The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [144]
“However, Russell, I made two mistakes at that time, though how I might have anticipated events I cannot at the moment think. The first was that my subsequent three-year-long disappearance from England allowed the scattered remnants of Moriarty’s organisation to regroup; by the time I returned it had succeeded in extending itself internation-ally, with little structure left aboveground in this country. My second mistake was to allow Moriarty’s family—the existence of which was one of his better kept secrets—to disappear from my view. His wife and young daughter left for New York, never to be seen again. Or so I had thought. Was Donleavy your mother’s maiden name?”
“Ah, so you do have a question! Yes, it was.”
“Minor lacunae, Miss Donleavy, and hardly worth the effort of pur-suit. What does it matter, whether the hair you left for me to find was your father’s? or, which room in the warehouse across the river the marksman was in before shooting at Miss Russell? or indeed, was it you or some minion who prematurely triggered the bomb that killed Dick-son? Peripheral matters left unanswered make for an untidy case but hardly affect its basic framework.”
“An interesting statement, from a man who bases his investiga-tions on minutiae,” she commented, with some justification. “But we’ll let it pass. Yes, it was my father’s hair, from the days when he wore it down to his collar. My mother kept it in a locket. This locket I wear, in fact. And yes, my friend with the accurate rifle was indeed in the warehouse, although I understand that Scotland Yard is still look-ing for the launch. How they can imagine that anyone could aim from a boat on water and achieve any degree of accuracy—And as for Dick-son, he knew the risks when he signed on. I was angry with him, for making such a mess of the bomb that incapacitated you, and it made him clumsy. I was generous with his family’s compensation, you will give me that.”
“What price a man’s life, Miss Donleavy? How many guineas is rec-ompense to a widow, three fatherless children?” His voice hardened. “You killed him, Miss Donleavy, yourself or one of your hired thugs, who heard your anger and took it as command. You intended him dead when you opened the New York bank account from which he was paid, last November. And he is now dead.”
We sat in utter silence, and my heart beat ten, eleven times before she responded, with grudging admiration and a touch of amusement, and sounding again like herself.
“Mr. Holmes, how generous is the urge to Christian forgiveness in your soul, to perceive the man who nearly killed you and your two closest associates as a poor fellow whose widow and children weep for him.”
“John Dickson was a professional, Madam, an artist with fuse and explosive. He never killed, and only once injured, in his entire career, until you brought him out of retirement. I can only assume you held something over him, some threat to his family, I imagine, to force him to engage in wholesale slaughter. Do not play games with me, Madam, with your accidents and your shows of pique; my patience has its limits.”
The room’s silence was so heavy I was sure she would hear my heart rate accelerate when I saw the end of the gun sag slightly away from me. He had her complete attention now. In a minute her voice came from the dark corner, flavoured with what sounded like respect.
“I can see that with someone like you about a person would never become complacent. You are quite correct: I suppose I did want him dead and tidied out of the way. His affection for those poisonous chil-dren of his was a weakness, and he would have exposed me when he had the chance. Ah well; introspection has never been one of my strong points. I have an unfortunate tendency to overlook side issues when I have a goal before me. As Miss Russell could tell you, I think.”
The silver muzzle was