The Brother on My Back
Chapter 3.
Snapping off the recorder, Ian stared in consternation. "Sherlock."
The boy was wide eyed. "What?"
After reaching a bit, Ian settled with: "A bit…unseemly."
The boy's eyes widened further. With a warning glance Ian started the recorder -Go on with your tale.
"Right. The next morning, Victor's grandpa and mother joined us for breakfast, but no one spoke of the night before. In fact, no one said anything at all. We simply ate and went out to shear.
"It was hot. Again. And there were more tourists and lots more flies and everything still stank! We weren't done until three o'clock that afternoon, and by then, we were sweaty and itchy. Victor's mother said we should swim; Victor had extra shorts."
Swimming? In February?
"It was twenty-three outside! Oh- Do you prefer Fahrenheit? Antiquated system, but old people like it. That's seventy-three point four degrees Fahrenheit."
Now see here-
"And twenty-eight in the barn. Eighty-two point four Fahrenheit! Certainly hot enough to swim! As we dressed, we heard Victor's grandfather saying, 'Bloody dogs-! Oh, Percy. How bad is it?' They were in the kitchen, but we could hear them."
All right-
"Percy mumbled something, and Victor's grandfather said, 'Oh, God. That's bad.' I wanted to listen on, but Victor said we must go, and we crept out the back.
"I asked Victor what was going to happen, and he said, 'Grandpa will save him. He always does, but it's never enough for Uncle Percy. He's horrible.'
Oh, dear.
"When we were done swimming, we went back in, changed, had dinner, and Victor showed me the north tower and the museum. It was all very old, and quite excellent, especially the tower because you could climb to the top and see so far!
"But when we got to their library, Victor suddenly stopped and shouted, 'What are you doing!' His great uncle Percy had two huge old books opened on the table and was studying a yellowed sheet of paper. Victor shouted again, 'You've got no right!'
"And Percy glared and shouted back, 'I've far more right than you! Control your brat, or I shall control him for you!'"
What was that?
"Oh. Victor's grandpa had come behind us. That last bit was for him."
Oh.
"Victor turned to his grandpa and said, 'He's going to steal them!'
"And Percy threw down the sheet and shouted, 'Now I'm a thief! That's rich! That's hilarious!' He didn't actually mean it was funny, though; he was quite angry."
I understand.
"Yes. Well, then Victor shouted back, 'Not only a thief, but a drunk and a filthy-'" Sherlock reached for the recorder, pressed the pause button, said in a low voice, "'-wanker!'" and solemnly released the pause-
He must have been furious!
"He must have! Victor's grandpa put his hands on Victor's shoulders and said, 'Leave us, lad. I'll take care of this.'
"And Victor said, 'Don't let him take our books, Grandpa! Please!' His face was red: He was going to cry. Again."
I'm sure he was quite upset. What happened next?
"Well, next, Percy shouted, 'I want an apology! No one speaks to me like that, you snot-nosed-' He was going to say something else, but Victor's grandfather stepped in and and closed the door, shutting us out. Victor went to his bedroom, and I went with him.
"As we were dressing for bed, I asked what his great uncle had been examining.
"He said, 'Our books, obviously. He was assessing them.'
"And I said, 'No. The paper. What was on the paper?'
"Victor didn't answer right away; got into bed. After a bit, he said, 'It's a poem from a ritual the men in my family go through when they came of age. It dates to the sixteenth century.'
"I said, 'That paper was from this century.' I could tell, you know. It was old, but the wood pulp-"
I believe you. Go on, then. What did Victor say?
"Right. Victor said, 'Of course it had been recopied. What difference does it make?'
"So I said, 'Why was he looking at it?'
"And he said, 'How should I know, Sherlock? I'd rather not discuss it.' And he turned his back."
Oh.
"I waited until he was asleep; it took a long time. By then, the house was quiet. I crept to the library and got inside. The books and paper Percy had been examining were still on the table: One of the books was a collection of maps and drawings of the manor estate over the centuries; the other was a bible from 1503, according to the front page. On the back of that page was a poem written in quill; on the paper was an exact copy of that in ballpoint pen, so I knew it had been copied after 1945, when those pens were available to the public. You see, the ink in ballpoints is formulated to run in low gravity situations, so during the second world war, the Royal Air Force had-"
Sherlock.
"What?"
On topic, please.
"Oh. Right. Where was I?"
The the poem had been copied after 1945.
"Yes. But not long after: The paper was yellowed and crumbly, which occurs when-"
What about the poem?
"Oh. It was like a sonnet but had only eight lines."
An octave.
"Oc- Right. Would you like to hear it? The poem, I mean."
Yes.
"Okay. It was dated 1582 and titled: The Musgrave Ritual.
'On this the freshest morn of wisdom's age
When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night
Cause reb'lous tower mark triumphant stage
And rise in wealth and riches, honor bright
Then stand thou sons of Musgrave's ancestry
And east of hellish pit and down and down
To mighty power and excellent degree
And lamb-like purpose lost and purpose found.'"
