A Taste for Honey

by H. F. Heard

  I turned to see beside me a serene face, a sort of unpolitical Dante, if I may so put it and not seem high-brow. It was cold, perhaps; or maybe it would be juster to say it was super-cooled, cooled by thought until the moods and passions which in most of us are liquid or even gaseous had become set and solid—a face which might care little for public opinion but much for its opinion of itself.

  But I mustn’t run on like this. I expect it is the fault of a bad writer—can’t keep down to facts. Perhaps I didn’t notice all this at once. But I was impressed, I know, because I remember saying to myself, “How like Dante,” and then having to check myself (for my mind is always flighty, as anyone will see who has got as far as this) because I began to speculate whether if Dante were reincarnated today what he would do to get in his visit to Hell. Where would he find the cave opening? In modern war, maybe, or in a city slum, but hardly in the country or in a village.

  “You are my first purchaser,” he went on, evidently seeing that my mind was wandering and wishing to put me at my ease. “It is good of you to walk over so far from your place—”

  “You know me, then?” I interrupted. “I don’t go much into the village and have no friends there and don’t remember catching sight of your face. You are a newcomer, aren’t you? I often come down the lane but don’t remember seeing before the notice which explains my call.”

  “No one else has,” he replied. “It has been there a little while and considerable numbers of the village ‘quality’ have come down the lane, but none has troubled to go up the steps to see what is written on it.”

  That remark surprised me. It seemed out of character, somehow. I couldn’t resist, therefore, saying, though it was perhaps a little impertinent, “You keep as close a watch on your lane and your notice as a fisherman on his stream and float.”

  “In a way, yes and no,” he smiled, evidently not at all put out by my personal remark.

  I thought, however, that it would be polite to put myself back into the picture.

  “You come up to our end of the village and have seen my house?” I questioned.

  “I must confess, no,” he answered, again smiling. “You see,” he added, “I have been busy settling in for some time and, like yourself, my reason for coming to the country was not for company but to be busy with all these incessant interests which the town, with its distractions, never really tolerates.”

  “But how, then—”

  “Well,” he kindly forestalled me, “there are so many ways of being wise after the event that I have sometimes thought during my life that if we would only act on that rather despised motto we would need to ask far fewer questions—which you and I agree are always, if only the slightest, infringement of that privacy we both prize so highly.”

  I could not help smiling at the way he had read my thoughts and he smiled, at least with the muscles round his keen eyes if not with his thin lips.

  “No one,” he continued, “who has taken some little care not to disregard things can fail to notice how much of our past and our settled environment we carry about with us wherever we go. I’m not a geologist, but soils always repay a little attention. This village, like many another in England, is a jigsaw puzzle of earths. That, by the way, tells us something about the past. Our ancestors planted these settlements in order to live off the soil, not to retire from town. So there have to be water and woodland and tilth: woods for fuel and the hogs’ pfannage; good soil for harvests and, above all, good water. To get all that means living where the layers of soil have been cut by water so as to give man a selvaged slice of each of the qualities he wants.

  “Now you live up at what was the clay end of the village. I’m nearer the light heath soil. You have tiny patches of dried clay on your trousers. One clue helps another. I probably should not have been able to pick up that first clue which tells me where you live if it had not been able to give me the second indication—that you live alone and don’t like being looked after too rigorously—in fact, can entertain yourself best when alone.”

  “But why—”

  “The notice,” he intervened, “which is well written, asking the passer-by to purchase and yet put just out of ordinary eye-range? An experiment. Village life, we agree, is a problem. Free, yes, but apt to lose its freedom even more quickly than town. A researcher does not need absolute solitude. Indeed, when I was working, I often found that it helped to talk over a problem with an interested if less absorbed mind. Some steps of reasoning can be run through and checked more quickly in speech than by writing them down, and often the listener, however inexpert, will see a slip oneself has overlooked.”

  A curiously simple and neat Naturally Selective trap, I thought.

  “You’ll be thinking I treat my neighbors as prey and you sprung the gin. But I may want help on a problem which should interest the right man as much as it intrigues me. I’m not an apiarist and don’t want to meet such specialists. You remember Henry Ford’s dictum: ‘A specialist is someone who is always telling you what can’t be done.’ In pure, as well as in applied science, I have found that to be true—someone who tells you that it has all been found out, that there is no further mystery, there is nothing more to discover.”

  “You’re doing research in bees,” I interrupted, “but I only want to eat their honey!”

  “You shall; but hear me out. Then, if you become my customer and not my acquaintance, I can have the parcel of honey left on you regularly and you need not risk any further conversation. I came down here to study bees. Honey to me is simply a by-product I must dispose of. I’m not a Maeterlinckist! I believe he greatly overrates the intelligence of bees. Anyhow, I’m not interested in what intelligence they may have. All my life I have been estimating human intelligence not by its books or words but by its tracks. Now I want to study something else, but still by its tracks. I want to know about bees’ reactions. After all, they are social beings given to living in dense towns. But, though like us, how different! There are no end of problems to be studied. There are the particular flowers they go to, the peculiar vision they have so as to pick out such blooms, and so the particular sort of honey they yield. We might get special brands of honey from certain broods—”

  I was faintly interested, but began to feel much more strongly that I wanted to get my honey and get away.

