Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  You will lose everything that matters to you.

  But what was that exactly? My brother, that much was clear. A few close colleagues, maybe. Dr. Watson? His loss would make Sherlock suffer, and in turn... What else? My occupation. But I was on the verge of being kicked out already. The messages had seen to that.

  Yes, as much as the woman had rattled me, she had given me the final clue to put everything into a semblance of a connection. It was a simultaneous attack on all fronts to make my foundations crumble. I had to admit: It was a well-conceived plan. Effective. What could I do, now that I was aware of it? Well, very little, as long as I didn’t know the identity of the woman herself. Would I really have to resort to this? Yes, there was no way around it. I would have to apply myself just like my brother and actually conduct an investigation.

  The very idea...

  While I let my thoughts drift, I had dressed as well as I could and exited the room. The corridor was still cold, and just as I had suspected, there was no one around. If I could slip out before anyone saw me, I could continue my mission alone. I needed to return to the agency unseen. It would be better for everyone if no one knew where I was at all. Association with me was now rather dangerous, and if Challenger caught me... Well, my two days weren’t over until tomorrow, so I still had a bit of time, but that promise was nothing I could count on.

  With a quiet step, I walked to the stairs leading into the entrance hall. I had just reached them when a door opened below, so I slipped into the shadows out of habit. It was a maid, carrying a bucket and a broom. I had to wait only a little while for her to disappear into the parlour, in which Sherlock had operated on me the night before.

  Then I ran down the steps, as quickly and as quietly as I could. I knew from previous visits where the servants stored the coats and hats, so I slipped through the almost hidden door and was faced with a good selection of clothes to wear. My own coat was among them, as Lou had made good on her promise. But in a touch of paranoia, I chose one of Edward’s, which was of a very dark brown, instead of my usual elegant black or dark grey. With a scarf covering most of my face and a hat to hide my hair, it would be hard to pick me out of a group of people. And with the temperatures what they were, no one would look twice at me being so wrapped up in protective clothing.

  There was a twinge of regret somewhere, for leaving without telling anyone, but it was necessary, so I was able to push it out of my mind, if not without some difficulty. Soon I had composed myself once more. I did what had to be done. So when I turned and saw a figure standing in the doorway behind me, I almost jumped out of shock.

  “Sherlock knew you would try to steal away. He told me to look out for it. I wanted to tell him you’re smarter than this, but I couldn’t,” Lou said quietly.

  “The smart thing would be to let me go,” I countered.

  “Why?”

  “Whoever is observing me knows my frequented locations. It’s unlikely they know where I am now, but as soon as I enter my home, the Diogenes, or even Baker Street, there is a high chance one of them will see me. And from there on, they will be on my trail again. If I wait until Sherlock arrives, I lose this edge. He might be followed.”

  Lou shook her head.

  “He would know. He would lose them easily.”

  “Is that a fact you’re willing to bet your life on?”

  “Sherlock was here last night, wasn’t he? And we haven’t been attacked during the night!”

  I pondered this. There was truth in her words. Would I really be safer with him around? Or would I just endanger him? My brother could look out for himself... and if the attack at Simpson’s proved anything, it was that my existence alone was a danger to his life. But...

  “I work alone,” I replied, but I knew it sounded like a weak excuse, and so did Lou.

  “Just because no other agent wants to work with you, doesn’t mean you have to treat us with the same disdain. We’re offering. Please, Mycroft, let us help you.”

  I gnashed my teeth and looked up at Lou. She was still wearing her nightgown, with an emerald green robe flowing around her. Her hair was dishevelled from sleep and there were still creases from a pillow on her cheek. In that moment she looked so open and vulnerable... and it struck me that I hadn‘t seen anyone look at me like that for so long. Sure, there had been Gregorio, but that had been just a temporary dalliance, as enjoyable as it was. Something in my chest twisted and I simultaneously wanted to embrace Lou for showing me such concern, and also run away as fast as I could.

  Whatever had I done to deserve this?

  When Sherlock arrived, I was sitting in the same armchair as the night before, nervously fiddling with the chain of my pocket watch. Lou and Edward had stayed out of my way after offering me an early breakfast, of which I only partook to be polite and to get my stomach to stop complaining. Not that I wasn’t hungry - on the contrary - but I can never concentrate while I’m digesting, and that annoys me even more than the feeling of hunger.

  “I see you decided to work together,” Sherlock simply said as he rushed into the room. “Good.”

  “Thank Lou,” I replied dryly.

  My brother inclined his head. “I’m glad that at least one of us has some sort of influence over you. You have a definite problem with authority.”

  “Because I know better.”

  “Ah, yes, there’s that.”

  Sherlock didn’t take a seat, but remained at a respectful distance from my armchair. I took in his form. He was still clad in his winter coat, boots heavy with snow that melted slowly into the carpet.

  “Are we leaving immediately, then?”

  “Yes. How is your arm?”

  “Better.”

