The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [103]
“You look here, Holmes. I cannot force you to confide in me, but I will not be bullied. You are not my nanny, I am not your charge to be protected and coddled. You have not given me any cause to believe that you were dissatisfied with my ability at deduction and reasoning. You ad-mit that I am an adult—you called me ‘woman’ not ten minutes ago— and as a thinking adult partner I have the right to make my own decisions. I saw you come in filthy and tired, having not eaten, I was sure, since last evening, and I exercised my right to protect the partner-ship by putting a halt to your stupidity. Yes, stupidity. You believe your-self to be without the limitations of mere mortals, I know, but the mind, even your mind, my dear Holmes, is subject to the body’s weakness. No food or drink and filth on an open wound puts the partnership—puts me!—at an unnecessary risk. And that is something I won’t have.”
I had forgotten the driver, who proved an appreciative audience to this dramatic declaration. He burst into laughter and pounded on the wheel as he slid through the narrow street, dodging horses, walls, and vehicles. “Right good job, Miss,” he guffawed, “make him wash his socks at night, too, whyn’t ya?” At last here I had the grace to blush.
The driver was still grinning, and even Holmes had softened when we reached our destination, a dank and filthy wharf somewhere down near Greenwich. The river was greasy and black in the early twilight, high and very cold looking, its calmer reaches one undulating mat of flotsam. The swollen body of a dog rocked gently against a pier. The area was deserted, though voices and machinery noises drifted from the next row of buildings.
“Thank you, young man,” said Holmes quietly, and “Come, Rus-sell.” We walked carefully down the planks to a gate of peeling corru-gated iron, which slid open with an eerie silence and closed again after us. The man on the gate followed us down to the end of the wharf, where lay a nondescript small ship, a boat, really. A man standing on the deck hailed us in a low voice and came down the gangway to take our valises.
“Good day, Mr. Holmes. Welcome aboard, sir.”
“I am very glad to be aboard, captain, very glad indeed. This is my”—He cocked an eyebrow at me—“my partner, Miss Russell. Rus-sell, Captain Jones here runs one of the fastest boats on the river and has agreed to take us out to sea for a while.”
“To sea? Oh, Holmes, I don’t think—”
“Russell, we will talk shortly. Jones, shall we be away?”
“Aye, sir, the sooner the better. If you’d like to go below, my boy Brian will be with you in a minute to show you your quarters.” The child appeared as we made our way down the narrow passage, opened a door, ducked his head shyly, and went to help his father cast off.
A narrow set of stairs led down to a surprisingly spacious cabin, a lounge of sorts with a tiny kitchen/galley at one side and soft chairs and a sofa bolted to the floor. A corridor opened off the forward side, and doors led to two small bedrooms with a lavatory and bath, be-tween them. Those are not the proper technical terms, I am aware, but the whole area so obviously was intended for the comfort of non-sailors, the lay terms are perhaps more accurate. We settled ourselves on two chairs as the engine noise deepened, and watched London slip by outside the windows. I leant forward.
“Now, Holmes, there is something I must tell you—”
“First some brandy.”
“Your plying me with that stuff becomes tedious,” I said crossly.
“Prevents seasickness, Russell.”
“I don’t get seasick.”
“Miss Russell, I believe you are becoming quite dissolute with the shady associations of the last few days. That, if my ears do not deceive me, was an untruth. You were about to tell me on deck that you did not wish to go to sea because it made you feel ill, were you not?”
“Oh, very well, I admit I don’t like going to sea. Give me