’re not suggesting that the Kaiser will send troops up the Thames?”

  “He doesn’t have to, with zeppelins at his command.”

  “Holmes, a schoolboy with a sling could bring down a zeppelin! Southend was caught unprepared; it won’t happen again. It’s no reason to keep a bright young girl from London.”

  “May I remind you that I warned the government about U-boats years ago? And the Lusitania won’t be the last civilian vessel they go after.”

  The name was sobering. Dr Watson reflected sadly, “I sailed on her once, you know?”

  “Yes.” Both men pondered the awful fate of the ship, and twelve hundred of its passengers, the previous week. Holmes stirred.

  “Still, it isn’t London that interests the child. She has her eye on university.”

  “Girls do that, these days,” Watson reflected. It kept the older lecturers occupied, until the boys came back from war.

  “Oxford. Which only gives me two or three years to work with her.”

  “What do you mean, ‘work with her’?”

  “Before she gets sucked into the grind of pointless examinations and useless tutorials. For some peculiar reason, she’s set on theology. Can you imagine?”

  “No. But Holmes, what do you mean—”

  “By working with her. Yes, I heard you. You’d be amazed at how quickly she picks things up. Her mother’s doing, I’d imagine—the mother was a rabbi’s daughter, and she applied the same rigorous pedagogy to the child. Discipline and creativity are seldom found in the same mind, Watson.”

  “Am I to understand that you are teaching this child, Holmes?”

  “Of course, Watson. What did you imagine I’d do with her?”

  The doctor shot the remainder of his drink down his throat, and got up to refill his glass. The tray of drinks was under the window, and he paused for a moment to look out across the Downs, going green with the spring. Lovely place, this. Though he still wished Holmes hadn’t moved so far away.

  When he returned with the decanter, Watson was surprised to find his companion’s glass barely touched. After a moment’s thought, he bent to add a splash, regardless—shooting a casual glance at the state of his old friend’s eyes as he did so.

  Holmes was not deceived. “No, Watson,” he said, “any elevation of spirits you may perceive does not have a chemical source. Not today.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Watson remarked. Glad, but puzzled.

  The doctor tossed a small log onto the low-burning fire, then settled back in his chair. “So, you are teaching this stray girl. I can’t imagine what subjects a budding theologian would find your tutorials helpful for.”

  “I told you, I’m getting my instruction in before she falls under the sway of the dons. Chemistry first, naturally.”

  “Oh, naturally.”

  “It’s useful both in analysis and when it comes to reactions. There’s nothing quite so handy as a nice controlled explosive device.”

  “How the devil would explosives be of use to a theologian, Holmes?”

  “Watson, what on earth is wrong with you? I’m not interested in training a theologian. I intend to make a detective out of her.”

  The doctor’s jerk came near to upending the glass. “A detective? Holmes, are you telling me that after all these years, you’ve taken an apprentice? A girl apprentice?”

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”

  But Dr Watson was beyond answering.

  3

  At dusk, Holmes went to check on his hives, leaving his glass nearly untouched. Dr Watson stepped into the kitchen, grateful that tonight Mrs Hudson had no assistant.

  “Lovely bit of honey cake that was, Mrs Hudson.”

  “I’ve made one for you to take with you, Doctor. It’s getting to the time of year that we’ll have so much honey, I could bathe in the stuff.”

  The image made him blink. “Er, Holmes tells me he’s taken an apprentice. A girl.”

  “Can you believe it? A sweet thing, gawky and bright as a penny, though she could do something about the way she dresses. I think she wears her father’s old suits.”

  The War was not a year old, but shortages had begun to result in eccentric forms of dress. However, a girl in men’s clothing was, he agreed, odder than most.

  “Is she … I mean to say, do you think her intentions …”

  “Dr Watson, what a question! I don’t know that she has any intentions, other than helping Mr Holmes. In the month he’s known her, he’s cheered considerably. You’ve no doubt seen that for yourself.”

  “He’s put on a few pounds, and he is hardly drinking. Or using other, er …”

  “Quite.”

  “So, the child is no problem? He says she’s an orphan. A wealthy one.”

  “A motorcar accident, as I understand it. In California. There may have been a b
rother, too—she doesn’t care to talk about it.”

  “She’s American?”

