Chapter Three
In which there are stories of history and books.
###
"Isca?" Mycroft raised the glass to his mouth, wondering why the woman had brought that particular subject up ... of course. He'd mentioned it earlier as his birthplace, which it was. "Nice little place," he nodded as memory handed him vague images. "On the Exe."
Kit considered her scotch as thoughtfully as she considered her own memories which were decidedly more recent. "There's no place on the River Exe called Isca," she said slowly. "I've been up and down the banks of that river more times than I've had hot dinners and I can tell you now, Mr Mycroft Holmes, there b'aint no such place."
"It was a long time ago," Mycroft's face was perfectly straight as a hint of Cornwall entered the conversation. "Things change."
"You're younger n'me," Kitta crossed her legs. "And things don't change that fast as I wouldn't know about them," she added. "Want to try again?" She reached for her teacup.
Watching Kit's face over the curve of the Royal Doulton, Mycroft was tempted to smile. Naturally, she imagined him younger than she was; he hadn't changed outwardly for almost two millennia. To the world at large, he would be in his forties forever.
"I distinctly remember the village church being adjacent to the river," he said. "And I'm sure it was a place called Isca," there was the suggestion of a shrug. "Perhaps my memory is doing me a disservice."
"Perhaps," Kitta looked carefully at the man sitting opposite, wondering who he was and what had brought him here, to this day, with the boy.
A handsome man to many, no doubt, though his general expression was a little too severe for her liking. The lines of his face seemed inflexible, like marble under the skin and even when he smiled, it was a guarded thing, as if he'd learned to be sparing with his affections. That he was affluent was self-evident. Not only did he have all the trappings of significant wealth, but his manner and attitude to people and the things around him suggested he was old money. Not that he was at all condescending, which was odd when she thought about it. Such a man as Holmes had all the makings of arrogance and yet he had been nothing but polite with her and downright careful with the boy. Kitta recalled the look on his face when he'd watched Sherlock weeping in the kitchen; there had been no sign of distain or contempt for the child's distress. Nor had he taken her to task for assuming control over Sherlock's eating arrangements, which by rights, he could have done. That he had exquisite taste was equally obvious, though no matter how beautiful this house was, it seemed more a museum than a home; there was something strangely unlived and chilly about the place. Perhaps he lived elsewhere and only used this incredible place on the rare occasion he had guests? Maybe he had a smaller apartment somewhere and this house was a family relic? It was possible.
Though Jude would surely have mentioned something when he'd phoned her at the hotel in Piccadilly, not five minutes away, for help.
"It's my boss," he'd said, as if that explained everything. "He's just rung to say he's bringing a young child home and needed someone to make scrambled eggs; can you help me out, Aunt Kit? I'll never find anyone else at such short notice."
She could hardly say no; Jude and his wife had been so kind and helpful to her during this difficult time with the lawyers and everything, even demanding that she stay with them instead of an hotel, but their flat was small and Kit had no intention of imposing herself on anyone. So she had agreed and caught a taxi straight over, hanging up her coat just as she'd heard the big front door open and close.
And now she sipped her tea and thought about the strange paradox that was Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft cradled his Glenmorangie and observed the woman evaluating him so meticulously from the opposite chair. It was an unexpected sensation to have someone, a complete stranger at that, sit in one of his guest rooms and deduce him so manifestly. It made him feel ... interested. He wondered what thoughts were flying through her head and to what conclusions they were leading. Mycroft smiled into his tumbler. No matter how outlandish she might consider him; her most extreme assumptions would still be a long way from reality. He had no idea what imp provoked the words but they were uttered without him realising he'd spoken.
"Or perhaps I'm hundreds of years old and can remember the old country as it was before the maps were drawn," he smiled artfully, brushing the words away even before they'd had time to settle.
Kitta smiled back. "And maybe you are, at that, Mr Holmes. Which would make me about as old as the Magna Carta."
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. He remembered the signing of the Great Charter at Runnymede, in a field of all places, about twenty miles east of London. It had seemed such a trek back then to reach the spot, whereas now it was but a hop and a skip across the road from Heathrow. Yet even today, Mycroft could still remember the stunning and utter treachery of John, King of England; such complete bastardry had been quite enlightening. The barons were most put out when John began turfing them all into his dungeons despite signing a charter that said he wouldn't.
