Chapter Two
A Brotherly Conversation – Anthea's Little Adventure – Uncle Sherlock – The Phone Call – Nigel Vaughn-Williams – A Preference for Scorpions – The Coherence of a Theory.
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It was at breakfast when Sherlock appeared at the townhouse, timing his arrival so that the meal would have been done with, but Mycroft would not have yet departed for Whitehall. The twins exchanged glances with each other, greeting their uncle with understated enthusiasm, and extracting a promise that Sherlock would speak with them before he left. In what had become a morning routine, they then turned to their father who handed over his newspaper without a word. Jules took it, murmuring thanks, and the two scampered into the front lounge without a backward glance.
Sherlock's raised eyebrow made Mycroft shake his head as the shadow of a smile curved his mouth. "They have competitions now to find words the other one doesn't know," his smile broadened. "Blythe has become so skilful at extemporising that I doubt Jules has realised his sister is cheating," he paused. "There will be a great gnashing of teeth when he discovers what she's been doing."
"And will he find out?" despite himself, Sherlock felt his mood oddly lightened at the thought of Mycroft's children behaving underhandedly.
"He may already know and be in the process of plotting her downfall," Mycroft opened his hands wide. "The sacrifice of a morning paper is the least of my problems," he sighed, but not unhappily.
After greeting their early visitor, Cate had retired to her office in the rear lounge to begin writing, leaving the brothers in peace; Sherlock had taken care to ensure there would be no other participant in the ensuing conversation and had refused even tea, in order that she leave them quickly. It was the refusal of tea that signalled his visit was a matter of import and Mycroft led the way to his office.
Waiting until the last door closed between them and the rest of the family, Sherlock's impatience was becoming obvious.
Sitting behind his desk, Mycroft fixed a calm gaze on his brother's face and blinked slowly. "Tell me," he said.
"I have reason to believe your life may be at risk," Sherlock's voice was low but certain.
"My life is frequently at risk," Mycroft was diffident. "It's why I have a permanent security team."
"A week ago a man was found dead in Regent's Park," Sherlock leaned forward in his seat resting his forearms on his knees. "He was sitting on a park bench screened by shrubbery and died relatively swiftly and silently in the middle of dozens of passers-by."
"I was aware of the death, Sherlock," Mycroft crossed his legs. "But I am still waiting for you to connect it to your visit this morning, though I cherish the event. Do get on."
"The dead man was Lionel Hammond, aged fifty-one and a senior civil servant working out of the Ministry of Defence in Spring Gardens," Sherlock continued his explanation.
Mycroft tilted his head slightly and closed his eyes. "This is not news, Sherlock."
"Hammond was wearing a dark three-piece suit purchased at Gieves and Hawkes; he was something of a well-known figure in the Service and was a man of regular habits and behaviour."
"Really, if you have only come here this morning to advise me that Her Majesty's Civil Service has unfortunately lost one of its senior and better-dressed administrative personnel, I agree, it's a very sorry tale, but I am yet to understand the reason for your appearance at such an hour," the elder Holmes sounded fractionally impatient himself.
"Mycroft, the man looked almost exactly like you," Sherlock sat back, a look of irritation crossing his face. "Did you know that?" he asked. "Did you know that this dead Whitehall flunky was possessed of features sufficiently similar to yours that he could have been your understudy," he paused, thinking. "Was he?"
"An understudy?" Mycroft shook his head. "We haven't gone in for that sort of thing since Churchill's time," he smiled mildly. "It was probably one of those... what do they call them?" Mycroft looked as if he were pondering the word. "Ah yes," he smiled again. "Coincidences," he added. "It must have been one of those," he added. "However, since no coincidence, no matter how fantastic, would have brought you here at breakfast, I find myself still waiting for an explanation of your presence," Mycroft's smile was sweetness itself.
"There have been another two deaths," Sherlock watched his brother's eyes for a reaction; any reaction. There was an almost indiscernible stilling of Mycroft's facial muscles.
"When?"
