The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor

by Laurie R. King

  Some distance from the theatre he pulled the ancient cab into a dark spot adjoining one of London’s innumerable small and hidden parks. The growler sagged sideways with his weight, and in a moment the door fell open. He eyed me.

  “Your mother’s name was not Mary McCarthy,” he said accusingly.

  “No, it was Judith Klein. Just don’t scare me again, please. I’ve been walking around frightened and blind since I left your brother’s rooms, and I’m tired.”

  “Apologies, Russell. My twisted sense of humour has had me in trouble before this. Pax?”

  “Pax.” We clasped hands firmly. He stepped up into the cab. “Russell, this time it is you who must turn your back. I can hardly go into the theatre looking like the driver of a four-wheeler.” I hastily departed out the other side.

  Coat and hat, stick and proper evening coat, hair combed, moustache applied, he alighted from the cab. A small man wandered up, whistling softly.

  “Good evening, Billy.”

  “Evenin’, Mr…. Evenin’, sir.” He touched his hat to me.

  “Don’t break your neck over the boxes inside, Billy. And there’s a rug under the seat if you need it. Just keep your eyes open.”

  “That I will, sir. Have a good evenin’, sir, Miss.”

  I was so preoccupied that I did not notice when Holmes tucked my arm in his.

  “Holmes, how on earth did you find me?”

  “Well, I cannot claim it was entirely a coincidence, as I thought it possible you would fall victim to the charms of the place and be there all day. Also, both the doorman and the attendant to whom you gave Watson’s bag were watching and swore you hadn’t yet left when I asked an hour ago. That was a slip, incidentally, Russell. You ought to have abandoned the trousers.”

  “So I see. Sorry. What did you find today?”

  “Do you know, I found absolutely nothing. Not a rumour, not a word, nary a breath of someone moving against that old scoundrel Holmes. I must be losing my touch.”

  “Perhaps there was nothing?”

  “Perhaps. It is a most piquant problem, I must admit. I am intrigued.”

  “I am cold. So, what are we going to do now?”

  “We shall listen to the voices of angels and of men, my child, set to the music of Verdi and Puccini.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that we shall dine.”

  “And then?”

  “I fear we shall skulk back to my brother’s rooms and hide behind his drapes.”

  “Oh. How is your back?”

  “Damn my back, I do wish you would stop harping on the accursed thing. If you must know, I had it serviced again this afternoon by a retired surgeon who does a good line in illegal operations and patching up gunshot wounds. He found very little to do on it, told me to go away, and I find the topic tiresome.”

  I was pleased to hear his mood so improved.

  The evening that followed was a lovely, sparkling interval, set off in my mind by what went before and what came after as a jewel set into mud. I fell asleep twice and woke with my hat in Holmes’ ear, but he seemed not to notice. In fact, so carried away was he by the music that I believe he forgot I was there, forgot where he was, forgot to breathe, even, at certain passages. I have never been a great lover of the operatic voice, but that night—I cannot tell you what we saw, unfortunately—even I could begin to see the point. (Incidentally, I feel that this is one place where I must contradict the record of Holmes’ late biographer and protest that I never, ever witnessed Holmes “gently waving his fingers about in time to the music,” as Watson once wrote. The good doctor, on the other hand, was wont earnestly to perform this activity of the musically obtuse, particularly when he was tipsy.)

  We drank champagne at the intermission and took to a quiet corner lest he be recognised. Holmes could be charming when he so desired, but that evening he positively scintillated, during the intermission with stories about the primary cast members, and over supper later talking about his conversations with the lamas in Tibet, his most recent monographs on varieties of lipstick and the peculiarities of modern tyre marks, the changes occasioned by the disappearance of castrati from the music world, and the analysis of some changes in rhythm in one of the arias we had just heard. I was quite dazzled by this rarely seen Holmes, a distinguished-looking, sophisticated bon vivant without a care in the world (who could also spend hours in a grey, biting mood, write precise monographs on the science of detection, and paint blobs on the backs of bees to track them across the Sussex Downs).

