The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [36]
I commiserated, gave him the article, and walked back to the main house, thinking. I put a telephone call through to Holmes, and while Mrs. Hudson went to fetch him I sat at the desk and watched Patrick move across the yard between the barns, his shoulders set in anger and depression. When Holmes came on the line I came to the point.
“Holmes, didn’t you tell me a few weeks ago that there has been a series of burglaries from inns and public houses in Eastbourne?”
“I hardly think two qualifies as a series, Russell. You are interrupt-ing a delicate haemoglobin experiment, you know.”
“Now it’s three,” I said, ignoring his protest. “Patrick’s lady-friend at the Tun had her cash box taken last night.”
“My dear Russell, I am retired. I am no longer required to retrieve missing pencil boxes or track down errant husbands.”
“Whoever took it just happened to choose a time when the box was much fuller than it normally is,” I persisted. “It is not a comfort-able feeling, knowing that the thief may be in the area. Besides,” I added, sensing a faint waver down the telephone line, “Patrick’s a friend.” It was the wrong card to play.
“I am so pleased for you that you can count your farm manager as a friend, Russell, but that does not justify dragging me into this little af-faire. I believe I heard a rumour that Sussex now has a constabulary force. Perhaps you would be so good as to let them be about their work and let me be about mine.”
“You don’t mind if I look into it, do you?”
“Good heavens, Russell, if time hangs so heavy on your hands and you’ve run out of bandages to wrap, by all means thrust your nose into this momentous crime, this upsurge of depravity on our very doorsteps. I only suggest that you not annoy the constabulary more than you have to.”
The line went dead. In irritation I hung up my earpiece and went to get out my bicycle.
I was hot and dusty when I reached the inn, not a very prepossess-ing figure, and I had practically to tug the sleeve of the village consta-ble before I was allowed a glimpse of the scene of the crime. I positively itched to look more closely, but the good PC Rogers, proud of his outré little crime, had the better part of the downstairs roped off awaiting his inspector, and he would not hear of trespass. Even the owner and her workers and guests were forced to edge through the room behind a wall of potted palms, which were already suffering from the attentions of steamer trunks and Gladstone bags.
“I promise you,” I begged, “I won’t disturb anything. I just want to look at the carpet.”
“Can’t do it, Miss Russell. Orders were to let no one through.”
“Which means, of course,” snapped a voice from the violently waving palms, “that I cannot have any food from my kitchen, so I lose not only my cash box, but today’s income as well. Oh, hello, you’re Patrick’s Miss Russell, aren’t you? Here to look at our crime?”
“Trying to,” I admitted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jammy, let her—Oh all right, all right: ‘Constable Rogers,’ let her have a peep. She’s a bright girl, and she’s here, which is more than I can say for this inspector of yours.”
“Yes, Rogers, do let her have a peep,” drawled a voice from the door. “I’ll stand bail that she won’t disturb anything.”
“Mr. Holmes!” said the startled police constable, reaching for his helmet and then, changing his mind, straightening his shoulders instead.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were busy.”
“By the time you let me go the blood had clotted beyond all recog-nition,” he said dismissively. He ignored the expressions on the faces around us that his statement had brought, and waved a hand at the young constable.
“Let her in, Rogers.” Meekly, the uniformed man went to drop the rope for me.
Torn between