The Detective, The Woman and The Silent Hive: A Novel of Sherlock Holmes

by Amy Thomas

  By this time, Holmes and Watson had taken their seats and each lit his pipe, filling the flat with smoke. They would not have smoked in front of many female clients; I was glad they felt free to do so in front of me.

  “That is unfortunate,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but even if both strains of the disease are found generally, that does not provide an explanation of how a hive of your bees managed to contract it. My scientific pursuits generally run in directions that advance the detection of crime, but I am cognizant of the fact that the sort of bacterium that causes either type of foulbrood must be acquired in a specific way, through contact with the bacterium itself or other diseased bees.”

  “Yes,” I answered, “but there are no other hives within ten miles of my cottage, which is further than the bees ever forage.”

  “I am aware of this,” said Holmes in a measured tone. “We cannot now know if we seek an American source or not, but I believe we may reasonably eliminate the possibility of contraction of the disease by natural means, since your bees were almost certainly too isolated to have come into contact with it.”

  I breathed deeply and felt something like relief. I had come to London because I suspected what Holmes was now telling me he believed, but the sheer preposterousness of the concept had made me frightened that my thoughts were unreasonable. Hearing them confirmed aloud by my friend was immensely comforting.

  “Perhaps I have an unknown enemy in the village,” I murmured speculatively, my mind leaping to find explanations for the implication.

  “An enemy with enough knowledge of the science of beekeeping and enough resources to poison a hive of bees with a specific infection?” I had to agree that it seemed highly unlikely. The only person in the village I could have imagined contriving such a thing was Dr Clarke, who had been helped from this earth at the end of a rope a few months previously after the murder of James Phillimore. He had been replaced in the village by young Dr Palmer, who was as harmless a creature as I had ever encountered.

  Dr Watson had been silent all this time, listening and smoking and shaking his head sympathetically whenever the conversation warranted. He now proceeded to clear his throat loudly. “Holmes, it’s lamentably rude to keep a lady waiting to dine in this manner. Miss Adler, you must be starving. Just because he loses his appetite whenever anything interesting happens doesn’t mean we mere mortals do.”

  I smiled. “Mrs Hudson was kind enough to furnish me with something earlier, but please don’t feel constrained on my account. In fact, I intend to leave presently, but I have news of my own to report first.”

  “Yes?” Holmes had not responded to his flatmate, but he showed interest at my statement.

  “I was mystified by two curious incidents today. They may prove to be of no consequence, but I feel I should recount them. I walked in the direction of my former home, Briony Lodge, earlier, and an elderly woman nearly knocked me off my feet, as if she hadn’t seen me. However, as she passed me, she asserted that someone had ‘said you would be here,’ exactly as if she knew who I was, though, to my knowledge, I had never seen her before. I thought perhaps I might be looking at you in disguise, Holmes, but to my eyes, she appeared to be just as she seemed.

  “And the second incident?” I could tell by Holmes’s clipped tone that he was becoming impatient at the length of the tale.

  “Here,” I said. “See for yourself.” I handed him the note I had received in the lobby of the Savoy. He perused it for a moment.

  “Oh, you’ve got more direct with a decade more behind you,” he said, staring at the simple missive. Before my eyes and those of Dr Watson, Holmes’s face grew animated, his eyes illuminated with the fire of purpose. “But why here? Why now?”

  I looked over at the doctor, but he seemed as mystified as I was. “What have you discovered?” I finally ventured.

  “This!” said the detective, pointing to the three letter Ks, which I had assumed were the initials of the letter writer. “It’s the signature of the Ku Klux Klan. The old crone must have been hired to watch for you,” Holmes continued. I’m afraid I stared at him rather stupidly for some moments before the incidents Watson had recounted in his story about the unfortunate Openshaw returned to my mind. I suppose I should have made the connection more quickly, but the idea seemed so fantastic to my mind that it had not yet occurred to me to relate my encounter to Holmes’s old case.

  “You contended with them once before,” I said, hoping that Holmes, whose mind was engaged in considering this unexpected new development, might nevertheless be prompted to articulate his thoughts.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, “and I would have had them if nature had not meted out justice instead.”

  “But why should they have anything against you,” I wondered, “or me, for that matter? And what can this possibly have to do with my hives?”

  “The second question is answered simply enough,” said Holmes, speaking rapidly. “I know from my prior experience and knowledge of the organisation that it is a vast one with ties to many men in high position. Its initial wave of power was hindered by laws intended to curb its activity, but, unfortunately, it quickly regained footholds throughout the southern part of the United States of America. At this time, it is supported by the political structure of several states. As to your hives, it is not difficult to deduce that one of their number was somehow sent to introduce the bacterium in order to lure you to London.”

  “Whatever for, and how could they possibly know I would actually come here?”

  “I have no reliable information to tell me the purpose as of yet. As for you coming here, if they have watched my activities over the past few years, they will be aware of my visits to your home. It was not a wild leap to imagine that you would appeal to me if a mysterious malady destroyed your beehives. Knowing their modes of behaviour, I believe they are trying to taunt me,” said Holmes, his face dark. “They wish to show me their power, to prove that their reach extends to Sussex and beyond.”

