by Janina Woods
“Mycroft, what’s the meaning of this?” My brother demanded to know as he grabbed the blade I had discarded on the floor in my haste. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes...” I mumbled, too engrossed in the details on the papers to care. From the corner of my eye, I saw my brother snatch the cane from Hawkins’ hand, bring both pieces together again, and then compare it with the wounds on the victim’s head.
“It’s a match,” he concluded.
“You don’t suspect your own brother, surely?” Hawkins cried in indignation. “What would he gain from this?”
“As much as you would gain from killing the woman. Yet, it was your weapon that was used to do it, as was my brother’s to perform the second deed. Now-”
“Mr. Holmes, where were you last night?” Lestrade asked gravely.
I looked up from the papers.
“There are several people, who can tell you I spent the night bleeding out over a dear friend’s carpet. Do you want to see the wound?”
Lestrade clearly hadn’t expected that answer, but he wasn’t so easily shaken.
“Several people?”
“Yes. My colleague, Lucy Louisa Turner. Her husband, Lord Edward Turner. Their household staff. My brother.”
“Bleeding out?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you.”
“Bullshit.” Lestrade had drawn himself up to his full height, but not yet moved closer to me. I straightened myself just as he did and raised my chin.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Mr. Holmes. The murder weapon belonged to you, the other to your friend. I’ll be taking both of you in, if you don’t tell me what’s going on right now.”
Lestrade’s tone was still civil, so I kept mine to the same standard.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” I said slowly. “If you believe me to be the culprit, you lack a basic understanding of the underlying motivation of these deeds. I couldn’t be further from the person you’re looking for. And for the record: Even if I did kill both of them, you’d be in no position to arrest me. Believe me.”
“Is that a threat?” Lestrade hissed.
“A fact.”
“Please, both of you...” Hawkins muttered with some distress.
“No. Your organisation has kept this ridiculous attitude up for long enough. Two people have been murdered, and there’s no telling if there’ll be another one. I don’t care if you’re the murderer, Mr. Holmes, but I will be taking you in for questioning. And if you refuse, I’ll talk to Mr. Challenger personally.”
I groaned. Just what I needed. How could this day possibly get any worse?
“Here!”
We all spun around to Sherlock, who had taken the time we spent arguing to examine Fenton’s body further. He triumphantly pointed on the deceased man’s lower leg, where it had previously been covered by a bloodstained nightshirt. There was a nasty gash under the cloth, and over most of it a crust of blood.
“I need hot water, some cloth and a knife,” Sherlock said. “Now. Mycroft, you go.”
I looked back and forth between my brother and the inspector, everything in my body still bristling because of the earlier argument, but then I spun around. There was no use in fighting with the man now. Sherlock was right.
“Fine. But don’t think you can order me around like that again. Hawkins, with me.”
“Of course,” he said quickly and fell into step behind me as we left the room.
“How can you let them go? They’re suspects!” I heard Lestrade say as we had barely exited through the door.
“They’ll be back.”
“I‘m holding you accountable if they’re not.”
We walked silently through the warehouse. Hawkins was obviously hesitant to strike up a conversation while I was still righteously angry. The market outside the door was busy, and we squeezed between the stands with a muttered apology. Hot water, cloth, knife. The knife could be supplied by my colleague, who would definitely carry a hidden one. The other two things... We walked east, away from the market, Hawkins still a silent companion, at least two steps behind. As we turned the corner, he caught up to me at last.
“Where are we going?” he asked, and I pointed with my cane across the street.
“There’s a lodging house here, one of the respectable sort. I believe we should be able to procure some bed linens and hot water there.”
“Right. Good thinking.”
It didn’t take long to convince the woman at the lodging house to part with the required items. I was aware that we paid about five times the usual rate, but I was never above letting money ease my way. With Hawkins carrying the bucket after me and a bundle of linen in my arms, we made our way back quickly through the market. While it wasn’t unusual to see these things being hauled around there, we didn’t exactly fit the image of the people usually carrying them, so we made haste.
Lestrade was sitting on a chair on the far side of the room as we entered it again, while Sherlock was already occupied with cleaning the wound from any bloody residue.
“Ah, Mycroft, finally. I can’t remove these completely without damaging the skin, and I need to see what lies underneath.”
“Obviously,” I replied and ripped a strip from the linen to dip it into the hot water. Sherlock mimicked my actions and soon we had covered the wound in hot, wet cloth to soften the dried blood.
I looked over to the inspector, who was still fuming in the corner, but not about to rip my head clean off, which was definitely an improvement. I didn’t know what Sherlock had told him. To send me away had been a tactical move, and frankly I didn’t much care what they had talked about. As long as Lestrade kept quiet and let me do my job, we’d have no further argument.
We watched as my brother meticulously cleaned the area on Fenton’s leg to uncover a pattern carved into his skin. I had expected it to be either that or a tattoo, but the second option was much less likely. Still, as I inspected the actual damage, I almost wished it had been an inconsequential image.
