by Andrew Lane
He felt like he should be crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. Somehow, as he had grown up, that reservoir of tears seemed to have dried up. He wasn’t sure that he could cry about anything now – Virginia Crowe leaving him for another boy, his mother dying . . . nothing. The landscape inside his head was dry and barren. He seemed to be observing life as it passed him by now, rather than taking part in it.
Eventually the service came to a conclusion, and the congregation filed out into the sunlight. The vicar led the way along a path through the trees that led to another building. This one was smaller than the chapel, with a lower roof and no steeple, although its door was thick and impressive. This was the family mausoleum, where the bodies of the Holmes family were laid to rest.
To rest. Even as the coffin containing his mother’s body was carried towards the mausoleum by four men that Sherlock didn’t recognize – local parishioners, perhaps, or employees of the funeral director – his mind was mulling over that phrase, and others that people used at funerals, and rejecting them. There was no rest. There was no peace. Whatever was in that coffin wasn’t his mother any more, it was just what had been left behind after whatever had made her had departed. What was that thing? The soul? The mind? The spirit? Whatever it was, it had left, dissolved like a melting ice cube in the sun. If Sherlock knew anything he knew that death was a one-way process. He was certain that there was no way back. And he was as sure as he could be that there was nothing on the other side. Despite what the vicar had said in the chapel, death was the final full stop on the story of someone’s life.
Back at Holmes Lodge, small glasses of sherry and little snacks had been set out on silver trays on a sideboard in the morning room. While the servants headed back to the rear of the house to prepare lunch, Mycroft encouraged Sherlock, Emma and Matty to help themselves. Rufus Stone made as if to go with the servants, but Mycroft called him over.
‘Your place is with us now,’ he said. ‘Help yourself to a glass of sherry. I have something I need to ask you, but for the moment Sherlock and I have something important to discuss.’ As Rufus moved towards the sideboard, Mycroft pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘This arrived this morning,’ he said. ‘Please give me your initial impressions.’
Sherlock took the envelope from Mycroft. He glanced at it. ‘The paper is not British, while the stamp and postmark are Indian,’ he observed. ‘However, the hand that wrote the address is different from Father’s, and it is addressed to Mother, not to you.’
‘It is from his Commanding Officer,’ Mycroft said. ‘It was sent on the same day as Father’s last letter from India, but it obviously suffered slightly more of a delay in getting here.’
Sherlock pondered for a moment. ‘Even if you have already written a letter telling Father’s Commanding Officer about Mother, as you said you would, the letter would not have arrived in India yet, and of course given the circumstances any reply would not have been addressed to Mother unless its author was extremely careless or very distracted. Father’s Commanding Officer must be writing separately from Father’s last letter in order to tell us that something has happened. That means . . .’ Sherlock felt a strange sensation, as if the floor was pitching beneath his feet like the deck of a ship. He put a hand out to the mantelpiece of the fireplace to steady himself. ‘Father is dead, isn’t he?’ he said quietly. ‘He has died in India, shortly after writing the last letter to us, and we are being informed.’
There was a buzzing in his ears that made it hard to hear what Mycroft said in response, but he thought he made out the words: ‘No, Sherlock. Put that thought from your mind. Yes, the letter is from Father’s Commanding Officer, but it is by no means a letter of condolence. It is more of an . . . informative letter, telling us about some mission that Father is involved in. Our father is fine, Sherlock. He is fine.’
The ground stabilized slowly, leaving Sherlock feeling nauseous. The buzzing in his ears receded. He realized that Matty’s hand was on his arm. He smiled at his friend in gratitude, and Matty took his hand away.
‘Please, read the letter,’ Mycroft said. ‘Tell me what you think.’
Sherlock pulled the letter from the envelope. For a moment he thought he could smell very faintly some kind of spice, something local to India, perhaps, that had become impregnated in the paper. The scent lasted for a moment and then faded.
