The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [40]
“He wasn’t too clever in the taking of it, but he has hidden it well,” I said.
“Yes, has he not? What time did Mrs. Whiteneck say he was re-lieved? That’s right, seven o’clock. It’s six-thirty now, so the car must go. May I suggest we send him off with a note to our good constable, whose presence might be of some service at about, shall we say, seven-thirty?”
“Perhaps slightly later. It will take Sylvester at least twenty minutes to bicycle back here from the inn. It wouldn’t do to have him over-taken by the police on his way home.”
“You are right, Russell, make it seven-forty-five. Good. I’ll give a note to the driver and have him take it to Constable Rogers.”
“Have him take Justinian back, too. Let him go home in glory.”
The car turned around in the front of the house and departed, and Holmes disappeared into one of the outhouses and returned with a rusty chisel and hammer, with which he approached the open door.
“What are you doing, Holmes?” I asked. He stopped.
“I beg your pardon, Russell, I was forgetting myself. Old habits die hard. I shall just return these to their place.”
“Wait, Holmes, I was only asking.”
“Ah. Well, I have occasionally taken advantage of the fact that a person who sees a clear danger to something he or she values tends to reach immediately for that object. You undoubtedly have another plan. Forgive me for interfering.”
“No, no, that’s fine. You go right ahead, Holmes.” I stood watching while he deftly locked the kitchen door with his picklocks, then de-stroyed the lock in a shower of splinters with the hammer and chisel. He went to return the tools, and I stepped into the kitchen to liberate four stale bread rolls from a parcel on the table and then returned to the smokehouse to help myself to a few slices of one of Mrs. White-neck’s purloined hams that had not already fed half the houseflies in Sussex. I do not normally eat pork, but decided that this time I might make an exception. I brushed a dirty smear from the greasy surface, sliced the ham onto the rolls, and looked thoughtfully at my hand, then at the ham, then at the floor.
“Holmes!” I called.
“Found something, Russell?”
“Is senility contagious, Holmes? Because if so, we’ve both got it.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“This ham has been put down in a patch of red clay soil, and a foot has deposited red clay soil onto the floor of the smokehouse. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to investigate further that outcropping of red clay soil? Here’s a sandwich; sorry there’s no beer to go with it.”
“Just a moment.” Holmes walked back through the broken door and, after several heavy thuds and the crash of breaking glass, returned with a large bottle of Bass ale and two glasses, which he rinsed off un-der the pump. “Shall we go?”
We carried our picnic up the slope that lay near the house and found the red clay lying at the side of an upthrust cliff of tumbled boulders. It was now after seven o’clock, and it would take some time to scramble over the rocks and look for possible hiding places. An ex-amination of the soil showed several mates to the print we had seen on the inn’s carpet. Red smudges led up the cliff. I took a bite of my sandwich and grimaced at the bread.
“I propose we let him bring the box down for us, Holmes. I should like to enjoy this ham and have something to drink.”
“It is a very nice ham, despite the second smoking. Perhaps Mrs. Whiteneck could be persuaded to part with some, in lieu of payment. I believe, Russell, that if we take up a position among those shrubs there, it will afford us both cover and an excellent view of house and hillside.”
That is precisely what we did. Holmes opened the bottle and we refreshed ourselves. Soon our quarry appeared, pedalling rapidly down the road and into his gate. From there it went rather like a well-constructed fall