Laurie King - The Language of Bees

In March, a man named Danielson had been knifed in a fishing village in Cornwall, his body found the morning after the full moon, his assailant not identified. In April, a shepherd's death was probably exposure, but then on 18 May there was an interesting item: Blood was seen near the entrance of a large chambered tomb in the Orkney Islands. When the farmer went to see, he found a sheep dead inside the chamber, its throat savaged by a dog.

Right, I thought, I can just see asking Lestrade to look into that. That reminded me: “What about Holmes' dead ram? It's not on this list.”

Mycroft blinked. “Might he have been making a jest with Lestrade?”

“It didn't sound like it.”

Mycroft's gaze focused on the coffee pot in the centre of the table, as he slipped effortlessly back into the retrieval state. Twenty minutes later, as I was myself eyeing the pot and wondering if it would shatter his concentration were I to pour myself another cup, he stirred and picked up his cold cup.

“The only dead sheep that received mention in the news or in my dispatches was the one in Cumbria, although it happened the first week of May, not during the full moon. I shall make enquiries with my colleagues in Agriculture.” He sounded mildly embarrassed, as if admitting to failure, and I hastened to re-assure him.

“I shouldn't think it matters, just that if we're looking at odd deaths during full moons, especially if there is some link to Neolithic sites, then Holmes is right, we ought to take livestock into account.”

He nodded, still looking abashed, and finished his breakfast. When he left, he had Testimony under his arm.

I studied the long list he had dictated.

Each date began with events in and around London, then dropped down into the southland before working its way north-indicating that Mycroft's mind had put the facts into order, rather than eidetically regurgitating the various newspaper articles. Although that would have been incredible enough.

I began to work my way down the pages, putting an X beside anything I thought worth a closer look, particularly those near ancient monuments.

Near the March full moon, three sheep had been found dead in a field in Oxfordshire, less than a mile from the Rollright Stones; the Cornish fisherman Danielson was killed, and although there was no mention of standing stones or what have you, Cornwall was so littered with prehistoric monuments, it was hardly worth noting; an old woman was discovered in a pew in a tiny village church near Maidstone, after the Sunday morning service: Her fellow parishioners had not disturbed her, thinking she was praying, or sleeping, but it turned out she had been peacefully dead since the Friday.

In April, a shepherd in Yorkshire died from exposure, with no mention of burial mounds or ancient Druidic altars.

In May came the ewe in the chambered tomb in Orkney, and although it was mildly interesting that two sheep had died near Neolithic monuments in the same month, I anticipated that any report from Mycroft's agricultural colleague would give me a few dozen more: Sheep and standing stones both tend to be found in desolate stretches of land, for similar reasons: Valuable farmland would have been put under the plough already, with any inconvenient stones broken down and carted off for the farmer's use.

June saw the death of Fiona Cartwright at Cerne Abbas, a full moon, but the moon was a week past full when the summer solstice clash of opposing beliefs erupted at Stonehenge.

July was noteworthy for the largest number of events, possibly because with the long days and a stretch of warm weather, more people were out and about. There were no fewer than three injuries along Hadrian's Wall at the full moon, because (according to Mycroft) one of the local tourist agencies had decided to sponsor night rambles along the wall, with catastrophic results. None of the walkers had died, but one was still in hospital with a head injury, and it was not yet known whether he had fallen or been attacked. On the morning of 17 July, blood was found spattered across the altar of the Kirkwall cathedral in the Orkneys, although when no body showed up to go with the blood, it was decided that a cat had brought its prey inside for a sacrilegious meal. I noted that this was the second mention of the Orkney Islands, but what I found more interesting was the idea of an Orkney cathedral in the first place: a grandiose image for a remote dot of land.

August was noteworthy for the death of Yolanda Adler at the Wilmington Giant; there had been other incidents scattered across the country, but the only likely fatality had taken place the Tuesday before the full moon, a man who celebrated the loss of his job by going up to a remote site in the Yorkshire moors to slit his wrists. I made note of this one, to find details not contained in Mycroft's newspapers.

While I was pushing the multitude of incidents around in my mind and wondering how best to investigate any links, the telephone rang. The housekeeper picked it up, then I heard her say my name.

It was Holmes, and although his voice was all but incomprehensible with distance, my heart jumped with the reassurance that he was safe.

“Russell, is that you? Thank goodness, it's taken me an hour to convince the operator that I did in fact require a trunk call. Is there any word of Damian?”

“None, although the morning papers are baying after him.”

“I've seen. I'm on my way to Stonehenge, and then-”

“Holmes, before we're cut off, let me tell you what Mycroft and I have been looking at.” I gave him a quick outline of sixteen of what I deemed the most likely incidents, from the three sheep at the Rollright Stones to the Yorkshire suicide.

At the end of it, the line crackled for several seconds, alarming me that he had not heard most of my recitation, but then his voice came into my ear.

“Thank you, Russell, I shall see how many of those I can investigate over the next days, beginning with Stonehenge. I've been to see the agency in Poole, which is a fairly low-end affair, and will post their description of-”

The ear-piece went dead. I lingered at the table, shuffling papers and reading the newspaper, but eventually I gave up and asked Mrs Cowper to call me from the bath if he came through again. When I had dressed, I took my hat and bag and went to tell her that if Holmes rang, she should simply write down what he told her.

“Very well, ma'am,” she said. “Did you want me to tell him about the letter?”

“What letter is that?”

It had come while I was in the bath, thin paper and a post office pen, sent first to Sussex, then re-addressed to London in Mrs Hudson's writing. The franking showed it had been processed in London on Saturday morning. There was no return address and I did not recognise the hand, but I tore it open and read:

Friday evening, 15th

Dear Father,

I have received a message from Yolanda to say that she and Estelle are with friends in the country, and that she hopes I will join them there. I apologise for getting the wind up so and hauling you from your needed rest in Sussex. I ought to have known that it was merely Yolanda being her sweet and maddening self. I can only hope this reaches you before you have spent too much more energy on the paper chase I've laid you.

I will not apologise, however, for having got to know you somewhat during the past days, even under such trying circumstances. I had anticipated-this will be no surprise to you-that matters between us might be less congenial than in fact they turned out to be. When things settle somewhat, I shall be back into touch and we can begin afresh, with a proper meeting and introductions all around. I can only trust that the manner in which you “met” Yolanda will not overly influence your future relations with her.