  “Her father was. Her mother was a Londoner. It’s the mother’s sister that Mary is living with now. Unfortunately.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the woman?”

  “I’ll not repeat village gossip, Dr Watson. Leave it to say that Mary’s aunt hasn’t made a lot of friends for herself here. Now, I hope you’ll be stopping with us a few days?”

  “Alas, I sail for America tomorrow,” he began, but Mrs Hudson nearly dropped the pan she was carrying.

  “Sail! Oh, no, Doctor, you can’t sail! They’re saying the zeppelins will come along the coast next—and even if you get away safely, there’s the U-boats!”

  “Oh, dear, dear Mrs Hudson, I shouldn’t have told you. Please don’t worry, the docks are being guarded now, our ’planes are up, any Hun zeppelin will be shot down the moment it sticks its head over the Channel. And I’ve been assured that the Navy is assembling a convoy for the crossing, with war-ships to guard us.”

  “But those U-boats, they’re going after passenger ships now! And a person doesn’t even know they’re there until they shoot their torpedoes!”

  “That’s precisely why I have to go now. The sinking of the Lusitania has shocked America to her core. I had already been asked to go over to help raise support for the War effort, but this will make my job that much easier. And if I sail now, I’ll appear such a brave fellow.”

  “Dr Watson, don’t make jokes about it!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson, I promised the Prime Minister. I even had a letter from the King.”

  At that, the housekeeper admitted defeat. She shook her head, and turned mournfully back to her stove. She had no faith in her final card, but played it anyway. “He’ll miss you.”

  “I can’t say that I’ve been much of a friend this winter. I’ve only managed to get down here a handful of times, and my visits never seem to distract him much.”

  “He enjoys seeing you,” Mrs Hudson protested loyally, her voice lacking utter conviction.

  “He’d enjoy me more if I brought him a nice murder to solve,” Watson replied. “Still, he seems to have found a hobby, just in time for my absence. Perhaps I shall have an opportunity to meet this mysterious young lady before I go.”

  But Dr Watson left the house the following afternoon without having laid eyes upon her. In the end, the detective’s apprentice did not appear until several mornings later.

  Bearing a split lip and amateurish repairs to her spectacles.

  4

  It was the third week of May, and the sun was out after a too-long stretch of cold and rain. Holmes was in the garden when Russell arrived, his beekeeper’s hat tucked under his arm, smoke dribbling from a small spouted vessel on the ground nearby. When he heard her footsteps, he knocked his pipe against the nearby tree-trunk and dropped it into his pocket, then turned to hold out the netted hat, betraying only the briefest hesitation at the sight of her fading bruises. She took the object, examining it with curiosity.

  “Put it on,” he said. “Tuck it under your collar, tuck your trouser legs into your stockings, and get a pair of gloves from the shed.”

  “What about you?” she protested.

  “The bees know me, but you haven’t been properly introduced. One or two stings are nothing to worry about, but too many can stop a heart. Even a young one.”

  She dressed as he’d told her, and stood back as he picked up the smoker.

  “The Reverend Lorenzo Langstroth, an American, was the first truly scientific beekeeper. He combined the theory of ‘bee space’—three-eighths of an inch; any other gap, the bees will fill—with the accessibility of moveable frames. His first axiom was, ‘Bees gorged with honey are not inclined to sting.’ Such as these.”

  He paused, expectantly; she inched slightly nearer.

  “I, however, take as my own First Rule of Beekeeping the dictum: Remain calm. Smoke makes bees drowsy, plentiful food makes them content, but even if they are hungry and even if one doesn’t have a smoker, they will not turn aggressive if one’s movements are slow and deliberate. If you appear calm, they won’t see you as the source of blame for their roof being ripped off, their lives threatened. If you’re calm, you’re invisible.”

  During the speech, he had finished with the smoker and lifted off the top of the hive. Russell was torn by conflicting impulses: to step forward, or to move well away.

  “May I talk?” she asked.

  “Yes, if your voice remains even.”

  “Does the smoke harm them?”

  “Just makes them slow and stupid.”

  “They’re insects—they must be fairly stupid to begin with.”

  “Individually perhaps, but taken as a communal mind, they are quite efficient.”

  “Why are you opening up the hive?”

