The God of the Hive (34 page)

He stopped. “It was not?”

“Well, not all of it.”

“Are you saying that Billy himself came up with the idea of having every one of his friends and relations who possessed vaguely the correct physique show up in identical dress?”

“Oh no,
that
was mine. The brass band was something else entirely.”

“Ha! The small blond man whom you introduced into the bolt-hole near Baker Street.”

“He spent more time there than I did, but yes. Was that disapproval I heard?”

He summoned a look of surprise. “Why should I disapprove? Clearly you had reason to permit a stranger access.”

Before I could respond, he turned to the antique antiquarian perched behind the counter and thanked him for the temporary use of his shop, then took me by the arm again to drag me towards the back. I shook off his grip—shook off, too, the fleeting memory of running hand in hand with Goodman through a dark forest.

“His musical interlude was, I will admit, remarkably effective,” he remarked over his shoulder. “I had not anticipated quite such a number of opponents, lying in wait for us.”

“Nor I. Holmes, where have you been?”

“First Wick, then Amsterdam,” he said succinctly.

“Yes, Billy told me you were there, although he did not know why. Rather a long detour to London, was it not?”

“Damian was more comfortable when we ran before the wind.”

“Is he all right?”

“His shoulder is healing. I left him in the tender hands of a lady doctor.”

“You found a lady doctor in Amsterdam?”

“We abducted one from Wick.”

“Abducted?
Oh, Holmes, do you think—”

“Needs must, Russell. Can you climb in that frock?”

I sighed. “Needs must, Holmes.”

The external ladder led to a flat above the bookshop, which by all evidence belonged to the bookseller himself. Holmes moved to the gas ring and put on a kettle, tossing my way a few details of the trip he and Damian had made, along with this doctor lady.

When I had unearthed a chair from a dozen ancient volumes and settled with my cup of tea, I returned to my question.

“When I asked where you were, I meant more recently. I expected to see you at the bolt-hole.”

“Life became rather more complex than I had anticipated.”

“You went down to Southwark,” I suggested.

“Either they are good or I am getting old, because I nearly handed myself to them twice.”

“If they got the better of Billy in his own home ground, they know what they’re doing.”

“And you?” he said. “Any problems on the way down from Scotland?”

“Ah. Goodman didn’t give you the letter?”

“Goodman is your blond friend? No, I received no letter.”

Of course not: Even I had needed a moment to see behind the priest’s disguise. I took another revivifying swallow of tea and began my report on the past eight days. Thirty seconds in, he interrupted.

“Brothers is alive?”

“The book, Holmes. Brothers had his death journal with him, probably in his breast pocket where the bullet hit. I thought it odd that the Orcadian police seemed only marginally interested in the site, but Lestrade confirmed it when I went to his house this morning—news had reached him of a fire and loud noise like a gunshot, but since there was no body, that was all he’d heard.”

“That does rather change things.”

“But I can’t see—” I jolted to a halt: I had not seen Holmes since Mycroft’s death, and his brief description of the week’s activities had skipped over that central event. I put down my cup and laid my hand over his. “I’m so sorry, Holmes. I read of it in
The Times
, on Wednesday. It was … couldn’t believe it.”

“Nor could I,” he said flatly. “And I’ve now wasted a week.”

“Holmes, I can’t see any relation between Brothers alive and Mycroft …”

“Dead? Brothers had help from within the government, either directly or purchased for him by others. I was operating under the theory that he came here under the auspices of a Shanghai crime cartel, who then lost control over him at the same time he lost control of his reason. If he is alive, it throws another light on our target, but in either case, we are facing a group with considerable resources: men in Holland and in Harwich, an insider in the passport office, twelve men this afternoon. Mycr—”

“A sharpshooter in Thurso,” I added to his list.

He raised an eyebrow, and fell silent. I told him all: Javitz; aeroplane; sniper; crash; wild man of the woods; telegrams and newspaper notices; five armed invaders, two of whom had been at the cemetery this afternoon; our trip to London; Javitz and Estelle. I told him what I had found in the apartment of the absent Richard Sosa, and what I had uncovered in Mycroft’s flat: a note from Lestrade; sixteen documents that could change the world; a key; and one letter with an anomalous capital
I
.

