"I imagine we passed each other in the street, but the only faces I saw were hunched up against the rain."

  "It shows that Dickson, or his boss, was well acquainted with my circumstances. He knew which were my rooms. He knew that Mrs. Thomas would be in the rooms and waited until she left, which I suppose he could see from the street below. He went up the outside ivy in the dark, carrying the bomb, went in the window, picked my lock, set the thing — " I thought of something to ask Mycroft. "Could he have left through the door after the bomb was set?"

  "Certainly. It was triggered by a one-way toggle. He mounted it with the door standing open, and closing the door armed it."

  "Then he went out the window and made his escape, all of that in little over an hour. A formidable man, Mr. Dickson."

  "And yet, thirty hours later he makes a fatal mistake and dies in blowing up an empty house," Holmes said thoughtfully.

  "Your young lady has brought up another point worthy of consideration," Mycroft Holmes said. "That is the fact of Dickson's familiarity with her habits. The same could surely be said of his — their — awareness of your own movements."

  "That I check my hives before retiring? Surely most beekeepers do so?"

  "But you yourself state that to be your habit, in your book?"

  "I do, yes, but had it not been then, it would have been in the morning."

  "I cannot see that it would have made much difference," agreed Mycroft.

  "I suppose I ought to purchase a dog," said Holmes unhappily.

  "However, no published account that I know of includes Miss Russell."

  "Our collaboration is no doubt common knowledge in the village."

  "So, this opponent has read your book, knows the village, knows Oxford."

  "Lestrade must be made aware of these facts," said Holmes.

  "There is also the matter of the use of children as messengers."

  "An uncomfortable similarity with my Irregulars, you feel?"

  "I do. You said, though Watson forgot today, that they are invisible."

  "I dislike the idea of a murderer employing children," said Holmes darkly.

  "It is, I agree, bad for their morals, and interferes with their sleep."

  "And their schooling," added Holmes sententiously.

  "But who?" I broke in desperately. "Who is it? Surely there cannot be all that many of your enemies who hate you enough to kill off not only you but your friends as well, who have the money to hire bombers and watchers, and who have the wits to put all this conspiracy together?"

  "I sat up until the wee hours contemplating precisely that question, Russell, with absolutely no results. Oh, there are any number of people who fit the first category, and a fair handful of those would have the financial means, but that third characteristic leaves me, to borrow your word, baffled. In all my varied acquaintances I cannot call to mind one who fits with what we know of the mastermind behind these attacks."

  "There is a mastermind, you would say?" I asked.

  "Well, a mind, certainly. Intelligent, painstaking, at the least moderately wealthy, and absolutely ruthless."

  "Sounds like Moriarty," I said jokingly, but he took it seriously. "Yes, remarkably like him."

  "Oh, Holmes, you can't mean — "

  "No, no," he hastened to add. "Watson's account was accurate enough; the man is dead. No, this feels very like another Moriarty, come on us unawares. I think the time has come for me to renew my contacts with the criminal world in this fair city." His eyes gleamed at the prospect, and my heart sank.

  "Today? Surely your brother here — "

  "Mycroft moves in circles rather more exalted than those I have in mind. His is the realm of espionage and political backstabbing, with only a peripheral interest in the world of retired bombers and hungry street urchins. No, I must go and ask questions of certain friends."

  "I shall join you."

  "That you most definitely will not. Don't look at me like that, Russell. I am not protecting your gentle virtue, although I admit that there are sights to be seen underground in London that might give even your eyes pause. It is a job for a specific old man, a man already known to be an occasional visitor to the dregs of London society. A companion would cause comment, and tongues would not flap so freely."

  "But your back?"

  "Is very well, thank you."

  "What did Watson say?" I persisted.

  "That it was healing more quickly than I deserved," he said in tones that said very clearly that the matter was closed. I gave in.

  "You wish me to remain here today?"

  "That will not be necessary, as long as you are not followed. In fact, it is probably best if you are not here, and if they are aware of that. How shall we — ah, yes," he breathed, with the satisfied air of genius operating. "Yes, that will do nicely. Where did we stash the box of makeup last time, Mycroft?"