He began to read.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dear Mrs Holmes,
Permit me first to introduce myself, and to apologize for the rudeness of my unexpected letter. My name is Colonel Cyrus Rossmore, and I have the pleasure of being your husband’s Commanding Officer. Let me assure you immediately that your husband is in good health. No accidents have befallen him, and neither has any illness (apart from the usual health problems that India stores up for all of us, and surprises us with from time to time).
Major Holmes is a fine officer who has earned my respect, and the respect of the men he commands. He has a fine analytical mind, and a robust physique, which is why he has been chosen to carry out a special mission. This mission means that he will be away from the barracks here for a period of several weeks, if not months, and relying largely on his own resources. I cannot pretend that the mission he will be on is not dangerous, but everything here in India is dangerous to one degree or another – even putting on one’s boots in the morning can be fatal if one has not checked first for scorpions that might have climbed in during the night. I say this not to worry you unduly, but to indicate that the risks that your husband is taking on this mission are no more severe than the risks he has been taking day to day.
I would not normally let members of an officer’s family know about confidential missions, but this one is an exception for several reasons. One of those reasons is that I wish to warn you that the flow of letters to you and your family from Major Holmes is likely to be disrupted for a period of time. He will not, I am afraid, be in any position to put pen to paper, let alone to find a post box. I would not wish you to be alarmed by any such disruption. As soon as he has returned to us, I am sure that he will write enough letters to fill the gap.
In addition, I would ask two things of you, if I may. The first is that you do not attempt to discover, through any contacts or influences you may have, what mission it is upon which your husband has been sent. The very act of inquiring might trigger some unfortunate questions being asked, and his mission being discovered. The second is that, should anybody engage you in conversation or write to you asking what your husband might be doing in India, or elsewhere, then please tell them that as far as you know he is safe in his barracks, enduring the same conditions that we are all enduring here. Tell anybody who asks that, as far as you know, your husband’s situation has not changed. Once his mission is finished, then, for all intents and purposes, this will be true.
I thank you for your consideration, and I remain,
Your most obedient servant,
Cyrus Rossmore (Col.)
Sherlock folded the letter up and placed it back in the envelope. He didn’t say anything for a minute or so, letting the words written by Colonel Rossmore filter through his brain and looking for any hidden meanings or any unconscious clues. It was like filtering pond water through a fine sieve, and indeed there was a residue left behind that he inspected carefully.
‘A secret mission,’ he said finally. ‘Something dangerous, presumably undercover. The first question is: why Father? Why not any of the more suitably qualified candidates there in India, or elsewhere? Father has not, as far as I know, been trained in secret work.’
‘A good point, and one that had occurred to me immediately,’ Mycroft said. ‘Perhaps he has special knowledge that makes him an ideal candidate – a foreign language, perhaps, that he learned while out there.’
‘The second question is: given the fact that Colonel Rossmore suspects someone might ask questions about Father’s plans, does he therefore suspect that there are elements here in England who might be interested in his mi
ssion, and might try to stop it? It suggests that this mission goes beyond some tribal politics or a covert spying mission on some Indian dignitary.’
‘That is a very pertinent point, and I am glad that you spotted it as well. I had thought that perhaps I was being too sensitive. It is not, however, the most important point.’
Sherlock considered for a moment, bringing the words of the letter back to the forefront of his mind. ‘Oh yes – the Colonel’s thinly disguised plea for Mother not to contact anyone in a position of authority here in England – and I suspect he might be thinking of you here, Mycroft – seems to indicate that there might be people actually in the British Government, or the Army, who are, or might be, interested in the mission that Father has been sent on, and even that their finding out might compromise the success of that mission and perhaps even put Father’s life in danger.’
Mycroft nodded. His expression was grim. ‘I wondered if I was being unduly paranoid, but that is the implication I got from the letter as well. But this makes no sense – how can a mission that originates in India have some resonance that extends all the way back here?’