“Sophy Melas,” he said, when I told him the last.

“You know her? I mean to say, you know her from before, but recently?”

“We’ve met. And I knew that Mycroft had continued dealings with her, after she returned to this country. That was she at the funeral, in the veil.”

“The only one in tears,” I said. Then, distracted from my train of thought, I asked, “I saw the Prime Minister there, but who was the grey-haired man with the entourage?”

He gave the name of a high-ranking but painfully introverted Royal, commenting that Mycroft had assisted the man some years before. Other mourners had included Sinclair, head of the SIS, and Vernon Kell, the man in charge of the domestic Secret Service. Not, apparently, Peter James West, nor Richard Sosa.

“And of course Lestrade was there,” I added.

“You went to his house, you say?”

“I let myself in during the wee hours, and found him waiting.”

“I imagine he was well pleased.”

“Well, I didn’t want to wake his family. And he ought to have a better latch.”

“Did his note alone lead you to believe a visit to his house would not be a trap?”

“It didn’t strike me as his kind of ruse. Besides which,” I added, “it was three in the morning and I’m a lot quicker than he is. I thought it a reasonable risk.”

“As, too, breaking into Richard Sosa’s flat.”

“The only indication that I was there was a small ivory carving I
knocked to the floor when I moved the curtains. I put it back, but I can’t be sure I had the precise place. If there was one—Sosa seemed an odd mixture of great caution with slips of carelessness.”

“Which might make one wonder, were not most criminals apprehended because of a moment’s carelessness.”

“So, Holmes. What next?”

“This pilot of yours: Will he keep the child—will he keep Estelle safe for another day or two?” I was glad he’d finally come around to his granddaughter.

“Captain Javitz is a determined and honourable man, and he and Estelle get along like a house afire. And he’s a bit embarrassed at one or two recent displays of weakness, which means he’ll be scrupulous about guarding her. As for Goodman, I’m not sure what he’ll do. The last I saw of him—other than at the head of that awful band—was at the bolt-hole this morning. He’s like a jack-in-the-box, always popping in and out. Later I saw that he’d taken the letter I’d written to you, giving details about this past week—I thought I should set it all down in case Lestrade decided to arrest me. I put the Sussex address on the front, and stamps. I hope he remembers to put it into the post.” And to seal it first.

“You have doubts?”

“It is beyond me to predict what the man will do. He’s an extraordinary creature, like something from another world.” Time enough later to tell him what I knew of the man’s history. “Perhaps we’d best go back to Baker Street, just to be sure. I’ll need a change of clothes, in any case; it might as well be from there.”

“A man who cannot be trusted to post a letter is someone you trusted with the bolt-hole?” He did not sound angry, merely curious.

I could not explain my confidence in this odd man, not even to myself.

“I had to do something with him, Holmes. Billy was out of the equation, most of our friends are known, Mycroft’s flat felt exposed, and I didn’t want to risk an hotel. When you meet him, you can decide if I’ve compromised the place too badly.”
And you have five other bolt-holes
, I thought but did not say.

“Very well, let us go now. There will be rough garments there, I believe.” He picked up the tea-pot and cups, returning them to the sink.

“Rough?” I repeated to his back. I did not care for the sound of that word. “Why do we need rough garments, Holmes?”

He turned in surprise. “Oh, if you wish to retain the frock, by all means, do so, Russell. I merely assumed you would prefer more practical garb for the purpose of grave-digging.”

Chapter 57

H
olmes, no,” I protested, trotting after him down a passageway that would have been dark even were it not coming on to evening. “You can’t be serious. Grave-digging?”

“How else are we to know who lies there?”

“Why would you imagine it is anyone other than your brother?”

“I tried to get into the mortuary yesterday night and was told the coffin was already sealed. When I pressed the man, I learned that they had received the coffin in that state on the Thursday morning.”

“Is that unusual, when embalming is not required?”

