The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [116]
“Is there something I can do for you here, Mary?”
“Well, we need to find Brothers' home. He didn't live in that mausoleum of a place behind walls. He and Gunderson used to meet on Chalton Street, between Euston and Phoenix roads.”
He gave me a look.
“I know,” I said. “Three train stations and six lines of the Underground to be had in five minutes' walk. Still—”
“—it has to be done,” he finished my sentence. “I shall put a man on it.”
“He has to be discreet.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, of course you know that. Thank you. Tell Mrs Cowper I'm not sure if I'll make it back in time for dinner.”
When I was ready, Mycroft let me out through the pivoting bookcase in his study, showed me where the candles and matches were, and told me how to work the locking mechanism from the other end. The odour of honey from the bees-wax carried me through a dim, narrow labyrinth; I came out well clear of any of Lestrade's men.
Many long hours later, I extinguished the candles and stepped back through the bookcase into the study. Mycroft spoke when I entered the sitting room, although he sat with his back to me.
“I should think you need a glass of wine. I opened one of Sherlock's bottles, if that appeals.”
“No,” I said, then modified the sharp response to, “I feel I've had a surfeit of honey, between one thing and another.”
“A nice Bordeaux, then,” he said mildly and handed me a full glass. I dropped the parcel I carried onto the table, and looked without enthusiasm at the plate he set in front of me: Mrs Cowper's cooking was not improved by two hours in a warming oven.
“Not just now, thanks,” I told him. “But, in case Lestrade decides to raid your flat looking for me, perhaps you should lock up that envelope. It contains everything I could find at home that might suggest a link between Holmes and Damian.”
When I'd got to Sussex that morning, I found that the police had been to our house, and been stoutly repelled by Mrs Hudson. However, if this went on for much longer, they would return, this time with the authority to conduct a search. Now, they were welcome to do so.
Mycroft picked up the parcel to take it away, but I said, “There is a biscuit wrapper in there. It might be best to give that to a laboratory, for the finger-prints.”
Mycroft nodded, and took the evidence to his study, coming back empty-handed.
“Anything from Holmes?”
He scooped up a letter from the side-board as he passed. It was addressed to him, in Holmes' writing, but opened without salutation and in an almost telegraphic brevity.
Wednesday, 21st
The death of Fiona Cartwright at Cerne Abbas was murder, not suicide. Details when I see you.
Poole employment agency describes Smythe as a middle-aged man wearing a good suit, dark hair and eyes, well spoken, a scar beside his left eye. No record of the company he claimed to represent.
Tourist charabanc to Salisbury and Stonehenge leaves in two minutes, I have bribed the conductor to begin with the latter. Have already been informed twice that I look like Sherlock Holmes. Kindly pray I do not have to ask you to stand me bail for murdering a visitor to Olde England.
S
When I had finished laughing, Mycroft handed me an actual telegram:
TO CUMBRIA AFTER DEAD RAM STOP WILL NEED INFORMATION REGARDING ALBERT SEAFORTH OF YORK FOUND DEAD THURSDAY LAST STOP
“How does Holmes intend to get this information from us?” I wondered.
“I took the otherwise unnecessary ‘will’ in the telegram to indicate that he would need it at some point, although not immediately.”
“You're probably right. Still, it would be nice to let him know that Lestrade's on the war-path, so he can keep his head down.”
“Sherlock tends to keep his head down in any event. I was pleased to find that you made it through the day without having hand-cuffs dropped around your wrists. Lestrade has telephoned twice more today. He sounded increasingly vexed.”
“I'll ring him from a public box tomorrow, and see if I can placate him. I take it your man didn't locate Brothers, or Smythe, or