The Language of Bees

  “Come inside and we'll see about finding you rooms until this blows over.”

  Javitz shook his head. “We'll tie her down and find some petrol. As soon as I've cleared the fuel line, we'll be away.”

  “Never!” the other man roared. “My wife would have my guts for garters if I let Cash Javitz take off into this hurricane.”

  “No choice, I'm afraid.”

  I interrupted. “Mr Magnuson? I'm Mary Russell, pleased to meet you. Pardon me for a moment. Captain Javitz, what the devil made it do that?”

  “Probably a scrap of the same rubbish we picked up on that load of fuel in York.”

  “But that time the motor just stopped, not stopped and started.”

  “This'll just be something that worked itself down to the fuel line.”

  “How long will it take you to clear it?”

  “An hour at the most. We should pick up petrol, too, while we're here.”

  “And you honestly feel we can resume after that?”

  “Don't see why not.”

  “You're certain?”

  “Yes! For Chr—for heaven's sake, it's just the fuel line.” Just the fuel line.

  “Very well. Mr Magnuson, can you tell me, is this wind apt to be worse, or better, later in the day?”

  “I can't imagine it getting worse.”

  “Would you agree, Captain Javitz?”

  He studied the sky, sniffed the air, and said, “It should settle a little by nightfall.”

  “We can't wait that long, but I believe we can afford to spend a few hours here. I pray you can fix that sputter before we set off over water. You do that, I'll go into town and see if there's a telegram waiting.”

  “If you say so,” Javitz said, but the relief was clear despite the words.

  “I shall be back by noon, one o'clock at the latest. Will we still reach Kirkwall by mid-afternoon?”

  “If we don't, neither of us will be in any condition to worry about it,” he said.

  “Er, right. Mr Magnuson, could I trouble you to direct me to the general post office?”

  Magnuson did better than that; he summoned a friend, who motored me there.

  Thurso was more a village than a town, some four thousand inhabitants looking across fifteen miles of strait at the Orkney Islands. The harbour was small, which explained why the larger boats I had glimpsed earlier were slightly north of the town itself. Despite its size, Thurso appeared busy and polished, possibly because the fleet had not that long ago moved its training exercises into Scapa Bay in the Orkneys, spilling a degree of prosperity onto this, the nearest mainland town.

  The neighbour with the motor-car was happy to act as my taxi for a couple of hours. We started at the post and telegraph office, where a harried gentleman informed me that no, there was nothing for me, however, a tree had taken out the telegraph line somewhere to the south, and service had only just been restored. Could I try again in an hour?

  I climbed back inside the motor-car, and asked the driver if the day's steamer to Orkney had left.

  “Might not, considering this wind,” he answered, and put the motor-car into gear for the short drive along the water.

  There, at last, I caught scent of my quarry. My description of Brothers had the ticket-seller shaking his head, and mention of a child the same, but when I asked about a tall bearded individual with an English accent, his face brightened.

  “Ach, yais, him. Peculiar feller. He was here airlier.”

  “Just him? Not another man and a child?”

  “No, just the one.”

  I did not know what to make of that. Had Brothers gone ahead? Had he taken the child instead of Damian, leaving Damian trailing desperately behind? Or was Damian operating independently, for some unknown reason?

  “Which day was that?”

  “Airlier,” he repeated, as if I were hard of hearing.

  “What, you mean today?”

  “That's right.”

  “Good heavens. Has the steamer for Orkney left yet?”

  “That's her there,” he said, pointing.

  The first good news since we'd left York. I threw a thanks over my shoulder, touching the pocket that held my revolver as I moved in the direction of the waiting boat. Then I heard the man's voice tossed about on the wind.

  I turned around and called, “Sorry?”

  He raised his voice. “He's not on it, if tha's what ye're wanting.”

  I retraced my steps. “Why not?”

  “I told him she wouldna'be leavin' fer hours yet, what with the wind wanting to blow her halfway to Denmark.”

  “Did he buy any tickets?”

  “No. Last I saw'im, he was heading back t'toon.”

