The Language of Bees Page 9

  I rather wished I'd stopped before the mystery had been solved. Why had I got so involved with a silly piece of news like this, anyway? Not boredom. How could this blessed solitude be thought a tedium? I dumped the armful of newspapers any which way on the stack: Holmes could sort them out himself.

  Unless he had decided to follow the bees off into the blue.

  For lack of other fiction, I reached for Holmes' copy of Eminent Victorians, and took myself to bed.

  Wrestling with Angels (2): In that moment of

  submission, the heavens opened upon the boy and the

  Light spilled in, filling him to overflowing.

  And when the boy came down from the high mountain,

  he found he had been marked by the Lights, and that he

  bore on his body forevermore the stigmata of divinity.

  Testimony, I:5

  DAMIAN, I SHOULD THINK YOU'D HAD ENOUGH pacing about during the day. Couldn't you sit down for a few minutes?”

  “Did you have to lodge us in a less comfortable place than the one we were in last night?”

  “This is absolutely safe.”

  “That depends on what you are guarding against. Suffocation clearly isn't a concern with you.”

  “You dislike being enclosed?”

  “I dislike risking asphyxiation.”

  “Your tension suggests claustrophobia. Which, now I consider it, would also explain the degree of agitation you showed at the gaol in Ste Chapelle. I thought at the time it was taking unduly long for the drugs to pass from your system; you might have told me before we came here.”

  “I'm not claustrophobic!”

  “If you say so.”

  “I'm fine. Here, I'm sitting down. Now can we talk about something else?”

  “I will admit, I had expected to have some results for our labours by now.”

  “It's hopeless, isn't it?”

  “Certainly today's lack of results calls for a reconsideration of method for tomorrow.”

  “Maybe she got it in her mind to go to Paris. Or Rome. She once asked me about Rome.”

  “Recently?”

  “A year, year and a half ago.”

  “It would help if you could estimate how much money she might have taken with her.”

  “I told you, I don't keep track of money, Yolanda does. It's how … it's one way I prove that I trust her. All I know is, she didn't take anything from the bank, but she may have hoarded any amount of cash. She likes cash.”

  “Or she could have had another bank account entirely.”

  “Yes, so? Look, I do trust her. I gave her my word when I married her, that she could live her life as she wished. She's my wife, and the mother of my child; if it makes her feel better to have her own bank account—her own life—it's her affair.”

  “Most generous of you.”

  “Damn it, I knew it would be a mistake to bring you into this.”

  “Damian—Damian! Sit down. Please.”

  “I want some air. I'll be back in an hour.”

  “Wait, I need to let you out.”

  “Better now?”

  “Look, I'm sorry, I get… when I get upset it's best for everyone if I just take a walk. And it doesn't help that I'm not painting. Painting bleeds off a lot of steam.”

  “Or drinking.”

  “I'm not drunk.”

  “Do you ‘get upset’ often?”

  “No more than any other man. Why do you ask?”

  “How did you come to have contusions on your hands and a scratch across your face?”

  “My hands are always bashed about, but a scratch—you mean this?”

  “It was less than a day old when I saw you in Sussex Monday night.”

  “What are you saying? Are you accusing—”

  “I am merely asking—”

  “—me of doing something—”

  “—how you came—”

  “—to my wife? To—”

  “—to bear signs—”

  “—my child?”

  “—of violence.”

  “How could you believe that I would harm either of them?”

  “I did not say that I so believe. Damian, think: I do not know you. Circumstances have made us virtual strangers. Were you a stranger in fact, come to me saying that his wife and child had vanished yet he didn't want to go to the police, that is the first question that I should have to ask.”

  “Did I kill my wife, you mean?”

  “Did you?”

  “You think I would have come to you—you, of all men—for help, if I had done that myself? For God's sake, man, I'm a painter, not an actor!”

  “You are the child of two performers, a man and a woman practiced in easy deception and assumed faces. I put it to you again: Did you harm your wife?”

  “No! No, no, no, for God's sake you have to believe me. I would not harm Yolanda, I would not touch a hair on Estelle's precious head, not if I was drunk or insane with drugs I would not. I would sooner—I'd sooner cut off the hand I paint with than use it to hurt either of them.”

  “Very well.”

  “You believe me?”

  “I do not think I'm yet decrepit enough that I cannot hear truth in a man's vow.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “So how did you come by the scratch on your face?”

  “Your orchard wants grazing.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “The trees around your house. They would benefit from having a cow turned loose in there from time to time, to prune the lower branches. That was what Mother used to do in France, so they didn't poke one's ruddy eye out when one decided to take a stroll through the garden in the moonlight.”

  “I see. I apologise for my neglect, I have been away—what? Why are you laughing?”

  “Oh, it's—it just hit me, how your audience would react if they could hear us talking about pruning apples.”

  “My audience? How do you think your admirers would react were I to photograph The Addler, master of Surrealism, sitting in an overstuffed chair wearing a Victorian smoking-gown and puffing on one of his father's ancient clay pipes?”

  “I should think they would find it the very definition of Surreal.”

