The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [93]
Amazing. Nothing fit me, nothing matched, and my feet hurt al-ready, yet I would easily pass for a Young Thing out for a day in Town. I darkened the rims of my spectacles with some odd brown fingernail enamel and decided reluctantly that I should have to leave them off for much of the day, as any other vain young myopic would do. I gath-ered up Watson’s clothes, turned off the lights, took a deep breath, and, with my hand inside my bag, opened the door.
No bombs went off, no bullets flew, no rough hands grabbed at me. I closed the door behind me and went off to spend the money I had borrowed so shamelessly from the Holmes brothers.
Another Problem: The Mutilated Four-Wheeler
Ever and anon, from a sudden wave that shall be more transparent than others, there leaps forth a fact that in an instant confounds all we imagined we knew.
y first task was to make a move towards reuniting Wat-son with his trousers, but as I made my way back through the tearoom and the store’s many levels, it occurred to me that Holmes’ bolt-hole was ideally situated, that I could easily spend the day with-out having to set foot on the street, for this was one of the two stores in London (I shall not mention which, as the Storage Room may still be in use.) that touted itself as catering for needs from cradle to grave. It could certainly afford me protection, nourishment, and entertain-ment for a single day.
With that happy thought I deposited the bundle of Watson’s sal-vaged clothing into his black bag and left it checked, mailed the receipt to Mycroft at his club, and set off on the unfamiliar but sur-prisingly agreeable task of spending money. Late that afternoon, my Storage Room reach-me-downs long since vanished into the rubbish bin, my hair sculpted, my fingernails buffed and gleaming beyond all recognition, my legs encased in sheer silk stockings that were actually long enough, and my feet in heeled shoes that didn’t pinch, I decided that, all things considered, the occasional dose of pampering could be great fun.
I took a light and leisurely tea, assembled my multitude of parcels (which they offered to deliver, and I refused), and was escorted to the door. Here I ran into a problem. Holmes had insisted that I follow the same routine as the morning’s, except to take the fourth cab, but here stood the uniformed doorman, and the first cab. I put on my specta-cles, gave him a huge tip, and shook my head.
Fifteen minutes later the third cab arrived. It was getting very dark, and at that hour few cabs were free. This one looked enticingly warm, and my new evening clothes were not. Surely Holmes had not meant to be inflexible, had he? I looked through the door at the bored driver, stepped back, and waved him on. He looked highly irritated, which matched my mood precisely. I peered down the street in wan hope, studiously ignoring the doorman, when up before me pulled a very old and very battered cab drawn by one very old and battered horse.
“Cab, Miss?” said the voice from the moving anachronism.
I cursed Holmes under my breath. It looked very cold in there compared to the others, but it was a cab, or it had been thirty years be-fore: a London growler. I told the driver where I wanted to go, saw my purchases piled inside, and got in. The doorman looked after me as if I were stark raving mad. Which I was.
I did not know London at all well then, though I had studied the maps a bit, so it took me a while to realise that we were going in the wrong direction. Not completely wrong, just very roundabout. My first thought was that the driver was pulling a swindle in order to charge me more for the ride. I had opened my mouth to call out when I froze with a terrible thought. Perhaps I had been followed. Perhaps this driver was an ally of the blind pencil seller. First I was frightened, but then I was furious. I fought the remnants of a window down and craned my neck out to