  It was a lie. We both knew it, but my brother nodded in acknowledgement. He didn’t even try to convince me to sit this one out because of my injury. Like the night before, he knew to pick his battles.

  “Before we go...” Sherlock trailed off, as if he weren’t sure if he should finish the sentence, but I fixed him with my best stare and raised an eyebrow, so he shrugged and continued. “Well, before we go, I suppose I should inform you of a new development. I had a visit from Lestrade this morning, at just about seven.”

  My eyes widened a fraction, then I let my head fall back against the backrest of the armchair and sighed a long, deep sigh.

  “Another victim?”

  “Yes, that‘s part of it. Do you want me to tell you on the way?”

  “No, call Lou here. She needs to hear this too.”

  “As you wish.”

  My brother left the room, but didn’t have to go far. The footman had informed her of Sherlock’s arrival, so she met him halfway in the entrance hall. They joined me in sitting room and closed the doors behind them.

  “There has been another corpse, with the same note and the same flower, left for us to find. It fits in the picture like the first, because it’s a young man, who has been killed on the night before his wedding,” Sherlock explained after Lou had taken a seat opposite to me. “His butler found him dead in his bed, after he entered the room because the man wouldn’t answer his waking calls.”

  “Definitely another broken bond...” Lou muttered.

  “Have the details of these incidents made it public yet?” I asked.

  “The murder, yes. The notes with your name and the flower, no.” Sherlock shook his head. “The police have been discreet, for once. Though we can’t count on that for too long.”

  I agreed. There was money in information. And where there was money, there would be someone desperate enough to take it. And if there weren’t, there was nothing to stop the culprits to talk to someone themselves. I didn’t even comment on the victim - I was too tired for that. I just wanted to keep sitting in this armchair and stare into the flames until this was all over. But, alas, there was no time to f
all into old habits, so I pushed myself upright and looked at Sherlock.

  “The victims have been temporarily brought to an external facility for an examination,” my brother said, clearly anticipating my question. “No, the place isn’t connected to the Yard, but further east, in a warehouse appropriated for this function. With the current temperatures, the bodies should keep for a while, even above ground.”

  “Very good,” I commended him.

  Sherlock clearly had a hand in orchestrating this unusual move, which meant he was aware that most obvious locations could be under watchful eyes.

  “You weren’t followed, then?”

  “Oh, I was. I took the liberty of losing the man somewhere in Soho.”

  I didn’t have to look at Lou, who watched me with a clear I told you so expression.

  “You could’ve attempted to apprehend him,” I said. “Information is what we need most right now, and he would’ve been able to give it.”

  “I did. That’s how I lost him. He realised I tried to turn the tables and made himself scarce. I didn’t know if he had more accomplices nearby, so I took the opportunity to slip away while I was unobserved.”

  “If no one knows you’re here, it will be safe to take a cab to the warehouse location,” I mused. “It seems I have to apply myself in the investigation.”

  “You? Looking for clues yourself? Just make sure you don’t accidentally kill the coroner, if you confuse this with your regular work.”

  “Hilarious, brother. Are you quite finished?”

  Sherlock didn’t grace me with a response, so I simply ignored him in turn and made my way to the door. As I slipped into a coat for the second time that day - still Edward’s, he’d understand - I watched Sherlock talk to Lou at a respectful distance. Apparently they didn’t want me to listen in. In a way it felt like I was being handed off from one minder to another. That’s why I had insisted on continuing alone. It just felt wrong. But I am nothing if not professional, if needs must. So when I joined them, I was sure they didn’t see any of my annoyance show. I had enough other feelings to cover it up with, so I settled on thoughtful and just a tad angry.

  “I will have my footman stop a carriage for you,” Lou assured us and made us wait inside the house.

  I watched her go with a slight feeling of unrest. Like I would have to sprint after her in case anything went wrong. As I flexed my hand inside the leather glove, I felt Sherlock touch my arm in a gesture of understanding, then he shook his head. It was only a few moments until Lou returned and we were on our way.

  The cab brought us quickly and unharmed to our destination near Covent Garden. We arrived south of the market and walked along its outskirts, hidden in the crowd. At this hour, the market was bustling with kitchen helpers and other servants, procuring the fresh produce for the day’s luncheon and dinner. We walked past women with babies strapped to their chests and whole armies of small children, who tried to sell what little they could carry. Over everything, there were the cries of the street sellers and the chatter of the haggling populace. The usual smells were curiously absent, even in the vicinity of the butchers. It was as if they were locked in by the cold - only the aroma of hot pies and roasting chestnuts floated above everything else.

  We squeezed through two displays of rival market stands, which both featured very large potatoes, very prominently. Both owners were locked in a dispute over something meaningless, as they tried to free their produce from the enduring snowfall. Still, as we passed, they both nodded a greeting at Sherlock, eyed me with curiosity and then promptly went back to their shouting match. I was led into a small, inner courtyard, in which empty crates had been stacked high, and then through a cracked, blue door into one of the houses at the back.

