Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [83]
Virginia’s hand was clamped hard over his now, but Sherlock ignored her.
‘Those men who were at the warehouse in Rotherhithe – they were talking about shipping the boxes out to Ripon, Colchester and Aldershot. Those are all Army bases. So if the clothes are all being shipped to Army bases then they’re probably uniforms. What did you do – get some kind of government contract to supply uniforms to the British Army? The soldiers wear their new uniforms, probably as they prepare to ship out to India, and then . . .’ Sherlock’s thoughts had been racing ahead of him, but suddenly the two snapped back into synchronization. His father. Aldershot. India. Uniforms. ‘And then you release the bees, and they attack every single private, subaltern and officer in the British Army,’ he whispered, appalled at the place to which logic had taken him.
‘Thousands of deaths, all occurring mysteriously and unavoidably,’ the Baron whispered from the darkness at the end of the table. ‘A demoralizing blow directed at the heart of the British Empire, and delivered by the humble bee – provider of honey for a thousand Sunday afternoon tea parties. The irony is . . . appealing.’
‘But why?’ Sherlock’s thoughts were filled with visions of his father, face swollen and covered with boils, falling and choking as the bees stung him again and again.
‘Why?’ The Baron’s voice wasn’t any louder, but it was suddenly laden with a viciousness that had been absent before. ‘Why? Because your pathetic little country has delusions of grandeur that has led it to conquer half the world. It would be hard to find a country smaller than England. You’re barely a pinprick on the map. On any globe of the world the cartographers cannot write the word ‘England’ within the boundaries of the island, it’s so small. And yet you have the arrogance, the temerity, the sheer self-delusion to believe that the world was set out for your benevolent rule. And the world has just rolled over and let you do it! Astounding. But there are men in the world, military men, who will not let your rampant and predatory instincts go any further. The boundaries of the British Empire have to be pushed back, if only so that other countries can get some breathing space, some room to live. I . . . represent . . . a group of these men. German, French, American, Russian – they have come together to curb your territorial ambitions. You will not rest until the red of the British Empire has spilt across the map; we will not rest until it has been erased apart from your own puny island.’ He paused. ‘And possibly British Honduras, in South America. You can keep British Honduras.’
‘So you plan to destroy the British Army at a single stroke.’
‘Not so much a single stroke as a progressive disease, striking at soldiers but nobody else. The bees, as you are aware, are unusually aggressive and territorial. They have been bred for aggression – and my, they breed quickly. The contaminant that we have soaked the uniforms in will be absorbed into the soldiers’ bodies, and will be sweated out through their skin. The bees, if they smell it, will immediately attack. Once the bees are released from their new homes they will make their way across Britain over the course of several months, stinging all the soldiers to death as they go. We will breed more in secret locations throughout Europe for the next stage of the attack. The terror, the fear, the sheer panic will be our most effective allies. A mysterious plague afflicting soldiers. And Britain will be relegated to the position it deserves: as a third-rate nation.’
‘But what about the two men who died – your man and my uncle’s gardener? They weren’t part of your plot, were they?’
A rustle and a creaking noise from the darkness, as if Baron Maupertuis was shrugging. Or being made to shrug. ‘I knew that some of the workers were stealing pieces of the uniforms, but I let it go.