  His brother heaved his weight from the relieved chair and padded off. Holmes squinted at me.

  "Russell, if I have learnt nothing by seven o'clock, there will be little point in persisting, and it is an Italian night at Covent Garden. Shall we agree to meet there, at seven-forty-five? After that, depending on what the day's results are, we can decide to come back here or to go home for our Christmas preparations." This last I took as a symbol for carefree frivolity rather than any actual possibility.

  The previous year we had both spent Christmas Day dissecting a poisoned ram. "You will, I trust, have a greater than normal caution during the day, stay in crowds, double back occasionally, that sort of thing? And you will keep your revolver close to hand?" I reassured him that I would do my best to make our rendezvous that evening, and he gave me spécifie instructions both for shedding the disguise in which I would make my escape, and for getting to Covent Garden.

  Mycroft came in carrying a bulky carpetbag, which he set down in front of Holmes, and looking vaguely worried.

  "You will take luncheon before you go, please, Sherlock. Do not drag Miss Russell out into the cold again without allowing her to eat first, I beg you."

  It was barely two hours since the breakfast things had been cleared away, but Holmes answered his brother soothingly.

  "But of course. The preparations alone will take an hour. Order some lunch, while I make a start."

  "But first," I said, "the telephone." I made Holmes speak with Mrs. Hudson. It was a long conversation, cut off once by the exchange and threatened twice more, but in the end she agreed to stay where she was for a few days, and not approach the cottage or the hospital. My own conversation with Veronica Beaconsfield was briefer and even less amicable; lies to friends are usually less successful than lies to strangers or villains, and I did not think she believed in my sudden emergency. I returned saddened to the meal that arrived while Holmes was making his disguise.

  Sherlock Holmes had invented his profession, and it fit him like a glove. We watched in admiration that verged on awe as his love of challenge, his flair for the dramatic, his precise attention to detail, and his vulpine intelligence were called into play and transformed his thin face by putty and paint into that of his brother. It would not stand up to close supervision, but from a few yards the likeness was superb. He removed the putty pads to speak, and I hurriedly swallowed the last of my lunch.

  "Fortunately, if uselessly, Watson has sacrificed his moustache for his own masquerade, or we should have to glue some hair under your nose, Russell. Mycroft, would you kindly go and lift the trousers and coat worn by our friend from his bed, and also find us some suitable padding and a large quantity of sticking plaster?" Under his hands I felt the putty fill out my cheeks, hair was added to my eyebrows, lines and creases painted on. He eyed me critically. "Don't move your face too much. Now, I'll tear up some of these blankets while you tape yourself to reduce your height. Take off your shirt, Russell," he said absently, and so matter-of-fact was his command that I had my hand on my shirt-collar when Mycroft cleared his throat gently behind us.

  "Is that really necessary, Sherlock? Perhaps the sticking plaster could be put on over her clothing?"

  "What?" Holmes looked up from his bundles and scraps and realised what had just happened. "Oh, yes, I suppose so." He looked slightly flustered. "Come here, then."

  Layers of padding gave me Watson's outline; his hat, scarf, and gloves left only my made-up face exposed; and his spectacles were close enough to mine in appearance to allow me to retain my own, a great blessing.

  Holmes added similar padding to himself, and we stood resembling two obese Egyptian mummies risen from our rest. He worked himself carefully into his brother's clothing and gave his make-up a final adjustment.

  "Now to review our plan — Ah, Watson, you're just in time."

  "Holmes? Is that you? Where are my trousers? What are you doing?" Watson's puzzled, sleepy voice brought home the absurdity of this entire venture, and I started to giggle. Holmes/Mycroft looked askance, but the real Mycroft joined in, and soon even Holmes was smiling half willingly.

  "My dear Watson, we are making our escape. The enemy followed you here, I'm afraid, or were here already.

  If they followed you, they may not yet realise that I am at liberty, and assume that only Russell is here. There are too many 'ifs' here for my pleasure, but there's no helping that.

