The Language Of Bees Part 24

I had no doubt at all: This was The Master.

He greeted his followers, thanked them for their work during the past weeks, and apologised for his recent absences. He singled out "our sister Millicent," for her especial efforts, and I stretched around until she came into view, pink and pleased. He then spoke about Yolanda, another "sister," expressing his grief over her death and his hope that the Circle, and the Children as a whole, would only be strengthened by having known her.

He sounded insincere to me, but then, I was prepared for insincerity: Religion has proved the refuge of so many scoundrels, one begins by doubting, and waits to be proven wrong.

The Master spoke for ten or twelve minutes, most of it touching lightly on phrases and images from Testimony Testimony, causing his admirers to nod their heads in appreciation.

Nothing that he said could be in the least construed as information. All his ideas, and many of his phrases, reflected the book that I could see lying open on an altar between two candelabra set with black candles. It might as well have been Millicent Dunworthy reading aloud, but for his compelling presence.

Even that, I found hard to understand. Perhaps I was simply outside his gaze and immune to the timbre of his voice, but the people in the room were not. They hung on every syllable, their pupils dark as if aroused, smiling obediently at any faint touch of cleverness or humour in his words. From my perch, I watched his effects on five congregants: Millicent Dunworthy was one, wearing a dull green linen dress that did nothing for her complexion, and with her two women in their fifties, one thin, one stout, both in flowered frocks-the stout one, I realised, was the woman whom I'd imagined as a nurse, who with her brother had set up the altar on Sat.u.r.day night. Slightly apart from them stood the sharp-nosed woman I had spoken with, wearing a skirt and tailored blouse, her hair waved in a fashion that had been popular ten years earlier. Beside her was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties wearing a suit and waistcoat far too warm for the room. Millicent, the nurse, and the sharp-nosed woman all wore the gold rings on their right hands. one, I realised, was the woman whom I'd imagined as a nurse, who with her brother had set up the altar on Sat.u.r.day night. Slightly apart from them stood the sharp-nosed woman I had spoken with, wearing a skirt and tailored blouse, her hair waved in a fashion that had been popular ten years earlier. Beside her was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties wearing a suit and waistcoat far too warm for the room. Millicent, the nurse, and the sharp-nosed woman all wore the gold rings on their right hands.

I wondered if any of them also had tattoos on their stomachs.

Then I saw a sixth listener, in the dim back corner, and wondered that I had taken so long to pick him out-this man did not belong in the same room as the others. He was big all over in a grey summer-weight suit that was slightly loose in the body but snug over his wide shoulders and heavy thighs; his face would have looked more at home above a convict's checks.

He may have imagined that his thoughts were invisible, hidden from the believers behind a straight face. But one did not need a bright light to know that there would be scorn in his eyes and a curl to his lips as he surveyed the backs of these people worshipping the man in the black suit. His very stance, leaning against the gla.s.s-fronted bookshelves, shouted his superiority and contempt. He looked like the bodyguard of a mobster; he looked the very definition of shady character of shady character.

Marcus Gunderson?

My leg muscles were quivering, and now the meeting began to break up-or no, merely changing. The group deposited their empty gla.s.ses on nearby tables, then moved towards the chairs that had been set up to face the altar. The black back walked away, but I stretched a fraction higher, because in a moment, he would turn to face them, and me.

"YAPYAPYAP!" exploded through the night, and my heart leapt along with my body. My shoes lost their precarious hold on the bucket rims and I fell, onto the shrubs with one foot inside the rotten bucket. My fall set off an even louder volley of yelps from somewhere in the vicinity of my heels.

"Bubbles!" came a woman's cry from within. I ripped the bucket from my foot and kicked soil over its tell-tale imprint, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up bucket and bag and sprinted for the back of the house, Bubbles roaring hysterically along behind me.

At the out-houses, I kicked open the shed door, grabbed the madly shrieking handful of fur, and tossed it in, drawing the door shut behind it. With luck they would think that Bubbles had been chasing a rat and been trapped inside.

Then I disappeared into the night, moving at a fast limp.

Some investigator: routed by a lap-dog named Bubbles.

My ankle felt as if I'd stepped into a bear trap, but a thorough feel around my nearly-dry trouser leg rea.s.sured me that I might die of teta.n.u.s, but not from blood loss.

