The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [42]
This message was profusely illustrated with woe and took six long minutes to deliver. The queue behind me was now to the door. I was sorely tempted to clamber over the counter and tap out the message myself, but knew that this would not help my aim of invisibility. Besides which, the sharp sniff coming from her young assistant at the mention of ague suggested that the cause might be something other than germs.
So I waited until the postmistress had dithered to an end of her story, then batted my eyes at her and told her that I truly needed to send a telegram, now please, and it would be such a pity if I found I could not, because I should then have to speak to my uncle in the telegraphs office down in London and let him know that the village wanted attention.
She put up her window and fetched her husband.
I gave them both a sweet smile and let myself into the crowded back of the shop.
The man moved in a cloud of gin, freshly swigged in an (unsuccessful) attempt to steady his hands. I permitted him to run the first part of the message, but in a short time he found himself eased to one side while this chipper female, twittering all the while about how her uncle had been amused to teach her Morse when she was a tiny thing, finished the dots and dashes.
This is the telegram I had decided to send, addressed to Mycroft:
ALL WELL COMING HOME SOON BUT ORKNEY BROTHERS REQUIRE URGENT ATTENTION STOP MESSAGES IN THE USUAL WAY WILL REACH ME STOP RUSSELL
It was a risk, but almost as much as the message about Brothers, I wanted to reassure him (and possibly, through him, Holmes) that we were safe. Besides, it gave nothing away other than its place of origin, and with any luck, we would be far away by the time Scotland Yard came looking.
I thanked the gentleman (who was now looking quite ill indeed) and went to pay his good wife. As I opened my purse, motion out of the corner of my eye had me looking out of the window, at Robert Goodman.
The shopkeeper noticed the direction of my gaze and hastened to reassure her dangerous customer with the powerful London relations. “Don’t worry about him, dearie, that’s just the local loonie. Perfectly harmless.”
One green eye winked at me through the glass. “You’re certain?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Mad as a rabbit, that one, but he pays his bills.”
I did the same, and left, but all I saw of Goodman was the brush of his coat as he went into the next shop.
Well, with Robert Goodman in the village, the residents would take no notice of me.
We met again where we had parted. Over his shoulder was slung another load of foodstuffs and fancies with which to ply his guests. I had The Times—which again had failed to yield a message from Holmes, or even Mycroft—and the post-cards and tin of sweets, bought for disguise.
Also, two small Beatrix Potter picture-books.
Chapter 23
By Tuesday, Sherlock Holmes was beginning to feel that a nice cosy gaol might be preferable to his current situation.
On Sunday afternoon, he’d been glad just to reach Holland, having spent the day on deck as Gordon’s crew, a sustained physical effort that made him all too aware of his age. He’d had little conversation with Dr Henning, once the decision was made to take refuge with the man she described as a second cousin, twice-removed. He’d had even less with Damian, who slept.
Their goal was a small fishing village roughly a third of the way from Amsterdam to the Hook of Holland. The place appeared, he had to admit, eminently suited as a hideaway—no one in his right mind would look for Sherlock Holmes there. Rumour of their presence might take months to reach England.
As they neared the coast-line, the doctor had come on deck to direct Gordon. She also informed Holmes that Damian was running a fever.
“Not much of one, yet, but it