The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [136]
Moriarty could not have done this. The professor-of-mathematics-turned-criminal-mastermind had died at the hands of Sherlock Holmes, hurled over a huge falls in Switzerland nearly thirty years be-fore. Why then was his name here? Was our foe telling us that the pur-pose behind our persecution was revenge for his death? After nearly three decades? Or was there meant to be a parallel between this case and that of Moriarty and Holmes? I do not know how long I sat there in the Bodleian while the light faded outside, but eventually the little daughter of a voice whispered for one last time, and I heard myself, talking to Holmes in my room on the night it all began. “My maths tu-tor and I came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours, while we were working with problems in base eight theory.” And the whispery voice of Holmes in my ears: “Professor Moriarty ...”
My maths tutor. She was not the owner of the blonde hairs we had found in the cab; her hair was dark and tinged with grey. However, she had laid Professor Moriarty’s base eight exercises before me on the very day the bomb appeared at my door and, I knew now, three days later had slashed that string of ciphers with great precision into the seats of our cab. My maths tutor, Patricia Donleavy, who had left be-cause of an unexplained illness beginning that same week. My maths tutor, a strong woman, a mind of great subtlety, one of the teachers I had found to learn from, who had shaped me, whose approval I cher-ished, with whom I had talked about my life, and about Holmes. “An-other Moriarty,” Holmes had speculated, and she herself had just confirmed it. I pushed the implications from me. My maths tutor.
I looked up blankly to see someone standing beside my desk, a desk openly strewn with photographs, calculations, and the translation. It was one of the old library clerks, looking amused. He had the attitude of someone who has waited to be noticed.
“Sorry, Miss Russell, it’s time to close up.”
“Already? Heavens, Mr. Douglas, I had no idea. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“No rush, Miss. I have some tidying to do, but I wanted to let you know before you took root in here. I’ll let you out when you come down.”
As I began hastily to insert the pages back into their envelope, a very unpleasant thought came to me. How many other people had glanced onto the desk during the evening? I knew I had been careful to hide the photographs at first, but at what point had I become so en-grossed in the mathematical detective work that I had simply not seen who came past? I seemed to remember two first-year men who had been searching for a book, and an old priest who coughed and blew his nose loudly, but who else? I hoped no one.
Mr. Douglas let me out with a cheery “ ’Night, now” and locked the door behind me. The dark courtyard was deserted but for the statue of Thomas Bodley, and I walked quickly through the entrance arch to the Broad, which, conversely, seemed crowded and well-lit, and safe. I walked back to my lodgings, deep in thought. What to do next? Tele-phone Holmes, and hope no one was listening in? Send him a coded telegram? I doubted I could devise one quickly, a message Holmes could read and Patricia Donleavy could not. If I went to him, could I do so without alerting my watchers? A sudden movement on my part could endanger Holmes. And where was Miss Donleavy? How could I find her, and how could we spring a trap on her now?
In the midst of all these whirling thoughts I became aware of some other idea niggling gently at the back of my mind. I stopped dead and tried to encourage it to show itself. What was troubling me? Busy street? No, not even so crowded