Bees (7)

MICROFT was built without the ostentation and affections I gave to HOLMES. He is a tool of the government and, although I designed his brain, I gave him a more serious practicality than my own detective. With the Home Office scientists helping me it seemed harder to justify gimmicks such as the metal face and pipe for expelling excess steam like a man deep in thought. Instead, MICROFT’s pipes are tucked away behind panels and lead away, dispelling the effluence of the computer into dark sewers nearby.

I know that since I first built him, and further developed him in the war years of 1914 and 15, he has been expanded and enhanced by the team of younger men dedicated to him. I am, however, unprepared for the extent of the change. Bigger, I knew. The small screen fixed with simple brass bolts to his surface was something new. I had heard of the technology, a television, but had never seen it. On the grey, snowy screen the features of a stern, jowly old man peer out from an over-size white moustache; the very picture of English sensibility. The figure grins at me and I realise with a start that this is MICROFT. A speaker, hidden behind a delicate wooden grill, crackles and the familiar, deep voice spills into the room.

“Watson, my dear fellow” He says. “It’s good to see you. How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen.”

I nod, still slightly in awe.

“Things have changed, eh?”

“They certainly have. I’m not as young as I used to be,” I say, shaking the cane in demonstration of my fragility. “And you have certainly grown.”

It offers a small bark of a laugh. This is a device well beyond the primitive imaginings of HOLMES and I find it slightly terrifying.

“Your new face is particularly remarkable.” I say.

“Indeed. I felt it would help me project a more human, trustworthy air for our masters. Sometimes I felt that they would not take my suggestions as seriously as those of a person in a suit.”

“I would have thought your successes in Germany would have been enough.”

“Memories are short. And the dangers are greater than ever. This is why I’ve asked for you, Watson. I fear that it is only you that can help me now.”

bees (6)

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The nurse is young and pretty but irritatingly patronising. She seems slightly in awe of me, in the way that seems to prohibit my being able to accomplish anything on my own. She assures me at one point that she has read every one of the stories and even asks me to sign my autograph. She asks me what it was like working with the great detective. Holmes' true nature has never been public knowledge and is now protected under the Official Secrets Act. I mumble a little, about him being a good friend and comrade. In the afternoon I manage to get up and find Lestrade's room. The walls are the same thickly painted green, the bed metal framed with a generous enough mattress, but he also has flowers by the side of his bed, and grapes, no doubt a gift from his wife and children. I feel a small stab of memory at the loss of my own wife but shuffle over without betraying myself apart from to lean slightly more heavily on the cane. "Watson!" He says. His eyes have the unfocused stare of someone on morphine. "How are you?" "Sore, and bruised, but I got off lightly. I hear you will live too." He nods. "I won't be playing any tennis this summer, but I was luckier than poor Wilson. He was a good man." A sadness crosses his face. His head tilts with the memory of regret before he looks straight at me. "They say they'll let me out in a few days." "That's good." "Then we can get down to the business of hunting these bastards, whereever they are." "I take it that you have no further news?" "No. Been asked a lot of questions by some young oik from the ministry and got a little in return. They got clean away." There is a sudden, efficient rap at the door. I turn with a wince at the stocky, middle-aged man standing at the doorway in an uncomfortable-looking suit. "Major Lestrade. Dr Watson, sir. A pleasure to meet you again." I nod my head, although I cannot immediately recall his name. Something I choose to put down to stress and the medication I am on, rather than old age. He looks something of a bruiser, one of the quiet, hard men that His Majesty's Service uses as its dark backbone. "My orders are to collect you, sir." He says, looking at me. "Mycroft wishes to talk with you."

bees (5)

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One of the men on the ground, guarding the boxes that almost certainly contain the device, notices our car, our approach having been masked by the noise of the zeppelin. He waves towards us with surprise and the others raise their various guns in our direction. I still have my pistol in my pocket but as I reach for it Lestrade pulls me down.

"There's too many of them." He shouts. "Get us out of here, Sergeant."

The first clatter of gunfire shatters the glass of the rear window as the car accelerates away. More angry than afraid I raise the gun in my hand, automatically pulling on the safety catch and blindly fire off a couple of shots. Lestrade is on the radio, crouched beside me, calling for help. Amidst the smell of gunpowder and the sound of metal screaming I find time suddenly slowing, the car buckles and tilts in ways that I know is not as it should be and the thought occurs to me that I am probably about to die.

bees (4)

LeStrade jumps to his feet, the excitement of the game suddenly striking through him and I see the man of twenty years ago, when he was still a policeman.

"Where?" He barks.

"Looks like he's heading towards Crawley, sir."

"Get lamplighters out on the roads. I want him tracked."

The young man snaps off a quick salute and disappears back to the car.

"Why is he on the way to London?" LeStrade asks, mostly to himself. "I had expected him to make for the coast. It's the easy choice from here. A dozen small beaches."

"Perhaps," I offer, "He is looking to meet someone in London. But it does seem strange."

Slowly, my head still sore and my world a little stiff and unsteady, I go to the desk and scrabble through the drawer for a map. As I unfold it LeStrade is behind me, looking to see. I can sense he is keen to get going, to join the hunt.

