by Janina Woods
“Who found her?” my brother asked.
“The maid. She’s only here during the day and let herself in around ten. Her mistress, whose name was Violet Taylor, wasn’t in the kitchen, as usual, so she searched the house and came across her here,” Lestrade explained. “She must be at the Yard by now. Couldn’t very well leave her here, the dainty thing. Fainted on the spot, she told us. Only alerted us when she came to.”
“She isn’t the culprit,” I stated.
“And how would you know that?” Lestrade countered. “You’ve only been here a few minutes and have never even seen her. Unless you-”
“I’ve seen enough. If anyone would acknowledge the note and the flower lying on the poor woman’s chest, you’d see I’m right.”
All eyes wandered immediately to the items I described, which were still lying undisturbed on top of the body. They had obviously been placed there after Mrs. Taylor’s violent death, as they were unstained by the blood, and blindingly white against the grisly background, incredibly out of place. There was a small piece of paper, carefully cut into a rectangular shape, inscribed with the word ‘Mycroft’, written in a beautiful, skilled hand, only marred by the fact it had obviously been printed in blood. Next to it lay a single, white anemone flower, easily recognisable by its six petals and the yellow centre.
“They really are love letters, then,” I mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?” Watson turned towards me.
“You’re clearly not fluent in the language of flowers, Watson,” Sherlock cut in. “They have symbolisms, which can be very important. It would do you good to brush up on the knowledge, lest you embarrass yourself with any unintentional tussie-mussie.”
“Your point?” Watson sighed.
“The white anemone stands for forsaken love.”
Once again all gazes turned towards me.
“I assure you, I don’t know of anyone, who’d harbour these kind of feelings towards me,” I explained and shook my head. “The flower stands for lost love, symbolises a broken bond. To break something, it would have to exist first.”
“No... past dalliances?” Lestrade asked, pen ready.
“You’d assume that, wouldn’t you?” I dared him to reply with a sharp glare. “Nothing of the sort. My life simply doesn’t lend itself to... these kind of things.”
The inspector hummed, whereas my brother and the doctor refrained from answering for me. They obviously valued their lives. Apparently I had disguised the shock I had felt upon seeing the flower as I entered the room, quite well. The note in my breast pocket felt heavier than ever before. A broken bond, indeed. I refused to believe that my Songbird would ever be involved in such a dreadful incident, even if he turned out to be the author of the note. True to my word, I hadn’t once looked into his affairs during all these years, and I was still reluctant to break our promise. No, there were other lines of inquiry I could look into first.
There had to be.
Sherlock, in turn, made a show of laying his body flat on the floor, next to the corpse, thereby effectively diverting attention from my inner turmoil. It was quite a feat to do so in the narrow space, and he pushed away Watson in the process, who mumbled some angry words under his breath as he shuffled out of the way. My brother reached under the armchair and as he drew back his hand, something scratched against the wood of the floor.
“Here’s one of your murder weapons.”
He held a small, wooden baton up to the light, shaped not unlike the ones the policemen carried around the city. It was unmistakably streaked with blood, smeared where it had rolled over the floorboards. The way my brother held it indicated a heavy weight, but I didn’t have to ask him to pass it, because I knew exactly how heavy it was.
I exchanged a glance with Sherlock, who was eyeing my reactions closely. He gingerly turned the murder instrument between his fingertips and inspected the bottom, then turned it towards me. I could barely contain the shocked gasp that threatened to escape me.
“What is it?” Watson asked from the sidelines. “Is there anything on it? A crest maybe?”
“There are letters cut into the bottom. The inscription reads LH,” my brother explained.
“Ring any bells, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked.
Both my brother and I shook our heads in unison, as if we had practiced it. Sometimes I was glad for his quick wit. Even though I could see disapproval in his eyes, he played along, not wanting to derail whatever plan I had. At least he didn’t mention the involvement of the Secret Service while outsiders were present, for which I was grateful. Because, yes, the baton had belonged to an agent once, and I was quite certain that agent’s name was Leonard Hawkins.
How in the seven hells did his baton end up a murder weapon in London?
“Unfortunately not,” I replied and stepped away from the body, into the middle of the room. “Violet Taylor has no connection to me. She was simply a means to send me this message. The murderer must’ve known I would be notified and see it. She is only a distraction for us, and a way to spread my name even further, connected to these... unsavoury incidents. Either way, I don’t have time for any of this. Sherlock, please report to me once you’re finished with the case. I have my own inquiries to make.”
“I’m not your lackey. Order someone else around.”
“Will you help me in this, or would you rather see my body float down the Thames?”
“That would be rather difficult right now, seeing as it is completely frozen over.”
“So you are convinced this is a threat?” The inspector fell into the conversation again.
“What else should it be? And even if it isn’t, I’d think it would be prudent to treat it as such,” I stated.
