The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (9 page)

“He’ll be quite careful, Mr. Barker, and I’m sure he’ll be just a moment. Ah, see, here he comes now.” Holmes’ long legs reappeared down the ladder, and his eyes seemed darker as he turned happily towards us.

“Thank you, Mr. Barker, you have a most interesting tower. Now, tell me about the primitive art you have in your hall downstairs. New Guinean, isn’t it? The Sepik River, I believe?”

Mr. Barker was successfully distracted and walked slowly down the stairs on Holmes’ arm, talking about his travels in the wilder places of the world. By the time we left an hour later, we had admired several magnificent African bronzes, an Australian aboriginal didgeridoo, three Esquimaux carved walrus tusks, and an exquisite golden figure from Incan Peru. The Barkers saw us to the door and we said good-bye, but suddenly Holmes pushed back past them.

“I must thank the cook personally for that superb tea she produced. Do you think she would give Miss Russell the recipe for those little pink cakes? The kitchen is down here, I believe?”

I answered the Barkers’ startled looks with an expressive shrug, to tell them that I was not to be held responsible for his behavioural oddities, and ducked down the hallway after him. I found him shaking the hand of a bewildered little woman with grey hair and ruddy cheeks, thanking her profusely. Another woman, younger and prettier, had been sitting at the table with a cup of tea.

“Thank you, Mrs. Woods is it? Miss Russell and I so appreciated your revivifying tea, it helped restore us after those dreadful dogs set upon us. Amazing number of them—do you have to care for them? Oh, good, yes, it is a better task for a man. Still, they must eat a lot, and I suppose you have to prepare their food?”

Mrs. Woods had responded to his banter with an oddly girlish giggle.

“Oh yes, sir, they fairly keep the town butcher in business. This morning it took all three of us to carry the order from the butcher’s—there must’ve been twenty pounds of bones alone.”

“Dogs eat a lot of bones, don’t they?” I wondered what this was all leading up to, but it appeared that he had what he was after.

“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Woods, and don’t forget that Miss Russell wants that recipe.”

She waved us merrily out the kitchen door. The dogs were there, lying about on a struggling patch of much-dug-up lawn, and ignored us completely. We circled the house and strode off down the road.

“Holmes, what was that about the cakes? You know I don’t know a thing about baking. Or do you think the poisonous things are the cause of Mr. Barker’s illness?”

“Merely a ruse, Russell. Is it not nice of the government to arrange this telephone line for the use of the Barkers and myself? To say nothing of the birds.” The line overhead was dotted with singing black bodies, and a pointillist line of white defined one edge of the road. I looked at the face of my companion and read satisfaction and not a little mischief.

“I’m sorry, Holmes, but what are we looking for? Did you see something on the roof?”

“Oh, Russell, it is I who should apologise. Of course, you did not see the roof. Had you, you would have found this,” he said, holding out a tiny splinter of black wood, “and half a dozen cigarette ends, which we shall analyse when we get back to the cottage.”

I examined the tiny sliver of wood, but it said nothing. “May I have a hint, please, Holmes?”

“Russell, I am most disappointed. It is really quite simple.”

“Elementary, in fact?”

“Precisely. Consider, then, the following: a chip of treated wood atop an unused tower; market day; bones; Sepik River art; an absence of poison; and the woods that the road cuts through up ahead.”

I stopped dead, my mind working furiously while Holmes leant on his stick and watched with interest. A chip of wood…someone on the tower…we knew that, why should…market day…a set market day…with bones to feed the dogs while the telephone line that lay along the road—I looked up, affronted.

“Are you telling me the butler did it?”

“I’m afraid it does happen. Shall we search the woods for the débris?”

It took us about ten minutes to find a small clearing strewn with bones. The butcher had been contributing to the dogs’ diet for some months, judging by the age of some of the dry brown knuckle-bones.

“Do you feel like a spot of climbing, Russell? Or shall I?”

“If I might borrow your belt for safety, I should be happy to.” We examined the nearby telephone poles until Holmes gave a low exclamation.

“This one, Russell.” I went over to where he stood and saw the unmistakable signs of frequent, and recent, climbing spikes.

“I saw no sign of spikes or climbing on his shoes, did you?” I asked as I bent to unlace my own heavy boots.

