The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [141]
“I’ll go tell Patrick it’s here, so he’ll keep the doors shut. Back in a few minutes.”
I let myself into Patrick’s house and climbed the stairs to his room, whispering his name at regular intervals so that he wouldn’t take me as a burglar. He was a sound sleeper, but I finally roused him.
“Patrick, for God’s sake, man, the barns could burn and you’d sleep on.”
“What? Barns? Fire? I’m coming! Who’s that? Tillie?”
“No, no, Patrick, no fire, don’t get up, it’s I, Mary.”
“Miss Mary? What’s wrong? Let me get a light.”
“No light, Patrick. Don’t get up.” I could see by moonlight that the top half of his body was unclothed, and I had no wish to find out about the other. “I just had to tell you that I’ve hidden my car in the lower barn. Don’t let it be seen: It’s very important that nobody knows I’m here. Even my aunt. Will you do that, Patrick?”
“Certainly, but where are you, here?”
“I’ll be at Holmes’ cottage.”
“There’s trouble, Miss Mary, isn’t there? Can I help?”
“If you can, I’ll get a message to you. Just don’t let anyone see my car. Go back to sleep now, Patrick. Sorry to wake you.”
“Good luck, Miss.”
“Thank you, Patrick.” Holmes was waiting for me outside the house. We set off in silence across the dark downs, empty but for the foxes and owls.
It was not the first time I had walked that way at night, though the setting moon lit the first couple of miles. I was concerned at first that his confinement might have lessened Holmes’ normally iron constitu-tion, but I needn’t have worried. It was I who breathed heavily at the tops of hills from the hours spent in the library, not he.
Sounds carry at night, so our conversation was low and terse, dwin-dling to a few muttered words as the miles passed and his cottage neared. The moon had set, and it was the darkest time of night before the stars faded. We stood on the edge of the orchard that backed the cottage, and Holmes leant close to breathe words into my ear.
“We’ll circle around and go in through the end door, then straight up to the laboratory. We can have a light in there; it won’t be seen. Keep to the shadows and remember there’s a guard about somewhere.”
He felt my nod and slipped away. Five minutes later the door clicked lightly to his key, and I stood inside the dark cottage breathing in the mingled smells of pipe tobacco, toxic chemicals, and meat pies, the fragrance of home and happiness.
“Come, Russell, are you lost?” His low voice came from above me. I pushed away the feelings of reunion and followed him up the worn steps and around the corner, not needing a light, until my hand touched the air of an open doorway and I stepped inside. The air moved as Holmes swung the door closed.
“Stay there until I make a light, Russell. I’ve moved some things about since you were here last.” A match flared and illuminated his profile, bent over an old lamp. “I have a cloth to tack up over the door edges,” he said, and adjusted the flame to give the greatest light, then turned to set it on a worktable.
“My nose tells me that Mrs. Hudson produced meat pies yesterday,” I said, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the peg on the door. “I’m glad she is convinced of your approaching recovery.” I turned back to Holmes, and I saw his face. He was looking across the lamp to the dark corner, and whatever it was he saw there bathed his face in dread and despair and the finality of defeat, and he was utterly still, slightly bent from depositing the lamp on the table. I took two quick steps forward so I could see around the bookshelf, and there, dominat-ing my vision, was the round reflected end of a gun, moving to point directly at me. I looked at Holmes and saw then the first fear I had ever witnessed in his eyes.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said a familiar voice. “Miss Russell.”
Holmes straightened his long body slowly, looking terribly, utterly exhausted, and when he replied his voice was as flat as death.
“Miss Donleavy.”
Battle Royal