Sherlock nodded his agreement. We exchanged a meaningful look before I turned around to leave.
“He’s just going to walk away?” I could hear Lestrade ask when I was already in the narrow hallway. “The woman was killed because of him!”
“I have my methods. My brother has his.”
“Bloody... You know what? I don’t care about his methods. If we find just one solid reason, I’m locking the man up for his own good.”
He must’ve known I would still hear him.
Chapter Eight
No one focused their attention on me for long as I exited the building, and I didn’t expect anyone to. I was alone and did not carry the body the harpies wanted to see. Bystanders wouldn’t know me, and if I were being watched, they’d be careful not to stand out.
The crowd in front of the house was sizeable now and almost blocked the street, much to the irritation of the numerous cart drivers, who couldn’t turn their vehicles around between the tight-knit houses. One attempted to push through the mass of people, and whipped his frightened horse, which almost ran over several people in its confusion. Already there were street-sellers with coffee, tea and hot pies walking among the onlookers, hoping to turn a profit.
I quickly retreated to the other side of the street and took a place at the rear of the crowd, my back against the dirty wall of another house, which was in a decidedly worse condition than the one I had just visited. Most buildings on the street were tall and narrow, built with touching walls, which made them look like they had to support each other to not fall over. Maybe they actually had to.
Over the murmur of the crowd, I heard the screeching sound of trains breaking in London Bridge Station, not far from my position. The air was still frigid, but decidedly murky, as tiny snowflakes fell around me, mingled with ash particles, which made the ice look dirty and unhealthily grey.
Deciding that I needed a small distraction, I reached into the inner pocket of my winter coat and produced the single cigarette, which I had snatched from Lou’s stash. I rarely indulged, but in that moment, I desperately needed something to calm me. The smoke had the intended,
psychological response. With the first drag, I already felt some tension leave my shoulders and I leaned back to look up into the dark clouds to contemplate my situation.
What did I know?
Someone was targeting me specifically with the messages. The nature of their delivery was outrageous, which would make sure to get them the attention the perpetrators certainly aimed for. The timing of the first message was matched too closely to my return for it to be addressed to any other Mycroft than me. Subsequently, the culprit had to know me, but most importantly my work and my whereabouts.
The first message had been there for show. The second message was imbued with meaning, conveyed obviously through the murder, but mostly through the flower. Of course it could’ve just been a distraction, but it was such an effort to produce a fresh anemone bloom in winter that I had to assume it was important. It was clearly left to tell me something about the culprit and their reasons. The blatant way the deed had been done with a weapon that belonged to the agency, felt like it was mocking me with some obvious facts that I couldn’t yet put together.
They wanted me to see, to know. Whoever left my name not only once, but twice, clearly wanted to coax a reaction out of me, so I was sure I was being watched - probably even in that very moment.
What would happen when I figured out the meaning? Would there be more victims if I were too slow to get to the bottom of this? I didn’t know. And that fact angered me so much, I crushed the cigarette against the bricks of the house when it was only half smoked and let it fall to the ground, disappearing in a mound of dirty ice.
The door of the townhouse opposite opened again. I could see two constables carrying a wooden stretcher, covered by a brown sheet. Collins looked at them walking by, evidently glad he hadn’t been chosen to carry the corpse to the police carriage. The crowd voiced their disappointment loudly. They had been robbed of their one chance to see the body. I half expected someone to grab the sheet and drag it from the stretcher, but the policemen made it safely to the vehicle and pushed the body into the back. As the door closed behind Violet Taylor, the crowd predictably lost interest. A few onlookers at the edge already turned to leave, but some kept looking at the townhouse to see if there might be a chance to observe another body leave the location.
“Gruesome display at the frost fair! Read all about it!”
A young man walked into the street with a large bag filled to the brim with freshly printed newspapers, of which he waved some at the assembled crowd. The people, who had been denied of their encounter with the actual murder on this street, turned towards another racy story in an instant. The man couldn’t hand over his papers fast enough.
“Grave robbery! Who is the mysterious Mycroft from the message on the Thames?”
I flinched.
“Read all about it! Sherlock Holmes’ brother targeted?”
Enough.
I turned sharply and walked away from the crowd. While I was effectively camouflaged because of my appearance, which was the polar opposite of Watson’s description in his stories, this was too much for me to cope with at the moment. When I passed the newspaper seller, boots crunching through the dirty snow with heavy, angry steps, I was tempted to cut his bag strap, so that the offending papers would be ruined in the filth on the ground. But then I simply balled my hands into fists and walked by without gracing him with another glance. He didn’t notice a thing.
There were fewer people at the end of the street. I turned north to reach London Bridge and find a cab to take me back to the Diogenes. The new incident had connected a few dots in my head, which I had to look into... and the records of said dots were in the archives of Challenger’s office. There were no additional copies, and he insisted on having everything close at all times, which meant I had to once again brave his temper. There was little hope in thinking he’d not be in the office, but I required the information and it would give me an opportunity to report this incident to him, because I needed to be in his good graces now more than ever.
