The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [41]
“Come, now,” murmured Holmes, “bring it down like a good boy, and save us a climb. Ah, good, I thought you might like to play with it again.”
Sylvester, hugging the metal box awkwardly to his chest, worked his way slowly down the rocks. He nearly fell once, and I held my breath in anticipation of broken bones and scattered money, but he re-covered with no more than a torn knee and made it safely to the bot-tom. His face was eager and gloating as he trotted off to his house, cradling the heavy box in his arms. Holmes and I finished the beer and followed him.
“Russell, I believe this is the point at which your reinforcements come into play. I shall wait here while you go up the road and bring PC Rogers—quietly!”
“Holmes, the Barkers’ dogs may listen to me, but PC Rogers does not. I think if there is any fetching and commanding to be done, you had best do it.”
“Hum. You may be right. However, if you remain here you must under no circumstances approach Mr. Sylvester. If he leaves, then fol-low, at a very discreet distance. Cornered rats bite, Russell: no heroics, please.”
I assured him that I had no intention of taking on the man single-handed, and we separated. I took up a position behind the smoke-house, where I could see if he made a dash for the river, and picked up a handful of stones to practise my juggling. I had managed to work my way up to keeping five stones in the air when something invisible and inaudible to me set off another series of rapid events.
The first indication was a scrabble and thump from within the house. The kitchen door crashed open and a young thief with black hair and a frightened face exploded out, trailing currency notes like autumn leaves. Shouts and the pounding of heavy feet came from the front of the house, but Sylvester was fast and had a considerable lead. He flew past me, accelerating, and without thinking I plucked one of my remaining stones from the air and sent it spinning after him. It took him on the back of his leg and must have numbed it for an in-stant, because the knee collapsed and he tumbled heavily onto the ground. I reached down to snatch up another rock, but Holmes and Rogers came up then, and it was unnecessary.
e dined that night at Mrs. Whiteneck’s inn. Holmes had the ham, and I enjoyed mutton with mint sauce, and we helped ourselves from bowls of tiny potatoes and glazed carrots and a variety of other delicacies from the good earth of the Sussex country-side. Mrs. Whiteneck herself served us with an unfussy competence and withdrew.
Some time passed before I sat back and sighed happily.
“Thank you, Holmes. That was fun.”
“You find even such rustic and unadorned sleuthing satisfying?”
“I do. Did. I cannot see spending my life pursuing such activities, but as a romp through the countryside on a summer’s day, it was most pleasurable. Don’t you agree?”
“As an exercise, Russell, you conducted the investigation in a most professional manner.”
“Why, thank you, Holmes.” I was ridiculously pleased.
“By the way, where did you learn to throw like that?”
“My father thought all young ladies should be able to throw and to run. He was not amused by cultivated awkwardness. He was a great lover of sports, and was trying to introduce cricket into San Francisco the summer before...the accident. I was to be his bowler.”
“Formidable,” my companion murmured.
“So he thought. It is a useful skill, you must admit. One can always find chunks of débris to heave at wrong-doers.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum.