The Language of Bees

alignment, and the ages look down in approval.

When his masculinity prepares to act, and his feminine

nature is ready to receive. At that moment,

the Work is ready for consummation.

Thus Testifies a man.

Testimony: Part the Greatest

WE MADE IT TO THE HOTEL. WHILE HOLMES STOOD winded just inside the back door, I tucked my agonised hands under my arms and conducted a quick survey of the ground floor, finding an i

I came back to find Holmes standing above the sprawled figure, frowning at the wound. It looked terrible, but Damian was breathing cleanly, which meant no broken rib had entered a lung, and the seeping blood indicated that no major blood vessel had been severed.

“Is the bullet still in there?” I asked.

“It's travelled along the ribs, probably broken a couple of them, and lodged around the back, under his arm.”

“You're not going to perform surgery, Holmes,” I warned.

“It's buried fairly deep in the muscle,” he more or less agreed. “I shouldn't want to be responsible for having damaged the use of his right arm.”

As if hearing the threat to his painter's hand, Damian stirred, then gasped.

“He doesn't seem very heavily drugged,” I said.

“He's a big man, and Brothers may not have wanted to risk knocking him out too early. He might have carried an unconscious Yolanda, but not Damian.”

“Bugger, that hurts,” Damian said in surprise then went slack again.

“I'm going to find the child,” I told Holmes. “Should we try and get some coffee into him?”

“It might be simpler to transport him unconscious.”

I ignored the proposal. Instead, I passed through the kitchen to set a kettle on the gas cooker.

I found Estelle in an upstairs room that was dimly lit by a burning candle. Her small body lay in a tangle of bed-clothes. She was not moving.

In an agony of trepidation, I crossed the floor to bend over her still figure. Seconds passed, and my heart failed at the thought of telling Damian-but then she made a tiny sound in the back of her throat and followed it by a childish snore.

My legs gave out and I had to sit down on the unmade bed beside hers. Slightly dizzy, I dropped my head in my hands and sat listening to her breathe, hearing the precious air go in and out of her throat. I didn't know if this was Holmes' granddaughter or not, but in truth, it no longer mattered: Damian loved her, therefore she was ours.

It took some time to recall the heating kettle and the waiting men. I sat up, studying the tiny, limp form. I shouldn't be surprised if Brothers hadn't given her a dose of the Veronal as well.

The thought of the dead man finally roused me to my feet. I left the sleeping child and went to the next room, where I found signs of Brothers. Unlike Damian, whose clothes were scattered about the room he shared with his daughter, Brothers had packed his bag, ready to leave.

When I opened the bag, I saw two passports. I picked them up, checked again to make sure Estelle was still sleeping, and went downstairs.

I made coffee and took it to the i

One was for a British citizen named Jonas Algier; the other was for the same person, but included his young daughter Estelle.

The distaste on Holmes' face matched my own; when he laid the passports to one side, his fingers surreptitiously wiped themselves on his trouser-leg before he reached out to shake his son's shoulder.

“Damian,” he said forcefully. “I need you sensible. Can you talk?”

“Where's Estelle?” came the reply, slurred but coherent.

“She's fine,” I assured him. “Sleeping.”

“God, what the hell happened?”

“Brothers tried to kill you.”

“Don't be 'diculous.”

“He shot you.”

“That's what…? Ah. Hurts like the devil.”

“You shot him back, if it makes you feel any better. He's dead.”

“Dead? I killed Hayden? Oh Christ-”

“Damian!” Holmes said sharply, and waited for his son's eyes to focus on his. “We need to get you away from here, now. Can you move?”

“Hayden's dead. Can't just walk away from a dead man. The police'll be after us.”

“The police are already after us.”

“Why?”

Holmes looked at me, then returned his gaze to his son. “Yolanda was killed. Scotland Yard-”

“No,” Damian said. “Not possible. She's on one of her religious adventures.”

“Your wife died,” Holmes said gently. “Two weeks ago, at the Wilmington Giant. I saw her, Damian. The Sunday after you left me, three days before you and Hayden left London, I saw her. In a morgue. She'd been drugged, as you were, and then sacrificed, as you would have been. She felt nothing.”

“No,” Damian repeated. “There was a letter. Hayden-Brothers, he changed his name-left me a message on how to meet him.”

By way of answer, Holmes took something from his pocket and pressed it into Damian's palm.

Damian opened his hand and stared at the gold band we had found in Brothers' safe. Still, he kept talking, low and fast, as if words might push back the testimony of his eyes. “We met at Piccadilly Circus, and he gave me a letter she'd written. On the Friday. That's why I came away. I wrote to you, to tell you what I was doing. I did write to you.”

“We received it,” Holmes said. “What did Yolanda's letter say?”

“It was just one of Yolanda's…” But with the voicing of her name, the truth hit him. He clenched his hand around the ring. “She was always going on about spiritual experiments, always wanting to drag me in on them. And I did. I never minded, it kept her happy. She was always so happy, those times. Oh, God. So when she wrote that she had a really vital adventure-that's what she called them, adventures- and that she knew it was asking a lot of me, but that she wanted me to go with Hayden and Estelle for a few days while she was getting ready, and then Hayden would bring us together and this would be the very last one.” He was weeping now, choking on his words. “She said that it would be a lot of bother for me, and that she was sorry, but that it would be worth it and if I wanted her never to do it again, she wouldn't, after this one.”

He couldn't talk any more, just dropped his head back against the wall and wept. Holmes eased him gently onto the cushions, then pulled me out into the hotel bar.

By the trickle of lamp-light from the half-open door, Holmes searched around behind the smoke-covered bar. He found a bottle, threw the first glass down his throat and poured a second; I took a generous swallow of mine.