Art in the Blood

by Rector

A story about abductions and art forgery, British security and the Holmes family. This story is for InEchoingSilence who is not feeling very well and needed a bit of cheering up. Hopefully it will provide something to while away a little time.

Art in the Blood

"My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms."

Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

###

The Home Secretary had called him personally on a Sunday afternoon. Not that he was doing anything that might be considered uninterruptable, or that required him to be away from his office, but still.

"I need someone to act as interim operational lead," Phillip Jarmond sighed gustily. "Sensitive information is being smuggled out of Britain via perfectly legitimate art sales," he said. "I know, I know this isn't your thing," he rushed on before Mycroft Holmes managed to offer a single protest. "But this is serious and the whole bloody shebang is split right down the middle between Five and Six," he added, grumpily. "Neither of them wants to give an inch and the whole situation is so bloody political right now that frankly, I don't have either the time or the patience to handle the matter," he sighed wearily. "So I'm delegating the whole thing to you and your department."

Sitting in the lounge of the townhouse, Mycroft exhaled slowly and inspected the delicately carved architrave stretching around the ceiling of his office as if the answer to all the great mysteries of life might be lurking up there. This would not be the first time he'd been called in to arbitrate between MI6 and MI5, but his work between them was more usually of an executive function. To be seconded – dumped – into an ongoing issue fought over by both departments was not the most common of situations, nor was it likely to be the smoothest of operations to handle. Jarmond was clearly feeling under the gun and desperate for a way out. Evidently, the ongoing underlying feud between the two security services had recently flared up to engulf anyone in its path, including the Home Secretary. Mycroft smiled faintly; the howls of the playground echoed even within the hallowed halls of the Palace of Westminster. He inhaled slowly.

"I'd require full oversight and executive control," he said, eventually. "I have precious little time to lavish on an operation which detracts from my own department's particular agenda," he added. "And I'll not tolerate any foolish obstruction from either side that extends the time I have to table the real work which the government expects me to realise."

"Your department's brief does actually fall under the auspices of the Home Office just as do those of Five and Six," Jarmond chastised mildly. "And I am, in fact, the Home Secretary."

"Indeed you are, Minister," Mycroft's voice was smoothly accommodating. "And in my current position, I have been privileged to deal with six such worthies as yourself."

The Home Secretary couldn't see the man's smile, but he could tell it was there, swimming lazily at the other end of the phone, sharp teeth and all. Nor did Holmes have to make his observation any clearer; there had been six different men in his own job, yet only one Mycroft Holmes in his. Smart-arsed sod.

"Quite," Jarmond cleared his throat. "I'll have Peterson and DuValle advised that their departments will need to co-ordinate all activities in this operation through your office. My people will have the papers and the, ah, materials, over to your people by secured courier first thing in the morning," the relief in Jarmond's words was palpable. "And I'll leave the rest of the arrangements up to you, shall I?"

"As you wish, Home Secretary, though I'd appreciate seeing the existing intel and analysis this afternoon, if it might be arranged?" the faintest of queries in Mycroft's voice permitted Jarmond to consider it a request fractionally more than a demand.

"Of course," the Home Secretary felt retreat was the better part of valour in this discussion and made a hasty exit while he was still able to do so. "I'll get my people onto it immediately. Good luck." And the phone line went dead.

In his office, he fiddled with a fountain pen lying in the silver tray on his desk then leaned both elbows on the leather desktop, pressed his face into his hands and groaned. He had planned, hoped, for a little peace and quiet this evening. Cate and the twins were in France until the end of the week, catching up with some of her old friends, shopping for cheese, of all things, and allowing the children to practice their already various and fluent dialects. Nora Compton had taken the opportunity to visit her brother in Leeds, the townhouse was momentarily empty of all things other than himself and he had organised an entire evening of rare self-indulgence. The caviar was chilling, the foie gras had already been plated and the dozen oysters opened and currently nestled in their beds of salt, awaiting nothing more than a squeeze of fresh lemon and his undivided attention. The 2004 Pouilly-Fuissé he had picked out from the cellar only that morning had reached le froid parfaite, its delicacy and perfume calling to him all the way from the kitchen. Likewise, the three-part Ken Burns documentary on Thomas Jefferson was already installed in the large plasma television in the main lounge, needing only the command to play ...

Puffing out his cheeks, Mycroft sat back in his chair and contemplated the papers on his desk which he'd spent the last two hours reading and annotating. He had felt, it being a Sunday, he might have had a little time to himself, though it seemed that was no longer to be the case. He wondered how long it would take Jarmond to have the operation details delivered, and just how much information was already extant. Smuggling of sensitive information had been an ongoing drama since before the Cambridge spies of the 1930s and it had been attempted in a great many different and imaginative ways, the latest versions obviously digital in nature. Thus, it was curious that anyone might go to all the time and trouble of reverting to an older method, but no doubt, he would soon understand why.

He had barely stood to swing his jacket around his shoulders when the doorbell rang and Mycroft smiled. The Home Secretary's Intel file had clearly been enroute even while they were discussing Mycroft's potential involvement. His smile grew wider. Jarmond was learning.

Through dint of great cunning, he was able to dine in relative splendour, while adopting the dining table as an impromptu base of operations. Savouring one of the sublimely delectable oysters as he opened the second folder of hard-copy evidence, Mycroft was greeted by a veritable deluge of eight-by-ten full-colour glossies of works by old and modern Masters. Everything from Italian Renaissance and Rembrandt, through Picassos and what looked to be a singular Pollock. Leaving his dinner untouched for the moment, he waded through each one of the many large, colourful prints, twenty at his count, the styles of which were as wide apart as rough cider and the finest champagne. Many were of French scenes, especially the impressionist pieces. Every one of these art works had passed through thoroughly reputable art auction-houses in the last six months; each one certified and sanctioned and stamped with the authenticity of a dozen different experts.

And each one was a forgery.

A very clever and extraordinarily brilliant forgery, but nevertheless, not the genuine article. All the usual suspects had been pretty much discounted already, thus those with the responsibility of investigating this problem were left with two, equally unpalatable alternatives. Either the individuals who were passing off the forgeries had developed some masterly technical and digitised method by which to faultlessly mimic an authentic piece, in which case the rest of the art world may as well pack up their bags and go home. Or there was a new player at the table, one whose hand appeared to be chock-full of aces.

Scanning the expert reports on each of the discovered forgeries and realising that nobody was prepared to hazard a guess at how many had already gone through, Mycroft was struck by the sheer volume of praise for the forger, whoever they might be. Even the language the experts critics used tended more towards aesthetic admiration than censure ... magnificent, overwhelming, superlative, resplendent ... they waxed lyrical even as they frothed at the mouth.

The problem for Jarmond came in two separate forms. Since the art works were being used to smuggle information out of Britain, such activity was clearly under the jurisdiction of MI5. Keith Peterson's people had made all the running in connecting up the dots on this side of the Channel, even though the trail had not yet led them to the whereabouts of the wrongdoers who, apparently had at least one base on the British mainland. Equally, it seemed very much as though the art, though possibly produced in Britain, was not intended for any form of domestic market, ergo the final destination was with clients in any number of countries currently feeling less than cordial towards the bearers of the Union Jack. This then, was the stamping ground of Hugo DuValle and his merry band of MI6 operatives. Neither of these two rather forthright individuals were likely to take a voluntarily second billing in any action involving their people, hence the Home Secretary's somewhat pitiful plea for divine intervention.

Mycroft had run multiple teams and operations for and with both security units on numerous occasions and he felt less than pleased that Jarmond had essentially dumped this on his plate and then cut and run. However, the problem did not seem to be insurmountable; two teams, one internal one external, each tracking out from London the centre until either or both located the relevant points of contact. Peterson's people had all the necessary resources to backtrack to the origin of the art by following the trail of the sold works prior to their passage through the auction houses. DuValle's agents could do the same thing, by following the sale of the paintings after the auctions and tracking the movements of the putative buyers or buyer's agents. Both teams would report back to and be co-ordinated through his department. Any problems would come directly to his desk. Any professional tantrums would be dealt with by him. Mycroft did not feel the milk of human kindness flowing through his veins quite at the moment and decided to share the sentiment by calling for an unusually early-morning meeting in his Whitehall office. He doubted either Peterson or DuValle would cause too many problems; each man would be itching to get his hands on the other department's influence, so all Mycroft had to do was to keep that particular ball delicately in play and he should have all the co-operation he wanted.

Turning back to what was left of his dinner, he found his thoughts returning to the master forger. Who was he? How had he stayed under the radar for so long? Clearly he, whoever he was, had to have reached a certain world-view, if only to be able to interpret the style of the artists he was copying. This was not the work of any novice, nor even of someone so young that they were likely completely lacking in police form in or around Europe. Whoever was doing this would likely have both maturity and a police record somewhere; they were too prolific and too good to be a total newcomer. Mycroft was relatively confident that some sort of resolution should be reached before Cate and the children returned at the end of the week. Picking up his Nokia, he contacted Anthea to make the appropriate arrangements.

Peterson and DuValle were already waiting for him in the larger conference room when he walked in. Based on the angle of Peterson's shoulders and the several lines around DuValle's eyes, they'd been waiting for at least fifteen minutes and neither man was terribly pleased to be here at such an ungodly hour. Mycroft kept his expression perfectly neutral.

"Gentlemen," he nodded to each as he took a seat midway down one of the long sides of the table, permitting both agency heads to take a seat at either end, if that was their preference. Peterson did, DuValle sat directly opposite. Interesting. "We are here this morning to construct a viable operation which successful resolves the current problem in the least possible time. I am strongly in favour of any plan which minimises gratuitous effort and angst," he said, looking from one to the other. "If either of you wish to withdraw from this arrangement, then now would be the time, as I will not be pandering to any form of inter-agency rivalry. My time is as important to me as yours is to you, therefore I suggest we pool our various strengths and see this operation through with style and alacrity," he met their gazes again. "Questions?"

"The Home Secretary advised me that you have executive authority over this operation; how do you see that playing out?" Peterson was clearly the most disgruntled of the two men, probably feeling that, having seniority of tenure over DuValle, he should be leading the show. Mycroft sighed internally.

"I will not be playing anything," he said, quietly. "I possess neither the personality nor the time," he added. "Nor do I find this situation to be remotely playful in nature."

"Each of our teams go off and follow their instructions, bringing all the evidence and analysis back here, to us ... to your department?" DuValle sounded as if he had received a more fulsome briefing.

"Essentially, yes," Mycroft leaned back in his chair, glancing down at the bland folder of information he'd read the previous evening over the last of his oysters and white wine. "Shall we begin with the analysis of what is already confirmed?"

Nodding, DuValle took the lead. "There's been a steady leak of mid-level classified materials, the kind of information most commonly associated with fairly senior military or possibly even someone in a government-related position such as a military policy advisor to the MoD. We've discovered that this material is being smuggled out of the country on auctioned works of art," he said, keying a button on his phone. In seconds, the door to the room opened, allowing several of his people to walk in, each carrying two old-fashioned easels which they arrayed in two facing lines of three. Two more operatives entered, each carrying three paintings of varied appearances which they set up in what was clearly a pre-arranged sequence. "Let's start with these, shall we?" DuValle stood, walking over to the six arrayed paintings, then turning back to Mycroft. "Perhaps if you could tell me what you think you're looking at, I can take the story from there," Hugo DuValle's expression was benign and unforced.

Mycroft left his seat and did as he was bade, staring closely at each of the paintings in turn. "What are you about to tell me?" his words were for DuValle, even though he kept his eyes on the artwork as Peterson walked to stand at his shoulder.

"Two of these paintings are genuine by every test we can perform, two are the known works of apprentices in the school of a very well-known Master, and two are forgeries, each one discovered weeks after they had been sold through Christies," he said. "Would you care to hazard which is which?"

Though not for a moment would Mycroft have considered himself a solid authority on fine art, he enjoyed it and had formed some opinions regarding his most favourite pieces and artists over the years. He knew they style of the great artists he enjoyed and could pretty much place a single work at the time of its production contemporary to the life of the artist who had created it.

The nearest painting was a Van Gogh; the stylised sky and the vibrant formation of the trees and fields and unnatural nature meant it would stand out amidst any collection of art. It was a fine work, though he could not recall seeing it before. Nor did he recall the artist possessing a studio of apprentices. Therefore, no matter how perfectly in keeping with Van Gogh's style, intellectually, he decided it was most likely one of the fakes.

Moving on, the next piece was undoubtedly a Picasso. Reminiscent of his Guernica, the stylised abstraction of his politicised figures made it abundantly clear that this was indeed from the hand and the brush of the master. The genuine article, in that case. The final painting on this side of the display was, without question, a modern expressionist piece by George Seurat; the style, the colours, even the modernist curves and the tiny brush-points across the canvass made it impossible to be the work of anybody else. But nor had this man, to his knowledge, possessed apprentices. Frowning, Mycroft turned back to stare at the Van Gogh and the Picasso, but no; as far as he could tell, at least one of those were utterly genuine.

