The Judas Diary

As soon as I heard Bonneville utter the words "It's good to have another Merton man in the department," I should have realised a bombshell was about to land. I should immediately have feigned a disabling limp, a dizzy spell ... early onset bewilderment. But no. I was far too smart for that. Instead, I lifted my eyebrows, looked mildly interested and said nothing.

"I need you to return to our alma mater," Sir David continued, lighting a cigarette and giving me a speculative stare as he relaxed back behind his desk. "A reunion of sorts, which provides you with a perfectly obvious reason to be there. I need someone to do some legwork at Oxford University and on this occasion, it's not going to be me."

###

It had been a little over a year since I had completed my Masters at Merton and moved to London to work as a deputy to Bonneville's Directorship. So very much had happened in the last twelve months that I hardly recognised myself as the same man who'd arrived in Whitehall still wet behind the ears. In the time since I fell off the Oxford train, half delirious from lack of sleep and overwork, I'd learned all manner of skills, official and otherwise and had used them variously though not always happily. I was only now beginning to realise that the role for which Sir David was preparing me was a great deal bigger and significantly darker that he'd first led me to understand.

"Legwork?" I cocked an eyebrow. The word was shorthand in the department for anything which required one of us to venture out into the chilly reality of the world beyond the office. Usually, it also meant doing things on the QT; third-class travel, miserable hotels and often, something nasty at the end of it all. In the year I'd worked with Bonneville, I'd experienced a few daytrips after being taught how to look after myself, though I'd not yet had cause to use that particular skillset. Not yet. Legwork in Oxford suddenly sounded unappealingly ominous. But still; it was Oxford. How bad could it be?

"When?" It was 1991, nearly the end of March and the British weather was bloody atrocious. It had been the coldest winter for years and the snow from last month's huge storm was still with us. Ten people had died so far from the extreme cold and trains and flights all over the country were being cancelled daily in the sub-zero temperatures. I had my own, larger office now. It was warm and nicely carpeted and had a window with a view. That the view consisted of a dead tree and the building opposite was neither here nor there. It was a pleasant, comfortable office where I could exercise my mind and not the soles of my feet. I hoped Bonneville was about to say July. Oxford is glorious in July.

"Next week," he puffed serenely on his cigarette. "The operation begins at Henley." His smile became shamefully artless. Henley at the end of March signified only one thing and I realised I was probably going to freeze to death before the week was out. Henley-on-Thames in March meant the Boat Race, where Oxford and Cambridge each fielded a coxed-eight and fought out an almost two-hundred-year-old rowing race on the Thames between Putney and Mortlake. I'd actually watched the racing shells of the two blues once during my time as a fresher at Oxford and it was barely interesting the first time. I closed my eyes briefly and wondered if Gieves and Hawkes sold thermal underwear.

"Of course," my developing savoir faire mustered a polite smile. I would go to an icy doom with at least the same fortitude as Captain Oates. "What's the operation?"

"I want you to meet an old friend of mine at Henley," Sir David pushed an ancient photograph across the desk; its colours so faded that red looked like brown. It had to have been taken at least twenty years before, when men wore shirts of alarming florality with dangerously pointed collars. A tall individual in his thirties with a sweep of blond hair and uncomfortably tight trousers, grinned white teeth at the camera. "His name is Judas Fisher and he has a diary for sale," Bonneville inhaled more of the fragrant smoke and looked thoughtful. "I would like to have that diary, though Judas might need a little persuading to give it to me."

Who in their right mind, I wondered, would burden their child with such a name?

Reading my thoughts with his usual ease, Bonneville looked contemplative. "His parents named him Jude; he changed the name himself when he became involved in the intelligence industry."

"Something of a giveaway, surely?" I murmured, still examining the photograph. By his stance, Fisher fancied himself as something of a charmer. The exotic flora in the background of the picture and the obvious ease of his body language in such an environment suggested the man was South African and, observing the obvious financial paucity of his situation, must have won a scholarship to Oxford, as he certainly lacked the wherewithal to pay his way. Given Bonneville's acknowledgement of him as 'an old friend', Fisher had, like Sir David and myself, studied at Merton. If Fisher was clever enough to be Bonneville's friend and had managed to avoid an untimely work-related demise, then it was probably a Rhodes scholarship, which made him a very smart man indeed.

