Laurie King - The Language of Bees

She was frightened, or angry. Or both.

When the chapter ended, her eyes came up for the first time, a quick hot glance at a large figure in the back, hunched in a pale overcoat. I looked more closely, noticed the empty chairs all around him, and let the door ease shut: Lestrade had sent a presence. And the Children knew who he was.

The hallway leading to the meeting room also continued in the other direction. I loosened the furthest light-bulb, and sat on some steps, waiting for the service to end. Before long, the doors opened and people made immediately for the stairs: no chatter, and no tea and biscuits. After a pause, the plainclothes policeman came out, followed a few minutes later by the brother and sister of the Inner Circle.

When the hallway was empty, I walked down to the meeting room and found Millicent Dunworthy, packing the pamphlets into their boxes with sharp motions. She looked up, startled, when I came near.

“I'm sorry, I missed the service,” I told her.

“There was no service. There may never be,” she said, and slapped some cards on top of the pamphlets.

“I heard. About Yolanda, I mean. I know it must be very disturbing.”

“That's the least of it. No,” she said, “I don't mean that, it's terrible, of course, but the police have been all over, asking questions, insinuating-”

She broke off, and picked up the box to carry it to the storage cabinet. I followed with the folding table. When we had the doors shut and the padlocks on, she turned to me.

“What do you want?”

“I'd like to talk about the Children,” I said.

“You and everyone else!”

“I'm not with the police. Or the newspapers. I'm just a friend.”

“Not of mine.”

“I could be. Look,” I said reasonably. “I noticed a café next door but one. We could have a bowl of soup, or a coffee, maybe?”

She hesitated, but just then the heavens contributed their opinion, and a growl of thunder accompanied by a thrust of drops against the window warned her how wet she would be if she walked home now. She agreed, grudgingly, and we scurried through the rain to the café. I moved with my arm across my face, holding my hat against the wind, but the police watcher appeared to have waited only to be certain that Brothers did not appear, then gone home.

Millicent-we soon graduated to the intimacy of first names-unblushingly ordered cocoa; I did so as well, although I had not downed a cup of the cloying liquid since my undergraduate days, and frankly I would have preferred strong drink for both of us. And when I pressed upon her the necessity for keeping her energy up, she added a request for a slice of sponge cake, “although I shouldn't.”

“Make that two,” I told the waitress, joining Millicent in her naughtiness. When the tired woman had taken herself away to fetch our drinks, I said, “Oh, I haven't had a slice of Victoria Sponge in yonks.”

“It has rather passed out of popularity, hasn't it?”

I pounced, before she could redirect the conversation. “Even the name Victoria has gone out of fashion. What does that remind me of? Oh, I know-I've been thinking about the Adler child, Estelle, this week, another uncommon name. So sad, isn't it? And what do you imagine has become of Damian?”

She picked at the bundle that contained her robe and shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“I can't believe he had anything to do with her death, as the newspapers would have us think,” I persisted. “I mean to say, he's odd, but not like that.”

She sat up straight. “I think it's very possible. He's a very peculiar young man, is Damian Adler. The sooner they find him and take the child into safe keeping, the better.”

“Really? Well, you know him better than I do. But it must be making a lot of trouble for you, in the Children, I mean. To have Yolanda a member and Damian missing. Plus that, your leader-The Master, don't you call him? It can't be easy to have him gone, too.”

“The Master is here when we need him,” she snapped. She might have stormed out but the waitress appeared at that moment. When the cocoa and sponge had been arranged before us, I turned the questions in another direction.

“I greatly look forward to meeting him, once this uproar is passed. Tell me, is there some kind of a study group, in addition to the services, where one might read more of the book you use?”

“We had been discussing that need, before… Perhaps in a few weeks we can find the time to arrange one. There is a weekly meeting of advanced students of the Lights, but the need is, as you say, for beginners. The Master is preparing an introductory text, the Text of Lights, with the message of Testimony but in a form that is more easily understood.”

“Oh good,” I enthused.

“This is very nice,” she said, chewing on her cake.

In truth, the sponge was stale and the cocoa so hot it had cooked into a skin: As a memory of undergraduate days, it was a bit too realistic. But Millicent enjoyed it.

“You seem terribly knowledgeable about Testimony,” I said. “How long have you been studying it?”

“I received my copy in May, although I had been hearing it for some months before that. It is a book that rewards close study.”

“Tell me about The Master. He must be an attractive person, to bring together such an interesting group of people.”

She blushed. “It is an honour to serve the Children.”

“That book, Testimony -is by him?”

It was the wrong thing to say. “It is not ‘by’ any man, no more than the New Testament is by any man. Portions of it were transmitted through The Master.”

“Sure, I understand. Say, I don't suppose The Master needs a paid assistant, does he? I'm looking for work, and I'm happy to do typing, shopping, what have you.”

“What he needs, I do.”

“Oh, I see-you work for him as well. That's fine, but if you need help, keep me in mind.” I swallowed some more of the drink, now gone tepid, and wondered if there was anything else to be had from her. Although come to think of it, there was one question she had sidestepped rather markedly.

“Do you think it's possible The Master will be here for next week's service?”

“The needs of the Lights may keep him away for another week, but he should return after that.”

She pushed away her cup, making it clear that we had reached the end of our refreshment and our conversation. I called for the bill and looked towards the front windows, to see if it was still raining. A small man in a dark rain-coat was standing at the window, looking in; drops were coming from the brim of his hat, but not in a stream: Millicent would not drown on her walk home.

We chatted until the bill arrived, and I paid it. She thanked me, I told her I looked forward immensely to seeing her again, and we climbed back into our damp outer garments. At the door, I suddenly remembered a personal need in the back.

“But don't you wait for me, the rain's let up for the moment and you may be able to make it home before it starts again.”

She peered at the sky, opened her umbrella, and scurried off. My original thought had been to share a taxi and accompany her home, but the face at the window had put an end to that idea. I waited until she was securely across the street, then stepped out to greet the man in the hat.

“You were looking for me?” I asked him. Had he been more obviously a policeman, I should have left through a back door.

“Mr Mycroft Holmes sent me to find you.”

“And the skinny little bureaucrat wants to drag me clear across town?” I responded.

The man looked at me oddly, then realised what I was doing. He reached up to tip his hat in acknowledgment. “I'd hardly call Mr Holmes skinny, even now,” he replied, “and Pall Mall is no distance at all.”