The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [129]
Goodman snorted again, this time a sound of derision. “That family? Were he sane, a threat to a mere servant would not bend a son of the family. But mad? One cannot manipulate a madman. No sensible man would try.”
With that, he turned over on the divan and went back to sleep.
We three looked at each other, and admitted the wisdom of the fool’s pronouncement.
“You were saying, Mycroft?” Holmes asked.
“I was saying, with your assistance, I believe we might revive the trap I had been constructing before Mr Brothers stumbled into our lives. There may be fewer of us than I had anticipated. However, I believe we can adapt it to our reduced numbers.”
The conversation that followed led us nearly to dawn, and the plan Mycroft laid and Holmes and I amended was a good one: simple, solid, and requiring little luck to succeed. Our opponent might not realise yet that Mycroft was alive, but he must be aware that Gunderson was missing. It was unfortunate that Mycroft had lacked the personal stamina, or the reliable manpower, to set watch over the warehouse. Nonetheless, the combination of blood on the floor, bullets in the walls, and a broken sky-light would surely put the most phlegmatic of villains in a state of panic.
Mycroft need only walk in the door of his Whitehall office to send any rats scurrying for their holes. With me at the building’s telephone board and Holmes at its exit, one or the other would lead us to their source.
Before the sun rose behind the curtains that Monday morning, our plans were laid.
Mycroft stood, moving like an old man. Holmes and I were little better. I looked at the mantelpiece clock: nearly six.
“You will leave soon?” I asked Mycroft.
Holmes was frowning at his brother’s stiffness and spoke first. “The afternoon will suffice.”
“Really?” I dreaded to hear what other activity he had in mind. “So what now?”
“A few hours of sleep might be for the best.”
“Sleep, Holmes?” I exclaimed. “Do we do that?”
“As best we might, given the age of Mrs Melas’ beds.”
When we began to stir, Goodman woke and stretched full-length on the striped divan, looking remarkably like Estelle. Then he jumped to his feet.
“Unless you need me to guard the door or repel boarders, I’ll be gone for a bit. Shall I hang the picture back over the hole downstairs, on the chance someone wanders in?”
Holmes started to object, but I was more accustomed to Goodman’s habit of popping in and out of view, and told my long-time partner, “He knows the back entrance, he knows to take care that no one sees him use the hidden doors, he’ll be careful.”
“And I’ll bring a pint of milk,” Goodman said.
“But not an entire arm-load of groceries,” I ordered. “Nothing you can’t slip unseen into your pockets. We don’t want you to look like a delivery boy.”
He put on his straw hat and marched with jaunty steps to the kitchen. I had a sudden pang of doubt—we could be trapped here—but stifled it, and went to find a bed. It wanted airing, but a slight mustiness would not keep me from sleep.
I felt I had scarcely closed my eyes when a presence woke me. I forced an eye open, and saw green; blinked, and the green became an eye; pulled back my head, and Goodman came into view, his face inches from mine.
I sat sharply upright, glanced over, and found Holmes, incredibly, still asleep—who would have thought Goodman could enter this place without waking either of the brothers? When I turned back to my human alarum clock, my vision was obscured by an object that, when I had pushed it away sufficient to focus, proved to be a folded newspaper.
His other hand came around the side of the page, one finger pointing at the print. “Is this for you?”
I took the paper, and read:
THE BEEKEEPER wished in trade for the object of his affection central Bensbridge, alone, 2:30 am, reply acceptance in evening standard.
Chapter 64
Robert Goodman sat on the rooftop, watching London rush to and fro between his dangling toes. The view was omniscient—in the theatre of the streets, his seat was in the gods.