  Yet. I will leave here now, dressed as my brother. Russell will leave in twenty minutes, dressed as you, Watson. I shall turn to the right out the door, as my disguise is the more realistic. Russell will turn left, so they will see her clearly only from a distance. Twenty minutes after she leaves, the two of you shall depart, together, hatless, and stroll slowly down the street to the right. You will both have revolvers, but I believe they will be more interested in catching up with us than they will in committing double murder in broad daylight. You go with Mycroft, Watson, and you will be quite safe. We will meet up when we may."

  He put Mycroft's hat onto his head, where it slid down to his eyebrows. Imperiously ignoring our smiles, he put multiple layers of sticking plaster inside the brim and returned it to his head. Mycroft's thick scarf went around his neck, leather gloves puffed up his hands. Holmes' own eyes looked out from Mycroft's face.

  "Seven-forty-five, then, Russell, at the theatre. You know what to do. And for God's sake, be careful."

  "Holmes?" It was Watson, very, very tentative. "Old friend, are you going to be all right? The pain, I mean. Do you want something? I have a bottle of morphia in my bag — " He trailed off uncomfortably. Holmes looked astonished, then began to laugh uncontrollably, until his make-up threatened to flake off.

  "After all the times — " he spluttered. "You offer me morphine. My dear Watson, you do have a talent for reducing things to their proper perspective." He softened and raised one mocking eyebrow. "You know I never indulge when I'm on a case, Watson." He slipped the putty forms into his cheeks and was gone.

  His passage down the street sent a small, ragged boy away from the blind beggar's side and out of sight. It was soon my turn. I turned to thank Mycroft and shook his hand, then leaned forward impulsively and kissed his cheek. He turned scarlet. Watson returned my embrace with avuncular affection, and I let myself out into the hallway, black medical bag in hand, the revolver a comforting weight in my pocket.

  As the outside door latched behind me I was aware of eyes on me, Watson and Mycroft Holmes watching from the window above, but other, hostile eyes also, from the street behind me at the very least. It took considerable control to hold myself to Watson's ponderous and limping gait rather than dash off down the street, but I plodded on through the slush, for all the world an old, retired doctor on his way home. Following Holmes' precise instructions, I hailed a cab, then changed my mind. I walked west, as if towards Green Park, then hailed another. I turned it away too, and a street later finally got warily into the third. I gave the driver Watson's address, in a gruff voice, but when we had rounded Park Lane I redirected him. At the building Holmes had told me to go to, I paid the driver generously, went inside, checked my medical bag (which was empty) with the attendant, climbed to the third floor — watching the stairs below me — and through the tearoom on that floor to a passageway, a further set of stairs, and at last a door marked Storage Room. The key Holmes had given me let me in. I flicked the electrical light switch on, closed the well-fitting door, spat out the mouthful of noxious putty, leant against the door, and gave way to a fit of mild hysterics.

  Eventually it ran its course. I got somewhat shakily to my feet, curiosity coming to the fore. The Storage Room was one of Holmes' bolt-holes, his handful of small, almost inaccessible hideaways in unlikely places across London, from Whitechapel to Whitehall. Watson had mentioned them in several of his stories, and Holmes had made passing reference to one or another of them in conversations with me, but I had never actually been inside one.

  It was, I found, little more than its name implied, a windowless, stuffy, oddly shaped room providing the most basic necessities of life and a remarkably elaborate amount of equipment for changing identities. Three metal dressmaker's racks bulging with clothes took up a quarter of the floor space, and an enormous dressing table littered with tubes, pencils, and pots and overhung by a wall-sized mirror surrounded by small electrical light bulbs, took up another quarter. The kitchen consisted of a stained hand-basin, a minuscule geyser, a gas ring, and two pots. There was one chair, at the desk, a piece that looked to my half-educated eyes like a particularly beautiful Chippendale that had spent part of its recent life as a painter's stool, judging from the varicoloured splashes across the seat and back. The only other furniture was a long sofa, taking up more than its quarter of the room and looking as if it had been hauled up from beneath a bridge somewhere, and a garish Chinese screen behind the "kitchen." Behind the screen, as I might have suspected, was a water closet, gleaming new and, I soon discovered, remarkably silent.