  Town. Surely not to take a room, not if the solar eclipse was to take place tomorrow. Did they have another—

  Town: The harbour was in Thurso itself; only large boats put in here at Scrabster.

  I trotted back to my unofficial taxi and directed him to the harbour.

  The harbour master's office was empty. All the boats I could see were lying at anchor, not setting out into the gale. I studied the buildings along the shore until I spotted a likely one.

  The air inside the pub was thick with the smells of beer, wet wool, and fish. It was also warm and damp, which made my spectacles go opaque, but not before I had seen the universal outrage on the faces of every man in the place. I removed my glasses and, as long as I had their attention, spoke clearly into the silence.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I'm looking for a man who may have tried to hire a boat earlier today. Tall, thin, Englishman with a beard. Has anyone seen him?”

  If anything, the hostility thickened. I cleaned my glasses and threaded them back over my ears, then dug into my pocket for one of the two remaining gold coins. I held it up. “He's trying to get over to the islands. I'd really appreciate it, if anyone has news of him.”

  There was a general shifting in the room, and someone cleared his throat. After a minute, a chair scraped. A man in the back rose and threaded his way forward.

  “Keep your coin, mum,” he said. “Let's step into the saloon bar and Ah'll tell yeh what yeh want to know.”

  I followed him into the adjoining empty room, a bare closet of a space that might have been designed to discourage any lady who might have mistaken permission for approval. One could just imagine a daring local feminist bravely venturing inside, ordering a sherry, and forcing it quickly down.

  However, I did not intend to drink.

  “When was he here?” I asked the man. A fisherman, by the looks of him, waiting out the wind.

  “Who's he to yeh?”

  “My husband's son,” I said.

  He looked startled.

  “My husband's quite a bit older than I,” I told him impatiently. Asymmetrical marriages were commonplace, in the wake of a devastating war. Perhaps here in the North fewer men had died? Perhaps women were more resigned to their solitary lot? Perhaps it was none of his business. “What does it matter? Have you seen my step-son?”

  He surprised me by grinning.

  “If that was the step-son, Ah'd laik t'meet the father. He was a stubborn one, that. Up and down the boats, not about t'take no for an answer. Started out askin' ta be taken o'er t'Mainland, and—”

  “He wanted to go to the mainland?” I interrupted. Weren't we on the mainland?

  “Mainland's the big island. Kirkwall's the town.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Laik Ah say, he wanted to go to Mainlan', and when we all looked at ‘im laik he was ravin’, he then offered t'buy a boat outright.”

  “Oh, Lord. I hope no-one sold him one?”

  “Nah. You'll find few here willin' t'send a man t'his death for money.”

  I was aware of a hollow feeling within. “You think the wind is that bad?”

  “D'ye think we're in the habit of taking a holiday every time there's a wee breeze?”

  “I see. So, where did he go?”

  “He's on
a boat.”

  “But—”

  “You're willin' to pay enough, there'll be a man desperate enough for yer gelt.” The heavy disapproval in his voice gave a different cast to the thick silence in the next room: This Englishman's need threatened to take one of their own.

  “Just him, or another man and a child?”

  “Just the one.” Although Brothers could have been waiting along the coast, with E'stelle.

  “When did they leave?”

  “Two hours. Maybe more.”

  “They should be there by now, then.”

  “If they're not at the bottom, or in Stavanger.”

  Norway? I hoped he was making a grim joke.

  “I am sorry. It's … I'm sorry.”

  “It was a lot of money.” He made no attempt to hide his bitterness. “Enough to keep a family a year or more. A young man'd be tempted. Young men always think they'll come back safe, don't they? E'en when they have two wee bairns at home. Ach, at least he had the sense to leave the purse with us, in case he's not around to bring it home.”

  I thanked him and went back out into the wind. What more was there to say?

  We were halfway to Magnuson's farm when I remembered the telegraph office. Should I bother to go back, on the chance something had come through? I already knew where my quarry was.

  But Mycroft didn't. So I had the driver turn back into the town, and went into the office to compose a telegram. When I had it written down, I took it to the window. The man recognised me.

