Laurie King - The Beekeeper's Apprentice

The two of us created quite a sensation clattering down the stairs. The hypochondriac down the hall had just come out of the bathroom when we came running towards her. She screamed and clutched her dressing gown to her chest as we flew past.

"Men! Two men in the hall!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Di, it's me," I shouted ungrammatically.

She leant over the stairwell with several others to watch our descent. "Mary? But who's that with you?"

"An old friend of the family!"

"But it's a man!"

"So I noticed."

"But men aren't allowed in here!" Their protests faded above us.

"Russell, I must use Mr. Thomas's telephone — Ah, here he is. Pardon me, Thomas."

"I beg your pardon, reverend sir, may I help you? Miss

Russell, who is this? Please, sir, what do you want? Sir, the telephone is not for public use. Sir — "

"Mr. Thomas, is my car ready?" I interrupted while Holmes awaited connexion.

"What? Ah, yes, Miss, they said they would bring it out for you. Miss, who is this gentleman?" "A friend of the family, Mr. Thomas. Dear me, I hear

Dianne at the top of the stairs. Do you think you should perhaps see what she wants? You know how highly strung she is. No, Mr. Thomas, you go help her; I'll show this friend of mine out. Yes, friend of the family. Very old. Yes.

Good-bye, Mr. Thomas, I'll not be back in tonight."

"Or tomorrow night," shouted Holmes. "Come, Russell!"

The car was warmed up and running at the kerb, and the garage man quickly got out when he saw us coming, then paused with his hand on the door.

"Is that you, Miss Russell?"

"Yes, Hugh, thanks a million. Bye." He winced as I squealed the tires, but after all, it wasn't his motorcar.

Holmes did more than wince before we were out of Oxford, but I didn't hit anybody, and only brushed the farm cart slightly. It wasn't his automobile either, and what do men know about driving?

When I had settled the Morris down to a slow blur on the black and narrow road out of Oxford, I turned to Holmes.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I say, Russell, do you think — that is, is this the proper speed for this particular road and these — watch the cow — these particular conditions?"

"Well, I could go a bit faster, if you like, Holmes. I suppose the car would take it."

"No, that was not what I had in mind."

"Then what — Oh, of course, you want an alternate route. You're right as usual, Holmes. Reach behind you and get the maps; they're in that black pouch there. There's a hand torch in the pocket. Holmes, your eyebrow has fallen off again."

"I'm not surprised," he muttered, and peeled off the rest of the disguise.

"You make a fine priest, Holmes, very distinguished.

Now, those maps start with Oxford and work their way down to Eastbourne. There's a point in a few miles where we can get off to the left. It's marked as a farm track. Do you see it?"

Holmes claims that night's ride took ten years from his life, but I found it quite exhilarating to be rocketing along unlighted country lanes at high speeds with the man I hadn't been able to properly speak with openly for so many months. He didn't seem to find many topics of conversation during those hours, though, so I had to fill in.

Once, when we slipped by inches through a gap between a hay wagon and a stone wall, losing considerable paint to the latter, Holmes was really quite uncharacteristically silent. After some minutes I asked him if he was feeling well.

"Russell, if you decide to take up Grand Prix racing, do ask Watson to do your navigating. This is just his métier."

"Why, Holmes, do you have doubts about my driving?"

"No, Russell, I freely admit that when it comes to your driving abilities, I have no doubts whatsoever. The doubts I have are concerned with the other end of our journey. The question of our arrival, for one thing."

"And what we shall find when we get there?"

"That too, but it is perhaps not of such immediate concern. Russell, did you see that tree back there?"

"Yes, a fine old oak, wasn't it?"

"I hope it still is," he muttered. I laughed merrily.

He winced.

We succeeded in working our way across all the major arteries coming from London on our cross-country flight. Finally we shook them off and straightened out for the last clear run at home. I glanced at Holmes in the pale moonlight.

"Are you going to tell me how you came to be in Oxford? And what your plans are for the next few hours?" "Russell, I really think you ought to slow this machine down. We cannot know when we will come across our opponent's minions, and we do not wish to attract their attention. They believe you are in Oxford and I am in bed."

I allowed the speedometer to show a more sedate speed, which seemed to satisfy him. Hedgerows and farm gates flew past in our headlamps, but it was still too early for the farmers themselves.

"I came to Oxford by train, a commonplace method of transport considerably more comfortable than your racing car."

"Holmes, it's only a Morris."

"After tonight I doubt the factory would recognise it. At any rate, I regret to inform you that your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has taken a definite turn for the worse. It seems that last week he foolishly allowed himself to take a chill and was soon in bed with pneumonia. He refused to go into hospital; nurses were in attendance around the clock. The doctor came regularly and looked grim when he left. Russell, have you any idea how difficult it is to find a specialist who can both lie and act? Thank God for Mycroft's connexions."

"How have you kept Watson away?"

"He did come to see me once, last week. It took me two hours to apply the make-up to convince him, and even then I had to refuse to let him examine me. If he had come bouncing out of my cottage like a cat hiding the feathers, can you imagine what that would have done with the trap? The man never could prevaricate. Mycroft had to convince him that if anything were to happen to my dear friend Watson it truly would do me in, so he is back in hiding."

"Poor Uncle John. We shall have a lot of explaining to do when this is over."

"He has always been most forgiving. But, to continue. I had thought that my grave illness might increase the pressure on the woman and force a move out of her. I was going to speak to you about it when you came down this week, as I knew you should when you got Mrs. Hudson's weekly letter tomorrow — or, rather, today — but it began to move faster than I had anticipated, so I came to Oxford to consult. Only to find that you in turn were coming here."

"What happened to make you come?"

"You know my hillside watchers? They've really become most careless, glints of light from their glasses and lighting cigarettes in the dark. One of Mycroft's little gifts last month was a high-powered telescope, so I've spent a great deal of time behind my bedroom curtains, watching the watchers. Their routine is quite predictable, always the same people at the same times. Then suddenly yesterday, or rather the day before yesterday — Sunday evening it was — as I was watching them watch me, they all disappeared.

A man whom I hadn't seen before came from the back side of the hill, they talked for a few minutes, and then off they went, leaving their equipment behind them.

I hadn't dared hope for something like that, but given the opportunity I wasn't about to let it go by. I sent old Will up to take a look and bring back what he could find for me. He's retired, but in his day he was the best, and when he doesn't want to be seen, a hawk wouldn't find him.

"He came back two hours later, just after dark, with a fine sack of rubbish for me to pick over. Cheese rinds, an old boot heel, some biscuit wrappers, a wine bottle. I took it into the laboratory, and what did I find? Oxford cheese, Oxford mud on the old heel, and a wrapper around the biscuits from a shop in the Oxford covered market. I smoked a couple of pipes and decided to spend the day in bed while catching the morning train. The doctor, by the way, gave a slightly more hopeful prognosis this afternoon, the night nurse has been dismissed, and the sound of my violin has been heard from behind the bedroom curtains on and off throughout the afternoon. You know, Russell, of all the miracles of modern technology, I have found the gramophone the most useful. Incidentally," he added, "Mrs. Hudson is in on the charade now."