Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

"Russell, that last line was a bit overly dramatic, don't you think?" Holmes murmured at my side.

"A good apprentice learns all from her master, sir," I answered demurely.

"Then let us go and see what is to be learnt from this old horse cab. I greatly desire news of this person who plagues us and continually attacks my friends. I hope that the case will at last provide us with a thread to grasp."

The cab stood cordoned off in a circle of flares, its shabby exterior even more obvious now than it had been by the streetlamps.

"This is where we found your man," Lestrade said, pointing. "We tried to keep off the ground right there, but we had to get him up and out of there. He was lying on his side, curled up on that old suit with a rug tucked around him."

"What?" The suit was Holmes' cabbie outfit; the rug was from the cab.

"Yes, wrapped up and snoozin' like a baby he was."

Holmes handed his hat, coat, and stick to Lestrade and took a small, powerful magnifying lens out of his pocket. Down on the ground he looked for all the world like some great lanky hound, casting about for a scent.

Finally he gave a low exclamation and produced a small envelope from another pocket. Scraping gently at various tiny smudges on the paving stones, he sat back on his haunches with an air of triumph, careless of the beating his back had taken.

"What do you make of this, Russell?" he asked, sketching a vague circle.

I walked over to peer at the marks. "Two pairs of feet? One has been in the mud today, the other — is that oil?"

"Yes, Russell, but there will be a third somewhere.

At the door to the cab? No? Well, perhaps inside." And so saying, he opened the door. "Lestrade, your men will go over the whole cab for fingerprints, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. I've sent for an expert; he should be here before too long. New man, but seems good. MacReedy, his name is."

"Oh yes, Ronald MacReedy. Interesting article of his, comparing whorls with the personality traits of habitual criminals, didn't you think?"

"I, er, didn't happen to see it, Mr. Holmes."

"Pity. Still, never too late. Russell, I take it these were all your things?"

I looked in past his shoulder at the wreckage. All that was left of my lovely and exorbitantly expensive clothes were the dress and cloak I was wearing and numerous scraps of coloured fabric. Small shreds of blue wool, green silk, and white linen littered the inside of the cab, alternating with torn bits of the boxes, twine, and paper they had been in. I picked up a short bit of string for something to fiddle with. The tufted leather seat had been deeply and methodically slashed from one end to another, with the exception of approximately a foot on one end of the front seat cushion. Horsehair stuffing had sifted over everything.

Holmes got to work with his glass by the light Les-trade held for him. Envelopes were filled, notes made, questions asked. The fingerprint man arrived and set to. A brazier had appeared from somewhere, and the uniformed police were standing around it, warming their hands. The night was very late, and the cold, though not bitter, was penetrating. Impatient grumbles and glances were beginning to drift our way. There was no room for me in the cab, so I left and went to stand by the fire with the police constables.

I smiled up at the big one next to me. "I wanted to tell you how glad I am of your presence here, all of you.

Someone seems to bear Mr. Holmes considerable ill will, and he is — well, his body is not quite so fast as it once was. I feel considerably better with some of the force's best on hand. Particularly you, Mr. — ?" I leaned toward the older constable, a question on my face.

"Fowler, Miss. Tom Fowler."

"Mr. Fowler, particularly with you. Mr. Holmes found your fast action most impressive." I smiled sweetly around the fire. "Thank you, all of you, for your vigilance and attention to duty."

I went back to the cab then, and though there were numerous glances, they were directed into the dark night, and there were no more grumbles. When Lestrade was called away to attend to some matter, I held the lamp for Holmes.

"So you think I am slowing down, do you?" he said, amused. "Your mind, I think not. I said that to encourage the troops, who were getting careless with having to stand about to no purpose. I exaggerated, perhaps, but they will be attentive now."

"I told you, I do not think we shall be attacked."

"And I am beginning to suspect that this opponent of yours knows you well enough to take your thoughts into account when planning his actions."

"Slow as I am, Russell, that idea had come to me. Now." He sat back. "Your turn. I need you to go through and tell me if there are any scraps that are not from your things. It will take some time, so I will send over that tall young PC to help you, and another to find some hot drink.

I shall go and examine the neighbourhood."

"Take someone with you, Holmes, please."

"After your performance out there they'll be tripping over each other in their eagerness to protect my doddering old frame."

It took some time to sift through the cab's contents, but eventually, with the help of young PC Mitchell, I had a large pile of paper and fabric scraps heaped outside, and three thin envelopes in my hand. We climbed out of the cab and stood stretching the cricks out of our spines, drinking mugs of hot, sweet tea until Holmes reappeared with his eager bodyguards.

"Thank you, gentlemen, you have been most dutiful. Go and have some tea, now. Off you go, there's a good fellow," he said, giving the most persistent constable a pat between the shoulder blades that shoved him off towards the tea station. "Russell, what have you found?"

"One button, with a scrap of brown tweed attached, cut recently from its garment by a sharp instrument. Another thick smudge of light brown clay. And one blonde hair, not my own, considerably shorter. Plus a great deal of dust and rubbed-about dirt and débris, indicating that the cab has not been cleaned in some time." "It has also not been used in some time, Russell, so your three finds are undoubtedly worthy of our attention."

"And you, Holmes, what have you found?"

"Several things of interest, but I need to smoke a pipe over them, perhaps two, before I have anything to say."

"Will we be here long, Holmes?"

"Another hour, perhaps. Why?"

"I have been drinking champagne, then coffee, now tea. I cannot last another hour without doing something about it." I was determined not to be embarrassed about the problem.

"Of course." He looked around at the noticeable dearth of female company. "Have the older man — Fowler — show you the — facilities — in the park. Take a lamp with you."

With dignity I summoned the man and explained the mission, and he led me off through the park along its soft gravel paths. We talked inconsequentially of children and green areas, and he stood outside as I entered the little building. I finished and went to wash my hands, placing the lamp on the shelf that stood above the basin. I reached for the tap and saw there a smear of light-brown clay. I took the lamp to look more closely, unwilling to believe.

"Mr. Fowler," I called sharply.

"Miss?"

"Go and get Mr. Holmes."

"Miss? Is something wrong?"

"No, something is not wrong, for a change. Just get him."

"But I shouldn't — "

"I'll be safe. Just go!"

After a moment's hesitation, his heavy footsteps went off quickly into the night. I heard his voice calling out loudly, answering shouts, and the thud of several running men returning up the path. Holmes stood at the door of the Ladies', looking in uncertainly. "Russell?"

"Holmes, could the man we're looking for be a woman?"