The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [48]
“Thank you,” I said. “There is a certain Romany gentleman being held in your cells—my ‘father.’ That is actually Sherlock Holmes. I understand that he did not wish it known that he was being called in on the Simpson case, so we chose to arrive for the appointment through the back door, shall we say, rather than the front. Your officers were very polite,” I hastened to reassure him, not altogether truthfully.
“Jesus God,” he swore under his breath. “Sherlock Holmes in the lockup. Donaldson!” he bellowed. A door opened behind me. “I want here the gipsy they arrested by the train station. You will bring him, yourself.”
Heavy silence descended, until Connor abruptly recalled the two Americans in his office and scrambled away. His voice vibrated through the intervening space for several minutes. He then came out of his office and spoke in a low voice to his secretary.
“We will drink tea, Miss Carter, biscuits, whatever. A tray in to the Simpsons, if you please. And by here, three teas. Yes, three.”
He came back into the interview room, lowered himself cautiously into the chair across from me, and folded his hands together on top of the table.
“Nah,” he said, “there’s funny there is. Why was I not told . . .” He stopped, and with an effort shook the Welsh from his tongue and put on English like a uniform. “That is to say, I did not know that there would be someone accompanying him.”
“He himself did not know it until yesterday. My name is Mary Rus-sell. I shall be his assistant on the case.”
His mouth slid out of control, but he was saved from further con-versation on the matter by the arrival of Donaldson and Holmes. The latter was still in handcuffs, but his eyes sparkled with amusement, and he was patently enjoying himself despite the bruise darkening the ridge of his already dusky cheek and the puffiness to the left side of his mouth. Connor looked at him aghast.
“Donaldson, what does this mean? What has happened to his face? And take those cuffs from his hands.”
Holmes cut in with his roughened voice.
“Naow, cap’n, there bain’t no problem. They was just doin’ their job, like.”
Connor looked hard at Holmes, then glanced at his sergeant.
“Mister Donaldson, you will go down into the cells and you will tell the men with the ready fists that I will have no more of that thing. I do not care what the man before me permitted or encouraged; there will be no more of it. There’s bad, that is, Donaldson. Go, you.”
Miss Carter came in as the sergeant slunk out and put a tray with three cups and a plate of cakes on the table, keeping her eyes to her-self but positively radiating curiosity. Evidently we were not Connor’s normal variety of tea guests.
The door closed behind her, and Holmes came to sit in the chair next to mine.
“You are quite to time, Russell. I trust I did not harm you?”
“A few bruises, nothing more. You managed to miss my spectacles. And you?”
“As I said, there were no problems. Chief Inspector Connor, I take it you have met Miss Russell?”
“She... introduced herself. As your ‘assistant.’ I ask you, Mr. Holmes, is this truly necessary?”
There were multiple layers insinuated into his question but, inno-cent that I was, I did not immediately read them... until I saw the way Holmes was just looking at the man, and suddenly I felt myself flush scarlet head to toe. I stood up.
“Holmes, I think you would be better off alone on this case, after all. I shall return home—”
“You will sit down.” With that note in his voice, I sat. I did not look at Chief Inspector Connor.
“Miss Russell is my assistant, Chief Inspector. On this case as on others.” That was all he said, but Connor sat back in his chair, cleared his throat, and shot me a brief glance that was all the apology I would have, considering that nothing had actually been said aloud.
“Your assistant. Fine.”
“That is correct. Her presence makes no difference with the arrangements, however. Are the Simpsons here?