  “Miss Russell, was it? There's two come through for you. Shall I send this for you as well?”

  “Wait, there might be an answer for one of these.”

  I carried the flimsies to one side. The first was from MacDougall:

  IDENTITY OF TRIO CONFIRMED STOP ATTITUDE

  QUOTE FRIENDLY ENOUGH BUT SOME

  ARGUMENT AND YOUNGER MAN SEEMED

  IMPATIENT STOP MESSAGE FROM LONDON

  QUOTE TWO PIECES ORKNEY NEWS FIRST

  CATHEDRAL STAIN TREATED WITH QUERY

  SODIUM CITRATE TO STAY LIQUID AND SECOND

  CREMATED REMAINS ARRIVED STENNESS HOTEL

  WITH REQUEST TO SCATTER THEM AT BRODGAR

  RING ON FOURTEEN AUGUST STOP

  The other message came from Mungo Clarty in Inverness:

  TWO ADULT ONE CHILD STEAMER TICKETS

  PURCHASED TUESDAY MORNING ABERDEEN STOP

  SELF WENT ABERDEEN FOUND TRIO BOUGHT

  TICKETS TO KIRKWALL STOPPING WICK FIRST

  STOP FOUR PIECES NEWS FROM LONDON STOP

  ONE CATHEDRAL STAIN TREATED TO STAY LIQUID

  TWO CREMATED REMAINS SCATTERED BRODGAR

  RING FOURTEEN AUGUST THREE GUNDERSON

  RELEASED FOUR PALL MALL FLAT RAIDED NO

  ARREST STOP GOOD HUNTING STOP

  Raided? Mycroft's flat? Had Lestrade completely lost his mind? I did not even want to think of Mycroft Holmes in a rage. Or was something else going on in London, something larger and darker than my current hunt for a religious nut-job?

  I tore my eyes away from that part of the telegram, and tried to concentrate on the rest.

  The fourteenth of August was the day of the lunar eclipse, the day before Yolanda had died. The news must have come out of London Thursday night—why hadn't Clarty learned of it earlier? Then I remembered the head-lamps racing towards the air field as we took off, and thought that perhaps he had received his wire at dawn that day.

  I realised someone was addressing me, and raised my head to see the telegraph gentleman gesture at the form on which I'd written to Mycroft. I shook my head and tore the page across: Anything I sent to Mycroft now would be intercepted by Lestrade.

  “No,” I said. “There won't be a reply.” I went slowly back to the car. The idea of Scotland Yard raiding the flat of Mycroft Holmes was as puzzling as it was alarming, but I found it difficult to take it as a serious threat. Would Lestrade be walking a beat when we returned, or just fired outright?

  And Brothers: Why had he moved about the countryside so much? Was he afraid they would be spotted if they sat in one place too long? Did he fear that Damian would see a newspaper, and finally learn of Yolanda's death? Had he perhaps felt someone on his tail and hoped to shake them off?

  Or—what if the person he had been shaking off had been Damian? What if Brothers had taken Estelle and deliberately slipped away from Damian in Aberdeen, after buying tickets for Orkney but before boarding the ship? That would explain why Damian was here in Thurso by himself, a frantic father who had spent the past three days searching the northern tip of Scotland for his daughter and Brothers. And if Damian knew that something was going to happen tomorrow in Orkney, it would explain why he had been desperate enough to buy the services of a young fisherman to take him across.

  Back at Magnuson's farm, I paid off the pleased driver and walked to the door, which opened before I could knock. The odour of roast lamb and potatoes swept over me, poles apart from my bleak mood; it was not made any easier by the cheeriness of the woman who urged me inside, tempting me with a hot meal.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Mrs Magnuson, is it? I'm not actually hungry, so I won't join you. Can I just ask you for a bit of writing paper and an envelope?”

  “Are yeh sure yeh won't have a wee bite?”