"Then as that is patently not the case, perhaps you might care to tell me about your exciting career as a district nurse?" Mycroft settled back into the comfortable chair. The prospect of a night of stories and good scotch not displeasing in the least.
"You seriously want to hear about my work as a nurse?" Kit grinned suddenly; some of the anecdotes she could tell were not for delicate ears.
"I'm always serious," Mycroft stretched over for the bottle to refresh their glasses. "I'd really like to know about the life you've had; I get so few opportunities to talk with normal people, these days, and please, do call me Mycroft."
"Not sure I'd classify myself so much as normal," Kit smiled, self-conscious as she brought the glass back and rested it on her chest. "A nurse's life is full of the weird and wonderful ... some of the things I've seen, you would not believe."
"I think you'd be surprised what I might believe," he smiled back, a less constrained expression now that he was relaxing.
Kitta shook her head as she stared down into her drink; some of the things that she'd seen ...
"There was this one time when I was out on my little moped that the service gave those of us far out in the country, and I recall riding past one of the farms in my area," her eyes were dreamy with the distance of time. "I heard this terrible shout for help and I looks around, but can't see anything untoward, so I calls out to see if there really was someone or if it was my imagination," she said. "You start to imagine all sorts of things out there on the moors sometimes, with the wind blowing around the tors," she paused, remembering.
"There was another shout for help, and I looked to a field off to my left and there, up in a big old sycamore was the farmer, as tree'd as if he were cat being chased by a pack of dogs," Kit grinned at the memory, as fresh as yesterday.
"So I goes over to the big stone wall by the road and shouts to him, asking why he was up a tree, and he says it was because of the bull. Apparently, his bull had got loose in the fields with the cows and had chased him up the tree. So I looked around for the bull, but the only other thing in the whole field as I could see apart from the tree and the farmer, was an humongous great big cow, with huge, pendulous udders and long droopy ears," Kit smiled again. "She surely was an old'n was that cow."
"And what happened?" Mycroft was entranced. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had such an intimate conversation with someone for no other reason than they were in the same room at the same time. It made him quite giddy.
Kit sipped her scotch and licked her lips, a smile forming.
"Well, since I couldn't see anything but the cow, I goes to the gate, opens the thing and walks into the field, thinking that I might be able to see where the bull was, you see," she said. "But there was still nothing in sight but that great big old cow, so I call to the farmer to stop being such a great sissy, and to climb down and come on out before it got dark," the smile on her face grew wider.
"But then the cow stepped to one side and right behind her, I see the farmer's bull," she laughed. "Scared me half to death at first, until I realised what I had to do."
"And what was that?" if he had needed breath, Mycroft would have held it in anticipation.
"Quick as a flash, I walks up to the cow and takes her by the ear," Kit lifted her hand in demonstration. "I walks the cow away and the bull follows behind as meek as any lamb," she said, grinning. "I take them far enough away from the tree so that the farmer can jump down and make it to the gate without having to worry about the bull going after him, and when I was sure he was safe, I gave her a few handfuls of grass so that she'd stay put for a minute, and then I walked back to the gate myself."
"But what about the bull?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes and frowned. "How could you be so sure that he would stay with the cow and not chase after you? You took a great risk."
Kitta laughed. "Once I'd worked out what the situation was, I knew there was no risk involved," she said, smiling into her glass.
Mycroft was unconvinced. "How so?"
"Don't take an expert to know when a child wants to be with its mother," she laughed again. "The bull was no danger to anyone once he'd found his Dam."
Ah. Relaxing even more into his chair, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and nodded slowly. "To your ongoing good health," he said, toasting her with his glass. "I can't imagine others would have been quite so observant."
"It's just common-sense, really," Kit cast her gaze across to the bed as the child turned restlessly. She waited for a few moments in case he was about to waken, but settled back in her chair when Sherlock remained still. "All part of what being a nurse in the country means, or used to mean," it was Kit's turn to frown. "But now it's all modern technology and when I left, there was even talk about getting one of them computer things in at the main office," she sighed. "Makes me feel old-fashioned and superannuated, to be truthful. There was also talk of letting everyone over fifty retire and move the district nurses' office into one of the local hospitals," she added. "I knew it was time to go when the government spent more time worrying about logistics than it did about people."