"He made it his stock-in-trade," Sir David shook his head, a smile on his mouth. "Judas became so overt in his activities and so promiscuous in his undercover services that nobody knew with whom he might be working at any given time. Rumour has it that on at least one occasion he had the Russians and the Americans lined up with identical contracts in the same hotel in Istanbul," Bonneville grinned. "In adjacent rooms, in fact."

"And in all this time, nobody has taken it upon themselves to visit retribution upon Mr Fisher?" I was curious. If the photo had been taken in the nineteen-seventies, then the man had to be at least in his fifties or even early sixties by now. If Fisher had been involved in espionage gamesmanship all this time, there had to be an uncounted number of parties who would gladly see him dead and gone. What magic trick had kept him alive?

"Judas has a diary," Sir David interrupted my pondering. "A very detailed, meticulously-written record of every shady deal, every double-agent and corrupt official, every contract, phone conversation and every payment he has ever witnessed, heard of or been involved with, even in a peripheral capacity. The secrets that document could reveal would be of incredible value, even after all this time. To be able, finally, to connect the dots and draw lines of accountability from one faction to another ..." he inhaled deeply and shook his head. "It would answer unnumbered questions and put many unresolved concerns to bed once and for all and be of immense use to whoever held it."

"And of immense embarrassment to everyone who didn't," I observed.

"Quite," Bonneville raised his eyebrows and carefully stubbed out his cigarette.

"And Judas Fisher is going to be at Henley for the boat race?"

"He is," Sir David pursed his mouth. "His son rows for University College under his mother's name. Judas is planning to sell the diary to fund his child's set up in London once the boy's completed his finals. Apparently, there is to be something of an auction in Oxford after the race."

That 'the boy' and I were probably the same age struck me as mildly ironic.

"And do we know who else might be interested in the diary?" I asked speculatively. If it were half as important as Bonneville was suggesting, we weren't going to be the only ones making a play for it. The very next question in my head of course was that if Sir David was such an old friend, why not simply offer to buy the document outright and be done with it?

"All the major players, certainly; pretty much everyone who knows of its existence," Sir David smiled his innocent smile again. "Judas won't let me buy it privately on a point of principle, I've already asked but he insists that everyone should have the opportunity."

An experienced and resourceful agent with egalitarian principles? Curiouser and curiouser.

"And you expect me to be successful?" I was already compiling a list of different methods by which I might achieve such a goal. "How much are you prepared to pay for it?"

Bonneville pursed his lips and inhaled thoughtfully. "Up to ten," he said, eventually.

"Ten thousand?" I doubted it would suffice.

"Ten million," Sir David fixed me with his steady grey eyes. "This is important, Mycroft," he raised his eyebrows at me. "Do not bollox it up."

A covert auction of a lethally dangerous diary in Oxford on Boat Race Day with a bidding limit of ten million against the world's intelligence community? It would be a walk in the park.

###

I wasn't going to be carrying the money with me; nobody could cart that amount of hard cash around without looking suspicious. There would obviously be a Swiss bank account involved at some point into which the complete payment of the successful bid would be wired on completion of the transaction. I had been to a number of auctions with Mummy in her eternal, yet tedious hunt for antique Spode teapots, so I knew the basics, though the idea of bidding into the millions for something was vaguely exciting. I briefly wondered why Bonneville wanted me to handle the operation; there were any number of more experienced people in the department that could have done it. Then I realised this was another of Sir David's little tests; each one stretching me in a different direction; sink or swim, Mycroft.

It turned out that for once, I wasn't going to be shivering in some second rate bed-and-breakfast that served cold toast and warm gin. Clearly I might be called upon to make some sort of personal impression thus not only did I land a suite at the Old Bank Hotel, a beautiful place in the heart of Oxford, but on this occasion I also merited a car and driver; a big black shiny Jaguar and a large ex-Irish Guard by the name of Eddie. I confess, though for a moment only, I wished I had reason to go and visit my parents.

The weather remained foul even as Eddie and I made the relatively swift jaunt up to Oxford to claim my hotel room which would, had it not been sleeting so heavily, have possessed a lovely view of Oxford's dreaming spires. Once our rooms were confirmed, we turned the car around and headed down the Henley Road. Normally, the trip would take half the time it took to drive up to Oxford but with the weather being unspeakably vile, it took almost two hours to wend our way safely through thawing snow drifts interspersed with stretched of brown slush and patchy ice. Given the frequent awfulness of the British weather at this time of year, whoever had the idea that an annual challenge race in March would be fun was patently insane; some arse from Cambridge, no doubt. Despite the national weather doing its best to hurl us into a ditch, we managed to arrive at Henley just before lunch.

