Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  One of the sows grunted as we approached, hoping we were bringing food. She was a good-sized animal, more than two hundred pounds, and her little eyes were bright with cunning.

  “There is the door,” Holmes said softly, pointing to a narrow opening near what was clearly an abandoned bakery-and-creamery. “We must be very careful here. They will expect some attempt, I am sure.”

  We were about to move when the wooden door of the old bake house swung open and Herr Dortmunder strode out, two dark-clad men in his wake.

  “He is lying. He knows where the treaty is. Alert van Meter, and tell him that we may have to stop that train again, and get the rest of his luggage.”

  “He will not take much more questioning,” said the fairer of the two men. I noticed there were dark patches on his sleeves and the front of his tunic. “If he goes off in another swoon, I don’t know how long he will be unconscious.”

  “Use hartshorn to rouse him,” said Herr Dortmunder, then stepped inside the kitchen door, his postilion’s spurs ringing on the stone floor.

  “Do you think they have McMillian in there?” I whispered to Holmes.

  “Either they do, or they want us to think they do,” said Penelope in the same low tone.

  “Precisely,” said Holmes. “And we will have to find out which. Although it appears they have made a classic mistake and are guarding only the front of the tower, and not the rear, assuming that nothing can come from behind them. That is a naiveté I would not expect from the Brotherhood. And so we must not indulge in the hope that they are not alert. They have Guilem’s body, and that ought to make them worried about more trouble.” He frowned. “If McMillian has been badly beaten, it will not be an easy thing to carry him out of here.” He stifled a cough. “We must first determine if McMillian is indeed being held there.”

  “I will go,” I said, hating myself for volunteering.

  “They know you,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “And you, Miss Gatspy, are not dressed to climb onto roofs.” He squinted up at the sky. “It is my task. Besides, I am much too large a man to hide with a knot of a tree. Better I should act.” There was grim amusement in his gray eyes. He motioned us to lie down at the base of two big elms. “You are well hidden here. If they take me, leave at once. There will be nothing you can do to save me then; you would only sacrifice yourselves needlessly.”

  I nodded, having no intention of following this order, for I had seen what would become of him, and could not desert him in the face of such danger. I began to plan what I would have to do to protect Holmes from these malign men even as I watched Holmes slip away from us down the slope toward the little kitchen-yard.

  “What do you think?” I whispered to Penelope when two infinitely long minutes had dragged by.

  “I think we could all be killed,” she said with amazing calm.

  “Good Lord, woman!” I exclaimed, my voice no louder than the sound of the wind.

  “And if we can stop the Brotherhood, it will be worth it,” she added, with such coolness of mien that I was taken up short. “They have a long, hideous history and if no one will oppose them it will go on indefinitely, gathering power as they go. In time they will have their wish of conquest because no one was willing to refuse them what they want.” Her eyes were shining with purpose. “Well, I will not stand by and permit them to triumph.”

  “If they are so strong, what use is it for three of us to stand against them?” I asked her softly.

  “Because if three do it now, six might have courage enough to do it later, and then twelve. If no one opposes them, then they are right and they are the masters of Europe. And all we have done will be for naught.” She put one hand to her eyes, the first indication of emotion I had seen in her. “Guilem.”

  I could think of nothing to say to comfort her, or to give her hope, for I had almost none to spare. To have come so far, and to risk so much, and for what? If the treaty was truly not in McMillian’s hands, what was the point of this?

  There was a flurry of activity off to our left down the slope. Penelope Gatspy pointed her revolver in that direction, then dropped the muzzle as Mycroft Holmes came into view, pulling himself arm over arm along the ground in a fast, powerful wriggle. He made very little sound, which surprised me, and again made me wonder how he had passed his earlier years.

  As soon as he reached us he said, “McMillian’s not conscious. They’ve been cruel with him. Even if he regains consciousness he will not be able to walk. One of his arches has been smashed. He will be fortunate to walk with a cane after this.” His face was set in an expression of condemnation I had not seen before and trusted I would never have to see again. “There was a guard on him who will not waken for some time; I was able to put him out of the way. But there are still two guards with small crossbows at the entrance to the kitchen. They are the ones we must do something about if we cannot get to McMillian without alerting them.”

  “Are there any more, do you think?” Miss Gatspy asked with a calm that still had the capacity to astonish me.

  “We must assume there may be,” said Holmes. “The Brotherhood do not often leave themselves open to attack.”

  “What kind of chance will we have—” I began, hating myself for sounding craven.

  Mycroft Holmes looked at me and grinned. “Why, all the chance we need, dear boy. All the chance we need.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  Still no word from Germany.

  I have received another missive from Miss Roedale, this time delivered by the lady herself in the company of her uncle, who has given it as his opinion that the trust of the Roedale family was sadly misplaced in G. Miss Roedale brought a small, sealed box for G., and ordered me that I am to inform him that she considers their engagement to be at an end, no matter what pain her decision may mean to their mothers. She added that had she known of his unsteadiness of temperament when they were younger, she would have prevailed upon her parents to inform G.’s parents that the match was not suitable; she holds him to blame for allowing her to assume their life together would be of a far different nature than what it would be, given what he has chosen to make his work. His letters and his ring, she told me, were in the box. I have given my word that I will present them to G. immediately upon his return. And I pray that he does return.

