Laurie King - The Language of Bees

He didn't believe that I would use the knife, but he did believe this. He talked.

His name was indeed Marcus Gunderson, and he called his boss The Reverend, a name that was half disdain and half deference. The Reverend had called himself Thomas Brothers, and all the people at his church knew him by that name, but Gunderson had helped him set up that identity back in November.

“What's his real name?”

“Dunno. Honest, I don't know.”

“How did he find you?” I asked.

“There's a group run by some of the churches, helps men when they come out of nick. Find jobs and that, you know?”

“And you were freshly out of prison?”

“Four years in The Scrubs.”

Wormwood Scrubs prison was aptly named for the bitterness of one's experience there. “So this Brothers presented himself as a fellow churchman willing to give a convict a second chance.”

“'S right.”

“Instead of which, he gave you a second career. Did you drive a young woman down to Sussex last Friday?”

“Friday? No, he gave me the day off Friday, and the week-end.”

I watched him closely, and although I could see that he was concealing some knowledge, I did not think he was lying outright.

“And tonight? He's not coming back for you, is he?”

“No.”

“Then how will you catch them up?”

“I won't.”

“What, he's just driving off and leaving you here?”

“If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”

“I don't believe you,” I said, although I thought I might.

“He's his own man. I work for him, I'm not his partner. There's a lot he doesn't tell me, there's a lot he does without me.”

I couldn't see that line of questioning taking me any further-either he was lying and he would continue to lie, or he was telling me the truth. I decided to leave it, and asked him about his background; about The Reverend and his scar, and Testimony; about what he knew, and didn't know, and guessed. After twenty minutes or so, his answers were coming shorter, his eyes wilder as he struggled for breath.

“You got to let me out of this,” he said.

“I can't do that, Marcus.”

“I'll die in here, and then it'll be you that's up for murder.”

“If you just relax and breathe slowly, you'll be fine.”

“I can't breathe, I tell you!”

“You're probably thirsty, though, from all that dust. How about a drink?”

“Christ!”

“Tea? Beer?”

“You are a piece of work, lady!”

“Thank you.”

Before I left the room, I strapped a belt around his legs, so he couldn't reverse the roll of the carpet. I wasn't gone for more than five minutes, but when I got back, he was sweating with the fear that I had abandoned him.

The string of curses he gave at my entrance was weaker than his earlier efforts. I blithely shoved the carpet tube a quarter-turn over with my foot, then held the glass of beer to his mouth. The curses stopped, and although the floor under his face was puddled with the spillage, most of the contents of the glass went down his throat.

We talked for another ten minutes, until I was satisfied both that I had as much from him as I could get, and that he was not going anywhere for a while. I undid the belt, gently kicked him along the floor until he lay limply on top of the carpet, and then went downstairs to make another phone call to Mycroft.

“I'm sorry to wake you a second time,” I said, and gave him the address of the house, and the request that he find someone at Scotland Yard who could rouse Lestrade and send him here to pick up Marcus Gunderson.

“He should be unconscious for another couple of hours,” I said. “I located the Veronal that Brothers probably used on Yolanda. And turnabout's fair play-it works a treat on large men, too.”

LESTRADE RANG ASKING IF YOU WERE HERE,” MYCROFT greeted me the next morning. He was beheading his second egg; I had not wakened him when I got in the night before-or rather, earlier that morning. I squinted at the clock.

“Already?”

“He seemed quite determined.”

“You told him I wasn't here, I trust?”

“I rarely tell direct lies to the police,” he replied, then to my relief added, “I merely said that I had not seen you for some time.”

“You'd think he would know, after all these years, how to listen to a Holmes.”

“Oh, you may find he does. In any case, I don't think the Chief Inspector entirely believed me.” He tipped his head at the window; I took a swig of the coffee Mrs Cowper had poured for me, and took up a position behind the curtains to study the street: In thirty seconds, I had him. “Damn. He's already got a man down there. I'll have to borrow Mrs Cowper's dress to get out of here.”

“Disguise will not be necessary,” Mycroft said. “After the last time, I thought it expedient to arrange a back door. I now have not one, but two concealed exits-one onto St James's Square, the other into Angel Court.”

“Don't tell me-the entrance is behind a moving bookshelf in the study?”

“I admit, I could not resist.”

I laughed, but at his next remark, my amusement died.

“I'm afraid Lestrade has also loosed the dogs on Damian.” Mycroft pushed the morning paper over to me: front and centre, Damian's face. The article that went with the photograph made quite clear that The Addler was wanted for arrest, not just questioning, and should be considered dangerous.

“Dangerous?” I exclaimed. “Didn't Lestrade see the walled house last night? Didn't he question Gunderson?”

“The police saw that Damian had been there, but was no longer. And they haven't been able to question Gunderson yet; he keeps falling asleep.”

“Hell,” I said. The only faint hope was that the newspaper's image of Damian showed a man with freshly cut hair and a beard, trimmed back to the jaw-line; when I'd seen him last night, his hair was to the collar and his beard full.

“Am I to understand that you now entertain the possibility of Damian's innocence?” Mycroft asked.

“There were no newspapers,” I blurted. He raised an eyebrow, and I realised that I needed to be methodical about this. I began by retrieving the things I'd taken from the walled house; when I returned, Mrs Cowper laid my breakfast in front of me. When she was in the kitchen again, I went on.

“Last night was indeed a meeting of the Children of Lights' inner circle. Hmm,” I said, distracted by a thought: Circle. Was that in some manner related to that shape they used? I shook my head and set before Mycroft a sturdy capped glass jar filled with a bilious green liquid in which floated an assortment of objects that looked a bit like shoe-leather. “This is what the Circle were drinking. I found several of these bottles in the pantry-whatever those things are, the liquid they're steeping in is honey wine, despite the colour. Judging by their reaction, it's considerably stronger than mead. Can you have the contents analysed?”

He eased off the cork and held the bottle under his nose. “An unconventional choice of beverage.”

“Yes, but I don't know that it has any relationship with Holmes.”

He set it aside; I went on.

“The man they call The Master was there-and yes, Gunderson and the estate agent agreed that he has a scar beside his eye, and yes, Gunderson was under the impression that this is the author of Testimony. He even helped transport the copies of Testimony from the printers. Unfortunately, I only caught glimpses of The Master, mostly from the back. Brothers, or whatever his name is, talked to them for a few minutes, but before he could start their services, a dog belonging to one of the Circle found me.” No need to tell him that the creature would have fit into the pocket of his overcoat.