The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [89]
His brother heaved his weight from the relieved chair and padded off. Holmes squinted at me.
“Russell, if I have learnt nothing by seven o’clock, there will be lit-tle point in persisting, and it is an Italian night at Covent Garden. Shall we agree to meet there, at seven-forty-five? After that, depend-ing on what the day’s results are, we can decide to come back here or to go home for our Christmas preparations.” This last I took as a sym-bol for carefree frivolity rather than any actual possibility. The previ-ous year we had both spent Christmas Day dissecting a poisoned ram. “You will, I trust, have a greater than normal caution during the day, stay in crowds, double back occasionally, that sort of thing? And you will keep your revolver close to hand?” I reassured him that I would do my best to make our rendezvous that evening, and he gave me specific instructions both for shedding the disguise in which I would make my escape, and for getting to Covent Garden.
Mycroft came in carrying a bulky carpetbag, which he set down in front of Holmes, and looking vaguely worried.
“You will take luncheon before you go, please, Sherlock. Do not drag Miss Russell out into the cold again without allowing her to eat first, I beg you.”
It was barely two hours since the breakfast things had been cleared away, but Holmes answered his brother soothingly.
“But of course. The preparations alone will take an hour. Order some lunch, while I make a start.”
“But first,” I said, “the telephone.” I made Holmes speak with Mrs. Hudson. It was a long conversation, cut off once by the exchange and threatened twice more, but in the end she agreed to stay where she was for a few days, and not approach the cottage or the hospital. My own conversation with Veronica Beaconsfield was briefer and even less amicable; lies to friends are usually less successful than lies to strangers or villains, and I did not think she believed in my sudden emergency. I returned saddened to the meal that arrived while Holmes was making his disguise.
Sherlock Holmes had invented his profession, and it fit him like a glove. We watched in admiration that verged on awe as his love of challenge, his flair for the dramatic, his precise attention to detail, and his vulpine intelligence were called into play and transformed his thin face by putty and paint into that of his brother. It would not stand up to close supervision, but from a few yards the likeness was superb. He removed the putty pads to speak, and I hurriedly swallowed the last of my lunch.
“Fortunately, if uselessly, Watson has sacrificed his moustache for his own masquerade, or we should have to glue some hair under your nose, Russell. Mycroft, would you kindly go and lift the trousers and coat worn by our friend from his bed, and also find us some suitable padding and a large quantity of sticking plaster?” Under his hands I felt the putty fill out my cheeks, hair was added to my eyebrows, lines and creases painted on. He eyed me critically. “Don’t move your face too much. Now, I’ll tear up some of these blankets while you tape yourself to reduce your height. Take off your shirt, Russell,” he said ab-sently, and so matter-of-fact was his command that I had my hand on my shirt-collar when Mycroft cleared his throat gently behind us.
“Is that really necessary, Sherlock? Perhaps the sticking plaster could be put on over her clothing?”
“What?” Holmes looked up from his bundles and scraps and re-alised what had just happened. “Oh, yes, I suppose so.” He looked slightly flustered. “Come here, then.”
Layers of padding gave me Watson’s outline; his hat, scarf, and gloves left only my made-up face exposed; and his spectacles were close enough to mine in appearance to allow me to retain my own, a great blessing.
Holmes added similar padding to himself, and we stood resembling two obese Egyptian mummies risen from our