  “It smells delicious, but no.” Actually, the rich aroma was making me queasy, and I wanted to be alone. She showed me into the cold, disused parlour, lit the fire, and left me with stationery and pen. I warmed my hands in front of the flames, and eventually removed my coat and hat, taking up the pen.

  Dear Holmes,

  I write from Thurso, about to set off for Orkney. Something must have delayed Brothers on the way—they were seen in Edinburgh on Monday, yet Damian was here just this morning, hiring a local fisherman to cross them over. The wind is powerful, unusually so, and the reproving locals were not sanguine about their chances of success. If I do not make it home, would you be so good as to locate the family of the man whose boat Damian hired, and see that they are recompensed?

  R

  I looked at the inadequacy of that ending, and added:

  P.S.: I do not know if Damian is acting alone and against Brothers, or if he was under duress as the man's agent. If the latter, I can only believe he had good reason.

  Again I hesitated, tempted to black the postscript out, or change it for something more affectionate, less bleak, but in the end I sealed the flap and wrote the Sussex address, leaving it with a coin for the stamp and a note instructing Mrs Magnuson not to post it until the end of September. It felt like one of those letters soldiers were encouraged to write before a battle. I regretted the melodrama, but I did not wish to take chances with the young fisherman's family.

  I sat in the slowly warming room until I heard voices in the hallway, then went to join Captain Javitz for the final assault north.

  The Stars (2): It is no secret that the stars note greatness:

  A star drew the sages to the infant Jesus, as the sun went

  dark at His death. A comet brought William the

  Conqueror to the throne. The sun lingered to give Joshua

  time to complete his conquest.

  Testimony, IV:7

  JAVITZ AND MAGNUSON HAD CLEARED THE FUEL LINE, the culprit in our faltering engine, and used the farmers horse to drag the aeroplane back to the start of the rough field. The laundry was still veering wildly back and forth, but I thought it was not quite so rigid in its pull.

  Perhaps that was self-delusion: I decided not to ask.

  Once airborne, we turned east, so as to be over land as long as possible, and battled the wind until we ran out of mainland. When there was nothing before us but sea until Scandinavia, Javitz turned due north across the Pentland Firth, and the wind seized us, shaking us in its teeth like a dog with a rat.

  I do not think there were ten feet on the five miles between John o'Groat's and the first island when we were flying still and steady. When Javitz turned to study the ru
dder, his face had a greenish tint. I found after a while that I was reciting, over and over again, a passage from Job that I hadn't thought about since my mother died. Clouds scudded across our windows, pushing us lower and tempting us off-course until Javitz returned to the compass and corrected our line of flight. Glimpses of land teased at us, seeming no closer, although the white wave-caps grew ever nearer. Then suddenly with a moment of clarity, land lay below us again.

  Javitz dropped further, seeking protection from the wind, and followed the little island's eastern coast. At the end of it, we passed over a brief stretch of sea to another, even smaller, island, then a landscape that indeed resembled mainland came up underneath us. He directed the nose west again, skimming above countryside that looked surprisingly like England—I don't know what I expected of an island nation ruled by Vikings for seven hundred years, but placid green fields bordered by hedgerows was not it.

  In a few miles, a dark steeple rose up in the distance: the cathedral in the centre of Kirkwall, on whose altar chemically liquefied blood had been splashed on the July full moon. Javitz began to examine the passing fields, in an expectant manner I had seen before. Soon, on the outskirts of the town, a length of pasture beckoned. He aimed at it, but it seemed to me he was high—too high, I started to exclaim, then realised that he was making a deliberate pass over it. It was as well he did: Three shaggy cattle grazed in the intended landing strip, solid as a dry-stone wall. As we roared forty feet away from the adjoining stone house, a small boy came running out. Javitz raised the nose and wrestled the 'plane back in a wide circle; when we aimed again at the field, the boy was driving the cows through a gap in a wall.

  We hit the ground, rose up, then settled down into a landing as smooth as could be had on uneven terrain. Javitz ran the plane into a wide place at the end of the field, made a wide circle, and shut down the motor.

  With quivering fingertips, I uncovered my watch: a quarter past two on Friday, 29 August.