I reached the bridge quickly and as I stepped onto it I was so lost in thought, I barely dodged a woman in a heavy dress, which dragged through the stained ice on the ground. I looked over to the other side of the street, where there was another newspaper seller, a small boy in clothes so thick, his head seemed comically small on top of it. He was selling his story about my name right at the place of the offending incident. Smart. I wondered how long the murder would take to appear in the papers, and what information the police would allow to be printed. If they were careful, no mention of my name should make it into writing... but you could never rely on everyone to keep the secret. Police work didn’t pay handsomely, and selling information was a good way to make some extra money.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and twisted to slip away to the side, back against the railing of the bridge. My eyes darted around to make out my possible assailant, but only found the apologetic eyes of Dr. Watson.
“Can you meet us at Simpson’s tonight? At eight? Holmes sent me to inform you... he thought his presence might only draw attention to your person.”
I nodded. No one paid any mind to Watson, perfectly hidden in his mediocrity. “That should be possible. Anything else I should know?”
“Holmes says we should coordinate the effort regularly. Frankly, I think he just wants to see if you’re still alive.”
“The episode in Egypt changed him more than he admits. He has never been this concerned about me before. But after having been outsmarted in Milan, he probably thinks the same could happen to me.”
“Could it?”
“Everything’s possible, doctor. But I believe I’m safe for now.”
“Why?”
“All in good time. Tell Sherlock I’ll be there, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”
Dr. Watson nodded and put a hand on my arm, squeezed it briefly, which I barely felt through the thick coat. “Stay safe.”
“Never. But I can try.”
I watched the doctor walk back towards the townhouse to the south and turned to acquire a cab on the busy street that I had now visited twice in the span of a day. There was no need to have another look at the grim message on the ice. The police would have removed most of the body parts by now. While I walked, a small measure of doubt overcame me at the thought that I had not examined the house more closely. Yes, it wasn’t usually my modus operandi when Sherlock was around, but this was a special case.
Well, if my theory were correct, I’d have another chance to apply myself soon. The culprit obviously had an agenda.
The cab driver took me directly to the back entrance of the club building. It was probably pointless to try to hide, but it didn’t feel right to walk out in the open. On top of that, the path to my office was shorter from this side, and I wanted to avoid walking into any colleagues. If London knew about the ‘Mycroft Incident’, they would know too. And no one would pass up a chance to ridicule me.
I slipped by two maids, who carried some buckets to empty the fireplaces down the corridor, and barely missed one of my old sparring partners in the vicinity of my office. As I closed the door behind me, I let out a satisfied sigh and leaned my cane against a cupboard next to the entrance. My fireplace had already been cleaned, but no new fire had been lit. Still, the air was warm enough for me to unbutton my coat.
“Mycroft! You’re alright!”
I was momentarily stunned by Hawkins, whom I hadn’t even registered. His voice reached me from the other side of the room, where he sat on a chair in a corner, next to the window, an open newspaper in his hand.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hawkins closed the paper, held it up and pointed at the damning article. I took a closer look.
‘MYCROFT’ SPELLED IN CORPSES ON THE THAMES
“Ah, yes. Well, I should be safe for now.”
“What do you mean,
for now?” Hawkins put down the newspaper and rose from the armchair.
“You didn’t light the fire?”
“The maid will be right back. I’ve only been here for half an hour myself. But you haven’t answered my question.”
By then, I had divested myself of my outerwear and smoothed down my hair with my right hand. Everyone, who knew me well, recognised the gesture as one I used to calm myself and my emotions. It wasn’t any different now. Hawkins walked past me to use the bell, which was connected to a cord next to my door. I almost never used it, so I gathered that there would be quite a surprise down in the servant’s quarters. It was a luxury the agency provided, but I was so used to caring for myself, I tended to simply forget it was there.
While I observed Hawkins’ actions, a small battle raged in my head. LH. Leonard Hawkins. Sure, there were other agents with the same initials in the Service, but the incidents were so closely connected to my person, the chance of it being any other LH were very small. It felt wrong to doubt him, but I wouldn’t have been where I was, if I always listened to my feelings and not the cold, hard facts.
“Are you missing anything?” I asked my colleague. “Any items gone lately? Weapons?”
Hawkins frowned.
“Not that I know of. I check my equipment every morning. Just like in training.”
Training ended twenty years ago, but I understood. I did the same, after all.
“Why?” he asked.
I blinked. “You know, I believe the messages are something for me to decode. They made it look personal today.”
“Wait... messages? Today? Is that why you were gone?”
“Murder south of London Bridge. A single woman killed in her home. The maid found her.”
“And the message?”
“Just my name, written in blood.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. Not even remotely. And I don’t think that was the point, either.”