  “Holmes,” I asked as we stepped into the street, “I realise the question sounds sophomoric, but do you find that there are aspects of yourself with which you feel most comfortable? I only ask out of curiosity; you needn’t feel obliged to answer.” He offered me his arm and, formally, I took it.

  “‘Who am I?’ you mean.” He smiled at the question and gave what was at first glance a most oblique answer. “Do you know what a fugue is?”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “No.”

  I thought in silence for some distance before his answer arranged itself sensibly in my mind. “I see. Two discrete sections of a fugue may not appear related, unless the listener has received the entire work, at which time the music’s internal logic makes clear the relationship.”

  “A conversation with you is most invigorating, Russell. That might have taken twenty frustrating minutes with Watson. Hello, what is this?” He pulled me to a halt in the shadow of the building we had just rounded, and we gazed across to the area where the cab and Billy had been left, seeing with sinking hearts the flicker of naphtha flares and the distinctive milling outline of many constabulary helmets and capes. Loud voices called to one another, and as we watched, an ambulance pulled swiftly away. Holmes slumped against the building, stunned. “Billy?” he whispered hoarsely. “How could they track us? Russell, am I losing my grip? I have never come across a mind that could do this. Even Moriarty.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I must see the evidence before those oafs obliterate it.”

  “Wait, Holmes. This could be a trap. There may be someone waiting with an airgun or a rifle.”

  Holmes studied the scene before us through narrowed eyes and shook his head again, slowly. “We were excellent targets a number of times this evening. With all these police here it would be a great risk for him. No, we will go. I only hope that someone with a bit of sense is in charge here.”

  I followed his vigorous stride as best I could in my heeled shoes, and as I came up behind him I saw a small, wiry man of about thirty-five thrust out his hand and greet Holmes.

  “Mr. Holmes, good to see you up and about. I wondered if you might not make an appearance. I figured you must be behind this somewhere.”

  “What precisely is ‘this,’ Inspector?”

  “Well, as you can see, Mr. Holmes, the cab—May I help you, Miss?” This last was to me.

  “Ah, Russell, I should like to introduce you to an old friend of mine. This is Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. His father was a colleague of mine on a number of cases. Lestrade, this is my…” A quick smile touched his lips. “My associate, Miss Mary Russell.”

  Lestrade stared at the two of us for a moment, then to my dismay burst into raucous laughter. Was this to be the reaction of every policeman we met?

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, always the comedian, you were. I forgot your little jokes for a minute.”

  Holmes drew himself up to his full height and glared at the man in icy hauteur.

  “Have you ever known me to jest about my profession, Lestrade? Ever?” The last word cracked through the cold air like a shot, and Lestrade’s humour was cut off in an instant. The remnant of the smile made his face sour and slightly ratlike, and he glanced at me quickly and cleared his throat.

  “Ah, yes, well, Mr. Holmes, I presume you’d like to see what they left of your cab. One of the men recognised Billy from the old days and thought to give me a ring on it. He’ll get a promotion o
ut of tonight’s work, I don’t doubt. And don’t worry about your man—he’ll be all right in a day or two, I imagine. It looked like a clout on the head followed by a bit of chloroform. He was already coming around when they took him off.”

  “Thank you for that, Inspector. Have you already gone over the cab?” His voice held little hope.

  “No, no, we haven’t touched it. Looked inside, that’s all. I told you the man’d get a promotion. Quick-thinking, he is.” I noticed one of the uniformed men nearby fiddling needlessly with the horse’s reins, his head tilted slightly in our direction. I nudged Holmes and addressed Lestrade.

  “Inspector, that I believe is the individual over there?” The man started and moved away guiltily, busying himself elsewhere. Lestrade and Holmes followed my eyes.

  “Why yes, how did you guess?”

  Holmes interrupted. “I believe you will find, Lestrade, that Miss Russell never guesses. She may occasionally reach tentative hypotheses without absolute proof, but she does not guess.”

