Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

"I almost got away, but I slipped and fell and he caught me, and then I thought maybe if I didn't eat anything they'd have to let me go, but I was so hungry, even if it meant I had to — had to use the pot, and then I couldn't get the chain off my leg, and then there was always someone there, and after all those days went by and nobody came, I thought maybe, maybe — well, that Ma- ma'd gone away home to America and Papa wouldn't want me back." This last came out in a tiny whisper, and she picked at the hem of her skirt.

"Do you talk to your Mama about it?"

"I tried to yesterday, but it made her cry. I don't like to see Mama cry."

"No," I agreed, and felt a flicker of anger at the woman's lack of control. "She's been upset, Jessie, but she'll be much better in a few days. Try again then, or talk to your father."

"I'll try," she said uncertainly. I put my hands on her shoulders and made her look at me.

"Do you trust me, Jessie?"

"Yes."

"I mean really trust me? A lot of grown-ups say things that aren't exactly true because they want to make you feel better, but will you believe me when I say I won't do that to you? Ever?"

"Yes."

"Then listen to me, Jessica Simpson. I know you've heard this before from other people, but now you're hearing it from me, your sister, Mary, and it's the truth. You did everything you possibly could, and you did it perfectly. You left your handkerchief and your hair ribbon for us to find — "

"Like Hansel and Gretel," she inserted.

"Exactly, a trail through the woods. You tried to get away, even though they hurt you for it, and then when they had you in a place where you could do nothing, you waited, you kept strong, and you didn't do anything that might make them want to hurt you. You waited for us. Even though it was boring and scary and very, very lonely, you waited. And when I came you acted like the intelligent person you are, and you kept quiet and let me carry you away over those skinny branches, and you were absolutely quiet, even when I squashed your arm coming down the tree."

"It didn't hurt much."

"You were brave, you were intelligent, you were patient. And as you say, it isn't really over yet, and you're going to have to be brave and intelligent and patient for a while longer, and wait for the anger and the fear to settle down. They will." (And the nightmares? my mind whispered.) "Not right away, and they'll never go away completely, but they'll fade. Do you believe me?"

"Yes. But I'm still very angry."

"Good. Be angry. It's right to be angry when someone hurts you for no reason. But do you think you can try not to be too afraid?"

"To be angry and — happy?" The incongruity obviously appealed to her. She savoured it for a moment and jumped to her feet. "I'm going to be angry and happy."

She ran out of the room. I followed, carrying Mary doll, and entered the sitting room as she was declaring her new philosophy of life to her bewildered mother. I caught Holmes' eye, and he rose. Mrs. Simpson made as if to stop him.

"Oh, can't you stay for tea, Mr. Holmes? Miss Russell?"

"I am sorry, Madam, but we have to go to the police station and then catch the seven o'clock train. We must be gone." Jessica hugged me, hard. I dropped down to her level and gave her the doll.

"Can you write yet, Jessie?"

"A little."

"Well, perhaps your mother might help you write me a letter sometimes. I'd love to hear from you. And remember to stay happy with your anger. Good-bye, sister Jessie."

"Good-bye, sister Mary." She whispered it so her mother shouldn't hear, and giggled.

We took our leave of an uncomfortable Chief Inspector Connor, who arranged a car to Bristol so we might catch an earlier train and be off his turf all the sooner. Again we had a compartment to ourselves, though we were no longer more disreputable than our bags. Bristol turned to fields outside our window, and Holmes reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch. Normality tugged at me, becoming more firm with each accelerating clack of the iron wheels, but there was something to be set aright between Holmes and myself before we went further.

"Holmes, you did not wish to let me join you in this case," I said. He grunted in agreement. "Do you now regret that you did so?" He knew immediately what I was talking about and did not pretend otherwise. However, he did not look at me, but took his pipe out of his mouth and examined the bowl closely, retrieved his little tool, and fussed with the tobacco for a moment before answering.

"I was indeed filled with a singular lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. I admit that. However, I hope you under stand that this was not due to any doubts concerning your abilities. I work alone. I always have. Even when Watson was with me, he functioned purely as another pair of hands, not in anything resembling true partnership. You, however — I have seen for some time that you are not the type to be content to follow directions. My hesitation was not out of fear that you might put a foot disastrously wrong, but that I might cause you to do so by misdirection and my longstanding disinclination to work in harness with another. As it happened, by hesitating to give you even the responsibility for creating the necessary diversion, I paradoxically presented you with an opportunity for independently solving the case."

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but as I was — "

"For God's sake, Russell," he interrupted impatiently, "don't apologise. I know the circumstances; you made the correct decision. You should have been quite wrong, in fact, had you let the opportunity slip through your fingers. I admit that I was severely taken aback when I saw you running down the road with the child on your back. It was something Watson could never have done, even discounting his bad leg. Watson's great strength has always been his utter, dogged dependability. His attempts at independent action tend to blow up in my face, so I have never encouraged them, but I allowed you to come in with me on this case because the step had to be taken at some time, and it was best done while I was immediately to hand at every moment. Or so I thought, not knowing that the first time I let you out of my sight you would take it into your head to perform an appallingly dangerous stunt like — " He stopped and turned again to his pipe, which seemed to be giving him considerable difficulty. When it was finally belching smoke to his satisfaction, he looked at me, and in his eye was what I can only describe as a rueful twinkle. "It was, in fact, precisely what I myself might have done, given the circumstances."

In an instant twenty pounds were lifted from my shoulders and five years added to my posture. Although the compliment was distinctly backhanded, I felt ridiculously pleased, though I hid the satisfied smile on my lips by looking out the window. After a few dozen telegraph posts my thoughts turned back to other concerns, to the child in the hotel and the struggle she faced. Holmes read my mind.

"What did you say to the child, to cheer her so? She seemed a different person when we left."

"Did she? Good." The poles flipped rhythmically past, and the steady beat of the wheels called hypnotically, and because he was Holmes I finally answered him.

"I told her some things that someone told me, when my family died. I hope they do her some good."

I sat and watched our reflections in the darkening window, and Holmes smoked his pipe, and we spoke no more until we came to Seaford.

Holmes' assessment of the case had been quite right, of course. The men in Wales had been paid — well paid — for their work and had received their orders anonymously, from a hoarse voice in London and through the post. All had been meticulously planned. They had been instructed in every detail, from the hiring of the house and the purchase of clothing in Cardiff to the construction of the gas gun, the route to take away from the tent, how to word messages in the agony column, the wearing of masks around the child (which had been a relief to me, knowing that murder was not intended) — all this within the space of a few weeks, and all without any trace of the link with London. When the men were taken, all threads snapped, and we were left with five talkative men, some untraceable money, and the knowledge that the puppet-master behind the deed had walked away scot-free.