The Language of Bees (51 page)

“However, the four points could as easily signify this,” Holmes objected, taking the pencil and yard-stick to connect the corners of the polygon, determining its centre point. We bent to look at an area north of Nottingham and Derby.

“Ripley?” I said. “Sutton? There’s nothing Neolithic there, that I can see.”

“There’s nothing Neolithic at the meeting place of the triangle, either, unless it’s under the North Sea.”

“You’re right.” I took off my spectacles and rubbed my tired eyes. “I told you it made little sense. Although it did look better on the smaller map.”

“It is but a matter of three or four degrees,” Mycroft said in a soothing voice, and stood up. “In any case, perhaps I had better widen the recipients of the watch order to include domestic steamers.”

“And trains,” I said.

Holmes said nothing, just studied the map as if hoping for the appearance of glowing runes in the vicinity of Nottingham. Then his gaze shifted north, to the spatter of islands off the end of Scotland.

I knew what he was thinking, as surely as if he were muttering his thoughts aloud. He was weighing how certain I was, how carefully I had gathered those snippets of evidence, if his eyes might not have caught something mine missed. After all, in both cases—the timetable and the dog-eared guide-book—the information was caught on the run, as it were, noted in passing while I was closely focused on something that appeared more important. Had I been actively
looking for train tables at the time, then he could have counted on my memory of some scribbled notes as being rock-hard and dependable. But numbers seen and half-noted while my mind was elsewhere?

He had, before this, trusted his life to my hands. Now he was contemplating putting the lives of his son and the child in those same hands. I did not know if he would. Frankly, I hoped he would not.

“We have noted that the man is willing to sacrifice chronological and geographic precision for the sake of symbolic truth,” he mused.

“Fifty miles is a lot of imprecision,” I argued.

“Yes, but two degrees is not, Russell. If his map told him that the High Bridestones were one or two miles to the west, or the Giant the same distance to the east, then your lines would meet in Orkney.”

“But we don’t know his map, and we do know where the eclipse will be.” I really did not want to wrestle him for the responsibility of saving those two lives.

“If he were going to Orkney for this … event, where would you imagine?”

“Stenness,” I answered. “Two stone circles, several free-standing stones, and a causeway. The tomb where the sheep was found back in May is a part of the same complex.”

The piece of paper on which I had noted likely sites near Bergen lay on the corner of the desk. He looked from the inaccurate map to the list, and then scrubbed his face with both hands, pausing for several breaths with his fingertips resting against his eyelids. “As I remember, Sir Walter Scott fancied the centre stone at Stenness as an altar for human sacrifices,” he commented idly. Then he dropped his hands and met my eyes.

“I shall go to Bergen. You’ll need warm clothing for Scotland. And, Russell? Take a revolver.”

Time:
As the workings of a clock must align before the
hour strikes, so must the stars and planets align before a
Great Work is done
.

Time is round and repeating as a clock face; time is
straight and never-duplicated as a calendar Only at
midnight—the witching hour—does time suspend between
one day and the next
.

Opposite concepts, only brought together in a Work
.
Testimony, IV:4

H
OLMES TUNNELLED INTO MYCROFT’S STORAGE room, creating a storm of wool and waterproofs, while I addressed myself to the
Bradshaw’s
and the problem of getting from London to Orkney. St Pancras to Edinburgh: nine to twelve hours; Edinburgh to Inverness: another six or eight; Inverness to Thurso, at the northern tip of Scotland—trains twice daily: six or seven hours. Unless I caught the Friday express … but no, leaving it to Friday was not a good idea, since there appeared to be only one steamer a day from Thurso to Orkney.

What if I took to the water before I ran out of Scotland? There were
sure to be regular sailings from Inverness or Aberdeen, although those wouldn’t be in
Bradshaw’s
.

Mycroft came into the study and found me searching his shelves.

“I don’t suppose you have a time-table for the steamers into Orkney?” I asked him, although I was more thinking aloud than putting a question to him. “I’ll ask your concierge—I need to see if it would be better to work my way north by train, or to take a steamer along the way. Of course, if the weather is bad there, I’m a bit caught. Although I suppose there’s always some mad Scotsman willing to put out in a typhoon if I offered him enough money.”

“Or held a gun to his head,” Mycroft said. Before I could decide if this was his peculiar sense of humour or a serious proposal, the telephone rang. He reached past me for the instrument on the desk, and I went back to my
Bradshaw’s
.

His half of the conversation consisted mostly of disapproving grunts, as he received what was clearly a negative report from one of the men dispatched earlier that morning. He placed the earpiece in its hooks with a precision that indicated he was not much removed from throwing the instrument across the room.

“No luck?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“I’ll catch the night express for Scotland,” I told him. “It’ll be tight, but I should make it north in time for the Thursday steamer.” I shook my head. “Ridiculous, to think your man Lofte could come halfway around the world in a week when it’s going to take me three days to get seven hundred miles.”

“Why not employ an aeroplane?”

I stared at him. “What?”

“An aeroplane. Heavier-than-air fixed-wing contraption? Been around since two brothers in America persuaded a propeller and some canvas to go airborne? You have been up in one, I believe?”

“Memorably,” I said, with feeling.

“Well?”