"Late yesterday. The first was discovered while the body was still warm, yesterday afternoon in St. James's Park, and the second late last night at Vincent Square."
"Cause of death?"
"Identical in all three cases," Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs, mirroring his brother. "Latrotoxin."
"Spider bite?" Mycroft's eyebrows lifted fractionally. "In London? How peculiar."
"More curious than you know," Sherlock leaned forward again. "On two counts. Firstly, the venom was hybridised."
"Really? With what?"
"Atraxotoxin."
"Nasty," Mycroft curled his upper lip in distaste. "Someone's being very naughty," he said. "Does Scotland Yard have any idea?"
"Scotland Yard rarely have any ideas, so I won't waste your time with their cris de coeur," Sherlock's lightning-fast smile appeared and vanished.
"You mentioned two counts?" Mycroft checked his Hunter. The PM had indicated he would appreciate a discussion some time before eleven.
Nodding, Sherlock stared at his brother's hand holding the heavy silver watch. "All three men looked like you," he said. "Not just vaguely similar, but so close to you in most general aspects and dress that anyone who knew you in a passing sense might not be able to differentiate between these men and you," Sherlock paused again, even more thoughtfully. "Sure they're not your understudies?"
"Positive," Mycroft rested his clasped hands beneath his chin and frowned.
"So who's out to get you?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair and likewise clasped his fingers in his lap.
"More than usual, you mean?" Mycroft sighed. "No new players that I'm aware of," he murmured, relaxing and sitting back in his chair. "I've no idea," he added. "Unless it's an old adversary returned from the great beyond."
"You still have old living adversaries?"
"One or two," Mycroft smiled slowly. "I keep them around for the occasional target-practice."
"One of them may be attempting to return the favour," Sherlock sounded philosophical. "In a most unpleasant way."
"Are you going to be assisting the police in their investigations?"
"Yes. John's gone to speak to an Arachnologist at the London Zoo."
"One of the world's largest scientific collection of spiders," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "And in Regent's Park."
"I doubt any connection between that fact and the first or subsequent deaths would be quite so obvious, given that we are dealing with the design of a serial killer, probably male, who works remotely through third parties in both the development and the implementation of the crime; who clearly knows of you, may even be known by you, and yet is determined not to become known to you as the instigator of these activities," Sherlock took a breath. "I am moving towards the conviction that these deaths are either in error or are a smokescreen," he said. "The man behind the crimes, whoever he is – balance of probability argues it's a man, no woman could bear the embarrassment of letting her agents pick the wrong face three times, or would kill three men to make a point; a woman would be far more direct – has embarked upon a definitive search and destroy where you are concerned," he added. "Either error or a smokescreen, but both suggests someone is working their way along a list of potential victims. How long, therefore, before his hired assassins find the real Mycroft Holmes? We are dealing with a very clever person," Sherlock pursed his lips, pondering. "Who, equally clearly, is after you."
"I'm hardly an intellectual slouch," Mycroft sniffed. "And forewarned is forearmed. I shall have words with my people."
"All three bodies were found in open spaces, municipal parks and the like," Sherlock frowned. "So that the weapon would not be discovered."
"Weapon?"
"A Black Widow spider, a weaponised Black Widow spider," the younger Holmes stared out of the several large windows facing onto the now-gated Grosvenor Square end of Culross Street. He wondered how much effort it had taken Mycroft to orchestrate that little coup. It was usually quiet around here, a world away from death and horror. For the sake of Cate and the twins, he was glad. This reminded him.
"I'll keep you informed," he said, standing. "In the meantime, I suggest the avoidance of London's delightful public gardens until further notice," he said.
"Duly noted," Mycroft nodded, lifting his phone and calling for the Jaguar. "Can I drop you anywhere?"
"Thank you, no," Sherlock opened the door. "I am summoned to an audience with the Extemporist and Teeth-Gnasher."
"Ah," Mycroft smiled brightly as he turned toward the rear lounge to confirm Cate's supper arrangements. "Best of luck."