Still frowning, he moved across to the three works arrayed on the opposite side. The first of these was form the Belgian surrealist, René Magritte, well known for his thought-provoking and often amusing images mocking the society who adored him and in which he worked. This particular piece was of a besuited man with two umbrellas, one black and the other white. It was precisely the kind of work Magritte had produced all the way through the twenties and thirties. It appeared to be completely genuine.

The next canvas was larger, a Klimt of wondrous colour and perfection of expression. He was not as knowledgeable about this artist as the others, but Mycroft felt it would be incredibly difficult for anyone else to successfully mimic such stupendous imagery; perhaps this was one of the apprentice pieces?

The final painting was another expressionist piece, just as clearly by Monet and showing his full love of the Parisian waterways and all that dwelt within. The brush strokes the confidence of colour and the immaculate nature of light made it impossible for the painting to be by anyone else. Monet was, in fact one of his most appreciated artists and Mycroft felt that, of all the works on display, he would know a fake Monet if nothing else. This one was undoubtedly genuine. Pursing his lips, Mycroft made an approximate assessment of the value of these works ... multiples of millions, without question.

However, if DuValle was correct ... that meant ... he turned to stare at the operational head of MI6. "I am uncertain which of these are frauds," he said eventually, flattening his mouth. "I am able to make an intellectual guess, but nothing more. The quality of each of these pieces is compelling."

Rubbing his nose, DuValle had the grace to look a little sheepish. "Actually, I've misled you somewhat," he admitted.

"There's only one forgery?" It would explain things. It had to be the Van Gogh. Mycroft smiled faintly.

"No, they're all forgeries," DuValle shrugged. "Brilliant, I agree, but each one an amazing fake."

Mycroft returned to look at the Monet. Counterfeit? Incredible.

"But there's something even more interesting than that," Peterson stood with his arms folded, a peculiar expression on his face.

"Which is?" Mycroft remained staring at the paintings, his eyes resting on the Picasso.

"We believe that all the forgeries we've been able to identify are all, incredibly, by the same artist, though we don't know who or where he is," Peterson sighed heavily and looked sour. "The best we've been able to surmise thus far is that he, whoever he is, is being guarded like the proverbial golden goose by some organised crime syndicate operating out of one of the major British or French ports and as soon as his minders get the smallest whiff of something a bit off, then they do a moonlight flit and he's off somewhere else to lay a few more golden eggs."

"You believe the artist to be on British soil? Possibly a British National?" Mycroft sounded thoughtful.

"That is one possibility," DuValle shrugged a little, clearly unhappy with something. "But there also appears to have been a fair bit of movement, as if the artist is being shifted around from one base to the next. There's so much cross-Channel traffic these days that there's nothing to say the forger and his protectors might even be commuting on a daily basis: skipping backwards and forwards depending on whatever work needs to be done that day. They might just as easily be on the British mainland as anywhere else in Europe, but they're all moving under the radar: no dodgy passports, no money trails, no electronic IDs," he shook his head, frowning. "And as soon as the auctions are over, the forged works disappear out of the country in the hands of seemingly bone fide purchasing agents, only to vanish from the scene within hours, as do the agents themselves. We're already tracking cross-Channel commuters, but there's thousands; it'll take a while to begin narrowing the crowd down somewhat."

"Are we yet able to identify the forgeries as they come into the auctions but before the actual event?" Mycroft turned to Peterson. "Surely these specialist sales have to be arranged months in advance?"

"As they usually are," Peterson nodded. "However, each of the forged works so far sold had all been minor pieces, and can therefore be put into a general sale; nothing like as important as these," he said, waving at the six canvasses. "There are quite a number of London-based general art sales, either through an auction house such as Christies or Sotheby's, or a private sale through a private art agent," his frown was the mirror-image of DuValle's. "The valuation trends on these relatively lesser pieces have not been sufficient to wave any warning flags before now. None of the sales thus far have been above two-hundred thousand Stirling."

Yet still, a not-insignificant amount. And if only minor pieces could be sold at auction, then why create these major ones? Mycroft allowed his gaze to drift once more across the six canvasses. "How many of these forged works do you estimate to have passed detection?" he was already scanning his memory for any distant bells that might be ringing, but there was nothing there yet.

"At least a dozen that we're now fairly suspicious about," Peterson folded his arms, his frown morphing into a fully-fledged scowl. "But we only cottoned onto those through questions asked by some art experts at the auctions themselves, who insisted on undertaking a number of additional tests to prove authenticity, though the works were withdrawn from sale and the agents representing the vendor have since disappeared along with the paintings themselves, which is a fairly damning sign, I'd suggest," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Both Sotheby's and Christies are terrified about this getting out in case every buyer in the last ten years comes back demanding the full barrage of authentication tests which will cost a mint."

"At least some of these arty types seem to know their stuff," DuValle exhaled slowly. "Were it not for a few of them insisting on a deep authentication, we might never have known anything about this until someone printed a smug exposé on their Facebook page, or the like."

"Deep authentication?" Mycroft was curious.

"X-ray diffraction analyses the components in the paint," Hugo DuValle drew a fingertip gently down a line of white on the Klimt. "If the paint's modern, the analysis gives different results," he said. "Then there's X-ray fluorescence and Ultraviolet fluorescence, each technique used to detect the purity of pigment and the isotopes in the paint, or maybe, if we're incredibly lucky, any fingerprints that may be on the work itself."

"And ordinary X-rays?" Mycroft knew such a procedure was still used ... or was it? "Do we still X-ray paintings?"

"Yes, of course," Peterson joined him, staring at the six works still arrayed before them. "But that only works so far. Conventional X-ray can detect earlier work that might be extant beneath the surface of a painting. The problem here, is that sometimes artists will quite legitimately re-use their own canvasses," he paused, thinking. "And if our man is as clever as we think he might be, then who's to say he didn't deliberately paint the first picture over the message he wanted to conceal, and then paint a second one over the top of that?"

"So the confidential material is somehow attached or painted onto a canvas, after which our master forger creates his new work of art which is then, through some as yet unknown route, shepherded through a perfectly legitimate art sale, at which point the buyers pay their money, take their goods and vanish into the night," Mycroft looked between the two men. "Or have I missed anything critical?"

"That's about the sum of it," DuValle leaned back against the edge of the conference table. "I have people tracking down both the vanishing agents and the money-trail, although none of the payments were managed electronically, which is hard to believe in this day and age," he paused, handing Mycroft a sheaf of small Ultraviolet fluorescence prints. "The experts have only just begun using this process, and to say we were rather surprised at the results is a bit of an understatement."

Each one of the small UV prints DuValle handed over showed the oblong shape of an artist's canvas, with various forms of luminescence scattered across the surface as the differing paint was used. Each pattern was different as each canvas hosted a different piece of art. There was, however, one significant similarity. Mycroft's eyes flicked to the lower left-hand corner on each painting. A small, square imprint, no larger than a matchbox shone a brilliant yellow through all the paint as clear as day, each one containing, to the naked eye, a minute series of numbers. He doubted it was the forger's signature. And if not that, then it could only be ...

"Painted or stamped onto the canvas?" he wanted to know, not the contents of the material itself, but the method by which it had been attached beneath the covering paint.

"Painted in some kind of organic, glue-like substance that the forensic people advise me appears to contain traces of egg," he said. "And because it's an organic based paint, there's no isotope to track, which is a total sod."

Ah, of course. "Egg tempura," Mycroft nodded. "A permanent and very long-lasting type of paint. The early Egyptians were thought to have invented it for the decorations on their sarcophagi," Mycroft pursed his mouth. "But that wouldn't account for the vivid yellow fluorescence, surely?"

DuValle nodded. "That has nothing to do with the colour of the egg," he said. "It's the high volume of vitamin B2 contained in the paint that the Ultraviolet light picks out."

Mycroft pondered this new snippet of data. The information being smuggled out of Britain undercover of forged art works, were in turn being painted or printed onto the canvas, the paint used to do this being an extremely tough form of tempura, made by eggs which, in their turn had been made more effective as a fluorescing paint through the addition of B2. "Can B2 be added directly to the tempura itself?"

"It can," DuValle was reflective. "But forensic analysis can identify artificial additives and track the back to the manufacturer and often, the distributer," he shrugged. "There's a far easier way, of course," there was the faintest of grins on his face. "Feed it to the chickens themselves," he said. "No chance of tracing it then."

The artist had fed vitamin B2 spiked food to chickens in order to create a more fluorescent paint with which to transfer the information? "What kind of feed would have been used?" Mycroft wondered if it might be possible to search for any large purchases of a specialist food product.

"Probably cheese," Peterson clearly felt it was time to join the conversation. "Best known concentrated source of B2 apart from the synthetically-produced stuff. Lots of green vegetables have it too, but to really get it in serious quantities, then hard cheese; goat's, for preference."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft inhaled softly. To ensure the best level of fluorescence, the artist doctored the eggs from which he made the tempura by feeding goat's cheese to chickens? No chance of tracking anything, in that case. A brief mental image came to him of setting up a search for people buying large quantities of cheese in France. Or Britain, come to that. He nearly smiled.

"And we have no firm leads, no names, no similar records in the past to go on?"

"We know that only the main auction-houses have been targeted so far, most likely because they'd be the only ones with enough clout to host the sale for this standard of art; none of the smaller ones would get the attention needed," DuValle made a face. "Now that we know what we're looking for, we can institute a much swifter checking system by using hand-held Ultraviolet light transmitters. We find any painting with a bright yellow stamp and we're in business."

"Unless, of course, the instigators realise we're onto them and decide to change their modus operandi," Mycroft puffed out his cheeks in a long exhale. "When you discover anything untoward, do nothing to alert either the couriers or the auctioneers," he returned his stare to the Monet. "We need leads to the principals of this operation far more than we need the middlemen right now," he said. "We can sort the details out later, but first we have to put a tourniquet on the leak, ensure no further forgeries make it across the Channel while we round up both the forger and his motley crew of ne'er-do-wells," He turned his eyes back once more to the impressionist piece. "Is this needed urgently? I'd like to keep it for a while, if I may."

Once more in his office, Mycroft had the MI5 people set the painting up on its easel in the corner, almost directly beneath one of the small downlights that illuminated his obscure base of operations. Even after DuValle and Peterson had long gone, his gaze roamed over the sublime light and suggestions of light that was the Impressionist's stock-in-trade. The quality of the piece rendered him uncomfortable, especially knowing it was a forged work. Why would the painter feel the need to forge anything? With skill such as this, the man could make a legitimate fortune in his own right; his talent far and aware exceeding those of his contemporaries. Sighing, he returned to the more detailed analysis of what had been thus far established.

From the paintings thus far confiscated, there was now a significant body of evidence detailing the cryptographic language incorporated within the bright yellow stamps. Tempting though it was to focus his attention entirely on that fascinating little detail, Mycroft was well aware that the British Government employed quite a team of decent cryptographers; he should know, he'd set up the training regimen for them. Leave the code-breaking to the specialists, in that case. From the little data that had been recovered, the classified material was clearly emanating from the MoD; NATO exercises, details of British and US base configurations, fairly damning stuff. Clearly, there had to be someone on the inside, on one of the endless oversight committees, perhaps, who was in need of serious money. The information so far discovered was of a pragmatic and administrative, rather than an idealistic content. The traitor, whoever they were, was not an ideological malcontent but an opportunist looking to make a financial killing. Yet neither Peterson nor DuValle had made any mention of looking at anyone other than senior military and government personnel.

Lifting his phone, he speed-dialled Peterson's direct number. "Start looking for someone on an MoD committee with excessive financial overheads," he said. "Anyone who might be in need of a major injection of funds ... or anyone who seems to have acquired an unexpected inheritance, perhaps. Most likely, it will be someone in a senior administrative position; a senior private secretary, a confidential translator, something of that ilk," he added. Ending the call, he immediately selected a second key, his call reaching DuValle almost instantly.

"Don't just check the cross-Channel commuters," he said. "Have your people watch for any moderate-sized sea-going vessel that's completed a number of crossings recently; something sufficiently large to carry a small group of people, that also might be equipped as a mobile art studio, a decent-sized fishing vessel perhaps, or a private yacht."

There was a fractional pause as DuValle absorbed the implications of the idea. "You think the forger's got a mobile floating studio?" the question in his voice betrayed his interest.

"I think we need to consider all possibilities," Mycroft ended the call, returning his gaze to the wonderful colour and movement of the forged Monet. He didn't actually care that it was a fake; it was a wonderful piece of work. If he'd seen it up for sale at a price a reasonable artist might command, he'd have bought it no matter whose hand had held the brush. He wondered if the artist had ever painted and possibly exhibited in their own right ... the quality of their work was certainly good enough ... He stopped.

