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By Root 289 0

reapply a microscopic quantity of glue to a recalcitrant bubble, and continued. "You will tell him that we happened to come across it and thought it might have come from the sister whom Miss Ruskin mentioned during her visit to us. Also stress that he is to do nothing about contacting the lady until he has seen us, and invite him to join us in Sussex at his earliest convenience. Throw in whatever threats or entreaties you consider appropriate, and tell him I said it would do him good to get out of London." He ran a nail along the edge and angled the envelope to the light critically. "You should also mention that a Yard photographer might prove a useful companion. I can do any necessary fingerprints myself."

I looked up from my paper.

"Sorry?"

He lifted his eyes, and his face went carefully, dreadfully blank. He glanced at Mycroft, then looked down at the somewhat overworked envelope in his hands.

"What a noble mind is here o'erthrown," he remarked conversationally, and keeping his voice light, added, "Russell, that theology of yours is rotting your brain even more rapidly than I had anticipated. You did read the sister's letter."

"But you don't think ..." I trailed off as he raised his face to mine, a face awful in judgement and disappointment.

"What else am I to think, Russell? She visits us, she dies violently, her papers are searched, and her briefcase is stolen. Someone has asked after us and been given our address. It is possible they found what they sought, but if not, can we be anything but their next goal? I only hope that when they didn't find what they were looking for, they didn't vent their irritation on the furniture."

I felt my brain begin sluggishly to move, and my heart sank.

"The box. Oh, Holmes, I left it on the dining room table."

"You left it there, Russell. I did not."

"You moved it? Why?"

"No particular reason. Call it tidiness."

"You? Tidy?"

"Don't be rude, Russell. I put it away."

"Where? No, let me guess." He winced. "Sorry, poor choice of words. Let me deduce. When I went to get the car, you went out the back and came around the house. The toolshed?"

"How utterly unimaginative," Holmes said, offended.

"Sorry, again. The hole in the beech? No— oh, of course. You were scraping off a stinger— you shoved it into one of the beehives." How ridiculous, the relief engendered by a mere nod.

"Not shoved, Russell, gently placed. The third hive from the end is making queen cells at a tremendous rate, so I thought I might give them something else to think about. They've also been very active of late, and most people would think twice about putting a hand in there, even at night."

"Except you. But do you mean to tell me that you anticipated ... visitors, even this morning?"

"Merely a precaution."

My warming brain gave another, more alarming lurch.

"Mrs Hudson! Good Lord, she's there alone. We must warn her!"

"She is not there. I telephoned from the café and told her to take a day or two away. She's with her nephew in Guildford."

"You knew then? Already?"

"We do not know that anything has taken place. We are merely talking about likelihoods," he said with asperity, and placed the envelope in a breast pocket. I began to laugh.

"My dear Holmes, if I hear you use the word senility again, I shall stuff it down your throat. You are still too fast for me. I didn't see the possibilities until I read the letter."

He did not laugh, merely looked at his brother.

"You see why I married her, Mycroft? The exquisite juxtaposition of ladylike threats and backhanded compliments proved irresistible." He turned back to me, and his voice and face hardened. "Russell, if you were occasionally to raise your sight from your Hebrew verbs doubly weak and irregular and your iota subscripts, you might take more notice of the world around you. Your preoccupation with your studies could kill you."

He was dead serious, and Mycroft's fat face mirrored the grim expression of his brother. My voice was small in response.

"Yes, I see. Could we go home now?"