For thrilling entertainments, darting air battles, or emergency exits from sticky situations, aeroplanes were ideal; for transporting human
beings over long stretches of countryside, I was none too certain. Yes, Lofte could throw himself headlong on a dare; yes, the mail now flew daily across America; still, there was a great deal of difference between sacks of mail and human beings when it came to surviving mechanical difficulties a thousand feet in the air.

I had to clear my throat before I could say mildly, “They’re hardly dependable.”

“Imperial Airways has been in existence since March,” he pointed out. “Not all that many flights, to be sure, but air travel is the way of the future.”

“You’re not saying that there is commercial aeroplane travel from London to Orkney?” I demanded.

“No,” he admitted. “I should have to arrange something more private.”

I had a brief vision of Lofte’s bedraggled condition on Saturday night, but told myself that had been the result of six thousand miles; this would be a mere tenth the bedragglement.

As if following my thoughts, Mycroft said, “If I can find you a ’plane, you could be there in a day, Thursday at the latest.”

“You needn’t make this sound like some treat you’re offering a child, Mycroft.”

“What is this you’re offering Russell, Mycroft?” Holmes had come into the room at the last phrase, to fetch the stack of photographs showing the Adlers and Reverend “Hayden.”

“Aeroplane travel,” I said bluntly. “And do leave us some of those.”

He concentrated on setting aside a few of each photograph, but emotions played over his face: surprise giving way to a queasy apprehension, then serious consideration, finally settling into wonderment.

“One forgets,” he reflected, “that in half a year’s absence, technological advances will have been made.”

“It’s been an entire year since Kelly and Macready crossed America without stopping,” Mycroft said, stretching out an arm for the telephone. “And the American Army round-the-world team has reached Iceland with two of its original three machines.”

“Yes, and the
Boston
wrecked off Orkney, didn’t it?”

“Is that your answer, Mary?”

“No, I suppose I could think—”

But Mycroft’s hand was already on the instrument. “Sherlock, if you are looking for the folded maps, I’ve moved them to the escritoire. Hello, is that Carver? Can you find Lofte and send him to me?”

Holmes pawed through the maps and removed several, then noticed me. “Need you stand there gawping, Russell? Don’t you have things to do? I recommend you begin with locating a pilot who has taken a pledge.”

“Thank you, Holmes, for offering me up to the gods of technology.” It appeared that I was to become a barnstormer.

Holmes’ driver rang the bell a few minutes later, and the two men left through the hidden doorway. Ten minutes later, the bell rang again, this time for me.

Mr Lofte’s appearance had improved out of all recognition in the three days since I had seen him. His face was shaved, his suit so new it still bore traces of tailor’s chalk, and the only odour about him was the faint aura of shaving soap.

Mycroft greeted him by saying, “My brother’s wife needs to be in Orkney immediately. I wish you to assist her.”

The unflappable modern-day Phileas Fogg merely asked, “Will you need both the ’plane and the pilot?”

“I can requisition the machine, if need be.”

“When you say ‘immediately,’ do you wish to undertake a night landing?” I hastened to assure him that my need for speed was merely desperate, not suicidal. He nodded.

“In that case, let me see what I can scare up at the Society.”

“I’ll come with you, if I may,” I said, thinking: my life, my choice of pilots. Then Mycroft gently cleared his throat. I looked over. He was simply reading the paper, but after a moment, I saw the source of his objection.

“Actually,” I told Lofte, “I have a few things I must do. How about if I meet you down the road a piece? In, say, twenty minutes?”

“I don’t mind wait—”

“No no, it’s a lovely day out there.” I plucked his shiny new Panama hat from the side-table and thrust it back into his hands. “Where are we headed?”

“Albemarle Street,” he answered.

“The Burlington Arcade, then. Twenty minutes. See you there.”

Obedient, if uncomprehending, he stepped out of Mycroft’s front door. Three minutes later, I stepped through Mycroft’s private back exit.

What happened next is no-one’s fault but my own. Leaving the dim tunnel near Angel Court with my mind on aeroplanes, I came face to face with a man I had last seen in the corridors of Scotland Yard. Worse, his reactions were quick.

Leaving behind the light cardigan I wore seemed preferable to assaulting one of Lestrade’s men, but it was training, not speed, that wrenched my arm free from his hard fingers. Speed did make it possible to draw away from him on the street, as I led him on a circuit of St James’s Palace and up to the mid-afternoon crowds along Piccadilly.

He was persistent, give him that. I didn’t shake him off until I dodged in and out of the Dorchester, and even then, I took care to work my way back through the by-ways of Mayfair. All in all, it was a full half hour before I spotted Lofte, browsing a display of silk kerchiefs in the Burlington Arcade.

“Good,” I said nonchalantly, my eyes everywhere but on him. “Shall we go?”

He took in my breathless condition and proved his worth by whipping the hat from his head and popping it on mine, then did the same with his jacket, which fit my arms rather less completely than it had his. He smoothed his hair with both hands and followed me back up the Arcade, removing his neck-tie and rolling up his sleeves to make for a more complete change of image. From a distance, the two men who left the Arcade, one of them regrettably
en dishabille
, bore little resemblance to the young woman who had sprinted away from an officer of the law.