“No, but I am certain that a search through his room would give us a pair with suggestive scuffs and scratches.”

“Right, I’m ready. Catch me if I fall.” Leaning back against the circle of our combined belts I planted my bare feet firmly onto the rough wood and began slowly to inch my way up: step, step, shift the belt; step, step, shift. I made the top without mishap, hooked myself into greater security, and set to an examination of the wires that were attached to the pole. The marks were clear.

“There are signs of a line being tapped in here,” I called down to Holmes. “Someone has been here within the last few days, from the lack of dust at the contact point. Shall we come back with a fingerprint kit?” I climbed down and returned to Holmes his belt. He looked dubiously at the bent buckle. “Perhaps a stronger climbing tether would be advised,” I added.

“I think, if the weather holds, we will be able to catch the fingers themselves in action, if not tonight, then certainly tomorrow. Remind me to telephone our good hostess when we get back, to thank her and to enquire as to her husband’s state of health.”

The sun was low when we walked into the cottage, where the air was sweeter now than it had been at midday. Holmes went off to the laboratory with the cigarette ends while I found the cold food Mrs. Hudson had left for us and made coffee. We ate hunched over microscopes, though our greasy fingerprints on the slides helped not at all. Finally, Holmes sat back.

“The cigarettes are from a small tobacconist in Portsmouth. I trust the police there could make a few enquiries for us. First, however, Mrs. Barker.”

The telephone was answered by the lady herself. Holmes thanked her again for her hospitality, and I could tell by his subtle reaction to her words that she was not alone.

“Mrs. Barker, I wanted to thank your husband as well. Is he there? No? Oh, I am sorry to hear that, but you know, he didn’t seem well this afternoon. Tell me, does your husband smoke cigarettes? No, I thought not. Oh, it’s nothing. Mrs. Barker, listen to me. I believe your husband will be fine, do you understand? Just fine. Yes. Good night, Madam, and thank you again.”

His eyes positively glowed as he hung up.

“It’s tonight then, Holmes?”

“So it appears. Mr. Barker has retreated to his room, to the gentle ministrations of his manservant. Why don’t you have a rest, Russell? I will make a telephone call to the people in charge of this sort of thing, but I am certain we have at least two hours before anything will happen.”

I did as he suggested, and despite my excitement I drifted off to the mutter of his voice in the next room. I was awakened some time later by wheels in the drive and came down to find Holmes in the sitting room with two men.

“Good, Russell, get yourself ready. Your warmest coat, now, we may be some time. Russell, this is Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith, who have come from London for our little affair. Gentlemen, Miss Russell, my right hand. Shall we go?” Holmes shouldered a small knapsack and shoved his cloth cap on his head, and we crunched off down the drive.

The manor house was three miles away by road, and we walked silently along the grass verge. Where the trees came up we left the road, following the woods down to the base of the main gardens. There we stood together and whispered quietly. A slight breeze had come up, covering our noises and carrying our scent away from the noses of the pack that inhabited the house.

“We can see the top of the tower from here, I believe. Your colleagues should be in place by now at the hill gap and the sea?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. We agreed to be settled in by eleven o’clock. It’s ten past now. We’re ready.”

The lights went off one by one in the house above us, and we entered that particular state of boredom and excitement that accompanies a long wait. And long it was. At one o’clock I bent to whisper in Holmes’ ear.

“Surely it was not so late when Mrs. Barker saw the lights from the garden? Perhaps it will not be tonight.”

Holmes sat silent and unseen beside me, tense with thought.

“Russell, do your eyes pick up anything from that tower?”

I looked so hard at the black tower rising against the black night that my eyes began to quiver. I looked away slightly, and my eyes caught the faintest of changes in the air above the darkness. I let out a soft exclamation, and Holmes was up at once.

“Quick, Russell, up in the tree. Here we sit, blind as moles, while he’s so far back from the edge we can’t see him. Up, Russell. What do you see?”

As I climbed in the dark I watched the tower, and fifteen feet up the beam suddenly appeared—an intermittent flash from the back corner of the folly, pointing over our heads at the low hills and the sea beyond.

