Chapter 4

In which many things are discovered.

###

The old furniture factory in Hammersmith, just off Overstone Road had already been marked for demolition; the land far more valuable for another large block of flats than it ever had been for the construction of cheap and cheerful kitchen units, settees and black ash bookshelves for those ready to upgrade from Argos. It wasn't a massive place as some of the old factories went, but big enough; there were ample places to hide a body, or two, as in this particular instance.

By the time Lestrade allowed Sherlock to accompany him to the crime scene, the entire place was swarming with blue-plastic clad forms, each one sealed-off from head-to-foot so as not to contaminate the scene; begloved, shoe-covered, masked and carrying a multitude of small plastic boxes, bags and tweezers. And the place was freezing. There had been too much deterioration in the building to have the electricity turned back on; god knows what might have gone up in smoke if they'd tried. A couple of medium-sized generators had been authorised instead and they sat at the perimeter, inside, their throbbing roar only barely muted inside by distance and a few thin brick walls. They weren't for heaters, though, but for the tall industrial lights, of which there were quite a number; large upright spotlights on steel stands, illuminating even the darkest corners with a harsh brilliance that seared black shadows onto white walls.

Though the bodies were no longer in situ, the crime scene had still barely been touched as Greg's silver-blue BMW drew up sharply in an outside space already passed as clean by the initial forensic team. As soon as both he and Sherlock stepped outside, an officer handed the DI a large manila folder, just as both men were also handed bags of protective gear.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scorned the offering without a second glance, his long stride already taking him towards the largest crowd milling around a central open space. There could only be one reason for there to be an open space in the middle of all these people.

In the actinic lighting, blood looked like black paint splashes. Though there wasn't a great deal of it, there was no doubting it for anything else.

"The first body, the barely touched one, was over there," Greg rustled as he pointed; his disposable plastic coverall wrinkling shapelessly. "It was left sitting on a wooden chair and if it hadn't been for the bite-mark on the throat, it would have been almost impossible to find any cause of death until pathology told us about the missing blood."

"And the second body?" Sherlock stood, hands in the deep pockets of his heavy coat, his eyes entirely focused on the dark splashes. The surrounding walls all bore a coat of relatively recent graffiti, the colours still clear and untarnished by mould or water damage.

"Not really a body as such," Lestrade grimaced. "Bits were scattered all over," the silver-haired policeman waved a vague hand across the space in front of them. "Bloody awful sight."

"You have photographs, of course?" Sherlock's eyes never left the ghastly scene in front of him.

"Here," Greg handed over the heavy manila folder which proved to be full of printed and excessively graphic photographic images. "Knock yourself out."

"May I keep these until tomorrow?" Sherlock held the folder closed under his arm, rendering the question academic as he paced carefully around the perimeter of the marked-off space, the bare concrete floor crunching grittily beneath his shoes. "I need to immerse myself in them," he murmured absently as he stared down at the floor. "Let them tell me all their little stories."

"Yeah, whatever," beneath his white face-mask, Greg's mouth pinched flat. Who'd want to immerse themselves in anything like this stuff was either seriously touched or had the emotional distance of a Nobel physicist. At this stage in their acquaintanceship, he wasn't quite sure which way Sherlock went. Having a little idea of how the younger man's mind worked, it was probably both. "Just make sure they stay out of the public's eye and that I get them back first thing in the morning," he muttered, following around after the tall man in the long black coat, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the gruesome black lines dragged across the crumbling cement floor.

"And you're quite sure the complete body was the first to be murdered?" Sherlock crouched down, apparently assessing the angles between doorways. "Ah yes," he added softly, nodding. "Of course it was."

"From what the pathologist has been able to give us so far yes," Greg folded his arms and rocked back on his heels a little wondering what it was the tall man had seen to make him so sure. "Though it's damn near impossible to put an accurate time of death on anything when all you have is a large bucket of body parts."

Standing, Sherlock made a slow pirouette, his gaze strafing the few frameless, glassless windows within a useful proximity. Without another word, he strode over to the nearest gaping hole and stepped right through it into the scrubby bushes beyond.