Naturally, the place was a madhouse, no doubt the precise reason Judas Fisher had chosen this location as the pre-auction meet; somewhere too busy for any overt shenanigans. Fortunately, Eddie seemed to know precisely where to go and manoeuvred the big car along Church Avenue until the ancient Norman church of St Mary's came into sight. Despite there being a large sign advising the carpark in front of the church was under repair and not to be used, there were already a selection of parked and empty cars; I noted each number-plate in passing. Eddie was in the process of moving the 'keep out' sign into a more prominent position as I exited the Jaguar, uncertain as to the orders he'd been given. Was he to stay with the car or ...

"After you, Mr Holmes," he smiled lightly. That he was an ex-boxer with unarmed combat skills, carrying a gun strapped to his left side and a second weapon against his left calf made his insouciance all the more reassuring. Though Bonneville make sure I'd been trained to shoot, he'd not yet felt it necessary to arm me; perhaps he thought if I had a weapon, I'd be tempted to jump into dangerous situations. Or perhaps he didn't consider me a good enough shot. Either way, the issue was moot. I didn't need a gun if I had Eddie; Bonneville had chosen him as both my offence and defence.

The church was chilly and unwelcoming and the scent of old wood and candle smoke seeped out through the door as we walked inside, footsteps hollow on the stone flags. The Nave was wide and heavily ornamented with carved and painted stone arches and there were uncomfortable-looking wooden pews in rows on either side of the central aisle. Several of the long benches were already tenanted. I knew without a doubt I would be the youngest of all the players on this particular stage, not that it concerned me in the least, though it was a fact worth exploiting to my advantage. Men my age were usually stereotyped as inexperienced novices and I allowed the faintest faint frown of anxiety to compress my mouth. Let them think me afraid and nervous.

Eddie played his part perfectly, as if he already knew what was expected of him, which he may well have done. Sir David wouldn't have chosen him to be my, ah, driver without sound reason. As I walked down the length of the Nave, I heard his light footsteps behind me, pausing as I came to an empty pew. I turned and met his gaze. He blinked slowly and stood with his arms at his sides, turning to face back towards the entrance once I was seated. I could already feel several curious pairs of eyes focusing on me.

There were eight other men in the church. Three of them looked like Eddie-clones and undoubtedly, that was their function. At this point, they were non-critical. The remaining five were a mixed bag of characters, three of whom I already knew by sight.

The man in the pew directly across the Nave from me was Pavel Zima; a senior Cultural Attaché based at the Russian embassy in Kensington. I knew him well enough by sight as he was a regular in the intelligence reports Bonneville had me analyse each week. In his fifties and still remarkably fit, Zima would look at me and see only a gangling youth, which was exactly what I wanted him to see. One bench closer to the door from Zima was Danik Ramanchuk from the Belarussian State Security Commission; he was in his forties and seemed particularly amused by my appearance. I'd not seen him in the flesh before but I'd heard he was an unpleasant man, rumoured to be a stalwart of the KGB. The third face I recognised belonged to Earl Lombard, a very well-dressed and very senior analyst in the CIA; I'd actually met him briefly several months before during a social bash at the American embassy in Grosvenor Square and wondered if he might remember me, though I doubted it. This left two strangers in the church against whom I'd have to bid and I disliked the notion of bidding against the unknown.

Focusing my gaze swiftly on the man sitting two pews behind me, it was clear his clothing, a very decent suit of Italian origin and most probably Zegna, was on the cutting-edge of acceptable dandification. His jet-black hair, dark eyes and the fact that he had a gold signet ring on his little finger made from an ancient Roman Tremissis also suggested the Apennine Peninsula. It was his tie though, clearly a Viola Milano, that gave him aware as entirely Roman and its wearer a member of Italy's Agentzia Esterna. The last man, sitting furthest away from me was harder to read. He was tall, Caucasian, ashy-blond and tanned. His overcoat was business-like but nondescript and his face professionally impassive. There was nothing I could see ... wait. Another tie. I made a mental note to wear a wider variety of ties in the future so that I'd never be read as easily as these men. The blond man's dark-green tie was not new but it was the tiny embroidered gazelles, no, not gazelles ... Springbok ... that gave the game completely away. The tie of the South African national rugby team. It looked very much as though Judas Fisher had some home-grown support, though I wasn't sure he'd appreciate it much.

