The Language Of Bees Part 23

"No, madam, it was probably on Friday. The order was made on the Monday, but the lady specified that it would be picked up by her brother on the Friday."

I looked up, startled. "Her brother?"

"Well, I a.s.sumed so. The name was Dunworthy. Perhaps I was mistaken. I thought she was considerably older than he, but then of course-"

"Oh, her brother, yes. Tall young fellow, long hair-an artistic type?"

"No," he said slowly. "He was in his early forties, with ordinary hair. Not at all what I should call 'artistic' He had a scar near his eye," he volunteered, laying a finger next to his left eye.

"Oh, him," him," I said. "Her I said. "Her other other brother. I always forget about him, I've only met him the once. Did he have his wife with him? Pretty little Chinese woman?" brother. I always forget about him, I've only met him the once. Did he have his wife with him? Pretty little Chinese woman?"

"I didn't see anyone answering that description. Might I-"

But before he could ask me why I was so interested in the brothers of a friend's secretary, I said, "But if they had that that basket, then basket, then what what could it have been I tasted?" could it have been I tasted?"

He perused the list of contents before asking tentatively if it might not have been the strawberry tartlets, although clearly he'd been looking for something rather more exotic that had attracted my palate.

"Oh, exactly! You clever man, it must have been those! Thank you for reading my mind, you have for reading my mind, you have saved saved my entire party from the touch of the bourgeois. Shall I have my secretary telephone to you with the details? Yes, that's what I'll do, she's so much better than I, and now that I know what it was that put you in mind ..." To his confusion, I was still talking as I went out of the door, the brochure firmly in hand. my entire party from the touch of the bourgeois. Shall I have my secretary telephone to you with the details? Yes, that's what I'll do, she's so much better than I, and now that I know what it was that put you in mind ..." To his confusion, I was still talking as I went out of the door, the brochure firmly in hand.

He might have been even more confused had he seen me come to a halt on the street outside, to look again at the brochure. Yes, I had read it aright: Included with the nut pate and three flavours of cheese for afters was a packet of almond-and-oat biscuits, from Italy.

A biscuit packet that currently lay on the work-table in Holmes' laboratory in Suss.e.x, awaiting his attentions.

So: A clean-cut man in his forties, with a scar beside his left eye, whose name was almost certainly not Dunworthy. Not only did this description in no way fit Damian Adler, it sounded like the man seen walking with Damian up Regent Street, the last time Damian was seen.

Some day, I reflected, we should have to invent a means of actually locating a person based on a finger-print, as photographs were circulated to police departments now. Until that day, the prints a villain left behind were useful primarily in court, a nail of absolute proof in his coffin.

The biscuit wrapper would have to wait in Suss.e.x, until we had a print to compare to it.

The G.o.ds (1): Man teaches by story, the distillation of Man teaches by story, the distillation of his wisdom and knowledge. The earliest stories are about the G.o.ds, beings of inhuman strength and morality, yet also stupid, gullible, and greedy. The extremes of the G.o.ds are where the lessons lie, whether it be Greek heroism or Norse trickery.

Testimony, III:3

BEFORE LEAVING MYCROFT'S FLAT THAT MORNING, I had a.s.sembled a burglar's kit ranging from sandwiches to steel jemmy, wrapping the tools inside a dark shirt and trousers and tucking in a pair of head-scarfs-one bright red-and-white checked cotton, the other the sheerest silk in a subdued blue-green design-then placing the whole in an ordinary shopping bag. I had deposited the bag with the Left Luggage office at Paddington, knowing that dragging it around all day would tempt me to jettison some if not all of its weight.

I went to Paddington now to retrieve it, then crossed town on the Underground to the accountants' office that had filled the "income" column of Millicent Dunworthy's personal ledger during recent months. It was a street that had, once upon a time, been a high street, in a building that began its life, three centuries earlier, as a coaching inn. It was a street that had, once upon a time, been a high street, in a building that began its life, three centuries earlier, as a coaching inn.

The income listed in the ledger indicated a full working week. Since she had taken off most of the previous week's Monday to buy a frock, shoes, and picnic basket for Yolanda's rendezvous with death, I thought it unlikely that she would miss another day this soon.

And I was right, she was there, her desk clearly visible from the front window. I found a cafe and had a coffee, then went into the booksellers' next door and spent some time with the new fiction at the front window. A book called A Pa.s.sage to India A Pa.s.sage to India so caught my attention that I nearly missed Miss Dunworthy's exit from the office across the way; when I looked up from the page, she was down the street and walking fast. I dropped the book and hurried after her, the checked scarf wrapped prominently around the brim of my hat. so caught my attention that I nearly missed Miss Dunworthy's exit from the office across the way; when I looked up from the page, she was down the street and walking fast. I dropped the book and hurried after her, the checked scarf wrapped prominently around the brim of my hat.

