The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [141]
“One of them,” Mycroft answered, and removed his hat.
That would do for a signal, Holmes decided, and walked out from his own darkness, to stand, also hatless, in the pool of light opposite Mycroft.
The shocked silence was broken by Mycroft’s voice.
“I’m afraid your Mr Gunderson won’t be returning to your service. He is lying in a mis-marked grave, not far from here.”
Longer silence, then: “It matters not. Our agreement stands.”
The two brothers exchanged a look from their opposite lamp-posts, and Holmes walked onto the bridge.
I had my field glasses trained on the other end of the bridge, shifting back and forth across the roadway. I could hear faint voices, but not what they were saying. However, I could see Holmes start forward. I reached into my pocket to finger the keys of the motorcycle, parked and waiting in the lee of the hospital.
Holmes had closed half the distance between him and the motorcar when he heard a voice from ahead, and saw motion where the doubled figures stood—saw, too, what had caused it.
The blond figure that had come onto the bridge a minute before the motorcar appeared was gathering something from the pavement and getting to its feet. Goodman—it had to be he—turned towards the centre and began to walk in his quick, easy stride. His hands were free and seemed to be empty, and at each step his right hand reached out to slap the handrail in a cheery gesture. He was singing in a low voice, an old and half-familiar tune, wrapped up in his own world, to all appearances utterly unaware that there were others on the bridge.
Holmes could only keep moving, and hope the man holding Damian had steady nerves.
“Stop, there,” the man called, aimed at the small oncoming figure, who kept singing, kept patting, kept walking.
Holmes was a stone’s throw from the two figures when the man ordered him, too, to stop. He did so, hands outstretched.
He was close enough now to see that both men were masked, Damian entirely, the other man with a head-covering cut away to reveal eyes and mouth. The mask glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming figure, still oblivious and still close to the railing, then came around again to demand of Holmes, “Is this something of yours?”
“Nothing of mine,” Holmes replied, which was the absolute truth.
“Watch him,” he called over his shoulder to the driver, then to Holmes, “If he makes a move for his pockets, I’ll cut your son’s throat.”
Holmes fought to keep his voice reasonable. “Look at the fellow—he’s either drunk or a lunatic, and apt to do anything,” he protested, then added more mildly, “You really ought to climb back in your motor and get away while you can. You’ve seen that my brother is alive and well. If you’re as clever as I think you are, you could be across the Channel before the police can lay their blocks.”
“Oh, I don’t think this is entirely over.”
Holmes did not recognise the voice, which in any case was not only muffled by the mask, but had an artificial sound to it, both in timbre and in accent. If he had long enough to study the sound, he might trace its true origins. He doubted he’d be given the chance.
“Get into the motor, Mr Holmes,” the disguised voice said.
“I need to see the prisoner first.”
“You don’t recognise him without his face? Very well.”
The man dropped the knife just long enough to tug the sack off his prisoner’s head.
* * *
Blinking against the dust, Damian saw his father, standing to his left with the bridge stretching out behind him and the mass of Parliament’s houses rearing up behind: Despite everything, his fingers twitched as if to reach for a sketching pencil. However, with the bite of the blade again at his throat, he did not move further.
Now, out of the side of his other eye, he saw motion: a small man in worn trousers, a pale hat, and shirt-sleeves, marching happily across the bridge as if all alone on a woodland path. The man with the knife at Damian’s throat was watching him, too—Damian would have bet that any nearby eyes would be drawn to him. The figure’s self-absorption was so marked, it