The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [52]
“Just a minute, Mr. Todd, you’re a shilling short here.”
“Ah, terrible sorry, I must a dropped it.” He laboriously counted out three pennies, a ha’penny, and six farthings. “There it is, now we’re quit. Get the bags, girl,” he snarled.
“Yes, Da’.” I meekly followed him, laden with the four largest bags again, through the muck-slimed yard to the gipsy caravan standing in the back. A rough-coated, heavy-legged horse was being introduced between the traces. I deposited my load and went around to help with the process, blessing Patrick’s tutoring as I did so, and found that though the arrangement of the harness was different from that of a plough or a hay cart, it was logical and quickly mastered. I climbed up beside Holmes on the hard wooden seat. He handed me the reins, his face a blank. I glanced at the two men standing nearby, arranged the thick straps in my hands, and slapped them hard across the broad back in front of me. The horse obligingly leant forward, and we pulled out onto the road north, on the trail of Jessica Simpson.
A Child Gone from Her Bed
Let her be restored... and they will receive her with extraordinary, pathetic welcome....The strange hymn of rejoicing.
n the very outskirts of the town Holmes had me pull over and apply the brake.
“We need to do a thorough check on this equipment, I fear,” he said. “The last time I hired one of these the wheel fell off. It would not be convenient this time. You strip the horse down, take a look under the traces, and I think you’ll find a few sores. Currycomb, rags for padding, and ointment for the sores are in the calico bag.” He disap-peared beneath the caravan, and while I brushed and treated the puz-zled horse, he tightened bolts and applied grease to dry axles. With the horse back in harness, I went around to see if I might be of help and found his long legs protruding from the back.
“Need a hand?” I called.
“No point in both of us looking like mechanics. I’m nearly fin-ished.” A minute passed, silent on my part, grunts and low impreca-tions on his.
“Holmes, there’s something I must ask you.”
“Not just now, Russell.”
“I need to know. Is my presence... an embarrassment?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I mean it, Holmes. Inspector Connor today all but accused you...me... I just need to know if my presence is inconvenient.”
“My dear Russell, I hope you don’t flatter yourself that because you talked me into bringing you on this delightful outing, that means I am incapable of refusing you. To my considerable—Oh blast! Give me a rag, would you? Thank you. To my considerable surprise, Russell, you have proven a competent assistant and, furthermore, hold some prom-ise for becoming an invaluable one. It is, I can even say, a new and oc-casionally remarkable experience to work with a person who inspires, not by vacuum, but by actual contribution. Hand me the large span-ner.” His next remarks were punctuated by grunts. “Connor is a fool. What he and his ilk choose to believe is no concern of mine, and thus far it has not seemed to harm you. You cannot help being a female, and I should be something of a fool as well were I to discount your tal-ents merely because of their housing.”
“I see. I think.”
“Besides,” he added, his voice muffled now by the undercarriage, “a renowned bachelor such as myself, you probably would be more of an embarrassment were you a boy.”
There really was no possible response to that statement. In a few minutes, filthy as a miner, Holmes emerged, cleansed himself as well as he was able, and we set off up the road again.
We wobbled along north in the colourful, remarkably uncomfort-able little caravan, walking up the hills whenever the sway of the high wooden seat and the jolts to the base of the spine became too much, which was most of the time. Holmes peppered me with information, badgered me mercilessly into my rôle, criticised and corrected my walk and speech and attitude, forced Welsh vocabulary and grammar down my throat, and pontificated