"And how long were you actually a district nurse?" Mycroft was curious; what else had this woman done?
"Got my initial nursing qualifications soon after the last war, which makes me prehistoric in the eyes of the young ones graduating today," Kit recalled the time. "I was still at school during the war itself, but I left as soon as I got my matriculation when I was sixteen, which would have been in ..." she closed her eyes, counting. "1951, or thereabouts. I had ambition, but there wasn't much else for girls to do in those days unless they got married, and I wasn't terribly impressed by all that, to tell the truth."
"You never married?" Mycroft added a little more to their glasses.
"Marriage weren't for me," Kitta shook her head decisively. "I'd rather travel and find out about the world than be stuck at home with babies and some great clod of a man wanting his dinner all the time," she made a semi-sour face, then smiled. "But I've had some good times, I can tell you. There's not much a country nurse don't know about," she added, suggestively.
"This is 1985," Mycroft looked at her critically. "You're still relatively young, you could go back to school and take a degree course if you wanted."
Kitta exhaled heavily, puffing out her cheeks as she considered the idea. "I've never really had much chance to go to school," she said. "Though I've always had a great love of books," she added, turning her head to nod at the cabinet of books in the corner. "I see you're something of a bibliophile yourself."
"I shall have to show you my library," Mycroft sounded a little smug. "I've endowed several of the major universities with collections over the years, but I confess I've kept the really good ones all for myself."
"You've got a library here?" Kit looked pleased when Mycroft nodded briefly. "Having enough space to devote an entire room to nothing but books has always been a dream of mine," she sighed. "But I've always either been on the move or not had the wherewithal, and then when I did, it was the call of foreign places that beckoned," she shrugged. "I've travelled a lot, so that's something. Can't have it all ways, I suppose."
"And what brings you up to London this week?" Mycroft poured himself some more tea. "I understand you came here this evening as a favour for your nephew."
Kitta nodded. "The place I'm living in just outside Plymouth is one of several old grace-and-favour cottages run by a big charitable organisation based up here in London. They're not supposed to charge rent for the houses, but then the cottages are only supposed to go to those of us who've retired after working our whole lives in the medical service. Since I'm not yet of retirement age, I came to an arrangement with the Nursing Trust where I could be a paying tenant until I turned sixty and got my official pension," Kit stopped, frowning.
"But what?" Mycroft waited; he had a feeling he knew what was coming.
"But now they've gone and changed their minds," Kit frowned even more, her fingers tightening around the empty glass. "They sent me a letter a few weeks ago telling me that our agreement was null and void, and that I'd have to vacate immediately."
"So you sought legal advice?" Mycroft nodded to himself. "It would be the only way to fight such a battle."
"Indeed I did," Kit's eyes hardened with anger. "I even came all the way up here to meet with Chairman of the Trust today ... but ..." she looked down, frowning and silent.
"But they said there was no legal way you could remain either as an interim or official tenant and that you'd have to leave," Mycroft made a face and finished the rest of his scotch in a single swallow. "That seems unnecessarily draconian."
"Oh well, I gave it a try," Kit sounded resigned. "I had just enough money put aside to pay the rent and live on for the next few years until my pension came through, but now it looks like I'll have to go back to work and get a little bedsit somewhere," she wrinkled her nose as she polished off the last of the alcohol in her glass. "No room for my books there, I think."
Sitting silently as he rolled the empty crystal between his long fingers, Mycroft felt the edge of an idea creep into his thoughts. It was neither logical nor even particularly well thought through, both attributes he would normally consider mandatory in everything he usually did.
"Anyway," she said, smiling. "It's your turn for a story."
Story? He had no stories to tell anyone, let alone a strange woman whom he hardly knew ... although that was no longer strictly true, was it? He now knew a great deal about Kitta Penderic; the solidity of her character, some of her numerable strengths and possible weaknesses. Even details of her current financial situation and future outlook were now slid into a mental dossier already marked with her name.