You memorized it?
"I suppose. I read it three or four times."
Oh.
"At first, I thought it was just the usual gibberish, but some lines caught my attention; there had to be a reason why Percy was intrigued."
Gibberish?
A sigh. "Metaphors and allegories. Why could these poets not have simply said what they meant and been done with it!"
Ah.
"Quite stupid, really."
I say, now-
"I couldn't decipher it, so I went back to bed. The next morning, all was quiet again at breakfast; Percy was nowhere to be seen. Because it was Monday, the farm was closed. Victor's mother drove me to Tillerman, and I resat my chemistry assessment."
Ian pressed the stop button and regarded the boy gravely. "And how was that?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, of course. Too easy, really. So-"
"So the organic chemistry exam really wasn't fine?" Leaning forward, "I find myself wondering why you didn't give it your name. Weren't you trying to make a point? That you could catch your brother?"
"It was all right-"
"Sherlock! Were you helping someone cheat? The truth, now!"
"I wasn't!" Sherlock dropped his gaze and spoke in a low voice, "Just- Wasn't quite as sure as about it I thought I would be. The exam, I mean. Mycroft was perfect, but I-" He was quiet.
Ian peered closely: The boy was avoiding Ian's eye; his face as blank as a board. Vexed, Ian gave another warning glance, said, "I see," and pressed the record button- Let's continue.
"Right. When Victor's mother brought me home, she said, 'Sherlock, it has been so good to have you.' So I asked if I might visit again, and she said I might, which was good, because I intended to."
You-
"At home, Miranda was adding a can of water to tinned soup on the stove, and I said, 'Cook always adds milk.'
"And Miranda said, 'Ah, and were she here, she undoubtedly would. But Mrs. Danielson, your cook, is on holiday. The entire week. Also, we are out of milk.'
"I said, 'No milk!'
"And she sighed and said, 'Hello Miranda. I'm back from resitting my exam. How are you? Well, I'm fine, Sherlock. Thank you very much! Not quite as fine as I would be sitting on a sunny beach in Los Angeles, or attending an important international conference, but look! Tinned soup! And I can make it with water! Life can't be too terrible.' She does that sometimes: Makes both sides of a conversation. It's a bit weird."
Hm.
"I said, 'It's sunny here. Hot, actually.'
"And she said, 'That's true. And yet there is no beach, no sand, no large crashing waves, no beautiful people wearing very little clothing.'
"And I said, 'What about Richard?'"
And who is Richard?
"Her boyfriend."
Ah.
"And she smiled and said, 'Richard! Thank you for reminding me, Sherlock. Now where is Richard? Oh, yes! Richard is in-Wait for it-Los Angeles! Making important connections at the conference, and mingling with the beautiful people! The ones wearing very little clothing. We were to spend Valentine's day-that's in two days, by the way-together. In Los Angeles. Instead, he is there, and I am here. With tinned soup. Oh, gosh, Miranda! I am so, so sorry! It didn't occur to me to think of others when I chose to do what I did. That "thinking of others" bit! It always escapes me.'
"I said, 'I wasn't allowed to go either!'
"And she said, 'Yes. Completely eludes. But please! Do forgive me, Miranda. I must make it up to you. What shall I do? Perhaps I could-'
"So then I asked when Mycroft had bolted."
Bolted?
"Yes."
Mycroft had bolted?
"Well it seemed he had. There were loads of clues. The newspapers, for instance."
Newspapers?
"There was a stack of them by the door, untouched."
I don't follow.
"Oh- We take seven newspapers from around the world, and Mycroft pours over each one every morning. He's a bit mad about it: Once, when there was a strike, three of them weren't delivered, and he absolutely freaked out! I thought Mummy was going to slap him! Untouched papers meant Mycroft wasn't there to devour them."
Oh.
"Right. Then, the biscuits: Mycroft consumes two entire boxes each day, so, of course, Miranda would have put in a nine day supply Friday night: The week plus the weekend. Eighteen unopened boxes were on the kitchen counter."
Really! Two entire-
"And the floor: There were crumbs and bits of hair gathered in the corners. Mycroft would never have stood for that, would have insisted Miranda get it up. It was glaringly obvious. Mycroft was gone."
Your observations and deductions, Sherlock! Quite-
"But Miranda shook her head, and said, 'No, Mycroft has been holed up in his room since we returned from Tillerman Friday evening. Each time I've knocked, I've been told to, "Go away." Actually, I was growing a bit- Oh! Talk of the devil!'
"Mycroft had appeared, you see, wearing the same clothing he was in on Friday, smelling horribly and holding an airmail letter. He said, 'Miranda- Oh. Hello, Sherlock.' That last bit was to me."
I understand.