###
It had been a longer night than she'd expected, but it had been amazingly successful; she had seen things, with her own eyes, that shouldn't have been possible. But they had happened and it was exciting and now she was half-asleep in the office with a man who missed nothing.
"Thank you," Mycroft's eyes flickered over her, sipping the tea she brought as she sank down into the visitor's chair, drinking from her own cup. He paused, considering his words.
"You know," he said delicately. "It is quite often the case that that which looks exciting and unusual on the surface is frequently prosaic and venal beneath," he paused again. "I might suggest, were I in any position to suggest anything, that you proceed in your little adventure with some caution," he looked up and met her dark eyes. "It is so hard to find good staff these days."
She froze momentarily. He knew?How did he know? How could he possibly know?
"Thank you, sir," Anthea smiled and finished her tea. "I shall bear that in mind," she said, pulling down the sleeve of her blouse over the tiny red mark on her inner wrist. There was no way he could know.
###
Sherlock was enroute to Baker Street, most of his mind running down ideas and hypothesising avenues of logical thought. By far the larger portion of his brain was already burrowing deep into the deducible psyche of the presumed and shadowy figure that lurked behind the recent attempts on his brother's life.
There was a smaller part of his genius intellect however, that was walking down quite a different pathway; the twins had asked him for help.
Upon completing the conversation with his brother, Sherlock left Mycroft's office and entered the much larger space of the townhouse's front lounge, an elongated room with two large windows at the front, the mirror image of those in Mycroft's office directly across the hall. Aside from the several long, modern sofas, chairs and occasional furniture arranged pleasingly around the space, there was still sufficient room to allow a fairly large open area in the centre of the room. This space was currently occupied.
Hearing the lounge door open, Blythe rolled away from the newspaper laid out in the middle of the room and sat up on her heels, waiting for her uncle to come in and listen to their problem. Sherlock stood just inside the door, closing it softly behind him as he took in the two small children now both giving him an unnerving level of attention.
They stared without blinking.
"You wanted to speak to me," he said, looking at them sideways. "Why?"
"Come and sit down, Uncle Sherlock," Jules also sat up, his bright hazel eyes waiting until the tall man in the dark suit came closer.
Selecting a chair off to one side of the room, Sherlock sat, waiting. Ever since the twins had been infants, they seemed to have an unnatural interest in him and he was still, at times, unsure why, or how long it might continue.
"Over here, please," Blythe patted the rug beside her.
"Grown-ups don't usually sit on the floor, you realise," he muttered, sinking down beside them, crossing his legs. "We like to pretend to be too old for such things."
"There's more room down here to practice swimming," Jules flung himself down and demonstrated a rather stylish breast-stroke.
"An argument I shall be sure to use the next time I am tasked for floor-sitting," Sherlock linked his fingers. "Now what was it you wanted to ask me?"
"How do you know we want to ask you anything?" Blythe looked at her uncle through narrowed eyes.
Narrowing his own eyes in response, Sherlock nodded. "Normally when I come here, you and Jules offer some manner of greeting, but this morning, both of you remained silent on the proviso I spoke with you prior to leaving. This can only mean that you have a reason to speak to me other than as a greeting. Since neither of you were expecting me to bring you anything or had arranged to give me anything, then the likelihood of a gift is out; that you are too young to require a loan, and are both unlikely as yet to be involved in a life of crime, then you have either witnessed an event you wanted to tell me about; you have a complaint to offer, or you wanted to ask me something. Since your father would have known of any disturbing event involving either of you, and due to the fact that he is embarrassingly fond of you both, would have informed me several minutes ago, thus it's not news of an event you wish to share with me. Neither of you have ever been the slightest bit reticent in the past about complaining vociferously, at the least provocation, about the smallest offensive detail, then it seems odd you would now require a private chat to complain about anything. Therefore, if it's not a greeting, a gift, the need of money, assistance with the police, something you saw, a complaint, then there remains only one alternative, ergo, you want to ask me something," he said. "What is it?"