"I'm not good at stories," his voice was soft. "I don't have the knack for them."
"Then don't tell me a story, just give me an account of something interesting from your past," Kit moved a cushion and made herself more comfortable.
Something interesting from his past? So many things ... so much past ...
Mycroft closed his eyes briefly as names and faces blazed through his thoughts; Queens and Emperors; Heads of State; religious leaders and individuals of such great national and international importance that their loss had brought down wars to enflame the world.
Perhaps this...
"I once knew a man called William, who wrote stories for a living," he began cautiously, reaching over for the Glenmorangie and offering it up to see if she wanted another measure. Without a word, Kit held out her glass. It wasn't every day she got to enjoy such magnificent whisky.
"A novelist?" she asked, surprised that someone like Mycroft Holmes might seek acquaintance with a fiction-writer. It didn't seem to fit his style at all.
"He wrote all manner of things," Mycroft sipped his scotch. "But I only got to meet him at night, and it was always in the same place; a tavern ... a pub, where he'd always be sitting in his usual chair in the corner with his ... notebook and pens."
"And how did you come to know such a man?" Kit was more than curious, not only about the details, but why Mycroft might be going to meet someone in the same pub every night. It must have been when he was younger; perhaps when he was a student. "Was this while you were at university?"
I have never attended university as a student.
"No, this was when I was older. I had been asked to keep an eye on the man because the authorities had been tipped off that he was writing seditious pamphlets. They asked me to get to know him in order that I could assess his writings to see if they were indeed treasonous."
Kitta felt her eyes widen. Is this what Holmes did for a living?
"Are you a spy, Mycroft?" she asked, quietly, her eyes never leaving his. "Because if you are, you should tell me now so I don't go asking any more silly questions."
Mycroft laughed, stifling the sound suddenly as he looked around at the still-sleeping child. Sherlock seemed dead to the world.
"I'm not a spy," he smiled, shaking his head. Not anymore. "But I've worked for the British Government for a long time you have no idea how long and held a number of positions where both intelligence and counter-intelligence has played a major role in what I do."
"That's exactly what I'd expect a spy to say," Kit sipped her drink and looked arch and disbelieving. "So what happened to this writer chappie that you weren't spying on?"
"I got to know the man reasonably well and he sometimes asked me to read his poems and even some of the plays he'd been writing. They were quite good plays, but he was always stuck for new characters, which is why he used to come to the pub every night."
"To drink?" Kit looked puzzled. "Did he need to drink to write properly?" she knew that a lot of writers were also heavy drinkers. Creativity, it seemed, was a hard-won quality.
"Not to drink, although he certainly did that, no," Mycroft shook his head, recalling the many nights he'd been witness to the man's scribbling in the Mermaid Tavern. "He used to watch the people coming and going and populated his stories and plays with their mannerisms and accents," he smiled at the memory. "For a fiction-writer, he was a damn good psychoanalyst."
"And was he writing sedition?" Kit wondered why someone like Mycroft would need to keep tabs on a writer, and why only at night?
"In some ways, he was," Mycroft raised his eyebrows introspectively. "He often wrote about assassinating royalty. It was one of his favourite themes, in fact."
"So what happened to him?" Kitta wanted to know. "Was he arrested or anything?"
"He was brought in for official questioning at least once that I know of," Mycroft nodded to himself. "But it was clear that the man was far more interested in writing about murdering royals than actually doing it, so, very wisely, the government let him get on with his plays in relative peace."
"Were the plays any good?" Kit savoured the scotch; it was wonderful; she couldn't bear to think what it must have cost.
"They occasionally turn up in school curricula, I believe," Mycroft was completely deadpan. "Hopefully, they'll inspire another generation."
"And the man himself?" Kit wondered where he might be now. The way Mycroft spoke of their meetings, it couldn't have been too long ago. "Where is he now?"
Eyeing her over the rim of his glass, Mycroft drew in a long, deliberate breath as he held her gaze. "Dead," he said, flatly. "Died rather mysteriously, in fact," he added, innocently. "He was only fifty-two."