But she was merely going to the nearest bus stop. I slowed to a more casual gait and followed, head averted, trying to decide if she was the sort of woman who would climb to the upper level of the bus. If so, it would be difficult to hide from her. If not, I might manage to duck quickly up the stairs without her seeing me.

And then what-leap from an upper window, when I saw her get off?

Yes, if it came to that.

Or I could engage a taxi now, and manufacture some story that justified following a city bus as it made its halting way through the town.

A bus approached, its number identifying it as a route that meandered far out into the suburbs. Millicent Dunworthy stepped forward, and I pressed closer in her direction, slumping to reduce my height beneath the level of the gentlemen's hats and taking care to keep a lamp-post between us.

She got on, and moved towards the front. I wormed my way into the queue, bought my ticket, and trotted up the stairs.

It took several stops before I could claim a window seat with a view of the disembarking pa.s.sengers, but by employing sharp elbows and a winsome smile, I beat an old woman out of her choice. Ignoring her glare, I removed the bright scarf from my hat and pushed it into the shopping bag on my lap. glare, I removed the bright scarf from my hat and pushed it into the shopping bag on my lap.

We travelled through endless London suburbs, with scores of stops and a constant flux of pa.s.sengers, and still Miss Dunworthy did not appear below. I started to wonder if perhaps she had removed her hat-or changed her garments entirely, as I was equipped to do? Had she spotted me, and slipped past when I was trapped away from the windows?

The bus churned on, with ever fewer pa.s.sengers. Solid terraces gave way to groups of houses, then individual semi-detached dwellings. The first field appeared, and another cl.u.s.ter of houses, and finally, when I was the only person on the top of the bus, we stopped again, and Millicent Dunworthy climbed down. She turned to exchange a greeting with the conductor-they sounded like old friends-and I ducked down. Had she seen my head so quickly vanish from sight? When the bus started up again, I risked a glance: To my relief, she was not staring after us in puzzlement, but had set off in the other direction, beside a high brick wall with heavy vegetation inside. The wall was not a perfect rectangle, but left the road at odd angles to encircle an isolated country house that had no-one overlooking it.

Just what I should want, were I up to no good.

I wound down the stairs and told the conductor that I would get off at his next stop, which proved to be the village centre, half a mile down the road. I strode up the row of shops as if certain of my destination, but in fact trying to decide: linger here until dusk and risk missing something at the house, or go back and chance being seen?

A sign on the other side of the high street decided me: Estate Agent Estate Agent, it offered; Properties to Let Properties to Let.

The office was about to close, it being ten minutes to six, but I slipped in, un.o.btrusively deposited my bag on a chair near the doorway, and walked up to the man behind the desk, my hand already out.

"I'm sorry, miss-" he began, but he got no further.

Really, what could he do, faced with an enthusiastic young lady who pumped his hand and declared that he was just what she'd been looking for, she was the secretary to Lady Radston-Pompffrey who was looking for a large house to let for her American niece and family, who for some odd Colonial reason wished a place that felt as if it were in the country whilst at the same time they could be in Town without bother, and this appeared to be precisely the sort of area Lady R-P would approve. was looking for a large house to let for her American niece and family, who for some odd Colonial reason wished a place that felt as if it were in the country whilst at the same time they could be in Town without bother, and this appeared to be precisely the sort of area Lady R-P would approve.

At the thought of what finding a large house for me could do to his monthly income, the gentleman settled back into his chair, apologised that he couldn't offer me a cup of tea but his a.s.sistant had already gone home, and took out his pencil to note the details of what the good Lady wanted for her American niece.

Interestingly enough, what this fictional aristocrat wished matched quite closely what I had seen of the house behind the tall brick walls. His face fell.

"Ah, well, I'm sorry you didn't come in last summer, we could have helped you there. Yes, I know the house you mean, and in point of fact, I acted as agent for it-the house is now under a two-year lease, not due to expire until November of 'twenty-five. However, I'm sure we can find-"

"November, you say? Do you suppose the tenants might have tired of it by now? Perhaps I should pop in and ask them."

"No. I mean to say, I wouldn't recommend that, they made it quite clear that they were looking for privacy."

"Ooh, how mysterious. Local folk?"