"Yes. So, Mycroft said, 'Post this.' He handed Miranda the letter, collected the stack of newspapers and six of the biscuit boxes and returned to his room.
"I told Miranda I was going to the library that afternoon and could post the letter, but she said she would do it when she fetched the milk, so I- So- Oh." Long pause. "So, yesterday- Wednesday, that was yesterday, right?"
Yes.
"So Wednesday, I told Mycroft about the poem."
Wait. What happened Monday and Tuesday?
"Not much."
Sherlock. This- Ian snapped off the mini recorder and regarded the boy sternly. "Again, this must be a complete record. Miranda told me you were gone on your bicycle most of Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday as well! What were you doing?"
"Just- A project." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "The important bit is this: Wednesday, I told Mycroft about the poem and he-"
"Your project?" insisted Ian.
The boy's eyes dropped. "I can't," he muttered. "I made a promise."
"To whom?"
"To Victor's grandfather." Sherlock looked up defiantly and declared, "He didn't make me; I promised by myself. I swore I would carry the secret to the grave."
Ian felt himself relax a tiny bit. "Ah. Well, I don't know if this makes a difference, but the elder Mr. Musgrave passed away this afternoon. Heart attack. Mrs. Musgrave informed me when she rang here, looking for you, actually-"
"Heart attack? No." Sherlock shook his head. "That's wrong. He'd had a stroke."
Unclenching his jaw, Ian clarified, "The heart attack was a complication from the stroke."
"Oh." The boy seemed taken aback.
"I'm sorry. I know it must come as a-"
"Is he burnt?"
"Burnt?" managed Ian. "He'd had a scar-"
"No," asserted Sherlock. "I meant his entire body. Did they burn up his entire body? After he died?"
"Do you mean, 'Was he cremated?'"
"Yes. Cremated." The boy nodded quickly. "Was he?"
Ian frowned, "Well, strange that you should mention it, but Vera Musgrave did say her father in law had specifically requested that upon his death, his body was to be disposed of by cremation immediately. They had made arrangements long ago. If it hasn't happened all ready, it is happening as we speak."
"Oh! Good!" Sherlock came very close to smiling. "The evidence is gone. All right, then! I can tell you." He gestured at the mini-recorder and ordered, "Turn it back on."
Holding his tongue with a very great effort, Ian complied- It's recording.
"You see, when Victor had mentioned that his grandfather didn't speak and didn't write with his right hand after the war, it struck me as odd, especially the bit about his right hand, because the burn was primarily on his left side, and he did everything else with his right hand: Eat, clip sheep, pour tea; he was basically a right handed man who was choosing to write with his left hand."
Oh?
"I hadn't understood it, until Victor showed me the army picture: The man he pointed out as Victor Reginald Scott Trevor Musgrave the third was not the man I had been introduced to that night."
What!
"Everything was off: The distances between the eyes and between the eyes and the nose; the shape of the chin and jaw; the width of the forehead-"
You said he had a terrible scar!
"He did, but that didn't change the shape of his skull; at least not enough to account for the differences. The men were similar; with the scar, it was enough to fool everyone else, but not me."
I see.
"Of course I was curious. When Mycroft is trying to understand human behavior, he does a thing where he pretends to be another person and looks at the world from that point of view, knowing only what that person knows and making choices as that person would make them. So, that night, after Victor had showed me the picture, that's what I did. I thought: Okay, I am an impostor; if I am to convince everyone I am Victor Musgrave, I must disguise the things that are different: I will write with my non-dominant hand to explain differences in handwriting; I won't talk for a long time because- because I speak differently than Victor Musgrave, and I must learn his accent! Okay, so now I knew the impostor was from a different, most likely lower, class and began life as a right handed person."
Who was he?
"A working class, right handed person with similar height, build and coloring as Victor Musgrave, who knew a good deal about farming and was fairly intelligent."
Intelligent?
"He was a successful impostor! People who had known Victor Musgrave all their lives were taken in. That takes brains! I meant to suss out who he was. I had Victor's army picture-"
You told Victor of this?
"No."
But he had lent you his army picture?
"Well- I had borrowed it. I wanted a picture of the scarred impostor to make a thorough comparison, so Monday, after I left Miranda, I biked to the library, and I looked up the date he was appointed magistrate, and then I found the local papers around that date in the archives. I got to use the microfiche machine! Did you know you can take a photocopy right from that machine?"
You had borrowed- Yes. Yes, I did.
"It was excellent! I searched until I found a good picture, and I took a photocopy. Then, I used the normal photocopy machine and blew up and shrank the pictures until they were nearly identical in size, took them home, borrowed Daddy's calipers and spent the rest of the night comparing the relative distances of the facial features. By the time Mycroft woke me the next day, I was certain: Victor's grandfather was not the man he claimed to be! And! I knew who he was."
Who was he?
"The platoon sergeant. Standing behind and to the left of the true Victor Musgrave."