  Edmund Sutton has spent the day at an audition and has just returned in time for tea. He is not eager for this part, but says that a man in his line of work must make himself available. It is dangerous to have him away for so long during the day, and he has apologized for it more than once. He has no other commitments beyond this one between now and the end of the week.

  I must go to hospital one last time.

  APPROACHING the bake-house was tricky, even with Penelope Gatspy just behind us on the slope covering our actions with Holmes’ pistol and her Navy revolver. Any discovery would be, I knew, the most terrible death the Brotherhood could give us—which would surpass anything I could imagine.

  As we made our way through the trees to the bake-house, I had the feeling that something hot was on my skin. I realized I thought it was the eyes of lookouts in the trees, and not the result of exertion that gave me this particular sensation. The bake-house seemed a long way off, and bristling with danger.

  Holmes motioned me to stop, which I did. My whole body was sore, and I did not know how to shut it out, though I would have to if we were going to succeed. After all they had done to me, I refused to capitulate to them. At this point I knew I would not give the Brotherhood the satisfaction of beating me. It did not matter why Mycroft Holmes had sent me on this mission, it was now a matter of pride with me, as much as any service I could render to the British government. With this resolve, I listened while Holmes outlined what we would have to do.

  “It would be useful to get one or two of those little crossbows,” he reminded
me. “To even the odds a bit.”

  “So you’ve said,” I replied. “And if I can, I will get one.”

  Holmes must have sensed my resolution, for he gave me a swift, measuring look, and nodded. “Off we go, then.”

  The last few feet were the most dangerous, for they would mean moving in the open, and past the pigs.

  “A pity we haven’t a sack of cabbages for them,” Holmes whispered as he prepared to slip across the little kitchen yard. “The door does not make too much noise. That, at least, is in our favor.”

  I gestured my endorsement, and crouched in the pitifully small shadows of the trees at the edge of the yard in the early afternoon light.

  Holmes moved with remarkable swiftness through the yard and to the side of the bake-house, his big, drab cloak blending with the old stones. Carefully he made his way to the far corner, and, after a quick, meticulous inspection of his surroundings, he vanished from my sight. I immediately followed after him, wishing now that my coat was not the deep brown shade it was, for it served to make me a shadow where none should be, and therefore conspicuous.

  The stones of the bake-house were cold, and as I inched forward, I had the uncomfortable notion that the building was in actuality a crypt. I made myself set such notions aside as I at last swung around the end of the place and started for the door, which was now ajar. I reached it without incident, pulled it open and slipped inside, taking care to close the door as Mycroft Holmes had. Then I turned and saw Cameron McMillian for the first time. And tasted bile at the back of my throat as I did.

  Herr Dortmunder had done an unholy piece of work on him: his eyes were grotesquely swollen, and huge bruises on his jaw showed where a few of his teeth had been knocked out. Three of the fingers of his left hand were broken, there were burns on the palm of his right, and his right instep was crushed, leaving his booted foot in a mass of blood. He stank of urine and feces, his pulse was fast and irregular, and each breath he took was a whimper.

  “Help me gag him,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We can’t have him screaming when we move him.”

  I saw at once the logic of his demand, and did all I could to accommodate him. I located at once a length of cheesecloth, and held it out.

  Holmes was not pleased at its flimsiness, but accepted it, and secured it swiftly around McMillian’s battered head. “Help me get him over my shoulder.”

  “But shouldn’t we—” I began, indicating I had expected to help carry him.

  “No. In this terrain we will do better if I carry him.” He indicated another length of cheesecloth. “Tie his legs together, too, so that he will not be able to thrash about.”

  I did this quickly, having a mushrooming sense of peril within me.

  “Quickly now,” said Holmes as he wrestled McMillian over his shoulder, so that the Scotsman’s head and arms hung down his back. “Open the door and move aside for me. I depend on you to protect my back, Guthrie.”

  “I will, sir,” I said, and moved to obey his instructions.

  The guards at the kitchen door were nowhere in sight. I suspected that at this hour they were having their dinner, for even men of the Brotherhood ate. Cautiously I motioned Holmes to come out, and as soon as he did, I closed the door behind him, taking care to put the bolt in place.

  We went swiftly across the worn stone paving of the yard, past the pigs, who squealed in anticipation of a meal, and into the cover of the trees, where Holmes, panting from the exertion, came to a halt in the cover of an oak. He strove to keep McMillian in place, and I rushed to help.

  “Well done, thus far, dear boy,” Holmes said, using a breath for every two words. “Now, if we can get away altogether, we will have done something.”

  The chilling implication of his words caught my attention. “Then we had better get moving. I will carry McMillian for a way, if you like.”

  He nodded. “In time. For now, I will manage.” He looked carefully about, and added, “We will need Miss Gatspy with us.”

