The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [125]
“Mr Holmes!” said a welcome voice that wavered upwards to a squeak.
“Mr Sosa,” Mycroft said in astonishment. “An unexpected pleasure.”
“Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you. I hope you are well?”
Mycroft’s lips quirked. “Much the better for seeing you, Blondel.”
“Er, quite. I am glad,” the secretary repeated, fervent with relief. “Shall I, that is, if you wish, I could go and fetch a locksmith?”
“Either that or a heavy sledge. The door is solid.”
“I do have … that is, I wasn’t certain if you … I have a ladder.”
“A ladder?” Mycroft had judged his prison on the top of a sizeable building: Summoning a ladder the height of the room would be a considerable project.
“Not a ladder as such, it’s rope. A rope-ladder. If you feel up to such a thing.”
“Is there sufficient anchor up there? I’d not care to get nearly to the top and have it come loose.”
“Oh no, no no, that wouldn’t do at all. Yes, there is a metal pipe nearby, and I have a rope as well. To fasten around the pipe, that is, and tie to the ladder.”
“Mr Sosa, I don’t know that I’ve ever had opportunity to enquire, but—your knowledge of knots. How comprehensive is it?”
“Quite sufficient, I assure you, sir,” he answered earnestly. “As a boy, I taught myself a full two dozen styles and their chief purposes. I propose a sheet bend rather than a reef knot. And to fasten it to the pipe, a double half-hitch should be quite sufficient. No, sir; my knots will hold.”
“Very well, let us make haste.”
“If you would just—”
“Stand back—I know. The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth down as the gentle glass from heaven. Bash away, Mr Sosa.”
Sosa bashed, until the frame was cleared of glass. He then disappeared, for a disarmingly long period, while Mycroft stood below, his hands working hard against each other.
A young eternity later, an object little smaller than the window leapt through the hole and plunged downwards. Mycroft stumbled back, seeing it as Sosa being thrown inside by the returned gaoler—but then the large darkness caught and rapidly unfurled, dancing its way all the way down to the floor: the ladder.
Mycroft rested his hand against his pounding heart for a moment. The torch-light hit him and he heard his name. He dropped his hand and picked his way over the glass to the ladder, tugging it with little conviction. It seemed sturdy.
He gave a last glance to his prison, and the formula scratched into the wall, then committed his stockinged foot to the first rung.
Five rungs up, the ladder dipped alarmingly, and he clung to the insecure rope as if it would do an iota of good. He waited, feeling motion on the line. Then came two sharp tremors, as if its tautness was being slapped.
“Mr Sosa, may I take it that the two raps were to indicate the rope is secure?”
Two tremors came down again; reluctantly, Mycroft inched up another rung, then another.
At the top, he saw the problem: The knots had held admirably; the pipe had been less secure. He gave up on gentle motions and threw himself over the frame onto the roof.
Sosa, red-faced and trembling from the effort of keeping the metal pipe from bending catastrophically, sank to the roof and put his head in his hands.
After a minute, not far from open tears, the secretary staggered to his feet and came over to pat his employer on the shoulder, back, and arm. Mycroft began to feel like a prize dog, and feared that in another minute, the man would embrace him.
“Remind me to increase your salary,” he said.
This distracted Sosa. “Sir, I did not do this for the salary,” he protested.
Mycroft laughed. He laughed for quite a while, finding it oddly difficult to regain control of his face, but eventually he forced levity to arm’s length and stood up.
“My afternoon meal was heavily drugged, with what appeared to be Veronal.”
“Did you eat it?” Sosa asked in alarm.
“Of course not. But my captor will assume