From deep in the rhododendrons, I watched people begin to stream out of the door and around the house. The stout woman in the flowered dress pressed to the fore, attracted by the sounds of distress from the back; eventually a light went on over the yard; the barking stopped. They were back there for some time, no doubt debating the puzzle, before returning to the house.

I was not surprised when a short time later, three people came out of the front door, including the woman, her dog Bubbles, and the man who looked like her brother. They climbed into a car and drove away, veering onto the gra.s.sy verge and over-correcting again. Others followed, two and three at a time.

I stayed where I was. Sure enough, when everyone else had gone, two men, The Master and his muscle, came out with a torch to examine the ground under the window. My brief kick was not enough to cover the signs completely by daylight, although I hoped the torch might not pick them out, and indeed, there seemed no consensus of opinion that there had been a spy outside.

They went in the house. I sat down beside my bag, to see what developed.

Nothing happened for some time, except that the upstairs room drew its curtains against the night. I wanted badly to creep back up to the house, but something about the big man's att.i.tude suggested that he was not misled by a scatter of kicked soil, and that he would be expecting a second approach. he was not misled by a scatter of kicked soil, and that he would be expecting a second approach.

So until the lights went out and stayed out for a long time, I would stay where I was.

The village church bells ceased ringing at ten o'clock. Half an hour later, with no warning, light spilt out of the front door and three men came down the steps, carrying luggage.

Except that one of them, a tall, slim man with a full beard who had not been with the others earlier, turned, as if to cast a last look at a beloved home. He faced the house and its light for five long seconds, plenty of time for me to identify him, and to see that what he held to his chest was not a suit-case, but a sleeping child. Plenty of time to change everything.

Before I could react, the man in the black suit spoke, and Damian climbed into the car; The Master got behind the wheel.

I was on my feet, the shout in my throat strangling as I noticed the stance of the man in the grey suit: The reason his suit-coat had been cut loosely was because it concealed a hand-gun.

I waited until he, too, got inside the motor, and then I sprinted along the gra.s.s towards the drive to intercept them. The engine turned over and caught, and the driver put it into gear, spewing gravel behind him with the speed of his start. I ran, but reached the drive too late to catch anything but the last two digits of his number plate.

With no motor-car, not even so much as a bicycle, there was little point in charging after them. Instead, I turned back to the house, used my pick-locks, and slipped inside. Then, I listened.

How is one convinced that a house is empty? From the lack of sound, or vibration? Smell, perhaps, that most subtle of the senses? How is one convinced of a man's innocence-against all fact and rationality-from a man's arms around his child, and five seconds of his face turned to the lamp-light?

The language of bees is not the only great mystery of communication.

Certainly this house felt empty: I caught no vibration of motion, and the only noise was my own heart. I found the telephone, and rang Mycroft: If any man in England could instigate a hunt for a car, it would be he. Mycroft: If any man in England could instigate a hunt for a car, it would be he.

I gave him the numbers, description, the information that the man in the front pa.s.senger seat had a pistol, and a quick synopsis of what I had discovered that day; then I went to search the house.

A quick survey downstairs confirmed the emptiness of the rooms, all of which except the drawing room were filled with dull, dusty furniture that looked as if no-one had used it for years. The kitchen had a new-looking ice-box and food on its shelves, with the sorts of biscuits and juices that men might stock when catering for a small child.

Upstairs, I went directly to the corner room with the open windows, and stood looking in at where Damian Adler had been hidden for the past five days: two iron bedsteads, wardrobe with a time-speckled mirror, a chest of drawers missing several handles, and an armchair draped with a throw-rug. The carpet on the floor was so worn, one could no longer discern its original pattern, or even colour. Out of place amidst the ancient furniture was a work-table fashioned from a door on trestles, now littered with personal items and art supplies. I recognised Damian's cravat, tossed over the back of an old dining-room chair, and there could be no doubt whose tumble of new brushes and nearly full paint-tubes those were, or who had done those drawings-although some were by the hand of a child, in bright wax crayon. The same child who had been taken from that smaller, still-rumpled bed, whose new-looking teddy bear lay abandoned among the bed-clothes, whose bright red Chinese slipper lay beside my foot-fallen off as she was carried through the door by her fleeing father.

I bent to pick up the slipper, then froze.

Air had brushed my skin, the briefest of touches. The air currents in the house had altered, just for an instant; had I not been standing in the doorway with an open window across from me, I should not have noticed it.

I strained to hear movement from below. Nothing: four minutes, five-and then a faint creak from the direction of the old, dry staircase, instantly stifled.