“It’s there!” I scrambled down the branches, losing flesh. “He’s up there with a light—” but they were already off up the hill, their hand torches waving wildly in the darkness. I went after them, plunging across flower beds and around a fountain, and suddenly ahead of me the night exploded. Seventeen throats opened at the invaders, yaps and bays and blood-chilling snarls split the air, and the shouts of men, and then a tinkle of glass. I heard Holmes shouting to his companions, dogs began to yelp and howl, two voices coughed and cursed, a larger breakage of glass, and the sound of a door flung open. Electrical lights began to go on in the house, and I could see dogs fleeing in every direction. The first whiff of stink made me hold my breath until I got inside the door. Inside was all lights now, the main kitchen switches all on, the tower next to me blazing with light. I ran in that direction, hearing heavy feet above me on the stairs. They and the voices faded suddenly, and I pictured them on the roof.

A sudden thought occurred to me. There had been a good twenty seconds between the first alarm of the dogs and the time Holmes hit the steps. What if—? On the first-floor landing I ducked silently under the open stairway and waited, just in case. Suddenly a noise came from above, hushed, silent footsteps, hurrying down. I put my hand ready between the treads, caught sight of an unfamiliar shoe, and, praying it did not belong to Smith, Jones, or Barker, grabbed at it. A scream and a crashing fall that continued down the next flight of stairs were followed by shouts and steps from above. I unfolded myself slowly from my hiding place and went to see what I had done.

I stood at the top of the flight, looking down at the crumpled figure of Terrence Howell and feeling my stomach wanting to rise up out of my throat. Then Holmes stood beside me, and I turned to him, and his arm went around my shoulders as the two men pushed past us. I was shaking.

“Oh God, Holmes, I killed him. I didn’t think he’d fall that hard, oh God, how could I have done it?” I could feel the texture of the shoe leather impressed on my fingertips and see the tumble of limbs glimpsed through the steps. A voice came up to us.

“Ring for a doctor, would you please, Mrs. Barker? He’s got a bad bang on his head and a few broken bones, but he’s alive.”

Sweet, sweet relief flooded in, and my head suddenly felt light.

“I need to sit down for a minute, Holmes.”

He pushed me onto the top step and shoved my head down to my knees. His rucksack plopped down next to me, and I vaguely saw him pull a little bottle out of it. There was the pop of a small cork, and the concentrated reek of the morning’s experiment exploded into my nasal passages. I jerked back, and my head smacked hard onto the stone wall. Tears came to my eyes and my vision swam. When it cleared I saw Holmes, a stricken expression on his face.

“Are you all right, Russell?”

I felt my head delicately.

“Yes, no thanks to your smelling salts, Holmes. I can’t see much point in reviving someone quite so dramatically, though it does make a fine weapon against a pack of dogs.” Relief edged into his eyes, and his normal sardonic expression reappeared.

“When you’re up to it, Russell, we should see to Mr. Barker.”

I reached for his hand and pulled myself up, and we walked slowly up to the old man’s room. A fug of sweat and illness met us at his door, and the light revealed the pale, wet skin and unfocussed eyes of high fever.

“You sponge his face for a bit, Russell, until Mrs. Barker comes. I’m going to see what I can find in Howell’s room. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Barker. Your husband needs you. Come, Russell.” He swept past her anxious questions.

“What are we looking for?” I asked in his wake.

“A packet of powder or a bottle of liquid, one or the other. I’ll start with the wardrobe, you take the bathroom.” The bedroom was soon filled with mutters and flying articles of clothing, and the bathroom was awash with odours as I opened one after another of the multitude of scents, after-shave lotions, and bath soaps I found in the drawers. My poor nose was a bit numb, but I eventually found a bottle that did not smell right. I took it into the next room, where Holmes stood calf-deep in clothing, upended drawers, and bedclothes.

“Have you found anything, Holmes?”

“Cigarettes from Fraser’s of Portsmouth, boots with scratches over the arches. What have you there?”

“I don’t know, I can’t smell a thing anymore. Does this smell like
Eau d’Arabe
to you?” A quick sniff and he waded out of the room, the bottle held high.

“You’ve found it, Russell. Now to figure how much to give him.” He went to the stairs and poked his head over. “I say, Jones, is he awake yet?”

“Not a chance. It’ll be hours.”