  “You have not answered the reason for their animosity,” I reminded him.

  “I despise the practice of guessing,” Holmes said, “but it is allowing of too much coincidence to believe that this has nothing to do with my previous case.” He looked over at me then and stared at me so intently for a moment that I was confused as to his purpose. Finally, he spoke again. “I am - sorry for the loss of your bees; it appears that their demise must be laid at the door of your association with me.”

  A host of different feelings flooded into me, but the chief among them was anger, both on behalf of my bees and on behalf of my friend. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes. The fault is that of the man who did it and the man who ordered it. You have nothing to apologise for.” He smiled.

  Dr Watson fairly bristled in his chair. “Holmes, you can’t possibly expect Miss Adler to go back alone to her hotel this evening with some sort of vague threat wandering around London.” I had the greatest urge to kiss his cheek, but I restrained the impulse, fearing that it might be overly disturbing to his dignity.

  Holmes was, by this time, sitting curled into his chair with his eyes closed, no doubt pondering the latest, cataclysmic development that had occurred. His eyes fluttered open. “I’m quite sure Irene is capable of defending herself if the need arises. I’ve observed that she is carrying a firearm in her handbag, as is her usual practice. Once at the hotel, Billy will look after her, of course, but if you wish to accompany her there to see that she arrives safely, there’s no harm in it.”

  “Is Billy in your employ, then?” I asked curiously, remembering the bright green eyes and wide smile of the porter who had helped me into the hotel.

  “Yes,” answered my friend. “I sent him there a week ago to watch a guest who was a suspect in a theft that has since been proved to be someone else’s handiwork. I had expected to recall him hence, bu
t his employment is convenient for the time being. He has keen eyes and will send word to me if anything unusual occurs. His instincts are to be trusted.” I wanted to ask Holmes more about the boy, but I realised that my enquiries would be fruitless, and I did not wish to distract him. I determined to ask Dr Watson as soon as I could.

  “You may go,” said my friend, with finality. I would have laughed at his dismissal if the occasion had been less serious. As it was, I simply rose and let the doctor walk me to the street.

  “Are you certain you wish to risk a night spent in the Savoy?” asked Watson. “I’d be happy to see about arranging private lodgings for you.”

  “That is most kind,” I answered, “but I agree with Holmes.”

  “You’re a pair, the both of you,” he groused. “I believe Holmes would have us all sleeping in the street if our comforts depended on his concern, and you appear to have endless confidence in your safety, regardless of the evidence.”

  I laughed, but consented to take the doctor’s arm. “I had no idea Billy was one of Holmes’s brood. Is he a former Irregular?”

  “No,” said Watson. “Holmes employed him when my absences from the flat grew more frequent.” He was, of course, alluding to his courtship of my housekeeper. “He seems very reliable, and Holmes trusts him more than he trusts most people.”

  “I see,” I answered.

  The doctor was silent for a while, and I imagined that his thoughts were taken up with Mrs Turner. He had visited many times since the Phillimore case, sometimes with Holmes and sometimes without. It amused me to act as chaperone at these times, legitimising in the eyes of the world the association of two of the most respectable people I had ever known, both of them far more respectable than I had ever laid claim to being. I knew that it would not be long before Mrs Turner left me, but I could not find it in myself to lament the loss, since I was excessively pleased for her. Besides, I knew that her leaving would also mean the probable departure once again of the doctor from Baker Street, and my friend would, I supposed, suffer more than I.

  I was pulled from my thoughts by the soft scrape of Watson’s foot on the dirty ground. He was tired, and I had no wish to explain to my housekeeper that I had allowed him to overexert himself. She would certainly get it out of me; I expected her to resemble the Spanish Inquisition when I returned home, so eager would she be to hear all about her doctor. I turned to him, attempting to be tactful.

  “Dr Watson, I can see the lights of the Savoy in the distance. I would be very pleased to walk the rest of the way alone. As you know, I had a long journey to get here on a train filled with people, followed by my immediate re-entry into the melee of London, and my head is still spinning. I would love to enjoy the night air on my own.”

  “You and Holmes,” he mumbled, “with your odd notions.” He patted my hand kindly. He’d always been courteous to me, but ever since he’d begun courting my housekeeper, he seemed to think of himself as a fond uncle. “I don’t like it, but if you insist, I will acquiesce.”

  “Very good,” I answered cheerfully. He turned back, and I went onward. Everything I’d said to him was true. I could see the hotel in the distance, and I enjoyed the breeze on my face. I’d forgotten how claustrophobic London could feel compared to the open spaces of the Downs. When I’d lived there, I’d learned to disregard the crowds that were everywhere, but now I had become re-sensitised to them. I felt as if, everywhere I went, I was being watched, by mostly indifferent eyes.

  One of their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little scarecrow.