  “Ah, Damian. Your laugh …”

  “What about my laugh?”

  “It reminds me of your mother.”

  “Do you wish the lights left on again?”

  “Yes please.”

  “May I turn off the one overhead?”

  “Here, let me. You don't mind?”

  “They are electric, we won't suffocate.”

  “I shouldn't bet on that.”

  “If you can make it through the night, we shall go elsewhere tomorrow. A place with a window.”

  “I'll live.”

  “Damian?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I suggest that we part our ways tomorrow, temporarily.”

  “Why?”

  “The places I need to go, it may be good if you do not have to see them. To have them linked in your mind with your wife …

  “Damian? Are you asleep?”

  “Why should I link these places with Yolanda? Simply because I was living in a bordello when I met her?”

  “Damian, there is no such thing as a willing child prostitute.”

  “Huh. You guessed. About Yolanda.”

  “I do not guess. I hypothesise, I put forth a theory, and I receive confirmation. As, indeed, I have now done.”

  “Yes. Well. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

  “It is hardly astonishing, that a man would not care to reveal the darker details of his wife's past.”

  “It was ugly. It's left her more fragile, more vulnerable, than one would suspect. But you're right, I didn't want her past or her … susceptibilities to be in front of your eyes, the first time you met her.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I would know.”

 
“What else are you not telling me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are concealing something about your wife.”

  “There's nothing.”

  “I don't believe that.”

  “Nothing you need to know. Nothing that would explain her disappearance.”

  “That is a conclusion you need to leave to me.”

  “I'm not telling you any more. You don't need to know.”

  “Damian—”

  “No! God, I should have gone back to Shanghai months ago.”

  “Are you about to go storming out again tonight? Because I have to say, both concealing information and abandoning the investigation slow matters down considerably. Why don't you have a drink instead?”

  “Are you always such a cold-hearted bastard? What did my mother ever see in you?”

  “I often wondered that myself. Now, is that light sufficient?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still think it best that you not accompany me tomorrow. You do not need to have those raw images before your own eyes the next time she stands in front of you.”

  “I'm beginning to wonder if we will find her.”

  “We will find her in the end.”

  “Christ, I almost believe you. But no, I will go with you.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Damian.”

  The Trance: When the boy came down from the

  mountain, he lay stunned, filled with Light yet empty of

  knowledge, until he felt the clasp of a hand taking his:

  A teacher had found him.

  Testimony, I:7

  BY THURSDAY MORNING, MY SOLITUDE WAS MORE A fact than an unexpected gift. I cooked myself an egg, which turned out as leathery as the toast although not quite as comprehensively burnt, then spent half an hour chipping the débris from the fry-pan, wondering all the while that no laboratory experiment had ever blown up in my face in the way a simple meal did. Cooking was nothing but chemistry, wasn't it? Why could I not perform as efficiently over a cook-stove as I did a Bunsen burner?

  The pan would not deceive Mrs Hudson, so I would have to take another pass at its surface before she returned, but at least the smoke had cleared. I latched the windows and put on my boots.

  I had decided during the night that there was no reason I should leave the abandoned hive's honey to be raided by human or insect thieves, and that a day's hard labour would do me good. It was righteous good will, not boredom—how could I be bored, in this place?—that had me loading up the hand-cart and trundling it across the dewy grass to the far-off hive.

  The laden frames had been heavy enough one at a time, but together, they weighed a young ton. Plus that, I had neglected to bring gloves, which meant that when I reached the garden shed again, hours later, my palms were raw and my back ached with fighting the cart over the uneven ground. I staggered to the house, gulping three glasses of cool water at the kitchen sink and letting the tap run across my hot face. I chipped off a hunk of ice from the block in the ice-box to cool a fourth glass, and took it outside to the shade of the apple tree. This time the busy bees were less companions than they were haughty reminders of a job ahead. I scowled at the workers.

  “If Holmes isn't back to deal with you lot, you'll just have to keep packing the nectar in until the place bursts,” I told them.

  They answered not.

  After a while, I returned to the house to fetch Holmes' strong magnifying glass. I could have waited until the cool of the evening, which on a day like this would still be plenty warm to encourage the flow of honey, but I wanted light to study the evidence in the comb. Before attacking each frame, I carried it into the sun to study with the glass, hoping for a clue to the hive's aberrant behaviour. I found none. The earlier frames were neatly filled, side to side; when I had finished examining each one, I took it back into the shed and ran the hot knife over its comb, setting it into place in Holmes' homemade, hand-cranked centrifuge.

  The later frames were less perfect, and darker as the nectar changed colour with summer's ripening. In the frames to which the queen had been limited by the excluder frame, I could trace her progress: growing brood, ready for hatching; smaller pupae, still subsisting on their pollen store; then mere eggs, laid, supplied with food, and sealed into their wax wombs. After that, nothing.

  I counted no fewer than twenty-one empty queen cells drooping around the bottom levels of the hive, their larger dimensions pushing the neat hexagons out of alignment. This seemed to me a rather high number, for each queen cell represented either a potential swarm, or a deadly battle between the reigning queen and the virgin upstart. Generally speaking, the queen ripped any royal larvae from their cells and murdered them. Holmes, or Mr Miranker, might be able to tell whether the infinitesimal marks in the wax of these cells had been made from without or within the cell, but I couldn't.