  “I am glad,” I added, “that the gentleman is working his way back up to his former position of responsibility. Men with his background can be a valuable model for younger members of the force.” I had Lestrade’s full attention now.

  “Do you know him then, Miss?”

  “As far as I know I’ve never seen him before tonight.” Holmes allowed his eyes to wander off to the cab, his face inscrutable.

  “Then how—?”

  “Oh, but it is too obvious. An older man in a low position can either have got there by being, shall we say, of limited mental resource, which according to you he is not, or by backsliding. It could not have been a criminal act that pushed him down the ladder, or he would not still be in uniform. Which personality flaw it is can readily be ascertained by the broken veins in his face, while the deep furrows around his mouth indicate either pain or sorrow in recent years. I should suspect, as his body seems unimpaired, that the latter is to blame, which would explain the abuse of alcohol, and that in turn accounts for the demotion in rank. However, his general competency and the fact that you mention the possibility of promotion tell me that he has passed through the crisis, and will now serve as an example to the men around him.” I gave the flabbergasted Lestrade my most innocent of smiles. “It’s really quite elementary, Inspector.”

  The little man gaped and burst out laughing again. “Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes, I do see what you mean. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but it could have been you saying that. You’re absolutely right, Miss. His wife and daughter were killed four years ago, and he took to drinking, even at work. We kept him on at a desk job where he’d do no one any harm, and a year ago he pulled himself together. He’ll be back up there in no time, I think. Come now, I’ll get a lamp so we can look at your cab.” He went off shouting for a light.

  “Russell, that last line was a bit overly dramatic, don’t you think?” Holmes murmured at my side.

  “A good apprentice learns all from her master, sir,” I answered demurely.

  “Then let us go and see what is to be learnt from this old horse cab. I greatly desire news of this person who plagues us and continually attacks my friends. I hope that the case will at last provide us with a thread to grasp.”

  The cab stood cordoned off in a circle of flares, its shabby exterior even more obvious now than it had been by the streetlamps.

  “This is where we found your man,” Lestrade said, pointing. “We tried to keep off the ground right there, but we had to get him up and out of there. He was lying on his side, curled up on that old suit with a rug tucked around him.”

  “What?” The suit was Holmes’ cabbie outfit; the rug was from the cab.

  “Yes, wrapped up and snoozin’ like a baby he was.”

  Holmes handed his hat, coat, and stick to Lestrade and took a small, powerful magnifying lens out of his pocket. Down on the ground he looked for all the world like some great lanky hound, casting about for a scent. Finally he gave a low exclamation and produced a small envelope from another pocket. Scraping gently at various tiny smudges on the paving stones, he sat back on his haunches with an air of triumph, careless of the beating his back had taken.

  “What do you make of this, Russell?” he asked, sketching a vague circle.

  I walked over to peer at the marks. “Two pairs of feet? One has been in the mud today, the other—is that oil?”

  “Yes, Russell, but there will be a third somewhere. At the door to the cab? No? Well, perhaps inside.” And so saying, he opened the door. “Lestrade, your men will go over the whole cab for fingerprints, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve sent for an expert; he should be here before too long. New man, but seems good. MacReedy, his name is.”

  “Oh yes, Ronald MacReedy. Interesting article of his, comparing whorls with the personality traits of habitual criminals, didn’t you think?”

  “I, er, didn’t happen to see it, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Pity. Still, never too late. Russell, I take it these were all your things?”

  I looked in past his shoulder at the wreckage. All that was left of my lovely and exorbitantly expensive clothes were the dress and cloak I was wearing and numerous scraps of coloured fabric. Small shreds of blue wool, green silk, and white linen littered the inside of the cab, alternating with torn bits of the boxes, twine, and paper they had been in. I picked up a short bit of string for something to fiddle with. The tufted leather seat had been deeply and methodically slashed from one end to another, with the exception of approximately a foot on one end of the front seat cushion. Horsehair stuffing had sifted over everything.

