The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [97]
“Then let us go and see what is to be learnt from this old horse cab. I greatly desire news of this person who plagues us and continually at-tacks my friends. I hope that the case will at last provide us with a thread to grasp.”
The cab stood cordoned off in a circle of flares, its shabby exterior even more obvious now than it had been by the streetlamps.
“This is where we found your man,” Lestrade said, pointing. “We tried to keep off the ground right there, but we had to get him up and out of there. He was lying on his side, curled up on that old suit with a rug tucked around him.”
“What?” The suit was Holmes’ cabbie outfit; the rug was from the cab.
“Yes, wrapped up and snoozin’ like a baby he was.”
Holmes handed his hat, coat, and stick to Lestrade and took a small, powerful magnifying lens out of his pocket. Down on the ground he looked for all the world like some great lanky hound, cast-ing about for a scent. Finally he gave a low exclamation and produced a small envelope from another pocket. Scraping gently at various tiny smudges on the paving stones, he sat back on his haunches with an air of triumph, careless of the beating his back had taken.
“What do you make of this, Russell?” he asked, sketching a vague circle.
I walked over to peer at the marks. “Two pairs of feet? One has been in the mud today, the other—is that oil?”
“Yes, Russell, but there will be a third somewhere. At the door to the cab? No? Well, perhaps inside.” And so saying, he opened the door. “Lestrade, your men will go over the whole cab for fingerprints, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve sent for an expert; he should be here before too long. New man, but seems good. MacReedy, his name is.”
“Oh yes, Ronald MacReedy. Interesting article of his, comparing whorls with the personality traits of habitual criminals, didn’t you think?”
“I, er, didn’t happen to see it, Mr. Holmes.”
“Pity. Still, never too late. Russell, I take it these were all your things?”
I looked in past his shoulder at the wreckage. All that was left of my lovely and exorbitantly expensive clothes were the dress and cloak I was wearing and numerous scraps of coloured fabric. Small shreds of blue wool, green silk, and white linen littered the inside of the cab, al-ternating with torn bits of the boxes, twine, and paper they had been in. I picked up a short bit of string for something to fiddle with. The tufted leather seat had been deeply and methodically slashed from one end to another, with the exception of approximately a foot on one end of the front seat cushion. Horsehair stuffing had sifted over everything.
Holmes got to work with his glass by the light Lestrade held for him. Envelopes were filled, notes made, questions asked. The finger-print man arrived and set to. A brazier had appeared from somewhere, and the uniformed police were standing around it, warming their hands. The night was very late, and the cold, though not bitter, was penetrating. Impatient grumbles and glances were beginning to drift our way. There was no room for me in the cab, so I left and went to stand by the fire with the police constables.
I smiled up at the big one next to me. “I wanted to tell you how glad I am of your presence here, all of you. Someone seems to bear Mr. Holmes considerable ill will, and he is—well, his body is not quite so fast as it once was. I feel considerably better with some of the force’s best on hand. Particularly you, Mr.—?” I leaned toward the older con-stable, a question on my face.
“Fowler, Miss. Tom Fowler.”
“Mr. Fowler, particularly with you. Mr. Holmes found your fast ac-tion most impressive.” I smiled sweetly around the fire. “Thank you, all of you, for your vigilance and attention to duty.”
I went back to the cab then, and though there were numerous glances, they were directed into the dark night, and there were no more grumbles. When Lestrade was called away to attend to some matter, I held the lamp for Holmes.
“So you think I am slowing down, do you?” he said, amused.
“Your mind,