The quality of the work was certainly good enough.

What if the artist, whoever he might be, had exhibited before turning to a life of illegality? What if there might be art experts who could recognise the artist's style beyond that of the copyist's skill? Mycroft's phone was in his hand once again.

"So soon?" Peterson sounded a little harassed. "We've only just begun chasing down potential leads, Mycroft ..."

"Select a group of representative works and make full-size colour prints of them. Have your people co-ordinate with the Met if necessary in order to show the prints to every gallery-owner in London," he said. "Someone, somewhere, will have some knowledge of our man. If we can get even a single name from someone who might know of a painter of this calibre who makes such high-quality copies or pastiche," he said. "We have no idea how long this person has been around in the art world; but the odds are reasonable that there may very well be someone in a London gallery who knows him or knows of him."

"I'll get my team onto it immediately," Peterson sounded a little weary. "I'm just running out of people to keep all these searches active and in the air," he said. "There's only so many I can peel away from other operations, just as important as this one."

"I'm fairly certain I could organise a few additional bodies for you from the police," Mycroft almost sympathised with Peterson's quandary. "Though the Met's Art and Antiques division isn't exactly overstaffed either," he paused. "There may be other assistance I could call upon," he added slowly. "External assistance."

The way the idea was reluctantly spoken told Peterson all he needed to know. "You're talking about that brother of yours, aren't you?" he said. "The one who handled the recovery of the of Turner's Reichenbach Falls painting?"

Mycroft could not deny it.

"I think my people can manage as they are right now without having another Holmes in the middle of things," Peterson announced. "But if things change, I'll let you know. I'll be in touch as soon as I have something to report."

The phone line went dead and Mycroft sighed. Bringing Sherlock into this had not been his initial intention, but if time and expediency were of vital import then he knew his brother was able to work swiftly using both logic as well as intuitive observation. Nor was Sherlock, as a civilian, quite so entirely constrained by officialdom and red tape. But Peterson was the nominal head of MI5, and Mycroft had no plans to disrupt the man's position. Not yet. He turned his eyes back to the fake Monet, tapping his thumb against his bottom lip. He'd leave Sherlock out of this for now. There were others that might be called upon first.

"But what do you mean you're being seconded?" Greg Lestrade ploughed angrily into his office, grabbing up the phone to ring his Super just as fast as he could get his fingers to do the walking. Sally Donovan trailed in behind him, closing the office door against what she suspected might be a slightly heated discussion.

"Sir," Lestrade didn't bother to sit, preferring to give it to the old man right between the eyes in conversations of this type. "We're already pared down to the bare bones in Serious Crime," he said. "If my best officers are seconded away for some fly-by-night MI5 ..." he stared at the crushed note clenched in his fingers, "... Art-hunt," he paused in disgust, throwing the note down into the paperwork in front of him, "then I'm not going to be able to follow through with the ongoing investigation already on the books," he added irritably. "Let MI5 call in the army to help them if they need spare bodies."

The sound of a fulsome argument muffled its way beyond the phone's receiver into the room; not enough for Sally to hear the actual words, but quite sufficient for her to get the gist and tone. It looked like she was going to stay seconded, at least for the moment.

Laying the phone back into its rest, Greg threw himself into his battered old swivel chair, the bolts squeaking and the entire assembly shuddering in protest; it was not the first piece of furniture in the Detective Chief Inspector's office to have gone to an heroic end. Fortunately, for the moment at least, it held. "Sodding effing hell and bugger," he ground out through clenched teeth, slamming his palm down onto the desktop before raking his fingers fiercely through his silvering hair. "It's not enough that half the squad's off with the flu, but now the few that are left, including you," Greg pointed an accusing finger at Sally's head, "are going to be taking a little holiday to do some door-knocking in the West-end," he clamped both hands over his face and groaned, throwing himself even further back in his chair which creaked ominously.

"Hey, don't get your knickers in a twist because of me," Donovan held her hands out palms vertical. "It's not my choice to prat about running an upmarket ID check," she added. "I just do what I'm told to do," she concluded. "Just like everyone else."

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade's words and ensuing groan were muffled as he kept his hands over his face. Sighing heavily, he lunged forward, dropping both elbows on little patches of visible desktop, resting his chin once again in both hands. "I suppose I can manage without sleep for a few days," he said, glumly. "It's not like I've never pulled a few consecutive all-nighters before."

"Don't be so bloody daft," Sally rested both hands on her hips. "A wise man once told me you can only do as much as you can do and there's nothing else you need to worry about," she said, a half-smile on her face.

"Oh yeah?" Greg slumped backward, heaving a sigh. "And what smart arse said that?" he asked. "And don't say it was me, 'cos I don't go around saying that kind of stupid stuff anymore."

"John Watson himself," Sally grinned. "He was describing how he felt some times being dragged around by Sherlock Holmes ... look ..." she paused, checking the time on her wristwatch. "I have to go; they've called for an all-hands briefing at two," she added. "If I don't leave now, I'll never make it in time and you know I really don't want something like that on my record ... especially now."

Especially now. Sally was gearing up for her Inspector's application and she had enough problems to battle through without having additional black marks for poor inter-service co-operation. Puffing out his cheeks with a gusty exhale, Greg nodded slowly. She was right.

"You're right," he said. "Off you go then; just come back as soon as you've frightened some sense into those MI5 boys, and oy," he said, lifting a finger in warning." No getting any funny ideas about changing jobs on me," he said. "I'm not quite done making you miserable here, just yet," he grinned, his whole face suddenly different. "Besides," he added. "You've given me a pretty decent idea."

Donovan's eyes widened a little, as she considered whether one of Greg's 'good ideas' was enough to make a brief leave of absence a realistic option at this point, before deciding to go while she still could. Only seconds after the office door had closed behind his visibly doubtful sergeant, Greg pressed the speed-dial on his Nokia. Moments later, he heard the calming sound of John Watson's voice murmuring a greeting at the other end of the connection.

"Hello, John," Lestrade wondered if there was a subtle way to phrase what he wanted to say and then realised that it didn't really matter a damn. Nothing he could think of would be clever enough. "Is Sherlock busy right now? Half the Yard's down with the flu and I've got three murders to work on virtually unaided. Think he might be interested in giving me a bit of a hand?"

"Not sure, Greg," he heard John's smile in his voice and the faintest hint of relief in his words. "I'll ask."

Drumming his fingertips rapidly on the piled paper, Greg wondered which case he should mention first; the Chocolatier who was found drowned in a bowl of his own confectionary, or the circus-clown-bigamist discovered stabbed to death in his waggon by the latest of his five wives? The last case ... well, that hadn't even hit the papers yet; and he wasn't even sure it was the kind of thing Sherlock would want to handle. Not quite his thing.

"Which three?" Sherlock's voice suddenly at his ear made him jump. "If it's the dead clown, then look at the right hand of his first wife. If she's arthritic, then she's your man. If it's the pretentious chocolate-maker, then I suggest you have a chat with his ex-partner who has only recently started up his own chocolate business in Clapham; his accountant might have something interesting to tell you, and ..." there was a pause. "What's the third one?"

"That's great, Sherlock, thanks for the tips," Greg was already speed-writing notes. "I'll co-opt some uniforms and get them to bring the wife in. We've already questioned the man's ex-partner, but I think we might go and have a little look at his books now that you've mentioned it. Don't worry about the other one. That's all great work, brilliant, in fact. Thanks," and he ended the call. Greg checked his watch; it was now quarter past the hour. If Sherlock wasn't here within twenty minutes, then he'd have to ring back. He hoped his fiendish and most devious plan worked; one teased a Holmes only at great risk of self-imperilment.

The clock on the wall above his door stated that only fourteen minutes had actually passed before his office was invaded by a tall man in a long, dark coat.

"You're hiding another murder from me," Sherlock swept himself into one of Lestrade's two guest chairs. "The only time you ever try and hide cases from me is when you imagine I might embarrass you personally or everyone else on the Metropolitan Police force in some indeterminant manner, so where is it?" Sherlock paused for breath just as John joined them both, closing the door behind him. He sounded a fraction puffed.

"Thanks for sticking me with the taxi fare, you ingrate," the shorter blond man muttered, dropping into the second chair. "And thank you," he turned a belligerent eye on the DCI, "for lighting a bloody rocket under this one," he said, tipping his head towards the younger Holmes. "You know what he's like when he thinks there's a mystery behind anything."

"I'm still waiting, Inspector," Sherlock sat with his hands clasped in his lap. He leaned forward meaningfully, a perverse little curve to his lips. "Quite happy to stay here all day, if necessary."

"Well, that's very nice of you, Sherlock," Greg smiled amiably. "Though there's really no need, you know," he allowed the smile to grow a little wider. "Nothing for you here now, thanks to your amazing, over-the-phone consultancy."

About to insert a little more denial into the conversation in order to have the younger man desperate to find out everything he could about the worked piled up on his desk, Greg's internal phone rang. The second he'd brought the handset to his ear, Sherlock was up, long fingers rifling swiftly through the piles of heaped paper and files languishing in an apparently random jumble. Even as Lestrade attempted a valiant, one-handed rear guard action to stop the dark-haired detective from taking whatever he wanted, he resigned himself to abject failure just as Sherlock happened upon the crushed note advising Departmental Heads of staff secondment by MI5.

"Aha," he said stretching out the crushed note between his hands. "And what do we have here?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," Greg growled something inaudible into the phone before dropping it back onto its stand. "Now just give it over," he demanded, holding out a hand, palm up. "It's none of your business and it'll undoubtedly get me into trouble."

"Nonsense, Grover," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he scanned the brief missive. "And just what are you up to, toying with the affections of the Security Service?" he arched an eyebrow. "Nothing good will ever come of it, you know."

"It's nothing, nothing at all. Now give me the damn note and then you can leave," Greg beckoned with his outstretched fingers.

"Notification of staff secondment to MI5 to assist with Operation Van Gogh?" Sherlock read, curiously, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he did. "Dear god; where do they come up with these pedestrian names for something that's so pitifully obvious ..." Sherlock turned his eyes to Greg's face. Greg's intensely irritated and therefore vexed face. "This is something important, isn't it?" he said. "Something so important, in fact, that you really didn't want me to know about it?"

"Leave it, Sherlock," John wore a look of resignation. "I told you there was no point coming down here. Let's just leave everything as it is and get out of Greg's hair, shall we?"

"Not until he tells me all about Operation Van Gogh," Sherlock's pale blue eyes glittered as they held Lestrade's. "Something rather interesting is going on and I want to know why he doesn't want to tell me," the dark-haired man leaned forward again until he was half across the desk. "What is it you don't want me to know, Inspector?" his voice was soft and beguiling.

"You're not going to give this up and just leave anytime in the next day or so, are you?" Greg looked longsuffering.

Sherlock's anticipatory smile was his answer.

"Oh god," Lestrade rubbed his face with both hands. "If you tell anyone I told you this, then we'll all be for the high jump, so zip it, right?"

"Consider everything zipped," Sherlock sat back, waiting.

"There's a forger on the loose," Greg began. "Apparently, a really good one, so good, in fact, that they only way the paintings can be identified is through a special ultraviolet light test where the scanners have been tuned to picking things up as a very specific frequency of fluorescence."

"But so what?" John frowned. "Forgery is a not exactly on the Serious Crimes Division list, though, is it?" he asked. "I mean, I know it would royally piss off anyone who lost money on buying a costly piece of art, but that's what insurance is for, isn't it?"

"But there's something else, isn't there, Greville?" Sherlock's eyes hadn't left Greg's face. "Something a great deal more important than someone passing off dud artworks at Christies ..."

"Yeah, there is," Lestrade chewed his lower lip. "The forger is using the paintings to cover up classified information that's being smuggled out of the country," he looked very thoughtful. "Not quite my scene, but from what I've heard, it's a pretty big deal. It's why MI5 have taken half the crews around here for the operation," he looked sour and shook his head. "Which is why I wanted your input on the three murders."

"But you never said anything about the third one," it was John's turn to look perplexed.

Reaching down into the big drawer to the right of his old desk, Greg brought out a file so new it didn't even have a name written on it yet. "Looks like we might have a serial killer working in Chelsea," he looked even grimmer. "Stabs his victims to death with a palette knife."

"Chelsea's the centre of the art-set," Sherlock sat slowly back down in his chair. "Seems odd, don't you think, that you suddenly have so many connections to the art world on your desk. Something other than coincidence, perhaps?"

"Yeah, like you believe in coincidences in the first place," Lestrade made a face and rested back in his chair which yielded elastically. "Dunno," he rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of one hand. "There might be a connection, but I don't have the first place to begin other than with the most recent body, which is where I'm off to next. Fancy a jaunt in a police car?"

"Glancing down at the first page of the open file and noting the crime scene address," Sherlock stood, dropping the folder back onto Greg's desk. "Mmm … we'll meet you there; I have something to do first," he turned and left the office without another word.

