by Janina Woods
“There are voices in the Service that would have you removed from our ranks,” Challenger said, his eyes fixed on the horizon, despite everything lying in darkness. “After your liberal use of official resources to pursue a fool’s errand that was only personal.”
“With all due respect, sir, my brother is-”
“I wasn’t finished.”
I bit my lip in an effort to keep myself from talking.
“On top of that you dragged Trevor, Hawkins and Bates into a goose chase, which ended with a number of dead agents in Egypt. I put my word in for you and got you that assignment in Germany, hoping it would cool some heads upon your successful return, and now this. I don’t know what to do with you anymore.”
Challenger paused to take a deep drag of his pipe. I didn’t know if he was finished, so I thought it best to keep silent. But him, putting a word in for me? There were still things here that could surprise me, after all.
“Look, Mycroft,” he said, and I knew by his use of my first name it would be his personal opinion. “You’re the best man I have. You’ve been here long before I started and you may still be of use to this whole operation after I’m gone. I won’t kick you out. But while my word is highly valued, it’s not the only one that counts. The newspapers are already writing their headlines. This won’t go away easily.”
I felt cold, and not only because of the sub-zero temperatures. Then Challenger looked at me with a question in his gaze, and it was finally my turn to speak.
“Sir, I won’t deny that the whole thing isn’t partly my fault, simply because I don’t know enough about it yet. No one does. But the chances that the message is addressed to another Mycroft are really rather slim. This will probably all be pinned on me tomorrow, because even though people don’t know me as an agent, they know me as a character in Dr. Watson’s stories in the Strand Magazine. And my brother’s fame is large enough to include me.”
Challenger nodded like he had already come to a similar conclusion. “Your brother may play an important role in drawing suspicion away from you. I suppose he’s aware of the situation?”
“He’s already pursuing his own line of inquiry - well, the one I sent him on anyway. If anyone knows the importance of secrecy, it’s Sherlock and Dr. Watson.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about, Mycroft.”
Challenger then patted his pockets until he found a small metal case. It revealed a number of cigarettes, which he offered to me. “If I let you freeze to death out here, you might as well have one last smoke.”
I took one offered cigarette with a nod. We stayed in silence until I had finished and flicked the butt off the terrace onto the street below, while Challenger slowly puffed his pipe. The break gave me a chance to reflect on the most extraordinary situation in which I currently found myself. I, Mycroft Holmes, was talking to Archibald Challenger like a peer. Like he considered me to be almost equal. Not for the first time I wondered what had changed during my absence.
“Many people would like to see you suspended for the duration of the investigation. They say it’s to protect you, but we both know better. Still, I don’t feel entirely comfortable letting you join the operation while you effectively received a death threat.”
That wasn’t the only reason, but he was diplomatic enough not to mention another, and I gladly left it at that.
“You won’t find anyone better than me to solve it,” I stated clearly.
“And that’s why I won’t suspend you. At least not now. I’ll vouch for your stay of execution, so to say. But I can only give you a few days, at most.”
I grumbled under my breath. “So my years of impeccable service mean nothing?”
Challenger snorted with laughter and almost let his pipe fall into the snow. He then coughed heavily because of the inhaled smoke and took some seconds to catch his breath. The way he moved looked almost comical.
“Mycroft, I think you’re the only one who’d call your service impeccable.”
“Why would that be?” I bristled. “Only one mission in my whole career was a failure, and that was due to faulty information through our own channels.”
“Yes, your goals were always accomplished. In fact you have the best rate of success of all agents that have ever been in the Service,” Challenger said and took a break to intently look at me. “But the objective isn’t all that counts. You destroy property, work around the laws and have a higher body count than all of your colleagues combined.”
Anything I could have said would’ve sounded like an excuse, so I kept silent, but Challenger wouldn’t have it, as he fixed me with a questioning stare.
“I see the point you’re trying to make,” I reluctantly said. “I’m not an idiot. But I’m always working within the parameters.”
“This is not about what’s allowed and what’s not, Mycroft.”
I had to cut this short. It was already more than tedious.
“Are there any conditions?” I asked to bring the discussion to an end.
“Solve the whole thing within two days, or you’re out for now. Oh yes, and don’t get killed.”
“That wasn’t on my agenda...”
Chapter Seven
“That bad?”
Hawkins welcomed me back into my office with a crystal tumbler, filled with a peaty, amber liquid. I took the offered drink gratefully and downed the whole measure in one go.
“Worse, then?”
“Much worse,” I sighed. “I have two days to solve the so-called Mycroft Incident before I’ll be detained and some less capable agents will take over.”
There was no use in mincing words with Hawkins.
“You don’t actually think Challenger will wait for you to fail before he starts his own measures to contain the incident as well as he can?”
“Which is precisely why I have to act before the others screw it up.”
