The Beekeeper's Apprentice (46 page)

“Now, Sherlock, my dear, to return to the topic. What was it you were about to call me?” she said in mock coquetry.

Her voice set my skin to crawling. The surface was light mischief, but just below lay threat and contemptuous laughter and another thing that took me a minute to recognise: a coarse, sly tone of inti-macy and seduction from a female completely sure of her power. It made me want to vomit, and then it began to make me angry. With the anger grew control.

“I am waiting, Sherlock.” The gun jiggled slightly on her knee.

Holmes’ response landed in the room like a glob of spit.

“Patricia.”

“That’s better. We need to work on the intonation, but that will come. As I was saying, I feel that I know you very, very well by now. Do you realise that you have been my hobby since I was eighteen? Yes, quite some time now. I was in New York. My mother was dying, and in the newsstand outside the hospital I saw a copy of a journal with your picture on the front, and inside a story of how you had not died, but how instead you had murdered my father. It took my mother a long time to die, and I had many hours to think about how I should meet you one day. I inherited my father’s business, you know, though I was really more interested in pure mathematics than the organisation. It ran itself, really, while I went to school. My managers were very loyal. Still are, for that matter. Most of them. They occasionally consulted me at University, but for the most part I would tell them what to do, and they would work out the how. Sometimes I made requests, which they carried out most efficiently.”

“Such as the unfortunate accidents that befell two of the other tu-tors shortly before you were hired?” I blurted out, unthinkingly letting loose a snatch of remembered conversation. I felt Holmes tighten dis-approvingly beside me, and kicked myself mentally for drawing her at-tention.

“So you heard about that, Miss Russell? Yes, unlucky, weren’t they? Still, I had the job I wanted, the job my father had been cheated out of, and I could get on with my hobby. I collected every word written by or about you. I even have an autographed copy of your monograph on bicycle tyres, one that you presented to the police commissioner. I assure you, I value it more highly than he did. Over the years I have learnt everything about you. I located three of your London hide-aways, though I suspect there’s at least one other. The one with the Vernet is quite nice,” she said casually, “though the carpet leaves something to be desired.” She waited for a reaction and, getting none, went on in irritation. “Billy was too easy to find, and following him that night you went to the opera was child’s play. I had thought of us-ing him against you, blackmailing him concerning certain incidents in his sister’s past, but it seemed cheating somehow.” Again the pause, again no response.

“Yes, there is very little I do not know about you, Sherlock. I know about why Mrs. Hudson’s son emigrated so hastily to Australia, about you and the Adler woman after my father’s death, about the scar on your backside and how you came to have it. I even have a rather fetch-ing photograph of you emerging from the steam rooms at the Turkish Bathhouse on— Ha! That reached you, didn’t it?” she crowed at Holmes’ faint exclamation and drove it home. “I even bought the farm up the hill from you several years ago, through an employee, of course, so I might look down upon you, even through your bedroom window.” However, Holmes had recovered from his lapse, and she abandoned the attempt to goad him.

“It took me five years to bring seven of my employees into the area, but I enjoyed every move. And then—oh, the delicious irony of it!— your Miss Russell came to me for tutoring. I could not have asked for a more perfect gift: my own intimate link with the mind of my father’s murderer. Had I taken up residence in the corner of your sitting room I could not have learnt more about you than I did from Miss Russell. It was truly delicious.

“During the summer holidays I generally spend time with the busi-ness, just to keep my hand in. This last summer we decided to follow up a rumour that an important American senator was about to place himself in a remote area, so we borrowed his daughter. As you know, we were not entirely successful, but imagine my pleasure when I re-alised that you too were on the same job, albeit from the other end. It was almost worth the failure, having that piquant extra, a chance to meet, as it were, to work together.

