Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

Amazing. Nothing fit me, nothing matched, and my feet hurt already, yet I would easily pass for a Young Thing out for a day in Town. I darkened the rims of my spectacles with some odd brown fingernail enamel and decided reluctantly that I should have to leave them off for much of the day, as any other vain young myopic would do. I gathered up Watson's clothes, turned off the lights, took a deep breath, and, with my hand inside my bag, opened the door.

No bombs went off, no bullets flew, no rough hands grabbed at me. I closed the door behind me and went off to spend the money I had borrowed so shamelessly from the Holmes brothers.

My first task was to make a move towards reuniting Watson with his trousers, but as I made my way back through the tearoom and the store's many levels, it occurred to me that Holmes' bolt-hole was ideally situated, that I could easily spend the day without having to set foot on the street, for this was one of the two stores in London (I shall not mention which, as the Storage Room may still be in use.) that touted itself as catering for needs from cradle to grave. It could certainly afford me protection, nourishment, and entertainment for a single day.

With that happy thought I deposited the bundle of Watson's salvaged clothing into his black bag and left it checked, mailed the receipt to Mycroft at his club, and set off on the unfamiliar but surprisingly agreeable task of spending money. Late that afternoon, my Storage Room reach-me-downs long since vanished into the rubbish bin, my hair sculpted, my fingernails buffed and gleaming beyond all recognition, my legs encased in sheer silk stockings that were actually long enough, and my feet in heeled shoes that didn't pinch, I decided that, all things considered, the occasional dose of pampering could be great fun.

I took a light and leisurely tea, assembled my multitude of parcels (which they offered to deliver, and I refused), and was escorted to the door. Here I ran into a problem. Holmes had insisted that I follow the same routine as the morning's, except to take the fourth cab, but here stood the uniformed doorman, and the first cab. I put on my spectacles, gave him a huge tip, and shook my head.

Fifteen minutes later the third cab arrived. It was getting very dark, and at that hour few cabs were free. This one looked enticingly warm, and my new evening clothes were not. Surely Holmes had not meant to be inflexible, had he? I looked through the door at the bored driver, stepped back, and waved him on. He looked highly irritated, which matched my mood precisely. I peered down the street in wan hope, studiously ignoring the doorman, when up before me pulled a very old and very battered cab drawn by one very old and battered horse.

"Cab, Miss?" said the voice from the moving anachronism.

I cursed Holmes under my breath. It looked very cold in there compared to the others, but it was a cab, or it had been thirty years before: a London growler. I told the driver where I wanted to go, saw my purchases piled inside, and got in. The doorman looked after me as if I were stark raving mad. Which I was.

I did not know London at all well then, though I had studied the maps a bit, so it took me a while to realise that we were going in the wrong direction. Not completely wrong, just very roundabout. My first thought was that the driver was pulling a swindle in order to charge me more for the ride. I had opened my mouth to call out when I froze with a terrible thought. Perhaps I had been followed.

Perhaps this driver was an ally of the blind pencil seller.

First I was frightened, but then I was furious. I fought the remnants of a window down and craned my neck out to see him. "Oy, driver, where are you taking me? This isn't the way to Covent Garden."

"Yes, Miss, this is the faster way, away from the heavy traffic, Miss," the voice whined obsequiously.

"All right, you, now look. I have a revolver, and I will shoot you if you do not stop immediately."

"Now, Miss, you doesn't want to be doing that, now," he snivelled.

"I'm feeling more like it every moment. Stop this cab, now!"

"But I can't do that, Miss, I really cannot."

"Why not?"

The shaggy head leaned over the side, and I stared up at him. "Because we'll miss the curtain if I do," said Holmes.

"You! You utter bastard," I growled. The gun shook in my hand, and Holmes, seeing it, drew his head back quickly. "Look, you, that's the second time you've played your bloody tricks on me in three days." I caught the startled look of a passerby and lowered my voice. "If you do it again and I have a gun in my hand, I won't be responsible, d'you hear? As sure as my mother's name is Mary McCarthy, I'll not be responsible for my temper."

I sat back in the swaying cab and caught my breath.

Several minutes later a thin voice drifted down to me.

"Yes, Miss."

Some distance from the theatre he pulled the ancient cab into a dark spot adjoining one of London's innumerable small and hidden parks. The growler sagged sideways with his weight, and in a moment the door fell open. He eyed me.

"Your mother's name was not Mary McCarthy," he said accusingly.

"No, it was Judith Klein, just don't scare me again, please. I've been walking around frightened and blind since I left your brother's rooms, and I'm tired."

"Apologies, Russell. My twisted sense of humour has had me in trouble before this. Pax?"

"Pax." We clasped hands firmly. He stepped up into the cab. "Russell, this time it is you who must turn your back. I can hardly go into the theatre looking like the driver of a four-wheeler." I hastily departed out the other side.

Coat and hat, stick and proper evening coat, hair combed, moustache applied, he alighted from the cab. A small man wandered up, whistling softly.

"Good evening, Billy."

"Evenin", Mr — Evenin', sir." He touched his hat to me.

"Don't break your neck over the boxes inside, Billy.

And there's a rug under the seat if you need it. Just keep your eyes open."

"That I will, sir. Have a good evenin', sir, Miss."

I was so preoccupied that I did not notice when Holmes tucked my arm in his.

"Holmes, how on earth did you find me?"

"Well, I cannot claim it was entirely a coincidence, as I thought it possible you would fall victim to the charms of the place and be there all day. Also, both the doorman and the attendant to whom you gave Watson's bag were watching and swore you hadn't yet left when I asked an hour ago. That was a slip, incidentally, Russell. You ought to have abandoned the trousers."

"So I see. Sorry. What did you find today?"

"Do you know, I found absolutely nothing. Not a rumour, not a word, nary a breath of someone moving against that old scoundrel Holmes. I must be losing my touch."

"Perhaps there was nothing?"

"Perhaps. It is a most piquant problem, I must admit.

I am intrigued."

"I am cold. So, what are we going to do now?" "We shall listen to the voices of angels and of men, my child, set to the music of Verdi and Puccini."

"And after that?"

"After that we shall dine."

"And then?"

"I fear we shall skulk back to my brother's rooms and hide behind his drapes."

"Oh. How is your back?"

"Damn my back, I do wish you would stop harping on the accursed thing. If you must know, I had it serviced again this afternoon by a retired surgeon who does a good line in illegal operations and patching up gunshot wounds.

He found very little to do on it, told me to go away, and I find the topic tiresome."