Slitting her eyes to the point where vision must have been compromised, Blythe tightened her mouth. "We might have asked you to come and tell us a story, or to help us get a big book down from a high shelf or show us how to open the locked drawer in the sideboard that we lost the key for," she paused, the light of challenge in her eyes.
Jules took over. "Or we could have asked you in so we could show you the present we've got for Uncle John's birthday, or to watch me being a brilliant swimmer, or to read us from the book that mummy doesn't want us to read from yet."
"Which book?" Sherlock frowned as two small index-fingers immediately shot up to the high mantelpiece whereon rested a text emblazoned with the name of D.H. Lawrence. "John has a birthday?"
"Next Tuesday and we got him a big woolly scarf for winter and it's even nicer than yours," Jules nodded.
"But since it's obviously none of those things, I repeat my original question, what do you want?" Sherlock was entirely solemn.
After sharing a glance with each other, the twins met his gaze.
"We need a grown-up," Blythe folded her arms. "Uncle Sherlock," she added, pointedly.
"You have two parents," Sherlock folded his own arms. "I believe that would qualify either of them for the task."
"We want a grown-up who is not mummy or daddy," Jules clarified. "So people will know what we are saying is serious because they won't listen to us otherwise," he added in explanation.
"What people?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes again, leaning closer.
Blythe told him.
###
Cate's Samsung rang just as she was battling with an obstructive sentence; she'd rewritten the damn thing four times and it still didn't flow. The last thing she wanted now was to break her train of thought. She made a mental note to turn her phone off after the call.
"Good morning, Professor Adin-Holmes," the voice was male and mellifluous. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Well, I am right in the middle of something, actually," she hoped the call would be brief. "Who is this?"
"Only an admirer of your productions," the voice was strangely even, almost mechanical in its cadence. "All your productions," the voice continued. "Your books, your academic works, your life, your children ..."
A chilling surge wrapped her from head to foot as her stomach lurched. She stood, abruptly. "Who is this?" she demanded her voice suddenly breathless. "How did you get this number?"
"Best wishes for the new book, Professor Holmes," the voice remained unnaturally calm. "I'm sure we'll speak again. Until then ... Goodbye."
The connection fell silent as Cate held the phone to her ear with a clenched hand. Though nothing overtly threatening had been said, she felt as though she'd been assaulted. Leaving her desk, she ran down the hallway into the front lounge and flung open the door, only to see the twins both lying on the floor, their hands and faces liberally smeared with newsprint . They looked at her in surprise while her stomach shuddered with relief as she went to peer out of the window in case there was an unknown car, or there was anyone suspicious lurking around outside the house.
Of course, there wasn't, and Cate's heart rate started to descend. She hadn't felt this level of apprehension for a long time, and she was quite sure she didn't want to feel it again.
Smiling at the children who immediately went back to their reading, after locking the front door, Cate walked back to her office and sat, he knees suddenly weak.
There was only one thing she could do now; she rang Mycroft.
###
"This is an utter load of bollocks," the expression on Lestrade's face was little short of dire. "No way are you taking this from Serious Crimes," he protested. "Since when have MI5 ever given a flying fuck about a couple of corpses in a London park?" Greg was working himself up into a right paddy.
After an inexplicable power-cut during the night causing his clock-radio to expire, he had arrived at his office late that morning hoping to still have time to make a dent in the paperwork threatening to topple out of his in-box. He fancied he might be able to get a good couple of hours work in before the criminal class awoke and began a new day of larceny and reckless endangerment.
It was only when he swung through the door that he found a grey-suited stranger already sitting in front of his desk under the eagle-eye of an arm-folded and somewhat irritated Sally Donovan. His Copper's eye told his brain smartarse as the stranger was in the process of reading the papers piled on the desk. Upside down papers. Lestrade hated people who did that, especially people who had plonked themselves down in somebody's private office when said body was not yet present.
"He came in, flashed his ID and wouldn't say anything until you got here," Donovan was clearly unimpressed.
Grey-suited smartarse smiled; a particularly smarmy kind of smile, Greg felt his eyes narrow of their own volition. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office?" he asked. "My private office?" he took a breath. "What ID?"