The number 1886 was spelled across his leg. Just as I opened my mouth, Sherlock lifted the sheet, with which the corpse of Violet Taylor had been covered, and pointed at her torso. The same number had been cut into her stomach.
“The very year we’ve been in Edinburgh,” Hawkins mumbled. “So I was right... the weapon... they took it from me when I was captured.”
I stared at Hawkins, but I didn’t see him as he was now. I saw him as he was then: Bloody, pale, frozen, drowning. Coughing and crying in my arms, clinging to me with his one good hand, as if I was the last connection he had to life, the other arm squashed and broken in so many places. A shivering bundle of misery and despair. I remembered how I had carried him through the warehouse, into the offices. How I had pushed a dead man from his chair to drag it closer to the fire and place Hawkins in front of it. How we had sat for what seemed like hours, before he had stopped shaking.
The memory alone make me choke up and I had to clear my throat. I hadn’t even realised that I had taken a few steps back, and was now leaning on the dirty wall behind me, the cold seeping into my fingers where I touched it.
Everyone had kept their respectful distance, as my sudden reaction must have shocked, or at least unnerved them. It wasn’t so much the memory of the incident that made me feel sick, but what I knew had come after. The trauma, the nightmares. The year that Hawkins had spent in seclusion, before he had been transferred to Dover.
I looked up at the man with the red hair, the funny laugh and cheery disposition, who was looking at me with concern and fear in turn. No, I didn’t want to force him to recall even a second of this ordeal. But I had to, because if my conclusions were correct, this concerned him as much as me...
“I apologise for this,” I said
as I wiped my hand on the outside of my coat. “I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t.”
“Prepared for what?” Lestrade asked from a distance. He was the only one who hadn’t walked closer to assist me, but remained on the opposite side of the table.
“The implications of this discovery,” Sherlock stated.
“I suppose the next victim will be found with a similar... injury,” I said.
“That is likely,” Sherlock confirmed. “So everything points to your mission in Edinburgh.”
“Why go through all the trouble?” Lestrade asked. “Why leave the clues for something that happened in 1886? That’s ages ago!”
“What we know is that someone is hell bent on ruining my brother’s life, inspector, for something that happened that year,” Sherlock said. “Personally, professionally... and maybe even terminally.”
“Not only my life. The agency, their reputation. If the details come to light, we... It would be catastrophic,” I added. “We have to do everything we can to prevent anyone finding out.”
“But, Mycroft, your name is already out there. The bodies on the Thames... People will not back down so easily.”
I knew Hawkins was right, so I turned to the inspector and fixed him with my best, icy stare.
“Nothing of this is to leave this building. Ever. The murders will be declared regrettably unsolvable in a few weeks’ time, when everyone will have forgotten about them. Any further victims fall under the same rule. The message on the Thames was a simple prank. Do you understand?”
“Are you quite mad?” Lestrade bristled. “You can’t just demand something like this!”
“I can and I have.”
Before the inspector could walk up to me, in what was to be a physically intimidating display, both Sherlock and Hawkins slipped between us.
“Lestrade, I’m sure you know who my brother works for.”
“How could I possibly forget? But that doesn’t give him the authority to butt into our investigation. Worse, even demand to falsify our results!”
“I am certain you will find that it does,” I added with narrowed eyes.
“That’s it. I will not pull all of my strings to get you this opportunity, only to find myself being lorded over by someone, who has been suspended from his job for most of the last year and is the centre of a murder investigation, for which he is most likely responsible!”
Inspector Lestrade shouted at me with all his might. He grew so loud, I briefly wondered if he would be audible above the market criers outside. His face was red and his stance openly hostile. We had never been on the best of terms, after all...
“Are you quite finished?” I asked, not having moved an inch, unblinking.
“I am not finished with you, Holmes! I-”
“Nothing you say will make any difference, Inspector,” I cut him off. “It doesn’t matter what you think about me personally, or about the case. The safety of the Secret Service is at risk, and that precedes all other matters. I could even be suspended right now, stripped of my rank, or worse. The fact is: If you endanger the Service willingly - which you would, after knowing the current details - there will be hell to pay. And I wouldn’t even have to play any part in it.”
I was proud of my level delivery, which left Lestrade reeling for a bit. It was the simple truth, of which he shouldn’t have to be reminded. After all, these rules should’ve been drilled into him when he had been drawn into confidence. Sherlock kept quiet, as did Hawkins. They knew the rules as well as I did.
“Come on,” Sherlock finally said and gently put a hand on Lestrade’s arm in a gesture of reconciliation. “I will help you with the transport. It may be better if my brother doesn’t enter the Yard today.”
“If I have my way, he’ll never set foot in our halls again. This is preposterous! After everything I‘ve done...”
“As you wish,” I replied and snatched my old cane from the table, as well as Hawkins’ baton. “If you’ll excuse me, then.”