"Catch you there, then," John nodded quickly and was out, after his friend and colleague. "Where are we going if not to see Lestrade's recent dead body?" John was already had his phone out and was scrolling through any recent news releases on suspicious deaths in Chelsea. He stopped abruptly as Sherlock did a U-turn almost under his feet. The younger Holmes looked almost indecently pleased.

"A fine-art forger who's smuggling secret information out of the country, John? Someone who's got MI5 baffled and calling on extra bodies from the Met? Who else do you imagine is going to be all over this like a vulture on a ripe carcass?"

"Oh … I see what you mean," John nodded. "Of course. Is that where we're going?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "At this time on a Monday, he's usually contemplating the Chateaubriand au Cognac at the Diogenes; if we hurry, we may be able to locate him before he lapses into postprandial somnolence."

Yet there was no French beef anywhere within sniffing distance of Holmes the Elder as his brother and the good doctor were shown into his subterranean office in the large and prestigious building that housed the club that Mycroft built. Not even a sandwich or an empty teacup on the desk. Just two neat piles of full-colour art-prints.

"Three hours," Mycroft checked his Hunter and looked vaguely impressed. "That's something of a record even for you, Brother dear," he smiled carefully. "What gave the game away? Another leak from MI5 or do you have an array of spy-cams scattered hither and yon among your security aficionados? Perhaps one of your homeless network dropped you a line about a charming little Matisse, hmm?" the careful smile was now mildly acidic.

Ignoring his sibling's attempt to be irritating, Sherlock took one of Mycroft's guest chairs. "Despite attempting to keep me out of this, you should know by now you cannot exclude me from anything so interesting, Mycroft," Sherlock linked his fingers and smiled back, his expression momentarily pleased. "Spill the beans."

As John sat in the second chair, Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. "I suppose that reiterating the Official Secrets Act will do little to curb your enthusiasm in this instance?" he sighed quietly. "MI5 don't want either of you involved in this," his tone shifting softly into far more dangerous territory. "The current head of our Security Service advised me most authoritatively that your services were not required on this particular voyage," he hooded his eyes a little, thinking. "How much do you think you know?"

"Only that this situation has been extant for some time, though only now coming to light, and with some urgency, I might add," Sherlock shrugged. "Clearly the smugglers have been getting some of the good stuff over the Channel and your Spooks are more than a little rattled."

"They're not my Spooks, Sherlock," Mycroft rested both hands on the desk in front of him on top of the coloured prints. "Is that all?"

His brother wrinkled his nose. "Pretty much," he said. "Apart from knowing the forger must be moving around somehow, possibly even by boat, though that means there's quite a large support-network in play," he sounded reflective. "This might also be the case of a reasonably well-known artist gone bad, in every sense of the word, whether the temptation to do so was monetary or through some other form of motivation, I'm not yet sure," Sherlock nodded to the too piles of prints on his brother's desk. "He or she must be good if even your eye is fooled," he said.

Narrowing his eyes, Mycroft pursed his lips. "You say the motivation might be other than money? You're suggesting duress of some kind?"

John frowned. "Blackmail? That is what you two are talking about, isn't it? That the painter, whoever they are, might be being blackmailed into doing this?"

"Indeed, Doctor Watson," Mycroft leaned forward on his desk, nodding. "There are, in reality, only three reasons why the forger might suddenly have taking it upon himself …"

"Or herself," Sherlock interrupted, brightly.

"Or herself," Mycroft looked exasperated, "to have undertaken this act at this time. Either their ideological state has recently been overwhelmed and they are now, as our American colleagues say, 'rooting for the other side'; they have been tempted by what one can only imagine is a very substantial sum of money, or …"

"Or they're being blackmailed in some way," Sherlock finished. "Excellent, John. You're improving."

Mycroft tapped one of the piles of prints beneath his fingers. "The quality of the work is quite incredible," he said. "This is a mature hand at work, not that of a novice. I find it impossible to believe the art world does not already this person's name."

"So we are probably looking for someone who is probably reasonably well-known and who has been active in the art world for some time," Sherlock made a rude noise. "Well that narrows things down, to what, several million people? Hurrah."

"MI5 are tackling this search from both ends, hence the need for additional resources," Mycroft folded his arms and looked sour. "Not only from the art perspective, but also from the angle of the contraband information. As soon as a link can be established between the two, we shall have our man."

"Or woman," John smiled aggravatingly as the elder Holmes scowled again.

"Then I suggest we take the middle ground and work outwards," Sherlock turned to his friend. "How do you feel about boats?"

It was only after his brother and John had long gone that Mycroft wondered exactly where one might begin searching for an artist on a boat. In a harbour, one assumed ... but which one, and on which side of the Channel?

###

The Killer's third and most recent victim lay stretched out on his back on the floor of what seemed to be the main room in the man's house. There was a look of terror in his eyes, the grimace of fear across his face and the business end of a palette knife stabbed through his throat with such force that it staked the dead man to the wooden boards beneath him. There was blood everywhere. Sherlock lifted a small tube of oil paint from the nearby table. Crimson Lake. It aptly described both the colour and volume of gore surrounding the corpse.

Immediately business-like, the younger Holmes stepped carefully around the body as Greg looked on; Sherlock crouched down, examining the dead man's fingertips with his magnifying lens. There were flecks of white-grey paint embedded in the whorls of the fingerprints. "What was he painting?"

"This, looks like," Lestrade held up a wooden board with a large sheet of thick paper stretched onto it. There was a very detailed watercolour painting underway ... of a fish. A long whitish creature, vaguely eel-like, with a large head and jaw. Not the most attractive of ectotherms.

Sherlock immediately looked around, shelves, easel, table, leaning over to snatch up a handful of printed photographs which starred the real-life model upon which the painting had been based.

"Eddy Kilore, illustrator and natural-life painter," Greg read from a notebook. "The man painted fish for a living."

"Does he own a boat?" Sherlock frowned in thought as he flipped through the photos.

"No boat registered in his name, nor any mention of such a thing in his financials, why?"

"The fish he was in the middle of painting is a Ling," Sherlock lifted up the hand holding the photographs. "Like Cod, they're a predominantly off-shore species, and the fish in those pictures was not caught on the coast but in deep water," he said. "Kilore was in a boat when that particular specimen was hooked, and if it wasn't his boat, then we need to find out whose it was," Sherlock paused. "You say this is the third death in this manner?"

"Yes, all three deceased were men and all three were painters of some description," Lestrade pulled out another notebook to check the details. "The first death was nearly five months ago, a Rory McDairmid of Mulberry Walk, Chelsea; his work was mostly nostalgia pieces for the tourists, the usual chocolate-boxy types of things, old fishing villages and the like. The second was just over two weeks ago; an acquaintance of McDairmid's called Gary Roberts. Roberts was known for his ... seascapes," Greg looked up, his glance flicking from Sherlock to John and back.

"And what bets either McDairmid or Roberts has access to a boat?" John looked down at the corpse. "Do we know if Kilore here knew either of the other two?"

"Excellent question," Sherlock nodded, lost in reflection. "I'd give odds that the three of them were acquaintances and went out on the same boat to get the raw images for their work."

"Which means one of them owns or can get hold of a boat," Greg nodded, pulling out his mobile and connecting back to his department. "That would make sense. But why kill them because of that? If someone wanted the boat, all they had to do was steal it and nobody would be any the wiser."

"Not necessarily," Sherlock shook his head. "If it belonged to McDairmid, for instance and he leased it out or tried to sell it, but then got greedy ... if the people leasing the boat were not the kind of people one should become greedy with, then Rory McDairmid might have been dead before he knew what was happening. You need to check their bank details."

"But if it were McDairmid's boat, then why kill the other two painters?" John sounded uncertain.

"Perhaps because they wanted to use the boat again and couldn't get hold of their friend but stumbled across information about the sale or the temporary lease, and when McDairmid turned up dead, they put two and two together and came up with ..." Sherlock looked down at the dead man by their feet. "This," he said.

"It's a nasty business," Lestrade looked more than usually solemn as one of the forensic analysts handed him a large plastic evidence bag containing the blood-covered palette-knife. "But we might be lucky and lift some fingerprints off this," he held the bag up to the level of his eyes.

"And amazingly co-incidental that you have another art-mystery on your hands at the same time as MI5 and my brother are being led a merry dance by an art-forger who's quite literally covering up stolen British secrets," Sherlock lifted both eyebrows and looked introspective," wouldn't you say?"

"McDairmid owned an antique luxury yacht by the name of Serenity," Lestrade repeated the words direct from the phone. "A fifty-seven foot electric launch usually moored down at the Limehouse Basin marina," he added, listening. "Last seen at her berth almost six-months back and nobody seems to have any idea where she went ... hang on, they're send me a photo .."

There was a soft beep from Lestrade's phone as the text arrived with the photo attached. Opening it, Greg pursed his mouth before turning the face of the phone towards Sherlock and John. "Nice looking thing; I can see why an artist would like it," he said. "That top cabin is almost all glass; plenty of light for painting in any weather."

"And sufficiently large to traverse the Channel in any weather, too," Sherlock blinked slowly. "We need to find this boat; once we do, I'm confident we'll have located the link between MI5's forger and your killer."

Nodding and already speaking rapidly into his mobile, Greg was apparently lighting a fire under someone at the other end of the call. "There's only admin staff and uniforms left," he sighed. "The lad's will be able to do a basic sweep, but not much more than that; there's just not enough spare hands."

"Give me your phone," Sherlock's long fingers were already wrapping around the device even as Lestrade relinquished the thing, albeit a little reluctantly. Technology tended to perish horribly in Sherlock's hands. In a matter of seconds, the younger Holmes had sent a text, attaching the photograph of the yacht. "Let Mycroft's people earn their keep," he said, handing the phone back. "Besides, my brother has access to more surveillance systems than just about anyone else on the planet," he added. "If anyone can find the boat, he can."

"Which leaves us where, exactly?" John looked between the two other men, even as Sherlock was scrolling through an internet search on his own Nokia.

"Well as soon as my forensic people can take over here, I'm off back to the Yard to write up a report formally linking the three victims by association," Greg checked his watch. "With luck, I might even be able to get home tonight and grab some decent kip. Want a lift back?"

Shaking his head silently, Sherlock ignored everything save the small screen of his phone as the silver-haired detective shrugged and turned to speak to the forensic specialists.

"I assume we're not going home just yet?" John watched and waited as his tall friend ignored the departure of the Yarder.

"Not quite yet, John ... aha!" the note of success in Sherlock's voice meant that a piece of logical intuition had just paid off. He turned the screen of his phone towards the shorter man. "Shipspotting dot Com," he smiled, happily. "The Twitchers of the marine world," he added, displaying a full-colour photo of a familiar looking, old-style sea launch.

"But ... that's ..." John felt his jaw sag.

"Yup," Sherlock smiled again.

"You have to let Greg know," the blond man muttered. "You can't keep something like this quiet."

"Only for an hour or so, John," Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear again. "I want to have a look at it first, before anyone messes up the scene. It won't take long," he waited to be connected. "I need a car," he announced. "Quickly."

A brief murmur emanated from the Nokia.

"Gravesend," he said. "London River Moorings," he paused, frowning. "Yes, of course I'm sure," another pause. "Good." Pocketing the slim device, Sherlock grinned, once more pleased. "Mycroft does have his uses at times," he acknowledged. "He's sending the Jag."

"How does he know where we are?" John looked uncertain.

Sherlock tapped his pocket and looked superior.

Of course. GPS. "Ah," John nodded. "The joys of technology."

Leaving the crime scene as soon as the sleek black car appeared, Sherlock's expression changed markedly when he saw the Jaguar already had a passenger.

"Mycroft?" he halted, one hand resting on the car. "What are you doing here?"

"Just get in," the elder Holmes indicated John should get in the front. "If this boat is what and where you assume it to be, there's little time to lose. Get in, or catch a bus, either way, I really don't care. Just make up your mind quickly."

Growling his displeasure, Sherlock threw himself in the back seat, dragging the door closed with a bang, as John settled himself in the front with a little more respect for the beautiful vehicle.

"So what's brought you out of your dungeon and into the light of day?" Sherlock sniffed irritably. "Not quite your thing is it ... legwork and all that?"

"If the forger is on that boat, I want to meet him," Mycroft looked faintly abashed, as if he'd just admitted to being normal. "Whoever the artist is, they have a brilliant eye and ..." allowing his mouth to form a moue, Mycroft's words tailed away.

Tilting his head to one side, the younger Holmes looked disbelieving. "You're a fan," he scoffed. "Mycroft Holmes, Queen's Champion, Defender of the Realm, Protector of Forgers and the Criminally Inclined?" Sherlock mocked, disbelieving.

"It's an intellectual curiosity, more than anything," Mycroft was unmoved by his brother's minor tirade. "I've never seen any counterfeits this good before, or met such a skilled forger," he added. "It would be such a waste to have the British penal system gobble them up, don't you think?"