"A gentleman from overseas, I understand, although his agent was local. They hold meetings there, I think it's one of these new-fangled religious groups."

"Or perhaps they're Naturists, you know, prancing about the garden in the nude." That served to distract him. "Have you met the man? I wonder if I know him? Lady R-P dabbles in Tarot and Spiritualism," I confided.

"Er, sorry? Met him, no-saw him once, nice-looking fellow, but I shouldn't think ..."

"Do you have his agent's name?" I asked, thinking, Please don't make me break in and go through your books Please don't make me break in and go through your books.

"Gunderson," he answered absently. "Shady character, that one. Look, I've noticed ladies going into the property from time to time. You don't actually suppose they-" Look, I've noticed ladies going into the property from time to time. You don't actually suppose they-"

"I can certainly find out for you, through Lady R-P's friends. Gunderson, you say?"

"That's right. I can't remember his first name, offhand. ..."

"Perhaps there's a file?" I suggested.

He instantly stood up and went to his cabinets, coming back with a thin file that he opened on the desk-the poor man did not at all care for the idea of nude orgies taking place on a property for which he was responsible.

"There, Marcus Gunderson, although the address he had is that of an hotel."

I looked over the paper. "You didn't ask for any personal recommendations?"

"He said his employer was from overseas, and didn't want to wait for an exchange of letters. But the bank draught he gave me for the first year's hire cleared with no problem, and the house had stood empty far too long, the furnishings were suffering. So I let him have it."

"It was furnished, then?"

"Completely. Well, such as it was. The old lady who owned it died and there's a question about inheritance, so I was ordered to find a tenant until they can settle things legally."

I wrote down the names and the details of hotel and bank, but there was little to go on.

Not expecting anything more, I said, "Can you tell me anything about the man you think might be behind this Gunderson chap? For Lady R-P's friends, that is-perhaps they'll know what he's up to."

"As I said, I never met him properly, but I've seen him driving through the village once or twice with Mr Gunderson. He's a tidy-looking gentleman of perhaps forty, dark hair, clean shaven."

"Well, thank-"

"Oh, and he may have a scar on his face."

I looked at him, then raised my left hand and drew a line down from the outer corner of my eye. "Here?"

"That's right-so you do know him?"

"Not yet," I said.

"But you know of him-so tell me, is there anything-"

"Absolutely not," I said. The last thing I needed was for this earnest estate agent to thrust his nose into things. "He's absolutely straight, but as you know, very private, extremely shy, in fact. He's a-an inventor, and you can imagine how they are-he's been known to move out of a house overnight if strangers poke into his business."

The relieved estate agent, not questioning that my aristocratic employer should know a reclusive inventor, hastened to a.s.sure me that he wouldn't dream of disturbing the gentleman.

I thanked him and said that, if he wanted to put together a list of appropriate residences, I should be by in a day or two to look at them. I retrieved my bag of burglary tools, and left.

It was just after six; the brick wall around the house was too exposed for me to risk lurking there by daylight, with bare fields on three sides and a house with brutally manicured hedges across the way.

I walked up the high street to a likely-looking inn, where I ate a surprisingly interesting meal while staring out of the tiny leaded windows facing the street. Four cars entered the gates through the brick wall, just before eight o'clock, followed by a group of three women on foot who disembarked at the bus stop. I paid and asked the way to the inn's facilities, where I changed into the dark clothing I had brought.

When dusk was drawing in, I walked through the field alongside the wall. When I was certain no eyes followed, I clambered over it, to drop down silently into the garden beyond.

As I let go, I was struck by the oddest feeling, that Holmes, somewhere, was doing precisely the same thing.

The G.o.ds (2): The Power of a story lies in the extremes: The Power of a story lies in the extremes: Hero Odysseus can be cruel and low-handed; the cowardly cheat Loki is brother to Woden and brings Thor the great hammer The lessons of myths are not on the surface, but there for those willing to sit at the G.o.ds' feet and learn.

Thus this Testimony of one man's voyage to Power.

Testimony, III:3

THE GARDEN WAS AS UNTENDED AS IT HAD APPEARED from without, an unremitting tangle of decades-old rhododendrons against the near-dark sky. I listened, for guards or dogs, then cautiously pressed forward: As I did so, I recalled the eyes of the Green Man glittering from Damian's canvas, and had to push away the sensation that crept down the back of my neck.

Eventually, the wall of branches parted, opening onto what had once been the lawns. Still no dogs or protesting shouts, so I walked in the direction of the lights.

