The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [82]
The gauze that met my eyes was stained brown, and underneath it the skin was a mass of purple bruises and scabs. However, all but the worst of the wounds were intact, and only one, puckered by several su-tures, was angry and red.
“I think there may be some bit of débris left in this one,” I said. I looked over at Mycroft, who had perched fastidiously in a corner dur-ing the work. “Can you bring me something for a hot poultice?”
For the next half hour I held heated poultices to Holmes’ side as he and Mycroft reviewed the known facts of the two attempts. Holmes had me insert my part of the story as he lit a pipe with unsteady hands.
“And the bomb?” asked Mycroft at the end of it.
“In Russell’s haversack.”
Mycroft retrieved it and sat with it on the table in front of him, lifting up wires and gently prodding connexions. “I will have a friend look at this tomorrow, but it does look similar to the one you took from the Western Street bank attempt some years ago.”
“And yet, you know, I had placed that man, Dickson his name was, on the bottom of the list of possibilities. In the five years since he was released, Inspector Lestrade informed me, he was married, had two children, made a success of himself at his father-in-law’s music shop, and worships his family. An unlikely candidate.”
As Holmes talked an unpleasant suspicion began to unfurl itself in my mind. When his voice stopped I blurted it out.
“Holmes, you said that Mrs. Hudson was out of the way, but do you think we should ask Watson to move into an hotel for two or three days, or go visit a relative, until we know what’s going on?”
The thin back went rigid beneath my hands, and he jerked, cursed, and turned more slowly to me, aghast. “My God, Russell, how could I—Mycroft, you’re on the telephone. You talk to him, Russell. Do not let him know where you are, or that I am with you. You know his number? Good. Oh, if anything has happened to him through my ut-ter and absolute, boneheaded stupidity...”
I held the telephone to my ear and waited to be connected. Wat-son usually retired early, and it was after eleven o’clock. Holmes gnawed on his thumb as he waited, watching my face. Finally the con-nexion was made and the sleepy voice came up on the line.
“Hmmmph?”
“Watson, dear Uncle John, is that you? Mary here, I must—no, I am fine. Listen Uncle, I—no, Holmes is well, or was well, when I spoke with him last. Listen to me, Uncle John, you must listen to me. Are you listening? Good, yes, I am sorry that it is so late, I know I woke you, but you must leave your house, tonight, as soon as possible. Yes, I know it is late, but surely there is an hotel that would take you in, even at this hour? The what? Yes, good. Now you must take some things and go now. What? No, I have no time for explanations, but there have been two bombs set, one for Holmes and one for me, and— yes. No. No, mine did not go off, and Holmes had only minor injuries, but Uncle John, you may be in great danger and must leave your house at once. Now. Yes, Mrs. Hudson is safe and sound. No, Holmes is not with me, I don’t know exactly where he is.” I turned my back carefully so I could not see Holmes, and thus preserve an iota of the truth. “He told me to ring you. No, I am not in Oxford, I’m at the house of a friend. Now please go; I will call you at the hotel when I’ve heard something from Holmes. And Uncle, you must not mention this call to anyone, do you understand? No one must think that Holmes is any-where but safely at home. You are not terribly good at dissimulation, I know, but it is terribly important. You know what the newspapers would do if they heard of it. Go to your hotel, stay there, talk to no one, until I call. Please? Ah, thank you. My mind will rest easier. You won’t delay, will you? Good. Good-bye.”
I rang off and looked at Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.
“No need to disturb her at this hour. The