“I …” He could not answer: Either he did not know, or it was not unusual.

“I’m surprised you didn’t break in then and there.”

“I would have, but there was never a time when the building was empty. Who would have imagined mortuaries were so incessantly busy?”

“Holmes, I think you’re being unreasonable.”

“You said yourself, you couldn’t believe Mycroft was dead.”

“That was a figure of speech!”

“Well, mine was not. When I see his corpse with my own eyes, I will believe, but not before then.”

I had found it difficult to use the words
death
and
murder
when talking to Lestrade that morning, but this went far beyond any mere aversion
to hard truth. In another man, I would have assumed that brother-worship had taken an alarming turn and required physical intervention and a long period of quiet conversation. But this was Holmes, after all: Despite his age, I doubted I could tackle him successfully.

So I kept silent and did my best to keep up with him.

The streets behind Marylebone Road appeared deserted—these were, after all, office blocks, and it was a Sunday evening—but Holmes paused for several minutes at the top of the street so we could survey all of the doorways and windows. When he was satisfied, we made a swift detour through a service entry, came out next to the bolt-hole’s entrance, and in moments, we were inside and invisible.

But not before I had spotted something odd on the ground just outside the entrance. “Wait, is that—” I reached for it and said, “Holmes.”

“Quiet,” he shot back, standing rigid inside. I drew breath, and discovered what had attracted his attention: the odours of cooking, highly unlikely here.

“It’ll be Goodman,” I said. “He left this outside, stuck to the paving stones. An owl feather. His favourite bird, and not often seen in London.”

His eyes gleamed as he studied me in the faint light, then he turned and went on.

When we stepped into the tiny apartment, the first thing to greet our eyes were Robert Goodman’s stockinged feet against the wall. He was standing on his head.

“Hello, Robert,” I said, waiting for him to resume an upright position before I attempted introductions. But he stayed as he was, merely pointing a toe at the table and saying, “Sir, I believe there is an epistle I was instructed to deliver.”

Holmes looked at the table, then back at Goodman, and said, “It is, I agree, a topsy-turvy world.”

Instantly, Goodman let his legs fall to the floor and jumped upright, face pink and hair flattened. He shook his clothing back into place, rescued the neck-tie he had tucked between the buttons of his shirt, ran his hands over his hair, and stuck out his right hand.

“Mine host,” he said.

“Mr Goodman, I presume,” Holmes replied. “I understand it is you I have to thank for the musical interlude during the services for my brother.”

“You needn’t thank me,” Goodman protested, although that was not what Holmes had meant.

“Nonetheless. My brother would have been most … entertained.”

Goodman’s face relaxed into happiness. “I’m sorry your granddaughter couldn’t have been there.”

Holmes’ eyes came to me in silent reproach for the amount this stranger knew of us. “You think the child would have enjoyed it?”

“Heavens no. She’d have had to cover her ears.”

Holmes said dryly, “You think the child a natural music critic?”

“Ah, that’s right—you have not met the poppet. Perhaps you don’t know? Estelle has perfect pitch. She’d have found the discord physically painful.”

Now, Holmes simply looked at him. Goodman nodded as if he’d replied, and said, “She looks forward to meeting you.” He went into the minuscule kitchen, which was more a matter of putting his head into the cubicle.

“Mr Goodman, I believe you have something on the stove for us?”

“I do,” our guest replied. “Although I have to say it was a challenge, coming up with something edible out of that pantry. Perhaps the tins are intended as weapons, rather than comestibles?” he added politely, his head appearing around the door.

Holmes retreated with the letter to the inner room while I took out plates and silver. I was rinsing the dust from some glasses when I heard Holmes say my name, sharply. I looked in at where he sat on the bed.

“Why did you not tell me how Mycroft signed his name?” he demanded.

“How did he sign his name?”

“With the letter
M
.”

“Is there significance in that?”

“Have you ever seen my brother sign a letter with only the initial?”

“He does all the time,” I protested. I could see it in front of my eyes, that copperplate
M
curving around a dot.

“In a letter to
me?”
he persisted.