The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [146]
to have a life of its own, both to draw in and to give out
Power The Tool must move the hand even as the
hand moves it.
Testimony, IV:3
HEAVY SILENCE PRESSED ON US. HOLMES STARED at me for the longest time before his eyes flicked down to the almanac, and he drew a ragged breath. His mouth was coming open as he turned to the door.
“Mycroft!” he shouted.
With a crash of feet on the floor, Mycroft Holmes woke to his brother's need. Within minutes, the telephone was summoning help from near and far. The voices of the Holmes brothers were soon joined by others, and I listened through the open study door as the complex machinery of Mycroft's department was seized and turned towards finding a pair of men, the younger of whom could possibly appear ill or intoxicated, with a child, age three to eight. Borders; ferries; telegrams: By seven-thirty, the sitting room sounded like a general headquarters on the eve of battle.
All the while, I sat at Mycroft's oversized desk, trying to order my thoughts. A part of my mind was occupied with drawing up a list of possible sites Brothers might choose that were within striking distance of Bergen: Viking country, whence the raiders had set off to conquer the British Isles; home of Woden, the Viking's chief god and a figure who occupied much of Brothers' image of himself.
But when I had made the list, I then pulled out a small-scale map of the United Kingdom and studied that, chin on hands. After a while, I put on some proper clothes and went down to ask the building's concierge for his copy of Bradshaw's time-table. I came back up and passed through the room, unnoticed by nine urgently occupied men, to settle again at the desk.
An hour later, I saw Mycroft, still in his dressing-gown, go into his room. Holmes was speaking on the sitting room telephone, but a minute later, silence fell for the first time since he had called his brother out of sleep. I heard the click of his cigarette lighter, and the puffing noise of pillows being arranged on the divan.
I went out and found Holmes sitting before the fireplace, staring intently at the cold stones. While the water was boiling for coffee, I went through the sitting room and gathered half a dozen empty cups, piling them up for washing. Absently, I toasted bread, and had managed to scrape half their burnt substance into the sink when Mrs Cowper arrived for the day. She looked in astonishment at the signs of turmoil and dishevelment where normally she would find a cup and one sullied ash-tray, then snatched open the oven door, releasing yet another cloud of smoke. I hastily retreated with my own ravaged toast to where Holmes sat.
He looked startled when I held a cup under his nose, and the long ash from his forgotten cigarette dropped to the carpet. “Russell, there you are. Ah, coffee, good. Did you see your letter?”
The morning post lay on the table near the door. A cream-coloured envelope bore my name, in an antique and slightly shaky hand. I carried it back to the divan and thumbed it open. It was from Professor Ledger, to whom I had given my address in London.
“Mycroft has arranged that all border crossings be watched,” Holmes was saying. “All international ferries and steamers will be searched, and all ports in northern Europe sent photographs of the two men, in case they've already crossed over. The same with aeroplanes—and harbour masters, in case he tries to hire a small boat. I fear we are closing the stable door on the horse's tail, and that they left the country immediately you saw them drive away from the walled house, but perhaps we can at least track where he has broken out.”
The housekeeper came in with a more recognisable breakfast tray, moving a table in front of Holmes' eccentric choice of seating. “Have something to eat, Holmes,” I urged.
He seemed not to hear me, so I took a slice of pristine toast, smeared it with butter and marmalade, and folded it in two, placing it into his hand. Absently, he took a bite, but kept talking.
“Steamers to Bergen leave from Hull,