Hawkins shook his head and reached for the decanter to top off my glass. “Not to blow my own horn here, but you know the agency is made of quality people? We’ve all had the same education and training as you. I think you can trust the rest of us to do the right thing. You trust me, right?”
I eyed the man for a few seconds before my shoulders sank and I slumped on the edge of my desk.
“Of course I trust you, Leonard. I’m just... a little on edge right now. Whoever sent me that message knew exactly when I arrived back in London-”
“And that makes you believe it might be one of us?”
“There’s a possibility.”
Hawkins hummed absentmindedly as his forehead wrinkled in contemplation. He had a habit of letting his eyes dart around the room while he was evaluating whatever was on his mind. I knew better than to interrupt a train of thought, so I sipped my whisky in silence for a little while.
“If it really was an inside man, then the message would’ve been much more effectively timed on the precise day of your arrival. It is plenty theatrical already... don’t you think that whoever orchestrated it could’ve resisted that additional touch of drama?”
“What are you implying?”
“That it wasn’t someone within our ranks, but an outsider, who may have for example observed your house. Or the Diogenes.”
I played that option back in my head a few times. Yes, someone could’ve easily observed me going back to my house in Kensington yesterday. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that someone, with such an elaborate plan to send me a message written in dead bodies, went through that additional effort. The whole operation at the graveyard alone had employed at least seven individuals, as my brother had told me.
Once again I had been so eager to see ghosts.
“Very good, Leonard,” I concluded. “Very good.”
Hawkins preened under my praise and he had every right to. My habit of underestimati
ng my fellow agents was something I should’ve broken with long ago. Just because they weren’t as good as I - and, let’s face it, very few people in this world would ever be - didn’t mean they had no skill at all.
“The only thing left to do is to compile a list of everyone, who’d go to such lengths to contact me in this underhanded way. I’m still assuming this to be a death threat.”
“As well you should.”
I walked over to my armchair and lifted the previously abandoned tea cup to my lips. Of course the liquid had grown cold and bitter, but I happened to like it this way too. “Thank you for your input, Leonard. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to keep you.”
“Are you mad? You’re not keeping me from anything. Your life may be in danger!”
I looked up to see Hawkins look at me with an expression so stern, I hadn’t seen on his face in a very long time.
“That’s kind of you to say, but I don’t think-”
“I owe you my life, Mycroft! Of course I will stay to support you! Besides, Rosie has been dying for a chance to prove herself in my position.”
“Rosie Fox?”
“The very same.”
I shook my head and sank into my armchair, the familiar cushion welcoming me home. “How do your men react to having a young woman order them around?”
Hawkins laughed. “Just because you’re so ancient doesn’t make Rosie young. She’s thirty-two!”
“You didn’t attain your post until much later.”
“Well, she’s capable. Much more than I ever was. It wouldn’t surprise me if my men won’t take me back as soon as this is finished.”
“Finished?”
Hawkins smiled at me.
“Finished meaning you’re either dead or we’ve taken care of the mess. Of course I’m hoping for the latter. And now it’s me, who doesn’t want to keep you. I’m staying in the rooms on the second floor for the time being.”
I nodded and looked after the tall, wiry man as he disappeared through the door.
“I’ll be here all night.”
It took me just over five hours to digest the accumulated information. The clock showed six twenty-one as I glanced at it. Early morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours yet, if it would show itself at all. Despite my good constitution and the deadline looming over my head, I laid down on a large divan, which I had installed in a dark corner for that very function, and fell into a deep sleep.
I awoke to a dull ache in my skull and a noise alerting me to something important, though I couldn’t exactly make out what it was, in my sleep-induced state. My arm was twisted into an unnatural position underneath me, and it was a testament to my exhaustion that I hadn’t realised it. Carefully I sat up and immediately put my face in both hands, applying pressure to my eyeballs to lessen the pain behind them.
The noise again. A voice. I shook my head to dispel the fog, but that only served to double the stinging pain behind my forehead. I reached blindly for my cup, which still contained the remnants of yesterday’s tea and downed the stale liquid in a swift motion.
“Mycroft! Either you open the door right now, or I’ll break the lock!” The booming voice of my brother must’ve carried into every room on this floor. I sighed.
“Give me a second,” I shouted back, not quite as loud, but definitely annoyed.
With creaking bones I rose from the divan and sorted my limbs. My discarded suit looked at me from a chair - dared me to dress presentable before opening the door - but it took me only a second to ignore it. My brother had already seen me wearing less, and I didn’t feel at all like rushing.
I unlocked the door and retracted my hand just in time for it to be flung open, Sherlock waltzing into the room as if it were his divine right to occupy the space. He took in the disarray of my office and turned around with a mock-frown on his face.
“It’s already past noon. If mother could see you now...”
“Do you honestly think she would’ve been surprised?”