So; Russia, America, Belarus, Italy, South Africa and Britain. I wasn't sure how much Ramanchuk might have to spend, but neither the US nor the recently defunct USSR would be happy underbidders. I assumed the Italian was acting on behalf of the European agencies, which meant he might have a considerable purse at his discretion and it was entirely on the cards that the South African might bid something other than money. A chance to come home, all sins forgiven, perhaps? Would that be enough for someone like Judas Fisher? I wondered if we would get to meet him here and now in this cold little church, or if this gathering was a ploy to psyche us all out, after all, he did rather enjoy playing games. My question was answered as the main entrance swung open and the man of the hour walked in, rugged up against the cold, with his old Merton college scarf wrapped jauntily around his throat, still bright cerise despite the years he'd had the thing.

Looking remarkable untroubled by the situation, Fisher strolled down the aisle, his bright blue eyes pausing on each of us in turn. He hesitated a little longer when he came to me, though whether that was because of my youth or because he knew I represented Bonneville, I have no idea. His smile seemed genuine, but he'd had an awful lot of practice.

"Gentlemen," Judas Fisher raised his voice and spread his palms wide. "Thank you for coming to my little party on such an unpleasant day, I appreciate the effort, believe me. The auction for my diary will begin in exactly ..." he checked his wristwatch, "twenty-one hours' time in Oxford. I will have the item with me for the successful bidder, however in order to participate, I require a show of good faith from the serious bidders," his smile never wavered.

"Good faith?" Zima sounded vaguely bored. "What kind of show?"

"I know everyone here has access to the new electronic mail that Berners-Lee recently released from CERN," Fisher nodded. "I am sending each of your departments a message via this e-mail which contains the necessary details to deposit a sum of one million American dollars into a numbered account in Switzerland. I will be in direct contact with my financial advisor in the interim, and unless I receive your opening bid within the next twelve-hours, you may consider yourself uninvited from the party. However, once the deposit has been made, I will send you a second message with details of the precise location and time of the auction and how to get there." Nobody moved, though a look of disgust crossed the Belarussian's face. It seems Danik Ramanchuk wasn't overly impressed. The man's eyes flickered briefly towards Zima though the gesture was so fleeting, I almost missed it.

"You expect us all to give you a million dollars on your word alone that you have such a diary?" He made no pretence at understanding. "I have never seen this thing; how do I know it is worth anything, let alone a million dollars?"

"An excellent question," Fisher nodded, his smile apparently without limit. "In the first message I'm sending to each of your respective offices, I'll also include a two-page excerpt of a specific incident your various governments with undoubtedly find most interesting," he lifted his eyebrows. "There will be no other communication until we meet again in Oxford," he nodded, glancing at each of us again. "Until tomorrow, gentlemen," the blond man, his hair already running to grey, turned and walked jauntily back through the entrance as if he'd just popped in to examine the Norman carvings.

I knew Bonneville would sanction the initial payment without a qualm, though I was curious as to what diary excerpt Fisher would use to accompany his account number. Something from the cold war days, or something a little more recent? Judas Fisher would surely be aware of Sir David's involvement, so perhaps something of particular interest for him? There was little point staying in the church any longer and so I stood and walked smartly towards the entrance, looking neither left nor right as I did. Let the rest of them examine each other's faces to see who was willing to pay the piper.

Given the chill in the air and the fact that it was going to be a very long day, one way or another, I felt both Eddie and I would do better with something warm inside us and, once we were back in the car, kept my eyes open for a reasonable-looking café or restaurant. There were several that seemed passable but they were all full at this time of day with all the crowds down for the regatta. I remembered a little, out-of-the way place that used to be a hangout of students and I gave Eddie directions. Away from the centre of town, it was also away from the bustle and traffic. The Jaguar slid easily into a parking space and the both of us headed inside. A licenced restaurant, it had a variety of seating; tables in an open central section, high-walled booths around the perimeter and small, high tables and chairs near the bar. Discretion always being the better part of valour meant that I headed immediately towards an empty booth towards the rear of the restaurant, allowing Eddie to take the seat facing the door in order that he could do his job without interference. The waiter departed after taking our order, and I pulled my phone from an inner pocket.

