The Language of Bees (58 page)

Its inner rooms, while not cosy, would be liveable.

Snatches of voice warned me of my companions’ return, and I let the glasses wander along the shore-line for a minute before packing them away. I turned for a last look at the nearby proto-circle.

There was an intensity, almost a violence, to these Stones that the Ring on the hill did not have. I had fancied them earlier as having been dropped by the gods, but that was too passive. Rather, they looked as if the gods had seized each sharp-edged slab to drive it savagely into the turf, pulling away a blood-smeared hand.

I caught myself: I’d been away from Holmes for too long, and my imagination was running away with me.

Still, when I looked at that stone altar, I shivered.

I returned to the coach and rode unprotesting to the island’s second town of Stromness, but when the others were shepherded in the direction of a restaurant, I slipped away. I walked back the way we had come, taking my time with the four miles so it would be deep dusk for the last mile; three motor-cars passed; each time, I dropped into the grassy verge away from their head-lamps.

The sky was moonless; the hotel was a faint outline against a marginally lighter expanse of clouds. I crept towards the smell of smoke and pressed myself into the wall between the first two windows, trying to hear above the perpetual sough of the wind. In the absence of
a stethoscope, I pulled the knife from my boot-sheath and rested its point against the stones, setting the handle in back of my ear. Nothing.

Moving down the wall to the next windows, I tried again, and again heard only the sounds of the night and the thud of my own heart. Around the corner, the wind was loud enough to obscure anything less than a shout, so I kept circling to the side facing away from the loch. Again I listened, again—wait. Not voices, but a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, that then quickened in pace for a dozen or so beats. Feet, coming down stairs?

I moved to the boarded-up back of the hotel, and there I glimpsed motion. A light flickered, danced, and steadied: a candle, half-visible through the boards. A figure moved around the room; I heard the sound of water flowing into a vessel, saw a flare of light as a gas cooker lit beneath the kettle. The shadowy figure pulled open drawers, coming out from the third one with a long knife. He took it to a shapeless lump on the table beside the tea-pot, and began sawing: bread.

All this was with his back to me, so he was nothing but an indistinct shape in a dim room. I considered moving around to the boarded-up door and seeing if I could find a crack, but before I could move, he turned, and the unruly hair and beard identified him: Damian Adler.

If prisoner he was, then a very blasé prisoner indeed, making tea and sandwiches as if living in a burnt-out building with a religious fanatic was the humdrum stuff of everyday Bohemian life.

He turned away to the tea-pot, and I pressed my face closer against the glass, trying to get some sense of the man. Did he, too, burn with the fanaticism of
Testimony?
Had this rumpled figure participated in the ritual murder of his wife? Was he about to join in the similar slaughter of an innocent step-daughter?

My nose hovered near the glass, my spectacles dangerously close to tapping its hard surface; without warning, a hand came down on my shoulder.

The Sacrifice of Setting Loose (1):
As we have seen,
the greater the sacrifice, the greater the energies loosed.
This is an age of War, when the earth has drunk the
sacrificial blood of millions. The world lies primed,
for a transformative spark
.
Testimony, IV:8

T
HE SCREAM THAT CAME FROM MY THROAT WAS instantly stifled, emerging as a strangled death-rattle. Before Damian could turn I was already gone, attacking my attacker.

My muscles responded automatically to the hand on my shoulder, but as instantly lost all strength at the hasty whisper, “Russell!”

“Holmes? Holmes! What the hell are you— Quick, away from the window.”

I pushed him away, to the corner and beyond, then eased my head back: A shadow pressed against the window, looking for the sound; after a minute, it retreated. I turned and punched Holmes on the chest.

“Damn it, Holmes, what are you
doing
here? You were on your way to Norway, for God’s sake.”

“You did not receive my message?”

“No—how would I receive a message? I haven’t heard a word from you since you left London.”

“Interesting. I’d have thought Mycroft…”

“Holmes.”

“I rethought my plans.”

“Obviously.”

“‘Many things having full reference to one consent, may work contrariously; as many arrows, loosed several ways, fly to one mark.’”

“Holmes!”

“Shakespeare, on bees.
Henry the Fifth
,” he added.

“Damn it, Holmes!”

“I decided you were right.”

“You decided—? Good heavens. Well, sweet bloody hell, I wish you’d let me know earlier, I nearly jumped through the window when you grabbed me.”

“That would have been unfortunate.”

I hit him again, for good measure, and felt somewhat better. Felt considerably better, in fact, with him at my side. I threw my arms around him and hugged him, hard, then stood back and explored his face with my hands.

“You haven’t shaved in days,” I exclaimed, “and why are you so damp? You’re freezing.”

“I have spent most of the past three days at sea,” he answered, which explained both the difficulty of shaving and the permeating moisture.

“We need to get you out of the cold.”

“That is of secondary importance.”

“They’re brewing tea, they won’t be going anywhere for a time. Let me just check—” I tip-toed back to the window, and glimpsed Damian unconcernedly pouring water into the tea-pot. I retrieved Holmes and led him towards the hotel’s out-buildings.