  “Yes,” I said vaguely. “I expect a market could be found for super-honey just as for special proprietary jams and marmalades.”

  He saw my restlessness.

  “If you will step inside I will make up a parcel for you,” he remarked, leading me toward the house.

  We entered a room on the left of the hall. It was evidently his laboratory.

  “I will bring you the combs and the jars in a moment,” he said. “I apologize for boring you. Yes, yes, and it was not—I must again beg your pardon—unintentional. You remember Oscar Wilde’s silly remark, ‘A gentleman is one who is never rude unintentionally?’ I think, however, it may be more truly said that a trained mind is one which never bores unintentionally.”

  The boredom which had been growing vanished, and again I felt a not altogether pleasant surprise. One gets stiff when faintly startled.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Mr.—?”

  “Mycroft, if you will,” he answered, with that quiet smile of his which was certainly disarming. “The truth is,” he added, “I did first put up my notice as a sort of wager with myself as to whether in this village I should find a fellow curioso—not a specialist, not a conventionalist. I own I discovered, almost before you did, that I had lost my bet.”

  “Why, then,” I acidly remarked, “did you continue?”

  “Please step over here,” came the quick reply, almost an order. He was standing with his hand on a down-turned glass bell jar. It covered a square of white paper on which lay a small object. The step I took, almost involuntarily at his command, brought me where I could see what it was.

  “A dead bee?” I asked, somewhat challengingly. He
lifted the glass bulb and handed me a large magnifying glass. As soon as I took it, with a pair of forceps, he lifted another dead bee off the window sill and placed it beside the first on the square of paper.

  “Would you, please, examine these two bodies through the lens?”

  “They don’t look very different to me,” I was just replying, when under the lens a forceps point advanced and pressed on the abdomen of one of the dead bees. The body cockled a little and quite clearly the saber-curved sting was thrust out, and retracted as soon as the pressure was released. Before I could ask what such an unilluminating experiment showed, however, the forceps point darted onto the abdomen of the second bee, depressed it in the same way, and out came the sting—but what a sting! It curved round until it seemed it would pierce through the chitin mail of the dead insect’s own thorax.

  The voice at my shoulder said, “There’s a pretty problem here. The last is, of course, an Italian—fierce bees, anyhow, but I think, from comparing the body with some care with standard Italians, that this is a special variety. Certainly it was psychologically remarkable, even if the rest of it, except for that sting, is physiologically normal. It had the temper of a hornet. It attacked until it was killed. Of course, it came in a troop, so I dissected a number of them. They all had these super-stings. That was remarkable enough to an amateur apiarist; but what was even more remarkable was the result of a small biochemical experiment.”

  Turning to a shelf, he took out of a rack a glass phial not thicker than a knitting needle.

  “There are hardly half a dozen drops of venom in this tube,” he remarked. “I have had to gather it from the stings of these bees. Perhaps I would have overlooked the necessity of doing so if it had not been that when my colonies were attacked—when I saw what was on, I myself donned bee-veils and gloves and got ready to defend myself with a special bee-smoker—my poor mastiff ran out. The invaders were not really attending to us, any more than we human beings, in a battle, waste our ammunition on the crows and vultures. But one of these miniature monsters swooped past us, caught the dog’s smell, dived, struck, and my poor Rollo gave one howl and fell over. He struggled for some time when I carried him inside. I thought a camphor injection was going to bring him through, though his pain was obviously so great that I thought of putting a bullet in his brain if it did not cease. But suddenly rigors seized him, his tongue lolled out, and he was dead.

  “I have had the opportunity of studying toxicology for some years. The only venom I can compare this with in strength—though, of course, its chemical base is the formic acids group—is the incomparably virulent secretion of two spiders—the small yellow which is found in northern Queensland and the so-called black widow of southern California. Even the giant ant lately found in Guiana, Paraponera Clavata, though one sting of it can paralyze a limb for some hours, does not approach the toxicity of this poison.”

  “But,” I said, “what does all this mean?”

  I felt, rather than fully recognized, a growing sinisterness in the atmosphere. I wanted to get away, wished I’d never come, but felt somehow that to go off now with the problem all vague and pervasive was only to carry it with me, like a swarm of bees trailing a man who can’t shake them off his track! His next words confirmed my doubts and made my misgivings all too unpleasantly definite.

  “I told you I put up my notice because, first, I wanted to carry out a casual experiment in seeing whether I could select a possible confrère, and then, after I had a more remarkable visit than I had counted on by what I think I may call in every sense of the word inhuman visitors, I saw I must signal for someone who had two characteristics—that he was a bit of a recluse, so that he might not gossip about what even then seemed as though it might turn out to be a business both ugly and easily driven out of reach, and also that he was a honey lover.”

