but the longest I had a full beard was when I travelled in the Himalayas. The sensation of its removal, in an open- air barber's in Delhi with half the street bearing witness, was exquisite.”
“ America, eh? Where did you go?”
“ Chicago, for the most part.”
“Do you think these bed-clothes have been laundered in the last month?”
“I should doubt it.”
“Perhaps I'll sleep on top of them.”
“The night is warm.”
“And use my clothes as a pillow.”
“Head lice can indeed be a nuisance.”
“You sure you don't want a small night-cap, to help you sleep?”
“Damian, I-”
“Yes, yes, you're right. Clear-headed.”
“Shall I get the lights?”
“No! Leave them. For a bit. If you don't mind.”
“As you wish.”
“So. Did you go to New Jersey? When you were in America?”
“I passed through on my way from New York, that is all.”
“I went there once. With Mother. When I was nine.”
“Which would have been 1903?”
“That's right. Why?”
“1903 was the year I left London for Sussex.”
“And took up beekeeping.”
“Yes.”
“Did you truly not know?”
“About you?”
“About me, about her, about…”
“Your mother was a remarkably clever woman. Too clever, I fear, for the men in her life. What she told me, I believed.”
“Wanted to believe.”
“I did not
“She was lonely. A son can only do so much.”
“I fear she may have been too clever for her own good, as well.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not so easy, no.”
“In any case, good night.”
“I shall turn off the-”
“Leave it! One of them, if you don't mind. The small one.”
“As you like. Good night, Damian.”
10
went up to the high mountains, and there
he stood before the waiting Angels and said,
“Take me, I am yours, do with me as you will.”
Testimony, I:5
I WOKE WHEN THE TERRACE GREW LIGHT, GROANING with the aches brought by alcohol compounded by hard stones. Was it Hippocrates who declared that moonlight affected the moistures of the brain, and drove a person mad? Certainly, it did one's body no good.
I staggered to the kitchen to make strong coffee. At seven o'clock I picked up the telephone and asked to be connected with the Monk's Tun inn.
“Hello, is that Johanna? Oh, Rebecca, good morning, this is Mary Russell. Could you- What's that? Oh, thank you, it's good to be back. Could I ask you to take a message to Lulu? Tell her she needn't come out today-in fact, not to come out until she hears from me. Oh no, everything is fine, I'd just prefer she not come out for a few days. That's right, Mrs Hudson is due back Saturday, and I'm sure she'll want Lulu's help then. Thanks. Oh, and give my greetings to your aunt.”
I spent the morning settling into the quiet, amiable house, and finished up the accumulated correspondence. Feeling virtuous, I dropped the letters on the table near the front door and went to don clothing similar to what I had worn the previous afternoon, digging out a small rucksack from the lumber room and tossing into it another impromptu picnic, a few tools, some paper, and a pencil.
If Holmes was off dealing with one mystery, there was no reason I couldn't turn my mind to the one left behind.
The empty hive was on a lonely southerly slope in the lee of a stone wall, as remote as any spot on the Downs. On the other side of the wall was the ancient burial mound; in the distance was a branch of the South Downs Way, one of the prehistoric foot-highways that weave across England and Wales. Towards the sea, figures moved along a rise in the ground: striking, how human beings tend to cluster together rather than spread themselves over stretches of emptiness such as this.
As I quenched my thirst with the bottle of water I had brought, I studied the empty hive. It was typical of those Holmes used, with three stacked segments, the two larger making up the hive body, and a shallower segment on top called the super. All three segments contained sliding frames on which the bees made their comb; when these were full, other supers would be added on top, to satisfy the bees' desire to build upwards. Somewhere between the segments there would be a queen excluder, to segregate the larger queen and her eggs from the comb to be harvested.
When the bottle was empty, I went down on my knees for a scrutiny of the hive's empty doorway.
No sign of mice, a common problem with hives. No litter of dead bees in the forecourt of the hive, and Holmes would have mentioned the presence of the destructive wax moth. So far as I knew, the paint was the same used on all the hives, and the construction was of a kind with at least two others. I prised off the top, set aside the tinkling bells, and began to examine the frames. The fragrance was dizzying. Even though I was not particularly enamoured with honey, the temptation to rip into a segment and pop a wad of ambrosia into my mouth was powerful.
However, I did not want to tempt a neighbouring hive into a raid, introducing bad habits where there were none, so I left the comb whole.
It took some time to slide up each frame, and some muscle to wrestle aside the sections. I shone my torch around what remained. No moths, no death, just full comb and emptiness, as if the entire hive, queen to drones, had heard the Piper's flute and taken off into the blue. I put down my torch and reached for the bottom section's first frame, to return it to its place.
“Did you find anything?” enquired a voice.
I dropped the weighty frame onto my foot, stifled an oath, and swung around to glare at whatever holiday tripper had come to me for his entertainment.
He was a small, round man, clean-shaven and neatly dressed in worn tweeds and a soft hat. His arms were resting atop the dry wall, his chin propped on his fists. Clearly he had been watching me for some time while I had stood, top over tea-kettle with my head in the box.
Before I could send him on his way-the public footpath might be nearby, but this was decidedly not on it-he
