The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [74]
“You can’t stay in Town, and you mustn’t go to Mr Mycroft’s funeral,” he blurted out. His voice was pure raw Cockney, which happened only when he was upset.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Billy,” I said calmly.
“I mean it,” he insisted, stepping forward in what I decided was an effort to intimidate me into obeying him—which would have been difficult even if he was not three inches shorter than I. Goodman put his hands into his pockets, looking more interested than alarmed.
“Billy, what is going on? Why did you tell me to run? And why have all the criminals in Southwark gone to ground?”
“You noticed.”
“It was hard to miss. Are they all under arrest?”
“No, just as you say, gone to ground. I told ’em to hike it.”
“But why?”
“There’s something big up. I don’t know what it is, but there’s coppers in the rafters, sniffing under the dustbins, listening in at the windows.”
“You’re sure they’re police?”
“Nah, that lot’re not police, but they’re not honest criminals either. They’re hard men, that’s what they are, and they’re looking for you and Mr ’Olmes.”
“Is that why you had Randall tell me to run? Because someone was listening at your windows?”
“I didn’t want to be the one to lead you to ’em. I’ve been sleeping away from home for three days now because I was afraid they’d follow me to you. I wouldn’t risk that.”
“You’re a good friend, Billy,” I said, which was both the unvarnished truth and an attempt to calm him down. “But tell me about these men. If they’re not police, who are they?”
“They’re working with the police, but they’re sure as sin not local boys, or even the Yard.”
“So, it’s some kind of a criminal gang moving into new territory?”
“No,” he said in an agony of impatience. “They’re not a gang—or they are, but not criminals.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A criminal gang wouldn’t pick me up for questioning and then let me go. But Scotland Yard wouldn’t threaten my family if I didn’t cooperate. Randy’s the only one left at home, and that’s because he’s decided it’s time to play the man.”
I had to agree, this sounded very wrong. “I see what you mean. When did this start?”
“Thursday.”
“The day after Mycroft was …” It was hard to say the word. Billy’s face went even darker.
“I heard about that first thing in the morning, and they were at my door an hour later. They let me go at tea-time and I bundled my family off to—” He glanced at Goodman for the first time, suddenly aware of a new hazard.
“Sorry,” I said, and made the introductions. The two men shook hands, Billy eyeing the owl feather with curiosity. “Well, Billy, I suggest you collect your son and join your family until we get this sorted. Holmes should—”
He cut me off. “I’ve sent the family away, but that doesn’t mean I’m hiding. This is my town, they can’t pull me in and beat me up and expect to get away with it. When I’m finished for Mr Holmes I’ll go home and sit tight.”
Goodman stirred, putting together the bruises on Billy’s face with the situation as a whole.
I smiled at the irate Cockney. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me to hear that.”
“And I don’t think Mr Holmes knows about it—any rate, he didn’t on Tuesday. I told him that Mr Mycroft hadn’t been seen of late, but that was all I knew.” The H had returned to Holmes.
“You’ve talked to Holmes?”
“Down the telephone,” he said. “And there’s another thing. He was phoning from Amsterdam—”
“Amsterdam?”
“That’s what he said. And I know I’m probably not up on this modern machinery,” Billy admitted, “but the timing’s dead fishy. Mean to say, he rings me Tuesday, there’s hard men in the neighbourhood Wednesday, Mr Mycroft dies late Wednesday, and I’m picked up and questioned Thursday.”
“So you talked with him before Mycroft …”
“Right. And afterwards he could’ve told anyone that he’d talked to me. Or, Southwark could have nothing to do with Mr Mycroft. But like I say, it’s just … fishy.”
“Well, I expect to see Holmes soon. Certainly by tomorrow. But, why did he ring you?”
“To ask me to look into