“There are others like him out there. You must be cautious. It would do you good to burden your memory with what you saw transpire between Jonathan and that woman. People are not to be trusted.”
“Not even me. You have never really trusted me.”
With a dry chuckle, he said, “Not even you? No, Poppy, of all the people I’ve known, you are the most trustworthy. And, as I said, one of the most trusting. Do guard your emotions.”
A quarter of an hour later, we heard someone playing with the doorknob. Sherlock sprang to his feet, took up his gun and motioned for me to get out of sight. I grabbed a rolling pin that was within reach. Then he blew out the candle and we were left in darkness, waiting for the door to open. When it did, Sherlock sprang from behind the door and lifted his gun to throttle the man he thought was Hopgood.
But I struck a match and saw a shadow; it was then I knew that it could not be the skinny man that Inspector Hopkins had described. “Wait! Sherlock! It’s not-”
Sherlock realized at the last moment. He was staring not at Professor Hopgood but at his brother Mycroft.
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock shouted.
“I’m doing a dear friend a favor.” He turned to me. “Your uncle, Poppy. And,” he added, as he held out his hand for the rolling pin, “two weapons are better than one. As are two Holmes brothers.”
I looked over Mycroft’s shoulder and saw a man with a ruddy face and dark, passionless eyes. Sherlock pushed Mycroft aside and pointed his gun at the intruder’s chest.
He quietly said, “Professor Hopgood, I presume.”
Chapter 26
Staring intensely at Hopgood, Sherlock said, “It is immensely satisfying to encounter a criminal whose wit is a challenge and whose ingenuity and innovation make him a worthy opponent. Sadly, sir, you fit neither category.”
“Who are you?” Hopgood demanded, his voice hissing like a snake.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and everything is now in order.”
Hopgood blinked at us and looked as dazed as one who witnesses an explosion.
“Are you a police officer? Did someone from Oxford send you here?”
“Neither,” Sherlock laughed.
I saw Hopgood glance around, clearly seeking escape, but Sherlock pounded on him and knocked him to the floor.
“Professor Hopgood, in the name of Her Majesty, I arrest you for the murder of Sir Cecil Gray. We have an eye witness.”
“You said you are not a police officer,” Hopgood hissed.
“Did I?”
Hopgood tried to struggle and Mycroft hovered over him with the rolling pin. “I, on the other hand,” he said, a smug smile crossing his lips, “am here with Her Majesty’s authority.”
“I assure you, Professor Hopgood,” Sherlock said, “it will go much easier for you if you do not resist.”
Resist he did, and Sherlock landed several well placed blows to his face and chest. They struggled for a moment and Hopgood attempted to seize the gun but instead he received a crashing blow to his temple from its butt.
As I so often did, I stared at Sherlock in amazement. “What shall I do, Sherlock?”
“Go back to the Inn and ask them to fetch the local constable.”
“Yes, run along, Dr. Stamford,” Mycroft said. “The constable is expecting you.”
Chapter 27
That night, after the local authorities were convinced to cart off Hopgood for further questioning by Inspector Lestrade, who had accompanied Mycroft from London, Mycroft, Sherlock and I had a glass of wine at the pub. Mycroft told us that my uncle had sent a page to fetch him and that he and Lestrade had hopped the next train to Chippy.
“I have told you, brother, to stay out of Her Majesty’s business. How many times must I-”
“Oh, do be quiet, Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed. “I... we solved the case, didn’t we?”
“Once again putting yourself and this young woman in danger. But now, do tell me the details.”
Sherlock explained, with great flourish, I might add, the information we’d received from Kate Dew. He made no mention whatsoever of swans. Later, he said, “I tell Mycroft only what he needs to know.”
As I listened to Sherlock’s account of the case to his brother Mycroft, I thought to myself that despite everything, I was lucky to know him. He had changed my life in many ways, some good, some bad, but definitely in a powerful way. He had engaged me in my life’s most exciting adventures.
When Sherlock had finished, Mycroft turned to me. “Dr. Stamford, I must see what Lestrade is up to now, but I gave your uncle my word that I would see you home safely.”
“There are no trains until morning, Mycroft,” I said.
“Yes, yes, unfortunately. Have you arranged for lodging?”
Simultaneously, Sherlock and I replied, “We have a room.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Young lady, your uncle-”
“What I meant, what we meant, Mycroft, is that Sherlock and I already made arrangements at the inn. We have rooms. Both of us.”
Again, Mycroft eyed us suspiciously but finally shrugged and said, “I’ll see you in the morning then. Eight sharp.” As he bid us goodnight, he said, “I shall expect a written report from you in the morning, Sherlock.”
As Mycroft stepped away from the table, we both laughed and then Sherlock muttered, “In the morning, indeed.” Then he said, “Now we must turn our attention to the rest of Hopgood’s sordid business. Who knows who else he may have received funding from?”
“Not tonight, Sherlock. Not tonight. Can’t we talk about something else?”
So then he turned his monologue to his bees. And I thought how akin he was to the bees he studied. They knew exactly what they were to do and did it in the most efficient way possible.
The iconic pattern, the hexagonal cells that form a honeycomb is well known. Like Sherlock’s cases, each individual cell has a story to tell. The concise and orderly pattern of the
