The Brother on My Back
Chapter 4.
Who was this sergeant?
"I didn't know, then. When I woke, Mycroft was standing next to me, comparing the photocopies. He said, 'They're not quite congruent.'
"And I said, 'They're close enough. Do you know who he is?'
"He said, 'Sergeant turned magistrate. What of it?'"
Mycroft could see it?
"It was a bit more obvious when you had the photos before you, but, yes. Mycroft is like me."
Oh.
"I pointed out the actual Vincent Musgrave the third and explained everything, and Mycroft listened. To all of it. At the end, he told me I had best identify the impostor, and what he was playing at. Then he left.
"I returned to the library for the platoon roster, but that was no good; the lady said I wanted military service records, and those were in the National Archives. So I had to bike there."
That's quite a distance!
"Seventeen point three kilometers from the library. Let's see: In imperial units, that's ten point seven miles."
Thank you for the conversion, Sherlock, but, really, I-
"It was late when I arrived; at first they wouldn't give me the time of day, but I told them my grandfather, a veteran, was dying, and a fire had burnt all of his records and letters; only one photograph remained (I showed it to them), and I wanted to find the members of his platoon, so I could inform them. That he was dying. Dying! And the lady at the archives said in order to see the records I must be at least sixteen, and I was obviously not sixteen. Moreover, it was nearly closing; I should return tomorrow with my mother. So I started to cry."
You what?
"Started to cry. And then more of them gathered round-"
Wait. You just- Began to cry?
"Yes. It's not hard. People will tell you to look at a bright light or use menthol, but that's rubbish. What you do is spread apart the muscles in the back of your throat, and then tense your face, especially round your eyes-the lachrymal glands are under your upper eyelids-and blink to spread the tears; you'll look like you're trying not to cry, but that's all right."
Oh. A pause. Why not just think of something sad?
"Too distracting."
How on earth did you discover this- Ian remembered himself and clicked off the mini recorder "-this- skill?"
"Oh-" The boy looked thoughtful. "Mycroft and I- We were playing 'Stone Face.' Do you know that game?"
"No."
"One person pinches or punches the other as hard as he can, and the other tries to keep a stone face. The puncher gets points by making the other flinch or cry. I had always won, and then suddenly Mycroft started winning, which was fairly amazing: I pinch hard! After crowing a bit, he told me about the glottis."
Weakly, "Glottis?"
"The muscle in your throat," replied Sherlock. "To prevent crying, you have to close the glottis by lifting or dropping your chin, relax your face and keep from blinking. In the process of learning that, we discovered how to make the thing happen, which proved even more useful."
"I see." Ian straightened. "That's how you draw sympathy, is it?"
Sherlock frowned. "'Draw- What?'"
"To escape punishment, perhaps? Or to get something?" Fixing the boy with an unyielding stare, "Like at the National Archives? You put in performances like that for your parents on a regular basis, do you?"
"Mummy and Daddy? No!" The boy shook his head vigorously and exclaimed, "Oh, no- We'd be locked in a closet. Once, Mycroft was locked in for six hours. They don't tolerate that sort of nonsense!"
"Oh." A chill.
"The only problem is once you start, it's hard to stop, but at the archives- Are you recording?"
Unsettled, Ian pressed the record button -Go ahead.
"At the archives, that was quite helpful, actually. I began bawling and said my mother was dead from consumption, and my father had been exposed to ebola and was under quarantine, and I was their last and only hope. By then, four little old ladies and two little old men were gathered round me, and they patted me on the head and said it was highly irregular, but they would give me the information tomorrow, provided I returned with identification, a note from my father and a phone number where they could ring him. I pointed out that tomorrow, none of them would be on shift, so it would be all for naught! And they looked at each other, and one of the little old ladies said she would make a special trip in for me. I was to ask for her: Edna Chutney. So that was good. I biked home and fixed it with Mycroft, and the next day, Wednesday, I biked out again and found Edna, and she showed me the platoon roster-"
Hang on. What about the identification?
"Identification?"
They told you to bring identification.
"Oh. Daddy had some things in his office. It wasn't hard. Mycroft helped."
I see.
"Right. So Edna showed me the platoon roster, and, sure enough, the sergeant, James Armitage, was from the same district as Victor Musgrave and had joined at about the same time. So I biked back to the library and looked up the newspapers for the time they joined- Got to use the microfiche machine again! And I found him! There was an article in 1942 about the local boys going off to war: James Armitage's father was Charles Armitage, the tenant farmer at The Hurlstone Manor! James had grown up with Victor and Percy Musgrave!"
Oh!
"I biked home, and when I got there, it was tea time, and Mycroft was on his third cake. He always has four cakes, the chocolate marshmallow ones, and four cups of tea, supersaturated with sugar. I told him what I'd learned. That we must notify the police!
"But Mycroft wiped his mouth and said, 'Don't be daft.'
"And I said, 'Well, he's stolen-'
"But Mycroft interrupted. He said, 'Stolen what?'
"And I said, 'The title! The land!'
"And Mycroft said, 'Really. And what was all that worth, exactly?' Of course, I didn't know, so he said, 'Stealing something worthless isn't really stealing.'
"But I said, 'It is worth something! They've got a successful business!'
"And he said, 'Only because someone other than a Musgrave has taken it over. The last remaining biological Musgrave would drink and gamble it away if he could. Think it through, Sherlock: Your impostor has turned a dying estate into a success, and cared for a bounder who should have been thrown out on his ear long ago.'