"Watch him, will you?" Lestrade waved a uniform towards the dilapidated window. "Make sure he doesn't accidently stab himself to death by tripping over broken glass, or something; our insurance only runs so high, these days."

But even before the constable was able to reached the collapsing frame of old bricks, Sherlock bounded back in, coat flying and with a great grin all over his face. "The killer may have entered the building in any number of ways," he said, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. "But he went out that window at least once; I'll need better light to see; it's a bit dark out there in all that undergrowth."

"You sure about that?" Greg was still getting used to Sherlock's proclamations; it was still difficult to take such uncompromising statements without a pinch of salt. "Could have been kids messing about."

"Kids with blood on their hands?" Sherlock took a plastic evidence bag from the nearest forensic officer and dropped a small, leafy twig inside.

Lestrade walked over and turned the bag towards the brightest of the nearby lights; there was a familiar black residue on several of the leaves. "I see your point," he said, rapidly instructing several of the forensic people to tape off the windows from both the inside and the outside.

"The first body was left sitting upright on a wooden seat there," Sherlock pointed to a point on the floor that seemed no different to any other point beneath the lights.

Greg watched as one of his plastic-coated people nodded. "Yes, exactly there, but how can you be so sure?" the DI wanted to know how Sherlock could make such an assessment without looking at any of the photographs and having looked at the space in front of them for less than three minutes all up.

The young Holmes grinned and crouched down again, pointing an index finger first at the four indentations of the chair feet and then at something immediately beyond the marks. "See the faint footprints in the dust?" he asked. "Two distinct shoeprints, men's size ten, almost side-by-side; their depth in the concrete-dust indicates they held that precise placement for several hours and very likely overnight, or until at least one dew point had been and gone. The dampness in the air has set the imprint in the cement dust, you see," Sherlock nodded, as if everyone would have grasped the import of such a barely-visible detail. "The first body was here at least twenty-four hours before the second victim was killed elsewhere and their remains brought her to be ... scattered, which means the killer is either exceptionally well-organised, has at least one accomplice or is incredibly lucky."

"Lucky? How so?" Despite his reluctance to believe everything Sherlock said, it was becoming harder to avoid utter fascination. "And how do you know the second victim was killed elsewhere?"

"This place is a haven for local graffiti artists," Sherlock stood, stretching himself tall and indicating the walls around them. "I wonder how long our killer knew he had a clear window for his activities before one of the local spray-paint gang interrupted him?" he shook his head slowly. "Despite the viciousness of both killings, this scene is not at all what it appears," he added, slowly, continuing a measured walk around the perimeter of the taped-off area. "And even if the second victim was somehow entirely drained of flowing blood in situ, there would still be a sufficient quantity remaining within his muscles and organs to redecorate this scene quite adequately," he stopped, frowning.

There were a different set of marks in the dust, several of them, relatively close together ... tiny round indentations about the size of a press-stud. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked even closer, able now to see a rough line of the faint round marks leading away and towards the rear of the building. Extracting a small torch from an inner pocket of his coat, he followed the near-invisible trail, with an increasingly curious detective following cautiously behind.

"What have you found, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was soft so as not to overly distract the bloodhound on the new trail. "Something nobody else has seen yet?"

The trail of small indentations, each now almost two yards apart, led away from the place of death and out towards a half-open rear exit, the tall door, half off its hinges. Sliding carefully through and out into the open space beyond, both men found themselves in a small area that had clearly been used as a car park. There was still the faint imprint of muddy tyre-prints.

"The killer also came in and out through here," Sherlock looked perplexed as he pointed to the rain-washed car tracks. "I'm not sure your people will be able to get a decent imprint of those," he said, looking down at the tyre impressions. "But it would be worth a try," Sherlock blinked slowly. "The tracks are very likely from the killer's vehicle, whatever it might have been," he added, returning to stare at the vague muddiness. "Hard to see without the proper lighting."

"I'll get my lot onto it right away," Greg inhaled sharply, shouting back in through the open door until the sound of running feet momentarily obscured the sound of the generators.