"Good morning, Detective-Inspector Lestrade," the man rose and offered his hand – which, after a momentary desire to either ignore, or grab and twist up behind the man's back until he confessed something – Greg shook.
"My name is Vaughn-Williams," grey-suit said. "Nigel Vaughn-Williams and I've brought you a little bit of good news," he said, smiling even more repulsively than before.
"Really?" Lestrade sat heavily in his chair on the far side of the desk, unconvinced that anything good was likely to eventuate from this conversation, but still; you never knew. "What?"
"I come to relieve you and your sadly overworked team of a small amount of drudgery," Vaughn-Williams paused, his smile increasing in both wattage and unpleasantness. "The recent spate of unexplained deaths in London parks," he paused again. "Forget them; they are unimportant; my people are dealing with the matter now."
"And exactly who are your people?" Greg felt his chest tighten with genuine dislike for the man sitting in front of him. Maybe he should have his unwelcome visitor shown some good old Scotland Yard hospitality in an interview room for a few hours; perhaps even an intimate tour of the holding cells down in the basement?
Leaning forward, Vaughn-Williams slid an ID card across the desk between two stacks of expense requests.
Nigel Vaughn-Williams, Senior Information Officer, Military Intelligence.
"Senior Information Officer?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You a spook?"
Vaughn-William made a moue of distaste. "We prefer Operative," his smile flattened. "The other is so ... American."
"So what does a spook want with some odd spider-murders in London?" the Copper inside him was flailing his arms, jumping up and down trying to catch his attention. "If the deaths are so unimportant, why does MI5 want to take them away from the police? And if, as I am increasingly beginning to suspect, they are not unimportant at all, then what is the connection between these three dead men and Britain's domestic intelligence service?" Greg grinned suddenly as he saw Vaughn-William begin to frown.
However, his grin faded quickly as the MI5 operative recovered, a congenial expression returning.
"It makes no matter whatever you might or might not suspect," the MI5 man stated lightly. "You are to drop the case and we will take it from here."
"I'm not taking this lying down," Greg poked a stack of weekly statistical reports with an angry finger. "I'll lodge a complaint."
"With whom?" Nigel Vaughn-Williams, MI5 operative and all-round smug bastard, smiled amiably once more. "This has come from the top, dear boy; I'm merely delivering the message as a courtesy to our cousins in blue."
Sally Donovan was almost as incensed as her boss. "You can take your 'dear boy' and shove it right up ..."
"Yes, alright, Sergeant," Lestrade sucked down a hard breath as he calmed the hot churn of aggravation. He had a fairly good idea of who might be sitting at the top of this particular pyramid. "We'll follow this up in a sensible, considered and sensitive manner, a manner befitting the Metropolitan Police," he stood, smiling. It was an unpleasant little smile. "We're going to find out who, specifically, is responsible for this, and then, when we find out it's Mycroft Holmes, I'll ask him what the hell he thinks he's playing at."
So saying, Greg picked up his office phone and rang a number he'd only had to ring twice before, waiting for the man who had told MI5 to track down the murderer of tall, dark-haired Civil Servants.
###
John tapped an index finger softly against the thickened glass of the display tank, only to lean back a little as a large black tarantula reared up on its hind legs and waved a set of ferocious fangs in a vaguely threatening manner.
"Please don't upset them," the woman in a white lab coat with glasses pushed up onto the top of her head stood beside him and scowled. "They're very sensitive to noise and movement," she added.
"Spiders?" John smiled at her. "Great big hairy sensitive spiders?"
"It's how they locate and track their prey," the woman made a quiet clucking-sound as the spider relaxed back down onto all eights. "Helen Madly," she said, offering John her hand. "Doctor Helen Madly."
At John's increased grin, she rolled her eyes and looked weary. "Yes," she said gustily. "The mad doctor; say it now and get it off your chest."
"Sorry," he said, clamping down on the smile. "You have to be really fed-up with that."
