The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [119]
“Simple pleasures for simple minds,” Holmes murmured. His words actually startled the good captain into a reaction, causing him to run an experienced eye over the fading green-yellow bruises on Holmes’ face and glance for a moment at the neat bandage peeking out from the sleeve of my kaftan. He even went so far as to open his mouth on a comment, but before he could lose control so completely he made a visible effort, snapped his jaws shut, and then turned to close the door. Holmes glanced at me with an expression that looked suspiciously like mischief.
“And you, Captain Jones,” he said. “I hope you have had a success-ful January, though I see you haven’t spent too much of it aboard ship. How was France? Rebuilding already, I see.” Silence fell, and as I came out of the galley I saw a familiar look of wary perplexity on the cap-tain’s face.
“How do you know where I’ve been? Oh, sorry: Evenin’, Miss.” He touched his cap.
“No major mystery, Jones. Your skin tells me that you’ve spent no great time in the sun since you left us, and your new hair pomade and the watch on your wrist tell me you have spent a day in Paris. Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle, “I haven’t had spies on you. Just my own eyes.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Holmes. If I thought you’d been nosing about I’d be forced to have some gentlemen ask you a few hard ques-tions. Not to offend, sir, it’d just be my job.”
“I understand, Jones, and I am careful to see only those things that tell me of unimportant activities.”
“That’s probably for the best, sir. Oh yes, this packet is for you. It was sent by a courier from London last week, into my own hands—in Paris, in fact.” I was standing close to him and reached out for it, but Holmes’ voice cut in, sharp, scathing, and utterly authoritative.
“Not to Miss Russell, Jones. This and any future official conveyances will be delivered personally to me, and to me alone. Do you understand, Captain Jones?”
In the cabin’s shocked silence Holmes rose and walked forward, coldly took the packet from the captain’s hand, and went to open it by the window. Jones stared at his back for a moment, then looked at me in open amazement. A flush of shame crept into my face, and I turned abruptly and went into my cabin, slamming the door. A minute later I heard the outer door close behind the captain. We had begun our play.
In a few minutes I heard two light taps on my door. I stood and went to the window before responding. “Come in, Holmes.”
“Russell, this packet is most—ah. I see. The mind was willing but the heart taken aback, I take it?” How he could discern my distress from looking at my spine, I cannot think.
“No, no, it was just the suddenness of it, it took me unawares.” I turned to face him. “I was not expecting to begin the act so quickly. However, perhaps it is for the best. The captain is now aware that something is amiss, and I doubt that I could have acted that particular scene. I’m not exactly Sarah Bernhardt.” My smile was a bit forced.
“It was indeed most convincing. I fear there will be any number of painful moments before this act is over.”
“The lines are written; we must speak them,” I said dismissively. “Now, what were you saying about Mycroft’s packet?”
“Here, look for yourself. Our adversary has been most prudent. I am filled with admiration for her technique. Were it not that she presses so close in on me, I should relish this case greatly, for I cannot remember one in which such a large number of clues led absolutely nowhere. I think I shall go and fill my pipe.”
The packet was a thick one. I put aside for later reading the five fat envelopes with Mrs. Hudson’s writing and stamps from various ports of call, and looked at Mycroft’s offering. Numerous pages from the lab-oratories at Scotland Yard described the prints on the cab, the button with its attached bit of tweed, and the analysis of the three bombs, one in grisly detail. It was the description of the hive bomb that illu-minated the most, and in fact changed the entire picture.