"And you're sitting there expecting me to believe you're not a spy, for shame, Mr Holmes," Kitta sat back in her chair, assessing the man in a new light. If his work really did involve the Secret Service, then it was no wonder he kept himself to himself and had no family to speak of. But then, if so, why would he be looking after the boy?
"Tell me about Sherlock, please," she said. "He's obviously a very special person in his own right and even more special to you."
"He is," Mycroft looked down into his drink. "The only child of cousins," he said. "Both died tragically in the Rome airport collision you probably heard about," he swallowed hard. "Sherlock's parents were insistent I become his Guardian, but I've never looked after anyone else in my life, certainly not a child, and I'm afraid I'm a bit at a loss about the whole thing. Tonight was the first time he came home with me," he sighed, contemplating the depth of his problems in the last finger of scotch. "I didn't even know how to make him scrambled eggs."
Kitta felt the same wave of feeling wash over her that she'd experienced down in the kitchen when she'd seen him watch the boy weep in her arms. She'd felt sorry for him then, but now she bit her lip in genuine understanding. Not that he didn't mean well, and not that he couldn't afford the best, he simply didn't have the requisite knowledge and experience. What he needed was ... someone like her.
She laughed, almost to herself. Strange how these things happened. What she needed was a job that involved looking after someone like him and the boy.
Mycroft frowned. "The situation amuses you?"
Shaking her head and smiling wearily, Kit leaned forward and patted the back of his hand. "Not laughing at you, my dear, nor at the difficult situation you're both in," she said. "Just at the strange coincidences that life throws our way sometimes," she smiled ruefully. "You need someone to come and help you look after the boy's needs and I need a job that can use my out-of-date skills," she sighed, placing her glass back on the tray. "Ah well, such is life. I'd best be getting a glass of water; he'll be waking up soon, you'll see."
Watching the woman walk to the door, the notion that had sidled earlier into Mycroft's head began something of an Irish jig, stamping its boots and jumping up and down. He frowned again. No, it was an impossible idea. Chewing his lower lip, he sat in deep thought, even as Sherlock stirred awake.
"How are you feeling?" Mycroft kept his voice low so as not to alarm the sleepy child. Waking up in a strange room was likely to feel odd, at best.
"Thirsty," Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, his dark curls askew.
"Kit's gone to get you a drink," Mycroft found himself straightening the wrinkled covers of the bed. "Do you want anything else?"
"Need the bathroom," the boy was already crawling out of bed. "Where is it?"
"You have your own bathroom through there, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed to one of the two doors on the far side of the room. "Just through there."
Wobbling across to the left-hand door Sherlock had just closed it behind him when Kitta returned.
"Is he alright?" she asked, seeing the empty bed. "No more tears?"
"He's still half-asleep," Mycroft shook his head. "But if you were ever to consider a future as a clairvoyant ..."
Kit grinned. "It's only experience, is all. There's nothing magical about it."
"Would you mind staying and organising Sherlock's breakfast?" Mycroft looked awkward. "I can see I'll have to take a crash-course in child-rearing. I'll make sure you're suitably recompensed for your time, naturally," he watched her expression carefully. If he had judged it correctly, then Kitta Penderic would react ...
"Now, let's not spoil a pleasant evening with talk of money for a mite of help," Kit shook her head. "T'weren't nothing I did really, 'cept make the boy some food and to know what he needed most was sleep," she looked slightly reproachful. "Besides, I've been doing this as a favour for my Jude, and there's no payment needed or wanted with favours."
... exactly like that. Mycroft nodded, inwardly vindicated. The idea in his head jumped up and down animatedly.
Sherlock returned, his eyelids drooping.
"Come on then, you sleepy thing," Kit pulled the bedcovers back down as he crawled in. "Here's a sip of water ... don't gulp it, now."
Taking several swallows, Sherlock handed the glass back and snuggled down into the soft bedding, yawning as his eyes closed and he was almost immediately still.
Standing, Mycroft moved away from the bed. "Will he awaken again tonight?"
Kitta pursed her lips. "Not likely, unless there's a really loud noise, or something else happens to rouse him," she said. "He'll most probably be out cold until well into the morning," she paused. "And even if he did waken, the light's on and he knows where the bathroom is and there's water here if he's thirsty again," she sounded unworried. "I'll leave the light like this and he'll be right as ninepence."
