The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [46]
“Yes, sir?” he said coldly.
“First class to Bristol,” Holmes muttered.
“First class? I’m sorry, there won’t be anything suitable. You’ll find the second class quite comfortable this time of night.”
“Naow, s’got to be first class. ’S me daughter’s birfday, she wants a first class.”
The agent looked at me, and I smiled shyly at him (which was, I thought, a bit like schoolgirl braids on a lady of the evening, but it seemed to soften him).
“Well, perhaps, it being night we might be able to find something. You’ll have to stay in your compartment, though. No wandering about, bothering the other passengers.”
Holmes drew himself up and glared blackly at the man.
“If they’ll not be bothering us, we’ll not be bothering them. How much is it?”
Scandalised eyes looked away as we climbed colourfully aboard with our various bags and parcels (I imagined letters going off in the morning post to the editorial page of The Times, but as we were busy for the next few days I do not know if they actually appeared.), and we had a compartment to ourselves for the trip. I opened the case file Holmes handed me, but the long day’s work under the hot sun and the tension conspired against me. Holmes woke me at Bristol, where we found rooms in a sleazy hotel near the station and slept until morning.
The remainder of the trip to Cardiff was decidedly less luxurious than the first part, and Holmes had to help me off the train, as my leg had fallen asleep with the weight of the bags and the woman wedged in beside me. When I could walk, he put his whiskered face against my ear and spoke in a low voice.
“Now, Russell, we shall see what you can do on your own. We have an appointment with the Simpsons in the office of Chief Inspector Connor at half-twelve. It would not be the best of ideas to go in through the front door, as I told you, so we are going to be arrested. Kindly don’t manhandle your persecutor too badly. His bones are old.”
He picked up the two smallest bags and walked away, leaving me to deal with the remaining four. I followed him to the exit, past a uniformed constable watching the crowd—and us, closely no doubt. The crush at the door grew thick, and Holmes stopped suddenly to avoid stepping on a child. I bumped into him and dropped a parcel, and as I struggled to re-trieve it it was kicked away by various feet, beginning with a pair of gar-ish gipsy boots. By dint of elbows and shoulders I followed the parcel, and as I reached down to pick it up something suddenly slammed me against the wall, where I collapsed in a heap of skirts and baggage. A voice snarled loudly above my head.
“Aw for God’s sake, can you not ’ang on t’yer bags? I shoulda brought your brother; at least he can stand up straight.” A hard hand seized my arm and jerked me upright, but when it let go too soon I stumbled into a group of elegantly dressed men. Gloved hands kept me from falling, but all movement through the doors had come to an abrupt halt.
“Damn you, girl, you’re worse than your mother for falling into the arms of strange men. Get over here and pick up your things,” he yelled and, hauling me out of the supporting hands of my rescuers, shoved me hard towards the bags. Tears had come into my eyes with the pain of the wall’s initial impact, and now I groped blindly for the handles and strings. A murmur of properly accented voices protested my mis-treatment, but none moved to stop my “father.”
“But Da’, they was only tryin’ to help me—”
I saw his hand coming towards me and moved with it, but it still connected with a crack. I cowered against the wall with my arms over my head and cried out piteously when his shoe kicked the valise be-neath me.
Finally a police whistle rang out.
“Stop you that, man,” cried the Welsh voice of authority. “There’s shameful, there is, hurting a child.”
“She’s no child, and she needs