The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [99]
“Boots again, the small boots, square heels, not new. A bicycle rider I see. Lestrade, have you had the Men’s blocked off, and the street outside? Good. She went here, here she stood. Hah! Another blonde hair; yes, too long for a man in this day, I think, and quite straight. Mark these envelopes please, Russell. Mud on her heels, traces in the sink, yes, and the tap. But no fingerprints on the mud. Gloves?” Holmes looked up absently at his reflection in the mirror, whistling softly through his teeth. “Why should she have mud on her gloves, and wash them? A perplexing question. Another light over here, Lestrade, and have the photographer take another set of the cab, would you, after MacReedy has finished? Yes, as I thought, right-handed. Washed, shook the water from her hands, or rather her gloves, and to the door. Off the footprints, man! Heaven help us. To the street, then ...no! Not to the street, back on the path, here it is, and here.” He straightened up, winced, frowned vacantly up the bare branches overhead while we watched in silence. “But that makes no sense, unless—Lestrade, I shall need your laboratory to-night, and I want this entire park cordoned off—nobody, nobody at all to set foot here until I’ve seen it by daylight. Will it rain tonight, Russell?”
“I don’t know London, but it does not feel like rain. It’s certainly too warm to snow.”
“No, I think we may risk it. Bring those envelopes, Russell. We have much to do before morning.”
Truth to tell it was Holmes who had much to do, as there was but one microscope and he refused to say what he was looking for. I la-belled a few slides, my eyes heavy despite strong coffee, and the next thing I knew it was morning, Holmes was standing at the window tap-ping his pipe on his teeth, and I was nearly crippled from being asleep with my head on the desk for several hours. My spine cracked loudly as I sat back in the chair, and Holmes turned.
“Ah, Russell,” he said lightly, “do you always make such a habit of sleeping in chairs? I doubt your aunt would approve. Mrs. Hudson def-initely would not.”
I rubbed my eyes and glared at his ever-tidy person bitterly. “I take it that your revolting good humour means that something from last night’s exercise has pleased you?”
“On the contrary, my dear Russell, it has displeased me consider-ably. Vague suspicions flit about my mind, and not one of them pleases me.” His manner had grown distant and hard as he gazed unseeingly at the slides sprawled out on the workbench. He looked back at me with his steely eyes, then relaxed into a smile. “I shall tell you about it on our way to the park.”
“Oh, Holmes, be reasonable. You may be presentable, if a bit idio-syncratic in topper and tails, but how can I go out like this?” He took in my rumpled gown, my town stockings and impractical shoes, and nodded. “I’ll ask if there’s a matron who can help us.” Before he could move, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
A tense young PC with an untamed cowlick stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade asked me to tell you that there’s a parcel for the young lady at the front desk, but—”
Holmes exploded out of the room, giving lie to any rumours of slowness, pain, or rheumatism. I could hear his voice shouting “Don’t touch that parcel, don’t touch it, get a bomb disposal man first, don’t touch it, did you catch the person who brought it, Lestrade ...”
His voice faded as I followed him down the hall to the stairs, the young policeman jabbering away at my side.
“I was going to say, but he left, the package is with the bomb squad now, and Inspector Lestrade would like Mr. Holmes present at the questioning of the young man who brought it in. He didn’t give me a chance to finish, sir.” This last to Lestrade, who had intercepted Holmes in his precipitous flight. We could see the men at work