  “Why the honey part?” I said, rather feebly and vaguely. My whole thought was bent on the unpleasant realization of how, like a fly limed on flypaper, I was getting every moment more firmly embedded in this beastly business.

  “Because you certainly have noticed that the Heregroves were the only people who sold honey in this place. They may not do well. It is hardly a millionaire’s occupation, but they have had no other. So anyone who was a honey fancier and so would not buy the shop’s stuff, could tell me about the Heregroves, for he would certainly be their customer.”

  “But why couldn’t you call yourself,” I asked with weak irritation, “or go openly into the village and inquire about the Heregroves? Why all this hokey-pokey and setting little traps for the innocent curious?”

  I tried to make my remarks sound jocular, but the truth is that I was wanting to be as rude as I could with safety, for I was rapidly getting cross over the whole thing and, what was worse, felt that after being cross I might find that I had reason to be frightened. So I added, to smooth things over a bit, “Though I must own the trap has done its work neatly enough.”

  He smiled again kindly. There could be no doubt of that, and I could not help feeling that if I had to get into a mess with other people’s business it might be hard to imagine a stronger and more capable man with whom to face a storm. Even now I still wish that I had kept clear of it all—but there’s Destiny, of course, as I’ve already said.

  “Don’t say trap. Say my S.O.S. to which you have most generously responded.” His voice was equally reassuring. “I couldn’t go asking questions in the village because that might rouse suspicion and would certainly have brought me, whether or no correct information, undesirable allies.”

  Somehow I felt a certain quite unreasonable reassurance at being called by implication a desirable ally, though all that it really meant was that I was getting still more committed to schemes I did not understand and did most actively, if vainly, suspect.

  “To visit the Heregroves themselves was, of course, out of the question, even more than making inquiries about them in the village. It is quite clear what he or they have done; though I must say it is so startling that it has shocked me back to a line of thought which I had told myself I had left for good. Heregrove has bred a bee to put all other beekeepers out of business. I confess it is an ingenious notion. I’ve confirmed it, though. I’ve already found that up till a few years ago there was quite a lot of beekeeping in this district. Now, as you know, you can’t get honey anywhere locally.”

  “But,” I broke in—for I must own my interest in this extraordinary story was getting the better of my self-concern, the whole tale was so mad, bad, and ridiculous—“but what an absurd amount of energy and ingenuity to spend just to corner the honey market of Ashton Clearwater.”

  “Yes, I thought that, too, and it puzzled me,” he replied. “Of course, inventors are kittle cattle. For the sake of an experiment they’ll ruin themselves, and to make a discovery they’ll risk any number of people’s lives, their own included. Still it puzzled me. Of course, after the attack on my hives I realized that a thing like this could and pretty certainly would grow. Apiarists are not used to suspecting people. Heregrove may have lit on this thing as a pure researcher and then have hunted about to see how he could make it pay. His super-bee may, indeed, have acted like a Renaissance ‘bravo’ or a Frankenstein’s monster and gone off killing on its own. That may have put the idea into his head. ‘Oh, Opportunity, thy guilt is great. ’Tis thou—’”

  “Please,” I said, “I prefer at this point psychology to poetry and facts to anything.”

  “Well,” he smiled, “I can tell you the Heregrove bees came literally out of the blue. Fortunately they are so stupid that even if he did send them specifically they could not tell him that their expedition of extermination had failed.”

  “How did it fail? How could it?” I exclaimed.

  “You want only facts,” he chuckled, “and no theories. That, of course, is not possible if you wish to understand. But the fact remains, as your ears and eyes tell you, the home team survived.”

  “Then,” I said, with a sigh of relie
f, “they are not so deadly as we feared.”

  “Oh, yes, they are,” he answered, quietly. “I told you I drove off the first attack from myself and when my poor Rollo was dead and I could do no more for him, I decided to see if I could save at least my bees. Wrapped in bee-veils and gloves, I charged the smoke-thrower with a peculiarly strong smoke I used once when I was attacked long ago in not dissimilar circumstances: what I then took to be an accident but now suspect was a similar discovery being used by a man not unlike our present customer. Discoveries are generally made twice over and often fall into undesirable hands and even come into undesirable brains.”

  “But was the smoke enough?”

  I wanted him to get on. Age and a long-practiced calm had made him more willing to view the past as equally interesting as the present than was I. I had spoiled my walk, missed my lunch, and had not even secured my honey. As a matter of fact, I was only staying on until I could learn how safe it was to go. I had no intention of leaving if there was any chance that in a quiet bend of the lane there might be a sudden hum and before one could even cover one’s face one would be pricked to death with red-hot knitting needles. But I had no intention of staying, wasting more of my time, the moment I could be sure that the coast (or rather the sky) was clear.

  “Yes, yes, the smoke worked. I mightn’t be here if it hadn’t. One crept up my leg and I smoked it only just in time. They’re so devoted they’d work their way through anything. I doubt that gloves would be much protection for long against those super-stings. They are prodigious fighters, even normal bees. We’d have had no chance if they had been even a fifth our size.”