The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [102]
I was relieved to see that the clothes were not familiar to me, al-though very much to my taste. They were all new, ready-made from a large shop in Liverpool, unremarkable, though not inexpensive. Thus far the examiners had found nothing but clothing—not so much as a stray shirt pin.
The note that had accompanied the parcel lay in a steel tray across the bench, and I walked around to take a look at it. It was grey with fingerprint powder, but even if the sender had been careless, the paper was too rough to retain prints. I picked it up, read it with grudging amusement, noted casually the characteristics of the type, and started to lay it back down, and then I froze in disbelief. Yes, that’s one too many shocks in the last few days, my brain commented analytically. I fumbled for a stool and after some time became aware of the techni-cian’s alarm. I told him what I had seen. I told Lestrade the same thing when he appeared. Some time later I found myself in the windowless room with the policewoman who had returned from shopping saying how she’d been careful to watch each item taken down and wrapped, and I made polite noises of (I suppose) gratitude and then sat there for a long while with my brain steaming furiously away.
By the time Holmes blew in, hair awry and a wild light in his eyes, I had recovered enough to be examining the woman’s purchases. I drew back sharply as he entered and dropped a boot.
“Good God, Holmes, where have you been to pick up such a stench? Down on the docks, obviously, and from your feet I should venture to say you’d been in the sewers, but what is that horrid sweet smell?”
“Opium, my dear protected child. It clawed its way into my hair and clothes, though I was not partaking. I had to be certain I was not being followed.”
“Holmes, we must talk, but I cannot breathe in your presence.
There is a fine, if austere, set of shower baths in the prisoners’ section.
Take these clothes, but don’t let them touch the thing you have on.”
“No time, Russell. We must fly.”
“Absolutely not.” My news was vital, but it would wait, and this would not.
“What did you say?” he said dangerously. Sherlock Holmes was not accustomed to outright refusals, not even from me.
“I know you well enough, Holmes, to suspect that we are about to embark on a long and arduous journey. If it is a choice between expir-ing slowly from your fumes or being blown to pieces, I choose the lat-ter. Gladly.”
Holmes glowered at me for some seconds, saw that I was on this is-sue inflexible, and with a curse worthy of the docks snatched the prof-fered clothes and hurled himself out the door, furiously demanding directions from the poor constable stationed outside.
When he burst in again I was ready for travel, a booted young man. No doubt, I thought, the newness of the clothes would quickly fade in Holmes’ company.
“Very well, Russell, I am clean. Come.”
“There’s a cup of tea and a sandwich for you while I look to your back.”
“For God’s sake, woman, we must be on the docks in thirty-five minutes! We’ve no time for a tea party.”
I sat calmly, my hands in my lap. I noticed with interest that his cheekbones became slightly purple when he was severely perturbed, and his eyes bulged slightly. He was positively quivering when he threw off his coat, and one button of his misused shirt skittered across the floor. I put it into a pocket and picked up the gauze while he gulped his tea. I worked quickly on the nearly healed wound, and we were on the street within five minutes.
We dove into the back of a sleek automobile that idled at the kerb and squealed away. The driver looked more like a ruffian than he did the owner of such a machine, but I had no say in the matter. I waited for Holmes to stop his silent fuming, which was not until we were south of Tower Bridge.
“Look here, Russell,” he began, “I won’t have you—” but I cut him off immediately by the simple expedient of thrusting a finger into his face. (Looking back I am deeply embarrassed