“From that fiasco came my plan. I decided to kidnap Miss Russell, take her to a place where you would not find her, and play with you, in public, over a prolonged period of time. I laid plans. I bought clothing for her in Liverpool—quite adequate clothing, you will agree, though I gather she did not make use of the things? Pity. One of my lighter-fingered employees removed a pair of shoes from her rooms, mostly to underline the parallelism of the two kidnap cases—ah, I see you missed that point. How disappointing. I planned to take her at the end of term, so my absences might not cause undue comment.”

It was extremely disconcerting, listening to her talk about me in this matter-of-fact manner, but I did not react. I was disappearing from her sight now, becoming a third-person reference. My right arm throbbed, and the fingers of that hand were tingling mildly.

“Then in late October everything changed. My doctor told me that I should be dead in a year, and I was forced to review my plans. Did I truly want to embark on a complex and physically demanding project, one that might take six or eight months to do properly, and should involve regular travel to some godforsaken place like the Orkneys? I decided, re-luctantly, to simplify matters. I could not bring myself to forego the plea-sure of a cat-and-mouse game, but I decided at the end of it I should merely kill you all and have done with it. If I could make public your fail-ure to escape me, so much the better. I had little to lose, after all.

“By the end of term everything was in place. I arranged my medical leave, from which I will not return, hired Mr. Dickson, and, just before I left Oxford, laid some of my father’s mathematical exercises in front of Miss Russell. The next few days were marvelous, they truly were, like a complex equation falling into place. I was, as I said, really most annoyed at Mr. Dickson for knocking you about so thoroughly, and had to delay Miss Russell’s bomb for a day until I could be sure you were up to defusing it. Then I sat back to see which of your paths I would pick you up on first. I did not need Dr. Watson, though that was amusing, was it not? Doddering old fool. I had a boy watching your brother’s room all day, and I knew you were there before you went through the door. The next day I gambled, after you succeeded in throwing off my men, but I put my money on Billy, and it paid off. He led us straight to you and carried on a tedious conversation with me until he fell asleep. I was sorry about your clothes, Miss Russell. They must have cost a goodly percentage of your allowance.”

“The money was mine, actually,” Holmes volunteered. I felt her eyes leave me and return to him.

“Well, that’s all right, then. Did you enjoy my little game in the park? Your articles on footprints were most instructive and helpful.”

“It was very clever,” Holmes said coldly.

“ ‘It was very clever’ ...?” she prompted.

He spoke through clenched jaws, to my relief. I had begun to think his anger genuine.

“It was very clever, ‘Patricia,’ ” he spat.

“Yes, wasn’t it? But I was most upset when you disappeared on that damnable boat. Really very angry indeed. Do you know what it cost me to keep an adequate watch on the docks? To say nothing of the other ports? I was certain you would come back into London, and in-stead, weeks went by without a sign. My managers were disturbed at the expense. I had to get rid of two of them before the others would calm themselves. And the time, my valuable time, lost! Finally you came back, and I could not believe it when my man reported how you looked and behaved. I actually took the risk of coming down here to see for myself, and I admit, I fell for it. I did not think that it could be an act. Oh, on your part, yes, that I would have believed, but I did not expect that Miss Russell was capable of that quality of performance; it’s a far cry from dressing up as a gipsy girl and slurring your speech. It was not until you both came through that door that I knew for certain it was bogus.”

Her voice had become increasingly hoarse, and the gun had drooped casually to one side as she talked. Holmes and I remained still, he with a look of polite boredom on his face that must have been infuriating, I trying to look young and stupid. The blood had stopped dripping onto the tiles, though my right hand was a bit numb. When Donleavy spoke again her voice cracked slightly with tiredness. I waited, invisible, for Holmes to make me an opening.

“Which brings us to the present. Sherlock, my dear man, what do you think I’ve come for?”

His response was uninterested, obedient, insulting.

“You wish to crow over me, like a cock on its dung-heap!”

“Patricia.” The gun rose in threat.

“Patricia, my dear.” His sardonic voice turned it into a sneer.

“To crow over you, I suppose, is one way of putting it. Nothing else?”