"I said, 'He probably had to do, or Percy would have exposed his secret.'
"And Mycroft said, 'Ah. So Percy is not only a drunk and a wastrel but a blackmailer as well. Lovely.'
"Well, when he put it like that, it seemed James Armitage had done everyone a favor and was a victim of sorts, yet that couldn't be right!
"Mycroft went on, saying, 'If you want to ring the police, by all means, ring the police. Shout to the world how clever you think you are, but don't pretend it has anything to do with justice.'
"At that, I leapt up, and I shouted, 'Murder is a crime! We cannot allow someone to get away with murder!'
"But Mycroft said, 'Do you know for certain that James Armitage murdered Victor Musgrave?" And before I said anything, he said, "Of course you do not.'
"And I said, 'Well how was the change made, then?'
"And he said, 'You're the clever one, you tell me.'
"I thought some more, and I said, 'They went to war as themselves. They have similar coloring and height, but otherwise, they don't look alike. So, during the course of the conflict, something- The shell! The man who went to hospital burnt and wrapped in bandages must have been James Armitage!'
"And Mycroft said, 'Yes. And he was mistaken for Victor Musgrave.'
"And I said, 'But how would he have been mistaken for Victor Musgrave? He would have been wearing-' and then I shut up because I had got it, but Mycroft had got it too, of course.
"He said, 'Ah, little Sherlock and his amazing little brain! Yes. James Armitage must have been wearing Victor Musgrave's uniform when the shell hit.'
"And I said, 'Well, how had that come about? People in the military don't switch uniforms!'
"And Mycroft answered, 'No, they do not. How it came about is what you must determine before you scream murder.' And he stuffed the rest of the third cake in his mouth.
"I thought about it: The only person who knew what had happened was James Armitage, and he wouldn't tell me without good reason. Then, I thought: That poem! I could solve it! Find out why Percy was so interested! James Armitage would be grateful and would reveal all!
"Mycroft was licking the sugar from the bottom of his cup, and I told him about the fight in the library and recited the poem, and then I asked, 'What do you think it means?'
"And he said, 'Which part?'
"And I said, 'The whole of it.'
"And he said, 'Small things confuse small minds.' I understood that."
It wasn't kind. Or true for that matter.
"Well, I was confused. He'd got it wrong, though; Mummy says it. It's, 'Small things amuse small minds.'"
You don't have a small mind, Sherlock.
"Well. Then Mycroft said, 'It's simply a rallying cry. In 1582, Elizabeth was queen, the war with Spain was about to begin, and already there had been rebellions designed to put her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne, so everyone-'
"And then I- I guess I interrupted him, didn't I? He was going on! I said, 'Rebellions! What rebellions?'
"And he said, 'Don't you know? The Gunpowder Plot. The Northern Uprising. The Throckmorton Plot, in 1583, brought about the downfall of-'
"And I interrupted again! I said, 'Northern Uprising! This isn't a metaphor at all!' and I took a sheet of paper, and I drew a diagram of the farm and put an X- 'The reb'lous tower is the northern tower! The fiery sun would cause the northern tower to mark a triumphant stage! What would be a "triumphant stage"?'"
Sherlock, could I trouble you to recite the poem again? Refresh my memory?
"Oh. Sure.
'On this the freshest morn of wisdom's age
When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night
Cause reb'lous tower mark triumphant stage'
That's the line we were talking about."
I understand.
"Right.
'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.'"
Thank you.
"Yes. Well, Mycroft stared at my diagram, and said, 'You're wrong, Sherlock. It's just an allegory. Preparing them to be triumphant.'
"And I said, 'But suppose it was an actual thing. What could it be? And how could the sun mark it?'
"He said, 'That's not what the poem says. It says the sun would cause the tower to mark the triumphant stage.'
"And I said, 'The shadow! The sun would cause the tower to make a shadow! The shadow would mark the thing!'
"And Mycroft said, 'All right. A shadow.'
"And I said, 'But where the shadow would fall would depend on the time of day and time of year.' And I soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back, because we knew the time of day. But Mycroft was before me, again.
"He said, '"When fiery sun doth breach oppressive night." Daybreak.'
"So I said, 'But those boys would be born any time of year.'
"And he laughed and said, 'Oh, you think this ceremony took place on the boys' birthdays?' And I was quiet because I did think that. And Mycroft said, 'They would have their little dawn ceremony, then nip out for cake with pink icing?' and he laughed and laughed. When he finally knocked off, he said, 'Elizabethans didn't celebrate actual birthdays, idiot. A ceremony like this would have taken place on New Year's, the year the boy turned twenty-one. You really are rubbish at history, aren't you.'
"I said, 'Okay. So New Year's would have been around winter solstice when the sun rose in the north east quadrant-'
"But he interrupted again and said, 'South east quadrant! You're rubbish at astronomy too. You're sort of rubbish all over, really: Britain maintained March 25 as New Year's Day until the eighteenth century. You're looking for the spring equinox, when the sun would rise due east making a shadow to the west of the tower.' And he looked at my diagram and said, 'You didn't draw any other buildings. What was directly west of the north tower?'
"I never answered. First of all because I had realized exactly which building held the triumphant stage, and where it was in that building, and I wasn't sure I wanted to tell Mycroft at all! And also, right then, Miranda came in with the cordless phone and said, 'Mycroft. Your father wants a word.'