Sherlock nodded. That was more like it. Trust Mycroft to be thinking of the longer game. "You have considered an alternative role for the artist?" Sherlock looked thoughtfully at the back of John's head. "Something in the Royal Mint, perhaps? Or maybe designing stamps for the Post Office might be the thing? Perhaps Curator of the National Portrait Gallery?"

"Sherlock, you may be almost as smart as me, but you take a pathetically myopic view of the long-term possibilities," Mycroft settled himself more comfortably in the Jaguar's lavishly accommodating leather seat. "There is a far more useful purpose such an individual might fulfil for Her Majesty's government."

Frowning in thought for a moment, Sherlock's face cleared as understanding arrived. "Set a thief to catch a thief?" he asked. "You want to have your own tame forger on hand to make sure that no other forgeries make it through the system in the future?"

"Poacher turned gamekeeper," Mycroft nodded. "Can you imagine anyone better suited for the job?" he smiled wolfishly. "They might even be able to make a decent living selling genuine works of art under their own name, whatever it is."

"First catch your hare," Sherlock linked his fingers across his stomach. "And in this case, we are dealing with a number of clever and ruthless people whose sole motivation is either a great deal of money or a great deal of power; neither of these types are usually noted for their easy-going nature or active social conscience."

"John, do you, by any chance, have your Browning with you?" Mycroft brought the blond man into the conversation.

"Not on me, no," he said, turning his head slightly as he spoke over his shoulder. "Am I going to need it?"

"As we now have excellent reason to believe there are at least three murders at the door of the people behind this operations, my brother is quite right to doubt their lack of benevolence and compassion. A well-loaded gun seems the very least of precautions we might take," he added, pulling down the central armrest between he and Sherlock, opening the top. Inside, snug in its dark foam nest, lay a compact black Glock 19. "Take this, would you?" Mycroft handed it over. "Not the Browning, I realise, but better than nothing."

"Spare clip?" John unchambered the magazine to see if there was a full load on board. "Just in case."

Handing over a second clip of fifteen rounds, Mycroft looked austere. "I see no need for a bloodbath," he said, carefully. "Please resist any temptation for over-exuberance in that area. If we observe an adversarial abundance, we'll wait while I summon assistance."

"You know me, Mycroft," John slid the spare clip into his jacket pocket and smiled faintly at the weight of the weapon in his hand. "Always the peacemaker."

Remaining silent on that score, Mycroft scanned his Nokia for any further Intel. There was nothing new from either Peterson or DuValle, thus he assumed that the little excursion the three of them were planning was the vanguard of all fresh investigations. Sherlock had been quite right, of course. The reason he'd given for wanting to meet the forger had been perfectly genuine as soon as he'd said it, but he also wanted to meet the man just so he could see what kind of person it took to do what he had been doing. There was something in the artist's work that sang to him.

The drive following the curves of the Thames to Gravesend took the powerful car less than an hour and it slowed to a gentle halt several hundred meters back up the angled road leading down to the mooring jetty itself, well away from a small road that sloped down to the water's edge. No need to draw any unwanted attention. The Jaguar parked neatly beneath the spreading branches of a still-leafy sycamore. Unclipping a small but powerful set of digital binoculars from under his seat, Mycroft let himself out of the car, straightening his dark coat and walking around to the kerb where John and Sherlock already stood.

"I suggest you stay here and observe at a distance while John and I," Sherlock spoke to his brother, "go and investigate. We're both considerably fitter than you, not to mention younger, and legwork, as you constantly remind me, is not your forte. Staying out of our way would be doing everyone a favour."

"Don't be unoriginal, Sherlock," Mycroft gathered his trusty umbrella to him. "Of the two of us, which one can run five miles without losing his puff, I wonder?" the elder Holmes raised his eyebrows and looked arch. "You may carry the baton in the sprint, but I will, I assure you, outlast your every effort in the longer race."

John stood between the two Holmes siblings and felt, yet again, that everything either of them ever did was just part of some huge and labyrinthine game. He hefted the comforting weight of the Glock in his pocket and shook his head. Neither of them could outrun a bullet, no matter how fast or how long they tried. "Is this pissing contest going to carry on for much longer?" he asked, checking his watch, "because I'd rather like to see what's at the end of this little recce, if you don't mind."

"Yes, stop wasting time, Mycroft," Sherlock was already striding down the pavement towards the moorings office, a low-built brick structure perched on the edge of the embankment with a long jetty spearing out into the deeper water of the river. There was a stillness in the air that spoke of very little traffic and a total absence of people at this time in the early afternoon. This area was clearly not overly-populated.

"Careful, Sherlock," John breathed quietly. "There might be a lookout."

"Yes, careful, Sherlock," Mycroft slowed, scanning the entire area. "Don't want anyone setting of an alarm now, do we?"

"It's pitifully clear that there's no lookout," Sherlock spoke in normal tones. "Where would they be?" he asked, turning on the spot, hands level with his shoulders. "There's no trees, no buildings, no cover, nowhere to stand in relative hiding anywhere near this place," he added. "There's no lookout on shore."

"Someone might be in the building itself," John nodded towards the moorings office.

"Unlikely," Mycroft pointed with his umbrella at the structure's entrance. "Closed padlock on the only door would suggest there's no one inside."

"Then there's going to be some on the boat, assuming the boat's even here," John muttered.

"She's here, John," Sherlock turned his friend by the shoulder until he was facing the river just around the corner of the small building. "Right there, in fact."

A moderate-sized, older style motor yacht bobbed at anchor to the lee side of the jetty. Even from this distance, the scrolled paintwork on her bow was clearly visible. Serenity looked as peaceful as her name. There was nobody on deck and the multiple large windows into the wood-covered upper cabin were unobstructed … the boat appeared to be deserted.

Mycroft lifted the tiny binoculars to his eyes, the powerful zoom facility providing a view as clear as if he were standing on the deck himself. There was nothing to suggest anyone was aboard, no smoke or movement, no … wait.

Inside the long upper cabin, there was a shadow of something … of someone. He tabbed the zoom higher, able to make out the straight white edge of an unframed artists' canvas …

"A crime appears to be in progress," he murmured, handing the binoculars to his brother. "The forger is in the cabin clearly at work on their next masterpiece and though I cannot see anyone else, this does not argue they are alone."

"Then there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" John smiled helpfully.

"Indeed," Sherlock was already heading for the pier. "Won't be long, Mycroft, I'd stay in the car, if I were you; wouldn't want you to get caught in any crossfire."

Walking quickly down toward the jetty without making it seem as if they were walking quickly, the tall, dark-haired man and the shorter blond one paused half-way down the jetty to look around, Sherlock pointing out some ambiguous landmark off in the distance. Both men decidedly not looking at the launch, secured at the very end of the mooring. It was only when they heard measured footsteps on the heavy wooden planks behind them that they turned to see that Mycroft, who, after all, had not felt his presence in the Jaguar would be beneficial to this joint venture.

"Such disingenuousness," he murmured, walking down to the berth of the yacht and stepping nimbly onto the cabined stern and thence onto the solid-looking deck. From here, the sound of playing music was clear, something with strings, minimalistic and modern.

"Jesus, Mycroft," John swung himself aboard in the next instant. "You expect me to protect us all and then go right ahead as if there were no need for protection," he hissed.

"Unfortunately, my brother is correct, John," Sherlock was already heading for the main door of the large upper cabin. "Though this craft is of significant size, there was a small though distinct listing as the person inside moved around. Those listings would have been far more magnified if others were moving around as well."

"And what if there was someone else, sitting down and not moving?" John was right behind him, his hand holding the gun in his pocket.

"The reason my brother decided to take in the scenery, Doctor," Mycroft waited for Sherlock to enter. "If there were another person on board, a sentry, for instance, he would hardly have remained seated now, would he? A fine watchdog that would have been."

Stepping down into the well-lit cabin after Sherlock, the first thing that assaulted him was the smell of linseed oil and shellac, of white spirit and brush-cleaner. There was a small plate containing a half-eaten pancake and the music revealed itself to be Glass's Violin Concertos.

There was nobody in the cabin, but Mycroft merely indicated the second-hand canvas resting on a large central easel. The outline of a sea coastline landscape was in the process of making an appearance on a canvas that looked as if it had been used and then very carefully cleaned. From the basic elements, colours and technic thus far visible, the style looked to be a Turner. It was still wet, the oils still glossy in the daylight. There was a faint impression of an oblong stamp of some kind in the lower, left-hand corner of the canvas which had not yet been painted over.

There were two exits in the cabin; the way they'd all entered and a second one, leading down into the lower deck of the boat.

"We know you're here," Sherlock spoke loud enough to be heard anywhere in the boat. "I suggest you stop wasting our time and come out," he added, impatiently. "We're not going anywhere until you do."

There was still an absence of movement and Mycroft sighed faintly. "Do please come out," he watched the second doorway. "We're not the police and I am genuinely interested in meeting you."

There was the muffled sound of footsteps which paused, then the door opened slowly inwards, the area behind in shadow.

"Who are you, and what are you doing on this boat?"

A woman's voice. Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise in interest. Sherlock, despite his frivolous speculation, had been correct.

"My companions are returning any minute," the voice added in a distinctly French accent; Provençal, Mycroft realised. Not British after all, even though her English was near-perfect.

"Please, Madam," he stayed where he was but extended a hand towards her. "We believe you may be in trouble and we would like to help you if that is possible."

"What do you know of me, of my situation?" the voice was mature and resonant, the question perfectly valid. "Who are you?" Whoever she was, the woman kept herself to the shadows and the far side of the door. No doubt she would close and bar it in a second if she felt she was in danger.

"You have forged pieces by a number of artists," Sherlock frowned down at the vague human shape hidden in shadows beyond the door. "You are doing it either because you have some odd, anarchical compulsion, for money or because you are being forced. The fact that you have stayed on this boat regardless of the fact there is nobody to keep you here suggests you feel compelled to stay. You would not stay if voluntary compliance or money was your motivation, for what good is money if you cannot enjoy the spending of it with your comrades? If money had been your only reason for the forgeries, and your acquaintances have gone into the city, you would surely have accompanied them. Therefore the compulsion for you to remain here is due not to greed, but to fear, though, given you are unharmed, reasonably well-fed and in relatively comfortable surrounds and with the music that you prefer, this is hardly fear for your own safety, but of another's, ergo, you are being blackmailed."

"I represent the British Government," Mycroft took up the conversation. "I know you have family in Provence, probably Toulon, and that you have been travelling on this vessel for a number of months, likely crossing the Channel numerous times. I know you are feeling homesick and are desperate to leave this situation and return to your family; your parents must be dreadfully worried about you, you know."

Nobody moved. Standing with one eye on the door behind them, John had absolutely no idea how either of the Holmes' had come up with all that ... well, that wasn't strictly true ... he knew only too well how Sherlock did it. It felt a little strange to witness Mycroft contributing in the same way.

There was a faint creak in the floor as the woman shifted her weight. "How do you know about me," she murmured. "Have people been searching? I was told that nobody would ever find out where I am."

"Please, Madame," Mycroft took a small step forward, extending his hand. "You can see we are not like the men who have been holding you captive on this boat."

There was the sound of a deep sigh. "It is true," her voice was softer now, less frightened. "You are not. Very well."

With more creaking boards, the woman climbed up the several narrow steps leading from the lower cabin, eventually standing before them all, her eyes defiant but also a little nervous.

"My name is Sophia Vernet," she said, staring fiercely at each of the three men in turn. "I am from Toulon and 'ave been abducted and kept on this miserable boat by the people who made me paint these things," her eyes flicked contemptuously towards the unfinished canvas perched on the easel. She looked sour. "Normally, I only do this for amusement and as souvenirs for the tourists who come up from Marseille; I 'ave never done it for real money, or to cheat anyone," she paused, looking at Mycroft. "How did you guess I was from Toulon?"

His eyes taking in the woman's entire history in a swift glance, Mycroft saw she was five feet four, relatively petite with distinctive blue-green eyes framed by fine dark eyebrows; a cropped bob of dark hair with a flare of auburn where the sun slanted over it. Despite coming from the south of France, her skin was pale – the result of being kept on board this boat for several months, no doubt. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced. Left handed; a coffee drinker. Standing in worn and paint-streak jeans and an old grey sweatshirt. She brought the faintest scent of lavender with her.

John thought her rather lovely, despite her dishevelled appearance. French women always seemed to have a magical style in his eyes. Despite the tension of the moment, he smiled.

"It is no guess, Madame Vernet," Mycroft smiled, indicating the unfinished Turner. "I am familiar with the waterfront of Toulon, and you were in the process of eating a cade toulonnaise, which tells me very clearly how much you wish to return."