After a quick study I realise what is likely the man's destination.

"There." I point. LeStrade looks a little confused at first, seeming to have to spell out the meaning of what I am saying.

"We are watching the airfields as much as the ports. It still doesn't make sense."

"I read recently that a new section has been opened there. For private fliers who require frequent access to the continent. It even has its own special entrance, one that is not commonly known, that has few checks or customs controls for those who can pay."

*

The movement of the car pushes me back into the padded leather with the creak of well designed springs beneath me. My head is starting to hurt and my eyes force themselves closed.

“Are you ok, Doctor?” Asks the young man in the driver seat. I look towards the mirror where his young eyes reflect a kind of fear that the venerable old man behind him might be about to die.

“I'm fine.” I hear myself say. A part of me suddenly realises that it is feeling to tired for this chase, that it is little to me even if the device is taken and used for some nefarious purpose. My only real concern these past couple of years has been the bees. The concerns of crime and Empire have seemed a long way away and with only a small amount of regret I was happy with that. Things are in the hands of younger, smarter men and their own devices. Men who have seen the horror of the War and are struggling to make sure that it might never happen again. Even my regular, weekly readings of the papers to HOLMS have become more sporadic and our discussions of events shorter and of less interest to me. I no longer play through the scenarios with him. Suddenly I feel older than ever, the world gone from me.

“Concentrate on your driving, Sergeant.” Lestrade barks. “We haven't much time.”

“Sir.” He replies. The car accelerates again.

Lestrade turns to face me.

"We will be there within twenty minutes. We've radioed ahead and there's no sign of them there yet. Likely they are keeping a low profile. Probably they weren't expecting us to be able to react so quickly."

I watch the dark, green hedges and white-washed buildings of Sussex rush past me at speeds I've never contemplated before, even on the train, as the young driver wrenches the car around bends and along narrow lanes that had known only silence before our passage. During one particularly tight corner the car skids with a squeal and a curse. I am thrown forwards and to the side, my arms reaching out as I smack into the Major.

"Damnit, Wilson, what are you doing?"

We both look forwards at the cows in the road. Wilson puts the car into reverse and starts to swing it around as fast as he can. Something catches my eye though. The gate to the field is open, explaining the cows, but there is no farmer to watch over them. I look around to see a car, half-hidden under an old oak providing majestic cover against the sun, standing proudly ahead of a small wood. I recognise it with a start, and the figure unloading a collection of boxes into some kind of netting.

"I was wrong." I say. "He was heading towards the airport but not with the intention of going in."

A dark shape looms over treeline. Over the noise of our engine I can hear the high-pitched whine of propellers. It is some kind of airship, smaller than the usual type, with thick, stubby wings lined with six, of maybe more, propellers, each pointing in slightly different directions giving it a movements of purpose and control I have never seen in such a craft before. Men tumble down ropes tossed from its sides, their dark silhouettes broken with the unmistakable shape of sub-machine guns.

bees (3)

This is part 3.
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A car, dark and oversized, stops outside my house. This time I am expecting it. I watch the man, short with a slightly furtive look that is barely hidden by the good suit and haircut, get out of the car and say something quietly to the man at the wheel. I watch him walk up my short path before I go to the door to let him in.

"Gordon." I say. "Come in."

He smiles, although his eyes betray a reluctant pain. It is hard to know whether it is his usual troubles at home or something altogether larger. Close up I see that he is aging well, a touch of distinguished grey frames his temples and his aging skin seems to be bringing out a nobility that was lacking when we first met.

We go through to the kitchen. The remnants of the tea I had been making earlier sits there, almost cool. I offer to make him a cup but he declines. He wants to get straight to business.

I explain everything that happens and he listens quietly, nodding every now and then or asking for a word of clarification. Finally he blows out a long breath and reaches into his pocket. From it he pulls out a photo. It is blurred and and creased but it is unmistakably the man who has taken my machine.

I simply nod affirmation.

"It's no fault of yours, old man." He tucks the photo away again, neatly. "He used to be one of ours. That's why he knew about you, and the codes to use, although how he got hold of them is another matter."

"He worked for the service?" I ask more for confirmation of my amazement.

"He was a good man, we thought."

There is a knock at the door. Outside it stands the driver of the car, also dark suited and with anonymously handsome features.

"Sir." He calls quietly. "Major Lestrade, a call has come through on the radio. They say he's been spotted, on the road back to London. They are waiting for orders."

