A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [36]
I rose wearily. His voice stopped me at the door.
"By the way, Russell, how do you come to know anything about dropped stitches and the method of turning a cable?"
"My dear Holmes, the good Mrs Hudson has instructed me in the rudiments of all the so-called womanly arts. The fact that I do not choose to exercise them does not mean I am in ignorance."
I turned with dignity to my bed, smiling to myself at the soft laughter that followed me up the stairs.
TEN
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In the morning, the ambrosia of bacon frying heralded Mrs Hudson's return. By the time I dressed (in the day's clothes rather than a dressing gown, in deference to our guest's sensibilities), Lestrade was up, deep in conversation with Holmes outside on the flagstone patio. It was a magnificent morning, with the heat of late summer already in the sun. Somewhere I could hear the sound of farm machinery.
"Good morning, Russell. Coffee or tea?"
"As the coffee's here, I'll have that. I hope you slept well, Inspector, despite the lack of such luxuries as a bed and clean blankets?"
"I could've slept on the bare boards in my car rug last night, but I was most comfortable on the mattress, thank you."
"Russell, you will be pleased to know that your labours yesterday had the desired effect: The Chief Inspector is convinced. The marks on post and pillar box, plus the marks on Miss Ruskin's boots, equal justification for an investigation. Bacon and eggs are in the chafing dishes. I'll fetch more toast."
"I'd like to see the box she gave you before I go, though, Mr Holmes," called Lestrade at his host's disappearing back.
"So you shall, Lestrade," said Holmes as he took a rack of fresh toast from the hand of Mrs Hudson. "So you shall. I need to check the hives today anyway." He did not explain this apparent non sequitur to Lestrade, and I had my mouth full.
After breakfast, Holmes went down to the hives with his tin smoker and a bag of equipment. Lestrade stayed with me at the table, finishing his coffee, and we watched Holmes make his methodical way up the row of hives, stunning each community into apathy with the smoke and reaching gloveless inside. At one hive, he paused to fix another frame for the honeycombs onto the existing ones. He did the same to the hive in which he had secreted the box, then spent some time bent over its innards with his pocketknife. Lestrade shook his head.
"The best detective England has produced, and he spends his time with bees."
I smiled, having heard this a number of times before.
"He finds that the society of bees helps him understand the society of human beings. I think it's also a bit like the violin— it keeps one level of his mind occupied while freeing up other levels. More coffee?"
I left him to his contemplation of life's oddities and took the plates inside to help Mrs Hudson with the washing up. Soon the men reappeared at the door, a small bulge in the pocket of Holmes' coat and a bee clinging dopily to his hair.
"Kindly leave your lady friend outside, Holmes. She's next to your left ear."
He brushed her off and came inside.
"Let's take it into the laboratory, away from the windows. Lestrade," he said over his shoulder, "are you aware of the presence of three classes of bees in a hive? There are the workers, the females, who, appropriately enough, do all the work. The drones are the lowly males, who keep house and stand about gossiping and occasionally wait upon the queen. And finally, there is the queen herself, a sort of superfemale who is the mother of the entire hive. She spends her life laying eggs and killing any other queen who might hatch out, until she weakens and is herself killed, either by a new queen or by being smothered by a huge clot of her daughters when they see her growing old. If she dies accidentally, and if there are no unhatched queen cells, a worker can lay eggs, but she cannot make a new queen. A