"You have no idea," Doctor Madly folded her arms. "I'm the senior Arachnologist at Regent's Park Zoo," she said. "Some man from the police rang and said there would be a detective coming with questions about current and ongoing arachnid experimentation, especially genetic engineering. Is that you?"
Standing in one of the large and well-equipped laboratories house in buildings immediately adjacent to the London Zoo, John had the good grace to shrug. "I only work with the police," he said. "I'm not actually a detective; more of a consultant, really."
"Okay, consultant," Madly paused, waiting. "Fire away."
"Right, then," John pulled a small notebook from his pocket, fairly certain this conversation would involve words he'd need to be able to pronounce later. "What can you tell me about Black Widows?" he said. "Got any of them here?" he looked around, curiously.
"Theridiidae latrodectus?" the woman brightened. "Lovely things," she said, beckoning John over towards a long glass tank filled with gravel and grass and bits of twigs and small, flat stones.
As John leaned in closer to get a better look, he saw that it was also filled with a significant number of elegantly spindly black hour-glass shaped spiders, their shiny globular bodies hanging from fine webs scattered throughout the tank. He'd never seen a glass container filled with death before; it gave him a queer sensation.
"They're sexual cannibals, you know," Helen Madly lifted her eyebrows, smiling. "The females are about three times more deadly than the males and if their boyfriends can't escape immediately after mating, they often become an after-sex snack," she smiled again, happy in the knowledge. "The tensile strength of the Widow's silk is comparable to that of steel wire of the same thickness, although since the steel is more than six times as dense, then the silk is actually more than six times as strong," she added. "Brilliant, aren't they?"
"Brilliant," John felt his skin start to itch. It wasn't that he was frightened by the spiders as such, but they made him want to scratch for some reason. He'd take scorpions and the occasional Pit Viper over the eight-legged beasties any day. "How deadly are they?" he asked, bending down and watching one large specimen constructing a white silk case.
"The bite of the female would make you quite unwell," Madly looked at her visitor assessingly. "But probably wouldn't kill you unless you had a severe pre-existing and potentially fatal condition such as a heart problem," the Arachnologist tilted her head. "It could well be fatal to children and the elderly; anyone insufficiently strong to battle the toxin in their bloodstream. Animals, such as dogs and cats, monkeys, other small mammals, of course, would very likely die."
"What about a normally healthy middle-aged man, fairly fit and active, with no pre-existent medical condition," John asked. "Not dead?"
"Almost certainly not dead," Helen Madly shook her head. "Unwell, yes, absolutely, but not dead."
"What if the Black Widow venom had been combined with ..." he looked down at the notebook. "Atraxotoxin?"
The scientist looked horrified. "Who on earth would want to combine two of the world's deadliest organic toxins?" she asked, baffled. "Atraxotoxin comes from Atrax robustus, the Australian Funnel-Web spider, and again, the female is usually the more venomous because of her larger size," Madly still looked discomforted. "But for someone to deliberately admix these two venoms ..."
"We don't think it was the venom they mixed, actually," John grimaced. "There have been a series of deaths recently, each victim with a spider-bite on their hand, and an autopsy finding of both latrotoxin and atraxotoxin in the bloodstream. Any thoughts on how this might have happened, Doctor Madly?"
"Only one bite?" the scientist looked suspicious. "Quite sure there was only the one bite?"
"I've seen the autopsy report myself and I'm a qualified doctor, so ..., yeah; a single bite."
"How big was the bite wound?" Madly demanded. "About the size of a fifty-pence coin or more like the size of a shirt-button?"
"All three bites were of the smaller variety," John recalled the autopsy findings. The wounds had been relatively tiny.
"Then unless the Atraxotoxin was administered in some other form, or this is some sort of ghastly trick, someone has done the unthinkable, Doctor," Helen Madly was genuinely shocked. "Someone has genetically manipulated a Black Widow to develop venom glands capable of producing of both latrotoxin and atraxotoxin," she said, shaking her head at the idea of it. "The resultant mutation, assuming it could be done and result in a living spider, would be incredibly dangerous, easily able to envenom and kill an adult male human in good health."