"Mycroft ..." Sherlock was rooted to the floor of the cabin; he'd barely moved since the woman had joined them, his eyes utterly glued to her features.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and this is Doctor John Watson," Mycroft tipped his hand towards the blond man, "and my brother, Sherlock," he frowned at his silent sibling. "Please ignore him; his manners lack finesse."

"Pleasure to meet you," John nodded, smiling again before his eyes flicked back to the jetty beyond the windows.

"Mycroft ..." Sherlock's voice held a somewhat heavier intonation.

Catching the note of warning in his name, the elder Holmes lifted his eyebrows, mildly irritated. "Yes, Sherlock? You have something to add to the conversation?"

"Her name is Vernet," the younger Holmes spoke slowly, as if each syllable needed its own space. "Vernet. From Provence."

A Vernet from Provence ... why would that be a problem; the name was not uncommon ... Mycroft paused as the details of the situation coalesced, his breath stilling in his chest. Drawing his spine taut, he faced his younger brother, unwilling as yet to accept what Sherlock was suggesting. He shook his head microscopically. "Sheer coincidence."

"Coincidence, Mycroft? Is there ever such a thing?" Sherlock sounded amused.

"Impossible. A ruse, perhaps?" the elder Holmes seemed temporarily caught on the back foot. He stared at the woman, his eyes narrowing.

"What is going on?" the woman rested her hands on her hips, looking between them searchingly. "Is there another problem? You do not believe I am who I say?"

"She has the name, the profession and the approximate location," Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"But not necessarily the pedigree," Mycroft shook his head, still unwilling to accept the idea that Sherlock was clearly considering.

"Would anyone care to translate this situation into plain English?" John was definitely confused. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until the woman had told them her name, at which point the situation had fallen into complete confusion.

Sherlock stared pointedly at his brother, raising his eyebrows even higher.

Sighing in disbelief, the elder Holmes focused entirely on the woman calling herself Sophia Vernet.

"Do you know anything of your family history, Madame?" Mycroft's eyebrows were drawn together in an almost-scowl. "Your grandparents ... their parents, perhaps? Your paternal great-grandfather?"

Sophia frowned too, the shape of her face turning into a mocking reflection of the elder Holmes. John very nearly laughed. If she was taking the piss, she was doing a good job of it. She reminded him of Sherlock in an odd sort of way. Whatever else she was, she wasn't intimidated a bit, and he found himself liking the woman.

"My grandparents?" Sophia's troubled expression solidified as she peered sideways at Mycroft. "You speak to me of abduction and Toulon, and now you ask about my great-grandfather?" The woman seemed torn between exasperation, incredulity and despair.

"If I'm correct, the situation has just become immeasurably more complex," Sherlock ignored the Frenchwoman's outburst, speaking over her head to his brother.

"I do not trust coincidences, Sherlock," Mycroft's eyes were half-lidded with scepticism.

"Would somebody mind telling me what's going on?" John moved to stand at the other side of the two brothers, facing Sophia who met his gaze with an enormous Gallic shrug. "We are standing on a boat in the middle of what might very quickly become a fire-fight, and you two are talking cryptic gibberish. Could you please finish whatever it is you're arguing about so we can all get the hell out of here?!"

Disregarding John's minor outburst, the younger Holmes blinked slowly in the face of his brother's transparent doubt "Nor I. But Occam's razor demands we at least consider the possibility ..."

Mycroft looked sour. Raising his eyebrows again, he seemed to make up his mind. "Yes, your great-grandfather," he said, returning to stare at the increasingly twitchy woman. "Le grand-père de votre père. Qui était-il?"

Frowning again, looking between the faces of the two tall men standing either side of her, Sophia Vernet was half affronted, half bewildered. She had told them her situation, that she was being held against her will, that the men keeping her here might return at any moment ... and they wanted to discuss her family tree?

"Emile Vernet," she said, finally, shrugging again. "My father's grandfather was Emile Vernet, also a painter; he died a long time ago," she finished, a sulky note in her voice. "But why do you need to know this?" she asked. "Why are my family details so important to you?"

On hearing her long-dead relative's name, Mycroft relaxed microscopically. It wasn't the name he had been half-expecting; it wasn't...

"Though everyone called him Jean-Horace," Sophia shrugged more elegantly this time. "That his professional name was Horace Vernet is all I can tell you."

Staring directly into his sibling's face, Sherlock grinned, a faintly manic expression which boded poorly for Mycroft's blood-pressure. "Told you," his grin widened.

"Then would somebody please tell me what the hell's going on, or do I need to see if Google can give me a definitive answer?" John had had enough of Holmesian obscurity, especially when it seemed unnecessarily directed against this unfortunate woman who'd clearly been forced into an untenable situation.

"It's impossible," Mycroft held his brother's gaze. "Unthinkable."

"And yet," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "apparently both thinkable and possible."

"What is apparently possible?" the woman felt like screaming with all of this nonsense. They were all standing on a boat in danger of discovery at any moment, her family in Provence were in fear of their lives and still, the only discussion was of ancient and very dead relatives. What was going on?

"It would be nice if us lesser mortals we given some indication that we might be able to leave soon," John cast a glance through the cabin's windows. "Especially as we might have company at any second."

"It's simply too convenient," Mycroft shook his head.

"Yet indisputably tenable," Sherlock's amusement was evident. His eyes scanned Sophia's face. "She even looks a bit like ..."

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft held up his hand to forestall any further comment and nodded once, finally turning to face the perplexed Frenchwoman. "It appears, Madame," he began. "That we are ... possibly ... related to each other."

Screwing one eye closed and squinting with the other, Sophia Vernet wrinkled her nose. "Related?" she wondered if this was some bizarre British joke.

"Indeed," Sherlock nodded, cheerfully. "Nous sommes vos cousins ..."

"Wait ..." John looked from one face to the next ... "You're related?"

"Cousins," Sherlock looked out the cabin window towards the jetty.

"Possibly cousins," Mycroft tilted his head, watching the woman's face.

"Impossible," Sophia Vernet shook her head. "Unthinkable." The British were all mad.

"Bloody inconvenient," John was also staring out of the window. Inconvenient but, now that he thought about it, entirely conceivable. With her dark hair and high cheekbones, she actually did look a little bit like Sherlock.

"Second cousins, actually," Sherlock checked the time. "Once removed."

"Great Uncle Horace," Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Horace was your Great Uncle?" Sophia was incredulous.

"His younger sister Elodie was our Great-Grandmother," Sherlock looked at her carefully. "We inherited the cheekbones," he added, pausing before looking at Mycroft. "Well, some of us did."

"Related? Really?" John's eyes scanned between the three of them in fascinated horror. Another Holmes even if by a different name? Another Holmes that was female? Another Holmes that was female, French and, judging by the expression on her face, about to launch into a distinctly Holmesian strop? A manic grin began to edge itself onto his face.

"You are all insane!" Sophia threw her hands in the air and scowled blackly at both Sherlock and Mycroft. "Fou dans la tête!" She stabbed two fingers hard at the side of her head. "There are men coming back very shortly and will kill us all before they send message to their companions in Toulon and tell them to kill my parents as well! And you stand here and tell me we are cousins?! It is insane! It makes no sense ... it is not logical!"

At her last exclamation, the two brothers looked at one another. One of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted microscopically, but otherwise both men were unmoving.

"Oh god," John groaned, closing his eyes briefly. "She is." A female Sherlock was just what the situation needed.

"Your phone, John," Sherlock's hand was outstretched. "I need it."

"What's the matter with your own phone?" John muttered, but dug the Sony out from his jacket pocket, dropping it into the tall man's grasp.

"Because yours is inevitably fully-charged," the younger Holmes turned the phone on to silent standby, hunting about for a suitable hidey-hole. Observing the cabin's wooden cornice stood slightly proud of the wall, he jumped onto a convenient bench, dropping the phone down and behind the wooden coping. Nobody would look for it there.

"How many men?" Mycroft's eyes glinted. Despite the unlikely scenario, even he had to admit there just might be a possibility the woman was being truthful. Details could be checked when this affair was over. In the meantime ...

"Three," Sophia folder her arms and looked resentful. "French and English. They are all beasts; The English one even took my only palette-knife in case I attacked them in their sleep," she wrapped both arms around her body, a look of growing fury across her features. "Which I would have done if I knew my parents were safe."

"Palette-knife?" Sherlock exchanged glances with John. "Lestrade has a series of three murders on his desk, all painters, each one skewered by a painter's knife through the throat," he pursed his mouth. "The first victim was the owner of this boat," he added.

"With Madam Vernet's fingerprints all over the knife itself, no doubt," Mycroft frowned, still staring at Sophia's face. Taking a deep breath, he made up his mind. "We will need your co-operation," he said. "Your parents' details, if you please, so that I may begin a trace for them."

"You can do that?" Sophia let her frown fade as she began to realise that these men were actually here to help.

"Mycroft can do all sorts of things," Sherlock looked reflective. "The critical point now, of course, is that you need to stay here without giving the game away until we are in a position to get you out."

The words hung in the air.

"You surely can't expect Sophia to stay?" John's brow was furrowed. "Not after what we know? Not leave her with a group of men, one of whom we're already sure is a violent killer?" unrealised, he had stepped closer to the French woman's side. It was indefensible for them to even contemplate leaving her here.

"No time for you to be the dashing hero in this scenario, Doctor Watson," Mycroft had his own phone to his ear, repeating the details Sophia was providing. Names, addresses and dates. He knew his people were the very best and would action his priority directives immediately and with the greatest of urgency.

"We need to play for a little more time, John," Sherlock stepped round to the front of the work in progress and assessed the various tubes of paints and chemicals arrayed on the long workbench to one side, quickly checking the constituents in each. "We need to arrange a sting ..." He frowned; there was nothing here that would do the job he wanted. "Did you have time to bring any make up with you when you came on board this boat?" he looked intent.

"Only what I had with me at the time I was abducted," Sophia nodded towards an old leather shoulder-bag that hung off the back of a chair. "In there, if you want to look, though why," she paused, wonderingly, "would you want to see my cosmetics?"

"Bismuth," Sherlock tipped the entire bag out onto a nearby table, ignoring John's frown. Rummaging around until he found a small plastic container filled with minute pots of eye-colour, he swiftly checked the active ingredients and nodded. Returning to the front of the canvas, he dabbed an index-finger into a container of pearlised colour and proceeded to drag several abrupt lines across the unpainted portion; white on white. Whatever he'd written was pretty much invisible to the naked eye, but John knew Sherlock always had a reason for his every action.

"So are we able to leave now?" John felt an increasing edginess. They had already been here too long.

"Until my people locate and retrieve your parents, I cannot guarantee their complete safety," Mycroft clasped his hands in front of his body and slowly raised his eyes until they met Sophia's gaze. The rest of the sentence was unsaid, but even John heard the words.

"You cannot seriously expect this woman to stay here while we three waltz off and leave her alone?" his voice was low and vaguely fierce. One did not abandon unarmed civilians in the field and walk away. Especially not women like Sophia.

"She needs to stay and complete the painting," Sherlock turned to assess her reaction. "And you'll be perfectly fine, won't you?" he asked, watching the woman's face.

"Of course I will stay," the Frenchwoman's voice was low and controlled and absolutely resolute. "I will do anything in order to keep my family safe," she nodded once, as if there were no other possible option. "But if I get the chance to stab any of them in the eye with my biggest paintbrush," she turned to face Mycroft, "I will not 'esitate, you understand?"

"It would be less troublesome if you were able to restrain your more brutal impulses within British jurisdiction," Mycroft looked sympathetic. "Let us not confuse our well-meaning police force as to the real criminals in this case."

Sophia folded her arms again and looked distinctly petulant. "After what they have done to me and my parents," she muttered, "they deserve no consideration," she sighed hugely. "But if you forbid me to kill even one of them ..."

"Not even one," Mycroft's slight smile was faintly apologetic.

"Then I suppose I must do as you say ..." despite being almost a foot shorter than the elder Holmes, Sophia managed to look him directly in the eye. She lifted her hand, palm-up, level with her eyes and pointed the index finger at his face. "But as soon as I know Maman and Papa are away from trouble , then I will ..."

"You will do nothing until we come for you," Mycroft sounded final. "I promise you, all those who did you harm will receive the just consequences they deserve."

Sophia blinked slowly. "You mean they will end up in court and be given a smack on the wrist" her cynical tone made her opinion clear.

"They may never see a court, yet they will receive an appropriate fate regardless," Mycroft smiled, artlessly. "And now, we must go," he turned and was already heading towards the door leading onto the main deck. "As soon as I have word of your parents' deliverance, I will have my people come for you, wherever you are."

"The men move this boat every second day after they speak to someone on the radio in Toulon," Sophia walked around to see what Sherlock had done to her painting. There was nothing to see save some faint daubs of white sparkle on the old canvas. "How will you know where I am to be rescued?"

John nodded grimly. "GPS," he tipped his head towards his hidden phone. "It's the standard Holmes calling-card these days."

