The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [90]
“Now to review our plan—Ah, Watson, you’re just in time.”
“Holmes? Is that you? Where are my trousers? What are you do-ing?” Watson’s puzzled, sleepy voice brought home the absurdity of this entire venture, and I started to giggle. Holmes/Mycroft looked askance, but the real Mycroft joined in, and soon even Holmes was smiling half-willingly.
“My dear Watson, we are making our escape. The enemy followed you here, I’m afraid, or were here already. If they followed you, they may not yet realise that I am at liberty, and assume that only Russell is here. There are too many ‘ifs’ here for my pleasure, but there’s no help-ing that. Yet. I will leave here now, dressed as my brother. Russell will leave in twenty minutes, dressed as you, Watson. I shall turn to the right out the door, as my disguise is the more realistic. Russell will turn left, so they will see her clearly only from a distance. Twenty minutes after she leaves, the two of you shall depart, together, hatless, and stroll slowly down the street to the right. You will both have revolvers, but I believe they will be more interested in catching up with us than they will in committing double murder in broad daylight. You go with Mycroft, Watson, and you will be quite safe. We will meet up when we may.”
He put Mycroft’s hat onto his head, where it slid down to his eye-brows. Imperiously ignoring our smiles, he put multiple layers of stick-ing plaster inside the brim and returned it to his head. Mycroft’s thick scarf went around his neck, leather gloves puffed up his hands. Holmes’ own eyes looked out from Mycroft’s face. “Seven-forty-five, then, Russell, at the theatre. You know what to do. And for God’s sake, be careful.”
“Holmes?” It was Watson, very, very tentative. “Old friend, are you going to be all right? The pain, I mean. Do you want something? I have a bottle of morphia in my bag. . . .” He trailed off uncomfortably.
Holmes looked astonished, then began to laugh uncontrollably, until his make-up threatened to flake off.
“After all the times—” he spluttered. “You offer me morphine. My dear Watson, you do have a talent for reducing things to their proper perspective.” He softened and raised one mocking eyebrow. “You know I never indulge when I’m on a case, Watson.” He slipped the putty forms into his cheeks and was gone.
His passage down the street sent a small, ragged boy away from the blind beggar’s side and out of sight. It was soon my turn. I turned to thank Mycroft and shook his hand, then leaned forward impulsively and kissed his cheek. He turned scarlet. Watson returned my embrace with avuncular affection, and I let myself out into the hallway, black medical bag in hand, the revolver a comforting weight in my pocket.
As the outside door latched behind me I was aware of eyes on me, Watson and Mycroft Holmes watching from the window above, but other, hostile eyes also, from the street behind me at the very least. It took considerable control to hold myself to Watson’s ponderous and limping gait rather than dash off down the street, but I plodded on through the slush, for all the world an old, retired doctor on his way home. Following Holmes’ precise instructions, I hailed a cab, then changed my mind. I walked west, as if towards Green Park, then hailed another. I turned it away too, and a street later finally got war-ily into the third. I gave the driver Watson’s address, in a gruff voice, but when we had rounded Park Lane I redirected him. At the building Holmes had told me to go to, I paid the driver generously, went inside, checked my medical bag (which was empty) with the attendant, climbed to the third floor—watching the stairs below me—and through the tearoom on that floor to a passageway, a further set of stairs, and at last a door marked Storage Room. The key Holmes had given me let me in. I flicked the electrical light switch on, closed the well-fitting door, spat out the mouthful of noxious putty, leant against the door,