"Do you know of any labs in Britain who might be playing around with this sort of thing?" John wondered if she knew, would she tell?
"No serious scientist would consider any such action for a moment," Madly shivered. "That sort of thing is the stuff of horror-fiction, not science."
"So not something you'd be into here, then?" John wanted to be sure.
The Arachnologist gave John a look that even Sherlock couldn't mistake for anything except outright affront. "No, it isn't," she announced in a flat voice.
"Looks like someone's gone and done it though," John made a face. "No inkling who might be into this kind of work?"
Madly shrugged. "A private lab, perhaps?" she asked, her expression faintly revolted. "Maybe something gruesome cooked up by the biological weapons school of thought?" she shook her head again. "Frankly, I'd rather not think about it; it gives me the willies."
Putting his shoulders back, John looked at the scientist's expression. If she was lying, then she was better at it than his flatmate. "As a doctor of the human variety," he smiled. "I recommend a nice cup of tea to remove the sensation. Where's the nearest café?"
###
Mycroft Holmes had just finished explaining to the PM why they could not open the vast network of old and abandoned tunnels and secret passageways still extant beneath the larger part of Whitehall and the City of London.
"Prime Minister, the issue of physical presence is not the key problem here," Mycroft's voice was at its most dulcet, "but rather one of security, both of the present and the future. It is not a matter of ingress that concerns me, but of egress."
"Allowing tourists into the tunnels is still a security issue?" the PM's voice was uncertain, as if he'd missed something but wasn't sure quite what. "Even with all the checks and limited numbers and vetted tour guides? Even with all these things, you still think it's a bad idea?"
"Sir, how many entrances do you think there are into the subterranean passages?" Mycroft sighed. He disliked the effort it took to persuade any politician against the merits of giving the public everything they wanted, especially when it was a popularist provision and the recipients were all registered voters.
There was something of a pause as the PM considered the question. "Not really clear on that number," he said. "Several dozen, probably."
"There are currently one hundred and fifty-six viable entrances to the tunnels on the north side of the river alone," Mycroft allowed his tone to harden slightly. "Not counting the tunnels that travel beneath the Thames."
"So many?" the PM was clearly surprised.
"Each tunnel has both an entrance and an exit, Prime Minister," the elder Holmes sighed inwardly. "A large number of these exist in places neither of us would want members of the public to access."
"Such as where?" the PM was not giving up such a good idea without a fight.
"Such as in both Houses of Parliament, the London Tower, Charing Cross Station, several in the Temple area and in Downing Street."
"There's an entrance in Downing Street?" Great Britain's most senior minister sounded appalled.
"It's also an exit, Prime Minister," Mycroft smiled in the silence of his office. "Accessible to anyone loose in the tunnels ... who knows what might come popping out of a cupboard at Number Ten?"
"Your point is made, Holmes," the PM's voice lost its previous enthusiasm. "Yet it seemed such an excellent idea when I heard of it."
"Might I inquire from whom the idea derived?" Mycroft felt it would be judicious to have a little chat with which ever Staffer had come up with such an ill-considered notion.
There was another pause. "Do you know, I can't actually remember," the PM sounded genuinely vague. "Someone mentioned they'd had a discussion with someone who knew about the passageways and thought how marvellous it would be for everyone to see more of London's heritage ... haven't got a clue who it was, though."
"It's of no matter," Mycroft felt his instincts prickle. Something was not right. "But should the suggestion reappear, I'd be most interested in meeting its originator."
Replacing the phone on his desk, Mycroft sat back in his chair, fingers steepled and an expression of intense deliberation on his face. The matter of opening the tunnels was innocuous enough, albeit thoughtless. That this was the latest piece of imprudence to have taken his attention in the last several days gave him pause for thought. There had been the affair of the Turkish diplomats meeting in the Palace of Westminster, requiring a massive security exercise and support; the question of the forged resume of the footman on the Queen's household, necessitating a complete review of all staff bona fides as well as an extensive re-evaluation of the entire royal employees recruitment policy. There had also been the small problem of the Common's Chief Whip's inexplicable liaison with the Ukrainian model; an indiscreet bit of nonsense that neither the man, happily-married, with three teenaged children, nor the woman herself, a reasonably successful mannequin for the Eastern European shoe industry, had any real understanding. It had been one of those things.
