The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [74]
I dutifully took a large mouthful and swallowed. It made me cough but calmed my shudders, and by the time I finished it I was aware of a warm glow spreading out to my very fingertips.
“I suppose you know that alcohol is not the optimum treatment for hypothermia?” I accused him, somewhat truculently. I was really most annoyed at the whole charade, and the melodramatic touch of the bomb was tiresome.
“Had you been in danger of that I would not have given you brandy. However, I can see that it has made you feel better, so finish combing out your hair and then sit in a comfortable chair. We have a long conversation ahead of us. Ah, how forgetful I am in my old age.” He went over to the old lady’s shopping basket and drew out a parcel that I immediately recognised as Mrs. Hudson’s handiwork. My atti-tude lightened immediately.
“What a life-giving surprise. Bless Mrs. Hudson. However, I cannot eat sitting across from a dirty old woman with an insect crawling up her chin. And if you leave fleas in my rooms, I shan’t forgive you easily.”
“It’s clean dirt,” he assured me and peeled off the gruesome mole. He stood up and removed the skirt and loose overshirt, moving stiffly, and sat down again as Sherlock Holmes, more or less.
“My appetite thanks you.”
I finished towelling my wet hair and reached greedily for one of Mrs. Hudson’s inimitable meat pies. I did keep bread and cheese for in-formal meals, but even two days old, as this one seemed to be, it was much superior even to the Stilton that lay festering nobly in my stock-ing drawer.
I emerged from the feast some time later to find Holmes watching me with a curious expression on his face, which disappeared instantly, replaced by his customary slightly superior gaze.
“I was hungry,” I declared unnecessarily, somewhat defensive. “I had a murderous tutorial, for which I skipped lunch, and then worked in the Bodleian all afternoon. I don’t remember if I had breakfast. I may have done.”
“What so engrossed you this time?”
“Actually, I was doing some work that might interest you. My maths tutor and I were working with some problems in theory, involv-ing base eight, when we came across some mathematical exercises de-veloped by an old acquaintance of yours.”
“I assume you speak of Professor Moriarty?” His voice was as cold as the ivy outside my window, but I refused to be subdued.
“Exactly. I spent the day hunting down some articles he published. I was interested in the mind and the personality as well as the mathematics.”
“What impression did you have of the man?”
“ ‘The subtlest of all the beasts in the garden’ comes to mind. His cold-blooded, ruthless use of logic and language struck me as somehow reptilian, although that may be unkind to snakes. I believe that had I not known the identity of the writer, the words alone would have suc-ceeded in raising my hackles.”
“Being a good mammal yourself apparently, rather than a cold-blooded thinking machine such as your teacher is known to be,” he said drily.
“Ah,” I said, speaking lightly with the freedom of the brandy’s glow, “but I have never called you cold-blooded, now have I, my dear Holmes?”
He sat very still for a moment and then cleared his throat. “No, you have not. Have you finished with Mrs. Hudson’s picnic?”
“Yes, thank you.” I allowed him to pack away the remnants. His movements seemed terribly stiff, but as he hated to have his ailments noted, I said nothing. He had probably taken a chill in his old woman’s clothes, and his rheumatism was acting up. “If you would just put it over there, I will enjoy it greatly for lunch tomorrow.”
“No, I am sorry, but I shall have to put it back in my shopping bas-ket. We may need it tomorrow.”
“Holmes, I don’t much like the sound of that. I have an engagement for tomorrow. I am going to Berkshire. I have already put it off for three days, and I have no intention of further delaying it because of some demand of yours.”
“You have no choice, Russell. We must