The God of the Hive

disentangle the tweed from a snagging bramble or branch.

I also noticed two more of the bent-branch booby-traps. Robin Goodfellow he might be, but this hermit had no intention of permitting others to come upon him unawares.

After five miles, we came to a high wall with a narrow metal gate. The gate was speckled with rust; the sturdy padlock was not.

“I need to go into the village alone,” I told him, brushing my skirt and checking that my boots were not too caked with mud.

“A woman by herself would stand out almost as much as a woman with me,” he said, pocketing the key and pushing open the gate.

I glanced at him, surprised at this perceptive remark from a man who showed less sign of interest in the mores and customs of the outer world than the hedgehog might have done. “By myself I can invent a reason for being there. With you, there’s no chance.”

“As you wish. How long will you be?”

“An hour at most. You’re certain there’s a telegraph office?”

“There’s a post office,” he replied. “It has a telegraph.”

“If the telegraphist isn’t off fishing or caring for his aged mother, you mean?”

“Buy some milk, for the child. And I think she needs another warm garment-”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said. “Look, you will be here when I return, right?”

“Or in the village.”

“Well, just wait half an hour before you come in. And if you see me, don’t give on that we know each other.”

I stepped out onto the road and marched into the village.

I was, I realised, in luck: The village was on a lake, and the lake was on the Picturesque Sites of Olde England tours. A steamer had recently deposited a load of earnest sight-seers, all of them wearing sensible shoes and clutching guide-books and pamphlets. I did not fit in, precisely, lacking hat, book, and earnest expression, but being one stranger in the vicinity of a dozen others made invisibility easier.

In the village shop, I gathered up three post-cards, a copy of the day’s Times, and a tin of travelling sweets, then stood in the queue to buy stamps. Once there, I enquired about sending a telegram. The rather befuddled but undeniably picturesque woman in charge of the village’s postal service admitted that there was a telegraphic device fitted to the shop’s post office, but suggested that I should be much better off to return across the lake to the town and use their service, because her husband, the man in charge of this daunting machine, had taken to his bed with a touch of the ague and was not to be disturbed.

This message was profusely illustrated with woe and took six long minutes to deliver. The queue behind me was now to the door. I was sorely tempted to clamber over the counter and tap out the message myself, but knew that this would not help my aim of invisibility. Besides which, the sharp sniff coming from her young assistant at the mention of ague suggested that the cause might be something other than germs.

So I waited until the postmistress had dithered to an end of her story, then batted my eyes at her and told her that I truly needed to send a telegram, now please, and it would be such a pity if I found I could not, because I should then have to speak to my uncle in the telegraphs office down in London and let him know that the village wanted attention.

She put up her window and fetched her husband.

I gave them both a sweet smile and let myself into the crowded back of the shop.

The man moved in a cloud of gin, freshly swigged in an (unsuccessful) attempt to steady his hands. I permitted him to run the first part of the message, but in a short time he found himself eased to one side while this chipper female, twittering all the while about how her uncle had been amused to teach her Morse when she was a tiny thing, finished the dots and dashes.

This is the telegram I had decided to send, addressed to Mycroft:

ALL WELL COMING HOME SOON BUT ORKNEY BROTHERS REQUIRE URGENT ATTENTION STOP MESSAGES IN THE USUAL WAY WILL REACH ME STOP RUSSELL

It was a risk, but almost as much as the message about Brothers, I wanted to reassure him (and possibly, through him, Holmes) that we were safe. Besides, it gave nothing away other than its place of origin, and with any luck, we would be far away by the time Scotland Yard came looking.

I thanked the gentleman (who was now looking quite ill indeed) and went to pay his good wife. As I opened my purse, motion out of the corner of my eye had me looking out of the window, at Robert Goodman.

The shopkeeper noticed the direction of my gaze and hastened to reassure her dangerous customer with the powerful London relations. “Don’t worry about him, dearie, that’s just the local loonie. Perfectly harmless.”

One green eye winked at me through the glass. “You’re certain?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Mad as a rabbit, that one, but he pays his bills.”

I did the same, and left, but all I saw of Goodman was the brush of his coat as he went into the next shop.

Well, with Robert Goodman in the village, the residents would take no notice of me.

We met again where we had parted. Over his shoulder was slung another load of foodstuffs and fancies with which to ply his guests. I had The Times-which again had failed to yield a message from Holmes, or even Mycroft-and the post-cards and tin of sweets, bought for disguise.

Also, two small Beatrix Potter picture-books.

Chapter 23

By Tuesday, Sherlock Holmes was beginning to feel that a nice cosy gaol might be preferable to his current situation.

On Sunday afternoon, he’d been glad just to reach Holland, having spent the day on deck as Gordon’s crew, a sustained physical effort that made him all too aware of his age. He’d had little conversation with Dr Henning, once the decision was made to take refuge with the man she described as a second cousin, twice-removed. He’d had even less with Damian, who slept.

Their goal was a small fishing village roughly a third of the way from Amsterdam to the Hook of Holland. The place appeared, he had to admit, eminently suited as a hideaway-no one in his right mind would look for Sherlock Holmes there. Rumour of their presence might take months to reach England.

As they neared the coast-line, the doctor had come on deck to direct Gordon. She also informed Holmes that Damian was running a fever.

“Not much of one, yet, but it is essential that we get him to a place of quiet and stillness.”

“I have been trying to do that for two days.”

“I am not criticising, merely saying, he needs quiet.”

“And this cousin of yours can offer that?”

“Well, stillness certainly. Although now that I think of it, the quiet will depend on how many guests are in residence.”

He turned on her a raised eyebrow. “Guests?”

“Never mind. If the main house is full, he’ll put us in one of the cabins.”

“Dr Henning, it is not too late to-”

“No no, it’ll be fine, don’t worry. Eric regards himself as a patron of the arts. He’s very wealthy and quite a character. He’s also an expert on the American Civil War, and he occasionally stages re-enactments of the major battles. However, they never last more than a day or two. Of course, there’s also the artists. When Eric retired ten years ago, he decided the best way he might serve the arts was to provide a congenial place in which they might concentrate. So he bought up half this village, and invites painters and sculptors to live here while they are working.”

“This is most unfortunate.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “You object to artists?”

“By no means. But have you not discovered in the course of conversation with your patient that Damian is an