“To humiliate me, preferably in some public manner, so as to re-venge your father.”

“Excellent. Now, Miss Russell, do you see the envelope on the shelf to your right? The top one. Stand up and get it please—slowly now, re-member. All right, take it back to the table and place it in front of Sherlock. Sit down, hands on top of the table. Good.

“This document is your suicide note, Sherlock. Rather lengthy, but that cannot be helped. If you are curious, the machine it was typed on is downstairs, substituted for your own. Read it, by all means, and lay it in front of Miss Russell if you wish her to see it. You will not touch it, Miss Russell. One never knows how clever the fingerprint people have become, and it would not do to have your fingerprints on such a highly personal document as this. Please, dear Sherlock, you must read it. I am really quite pleased with the effect it produces, if I do say so my-self. Besides that, you must never sign any document until you’ve read it.” She laughed merrily, and the madness rang clearly from her.

It was, as she said, a suicide letter. It began by stating that he, Sher-lock Holmes, being in his right mind, could simply no longer see any point in staying alive, and it went on to elaborate the reasons. My re-jection of him and the ensuing depression it caused were so vehe-mently denied as to underline my absence as the chief cause of his decision, though I personally was carefully removed from blame. Then the letter launched into a long, rambling, detailed explanation of how the cases as recorded by Dr. Watson had been so entirely wrong. Seven-teen cases in all were presented with microscopic attention, pointing out in each one where the credit for its solution had in reality lain: usu-ally with the police, occasionally elsewhere, several times by Holmes accidentally stumbling on the answer, once with Watson. Page after page of it, we read and she sat. Finally came the murder of Moriarty, where it was revealed that the entire story was a deliberate fabrication against an inoffensive professor who had stolen the young woman Holmes desired, and whom Holmes had then hounded to his death by the creation of a totally imaginary crime syndicate. The document ended with an abject apology to the memory of a great man so badly wronged, and to the population in general who had been so misled.

It was an extremely effective piece of writing. The reader was left with the clear impression of a badly unbalanced, severely depressed, drug-ridden egotist who had destroyed careers and lives in order to build his reputation. The simple white sheets with their lines of print, were they ever to get before the public, would create a huge scandal, and very possibly turn the name of Sherlock Holmes into a laughing-stock and the object of scorn. I sat back, shaken.

“You have a definite flair for fiction-writing,” said Holmes, his voice cold with revulsion, “but surely you cannot believe I might sign the thing.”

“If you do not, I shall shoot Miss Russell, then I shall shoot you, and one of my employees will forge your signature to it. It will appear to be a murder-suicide and will take Miss Russell’s name down with yours.”

“And if I do sign it?”

“If you do sign it, I shall allow you to give yourself one final injec-tion, one that will prove fatal even for a man of your inclinations. Miss Russell will be taken away and released after the newspapers have found your letter. She has no proof, you see, none at all, and I shall be far away.”

“You would give me your word that no harm should come to Miss Russell?”

He was quite serious, even I could see that.

“Holmes, no!” I cried, appalled.

“You will give me your word?” he repeated.

“You have my word: No harm will come to Miss Russell while she is in my care.”

“No, for God’s sake, Holmes.” My attempt at lying invisibly in wait was shattered. “Why on earth would you believe her? She’d shoot me as soon as you were gone.”

“Miss Russell,” she protested, affronted, “my word is my honour. I paid Mr. Dickson his fee posthumously, did I not? And I support that other worthless family while my employee is in prison. I even sent that messenger lad who delivered the clothing his second sovereign. My word is good, Miss Russell.”

“I believe you, Patricia. Why, I don’t know, but I do. I am going to take my pen from my inner pocket,” he said and, with slow and delib-erate movements, did so. I watched in horror as he uncapped it, turned to the last page of the sheaf of papers, and put the pen to the paper. Anticlimactically, the thing refused to write. He shook it, without success, and looked up.