  The space I ended up in was small, but sufficient. It had evidently been some sort of office of the warehouse I had just crossed, but it had long been lying in disuse. We were welcomed by Inspector Lestrade and my colleague Hawkins, who had been quietly talking to each other prior to our arrival. In the middle of the room was a low table, on which two bodies lay, wrapped in partly stained cloth. Next to them were several items, which obviously belonged to the victims.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” I said to Lestrade after greeting him with a handshake. “This will help us immensely.”

  “Just make sure to give us the bread crumbs. I had too many people breathing down my neck over this already. The public wonders what’s going on, and that’s never good. They’re already making up their own theories.”

  “Of course,” I assured him readily. Better not to antagonise the police officer, who is currently helping you.

  Sherlock lost no time and drew back one of the cloth coverings. “Ah, yes. Violet Taylor. I believe there is nothing more to be gained from her body,” he explained. “But we may have to go back to her after checking her friend.”

  “What’s his name?” Hawkins asked.

  “Thomas Fenton,” the inspector answered. “Poor bloke. Today was to be his wedding day.”

  “I suspect the fiancée found him?” Hawkins asked.

  “No. She was at her mother’s house, so they wouldn’t see each other before the wedding,” Sherlock answered. “The butler found Fenton.”

  I hummed and stepped closer to the man, then drew back the cover. He had been young and handsome, with bright, blonde hair and strong cheekbones. Such a shame.

  “Cause of death are the wounds on his head?” I asked.

  “I suspect so, but that’s what we’re here to confirm,” Sherlock replied, as he already rolled up his shirtsleeves, apparently unfazed by the low temperatures.

  “So you’re playing the coroner today?”

  “That’s why I asked you to try and not kill him.”

  “Speaking of the coroner. These two need to be back at the Yard, before he shows up. You’re lucky it’s Thursday, and he always turns up late on that day, whoever knows why....” Lestrade interjected.

  “Ah, no worries, inspector. The good man had a few drinks last night and won’t be up and about until well in the afternoon.” My brother smiled as he slipped on a pair of gloves. “If he’ll be up at all today.”

  “And that explains Thursdays...” Lestrade mumbled.

  “You couldn’t have known that we’d find another victim?” Hawkins frowned.

  “Of course not. That doesn‘t mean I would miss a chance for an examination of Mrs. Taylor in peace. And even if I hadn’t asked the inspector to help me out with this unusual outing, the coroner would’ve simply missed a day of his work. No harm done.”

  “You can’t just run around and mess with my people, Holmes!” Lestrade bristled.

  “Relax, my good man,” Sherlock said in an even voice, just as he was meticulously pulling back individual strands of hair on Thomas Fenton’s head to examine the impact wounds. “I, for one, didn’t come anywhere near your coroner. I was dining at Simpson’s, as you will have already confirmed after seeing Dr. Watson last night. Also your man has a history of alcohol problems. It wouldn’t be surprising for him to have a rough night and drink one or two more than usual. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Inspector Lestrade harrumphed mightily and crossed his arms. Hawkins shook his head at my brother’s antics, whereas I blocked out the conversation completely to look through the presented documents and items. There was no use in participating in this nonsense.

  In front of me, I had a selection of things that both victims had about their body, neatly separated in two labelled boxes. I pushed aside a few clothes in Fenton’s box, when my gaze fell onto the wooden baton in the other. The murder weapon that had belonged to Hawkins. I grabbed it by my fingertips and turned it about to see the carving of his initials again, while I could see the man in question avert his eyes as I did so. Curious. I looked around, but there was no sign of another...

 
“Lestrade, where is the other weapon? The one that killed Fenton?”

  “It didn’t fit in the box, Mr. Holmes. I have it right here.”

  He reached under the table and brought a long, thin stick up to my eyes. I grabbed it with hesitation, because the very sight of it sparked some uneasiness in me. A few moments later, I let it drop, as if it were made of hot metal. Everyone stared at me, even my brother, who had stopped in his ministrations. I cleared my throat and picked up the cursed item again.

  It was an old friend. It had once even been a dear friend, the first of its kind, with its brother resting on a table behind me right now.

  I grabbed the silver top of the cane and twisted it in just the right angle, but with a considerably larger force than I was used to, because the mechanism was all but rusted shut. With a grinding noise, it finally gave way and I pulled the long blade from the cane, which was just as polished and sharp as when it had fallen into the harbour waters of Edinburgh all those years ago... just after I had used it to pull Hawkins from the waves.

  “It can’t be...” Hawkins mumbled and stepped forward to grab the cane from my hands. “No, that’s impossible. You-”

  “I know,” I cut him off.

  I tore through the other items in front of me, turning everything about as fast as I could, to give me any other clue that might lead me to a new conclusion. There had to be something, anything. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I groaned, ignored the interjections of the others and placed the two papers, on which the deaths and personal information of the victims had been recorded, in front of me. Maybe if I compared the details...