Sherlock was glad that the detective inspector hadn't thought to tell his people not to scuff up the trail of indentations he'd followed out here: Sherlock wanted nobody to find those until he himself had worked out what such marks might mean. Marks that were tiny circles really, tiny circles spaced out at roughly the same width as the long stride of a tall man. Marks that could only be made by the steel ferrule of a high-end umbrella used as a walking cane; used by a tall man who carried an umbrella with him throughout and who had stood for some time inside the building watching at least one man die of brutal exsanguination.

Sherlock would be the first to admit that he lacked any real personal understanding of the emotional frisson which sometimes accompanied an intellectual epiphany, but in this instance ... The Inspector had said that a vampire was on the loose; whimsy, of course ... but what if it wasn't actually a joke? What if the murders really had been committed by a ... vampire? What if Mycroft ... No. Sherlock shook his head in irritation. No matter how irksome Mycroft might have become recently with his incessant desire to meddle and his 'views' on any indulgence in recreational Class A drugs, it was almost impossible to imagine the man who'd raised an unwanted orphan to be a brutal slayer of innocents.

Sherlock paused when he realised he'd used the word 'almost' inside his own thoughts. Could he really imagine Mycroft as such a violent and bloody killer? There was only one real way to find out for sure. But first, there was the second crime-scene; perhaps he'd find an explanation there for this strangest turn of events.

###

Mycroft had begun introducing his newest assistant, the dark-haired and rather lovely Andrea Worthington, to the basic outline of his department portfolio. There was an enormous amount to take in, but everyone had to begin somewhere.

"There are three basic characteristics to all incoming material destined for my attention," he said, "whether delivered in person, via hard-copy or electronic submission," he added, putting a display of his current inbox waiting-list up on the nearest screen in his office. "And the first critical step of your role will be to undertake a very practical level of triage," he added, waving a casual hand at the lines of documents, emails and sent information now marching across the electronic display until they populated the entire screen. "Approximately sixty percent of all requests that come to me are calls for information, for meetings, for documentation, for government briefings," he said. "Your primary task at this level is to intercept everything before it reaches my desk and break the bulk of it down into tasks that may be done by you or assigned by you to another; of documents or orders that require my signature, or of tasks that necessitate my actual bodily presence," he added. "Less than ten percent of all items that cross my horizon are things I really need to see, while more than ninety percent of traffic headed in my direction are things which other people consider it vital that I see," Mycroft paused. "Are you comfortable with the differentiation?"

Andrea nodded simply. Of course it was clear; the only thing remaining uncertain was where the lines might be drawn. "How have you defined the boundaries for each characteristic?" she asked. "Or am I expected to define such things myself and be corrected by you as and when I am in error?"

Mycroft smiled internally. Exactly the right question. "Which would you prefer?" he asked smoothly.

Pondering the alternatives, Andrea pursed her lips. "How about you provide a quick overview to start with and then I'll tackle the current crop. You can tell me what I've missed afterwards and perhaps provide a few pointers on the ones that are borderline?"

"Excellent," Mycroft nodded, handing her a paper list of names and associated responsibilities. "Anything major that focuses on any specific issue, onward to these people within the department requesting a response in the shortest possible timeframe, though I'll leave you to argue that with them," he raised an amused eyebrow. "Anything that comprises a number of variables, by all means seek input from the others, but attempt to address them yourself," he added. "Only those items that cannot be forwarded to anyone else in the department or that you are unable to even begin addressing yourself should come to me. As you learn the ropes, I'll expect you to take a greater share of the administrative responsibilities, leaving me free to deal with the more ... esoteric aspects of the department's workload."

Turning, Andrea was about to head back to her smaller, outer office when Mycroft paused her with a raised finger. "One other thing I neglected to mention," he said. "None of my staff use their real names," Mycroft paused. "It's a security measure that has worked exceedingly well for the last fifteen years," Mycroft looked introspective. "You'll need a departmental code name which shall be the only one you use in any aspect of this your work here," he added, his dark blue eyes suddenly hawk-like and piercing. "Do not use your own name or release any private contact information to anyone else in or beyond this office, am I clear on this?"