Mycroft frowned. He disliked such abstraction in his responsibilities. If he was a suspicious man, he might even imagine these difficulties had been manufactured to distract him. From what?
His mobile phone rang. Lestrade. With a short breath, he took the call. "Inspector? How pleasant to hear from you again. Is this about my brother?"
"No, Mycroft, it's about you getting your lapdogs at MI5 to try and take the Park murders away from my Division," the Londoner's voice was acrid with frustration. "Why on earth did you imagine that Scotland Yard could not do its job properly in this instance beats me," he added. "I always knew you could be a high-handed sod when the mood took you, but to simply have someone appear and tell me the entire thing's a fait accompli is neither encouraging of inter-service co-operation nor entirely ethical," Lestrade paused for breath.
Taking advantage of a momentary break in Lestrade's tirade, Mycroft's voice was oddly quiet. "Was my name specifically mentioned by whichever lapdog gave you the message?"
"No, it wasn't," Greg Lestrade was honest enough to admit it. "But who other than you would have either the interest or the clout to pull something like this off?" he demanded. "And given the nature of the crime, who else would have a greater desire to see the case solved and closed?"
"It was not I who gave the instruction to intervene, Inspector," Mycroft's instincts, previously prickling, were now fully roused and looking around for trouble. "I will make inquiries," he added, ending the call.
Almost immediately he put the Nokia down onto his desk, it rang again. With a less discreet sigh, he picked it up, but relaxed when he saw it was Cate. Wondering if she'd changed her plans for the evening, he opened the call.
"Hello, Darling," he smiled the words. "Everything is well?"
"No, Mycroft; everything is not well," her words was tense and troubled.
The pitch of her voice was sufficient in itself to have him sitting upright, everything now at high alert. "What is it?" he maintained an even tone.
"I've just had a frightening phone call from a complete stranger who seems to have all sorts of information about me and my work and the children. He didn't say anything specifically threatening, but it was the way he spoke that makes me feel awful, Mycroft, really uncomfortable." In a few seconds, she relayed the contents of the conversation.
"You and the children are safe?" Mycroft rose to his feet, pressing an intercom key on the desk phone that took him directly to the CCTV monitoring centre. He could have an emergency response team there in less than five minutes if the situation warranted it, but in the meantime, he wanted to see. "There is no attack?"
"No, no attack, my love," he could hear Cate's suppressed concern. "The twins are fine and there's no unusual activity outside in the road, but Mycroft, who would say such things to me? Why?"
"I don't know, my darling, but stay exactly where you are an I'll have my people contain the area until I can be sure our security has not been breached, and I'll also have your incoming calls monitored if you don't mind, just to be safe."
"Anything to stop another call like that," Cate was beginning to relax; he could hear it in her tone. "I'll cancel the lecture tonight and stay here with the children."
"Don't cancel, my love," Mycroft had her call on speaker and was already sending out several rapid directions by email to various key personnel. "Carry on exactly as normal with Nora and the twins; I have additional security at the house already and for you when you leave; the entire street will be monitored as well as our external communications for a while. Everything will be fine, I promise."
When Cate was relaxed enough to end the call, Mycroft laid the slim black phone on his desk and stared at it, his thoughts racing, testing swathes of scenarios and situational permutations.
A theory began to cohere in his mind. It was bizarre, but yet ... He wouldn't have to wait long to see if his reasoning was correct.
Almost as if on-cue, all hell broke loose as every alarm and alert siren in the building went off simultaneously, the resultant cacophony enough to make him wince in discomfort and cover his ears with his hands.
His office door opened as Anthea poked her head around the jamb.
"Sorry to disturb," she smiled faintly. "But they've just found bomb in the mail-room with your name on it."