"Sir David," I was put through immediately. "As a show of good faith, Fisher requires one million dollars to be in a Swiss bank before midnight," I said, omitting the usual politenesses. "He's going to send a message to us via the new electronic mail system with an excerpt from the diary to prove his bona fides," I added. "You may want to check who's on computer reception this afternoon as they might see something you'd rather remained unseen."

"And the auction proper?" Bonneville wasn't much for chit-chat either.

"Tomorrow morning in Oxford. I'd give good odds it will be in Merton's grounds somewhere," I said. "Judas Fisher is clearly sentimental about the place; it's where I would have chosen."

"And the other bidders?"

"Zima, Ramanchuk, Lombard. There's a dapper Italian, early forties, probably belongs to Agentzia Esterna, and a tall South African who likes his rugby."

Bonneville was silent for a moment as he thought.

"Did the Italian wear a heavy gold signet ring?"

"Yes; left hand, small finger."

"Luca Alessi," Bonneville was positive. "Smart bugger; used to be a political analyst for the UN before they caught him tweaking orders for the peacekeepers. He works for the Belgian State Security Service out of Brussels," he said. "The other a South African, you say?"

"Dresses like one, looks the type," I murmured down the phone. "Never seen him before though."

"Could be one of a number of possibilities," Bonneville sounded vaguely dismissive. "I'll make enquiries and let you know."

"There is one other thing," I said slowly. "Zima and Ramanchuk."

"Yes?" I could tell Sir David was listening carefully.

"There's something going on between them; they may even be contemplating removing the seller from the sale."

"I see," Bonneville sounded meditative. Obviously, if neither the Russian or the Belarussian could have the diary, perhaps they'd agreed that nobody else would. Eliminate the seller and who knows where the diary might go?

"I assume you'll arrange the deposit?" I said.

"Of course, as soon as we get the message," Sir David seemed almost blasé about the job. Perhaps he was used to authorising multi-million pay-outs. That one day I might be in the same position was mildly intriguing, though what I might ever want vast sums of money for was a mystery.

"Are you going directly to Oxford now?"

"Thought I'd stay and catch the race," I looked about the restaurant. "The auction isn't until tomorrow morning and I never really enjoyed the race while I was a student; thought I might give it one more go to be on the safe side. If Fisher's son is rowing, it's likely he'll be hanging around as well. It might be an idea for someone to be watching his back, as it were."

"Of course, Mycroft," Bonneville sounded as if he were nodding. "Let me know if you see ... anything. I'll be in touch once the deposit has been made."

The line went dead.

Almost at that precise moment, the waiter returned with a large plate of unexciting fettuccine Alfredo for Eddie and a smaller bowl of a risqué lobster bisque for me. While I was waiting for the inevitable pepper to be ground and the usual niceties to be over, I heard a babble of voices raised in the opposite corner of the restaurant, students, most likely; this place always did attract us ... the younger element, with its warm interior and solid meals. There were ripples of laughter and a rising wave of raucous joshing. It was becoming something of an irritation when the noise suddenly subsided as a single voice made itself heard above the general clamour.

"Which is why," said the voice, "you always check the balls of their thumbs."

I closed my eyes briefly, my hunger suddenly evaporating. What the hell was my brother doing in Henley on today of all days?

###

There was little hope of escaping observation; Sherlock was indefatigable when it came to noticing things other people preferred unseen. Still, there was a small possibility Eddie and I might remain invisible when Sherlock and his little clique departed en masse. Of course, I was acutely intrigued by the fact that my brother had actually found himself a group in the first place. If there were anyone less likely than he to form simultaneous friendships with multiple persons, I had yet to hear of it. It wasn't that Sherlock was unable to be personable when he chose to be, but rather that he never really saw the point of it. If he gained so little from personal interaction, he automatically assumed that nobody else did either. As a child, he tolerated people only because Mummy, on countless occasions, threatened to cut his pocket money if he didn't. Now that he had been at Cambridge for over a year, I somehow doubted such a threat would hold much sway. So what was he doing in Henley with a bunch of other students on Race Day? Eddie had observed my grimace but initially said nothing, though I saw his eyes flickering around the increasingly crowded restaurant. If only he would remain silent until we left ...

