The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [80]
The snow started up again late in the afternoon, but not severely enough to stop the flow of vehicles. It was half past seven when we numbly stepped from a public omnibus onto Pall Mall, a hundred yards from the doors of the Diogenes Club, of which Mycroft Holmes was a founder and prime member.
Holmes fished out a pencil stub and a grubby, twice-used envelope from a pocket. By the light of the lamp overhead the ends of his fin-gers looked blue where they stuck out from his fingerless gloves, and he wrote slowly and awkwardly. His thin lips appeared purple in his pale face, despite the shawl pulled up tight to hide his day’s stubble.
“Take this to the front of the Club. They won’t let you in, I shouldn’t think, but they will take this to Mycroft if you tell them it’s from his cousin. Have you a half crown if they’re hesitant? Good. I will stay here. And, Russell, perhaps you should put your glasses on.”
I pushed myself into a heavy trot, the boots which had kept me so dry during the day now seeming to weigh approximately two stone each. The man at the entrance to the Club was indeed reticent about taking my disreputable-looking message to a member, but I persisted and within a minute found myself being escorted into the warm air in-side. My glasses promptly fogged up, and when a voice rumbled from before me, “I am Mycroft Holmes. Where is my brother?” I could only thrust out a hand in the general direction of the speaker. It was seized and shaken firmly by what felt like a pillow of warm, raw bread dough. I peered over my glasses at his enormous figure.
“He waits outside, sir. If it is convenient, he needs—we need—a roof for the night and a hot meal. Also,” I added in a low voice, “a doctor might be of some use.”
“Yes, I knew he was injured. Mrs. Hudson telephoned me with a very graphic account, and would have turned me out to bring Dr. Wat-son to Sussex had I not convinced her that our presence would not be a kindness, and that the doctors in Sussex were quite adequate. In the end she agreed not to inform the good doctor until Sherlock seemed strong enough for visitors. I admit I was surprised to hear from my friends at Scotland Yard that he had disappeared from the hospital. Are the wounds so light, then?”
“Not light. I’m certain they are very painful, but his life is not in danger, if he avoids infection, that is. He needs rest, food, and quiet.”
“And he stands in the cold.” He raised his voice and called for his coat, and we plunged back into the snowy street outside. My specta-cles cleared quickly, and I looked down towards the next streetlamp.
“I left him there,” I said, and pointed.
The man next to me was every bit as large as his grip had indicated but surprisingly quick on his feet, and he was first to reach the rumpled figure in dark blue and help it rise from an upturned crate.
“Good evening, Mycroft,” said Holmes. “I apologise for intruding on your quiet reading with my little problem, but unfortunately it ap-pears that someone is attempting to exterminate Miss Russell and my-self. I thought you might be willing to be of assistance.”
“Sherlock, you’re a fool not to have called me in earlier. I could have saved you what was obviously a strenuous day’s work. And you know that I am always interested in these cases of yours—apart from those requiring excessively physical activity, of course. Come, let us cross over to my rooms.”
My glasses rendered me blind again as we entered the building