Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

Outside the Monk's Tun the sun was fully up and the narrow village lane was hot and bright. I spared a moment's thought for the work crew I was supposed to be in and pushed it away. I felt Holmes at my elbow.

"I'd like to take a look at your topographical maps, if I may," I said. This in itself was an admission of failure, that I did not hold the details of the Ordnance Survey for my own district firmly to mind, but he did not comment.

"All the resources of the firm are yours to command," he said. This proved to include one of the automobiles his neighbour ran as the rural taxi service, which was standing next to the inn. We got in and returned to Holmes' cottage.

I greeted Mrs. Hudson and went through the sitting room to the cabinet where Holmes kept his vast collection of maps. I found the ones I needed and spread them out on the worktable and made notes of the five places that I knew had red clay surfacing from the chalky soil of the downs. Holmes had busied himself with some other project, but when he walked past the table to fetch a book he casually laid a fingertip first at one place on the map, then another, reminding me of two more occurrences.

"Thank you," I said to his back. "In all but one of the places where the red soil is found, the map shows an outcropping of rock. Two of those correspond both with — Are you at all interested in this, Holmes?" He did not look up from his book but waved his hand in a gesture I took to mean "continue," so I did. "There are only two places where we find a combination of red soil, recent road work, and employees of the Tun. One is north two miles on the Heathfield road, and the other is west, down near the river." I waited for a response, received none, and went to the telephone. Apparently I was to be in charge of this investigation, although, I suspected, with a hawk-eyed critic at my shoulder. As I waited to be connected it occurred to me that I had not heard the taxi leave and indeed, when I glanced out the window, there it was in the drive, the man behind the wheel settled back with a book. I was briefly annoyed at Holmes, not so much because of his easy anticipation of our needs as because I had not thought to have the automobile wait.

The exchange connected me with the Monk's Tun.

"Mrs. Whiteneck? Mary Russell here. Has the inspector arrived yet? He did? Oh, did he? PC Rogers must have been disappointed. Yes. Still, you have your kitchen back. Look, Mrs. Whiteneck, could you tell me which of your employees are at the inn today, and the hours they'll be working? Yes. Yes. Fine, thanks, then. Yes, I'll be in touch." I rang off.

"Inspector Mitchell came, took a look, gave PC Rogers a dressing-down for wasting his time, and left," I said to the room at large, received back the response I expected, which was none, and sat looking at the list of names. They included Jenny Wharton, a maid at the inn who lived on the north road and worked today until eight o'clock, and Tony Sylvester, a new barkeep, who would be away from his home near the river until well after seven.

Now what?

I could not very well arrive at their respective houses and search them in their absence. Were I to stumble innocently across the cache of stolen goods, though, that might be a different matter. However, I could scarcely claim that I just happened to see the box under a bed up in the first-storey bedroom or smell the ham in — Wait now, smelling four hams, that might be — What if —?

"Holmes, do you suppose — Oh, never mind." I took down the telephone again and asked for another number. Holmes turned a page in his book.

"Mrs. Barker, good morning. This is Mary Russell. How are you? And your husband? Good, I'm glad. Yes, we were quite fortunate, weren't we? I say, Mrs. Barker, of your dogs, do you have one that's good at tracking? Yes, you know, following a scent. You do? Would you mind lending him to me for a little while? No, no, I'll come up and get him. He'll ride in an automobile, won't he? Good, I'll be there in a bit, then. Thank you."

I put up the receiver. "Holmes, do you mind if I use the car that is waiting so obviously in the drive?"

"But of course," he said, and put his book back on the shelf.

We rode to the inn where I borrowed a clean tea towel and rubbed it into one of the remaining hams, then went back up the road to the Barkers' house. The ravening hordes descended on the car, causing the driver to swerve and curse under his breath as the dogs leapt and bit at the wheels and carried on as if they were about to eat us alive, tyres and all. I opened the door into their midst, and when I stepped out the entire pack went instantly silent and began to study the sky and sniff at the tussocks of grass growing along the drive, and to drift away unobtrusively. Mrs. Barker came out with a collar and lead in her hand, looked surprised at the tame mob, and went over to a bush to retrieve a very sorry looking specimen with long ears, patchy fur, and an undercarriage that brushed the ground. She led him back to us and handed me the lead.

"This is Justinian," she said, and added, "They're all named after emperors."

"I see. Well, we shall have the emperor in before nightfall, I expect. Come, Justinian." He ambled along at the end of the lead, climbed laboriously into the car, and proceeded to give Holmes' boots a thorough bath with his tongue.

I directed the driver first to the road that led north and had him let us out to wander the roads. Justinian sniffed industriously but gave no response to the hammy tea towel. After a while we got back into the car and drove on to the mill road, beyond which lived Tony Sylvester. Again Holmes and I walked the verge while Justinian snuffled in the weeds and anointed them. We walked on, and on, a parade of dog, humans, and automobile, and I had quite enough time to regret bitterly that I had ever involved myself in this farce. Holmes said nothing. He did not have to.

"Another half mile," I said between clenched teeth," and we assume either that the man was not on foot, or that the imperial nose is not what it was. Come on, Justinian." I took the cloth and waved it under his nose. "Find! Find!"

He paused in his delicate examination of a flattened toad at the side of the road to savour the hammy cloth, his eyes lowered pensively. He stood for a moment, thinking deep thoughts inside his unkempt head, sat down to scratch a flea in his left ear, stood up, sneezed vigorously, and set off firmly down the road. We followed, more quickly now, and in a few minutes he dove off onto a thin track, under a fence, and into a field. Holmes signaled the car to wait where it was, and we clambered over in Justinian's wake.

"I hope this is not the field with the bull in it," I muttered.

"There is a path, so it is doubtful. Hello, what is this?"

It was a ten-shilling note, crushed into a patch of soft soil by a bovine hoof. Holmes carefully extricated it and placed it in my hand.

"Not the most professional job in the world, would you say, Russell? He couldn't even wait to get home to gloat over his booty."

"I did not take up this investigation for its intense mental stimulation," I snapped. "I only wished to help out a friend."

"One cannot be too demanding, I suppose. Still, I may be home in time to resume the haemoglobin experiment. Ah yes, I believe we — I believe you have found Mr. Sylvester's house."

The faint path went through another fence and dwindled away at a small stone farmhouse that had a faintly desolate air. There was no sign of life, no answers to our calls. Justinian tugged us along to a little smokehouse that stood apart, gently emitting curls of fragrant smoke. He went up to it and stood, nose to the crack, whining irritably. I opened the door, and in the dark, smoke-filled interior saw three whole hams and part of a fourth. I took my knife from my pocket and cut off a large piece, tossing it to the ground in front of Justinian.