I eased the knife from my boot scabbard and straightened slowly; he and I both waited for the other to betray ourselves.

I cast a glance at the window: How many creaks in the fifteen feet of floorboard between me and it? How long would it take the big man to sprint up the stairs-or, back down the hallway and out of the front door-and take aim at my fleeing back?

The knife hilt grew warm in my hand, then damp. I moved it briefly to my right hand to wipe my palm, then took it back, my fingers kneading it nervously.

It is such an easy thing, to become prey. Especially for a woman, for whom biology and nurture conspire to encourage a sense of victim-hood. When terror sweeps through the veins, we become rabbits, cowering in a corner with our eyes closed, hoping for invisibility. And a large man with a gun is a truly terrifying thing. I regretted coming, berated myself for not bringing someone with me; stood helpless, waiting for my death to come up the stairs. Bad judgment yet again, to face a gun with nothing but a sweaty-handled throwing knife.

I felt a ghostly slap on the back of my head, and Holmes' voice exhorting me, Use your brain, Russell, it's the only weapon that counts Use your brain, Russell, it's the only weapon that counts.

With a lurch, my mind dragged itself out of the spin into panic, my eyes casting about wildly for alternatives to a bullet.

Knife, yes, but this was an entire house full of deadly objects, from that neck-tie across the back of the chair to the electric lamp to the sharp pencil by my foot, and all manner of heavy objects with which to pound, pummel, and gouge a nice large target like my stalker. Heavens, if I could get him down, I could smother him with the teddy bear.

A pencil. I looked at the light-switch on the wall beside me, and stooped for the drawing implement, sliding the knife almost absently into its scabbard.

The switch was one of those with double push-plugs, currently in the ON position. I shifted around to face it (thankfully, the floor made no remark) and put my right thumb on the OFF b.u.t.ton. Resting the pencil-point in the s.p.a.ce between the b.u.t.ton and its casing, I took a breath, and in one quick motion pushed the switch and snapped the lead point off in the s.p.a.ce, effectively locking it down. The light from the hallway streamed through the door onto the window opposite. lead point off in the s.p.a.ce, effectively locking it down. The light from the hallway streamed through the door onto the window opposite.

The clamour of pounding feet-up the stairs, not down-covered my own swift steps into the lee of the chest of drawers. The doorway darkened, filled with angry man, who cursed as he fumbled and failed to work the switch. I wrapped my hand around the hair-brush I had grabbed from the chest-top, then tossed it underhand against the meeting-place of the curtains.

He heard the sound and half-saw the motion of the fabric, and leapt across the room to rip away the curtains and thrust his head and shoulders out of the window, gun aimed at the ground below.

I was already in motion, knife in one hand, s.n.a.t.c.hing up Damian's cravat with the other. He heard me coming and nearly managed to extricate himself from the window before I slammed into him, knocking him half out of the room, then jerking the upper window down hard across his spine. He bellowed and shoved back hard. Gla.s.s and wood crackled, then went abruptly silent as he became aware of the tip of my knife, pressing into an exquisitely sensitive, and currently exquisitely vulnerable, part of his anatomy.

"Drop the gun," I said loudly. When he failed to respond, I twitched the knife, and his squeak was followed by a thud from the flower bed below. "Now show me your right hand."

His body tensed to brace himself against falling, and his right hand waved briefly on the other side of the cracked pane. Good enough. I wound the cravat around his ankles and snugged it into a messy but effective one-handed knot.

It took some doing to get the weight of him out from the window without permitting him freedom of motion, and he nearly had me twice, but finally, with his belt, three neck-ties, and the rope-tie from a dressing gown, I had him trussed. Bleeding, enraged, and trussed.

I walked on uncertain feet over to the light-switch, and managed to unscrew the face-plate and prise out the sliver of lead. I could hear him all the while, struggling against the various bonds.

By the time I got the lights on, the worst of my reaction had sub sided, and I was faced with a conundrum-not, What to do with him? because I knew what I was going to do with him, but-How do I get him to talk? sided, and I was faced with a conundrum-not, What to do with him? because I knew what I was going to do with him, but-How do I get him to talk?

I'd seen enough of this type of man to know that he would absorb a lot of damage before opening his mouth. If I were Holmes, or Lestrade, this man would spit on my questions. I could threaten him further with the knife, but it would take a lot to convince him that a mere girl would carry out the threats.