"Then go, hurry," Sophia shooed them away. "If my captors return and see you here, the game will be off, as you say."

"Up," John was reluctant to leave, unwilling to leave her unprotected. "The game will be up."

"And don't even think of leaving the Glock," Mycroft muttered as he exited the door, scanning the nearby riverside for the sound of arriving car engines or footsteps.

"I really don't like doing this," John took one last look back over his shoulder as the dark-haired woman closed the door behind them and returned to her work.

"Madame Vernet is no worse off than yesterday and in a considerably better place than she was less than twenty minutes ago," Sherlock added his keen sight to that of his brother's as they made their way back up the road towards the Jaguar; he had no desire to bump into three returning thugs. As they made their way back up the hill towards the car, a tall, greying man and a short, blonde woman sitting in the rear of the vehicle exited upon seeing Mycroft approach.

"Afternoon, sir," the man nodded. "Everything is as you requested. Arrangements for the helicopter are in hand; should be on site within the hour."

The elder Holmes inhaled briefly. "Good. And the armed response unit?"

"I'm on point for that one, sir," the woman spoke quietly, lifting a tiny but no doubt extremely powerful monocular in one hand and indicating a long gun-case lying on the car's rear seat with the other. "I'll take up a forward post in the mooring's company office," she added, nodding at the squat brick building ahead. "In case of any excessive response. I could probably take them all down before they knew what was happening, but the rest of my team will be arriving ..." she quickly checked her wristwatch. "Within the next fifteen minutes, so there's going to be no issues at all," she added, pausing. "Would you like me to organise a couple of divers to hang off the boat's stern?" she smiled a little. "It would give the lads a chance to practice their combat boarding tactics."

"I don't think Commandos are quite needed for this," Mycroft sounded pensive, though not unamused. "But I'll take it under advisement," he hesitated. "The woman on board the yacht is not to be harmed under any circumstance," he looked at both of his people. "Even if it means her captors are permitted to escape, if it's a choice between that and the woman's safety, then let them go."

"You any good with that?" John spoke to the shorter woman, tipping his head towards the rifle on the seat. "It's a big gun."

Swivelling slowly to face him, the blonde smiled thinly, as if this wasn't the first time she'd heard the question. Turning back to the car, picked up the weapon and held it in close profile to her side as she walked quickly down to the mooring's office. The large padlock seemed to offer little resistance and in a matter of moments, she was inside with the door closed.

"Ex-Green Beret, John," Mycroft spoke softly. "Royal Marines sniper."

"Didn't think women were allowed in the Marines," the ex-army doctor was puzzled.

"That's one of the things we like people to think," the elder Holmes smiled more openly. "We've had women in a number of roles since 2002; specialist jobs, mostly. Excellent killers."

"Aren't you glad you asked?" Sherlock swept by and into the car. "We need to get back to London to set up a sting with Lestrade," he instructed imperiously.

"I think I'll stay here," John squinted one eye closed. "At least until a bit more backup arrives. I heard a train nearby, so Gravesend station has to around here somewhere; I can catch a train back to town if needs be."

"If you must play the hero, John," Sherlock looked pitying. "The station is approximately a half-mile in that direction," he pointed due south through the Jaguar's far window. "I'll catch up with you back at the flat at some point, but don't take all day out here: you're really going to be far more valuable to Cousin Sophia working with me in town than languishing out her in some mistaken heroic quest ..." he sat back, folding his arms in semi-disgust at his flatmate's mental derangement.

Peering in through the car's front window, John smiled happily and mouthed two words, one of which was off.

Joining his sibling in the Jaguar, Mycroft watched his other operative fade back into the shadows, waiting to report the return of three men to the boat, and thus begin what would hopefully be the endgame of this rather nasty little venture.

###

Sitting at the conference table, Lestrade stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, watching everyone in the room and saying nothing. He'd been in the force long enough now to know when saying nothing was exactly the best move he could make. Despite being a copper for thirty years and nicking a very great number of London's Most Dangerous, he realised the minute he'd walked into the small conference room in the same building as Mycroft's office, that in this instance, he was of lowly rank.

"Ridiculous," irritated, Keith Peterson pushed back with one hand resting on the table. "Just tell us where the boat is and I'll have my people there inside thirty minutes, regardless of where it is in the UK."

"Assuming it is actually in or around the British coastline," Hugo DuValle looked sideways at his MI5 opposite. "But if, as we thought, it might be crossing and re-crossing between here and the French coast ..." he allowed the sentence to hang in the air.

Mycroft linked his fingers on the table in front of him, his eyes drifting away from the small black desk-phone in front of him. He had changed into one of his fine, dark suits, his preferred choice whenever he knew there was difficult negotiations ahead. Sherlock mocked them as his logo of power, but he wasn't that far from the truth. "There are links to France ... Provence, to be more precise," he said. "But the vessel is currently moored near London though unlikely to stay there for much longer. My source advises me the boat will probably move by tomorrow."

"Then for god's sake, supply the whereabouts, and we can end this mess now, quickly and cleanly," Peterson leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, his face intent.

Taking a slow inhale, Mycroft followed a line of the table's fine grain of timber from one side of his vision to the other. He had to wait for Sherlock to complete his part of the arrangement before he said anything to anyone else; the safety of Sophia and her parents were in the balance. He had to stall. "There are ... complications," he said, eventually. "Complexities involving the safety of several individuals both here and across the Channel," he added. "We cannot move on the occupants of boat until I have received word from France. My people are currently liaising with the French authorities."

"And if the boat leaves British waters and becomes impossible to track?" it was DuValle's turn to lean forward onto the table, his features furrowed with impatience. "If we're left with nothing and this leak continues?"

"There is a secondary tracking method available," Mycroft hoped the battery in John's old phone held its charge long enough to be of use. "Besides which, the location of the source of the leaked material is still very much in your hands, gentlemen," he arched an eyebrow in mild censure.

The phone in front of him rang only once before it was in his hand, pressed against his ear. "Yes?" There was the faint susurration of conversation. "When?" Listening for a few additional moments, Mycroft looked sour as he ended the call. "Apparently the vessel is already underway," he said. "My people are tracking it as we speak and we have both the British and French coastguards maintaining a watching brief. Regardless of where it intends to go now, we have both it and its passengers in our sights."

"Damn it, Mycroft," Peterson slammed a palm onto the hard wood. "You can't simply take matters into your own hands like this!"

The elder Holmes smiled flatly. "I think you'll find I may," he stared at the desk phone again. "It's what 'full executive control' generally means," he added, his smile edging into the vaguely unfriendly.

The phone rang once more, again answered before the second ring. "Yes?" The faint scrabble of a voice was heard in the quiet room, though it was Mycroft's body language that held the greatest interest. His shoulders dropped a clear inch. "Good," he said. "Thank you." He cast his eyes around the three others at the table. "Look for the motor launch Serenity," he spoke to Lestrade immediately after replacing the handset in the receiver. "Heading south out of the Thames, currently offshore from Sheerness, but they're on an outgoing tide and making good headway. My team will provide tracking details a specific microwavelength broadcast from an open mobile phone located on the yacht itself," he said. "There are three men and one woman on board; the three men are to be considered extremely dangerous. The woman is a non-combatant and must on no account be harmed," he glowered around the table. "On no account," he repeated.

Greg stood, abruptly. "I'll co-ordinate with the River Police and make sure the boat is brought to shore," he said. "At which point I guess your lot will want to step in?" he turned to Peterson. "Remembering, however," Lestrade smiled readily, "that at least one of the people on board that boat is wanted in connection with three recent murders, and last I looked, both MI5 and MI6," he turned to face DuValle, "were still required to follow standard police detention procedures."

"You'll get them after we're done," Peterson stood equally suddenly, his tone distinctly challenging as he leaned on the table with clenched fists. "The slight matter of national security trumps the Met's hand, I believe."

"Inspector Lestrade, if you would co-ordinate with the River Police and ensure the launch is safely returned to dock. Liaise with MI5 to ensure a seamless handover at that point." Mycroft sounded supremely unfazed by the increased level of testosterone in the room. "Director Peterson, have your people ready to interrogate all three of the men who will be released into your cognisance as soon as they step onto dry land; you'll need to keep an open line to Inspector Lestrade who will require immediate access to whichever individual confesses to the murders," the wattage in his blue eyes increased until they glowed. "You will facilitate such a confession," he smiled pleasantly. "In your usual, non-threatening manner, I'm sure," he added, swivelling to face the MI6 man's quiet gaze.

"Director DuValle, please ensure you have your operatives active in Toulon within the next forty-five minutes; my people are already in situ, but are insufficient in number to close the circle and will need MI6's support on the ground to do so. You will receive the full support of Toulon's Chief of Police and will likewise be provided with location and personnel details," he stopped, exhaling slowly. "I want this mess cauterised by tonight, gentlemen," he added, softly. As Lestrade turned to leave, Mycroft added one final note. "The woman's name is Sophia Vernet," he addressed the silver-haired man. "She's the forger but was compelled into the act under duress. Be careful with her, she is not to be damaged. Bring her directly to my office."

Wondering with which deity Mycroft had communed in order to access such very specific Intel, Greg nodded briefly and was out the door and gone.

Both Peterson and DuValle were already on their phones, alerting their own people and setting off a cascading series of events that set a number of dark-suited personnel surging out into the suitably darkening evening.

In the slowly chilling office down by the jetty, John had sat for the last two hours, crouched beneath the level of the windows facing the yacht Serenity. The blonde woman had sighed when he'd ducked inside the small building, realising that whoever he was, she was going to be lumbered with his presence, like it or not. Ignoring him entirely seemed the easiest way to go and so she had, opening the gun-case on the floor and carefully extracting a dully-gleaming beauty of a sniper's rifle.

"An International L96?" John couldn't help but acknowledge he knew the gun. "Neat."

"You know about these things, then?" the woman sounded completely unimpressed at his comment as she continued setting up her sniping position.

"Actually used one a couple of times," John peered carefully out of the windows towards the boat. "Not my personal preference, but whatever gets the job done in a pinch."

The woman paused, hearing a tone she'd heard before. "You served?"

"Kandahar," John shrugged, squinting for any movement on the yacht, "most recently."

"You a Woofer?" despite herself, the blonde sounded curious. "Had a few mates in the WFR. They saw some bad stuff."

"Rats after mouldy cheese," John grinned, briefly turning away from the view. "RAMC stationed mostly at FOB Shawqat. Got interesting there for a while."

"Ahuh," the woman nodded, clicking the last stanchion into place, aiming the business-end of the rifle directly at the main window of the launch's upper cabin. She could see movement inside as someone walked backwards and forwards. "Medic?"

"Yup," John turned his eyes towards the road heading up the hill. He had no idea which way the three men would come. "We had a few bad days," his smiled faded slightly as old memories threatened to resurface. But now was not the time to dwell.

"You armed?" the woman made herself comfortable; there was probably a bit of a wait ahead. "I'm Betty, by the way."

"I'm John," he said, turning to look at her properly, pleased she was at least prepared to talk to him. "After the Queen?"

"After the mine," it was her turn to smile a little. "Apparently I gained a reputation for getting people into all sorts of trouble," she flashed a shy grin. "What you got?"

"This," John slid the Glock from his jacket pocket. "Again, not my preference, but good enough at close range. We seem to have got the ground covered between us."

Placing her eye against the gun's scope, Betty moved a couple of inches to get everything just ... so. "Indeed we do," she breathed softly, ready to slaughter whoever made a wrong move.

Fortunately, it was John who saw the three men first, just over two hours later as they strolled casually along the side of the road leading down to the quay; the taxi that dropped them already heading back into the dusk. "I assume," he said, "your friend from the car is watching all this from a safe place and that he has a phone which is even now being put to its intended purpose?"

Her eyes flicking between the newly-arrived strangers, Betty assumed a firmer firing stance as she watched them head towards the boat and enter the cabin. John felt his pulse accelerate. He knew that at least one of those men was a cold-blooded killer and that he was going to be in very close quarters with Sophia. If she gave the game away by so much as a hint, then despite being the proverbial golden goose, her life would be worthless. Mycroft and Sherlock had taken an enormous risk, he felt, leaving her there alone. He chewed his lower lip in unconscious anxiety.

Moments later, the door to the cabin reopened and one of the men came out to sit in the stern and smoke a cigarette. Seconds later, Sophia also emerged, a mug of something in her hands as she accepted a cigarette from the man, waving long trails of smoke in the air without actually smoking.

John relaxed. She was sending a message to those she guessed would be watching. Everything is under control. They suspect nothing. He only hoped she could maintain the façade ... but if she really were related to the Holmes ... he checked to see if she was holding anything that looked like a big and potentially lethal paintbrush in her hand ... but there was only the mug and the cigarette that he could see.

