The God of the Hive by King Laurie R

Author:King, Laurie R. [King, Laurie R.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2010-04-26T16:00:00+00:00

We approached the little park a bit after mid-day, strolling up and down the surrounding district, lingering on a street-corner while I made ostentatious glances at my watch, and finally meandering towards the park, swinging hands like a pair of young lovers.

Being hand in hand with Robert Goodman, even as part of a disguise, ought to have been an uncomfortable sensation—I was, after all, a married woman. Yet I found that the press of his palm and the grip of his fingers possessed not the least scrap of adult, or perhaps masculine, awareness. It was like holding the hand of a taller, more muscular Estelle: companionable, child-like, and providing an ongoing and subtle form of nonverbal communication. His hand told me when he was alert, when he decided a passer-by was harmless, when he was amused by the antics of two children shrieking their way around and around a tree. His palm against mine spoke of trust and ease. And his fingers threaded through mine told me when he spotted Billy, slumped on a bench with a newspaper draped across his face.

I tightened my own fingers briefly, letting him know that I had seen the sleeping figure, and cleared my throat loudly as we passed the bench. The newspaper twitched. Five minutes later, Billy came around the back of the washroom building.

He looked tired, and I thought his unshaven face was more necessity than disguise. He had been living rough for some days; a darkness about one eye testified to recent physical conflict.

“You can’t stay in Town, and you mustn’t go to Mr Mycroft’s funeral,” he blurted out. His voice was pure raw Cockney, which happened only when he was upset.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Billy,” I said calmly.

“I mean it,” he insisted, stepping forward in what I decided was an effort to intimidate me into obeying him—which would have been difficult even if he was not three inches shorter than I. Goodman put his hands into his pockets, looking more interested than alarmed.

“Billy, what is going on? Why did you tell me to run? And why have all the criminals in Southwark gone to ground?”

“You noticed.”

“It was hard to miss. Are they all under arrest?”

“No, just as you say, gone to ground. I told ’em to hike it.”

“But why?”

“There’s something big up. I don’t know what it is, but there’s coppers in the rafters, sniffing under the dustbins, listening in at the windows.”

“You’re sure they’re police?”

“Nah, that lot’re not police, but they’re not honest criminals either. They’re hard men, that’s what they are, and they’re looking for you and Mr ’Olmes.”

“Is that why you had Randall tell me to run? Because someone was listening at your windows?”

“I didn’t want to be the one to lead you to ’em. I’ve been sleeping away from home for three days now because I was afraid they’d follow me to you. I wouldn’t risk that.”

“You’re a good friend, Billy,” I said, which was both the unvarnished truth and an attempt to calm him down.

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