Laurie King - The Language of Bees

Just what I should want, were I up to no good.

I wound down the stairs and told the conductor that I would get off at his next stop, which proved to be the village centre, half a mile down the road. I strode up the row of shops as if certain of my destination, but in fact trying to decide: linger here until dusk and risk missing something at the house, or go back and chance being seen?

A sign on the other side of the high street decided me: Estate Agent , it offered; Properties to Let.

The office was about to close, it being ten minutes to six, but I slipped in, unobtrusively deposited my bag on a chair near the doorway, and walked up to the man behind the desk, my hand already out.

“I'm sorry, miss-” he began, but he got no further.

Really, what could he do, faced with an enthusiastic young lady who pumped his hand and declared that he was just what she'd been looking for, she was the secretary to Lady Radston-Pompffrey who was looking for a large house to let for her American niece and family, who for some odd Colonial reason wished a place that felt as if it were in the country whilst at the same time they could be in Town without bother, and this appeared to be precisely the sort of area Lady R-P would approve.

At the thought of what finding a large house for me could do to his monthly income, the gentleman settled back into his chair, apologised that he couldn't offer me a cup of tea but his assistant had already gone home, and took out his pencil to note the details of what the good Lady wanted for her American niece.

Interestingly enough, what this fictional aristocrat wished matched quite closely what I had seen of the house behind the tall brick walls. His face fell.

“Ah, well, I'm sorry you didn't come in last summer, we could have helped you there. Yes, I know the house you mean, and in point of fact, I acted as agent for it-the house is now under a two-year lease, not due to expire until November of 'twenty-five. However, I'm sure we can find-”

“November, you say? Do you suppose the tenants might have tired of it by now? Perhaps I should pop in and ask them.”

“No. I mean to say, I wouldn't recommend that, they made it quite clear that they were looking for privacy.”

“Ooh, how mysterious. Local folk?”

“A gentleman from overseas, I understand, although his agent was local. They hold meetings there, I think it's one of these new-fangled religious groups.”

“Or perhaps they're Naturists, you know, prancing about the garden in the nude.” That served to distract him. “Have you met the man? I wonder if I know him? Lady R-P dabbles in Tarot and Spiritualism,” I confided.

“Er, sorry? Met him, no-saw him once, nice-looking fellow, but I shouldn't think…”

“Do you have his agent's name?” I asked, thinking, Please don't make me break in and go through your books.

“Gunderson,” he answered absently. “Shady character, that one. Look, I've noticed ladies going into the property from time to time. You don't actually suppose they-”

“I can certainly find out for you, through Lady R-P's friends. Gunderson, you say?”

“That's right. I can't remember his first name, offhand…”

“Perhaps there's a file?” I suggested.

He instantly stood up and went to his cabinets, coming back with a thin file that he opened on the desk-the poor man did not at all care for the idea of nude orgies taking place on a property for which he was responsible.

“There, Marcus Gunderson, although the address he had is that of an hotel.”

I looked over the paper. “You didn't ask for any personal recommendations?”

“He said his employer was from overseas, and didn't want to wait for an exchange of letters. But the bank draught he gave me for the first year's hire cleared with no problem, and the house had stood empty far too long, the furnishings were suffering. So I let him have it.”

“It was furnished, then?”

“Completely. Well, such as it was. The old lady who owned it died and there's a question about inheritance, so I was ordered to find a tenant until they can settle things legally.”

I wrote down the names and the details of hotel and bank, but there was little to go on.

Not expecting anything more, I said, “Can you tell me anything about the man you think might be behind this Gunderson chap? For Lady R-P's friends, that is-perhaps they'll know what he's up to.”

“As I said, I never met him properly, but I've seen him driving through the village once or twice with Mr Gunderson. He's a tidy-looking gentleman of perhaps forty, dark hair, clean shaven.”

“Well, thank-”

“Oh, and he may have a scar on his face.”

I looked at him, then raised my left hand and drew a line down from the outer corner of my eye. “Here?”

“That's right-so you do know him?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“But you know of him-so tell me, is there anything-”

“Absolutely not,” I said. The last thing I needed was for this earnest estate agent to thrust his nose into things. “He's absolutely straight, but as you know, very private, extremely shy, in fact. He's a-an inventor, and you can imagine how they are-he's been known to move out of a house overnight if strangers poke into his business.”

The relieved estate agent, not questioning that my aristocratic employer should know a reclusive inventor, hastened to assure me that he wouldn't dream of disturbing the gentleman.

I thanked him and said that, if he wanted to put together a list of appropriate residences, I should be by in a day or two to look at them. I retrieved my bag of burglary tools, and left.

It was just after six; the brick wall around the house was too exposed for me to risk lurking there by daylight, with bare fields on three sides and a house with brutally manicured hedges across the way.

I walked up the high street to a likely-looking inn, where I ate a surprisingly interesting meal while staring out of the tiny leaded windows facing the street. Four cars entered the gates through the brick wall, just before eight o'clock, followed by a group of three women on foot who disembarked at the bus stop. I paid and asked the way to the inn's facilities, where I changed into the dark clothing I had brought.

When dusk was drawing in, I walked through the field alongside the wall. When I was certain no eyes followed, I clambered over it, to drop down silently into the garden beyond.

As I let go, I was struck by the oddest feeling, that Holmes, somewhere, was doing precisely the same thing.

THE GARDEN WAS AS UNTENDED AS IT HAD APPEARED from without, an unremitting tangle of decades-old rhododendrons against the near-dark sky. I listened, for guards or dogs, then cautiously pressed forward: As I did so, I recalled the eyes of the Green Man glittering from Damian's canvas, and had to push away the sensation that crept down the back of my neck.

Eventually, the wall of branches parted, opening onto what had once been the lawns. Still no dogs or protesting shouts, so I walked in the direction of the lights.

The walls might have described an idiosyncratic shape across the countryside, but the house they contained was one of those sturdy boxes beloved of the Victorian nouveau-riche, wanting an impressive lump of brick in which to display their large paintings and simpering daughters to others in their class. The windows in what I supposed was the drawing room, on the ground floor near the front door, were brightly lit, and I could hear a low murmur of voices. The room above it was not only lit, the windows were open. They were the up-and-down, double-hung sort, rather than shutter-style, which might halve the sound that could pass through, but I should have to take care to walk softly, and not step into the light cast below.