The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [142]
...there being not room for many emotions in her narrow, barbarous, practical brain.
hat, mr. holmes, no bon mots? ‘I perceive you have been in Afghanistan,’ or New York? Well, not every utter-ance a gem, perhaps. And you, Miss Russell. No greeting for your tutrix, not even an apology for the inadequacy of your final essay, which was not only sodden but hurried as well?”
At the sound of her precise, slightly hoarse voice I was overcome, pierced to the core of my being. Her voice, sweeping me into memo-ries of her dim and opulent study, the coal fire, the tea she served me, the two occasions when she had given me a glass of rare dry sherry to accompany her rare, dry words of praise: I had thought ...I had thought I knew what her feelings towards me were, and I stood before her like a child whose beloved godmother has just stabbed her.
“You do look like a pair of donkeys,” she said in irritation, and if her first words had left me stunned, her quick ill humour jolted me back into life, an automatic response learnt early by all of her students: When Miss Donleavy snaps, one gathered one’s wits with alacrity. I had seen her reduce a strong man to tears.
“Sit down, Miss Russell. Mr. Holmes, while I have this gun pointed at Miss Russell, would you be so good as to switch on the electrical lights I see over our heads? Move very carefully; the gun is already cocked, and it takes very little pressure to set the trigger off. Thank you. Mr. Holmes, you look considerably further from Death’s door than I was led to believe. Now, if you would please bring that other chair and place it at the table to the left of Miss Russell. A bit farther apart. Good. And the lamp, extinguish it and place it on the shelf. Yes, there. Now, sit down. You will please leave your hands on top of the table at all times, both of you. Good.”
I sat at arm’s length from Holmes and looked past the gun’s maw at my mathematics tutor. She was sitting in the very corner of the room behind a rank of shelves, so that the shadow cast by the shelves cut di-rectly across her. The overhead glare illuminated her tweed- and silk-covered legs from the knee down, and occasionally the very end of the heavy military pistol. All else was dim: an occasional flash of teeth and eyes, a dull glint from the gold chain and locket she wore at her throat; all else was shadow.
“Mr. Holmes, we meet at last. I have been looking forward to this meeting for quite some time.”
“Twenty-five years or more, isn’t it, Miss Donleavy? Or, do you pre-fer to be addressed by your father’s name?”
Silence filled the laboratory, and I sat bewildered. Did Holmes know where the woman came from? Her father ...?
“Touché, Mr. Holmes. I take back my earlier criticism; you still do a nice line in bon mots. Perhaps you might explain to Miss Russell.”
“It was her own name that Miss Donleavy signed on the seats of the four-wheeler, Russell. This is the daughter of Professor Moriarty.”
“Surprise, surprise, Miss Russell. You did tell me what a very supe-rior sort of mind your friend has. What a pity he was born trapped in a man’s body.”
With a wrenching effort I took control of my thoughts and sent them, useless as it might now seem, in the direction of the last plan that Holmes and I had laid. I swallowed and studied my hands on the tabletop.
“I cannot agree, Miss Donleavy,” I said. “Mr. Holmes’ mind and his body seem to me well suited to each other.”
“Miss Russell,” she said delightedly, “sharp as always. I must admit I had forgotten how I always enjoyed your mind. And, as you intimate, I had also forgotten that the two of you have become ...alienated. I must say I often wondered what you saw in him. I could have done a great deal with you had it not been for your irrational fondness for Mr. Holmes.”
I pointedly said nothing, just studied my hands. I did wonder why they weren’t shaking.
“But now the fondness has turned, has it?” she said, in a voice that was soft and tinged with sadness. “So very sad, when old friends part and become enemies.”
My heart leapt with