The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [65]
“Holmes, I don’t think I can sleep here tonight. I know it’s late and we should barely get on the road before we had to stop, but would you mind awfully if we didn’t stay here until morning? I really don’t think I can bear it.” My voice came out a bit shaky at the end, but I looked up to see Holmes with a genuine smile in his eyes.
“Mary, me girlie, you took the very words from me mouth. If you’ll get the nag in place, I’ll have these things stowed away in a minute.”
It was considerably more than a minute, but the sun was still above the hills when we turned the painted wagon around and faced back up the road we had come down the day before. I began to breathe more easily, and after a couple of miles Holmes put his back against the car-avan’s painted door and let out a sigh.
“Holmes? Do you think they’ll catch the person behind this?”
“It’s possible but not, I think, likely. He’s been very cautious. He was not seen—he has certainly never been here, he’d never have over-looked the tree branch, or the curtains. These five were hired and paid anonymously, had no address or telephone number, no means of con-tacting him other than the newspaper, and received their orders from postboxes all over London: The ones I saw were all from the same typewriter, which will soon be lying on the bottom of the Thames. The Yard may have luck with tracing the money, but something tells me they won’t. However, sooner or later he’ll put his head up again, and perhaps we’ll see him then. Russell? Come, Russell, don’t fall off under the wheels, I beg you. Hand me those reins and go to sleep. No, go on. I’ve been driving horses since before you were born. Get on wi’ya, Mary.” So I got on.
I woke up many hours later in stillness and heard the little cara-van’s back door open. Boots thumped gently onto the wooden floor-boards, outer clothing rustled, and Holmes climbed into his bunk. I turned over and went back to sleep.
It was a blessing that we were saddled with the caravan and horse and were forced to make our way slowly to Cardiff. If we had gone off by car and plunged immediately into official business and then whisked ourselves back home by train, it would have left me, and perhaps even Holmes, gasping and stunned. As it was, two long days of plodding travel forced us to put the case into its proper place. We rode and walked, Holmes alternated between pipe and gentle, lyrical violin pieces. We talked, but not of the case, or of what I had taken upon myself to do.
Leaving the horse and caravan with Andrewes, we piled our as-sorted bags into a cab and were driven to the best hotel that the driver thought might accept us. It did. The baths were sheer sybaritic plea-sure, deep and hot, and four rinses later I was again blonde, with a def-inite tan colour remaining on my skin. I stood in front of the mirror, tying my necktie, when two taps came at the door.
“Russell?”
“Come in, Holmes, I’m nearly ready.”
He let himself in, and I saw that he too remained slightly brown, though the grey had reappeared around his ears. He sat down to wait as I pinned up my still-damp hair, and it occurred to me that he was probably the only person I knew who could simply sit nearby and watch me without one or the other of us needing to make conversa-tion. I finished and picked up my room key.
“Shall we go?”
The Simpsons, as might have been expected, were grateful and fragile. Mrs. Simpson kept touching her daughter gently as if to reas-sure herself of the child’s presence. Mr. Simpson looked rested and apologised for having to rush about—his words—instead of talking, as he was needed urgently in London. In the midst of it sat Jessica. She and I greeted each other solemnly. I noticed the faint shadow of a fad-ing bruise on her cheekbone that I hadn’t seen in the dark. I asked after her doll, and she replied seriously that she was quite well, thank you, and would I like to see her hotel room? I excused myself and fol-lowed Jessica down the hallway. (The Simpsons’ suite and hotel were considerably