“See me at Baker Street tonight. Hawkins, please accompany him. I... wouldn’t want Mycroft to wander alone today. It’s too risky. And I am sure you have much to discuss.”
The red-haired men nodded and joined me at the door of the office. I looked back on the corpses one last time before I left. Two people, only killed to deliver a message. No consideration at all. I wanted to be sad, I wanted to accuse my adversary of their foul deeds... but I couldn’t. I couldn’t condemn them, when in my heart I knew, I would’ve done the same if it had been necessary to reach my goal.
A heavy lump had lodged itself in my chest, and as I walked silently through the warehouse and emerged back into the light of the day, it didn’t disappear, but weighed more with every step.
Chapter Twelve
There was a decision to be made on how to proceed. It wasn’t a decision about what to do next - that much had been clear from the moment I knew precisely which mission was connected to the current situation. No, it was about whether to include Hawkins in the ordeal that was to come. I could see him standing next to me, uneasily watching the market visitors, absentmindedly rubbing his right arm, where it had miraculously healed into a functioning limb again.
“Leonard,” I called out to him and gestured in the direction of a coffee house, both because I wanted to get out of the public space, and needed to talk to him in a neutral location.
Though he looked still a bit dazed, Hawkins understood my intention and followed me into the shop, all the way to the back, where we settled into a narrow booth. Soon after, two steaming cups of coffee were sitting between us, but except for ordering them, we hadn’t yet uttered a word. The shop was a small affair, crammed with people, all talking loudly above each other. If we didn’t shout, it would be impossible to overhear our conversation, even from the next table over.
I waved away the offer of food and turned to Leonard to fix him with my best commiserate look. He had been distant since the revelation, somehow far away from current events, his head already in the past. He took a few moments to come back to me, and grabbed his cup to take a large sip before looking me in the eye.
“There’s no way to deny it now,” I opened gently. “It seems I am haunted by the events back then, just as you are. And even though they mean me harm now, I can’t deny the harm they’ve already brought to you. I won’t force you to confront this again.”
Leonard sighed and his face looked older than I had ever seen it.
“Thank you, I appreciate your concern. But I’m content with my current position. Happy, even. I would’ve never attempted to transfer into Dover to do what I do now, if it hadn’t been for that incident. That’s not to say I am glad it happened - the opposite is much closer to the truth - but I have learned to see the good in what we can’t change anymore.”
I nodded, taking his words in for what they were: Hawkins’ way of keeping his own mind stable after the fact. He had never been as strong as I. Had never been able to tune out what wasn’t needed. But as I looked back on what had brought about our current misfortune, I wasn’t all that sure that it was indeed an advantage to be like this. Like I was.
“I’m asking because of two reasons. Firstly, I am worried about you. I didn’t drag you out of that cage for you to live your life in misery.”
“Why, Mycroft, are you feeling responsible for me?” Hawkins showed me a slight grin. “Watch out before this goes to my head.”
I had to smile too, no matter the circumstance.
“Maybe just a little. The way I feel responsible for all citizens in my care,” I answered.
“Of course that’s what it is.”
“Which brings me to the second point... I’ve already examined all that was in the records about the Edinburgh mission. Even if we go back to Challenger’s office, I doubt we will find anything new. He might even detain me prematu
rely. I can’t have that happen right now.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“You have talked to a doctor regarding the affair in 1886. There should be records of your conversations. Even if you can’t recall them now, there should be names in there... details that were fresh in your mind back then.”
Hawkins nodded gravely, the memory of the hours with his doctor very evidently not bringing back any positive feelings. He looked into his cup for a few seconds, then emptied it and leaned back on the flimsy chair.
“Yes. There are. But you won’t be able to access them without either Challenger’s or my own explicit permission.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you now.”
I heard a long sigh and saw Hawkins grab his arm again. I almost wanted to mirror him as the pain in my left arm flared up in sympathy.
“You’re not here to monitor my well-being, are you? You just want me to consent to look into my records because Challenger won’t let you do that so easily. Is that it?” I wasn’t prepared for the way my colleague’s eyes hardened as he spoke. “I’ve known you for a very long time, Mycroft. I admire you more than you know. But I’m not a fool, no matter what you may think of me.”
Now it was my turn to look into the cup, but I refrained, and kept eye contact, my gaze steady. Should I deny it? No, I wouldn’t lie to a colleague.
“Of course I’m talking to you because of the records. You know as much as I do that time is running out, not only for me, but also for the Service. I hope you won’t impede the investigation?”
“Or what? You’ll make sure I won’t? Medical records become available once the person concerning them is deceased, after all,” Hawkins all but hissed and crossed his arms. “Isn’t that why we’re in this mess? Because you always take the shortest route to your goal? Will you do that again? Now?”
“Leonard! Keep your voice down!” I replied.
It was loud in the coffee shop. But not that loud.