  “I’ll go fetch her,” I volunteered, remembering the little notch where she had hidden, and beginning to wonder why she had not joined us.

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, and steadied his burden against the tree.

  She met me some fifty yards along the swell of the hill, making her way back toward us. “You did that very well,” she approved as she came up to me, and though her voice was low, her words gave me a reward I had not anticipated.

  “It isn’t over yet,” I reminded her.

  “Hardly,” she answered, the stern purpose back in her face once more. “If we get away, it will not be over.”

  In spite of myself, I asked her, “How many of them have you killed? Of the Brotherhood, I mean?”

  “In total? Eleven. Not nearly enough.” Her last words gave me an odd moment.

  We were once more back with Mycroft Holmes, and I was relieved to see him breathing more evenly. “It will be best, I think, to go over the hill, instead of back the way we came,” he told us as we came up to him. “They will have a harder time following us. And you may be sure they will follow us.”

  “And make an example of us if they take us,” added Penelope Gatspy.

  “That is true,” said Holmes somberly. “Let us be under way. We want to put as much distance between us and the tower as we can before they realize McMillian is gone.” With that, he started away up the slope, trudging steadily while doing his best to keep under cover. As we hurried to keep abreast of him, he said, “Miss Gatspy, please give Guthrie my pistol. You still have your revolver.”

  As she handed me the weapon I could sense her reluctance to surrender it.

  “You haven’t had to kill before now, have you?” she asked as I thrust the pistol into my coat pocket.

  “Yes. Once.” The man in Luxembourg came swiftly to my mind. “I did not like it.”

  “That is what worries me about you. You may well hesitate when you must not, and we would all be the worse off for it.” She was not interested in hearing any protestations from me, and made this very clear as she continued up the slope, struggling from time to time with her skirts.

  We had almost reached the brow of the hill when there was a loud cry from the kitchen-yard below. This was followed almost at once by more shouts and alarms. McMillian’s disappearance had been discovered.

  “Now it begins in earnest,” said Holmes, and pointed to the steep descent ahead of us. “They are coming after us.”

  “But they don’t know which way yet,” said Penelope Gatspy. “That may be in our favor.”

  “Let us hope it is,” said Holmes, and started down into the narrow valley. “Hurry.” He gestured our course down the hill with his free hand. “When we reach the stream, we will cross it, and then work our way back toward the farmer’s lane.”

  I felt the pistol in my pocket and wished the heft of it would be more reassuring than it was. I kept slightly behind Holmes, protecting his back as he had ordered me to do.

  It was rough going. Twice we surprised deer taking their afternoon ease in the thickets. They bounded away with such grace that the noise they made was almost unimportant. Then it struck me that they would provide the Brotherhood an indication of where we were.

  The hill was much steeper here, and the footing uncertain. As we were making our way down this difficult part of the slope, Penelope Gatspy slipped, and, thanks to her voluminous skirts, ended up sliding and rolling some distance away from Holmes and me.

  “I’d try that myself if it weren’t for McMillian,” said Holmes, trying to keep enough air in him to continue. “I doubt it would do him much good.”

  “Given what has already been done, a few scrapes and bruises should not be an issue,” I said, trying to make light of our predicament. “We had best try to find Miss Gatspy. She may be injured.”

  “Scrapes and bruises?
” suggested Mycroft Holmes drily. He was crabbing his way down, his feet placed sideways against the damp earth in an attempt to keep from sliding. It very nearly succeeded. But at last McMillian regained consciousness, and began at once to struggle, his muffled cries louder than either Holmes or I wanted.

  I reached out to offer Holmes the support of my arm, but was a fraction of a second too late. With a shout, Holmes was toppled and he, with McMillian tangled up in his flailing arms, went careening down the side of the hill. I watched in dismay as they were lost to sight in the first thicket beneath this steep section.

  I hurried down after them, all but tripping myself. I was no longer concerned about the Brotherhood behind us, but all my attention was intent upon the fate of Mycroft Holmes, McMillian, and Penelope Gatspy.

  As I reached the foot of the rise, I saw McMillian lying, as if discarded by a careless farmer, against a tree, his head and shoulder to one side, for all the world like a horrendous doll. He was muttering through his gag, and his mauled left hand flopped on the leaves. I paused long enough to assure myself he had taken no new serious hurt, and plunged on, looking for Holmes.

  I found him a short while later, fetched up in a stand of berry vines, his face much scratched and his clothes snagged. “Where’s McMillian?” he asked as I approached him.

  “Back there,” I said with a hitch of my thumb. “Not moving yet. I’ll go back for him as soon as you are extricated.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes, working at freeing his cloak from the snags and spikes of the vines. “I have a few knocks, but no real injury. No bones broken.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” I said, and lent a hand to getting him out.

  “I’ll manage for myself. You go fetch McMillian. It wouldn’t do to let the Brotherhood get their hands on him again.” He indicated with his elbow that I was to hurry. I made a half-salute and began to retrace my steps.