  Holmes got to work with his glass by the light Lestrade held for him. Envelopes were filled, notes made, questions asked. The fingerprint man arrived and set to. A brazier had appeared from somewhere, and the uniformed police were standing around it, warming their hands. The night was very late, and the cold, though not bitter, was penetrating. Impatient grumbles and glances were beginning to drift our way. There was no room for me in the cab, so I left and went to stand by the fire with the police constables.

  I smiled up at the big one next to me. “I wanted to tell you how glad I am of your presence here, all of you. Someone seems to bear Mr. Holmes considerable ill will, and he is—well, his body is not quite so fast as it once was. I feel considerably better with some of the force’s best on hand. Particularly you, Mr.—?” I leaned toward the older constable, a question on my face.

  “Fowler, Miss. Tom Fowler.”

  “Mr. Fowler, particularly with you. Mr. Holmes found your fast action most impressive.” I smiled sweetly around the fire. “Thank you, all of you, for your vigilance and attention to duty.”

  I went back to the cab then, and though there were numerous glances, they were directed into the dark night, and there were no more grumbles. When Lestrade was called away to attend to some matter, I held the lamp for Holmes.

  “So you think I am slowing down, do you?” he said, amused.

  “Your mind, I think not. I said that to encourage the troops, who were getting careless with having to stand about to no purpose. I exaggerated, perhaps, but they will be attentive now.”

  “I told you, I do not think we shall be attacked.”

  “And I am beginning to suspect that this opponent of yours knows you well enough to take your thoughts into account when planning his actions.”

  “Slow as I am, Russell, that idea had come to me. Now.” He sat back. “Your turn. I need you to go through and tell me if there are any scraps that are not from your things. It will take some time, so I will send over that tall young PC to help you, and another to find some hot drink. I shall go and examine the neighbourhood.”

  “Take someone with you, Holmes, please.”

  “After your performance out there they’ll be tripping over each other in their eagerness to protect my doddering old frame.”

  It took some time to sift through the cab’s contents, but eventually, with the help of young PC Mitche
ll, I had a large pile of paper and fabric scraps heaped outside, and three thin envelopes in my hand. We climbed out of the cab and stood stretching the cricks out of our spines, drinking mugs of hot, sweet tea until Holmes reappeared with his eager bodyguards.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, you have been most dutiful. Go and have some tea, now. Off you go, there’s a good fellow,” he said, giving the most persistent constable a pat between the shoulder blades that shoved him off towards the tea station. “Russell, what have you found?”

  “One button, with a scrap of brown tweed attached, cut recently from its garment by a sharp instrument. Another thick smudge of light brown clay. And one blonde hair, not my own, considerably shorter. Plus a great deal of dust and rubbed-about dirt and débris, indicating that the cab has not been cleaned in some time.”

  “It has also not been used in some time, Russell, so your three finds are undoubtedly worthy of our attention.”

  “And you, Holmes, what have you found?”

  “Several things of interest, but I need to smoke a pipe over them, perhaps two, before I have anything to say.”

  “Will we be here long, Holmes?”

  “Another hour, perhaps. Why?”

  “I have been drinking champagne, then coffee, now tea. I cannot last another hour without doing something about it.” I was determined not to be embarrassed about the problem.

  “Of course.” He looked around at the noticeable dearth of female company. “Have the older man—Fowler—show you the…facilities…in the park. Take a lamp with you.”

  With dignity I summoned the man and explained the mission, and he led me off through the park along its soft gravel paths. We talked inconsequentially of children and green areas, and he stood outside as I entered the little building. I finished and went to wash my hands, placing the lamp on the shelf that stood above the basin. I reached for the tap and saw there a smear of light brown clay. I took the lamp to look more closely, unwilling to believe.

  “Mr. Fowler,” I called sharply.

  “Miss?”

  “Go and get Mr. Holmes.”

  “Miss? Is something wrong?”