These were securely locked, but the padlock on the biggest one would not have challenged a child. The interior stank of fish and contained
a lot of nets, poles, gum boots, and paddles, but in a window-less corner room I found a store of elderly bed-clothes and paraphernalia for the guests, from water carafes to expensive fly-fishing rods. A wicker picnic basket contained a filled paraffin burner, a packet of tea leaves, and even a tin of slightly crumbled biscuits. When I lit the burner, a remarkably bearded husband came into view, tugging a blanket around his shoulders.

I was startled, then began to laugh.
“You
were the bearded Englishman!”

“I did not know you found facial hair so amusing,” he grumbled.

“Not on its own—but when I was asking after Damian and Brothers in Thurso, I described him as a ‘bearded Englishman.’ I didn’t think to add, ‘of thirty.’ So when a man said he’d seen such a person and I told him the Englishman was my step-son, the poor fellow was taken aback, that my husband should be so …”

“Truly ancient.”

“I thought his astonishment odd, at the time, but I never considered … Holmes, what are you
doing
here?”

“When did you last hear from Mycroft?” he asked.

“Not directly since I left, but I had two telegrams in Thurso at midday today. They were from Mycroft’s men, passing on the information that the blood found in the Kirkwall cathedral had been analysed and found to have been kept liquefied by chemicals, and that ashes had been found in the Ring of Brodgar, but then—”

“Those pieces of news were what turned me from my path.”

“I see. So perhaps you didn’t hear that Mycroft’s flat had been raided?”

“Lestrade?” Holmes’ incredulity matched my own, when I had heard.

“So it would appear.” I told him what little I knew, but he could find no sense in Lestrade’s imprudent assault on Mycroft’s home, either.

“That does explain why I haven’t heard further from my brother, and why he did not pass on to you my change in plans.”

“How far had you got?”

“Well into the North Sea, I fear, when one of the officers brought me a cable from Mycroft with the information about the blood in the cathedral.”

“Oh, Holmes, you didn’t make them turn back to Hull?”

“I attempted to, but failed. I did, however, convince them that an aquatic transfer exercise would be in order, as soon as he could raise a boat headed the opposite direction. I left the packet of photographs for Mycroft’s men in Norway, and succeeded in transferring onto a boat bound for Newcastle without more than a mild wetting.”

“I’m astonished you don’t have pneumonia. But if your wire reached his place after the raid, Lestrade may know we’re here.”

“The Chief Inspector won’t be able to organise anything tonight, I don’t think.”

“Probably not. So, ashes and sodium citrate changed your mind?”

He fixed me with a look. “The dates and the impossibility of co incidence changed my mind. Eight events, eight sites.”

I recited the deaths: “Beltane at Long Meg; the May full moon at Maeshowe; Fiona Cartwright during the June full moon at Cerne Abbas; the July full moon at Kirkwall—”

“That last was a cock, according to the envelope in Brothers’ safe, although he did not himself sprinkle the blood in the cathedral—he was in London.”

“I wonder if Kirkwall has an employment agency—or he could have made arrangements when he was here in May, to kill the sheep at Maeshowe.”

Holmes picked up the list where I had left off. “Then came Albert Seaforth in Yorkshire, during the Perseids. Two days later, on the night of the lunar eclipse, an hotel employee in Stenness dutifully scattered the ashes of some unknown person—”

“Which was, in fact, a horse, if those envelopes are to be believed.”

“A portion of a horse, I should say, considering that the employee believed it to be the ashes of a human being. And the following night, the August full moon, Yolanda Adler.”

“Dorset, Orkney, Cumbria, Orkney, York, Orkney, Sussex, and back to Orkney for the end. But whose blood was used to mark the
Testimony
he gave Yolanda?” I wondered. “Millicent Dunworthy received hers on the fourteenth of May and it had the numeral two. Did we miss one earlier?”

“Not necessarily. He may have simply pricked his own finger, to start the process. Certainly he used his own for number seven, to adhere the horse’s ashes to the page.”

“How would one find a crematorium willing to dispose of a horse?” I wondered.

“A haunch already in a coffin would be unremarkable. In any case, the pattern was clear, so I caught a boat north along the coast of Britain instead of the coast of Europe. Several boats, working their way against a hurricane. The last one cost me a prince’s ransom.”

“I know. The fellow’s friends are planning his funeral.”

“He was hale and more or less dry when I rowed away in his dinghy. He dropped anchor near Stromness, said he would stay there until the wind dies.”

I gave him an equally laconic description of my own hair-raising journey, and poured us both tea, filtering it through a sterling tea-strainer.

“What, no milk?” Holmes asked.

“Pretend you’re Chinese,” I said. The little cook stove was taking the edge off the bitter cold of the room; Holmes had energy for a joke, and was no longer the colour of chalk.

I cradled my hands around the steaming cup. “How much detail was in the wire you sent Mycroft?”

“Knowing that police eyes were on him, very little. However, I said I was joining you, and if either of his men were less cautious in their information—”

“Then we’ll find Orkney’s finest waiting for us. Holmes, you don’t imagine anything has happened to Mycroft? Another heart attack, brought on by outrage?”

“I think it more likely we’ll find him arrested for assaulting a police officer,” he replied. “Mycroft takes the authority of his position seriously.”

I suddenly thought of something. “Good heavens. I wonder if the local forces have arrested poor Captain Javitz?”

“Your pilot? Would you anticipate he might tell the police all?”