  “I am re-queening it. The most vigorous hive is one with a young queen. This one has been laying for thirteen months now. It’s time for her to go.”

  The top layers of the hive were on the ground. He now began gently to prise up the frames, setting them aside, one at a time. And as he’d predicted, although the bees seemed puzzled as raw sunlight poured into their dark, warm, snug quarters, they did not appear outraged, or even much taken aback. The beekeeper’s naked fingers moved among the blanket of insects; not one of the creatures protested.

  “How long do queens live?”

  “As long as two, even three years.”

  “So wouldn’t this one be in her prime?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, you’re going to take a queen who’s happily doing her job, and just … kill her?”

  “Rule Two of beekeeping: One must be cruel, only to be kind.”

  “Hamlet. Act three. You must be their scourge and minister?”

  “Precisely. Ah, here she is.”

  As Russell had seen in the glass-sided observation hive built into the corner of Holmes’ sitting room, the queen stood out, by her size and by her attendants’ attitude. It was an exercise in observation: Wherever Regina Apis moved, the others formed a circle around her, drawing the eye in.

  Drawing, too, the beekeeper’s hand. Cruel steel forceps closed on her, snatching her from her tens of thousands of children; in an instant, the hive was bereft.

  But before they could react, Holmes slid a hand into his pocket and drew out a tiny wire cage. He held it up to his apprentice. “If I were simply to drop this foreigner inside, the others would attack her. However, their memories are short. There is a small, edible plug keeping the new queen in her cage. In the day or two it takes them to chew through it, they will grow accustomed to her presence. When they do free her, it will be to welcome her, not to rip her apart.”

  “The queen is dead, long live the queen.”

  “Precisely.” He hooked the queen cage inside, then slid the missing frames into place, pushing their tops snugly together.

  “Do you have to do this to every hive?”

  “Most often the workers perform regicide on their own, either directly or by raising new queens to challenge the old one. On the other hand, it is sometimes necessary to replace the queen for other reasons. That hive there?” He gestured with his chin. “A month ago, I could not permit you this close. Their new queen is considerably less aggressive.”

  “Bees have personalities?” Russell asked in surprise.

  “They do, and the colonies reflect their queen.”

  With the last frame in place but still uncovered, he squatted next to the box, watching his charges. Then he looked up. “Would you like to feel them?”

  “What, put my hand in there?”

  By way of demonstration, he inserted his fingers—gently, calmly—into the mass of bees flowing over and around the wooden strips. In seconds, his hand was engulfed by furry bodies. Russell swallowed, then squatted down beside him, pulling off a glove.

  “Wait.” He raised his arm, permitting the bees to pour back down into the hive.
He gently shook off the stragglers, then reached for her hand with both of his, rubbing her fingers and palms briskly between his long, dry, callused hands until his scent was hers. When he was satisfied, he extended his left hand, palm down, and had her lay her hand atop it. Then he slowly lowered the paired hands to the hive.

  In a moment, the tiny prickle of insect feet explored the side of the apprentice’s hand, moving up and across its back. She barely noticed when Holmes eased his arm away, leaving her hand engulfed in a warm, pulsating, fragrant glove of bees.

  He studied the expression on her bruised face. “Rule Three of beekeeping,” he remarked in a quiet voice. “Never cease to feel wonder.”

  5

  One of the things Mary Russell liked about the man Holmes was his disinclination to fuss.

  He was a most demanding friend, no question about that. Even their informal tutorials tended to veer into the realm of examinations—although she was never certain if he was testing her knowledge, or something more complex. Yesterday, for example, when he had her thrust a hand into the beehive: Was that simply a lesson in beekeeping? Or a test of her courage? Her dexterity? Her willingness to obey?

  The entire bee episode had been enlightening, and disturbing. Holmes had revealed an unexpected pocket of softness—Never cease to feel wonder—atop the ruthlessness of regicide. She supposed being cruel to be kind was inevitable in the realm of animal husbandry, like culling the rooster-chicks or slaughtering the meat lambs: She lived on a farm, but she would never make a farmer. Still, the image of the steel forceps snapping down on that glossy full body lingered in her mind. And although she told herself she was being melodramatic, the act brought to mind those of his old cases where he’d demonstrated a god-like willingness to act as judge and jury, and even (by failing to interfere) executioner.