“No, I don’t. The extent of your self-indulgent laziness is known to all members of the Holmes family.”
I smirked and gestured for my brother to take a seat, but he shook his head.
“I’m not here to exchange pleasantries.”
“Please re-evaluate what you define as pleasantries.” I sighed. “You found a lead, then?”
“It found me. Lestrade has sent for us, and I thought it prudent to inform you before I head over myself, though Watson is already on his way.”
I had already started to dress myself in a fresh set of clothes from one of the many cupboards in my office while Sherlock talked. What little weather I could observe from my window looked abysmal, so I opted for a dark tweed suit with matching waistcoat that would keep me warm, even through an extended stay outside.
“The body of a woman has been found in a house just south of London Bridge, a little over an hour ago.”
“Very close to the last incident.”
“Yes. But there’s an obvious connection between them, which is greater than the simple proximity.”
I almost reeled internally and hoped it wasn’t visible on my face. “My name again?”
Sherlock nodded and turned back towards the door. I sat down to pull on my boots and took a look around the room, which mirrored the chaos of my thoughts.
“A note, fittingly written in blood.” Sherlock shook his head. “Who in the world did you anger to this degree?”
“Too many to count.”
We arrived at a narrow townhouse to find that a substantial crowd had already gathered on the street to catch a glimpse of the murdered woman, but the two constables in front of the door made them keep their distance. I recognised Collins, just as he turned in an attempt to block my way. He looked back and forth between me and my brother, then stepped aside with a murmured greeting. We walked past him into the dark interior of the house.
What welcomed us was a small and simple home, which was sparsely furnished, but well kept up. All colours were warm and earthy, and made the space feel very welcoming. Except for the cool temperatures and the sickly sweet smell of blood in the air, the house felt decidedly normal. But what irritated me wasn’t the murder itself. It was the fact that I had never visited the place before and knew nothing of anyone, who lived here. And somehow I hated myself because, despite the horror, I was still intrigued by the whole affair.
We followed the low voice of Dr. Watson into a sitting room at the end of the corridor. The windows at the back of the house were quite large and overlooked a small garden filled with rose bushes, which must’ve looked magnificent in summertime. The doctor turned to greet us and pointed at the back of the room, to the space behind a large armchair. Sherlock lost no time and disappeared behind the furniture.
“Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Lestrade acknowledged my presence curtly. “I wasn’t informed you’d deem it suitable to visit.”
“My brother deemed it so, Inspector,” I replied. “Don’t you agree?”
“Well, for all I know you had a hand in this murder, and then it would be folly to admit you to this house, where you could collect or deposit evidence as you see fit.”
I showed him a half-smile. “You’ve associated with Sherlock for too long.”
“Mycroft,” said brother called me over with a tone that did not allow contradiction.
The inspector shrugged and gestured towards the body with all the grace of a servant admitting a lord into the palace. His smile was the very image of forced courtesy. I was about to react similarly, but as soon as I saw the body, all thoughts of this petty matter fled my head.
Behind the chair, in a puddle of dried blood, laid a woman close to my own age, who I would’ve probably described as beautiful if she had still been alive. Now, all colour had fled her skin and her body looke
d sunken in, almost deflated. The dark brown hair set off the sickly pallor even more. Her face looked almost serene, and it was possible to imagine her just sleeping, if not for the gashing wound in her throat, and the splatters of blood all over her face and the simple, pastel-coloured clothes.
“She died lying down. Right here,” Sherlock broke the silence. “There are traces of blood on the back of the armchair and on the wall behind her, up to the window, but none underneath the body.”
I looked up to inspect the curtains, which had not escaped the bloodbath, and nodded my affirmation. Dr. Watson then pointed to her head.
“The wound on her throat is probably what killed her, but she could have already died through an impact on her head,” he explained and beckoned me over, so I could see the back of her head, which he raised carefully. “The rest of the blood makes it hard to see, but there’s definitely a separate wound here.”
“She couldn’t have hit her head on the floor when she fell?” Lestrade asked from the armchair, on which he was now kneeling, arms crossed over the backrest to look down on the body.
“No, the wound is too severe for that. Sure, if someone had forcibly hit her head against the ground, it might’ve had the same result, but I wager she was struck from behind, then positioned here to finish the deed.”
“Why here?” Lestrade asked. “Why carry her behind the armchair?”
“She was already here, at the window,” Sherlock said and pointed out at the garden. “Struck down and killed on the spot.”
“How do you know that?” Watson asked.
“She was observing the birds. There are still some out there now, picking at the remnants of the seeds set out for them. The stitching work resting on the table next to the fireplace shows various bird species. She was obviously taken with the creatures,” I said slowly.
All eyes were on me as I produced the explanation, which was usually reserved for Sherlock. He eyed me not with anger, but slight annoyance. Sometimes I couldn’t resist.