  As I nosed about I began to shed my numerous layers of disguise. The outer clothing I folded neatly to return to Watson, the mummy layers I shoved, plaster and all, into a bin of what I took to be rags behind the sofa, and the make-up joined the stains in the hand-basin. My own shirt was hopelessly stuck together by the tape that Holmes had strapped on to change the set of my shoulders, but after a bit of rummaging about in the clothes racks (where I found an evening suit and tweed plus-fours cheek-by-jowl with a linen chasuble, the brocade tunic and trousers of a maha rajah, and a stunning scarlet evening dress) I came up with a comfortable embroidered cotton dressing gown and put it on in lieu of the shirt, which followed the mummy strips into the bin.

  In the kitchen I found a canister of tea leaves, a pot, and some tins of milk, so I made tea, poured myself a cup (superb bone china, no saucer) and carried it to the dressing table. As I sipped it and sat poking through the objects in and on the table, I was struck by the extraordinary fact of the room's existence. What kind of a man would keep an entire drawer full of moustaches and beards, I thought?

  Or a shelf of wigs — a bushy redhead, a slicked-down black hairpiece, a woman's blonde curls — arranged on stands to resemble eerily a row of heads on pikes? Could Holmes actually, honestly consider wearing that evening gown, high-necked though it was? Or the — was it a sari? How many normal men had hair ribbons trailing from their chest of drawers, a collection of well-padded female undergarments, three pair of false eyelashes, two dozen old- school and club ties, and a macabre cigar box filled with sets of false teeth? And even if one overlooked the reason for its existence, how did he manage it? How had he brought that sofa up here without inviting comment, and the mirror? Granted it was a large and busy building, but did no one notice the occasional unexpected noise from a supply room, the sound of running water at night, the comings and goings of odd characters — some of them very odd indeed? What did Holmes do if, I wondered, while disguised as one of his more unsavoury characters, he were accosted and explanation of his presence demanded of him?

  The possibilities for comedy of the burlesque variety were greatly appealing, and several vignettes worthy of the lower classes of stage went through my mind. And, my mind continued, who had plumbed in the sink and WC? Who paid for the gas, the electricity, for heaven's sake?

  The more I thought about it, the curiouser it became.

  What kind of human being would need a refuge capable of sustaining life in a siege? For the plentiful if desultory tins of food, the two travelling rugs tossed over the sofa, three tins of pipe tobacco, a pound of coffee, and the copious reading material — staid medical journals, philosophical tomes, novels with lurid covers, and brittle newspapers ancient enough to qualify as archaeology — all testified that the room's purpose was to make possible a prolonged captivity.

  It was quite patently not a refuge for comfort or convenience; at his height, Holmes would find the sofa a dismal night's sleep. And it was also clearly no holiday retreat; the threadbare line down the centre of the carpet bespoke hours spent measuring its half a dozen paces of clear space.

  No, there was no question in my mind: Either my friend and mentor was quite mad, a man willing to go to considerable difficulty and expense to satisfy a bizarre and romantic fantasy of paranoia, or else the life of my rustic beekeeping companion with the odd skills was extraordinarily more demanding, even dangerous, than I had fully realised.

  Somehow I could not think him mad.

  There was no doubt that the room had been recently occupied: The tea leaves were relatively fresh, the dust had not settled much onto the desk or teapot, the air, though stuffy, was not stifling and smelt faintly of tobacco. I shook my head. Even I had not suspected how very active his career still was.

  I wondered, not for the first time that day, nor for the last, what he was doing and how he was holding up.

  Which brought me around to wonder what I was going to do. I could, of course, stay here until it was time to meet Holmes, and at the thought of explosive devices and flexible and imaginative would-be murderers, the bolt- hole's canister of tea, tins of beans, and lurid novels (to say nothing of the revolver I had brought and the other one I had found in the kettle) seemed both tempting and eminently sensible.