Laurie King - The God of the Hive

“As, too, breaking into Richard Sosa’s flat.”

“The only indication that I was there was a small ivory carving I knocked to the floor when I moved the curtains. I put it back, but I can’t be sure I had the precise place. If there was one-Sosa seemed an odd mixture of great caution with slips of carelessness.”

“Which might make one wonder, were not most criminals apprehended because of a moment’s carelessness.”

“So, Holmes. What next?”

“This pilot of yours: Will he keep the child-will he keep Estelle safe for another day or two?” I was glad he’d finally come around to his granddaughter.

“Captain Javitz is a determined and honourable man, and he and Estelle get along like a house afire. And he’s a bit embarrassed at one or two recent displays of weakness, which means he’ll be scrupulous about guarding her. As for Goodman, I’m not sure what he’ll do. The last I saw of him-other than at the head of that awful band-was at the bolt-hole this morning. He’s like a jack-in-the-box, always popping in and out. Later I saw that he’d taken the letter I’d written to you, giving details about this past week-I thought I should set it all down in case Lestrade decided to arrest me. I put the Sussex address on the front, and stamps. I hope he remembers to put it into the post.” And to seal it first.

“You have doubts?”

“It is beyond me to predict what the man will do. He’s an extraordinary creature, like something from another world.” Time enough later to tell him what I knew of the man’s history. “Perhaps we’d best go back to Baker Street, just to be sure. I’ll need a change of clothes, in any case; it might as well be from there.”

“A man who cannot be trusted to post a letter is someone you trusted with the bolt-hole?” He did not sound angry, merely curious.

I could not explain my confidence in this odd man, not even to myself.

“I had to do something with him, Holmes. Billy was out of the equation, most of our friends are known, Mycroft’s flat felt exposed, and I didn’t want to risk an hotel. When you meet him, you can decide if I’ve compromised the place too badly.” And you have five other bolt-holes , I thought but did not say.

“Very well, let us go now. There will be rough garments there, I believe.” He picked up the tea-pot and cups, returning them to the sink.

“Rough?” I repeated to his back. I did not care for the sound of that word. “Why do we need rough garments, Holmes?”

He turned in surprise. “Oh, if you wish to retain the frock, by all means, do so, Russell. I merely assumed you would prefer more practical garb for the purpose of grave-digging.”

Holmes, no,” I protested, trotting after him down a passageway that would have been dark even were it not coming on to evening. “You can’t be serious. Grave-digging?”

“How else are we to know who lies there?”

“Why would you imagine it is anyone other than your brother?”

“I tried to get into the mortuary yesterday night and was told the coffin was already sealed. When I pressed the man, I learned that they had received the coffin in that state on the Thursday morning.”

“Is that unusual, when embalming is not required?”

“I…” He could not answer: Either he did not know, or it was not unusual.

“I’m surprised you didn’t break in then and there.”

“I would have, but there was never a time when the building was empty. Who would have imagined mortuaries were so incessantly busy?”

“Holmes, I think you’re being unreasonable.”

“You said yourself, you couldn’t believe Mycroft was dead.”

“That was a figure of speech!”

“Well, mine was not. When I see his corpse with my own eyes, I will believe, but not before then.”

I had found it difficult to use the words death and murder when talking to Lestrade that morning, but this went far beyond any mere aversion to hard truth. In another man, I would have assumed that brother-worship had taken an alarming turn and required physical intervention and a long period of quiet conversation. But this was Holmes, after all: Despite his age, I doubted I could tackle him successfully.

So I kept silent and did my best to keep up with him.

The streets behind Marylebone Road appeared deserted-these were, after all, office blocks, and it was a Sunday evening-but Holmes paused for several minutes at the top of the street so we could survey all of the doorways and windows. When he was satisfied, we made a swift detour through a service entry, came out next to the bolt-hole’s entrance, and in moments, we were inside and invisible.

But not before I had spotted something odd on the ground just outside the entrance. “Wait, is that-” I reached for it and said, “Holmes.”

“Quiet,” he shot back, standing rigid inside. I drew breath, and discovered what had attracted his attention: the odours of cooking, highly unlikely here.

“It’ll be Goodman,” I said. “He left this outside, stuck to the paving stones. An owl feather. His favourite bird, and not often seen in London.”

His eyes gleamed as he studied me in the faint light, then he turned and went on.

When we stepped into the tiny apartment, the first thing to greet our eyes were Robert Goodman’s stockinged feet against the wall. He was standing on his head.

“Hello, Robert,” I said, waiting for him to resume an upright position before I attempted introductions. But he stayed as he was, merely pointing a toe at the table and saying, “Sir, I believe there is an epistle I was instructed to deliver.”

Holmes looked at the table, then back at Goodman, and said, “It is, I agree, a topsy-turvy world.”

Instantly, Goodman let his legs fall to the floor and jumped upright, face pink and hair flattened. He shook his clothing back into place, rescued the neck-tie he had tucked between the buttons of his shirt, ran his hands over his hair, and stuck out his right hand.

“Mine host,” he said.

“Mr Goodman, I presume,” Holmes replied. “I understand it is you I have to thank for the musical interlude during the services for my brother.”

“You needn’t thank me,” Goodman protested, although that was not what Holmes had meant.

“Nonetheless. My brother would have been most… entertained.”

Goodman’s face relaxed into happiness. “I’m sorry your granddaughter couldn’t have been there.”

Holmes’ eyes came to me in silent reproach for the amount this stranger knew of us. “You think the child would have enjoyed it?”

“Heavens no. She’d have had to cover her ears.”

Holmes said dryly, “You think the child a natural music critic?”

“Ah, that’s right-you have not met the poppet. Perhaps you don’t know? Estelle has perfect pitch. She’d have found the discord physically painful.”

Now, Holmes simply looked at him. Goodman nodded as if he’d replied, and said, “She looks forward to meeting you.” He went into the minuscule kitchen, which was more a matter of putting his head into the cubicle.

“Mr Goodman, I believe you have something on the stove for us?”

“I do,” our guest replied. “Although I have to say it was a challenge, coming up with something edible out of that pantry. Perhaps the tins are intended as weapons, rather than comestibles?” he added politely, his head appearing around the door.

Holmes retreated with the letter to the inner room while I took out plates and silver. I was rinsing the dust from some glasses when I heard Holmes say my name, sharply. I looked in at where he sat on the bed.

“Why did you not tell me how Mycroft signed his name?” he demanded.