The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [106]
“And the mud on Small Boots came from Baker Street.”
“How did you know?” he said with a smile.
“Lucky guess,” I answered drily. He raised an eyebrow.
“Low jokes do not suit you, Russell.”
“Sorry. But what does the fact that she chose to walk through Baker Street before going to the park have to do with it?”
“You tell me,” he demanded, in a thin echo from a spring day long, long ago.
Obediently I set to reviewing the entire episode, running my mind over the facts like a tongue over teeth, searching for a gap in the smooth, hard surfaces. The mud, which was on the path, in the cab, on the seats (On the seats? my mind whispered), and in the Ladies’ (grotesque and creative sense of humour) on the floor, in the wash-basin (the basin? That means—)
“It was on her hand, the mud. Her left hand, and the right boot.” I stopped, disbelieving, and looked at Holmes. His grey eyes were posi-tively dancing. “She replenished the mud, to keep the path obvious. This whole episode—it was deliberately staged. She wants you to know that she was there, and she put the Baker Street mud on her shoe to thumb her nose at you. She even washed her hands of it in the Ladies’ to leave you that datum, if you hadn’t already worked out that he was a she. I can’t believe it—no one could be mad enough to mock you like that. What kind of game is she playing?”
“A decidedly unpleasant sort of a game, with three bombs and a death thus far, but I agree, the style of humour is a match with the clothing parcel and the exploding beehive. One is forced to won-der ...” he mused, and his voice drifted away.
“Yes?” I encouraged.
“Nothing, Russell. Merely speculation without data, a fruitless ex-ercise at the best of times. I was reflecting that the only truly superior mind I have encountered among the criminal classes was Moriarty, which ill equips me for the possibility of subtlety in our current foe. Were I quite certain of, for example, the intent of the marksman who shot at us in Lestrade’s office, or of Dickson’s efforts, or even ...Yes, I suppose ...” He drifted off again.
“Holmes, do I understand you aright? That the actions against us were not actually intended to be deadly?”
“Oh, deadly, certainly, though perhaps not merely deadly. But yes, you understand me. I mistrust a series of failures when the author oth-erwise gives signs of great competence. Accidents are not unknown, but I dislike coincidences, and I deny out of hand the existence of a guardian angel. Yes,” he said thoughtfully, and I winced as I heard his next phrase coming, “it is quite a pretty problem.”
“Quite a three-piper, eh Holmes?” I said in hearty jocularity. He could be the most irritating individual.
“No, no, not yet. Nicotinic mediation serves to clarify the known facts, not pull them out of thin air. I do not feel we have all the facts.”
“Very well, but surely you can speculate in generalities. If she didn’t wish to kill us, what are her intentions?”
“I did not say she does not intend to kill us, just possibly not yet. If for the sake of hypothesis we assume that what has occurred over the course of the last few days is more or less what she had in mind, then we are left with three possible inferences: one, that she does not want us all actually dead at this moment; two, that she wishes us to be fully aware of an intelligent, dedicated, resourceful, and implacable enemy breathing almost literally down our collars; and three, that she wants us either to go to ground or leave England.”
“And isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Indeed,” he said complacently.
“I—” I stopped, shut my mouth, waited.
“Her actions