"In that case, would you mind coming downstairs? I have something of an idea and I'd appreciate your opinion on its viability," Mycroft hovered uncertainly by the door.
Feeling a stir of envy at the man's beautiful English, Kit resolved once again that she would have her own library one day, filled with lovely books, each one of which would be filled with beautiful words even if she had to do private nursing to pay for the books. She would. She would.
"Like some more tea?" Kit brought the tray down with her, the wide steps of the grand staircase easily navigable even with a big tray in her hands.
Turning at the foot of the stairs. Mycroft looked irritated with himself. "Please," he said, reaching for the tray. "You shouldn't be carrying this."
"Not anywhere near in my dotage yet, Mr Mycroft," Kit smiled as they walked back towards the kitchen. Putting down the tray and filling the kettle for a fresh brew, she turned.
"Would you like an early breakfast?" she asked him. "You didn't have no dinner."
Mycroft thought. He had to be very careful how much information he gave away, and yet ... if his idea was to be successful he couldn't hide the truth completely. He decided on something half-way between what was fact and what was believable.
"I should tell you now that I don't eat, I cannot eat solid food, Miss Penderic," Mycroft allowed his face to settle into pragmatic lines. "Following a ... violent attack many years ago, I am no longer able to digest food as such, although I can still tolerate certain liquids and the occasional item which seems not to stress my system." He deliberately avoided any particular details knowing Kit's imagination and medical knowledge would fill in the gaps. Nor was she the insensitive type to press indelicately for specifics … at least, not yet.
"Then how on earth do you manage to live?" Kitta looked vaguely dismayed, her eyes searching his face as the professional nurse in her came to the fore. "If you can't eat, what do you do to keep your strength up?"
"I have semi-regular blood transfusions and I take supplemental nutrients," he shrugged. "Thus while I might not exactly thrive on such a diet, I am at least able to survive," he added, his expression morphing into something less confident. "Though now I have Sherlock as my responsibility ..." his mouth tightened and shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure if taking him on was in any way helpful to that young man."
"Nonsense," Kitta bustled about, making tea. "I can see how much the boy means to you; it's just a question now of organisation and working through the details," she hunted for the tea-caddy. "Nothing to it."
It was the final thing Mycroft needed to hear. If she could handle the reality of his abnormal lifestyle, the woman could handle anything. Watching Kit Penderic making the enormous kitchen her own, the idea in his head folded its arms and began whistling.
"In that case," he spoke deliberately. "I have a proposal to make; you might wish to take a seat while you hear me out," Mycroft gestured to a chair at the big kitchen table.
Smiling at him over her shoulder, Kit carried on making the tea. "I doubt there's anything you could say that I'd need to sit down for," she smiled again as she rinsed the pot with boiling water. "You want me to come back and make the lad his dinner tomorrow? I can do that easily before I goes home."
Wedging both hands in his pockets, Mycroft contemplated his shoes and took a deep breath. Looking back up, he focused his entire attention on the woman. The slightest body movement might tell him a hundred times more than anything she said.
"Actually," he began. "I was going to suggest that you stay for somewhat longer than that," he paused. "I'd like you to consider leaving Plymouth and come live here with Sherlock and I, as his nanny and my general housekeeper. You will have your own apartment in this house and I would be more than happy to have a contract of employment drawn up to reflect whatever you felt was appropriate compensation, given the unusual nature of the job," he paused. "You have all the skills and more that Sherlock and I are going to need, while I can offer you a comfortable place to live while you help me with the responsibility of bringing up a nine-year-old boy," he paused, meeting her eyes. "It won't be terribly arduous work physically, but I have no doubt the task will be an emotional rollercoaster and I realise I can't do it alone."
Kitta felt her world turn over. It was a bit much to take in. "But you have no idea who I am or what kind of person I am," she almost stuttered. "You can't go around making people such offers when you've just met them a few hours before. It ain't right."
A cool smile softened the stern lines of his face. There was one more thing he had to say to her. He played his ace.
"Let me show you my library."