"Something wrong, Mr Holmes?"

Damn.

"No," I bent my head to the soup. "Just thinking."

There was an increase in the decibel-level from the far side of the room and I ventured a brief hope that my brother's little band were on their way out. It was only when I heard a single set of footsteps crossing the floor towards out booth that I knew the game was up.

"Hello, Sherlock," I said, not lifting my head.

"Someone you want to talk with, Mr Holmes?" Eddie was nothing if not solicitous. Bonneville had picked me a nanny as well as a bodyguard.

"Not really," I smiled at the older man. "Though I doubt I'll have any choice in the matter; my brother, Sherlock," I announced, sitting back and meeting my younger brother's eyes for the first time in almost a year.

"I'll just park myself over here then," Eddie was politeness epitomised as he moved himself and his lunch to an adjacent table. "Give you some privacy." With barely a glance, Sherlock slipped into Eddie's vacated seat and folded his arms on the table, leaning forward to stare at me.

A year had changed him quite significantly. Even though Sherlock had only recently turned eighteen, his face already held the refined lines of the adult man he would become. His eyes and skin were clear though I felt I detected ... something in the lines around his mouth. He was far too young to have yet turned to a life of dissolution and vice, so I put the feeling out of my thoughts. As usual, his hair was too long and he was wearing the oddest assortment of clothing; jeans and a Cambridge light-blue rugby shirt under a black suit jacket. What might have happened to the remainder of the suit I preferred not to ask, but it was a decent jacket. Perhaps he was trying to fit in with the crowd.

"Hello Mycroft," he lifted a piece of the bread that had accompanied my soup and dipped it in the bowl before nibbling the result. Stealing others' food was a precociously vile habit he'd learned at home and because he so rarely ate anything like a proper meal, we tended to indulge him. I brought my soup spoon smartly down on the back of his hand.

"If you want soup, order your own," I said, wiping the bowl of the spoon on my napkin before continuing to eat.

"Mr Holmes, is it?" he stage-whispered, leaning forward again. "Here on business?"

The very last thing I wanted was my vexatious little brother involved in anything to do with Judas Fisher. I remained utterly silent and continued to eat my lunch.

Sherlock simply sat and stared.

"Aren't you afraid you'll lose track of your ... friends?" I sipped another spoonful of the rapidly cooling bisque, though I had little appetite for it now.

"Hardly friends," Sherlock leaned back, continuing to nibble the bread. "An experiment I'm trialling to see how radically people change their attention spans in different sized conversational groups," he shrugged. "I don't even know their names." He smiled and dropped the crust back onto the plate. "Anyway, I'm far more interested in what you're doing here, dressed up like a City banker, with your Minder close at hand," he flicked his eyes across to Eddie. "Something to do with spies and espionage, is it?"

I stopped pretending to eat.

"If you are unable to display even the slightest level of adult discretion, I will have no compunction about calling the local police and having you detained indefinitely," I growled. "This is not a game, Sherlock."

His entire face brightened. "So it is something to do with your work," his grin was impossible. "Oh, do let me come with you and help, whatever it is you're doing," he looked suddenly young again; a lanky fourteen year-old, falling over his own feet.

"Sherlock ..." I shook my head, unable to find the words. "This really is not some sort of fun-experience that you can simply come along and join in," I shook my head again, exasperated. "There are very serious things at stake here."

Throwing himself back against the padded seat, my brother's eyes narrowed and glittered as he went into full analytical mode. I sighed inwardly; there was little chance I'd be able to get rid of him now unless some distraction took him elsewhere.

"It's cold and miserable and you hate this kind of weather," he murmured, almost to himself. "You have no earthly interest in the Boat Race, so there's no logical reason you'd be in Henley on this particular day unless there was a very pressing reason," he began to read me like a book. "You're here with some very high-quality muscle masquerading as your driver, which means you also have a car worthy of such an indulgence," his eyes flicker over my suit. "You're wearing a relatively new suit, looks like a Poole," he added assessingly. "You want to look good, affluent and adult beyond your years," he added thoughtfully. "You're down here to meet someone, or several someones," he nodded. "You don't want them to think you young and inexperienced," Sherlock began to grin again. "You're up to no good at all, brother mine, so tell me all, or I'll simply have to trail you for the rest of the day until I find out for myself."

I reminded myself that the minimum penalty for premeditated murder was fifteen years.