  These frames, I put aside for Holmes.

  Extracting the honey took me most of the day, and left me sweat-soaked and incredibly sticky, all my muscles burning, my skin, nostrils, and mouth permeated with the cloy of honey. All the while, bees plucked their way up and down the screens Holmes had installed on the shed's windows, teased by the aroma of riches ripe for plunder.

  I finished about four o'clock: jars capped, machinery clean, frames set aside for the next use. There was one partial jar. I picked it up, stuck one grubby finger into the amber contents, and put the resulting glossy burden into my mouth.

  The honey from mad bees tastes much like that of others.

  I left the jar on the kitchen table and went upstairs to put on my bathing costume. I got out the bicycle, checked that the tyres were still inflated, and pedalled down the lane to the shore, where I found—as I'd hoped—that the day's holiday-makers were beginning to leave, trudging up the cliff-side steps as I went down. I crunched along the shingle towards the abandoned reaches, the round flints making a noise like a mouthful of wet marbles. Through some odd quirk of memory, the sound always called to mind my long-dead brother.

  I laid my outer garments and spectacles on my folded bath-towel, then picked my way through the exposed low-tide pools to the water beyond. I paused, as I invariably did, to peer short-sightedly around me at the surface of the water. Years before I knew him, Holmes had encountered a poisonous jelly-fish in these waters, strayed here after unusual weather. Ever since he'd told me the story, I had been in the habit of watching out for another one—as if the creature might reveal itself by a fin above the water. Perhaps I should ask Dr Watson to write one of his tales about the event, I thought: It might reduce the crowds on this particular beach, if not the whole of Sussex.

  Today I saw no tell-tale fin or translucent bubble, and I dived deep into the frigid water.

  I swam along the cliffs until my skin was rubbery with cold and my fingers puckered, dragging myself out onto a beach all but deserted of umbrellas and children. I amused myself for a time by tossing pebbles into an abandoned tin mug from ever-greater distances, then dressed and climbed the cliff to wobble my bicycle back to the silent house. There I drew a hot bath and stepped into the water with a glass of wine to hand—after all, alcohol aids muscular relaxation. I may have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because the water seemed to cool abruptly. I got out and put on a thick towelling robe, then hurried downstairs to fill the ravenous gap within.

  I was pleased to find a portion of meat pie in the back of the icebox, stale but still smelling good, and ripe tomatoes from the garden outside the door, into which I chopped some onions and cheese. A bottle of cider from the pantry, a slice of stale bread and fresh butter, and I was content in my small and no doubt temporary island of tranquillity. I ate at the scrubbed wood table in the kitchen, and left my dishes in the sink until morning.

  Not bored, not lonely: content.

  Although I will admit that several times during the day, I had pushed back the suspicion that my labour was an attempt to exorcise the spirit of the
empty hive, to turn its unnatural emptiness into a more normal thing. And that several times during the day, I had found myself wondering where Holmes was.

  I decided to read outside until the light failed, and went to fetch Strachey's Victorians from the table beside my bed upstairs. As I went past the library, my eye caught on Damian's painting of the bee teapot, which Holmes had left leaning against the low shelves near the door (being, no doubt, unwilling to chance waking me by returning it to the laboratory—and, where was Holmes, anyway?). I picked it up to take it upstairs.

  Such a peculiar image, I reflected when the painting was back on its wall in the laboratory: The scrupulous rendering of an impossibly bizarre creation. On the surface, it appeared an intellectual jest, yet there was no denying the disturbing currents down below. An English tea-pot with a nasty sting. Was this the only one of its sort that he had done? Or was this his general style?

  Odd, that Holmes had been satisfied with just the one piece.

  No, not odd: impossible.

  Finding Holmes' collection of Damian's art was easy, once I thought to look for it—although in a Purloined Letter sort of way that took me the better part of an hour, since it was right under my nose. I went through both safes, the shelves in Holmes' study, his records in the laboratory. I was on my knees, about to take out the drawers in his bedroom chest, when I thought about where I had found the painting: He had left it against a shelf that contained art-related titles, from monographs such as “Lead Poisoning in the Age of Rembrandt” and “Death-Masks of the Pharaohs” to The Great Italian Forgers and Sotheby's Guide to the Renaissance.

  Sure enough, on the far side of that bottom shelf, all but invisible behind Paintings of the Spanish Inquisition, stood a slim, over-sized book with a brown leather cover. On its front cover was the name Damian Adler. I laid it on the desk under the strong light, and opened it.

  It was less a book than a bound album containing small original drawings and photographic reproductions of larger pieces, perhaps fifty pages covering a period of nine years. The first piece was a startlingly life-like pen-and-ink portrait of a woman, hair upswept, chin haughty, eyes sparkling with laughter. There was love, too, in those eyes—love for the artist—but it might explain why Holmes had never shown me this album.