‘What are you going to do?’ Sherlock asked.
‘I am going to burn this letter,’ Mycroft replied, ‘and I am going to forget that it ever arrived.’
Sherlock smiled at his brother. ‘What you mean is: you are going to ask some very subtle questions in the corridors of power to discover whether something very secret is going on.’
‘Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do. Leave it to me – if I discover anything, then –’ he hesitated for a moment – ‘well, to be honest, if I do discover anything, then I will have to think very carefully about whether or not I tell you, but the presumption is that I probably will. In the meantime, say nothing to anyone.’ His gaze moved from Sherlock to Matty, and the boy quailed beneath the ferocity of his eye. ‘That means both of you. I do you the favour, young Matthew, of assuming that whatever is safe with Sherlock is safe with you, and vice versa.’
‘You can depend on me, Mr ’Olmes,’ Matty said firmly.
‘I know.’ He gestured to Rufus Stone, who was standing over near Emma. ‘Now to another matter.’ As Rufus joined the three of them he glanced over to where Emma was staring out of the window, watching birds on the lawn. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘have you made any progress in determining the facts of Mr James Phillimore’s life?’
Sherlock stared at his brother in amazement. ‘You’ve had Rufus looking into Emma’s fiancé?’ he asked.
Mycroft nodded. ‘You know how delicate Emma is,’ he said. ‘Given her trusting nature and her difficulty in distinguishing between what is important and what is trivial, I felt that it was best we knew more about Mr Phillimore. While our mother was alive she could, to an extent, keep watch over Emma, but in her absence someone needs to have Emma’s best interests at heart.’ He glanced back at Rufus. ‘So – what did you discover?’
Rufus checked to make sure that Emma couldn’t overhear. ‘James Westley Phillimore is his real name,’ he said quietly, ‘and there are records of his baptism in one of the local churches. His family appear to have been quite well respected, although they were considered to be quite stand-offish.’
‘Were considered?’ Sherlock asked.
‘His parents are dead, both of an illness that carried them off some ten years ago now, and he has a younger brother to whom he rarely talks. He has few friends, and no hobbies that I can discover. He attends church every Sunday and puts a small amount of change on the collection plate, but I do not think that his Christian feelings go much beyond convention and habit.’
‘What of employment?’ Mycroft asked.
‘He is an engineer by training, with a speciality in artesian wells.’
‘What’s one of them when it’s at home?’ Matty was frowning. ‘I mean, I know what a well is, cos I drunk from them often enough, but an artistic well? That’s a new one on me.’
‘Artesian, not artistic,’ Mycroft explained. ‘Named after the Artois province of France, where many of these wells have been dug. The basic principle is simple: if there is a large depression or dip in the ground, covering several miles, then there is likely to be water percolating through the rocks around the rim of the depression that is considerably higher than the middle of the depression. That means, if a well is dug down to the water-bearing rock at the centre of the depression, then the pressure of all the higher water will cause it to bubble up to the surface naturally, rather than having to be pumped up or brought up by bucket. Locating the best place for these wells, and digging them, requires special knowledge and experience.’
‘So,’ Sherlock said, ‘he is a man who has prospects. That’s got to be good.’
‘Perhaps. I am aware, however, of a number of men of good standing with excellent prospects in London whom I would not trust to look after a dog, let alone a vulnerable girl.’ He made a harrumph! noise. ‘Whatever facts we discover will not answer the key question. We cannot establish his character remotely, no matter how much evidence and how many facts we have at our disposal. We need to talk to the man, take his measure.’ He turned to Rufus Stone. ‘Have the butler get the carriage ready. We will be making a visit.’
It took half an hour for the carriage to be made ready and for Sherlock and Mycroft to extract themselves from the visitors’ room without arousing Emma’s suspicions. As the carriage clattered down the drive towards the road, Mycroft’s expression was pensive.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sherlock asked.