"As crystal, sir," it was Andrea's turn to nod. "What code name shall I use?"

Thinking, Mycroft's eyes went momentarily vague. "Anthea," he said, slowly. "Your code name will be Anthea," he paused, inspecting her less than enthusiastic expression. "Does that suit?"

"The name reminds me of a seventies game-show hostess," Andrea sounded indifferent. "I have no affection for such a name, but as it's a coded identifier, it's as good as any other, I suppose."

Mycroft smiled faintly. Regardless of all their pragmatic knowledge, how little these young ones knew. Anthea, otherwise known as Hera, ancient Greek goddess and daughter of Cronos, the personification of time. If only she but knew. But of course, there was no reason for her to think of such things, was there?

Andrea saw the faint smile on his face and kept her own hidden. Anthea and Hera; of course she knew the etymology of the name and though she might not personally like it, it was perhaps, fitting. As she recalled, Hera had a son called Ares. Ares; God of War. Anthea smiled outright at that; how apt, since she fully intended to bring death and destruction into this place of quiet shadows and unspoken secrets. "I'll get cracking," smiling neutrally, Anthea returned to the desk she was going to get to know very well over the next few days.

A new email had just arrived for her specific attention at the top of the list. It was from Mycroft. She narrowed her eyes; was this a test already?

On a personal note, he wrote. I have a younger brother, Sherlock. Any contact from him is to come to me immediately, wherever I am and whatever I'm doing, even if I'm in a Category One meeting, he added. If the contact is urgent, you are to ensure I am made aware of this regardless of what you are required to do; override a phone conversation, meet me at the Palace, intercept my driver, the email continued. No matter when it arrives or whomever I might be with, my brother must always be given precedence.

Mycroft Holmes had a brother? Anthea frowned, flicking back a single word response, Yes, before queuing up the seemingly endless list of waiting tasks Mycroft had just shunted across to her inbox. This was something new; nothing in any of the records she'd been able to locate on Holmes – and there had been precious few details to begin with – gave any indication of family whatsoever, let alone a younger sibling. But how intriguing ... and potentially how useful. Anthea began working steadily through the first dozen or so letters and incoming emails to see in fact just how many she might be able to deflect to others. It turned out she was able to better Mycroft's sixty percent; in fact she managed to dump nearer seven out of every ten documents onto other plates, with a couple left for her to personally undertake, mostly just needing a quick signature. Within the hour, she had effectively cleared the screen, onwarding a mere handful of documents to her new Director, and those only because they made no sense to her and were probably in code.

Sitting back for a moment, Anthea started making her own list, though this one was definitely not for public consumption, no. It would take a considerable time to compile and she would continue to develop and improve on it until she had every relevant and available detail. It was to be a list of every possible weakness she could discover about Mycroft Holmes; every internal limitation within the department; each external link between him and other senior individuals, even a complete documentation of professional relationships and personal friendships. Were there any grudges she might exploit? Old scandals that might be revived to her advantage? There was an immediate entry that seemed already to have pride of place; she smiled as she inserted the name Sherlock Holmes right at the very top of the list. Even without further investigation, it was clear that the younger brother was a sensitive point with the elder Holmes; there might well be something there she could use to evoke the eventual downfall and destruction of the man who was directly responsible for the callous and deliberate ruination of her family.

###

Her eyes never leaving his, Ellis Wilde placed the capacious white plastic bag down on the table between them, carefully undoing the knotted handles until the outer plastic covering could be peeled away and discarded. A large round hatbox now sat on the table between them, and the fingers of both her hands rested lightly over the curved forward edge. The smile on her face was slightly teasing; she knew precisely the kind of questions that must be going through Samuel Jakobson's mind, but what was life without just a little drama?

"Do you want to see it?" she asked in a suggestive undertone, her eyes half-lidded and provoking. "It's quite special; nobody else has seen it yet."

Eyebrows rising as his mouth curved into a small amused twist, the blond Jakobson, a senior military hatmaker at 1 Savile Row, London; the Gieves & Hawkes flagship, folded his arms and perched on the edge of the table. "You're such a bloody tease," he grinned. "Show me the damned hat, you irritating baggage."