He'd be right, too: I might be willing to damage a thug to save Holmes, but for Damian and his daughter?

The man on the floor lay still now; I could feel his eyes on my back. I circled the room slowly, letting him think about his situation. That he was neither cursing nor demanding to know who I was told me that he had more brains than his overdeveloped muscles suggested.

I looked down at the trestle table and its litter of paint and drawings, and became aware that I was looking at myself.

Not myself, as in a mirror, but a simple, flowing continuous line of ink on paper, elegant as a j.a.panese master. It was not a sketch, it was a finished piece, done on a sheet of dense and expensive paper. At the lower left was its t.i.tle: My Father's Wife My Father's Wife. It was signed Adler.

I deliberately pushed it out of my mind, and reached for one of the tubes of paint, juggling with it for a moment before laying it back on the table. I put the knife down beside it, and returned to my captive. His eyes held mixed fury and contempt, which was fine. What I needed to see there was fear.

I grabbed the lapels of his coat. He smirked, expecting me to tug and struggle against his weight, but the secretions of the adrenal gland can be turned to strength as well as fear, and I hauled him in two great backwards strides to the corner of the worn carpet, and let his head thump down against the bare boards.

"Hey! What the h.e.l.l is going on here, sister?"

I went around the room, methodically piling up the furniture until the carpet was free of enc.u.mbrance.

Then I rolled him up in it.

He was cursing now, an astonishingly vicious torrent, ever more breathless. Still silent, I walked back to the table for the knife, then knelt on the floorboards beside his head. I held up the stained blade for him to study. He looked at it-he couldn't stop himself, a thin, shiny blade edged with scarlet-but he did not believe I would use it.

I didn't. Instead, my eyes watching his face, I put it to my mouth, and slowly, appreciatively, licked it clean.

It was not blood, of course, it was bright red paint from one of Damian's tubes, but it was far more effective than mere blood. I took out a handkerchief and patted my lips delicately, then slid the blade away into its scabbard.

The unexpected can be frightening. His eyes no longer held contempt.

"You shouldn't have cursed," I told him.

I could see him wrestling with the unlikeliness of that opening statement. "What?"

"If you'd held a deep breath instead, you'd have more room now. As it is, your lungs are constricted. You'll probably pa.s.s out after a while."

"Lady, you're in deep trouble."

"When is he coming back for you?"

"Any minute." I had been watching his face, and saw the lie.

"I don't think so."

"He's coming up the drive now."

"I don't think he's coming at all. Certainly not in time to save you."

"You're not going to use that knife on me."

"Of course not. I don't have to. Tell me, how's your breathing? Getting any easier? You think you'll manage until your boss comes back for you?"

The first shadow of uneasiness pa.s.sed through his eyes, telling me what I needed to know.

"I don't think he's coming. And next Wednesday, when those nice people come for their meeting. Do you think they'll persist until they get into the house, or will they just knock politely and, when no-one answers, go away?"

His breathing quickly grew more laboured.

"You see? I don't need a knife. I don't need to do anything, just walk away and lock the front door behind me."

"What do you want?" He said it with more obscenity, but I overlooked the words and spoke to the question.

"Where can I find the man who just drove off and left you here?"

He told me what I could do with my question.

I sighed, and stood up. At the motion, the uneasiness returned.

"Oy," he said. "Honest, I don't know. I know what he says his name is and I know generally where he lives, but he never told me what he was doing, and he never had me go to his house."

"You've worked for him since last autumn."

"Yeah, but it's just that, working for him. I drive him around, I do things for him. He never asks me what I think or tells me anything more than what I need to know."

I moved away, and he cried out, "Wait, don't"-I was only fetching a cushion from the chair. He eyed it warily, and looked relieved when I dropped it on the boards and settled onto it.

"Tell me what you do know about him."

"And if I do?"

"I'll see to it that you don't die here. If you don't talk, I'll go away and you can take your chances that someone will hear you shouting. Oh, and I'll strap a belt around your legs first. You won't be able to roll out of the carpet."

He didn't believe that I would use the knife, but he did believe this. He talked.

His name was indeed Marcus Gunderson, and he called his boss The Reverend, a name that was half disdain and half deference. The Reverend had called himself Thomas Brothers, and all the people at his church knew him by that name, but Gunderson had helped him set up that ident.i.ty back in November.

"What's his real name?"

"Dunno. Honest, I don't know."

"How did he find you?" I asked.