The cabin door opened again, as one of the other two men stuck his head out, speaking a few words too quietly to be heard in the mooring's office. A few moments later however, the sound of the yacht's powerful engine starting up arrived at the same time that the man in the stern walked around the craft, unhooking hefty-looking ropes from several cleats. Even as John and Betty watched, the craft reversed back into the river before turning in a slow arc and making its way downstream. There was nothing anyone could do.

Sophia Vernet was now entirely on her own.

###

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office reading a slim report. Though his thoughts were perfectly focused on the work in hand, his mind knew precisely where each of his teams were, what they were doing, what they were planning to do and the timeline they had in which to do it.

The motor-launch had been reported off Dover, the next obvious report would have it angling across the Channel in the dark – an extremely dangerous crossing for a small boat at night – towards Calais or one of the nearby French ports, probably Wissant or even Dunkirk. The Thames River Police had been forced to withdraw their shadowy pursuit as soon as the Serenity hit open water; they had neither the resources nor the authority to track their prey any further. Lestrade, last he heard, had been seen climbing enthusiastically into a small helicopter which, after ascending rapidly, headed due east. Thank goodness, the French were more accommodating about cross-Channel collaboration these days.

Peterson's people were crawling all over the material that had been discovered coded into the earlier paintings. The information covered a great swathe of territory and could not be pinned down to a leak from a single point. It looked more like someone had been able to access a broad range of sensitive material, making the search for one person extraordinarily difficult. At present, they were working in reverse order along a chain of access to every single item in order to create a chart of possession for the information since its initial documentation. Following a mighty river back upstream to a single source was a walk in the park compared to this particular task.

DuValle's team was having a little more success with the French side of things: once Mycroft's agents had been able to identify the Vernet family, it had taken relatively little effort to ascertain the last time they were seen at home, and to track comings-and-goings of strange vehicles since that point. Toulon was a popular tourist haven and possessed almost as many CCTV cameras as some parts of London. After identifying an unknown white Citroen people-mover that had been seen several times in the vicinity of Sophia's parents' home, it was a matter of trial and error, locating the vehicle on camera. Once that had been accomplished, a search was immediately put out for the registration plate. At the last update, the owner of the SUV had been identified and his location confirmed. After liaising with the relevant local protection services, DuValle had sent his best people. The Vernet's, Mère et Père, would soon be breathing the agreeable air of freedom.

Yet Mycroft had to wait until he knew they were safe; he dare do nothing before he had that information. Apart from being utterly innocent in all this, if Sophia were to be believed, then her parents, her father, at least, was a second cousin. There was a great deal more to be protected in this situation than the lives of a middle-aged French couple and their daughter.

He put the report down and stared at the nearer of his desk phones, willing it to ring.

It rang.

"Yes?" Mycroft was instantly relieved to hear Hugo DuValle's voice.

"We've got them," the words were simply yet weighty with import. "Five minutes ago, from an abandoned farmhouse up near Marseille," DuValle added. "They're frightened, but unharmed so far as we can make out, nothing obvious, at any rate. Thought you might want to know."

"Excellent," Mycroft released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "We can commence the next part of the operation. Well done to you and your people," Mycroft depressed the receiver before immediately calling Lestrade's number knowing that wherever the man might be this evening, systems were in place to assure he would not miss this call.

"Mycroft?" Greg's voice was hard and loud as he shouted over the noise; the distinctive sound of a heavy engine running in the background filling the office. Still up in the helicopter.

"You make take the boat at your convenience, Inspector," the elder Holmes articulated his words clearly. "The French authorities have been informed and you have a free hand to bring them back to Dover or London, whichever is likely to get them to MI5 the quickest,' Mycroft paused. "Remember what I said about Sophia Vernet."

Shouting his understanding of the situation, Lestrade's voice nevertheless held a triumphant note as he conformed the vessel Serenity was still in sight, though well across the Channel at this point and already in French waters.

Mycroft's second call was to Keith Peterson, advising the MI5 director that the yacht and its crew were in the process of being detained and returned to British jurisdiction. He would be advised if the next contact-point would be somewhere on the Thames or closer to Dover.

His third call was to Sherlock.

"The men on the yacht will be in London within three hours or less," he said. Lestrade has instructions to bring Sophia Vernet directly to me, but we both know that isn't going to happen. Have you made the appropriate arrangements?"

"Yes," the younger Holmes sounded unenthusiastic. "John returned to Baker Street over an hour ago, fit to burst with misdirected guilt, so it might be well to allow him to handle at least part of it all."

Mycroft had an urge to smile. John Watson was the epitome of the British bulldog; the man's sense of honour was inextricably linked to his sense of self. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

###

"It was all her idea, in any case," the tallest of the three men, a Frenchman by his accent, shrugged and folded his arms. "We did everything she said," he added. "She was the mastermind behind it all."

"I just did what I was told," the second man, also French, shrugged and looked vaguely resigned. "There was no way I could have come up with all this by myself," he said. "She's a very clever woman. She organised everything and told us what to do; with the money she was paying, I wasn't about to make a fuss about things."

The third man was British, but his words were the same. "Speak to Sophia," he sprawled uncaringly back in his chair and made a face. "That woman knows more ways to rig a piece of art than anyone I've ever known," he said. "There's no point asking me about anything; the most I did was move the canvasses and see to the boat."

Greg sat behind the glass wall, listening to each of the three interrogations. As a professional courtesy, the Director of MI5 had permitted him to sit as an observer on the far side of the two-way glass; not interacting ... yet. But still able to hear. He had no idea what Mycroft Holmes wanted with the woman, but whatever it was, he'd have to wait. There was no way he'd been able to separate her from the others after such accusations, nor had the MI5 people been inclined to listen to his protestations when they'd all met up at the quay in Dover's inner harbour. As all four people on board the boat had been ushered more or less carefully into waiting cars, Greg was finally able to ring the elder Holmes with the bad news.

"No, I don't know where she's being taken; same place as all the others, I assume, wherever that is," Lestrade snapped slightly at Mycroft's tone. "But me being only a lowly copper, I didn't stand much of a chance when I tried to separate the woman from the pack," he added. The MI5 lot took her off with the other three, back to London, and I'm going too. I just thought you'd want to know, is all," he paused, listening. "Is she safe and unhurt?" he repeated the words in his ear. "Yeah; mightily pissed off, I'd say, but not hurt that I could see. She didn't sound hurt, neither." Greg grinned briefly at the memory; Sophia Vernet was one woman who really knew how to swear creatively and with great purpose. It had been something of an education.

And now he was here in some nondescript government building, in the middle of the night, watching a series of interrogations from the wrong side of a magic mirror. Greg sipped on a cup of cooling and fairly awful coffee; tasted grim, but his body thanked him for the caffeine. A light wave of air brushed the side of his face as the room's door opened and closed.

"Have they got anything yet?" Sherlock took the seat next to the older man, staring through the window at the effort to have the British man say something other than it hadn't been his fault.

"Nah," Greg shook his head. "Looks like they've decided to stitch her up right and proper," he looked irritated. "And they're being far too orchestrated about it all," he added, waving his half-empty coffee cup at the window in front of them. "They're even using the same words. It's painfully obvious they've worked all this out beforehand; a child could tell you that."

"Then we shall have to use a means of defence other than words," Sherlock smirked a little as John came in, looking rushed.

"They almost kept me out," he said, staring through the window at the individual being questioned in the other room. It was one of the three men he'd seen boarding the Serenity earlier.

"Fancy having a go, John?" the younger Holmes smiled nastily. "I'm fairly confident you could have some form of truth out of him in a relatively short time."

"Don't tempt me," the ex-army doctor shook his head. "Once I got started I wouldn't want to stop. Where's Sophia?"

There was the muffled sound of a ringing phone and Sherlock pulled his Nokia into view. "Yes? When?" there was a short pause as he nodded and rose abruptly from his chair. Swivelling, his heavy coat swirling around his tall frame, Sherlock smiled again. "Something we are about to discover," he said striding from the room.

###

Mycroft, elegant and unruffled as always was standing in another room, complete with long dark coat and furled umbrella. There was a thick coat resting over his free arm. He held out a phone towards John. "Yours," he said, nodding. "My thanks."

Taking a quick scan around the place, all John could see was a large empty room with a series of a half-dozen paintings raised up on stands in front of one of the walls. Almost as soon as they entered, another three people were ushered, none too gently into the room behind them. The three men from the Serenity and Sophia Vernet.

Lestrade observed her carefully. Was she something worth protecting or, as the three men caught with her all claimed, was she actually the ringleader, the mind at the centre of the entire scam?

Another man entered the room; Keith Peterson, Director of MI5. "I hear you believe the woman is innocent of these charges against her, Holmes," the man conscious of his status in the public domain. "Shame there's nothing to prove it for us."

"Ah, but there is," Sherlock brought out a small device that resembled a long torch with the beam running down the entire length rather than being just at one end. Waiting until all eyes were on him, he turned to face the three men. "If this woman is, as you say, the ringleader of this operation, then she would have no reason to jeopardise her safety by deliberately rendering her paintings unmistakable frauds, do you agree?" he asked, his pale blue eyes taking in each man's gaze. When there was no response, not that he'd expected any, Sherlock pointed at the paintings ranged around them on the stands. "One of these paintings was removed from your boat and brought here to make sure you actually have any clue as which works were created by this woman and which were not," he added. "Each one is numbered, as you can see," he pointed to a small white sticker on the stands, each one bearing a number from one to six. Handing each man a piece of paper and a pencil, Sherlock smiled again. "Please write down the number of the painting that this woman was in the process of completing on the boat this afternoon," he said. "If you all choose the correct one, then we will obviously have to listen very carefully to whatever else you have to tell us," he gestured at them to write. "Waiting," he added, impatiently.

All three men scribbled something before handing the scraps of paper back. Comparing each one, Sherlock showed all three pieces first to Peterson, then Mycroft, Lestrade and John. All three men had written the same number, 3. "Thank you gentlemen," he smiled once more, a faint note of satisfaction as he walked across to the central painting which bore a distinct resemblance to one of Turner's works, the oils depicting a seafront of some coastal town.

The one he had stood in front of that very afternoon on the Serenity.

"Only one of these paintings is by Madam Vernet," Sherlock gestured to the rest. "The others are all by the brilliant Tom Keating who fooled the British art world for so long and in so many ways," he said. Switching on the strange torch in his hand, he walked up to the first painting in the line, waving the light slowly and carefully across the painted surface. Nothing untoward was seen. Repeating the action across the surfaces of all the other paintings, with identical results, Sherlock paused, at last, in front of the single painting that all three men had said was the work of Sophia, he lifted the torch.

Almost immediately, a significant difference made itself known. Scrawled right across the centre of the painting, in large, faintly white letters was the word FAKE! Forming a moue with his lips, Sherlock tipped his head as he looked at Peterson. "Hardly the work of a mastermind bent upon remaining at liberty, would you say?" he observed. "The woman's work is easily good enough to hold its place among the very best the art world has to offer," he said, "and yet it is clear she had already decided to bring the heinous arrangement to a crashing end as soon as possible, a fact that will be confirmed by the French authorities who participated in the rescue of Madam Vernet's abducted parents from outside Marseille less than four hours ago."

Sophia's three accusers looked more than a little sunk. The fall-back plan had not gone at all according to its intended design.

"It was a guy in Whitehall," the tallest one, the British one muttered. "He showed me how it could all be done, said he knew of exactly the right person to use to make the paintings, said he could make her an offer she couldn't refuse, and he was right," the tall Briton raised his head, staring around. "She wouldn't do nothing while her parents were being held," he paused. "No idea how she knew the game was up ..."

"Vous salauds méchant!..." before anyone was able to stop her, Sophia had crossed the room and swung her booted foot squarely into the man's genitalia, fetching another one of her captors a furious backhander and was about to leap at the third with bared teeth just as John managed to step between them "Not quite the Geneva convention, I think," he murmured, holding her carefully out of range until the fury died away.

"Enough to be going on with, don't you agree?" Mycroft stepped forward, lifting the heavy coat from his arm and draping it around Sophia's shoulders. "I believe the real perpetrator of this little matter will be very quickly revealed, especially once forensics have tracked phone calls made and taken from the various locations we've already been able to identify."

Inhaling slowly, Peterson nodded. "Miss Vernet may go," he said, "though we will be needing to speak with her in due course," he added, watching as the elder Holmes steered the Frenchwoman towards the door. "Where will you be staying?"

"I will ensure Madam Vernet is provided with the best of accommodations," Mycroft waved his umbrella over his shoulder as he walked out. "I shall be in touch ..."

The room seemed suddenly empty. Mycroft and Sophia gone, the three kidnappers taken away far less gently, with Peterson and his agents following closely behind, no doubt itching to extract that final key name.

"What do you reckon Mycroft is going to do now?" John let his eyes rest on the empty doorway.

"He does so like to keep things in the family," Sherlock looked thoughtful. "I think he's going to make her an offer she can't refuse."

The end.