"You have no sense of fun whatsoever," Ellis admonished, mournfully, lifting the lid of the round box and carefully extracting the faded old black bicorn hat that sat in a delicate black tissue-paper nest within. Hoisting it aloft with gentle fingers, she transferred it immediately to a softly padded hat stand. "There you are," she murmured, tilting the old hat a little straighter. "Told you it was special."

Jakobson's eyes widened and he stood abruptly, his stare never leaving the object sitting tidily on the padded stand before him. "Oh, my god," he whispered. "Black velour bicorn trimmed with black braid on upper edges and with a leather cockade," his eyes flicked up to Ellis. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"I know it's not British, for a start," she nodded. "But it has the red Hawkes label sewn beneath the brim," she added. "Now tell me why anyone would go to all the trouble of having an English milliner make a Napoleonic hat in London, and have English maker's labels sewn under the brim where nobody could see them?" Ellis also folder her arms as she stared down at the millinery in question. "Would you still have the invoice for this, despite its age?"

"We still have all the invoices from the very beginning," Samuel breathed, unable to tear his attention away from the ancient item of headgear. Despite its obvious wear and deterioration, it was a stunning example of period military wear. And if it were actually proven to be made by Hawkes and Co, then he simply had to obtain it for the Savile Row museum display; they already had several uniforms, but these old bicorns were extremely rare, and an English-made French bicorn was almost unheard of. Why would any British milliner make such a thing?

Pulling on a pair of soft cotton gloves, Jakobson lifted the hat and, barely breathing, inverted it so that the interior shape and leather brim came into sight. He could see the small section of stitches Ellis had deliberately cut and, holding the hat delicately in the palm of one hand, with the other, Samuel teased away the old leather from the inside of the matted black velour. Just as the historian had said, there were the red Hawkes labels, their size, shape and style as good as any date stamp.

"Circa 1803, right around the time Britain declared war on France when the Treaty of Amiens failed and just before the French army changed to the wearing of Shakos," the fair-haired milliner clucked his tongue in thought. He peered again at the labels, the Hawkes and the second, blurred one, beginning with a capital 'H'. "This is almost certainly one of ours, though I had no idea we ever constructed uniform apparel for the French," he shook his head, bemused. "It feels very wrong," he was frowning now. "That we might have, even peripherally, had anything to do with the French side of the Napoleonic Wars," he paused, replacing the bicorn back onto the shaped and padded stand. "I need to look at the books of account," he said, picking up the stand, hat and all and walking swiftly from the room. "Come with me."

Heading deeper into the working realm of the business, past the cutting rooms populated by quiet bodies, the familiar swish of fabric and the slicing of long shears, Jakobson led Ellis finally into a small room, little more than a big cupboard, really, barely large enough for a tiny central table and a couple of wooden seats. Entirely surrounding them, on three walls, from ceiling to floor, were shelves and shelves of antiquated heavily-bound ledgers of account, each book's tall leather spine was embossed with deep gold lettering of varying degrees of legibility. Depositing the hat stand on the table, his eyes searching along a particular shelf, Samuel reached up and withdrew two of the large books, each one fat with small inserts of paper, cloth samples and tiny notes pinned to the pages.

"This one is from 1800 to 1802," he said, laying the first one down in the middle of the table. "And this one's 1803 to 1804," he added, placing an almost identical book beside the first. Shall we take one each and see if we can find it?"

"So you think the second label with the H is definitely the customer's name?" Ellis pulled the ledger nearest to her a little closer, feeling the weight of the book as she did. The thing weighed a ton. Opening it carefully to the first page, she realised this was going to take ages. For a start, everything was written in longhand across two facing pages, in long columns of information, beginning with the date and the client's name and address, then a description of the ordered article, the name of the craftsman appointed to be the maker, the approximate date of completion, the cost and the date of payment. That each entry was written in quill and by several different hands, some long and flowing, others crabbed and almost illegible.