‘I find myself in a curious quandary. On the one hand I want Emma to be happy, and I had also nearly given up hope that she would have any kind of normal life. On the other hand I want to ensure that she is not taken advantage of, that she is not made unhappy by a man who just sees her as being someone who can easily be controlled.’
‘But there is more, isn’t there?’
‘There always is,’ Mycroft confirmed. ‘Life is never simple. I tend to think of problems in terms of the various levels or orders they present themselves as belonging to. The two things I have already mentioned are what I think of as being of the first order. There is a second order, lower and perhaps less important, but still worth consideration. On that level I would place my personal relief that, if Emma marries this man, then I would no longer be responsible for her – that duty would transfer to him. It is a rather base emotion, I know, but I cannot properly maintain a life and an office in London if I am always trying to make sure that Emma is all right. Set against that, also of this second order, I would place my concern that Mr James Phillimore is using marriage to a weak-willed and easily manipulated girl to gain access to the Holmes family fortune – which is not large, but it is tempting, especially to a man on an engineer’s wages.’
‘It’s a complicated situation’ Sherlock agreed. He frowned as a thought struck him. ‘I wonder if Amyus Crowe ever wondered if I was a suitable match for Virginia.’
‘I think,’ Mycroft said carefully, ‘that if Virginia had decided that you were a suitable match, then nothing her father said or did would affect her decision.’ He glanced at Sherlock sympathetically. ‘Have you heard from either of them?’
‘Nothing,’ Sherlock said. He felt a dull ache in his heart – the remnant of what had once been a sharp pain whenever he thought about Virginia Crowe. ‘I think it is for the best. I cannot see myself ever settling down with a girl. There’s something about me, Mycroft – I think too much about things.’
‘Like Shakespeare’s Cassius,’ Mycroft said, nodding. ‘In my darker moments I have wondered if the Holmes line will die out with this generation. If Emma can find happiness with this man, and if they have children, then at least the family will carry on, even though the name of Holmes will be lost.’
The conversation died out then, and the rest of the journey was concluded in silence.
The carriage stopped outside a detached house of modern construction on the outskirts of Arundel. The
cathedral was visible above the trees, reminding Sherlock of the way that Edinburgh Castle had appeared to float above the town when he had visited a few years before.
Mycroft gave the front of the house a rapid examination. ‘Hmmm, I see no evidence of female occupancy or visitation. That at least is something. What I do see is evidence of a stable income and a lack of imagination in the owner, along with a mind that takes pleasure in small things such as stamp collecting and ornithology. He is a lonely man, but he does not have a temper. That much is reassuring.’
‘And he has the decorators in,’ Sherlock observed, pointing to a cart half hidden around the side of the house. A painted sign on the side proclaimed: Geo. Throop – Painter and Plasterer.
‘That,’ Mycroft said, ‘was so obvious that I didn’t even think it worthy of mention.’
He stepped forward and rang the doorbell. A plump maid opened the door. An odour of fresh paint wafted out past her.
‘Yes?’ she inquired.
‘Is your master in?’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
Mycroft handed her a visiting card. ‘Please tell Mr Phillimore that Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes wish to talk with him.’
She disappeared into the darkness of the hall, leaving the door partially open. From inside, Sherlock could hear items of heavy furniture being dragged around. ‘Do you think he’s redecorating in anticipation of marriage to Emma?’ he asked.
‘If so, then he is being a little premature,’ Mycroft growled.
The door opened wide, but instead of the maid inviting them to enter, as Sherlock had anticipated, a thin man in a rather old-fashioned suit stared at them. He had sideburns that were almost as luxurious as his moustache. His eyes were a very pale blue, and watery, and he held a top hat in his hands. There was dust on it, and Sherlock noticed that the ribbon around it was frayed.
‘Mr Mycroft Holmes and Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘You must be the brothers that Emma has told me so much about. A pleasure, gentlemen, an absolute pleasure.’ He extended a thin hand towards Mycroft.