The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [30]
The obvious interest Holmes had in the structure led to a deep conversation concerning cracking foundations, wood beetles, leaded windows, the cost of coal, and the drawbacks of the British tradesman. After a hearty tea we were offered a tour, and Holmes, the amateur ar-chitectural enthusiast, talked his way into the tower as well. We climbed up the narrow, open wooden steps while Mr. Barker rode in the tiny lift he had installed. He met us at the top.
“I’ve always wanted an ivory tower.” He smiled. “It was the main reason I bought the place, this tower. The lift was an extravagance, but I have problems with climbing the stairs. These are my rooms here. I’d like you to see my view.”
The view was indeed panoramic, a northerly outlook up to the be-ginnings of the dark weald. Having admired it and the rooms, we set off again for the stairs, but before we reached them Holmes abruptly turned and made for a ladder leaning against a wall at the end of the hallway.
“I do hope you don’t mind, Mr. Barker, but I must see the top of this magnificent tower. I’ll just be an instant, Russell. Note this clever trapdoor here.” His voice faded and echoed as his feet disappeared.
“But it’s not safe up there, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Barker protested. He turned to me. “I can’t think why that door is unlocked. I told Ron to fix a padlock to it. I was up there three years ago, and I didn’t like the look of it at all.”
“He’ll be quite careful, Mr. Barker, and I’m sure he’ll be just a mo-ment. Ah, see, here he comes now.” Holmes’ long legs reappeared down the ladder, and his eyes seemed darker as he turned happily to-wards us.
“Thank you, Mr. Barker, you have a most interesting tower. Now, tell me about the primitive art you have in your hall downstairs. New Guinean, isn’t it? The Sepik River, I believe?”
Mr. Barker was successfully distracted and walked slowly down the stairs on Holmes’ arm, talking about his travels in the wilder places of the world. By the time we left an hour later, we had admired sev-eral magnificent African bronzes, an Australian aboriginal didgeridoo, three Esquimaux carved walrus tusks, and an exquisite golden figure from Incan Peru. The Barkers saw us to the door and we said good-bye, but suddenly Holmes pushed back past them.
“I must thank the cook personally for that superb tea she produced. Do you think she would give Miss Russell the recipe for those little pink cakes? The kitchen is down here, I believe?”
I answered the Barkers’ startled looks with an expressive shrug, to tell them that I was not to be held responsible for his behavioural odd-ities, and ducked down the hallway after him. I found him shaking the hand of a bewildered little woman with grey hair and ruddy cheeks, thanking her profusely. Another woman, younger and prettier, had been sitting at the table with a cup of tea.
“Thank you, Mrs. Woods is it? Miss Russell and I so appreciated your revivifying tea, it helped restore us after those dreadful dogs set upon us. Amazing number of them—do you have to care for them? Oh, good, yes, it is a better task for a man. Still, they must eat a lot, and I suppose you have to prepare their food?”
Mrs. Woods had responded to his banter with an oddly girlish giggle.
“Oh yes, sir, they fairly keep the town butcher in business. This morning it took all three of us to carry the order from the butcher’s— there must’ve been twenty pounds of bones alone.”
“Dogs eat a lot of bones, don’t they?” I wondered what this was all leading up to, but it appeared that he had what he was after.
“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Woods, and don’t forget that Miss Russell wants that recipe.”
She waved us merrily out the kitchen door. The dogs were there, lying about on a struggling patch of much-dug-up lawn, and ignored us completely. We circled the house and strode off down the road.
“Holmes, what was that about the cakes? You know I don’t know a thing about baking. Or do you think the poisonous things are