"Almost certainly," the blond man nodded, cracking open the heavy book now sat in front of him. "I suggest you forget everything else and concentrate on the item description column," he added. "There aren't going to be many orders for a cockaded French bicorn," he said. "Hopefully, this shouldn't take too long at all."

If it weren't for the fact that she was on a quest to find the museum's mysterious benefactor, Ellis might have given up there and then, but the knowledge that somewhere in these books was the name of the man who might have commissioned the cockaded hat was simply too compelling to leave unproven. Inhaling deeply, she opened the book fully, running her fingertip lightly down the widest of the columns as she scanned details of each carefully-written order.

There were hundreds, possibly even more than a thousand records in this one ledger alone. Taking a short break from the endless squinting at cramped lines of dark ink, Ellis stared around the room. How many secrets were buried in here, she wondered. How many stories of people's lives; of wealth and penury, of joy and anguish were written into these old and musty books? There were hundreds of years of stories in here. This room of books was a museum in its own right and would be a wonderful trove to explore more fully when there was time. Making a mental note to forward it as a proposal to the management of the company at some point in the near future, Ellis returned to her task. The short break must have done some good as she found a possible candidate almost immediately.

"Black cockaded bicorn with trim of fine lambskin," she read out, reaching over to tap Sam on the arm as she kept reading. "Looks to have been commissioned in September of 1803," she observed, running her finger across the page ... did the customer name begin with an 'H'? It did. "Havers," she muttered, reading carefully. "But it doesn't say the hat was made in the French style."

"And I've got one here as well," Sam lifted the book so Ellis could better see the narrow lines of handwriting. "1802. Matted velour of black, with learthern'd facing and cockade," he read. "Looks like the customer name is Withenthorpe, so no 'H', unfortunately."

"There's a London address with the Havers' order," Ellis wished she'd brought one of her pairs of magnifying glasses; this tiny writing was hard to follow in large amounts. "Though that's not to say, of course, that there'd still be any of the family at that address after all this time. I supposed we'd better keep looking to be absolutely sure there's no others."

Handing her a long strip of thin card to mark the page, Jakobson returned to the remaining pages of the journal in his hands. However, there were no other commission that fitted the bill. Ellis had found one other possible order, the description was right and the name did indeed begin with an 'H'. "Hannis," she read out. "Sounds Scottish. Bicorn hat of felted velour with lambskin cockade, trim and facings," she added. "There's another London address, though this one has a strange little mark beside the price," Ellis held the page towards Sam, pointing at the inked scratching. "I've not seen that before, what it is?"

Jakobson's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Well now," he sounded intrigued. "That little symbol is an old hashmark and was always used when the order was to be paid from government funds," he said. "And it might even go some way to explaining the oddness of the order itself," he nodded thoughtfully.

"Someone in the British government was buying a French hat?" Ellis wrinkled her forehead. "Why on earth would anyone working in the government at the time possibly need a French hat; they had just declared war, for goodness sake ... no Brit would be going anywhere near the Continent in a Napoleonic bicorn unless they were ..." she stopped short, her own words echoing in her ears. Oh my ...

"Unless they were going to France on the behest of the government of the day and, since war had been declared at the time this hat war ordered, then anyone dressed in French military kit would be doing so for only one possible reason," Sam nodded authoritatively.

"You're suggesting the man Hannis was a British spy?" Ellis felt a tingle of intrigue run down her spine.

"Can't think of any other reason off the top of my head," Jakobson shrugged. "It would certainly answer a few questions if it were true."

Leaning back down to make out the finely scribed letters, Ellis saw that the London address was pretty central. Though it was highly unlikely there was any possible connection to the dumping of the boxes of old military gear outside the London Museum ...

###

Answering the doorbell, Kit wondered if it was another young man offering free pizza delivery, there had been a few new restaurants opening in the vicinity. On opening the door she was not greeted by a smiling young teenager, however, but by a serious-faced woman with eyes the colour of the sky and hair that glowed copper-gold in the last of the winter sun.

"Hello," the woman smiled as she handed Kitta a small white card. "My name's Ellis Wilde, and I wonder if I might be able to talk to anyone in the Hannis family?"