  - The Sign of Four

  Chapter 4: Holmes

  Holmes barely noticed when the doctor and The Woman had departed, so consumed was he by his thoughts. He wondered, at first, why the remaining Klan members had not simply sent him his own envelope filled with five orange pips. No, that had been the calling card of a previous generation. Those who remained were obviously imbued with their own brand of hatred.

  The detective rose and went to his shelf, taking out the book with its entry about the Klan and his notations on the Openshaw incident, but nothing he saw illuminated the present situation. Many of his cases through the years had contained unusual features, but this one was shaping up to be one of the most surprising he had ever encountered, provided his deductions were accurate.

  He had erroneously supposed that Openshaw’s death was an anomaly, a vendetta by those who wanted proof that none of their misdeeds would be remembered by the law. Their deaths at sea had seemed like justice, and Holmes had not pursued the matter any further. The state of the Klan at that time, when it had been weakened by law and softened by public opinion, had made him think its hold would loosen in America, and he had not thought the members organised enough at the time to even realise his involvement with Openshaw, let alone pursue a years-long quest based on it. He thought, in passing, that he might be mistaken in considering the past case linked to the present one, but the coincidence was too great to treat them as separate instances.

  He took up the note once again to gather what evidence he might from it. The handwriting was neat, the ink black, and the intention clear. He looked for signs of particular colouration by mud, burning of the edge as by a candle, or characteristics of the paper that might reveal something about the writer, but the paper was white, unmarked save for the message, and might have come from any one of several printers of stationery in London, or elsewhere, for that matter. The envelope was unmarked, and it too was not unique.

  The detective experienced a moment of annoyance, both at The Woman and at the conveyor of the note - first, at Irene, because she was not him, and therefore had not thought to ask the member of the Savoy staff who had given her the letter for a description of its deliverer. Second, at whoever had written the note, for having the sense to send it to him indirectly, thereby lessening the chance that he would be able to trace its origin. One thing was certain; if the remaining members of the Klan were attempting to irritate him, they were succeeding.

  He did not dwell on his feelings of annoyance. The Woman, though clever, was not a detective, and the events of the day had surprised her. Holmes had learned, long ago, that few people could be expected to act perfectly rationally when confronted with the unexpected. He wished it were daytime, so that he could investigate without further delay, but evening had its own uses.

  Just then, Watson returned. The detective could tell, from the sound of his steps in the passage, that he was limping. When he finally opened the door, Holmes saw that he was panting with slight weariness. “She sent me back halfway,” he said crossly. “I didn’t want to leave until I saw her to her room.”

  “She is sensible enough to reach it safely,” said Holmes calmly. “I must go out, Watson.”

  “So late, Holmes? You haven’t dined.”

  “I have no wish to dine,” said the detective, rising abruptly.

  ***

  A half hour later, Holmes found himself on the corner of a small alley in one of the more disreputable sections of London. Dusk was falling, and few were about in the half light. No one paid him any attention except an extremely comely young girl in a tattered dress, who held a crying baby, and an old man deep in the bottle of gin he carried. “It’s you,” said the girl, staring at him pointedly.

  “Yes,” answered the detective, handing her a coin.

  “You’ve no cause to give me anything,” she said sourly. “I don’t work for you no more.”

  “Not entirely of your own choice,” said Holmes nodding towards the tiny infant.

  “Not forced upon me neither,” she retorted, but she kept the coin and almost smiled. Meanwhile, the elderly drunken man pointed at the detective and sang an unintelligible song of former days.

  “Go and buy your child something to eat, Anna,” Holmes ordere
d.

  “It don’t go easy for you to stop giving orders, does it?” she asked saucily, but she turned on her way, clutching her baby to her chest.

  When she was far enough away for her child not to be disturbed, the detective did something that would have astonished many who knew him, though perhaps not those who knew him well: He put his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and uttered a whistle so ear-piercingly loud that it sounded as if it would raise the dead.

  At this, the inebriated man ceased singing and stared open-mouthed at Holmes, while a few workmen who had been loitering nearby glanced in his direction. He took no notice of them and waited calmly for another three minutes, until a grinning boy of fifteen years peeked his head around the wall of a dilapidated shop at the opposite end of the alley. Apparently satisfied, he brought the rest of his lanky body into view and proceeded quickly in Holmes’s direction.

  Wiggins was, by this time, no longer a child. Instead, he had proceeded into the phase of life generally referred to as awkward, and as he approached Holmes, his long arms hung loosely at his sides as if he did not know what to do with them when they were not needed.

  “Evening, Sir,” said the lad, touching his cap.

  “Good evening, Wiggins,” said the detective. “I’d like to discuss my business with you in a more secluded setting. I assume a morsel of food will not be taken amiss.”

  “Not at all,” the boy answered, beaming once more. For all his bravado, Holmes could see the darkness under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks, signs no lad in stages of rapid growth should display. Holmes knew that after their long association, Wiggins would have been highly offended by compensation that was any greater than the usual rate, but the detective reasoned that if he fed the boy as part of their meeting, he could also pay him without giving offence.