Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

"Russell, you have struck the very question upon which I proposed to meditate with my pipe. You have also saved me from the worst sin a detective can commit: overlooking the obvious. Show me what you have found." His eyes gleamed fiercely in the lamplight.

More lamps were sent for, and soon the little stone building blazed with light. Fowler was consulted and confirmed that the building had been cleaned about eight o'clock on what was now the previous night. I stood back with Lestrade, watching Holmes as he worked, tensely examining every scrap of evidence, muttering to himself continually, and occasionally snapping out instructions.

"Boots again, the small boots, square heels, not new. A bicycle rider I see. Lestrade, have you had the Men's blocked off, and the street outside? Good. She went here, here she stood. Hah! Another blonde hair; yes, too long for a man in this day, I think, and quite straight. Mark these envelopes please, Russell. Mud on her hands, traces in the sink, yes, and the tap. But no fingerprints on the mud. Gloves?" Holmes looked up absently at his reflection in the mirror, whistling softly through his teeth. "Why should she have mud on her gloves, and wash them? A perplexing question. Another light over here, Lestrade, and have the photographer take another set of the cab, would you, after MacReedy has finished? Yes, as I thought, right handed.

Washed, shook the water from her hands, or rather her gloves, and to the door. Off the footprints, man!

Heaven help us. To the street, then — no? Not to the street, back on the path, here it is, and here." He straightened up, winced, frowned vacantly up at the bare branches overhead while we watched in silence. "But that makes no sense, unless — Lestrade, I shall need your laboratory tonight, and I want this entire park cordoned off — nobody, nobody at all to set foot here until I've seen it by daylight.

Will it rain tonight, Russell?" "I don't know London, but it does not feel like rain.

It's certainly too warm to snow."

"No, I think we may risk it. Bring those envelopes, Russell. We have much to do before morning."

Truth to tell it was Holmes who had much to do, as there was but one microscope and he refused to say what he was looking for. I labelled a few slides, my eyes heavy despite strong coffee, and the next thing I knew it was morning, Holmes was standing at the window tapping his pipe on his teeth, and I was nearly crippled from being asleep with my head on the desk for several hours. My spine cracked loudly as I sat back in the chair, and Holmes turned.

"Ah, Russell," he said lightly, "do you always make such a habit of sleeping in chairs? I doubt your aunt would approve. Mrs. Hudson definitely would not."

I rubbed my eyes and glared at his ever-tidy person bitterly. "I take it that your revolting good humour means that something from last night's exercise has pleased you?"

"On the contrary, my dear Russell, it has displeased me considerably. Vague suspicions flit about my mind, and not one of them pleases me." His manner had grown distant and hard as he gazed unseeingly at the slides sprawled out on the workbench. He looked back at me with his steely eyes, then relaxed into a smile. "I shall tell you about it on our way to the park." "Oh, Holmes, be reasonable. You may be presentable, if a bit idiosyncratic in topper and tails, but how can I go out like this?" He took in my rumpled gown, my town stockings and impractical shoes, and nodded. "I'll ask if there's a matron who can help us." Before he could move, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

A tense young PC with an untamed cowlick stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade asked me to tell you that there's a parcel for the young lady at the front desk, but — "

Holmes exploded out of the room, giving lie to any rumours of slowness, pain, or rheumatism. I could hear his voice shouting "Don't touch that parcel, don't touch it, get a bomb disposal man first, don't touch it, did you catch the person who brought it, Lestrade — "

His voice faded as I followed him down the hall to the stairs, the young policeman jabbering away at my side.

"I was going to say, but he left, the package is with the bomb squad now, and Inspector Lestrade would like Mr. Holmes present at the questioning of the young man who brought it in. He didn't give me a chance to finish, sir." This last to Lestrade, who had intercepted Holmes in his precipitous flight. We could see the men at work downstairs, one with a stethoscope to the paper-wrapped parcel on the desk. We watched tensely, and I became aware of the unaccustomed silence. Traffic had been diverted.

Holmes turned to the inspector.

"You have the man who brought it?"

"Yes, he's here. He says a man stopped him in the street an hour ago, offering two sovereigns to deliver this package. Small, blonde man in a heavy coat, said it was for a friend who needed it this morning but he couldn't take it himself. Gave him a sovereign then, and took his address to send the second after he'd confirmed delivery." "Which will never arrive."

"The boy expects it to. Not too bright, this one. Not even sure he knows what a sovereign's worth, just likes the shine."

We had watched the two men work this whole time, their strain palpable as they gently snipped twine, cut away paper, and uncovered the contents, which had the appearance of folded clothing. Gently, slowly, the package was disassembled. In the end there lay draped over the police desk one silk shirt, a soft wool jacket, matching trousers, two angora stockings, and a pair of shoes. A folded note fell out of this last set of items and fluttered to the floor.

"Use your gloves on that," called Holmes.

The puzzled but relieved bomb man brought the note to Lestrade in a pair of surgical tweezers. He read it, handed it to Holmes, and Holmes read it aloud in a voice that slowed and climbed in dismay and disbelief.

"Dear Miss Russell [he read],

Knowing his limitations, I expect your companion will neglect to provide you with suitable clothing this morning. Please accept these with my compliments. You will find them quite comfortable.

— An admirer"

Holmes blinked several times and hurled the note at Lestrade. "Give this to your print man," he snarled. "Give the clothes to the laboratory, check them for foreign objects, corrosive powder, everything. Find out where they came from. And, for the love of God, can someone please provide Miss Russell with 'suitable clothing' so this case will not come to a complete standstill?" As he turned away in a cold fury I heard him breathe, "This becomes intolerable."

A variety of clothing appeared, part uniform, part civilian, all uncomfortable. We set off for the park in a police automobile, Lestrade in front with the driver, Holmes beside me, silent and remote and staring out the window while his long fingers beat a rhythm on his knee.

He did not divulge his laboratory findings. At the park he dashed up and down the paths for a very few minutes, nodding to himself, then bundled us brusquely back into the car. He turned a deaf ear to Lestrade's questions, and we rode in silence back to New Scotland Yard to make our way to Lestrade's office, where we were left alone.

Holmes went over to Lestrade's desk, opened a drawer, took out a packet of cigarettes, removed one, lit it with a vesta, and went to the window, where he stood with his back to me, staring unseeing out onto the busy Embankment and the river traffic beyond, smoke curling around him in the thin winter's sunlight that seeped through the dirty glass. He smoked the cigarette to the end without speaking, then walked back to the desk and pressed the stub with great deliberation into the ashtray.