The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [43]
Cycling slowly up the lane to the cottage, my ears were caught by a remarkable sound, distorted by the stone walls on either side. Music, but no music I had before heard, emanating from Holmes’ house, a gay, dancing tune, instantly invigorating and utterly unexpected. I stood more firmly on the pedals, rode around the house to the kitchen door, and let myself in, and when I followed the sound through to the sitting room, for an instant I failed to recognise the dark-skinned, black-haired man with the violin tucked under a chin scruffy with two days of stubble. The briefest flash of apprehension passed across the fa-miliar face, followed rapidly by a gleam of gold from his left incisor as this exotic ruffian gave me a rakish grin. I was not fooled. I had seen his original reaction to my unexpected appearance in his doorway, and my guard went instantly up.
“Holmes,” I said. “Don’t tell me, the rector needs a gipsy fiddler for the village fête.”
“Hello, Russell,” he said with studied casualness. “This is an unan-ticipated pleasure. I am so glad you happened to stop by, it saves me from having to write. I wanted to ask you to keep track of the plant experiment. Just for a few days, and there’s nothing terribly—”
“Holmes, what is going on?” He was entirely too innocent.
“ ‘Going on’? Nothing is ‘going on.’ I find I must be away for a few days, is all.”
“You have a case.”
“Oh, come now, Russell—”
“Why don’t you want me to know about it? And don’t give me some nonsense about governmental secrets.”
“It is secret. I cannot tell you about it. Later, perhaps. But I truly do need you to—”
“Jigger the plants, Holmes,” I said angrily. “The experiment is of no importance whatsoever.”
“Russell!” he said, offended. “I only leave them because I have been asked by someone I cannot refuse.”
“Holmes,” I said warningly, “this is Russell you’re talking to, not Watson, not Mrs. Hudson. I’m not in the least bit intimidated by you. I want to know why you were planning to sneak out without telling me.”
“ ‘Sneak out’! Russell, I said I was glad you happened by.”
“Holmes, I’m not blind. You’re in full disguise except for your shoes, and there’s a packed bag in the corner. I repeat: What is going on?”
“Russell, I am very sorry, but I cannot include you in this case.”
“Why not, Holmes?” I was becoming really very angry. So was he.
“Because, damn it, it may be dangerous!”
I stood staring across the room at him, and my voice when it came was, I was pleased to note, very quiet and even.
“My dear Holmes, I am going to pretend you did not say that. I am going to walk in your garden and admire the flowers for approximately ten minutes. When I come back in we will begin this conversation anew, and unless you wish to divorce yourself from me entirely, the idea of protecting little Mary Russell will never enter your head.” I walked out, closing the door gently, and went to talk with Will and the two cats. I pulled some weeds, heard the violin start up again, this time a more classical melody, and in ten minutes I went back through the door.
“Good afternoon, Holmes. That’s a natty outfit you’re wearing. I should not have thought to wear an orange tie with a shirt that particu-lar shade of red, but it is certainly distinctive. So, where are we going?”
Holmes looked at me through half-shut eyes. I stood blandly in the doorway, arms folded. Finally he snorted and thrust his violin into its disreputable case.
“Very well, Russell. I may be mad, but we shall give it a try. Have you been following the papers, the Simpson kidnapping case?”
“I saw something a few days ago. I’ve been helping Patrick with the hay.”
“Obviously. Take a look at these while I put your persona to-gether.”
He handed me a pile of back issues of The Times, then disappeared upstairs into the laboratory.