Bees (2)

This makes more sense if you have read (1)

As he steps inside I reach into the sideboard in the hallway and quickly draw out a small pistol. When I first retired there were many people who came. I refused to see most of them, and cultivated the sense of slow, crumbling, old age that is very much evident to anyone passing by the house. The visitors stopped but there are still protocols in place for access when needed. And there are still those who would seek to steal my secrets. The more impressive of my enemies are long gone, but England still has them, even after the terrible war that tore all of Europe apart.
I turn to the inspector, keeping the gun pressed tight against my side so that it cannot quite be seen but ready to be used if required.
I stop in my tracks, playing the absent-minded old fool.
“I am sorry inspector. But I was wondering if you had some form of proof of your, ah, sincerity?”
“My chief said I should tell you that Matilda Briggs has arrived from Sumatra.”
I smile and move the gun into my pocket as I turn aside and into the kitchen. The kettle is still warm from my breakfast and heats quickly. The inspector seems at a loss for what to say next, to bring the matter up. I decide to let him wait. He has ruined my morning and I am old enough to be self-indulgent in such matters.
After pouring the hot water into the pot I fill the kettle up to the top and put it back onto the stove.
“Do you take milk?” I ask. I already know the answer but I prefer the burden of infallibility to be placed upon my creation rather than myself. Few people have ever really questioned how it is that the device can know what it knows, or the complexity of the processes I had to develop and program in order to create that ability.
“Yes, please.” The inspector replies, looking cautiously around the room, looking at the jars of honey that cover the table. I pour him a cup of pale tea and add plenty of milk to cool it down.
“We should get started and then perhaps you can explain a little more of why you have come. Please grab that coal and bring it with you.” I point an indicate the dirty, rusted scuttle on the floor behind him. He grabs it with a sense of distaste after taking a quick gulp of his tea.
I draw the key which I always keep in my pocket and unlock the door to the cellar. I strike a match and light the small oil lamp I keep on the shelf just inside the doorway. Collecting the steaming kettle and the lamp I step carefully down, each wooden step is worn to a dirty grey, illuminated only by the lamp and small shafts of light from the small, dirty windows high in the cellar's walls.
In the middle of the room are dark folds of canvas, oiled and carefully wrapped to protect what sits underneath it. I put the lamp down, carefully, and gesture at the inspector to put the coal down near the foot of the stairs.
“I'll need your help to get this cover off. And the windows will need to be opened.”
The inspector moves to crack the windows ajar while I untie the knots carefully mapping the shape of the object underneath. He helps next by pulling the canvas with the practised movements of a solider as I offer little tugs to help it over. Finally falls away to reveal, in a dazzle of reflected points of light, the chrome and brass construct underneath. Above a couple of metallic, polished barrels with tubing and grates is the head, a crudely stamped and riveted face in a mocking frieze of younger arrogance and intellectualism.
“My God.” The inspector mutters. “It's real.”
“Inspector,” I say, “meet HOLMS.”
He stands, awestruck in the manner of most when they meet one of their childhood heroes. Of course, the true nature of our service to the country was always kept secret but I have noticed amongst my visitors and even greater sense of amazement when they finally meet the construct. It amuses me that they do not feel the same way towards me, its creator. My cover, in a sense, is that much more solid.
“The coal, please, Inspector. It will take a while to steam him up and we need to get started.”
I crouch down to open the grating at the construct's base. My hand runs down its side, leaving a faint smear of sweat, and I confess that it feels good to be working on it again. I have ignored it for several months and, as when you meet an old friend unexpectedly on the street, my earlier apprehension is replaced with a quiet joy.
The inspector steps up behind me and I turn to accept the coal for loading. The look on his face tells me something is wrong and I reach for my gun. I am too old and slow. His hand quickly reaches up and down with a force that knocks me sideways. Black and red spots fill my vision as the inspector, a fraud, grabs my face and knocks my head against the floor. I pass out to the smell of lavender.

Bees (1)

I have always been fascinated by bees. Their clockwork society would be of an inevitable attraction to someone of my interests, I suppose, and now that I have retired to the rural pleasures of Sussex I can indulge myself with a slow placed learning of their intricacies. I check my post with a rare sense of anticipation for the arrival of some queerly printed magazine from the north or my latest dusty find in the advertisements in the papers of a rare and out-of-print book on the subject that might offer me some new insight into processes I might try and even modify or improve. Yet there is no real need for improvement. Often I feel that the bees continue on in their own perfect way oblivious to my actions.

There is something more than mechanical about them. As with my other, more famous, creation they are greater than the sum of their parts. There is a sense, an instinct there that I do not claim to ever be able to understand, nor do I wish to, but I am slowly coming to perceive it and even trust it.

When I go out that morning there is a certain agitation about them. I put it down to the prediction for rain later in the day and make a note to myself that I should go to the village shop early. After my usual inspections I hear the rare sound of an automobile coming along the road and wonder if, perhaps, the bees are warning me of something else. I remove my veil and pack it away slowly. The vehicle appears to have stopped in front of my house although I am not able to see it yet. Visitors always irritate me. I consider for a moment whether to feign absence. The knock at the door, however, is one of those that indicates the person is likely to be persistent and best dealt with quickly. Although I rarely have much need for one these days I miss having a house keeper to handle such people for me.

I open the door to a middle-aged large-set man wearing a dark, oversize overcoat that gives him the appearance of a rather shabby beatle. His bearing, moustache and grubby boots tell me that he is a policeman.

"Doctor," he says. "Sir. My name is Inspector Grande. May I come in? The matter I need to discuss is of some urgency."

I look at him with a sense of annoyance.

"It always is." I say. I turn, leaving the door open to allow him to follow me. "The kitchen is through here. I imagine you'd like some tea."