The walls might have described an idiosyncratic shape across the countryside, but the house they contained was one of those st.u.r.dy boxes beloved of the Victorian nouveau-riche, wanting an impressive lump of brick in which to display their large paintings and simpering daughters to others in their cla.s.s. The windows in what I supposed was the drawing room, on the ground floor near the front door, were brightly lit, and I could hear a low murmur of voices. The room above it was not only lit, the windows were open. They were the up-and-down, double-hung sort, rather than shutter-style, which might halve the sound that could pa.s.s through, but I should have to take care to walk softly, and not step into the light cast below. lump of brick in which to display their large paintings and simpering daughters to others in their cla.s.s. The windows in what I supposed was the drawing room, on the ground floor near the front door, were brightly lit, and I could hear a low murmur of voices. The room above it was not only lit, the windows were open. They were the up-and-down, double-hung sort, rather than shutter-style, which might halve the sound that could pa.s.s through, but I should have to take care to walk softly, and not step into the light cast below.

Forty feet from the house, my shoes touched gravel; off to the left I caught the reflection off polished metal and window-gla.s.s: Several motor-cars were parked there. I circled the house in the other direction until the gra.s.s resumed underfoot, allowing me to get close to its walls.

The drawing room windows, also open to the night but behind curtains, had been well off the ground. I took a detour into the outhouses in the yard at the back, and found what I had hoped in the second one: a large bucket with st.u.r.dy sides, although its bottom was a bit dubious.

Bucket in hand, I walked soft-footed back up the neglected garden-beds to the lighted rooms at the front. Long before I came near, I could hear voices, overlapping chatter from a mixed group of men and women. I settled the bucket top into the baked earth, let my kit slide to the ground beside it, and cautiously balanced myself on the metal rims.

If I went onto my toes, I could see a narrow slice of the room through a s.p.a.ce in the centre of curtains so old, their lining showed cracks and tears. What I saw amounted to little more than movement and sparkle: the back of a head here, a hand with a gla.s.s half-full of greenish liquid there. It was not worth the leg-strain, so I lowered myself back to the rims and listened to what sounded like a group of ten or twelve, more than half of them women. The murmur I heard earlier had begun to pick up, in volume and in speed.

I bent my head, concentrating on the sounds. With an effort I could unpick the threads of conversation to reveal that they were talking about a person: "-think she would have known that-"

"-charming, really, but I always wondered about-"

"-can't have had anything to do with it, can he?"

"-know artists, there's no telling-"

They were talking about Yolanda's death, and Damian's involvement. Considering that they had all been here by eight o'clock and it was now half past, they were past the first stage of discussing their shock and sadness and well into the I-told-you-so and she-brought-it-on-herself stage. It was, I decided, a process furthered by the liquid in their gla.s.ses, which was not the fruit punch it looked like-or if it was, then someone had spiked it. Laughter rose, was cut off, and then started again a few minutes later; this time it was not stifled. Soon, the talk had left Yolanda entirely and was about handbags, school tuition, a sister's baby, and horse-racing; soon, twelve people were sounding like twice that number.

Nine o'clock approached; the voices grew ever merrier; my ankles grew ever tireder. I stepped down from the bucket to ease the strain of the unnatural pose, and rested my shoulders against the brick under the window, hearing not one thing of any interest.

Then the village clock struck nine, and in moments, the noise from within grew to a crescendo that I feared meant they were about to take their leave, until I realised that to the contrary, they were greeting a newcomer.

No-one had come down the gravel drive, on foot or wheel, which meant that the new arrival had entered from the house itself. I craned to peer through the slit, but the man who belonged to the voice that was now dominating the room had his back to me. All I could see were three individuals with identical rapt expressions.

I bent to my bag and took out the sheer silk mottled scarf, tying it loosely around my entire head. With the danger of reflection off my spectacles thus lessened, I patted around until I found a twig, then climbed back up on the bucket and stretched out as far as I could reach. The twig caught in the soft lining, allowing me to cautiously ease the curtain a fraction of an inch to one side.

There were now nearly two inches of crack between the fabric, and the speaker's back came into view.

Or, partly into view. He was a stocky man with a few grey threads in his dark hair, wearing an expensively cut black suit. When he turned to the right a little, I caught a glimpse of English skin darkened by the tropics. His voice was low and compelling, a perfect blend of friendship and authority. He was from the north originally, a touch of Scots buried under English and overlaid by a stronger version of the clipped tones I had heard in Damian's voice.

Who are you? I asked. I asked. And what are you doing in Damian Adler's life? And what are you doing in Damian Adler's life?