Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter 10
Confidence placed in another often prompts confidence in return
(Livy)
"God lord! You made me jump! How did you get in here?"
"Back door was open."
"No, it wasn't."
"Unlocked, then."
"No it wasn't."
"No. It wasn't."
There was a brief, charged silence.
The only light in the rear sitting room of the house in Tblisi's Old Town came from the flickering images of a tennis match on the television. Hilary Weatherstone had been relaxing quietly with a Patiala peg of whisky after a busy day, wife and children gone to bed much earlier.
But he leapt to his feet in something like fear when he became aware of a dark presence standing in the doorway. Especially when that presence politely cleared it's throat to finally draw attention to itself.
"You actually picked the door lock to get in here? Bloody cheek, don't you think?"
"Not at all. Didn't want to announce my presence to anyone. It's a bit late for a social call. But your locks are terribly outdated, Hilary. I recommend you update them. Can't compromise the security of our deputy ambassador, now can we?"
Sherlock Holmes stepped silently forward, intent gaze on Hilary Weatherstone, and the diplomat found himself awkwardly stepping back a pace and feeling very inadequate suddenly. Feeling old and fat and short, and out of favour.
"Worried about something, Hilary?"
"N-no. What should I be worrying about? And what are you doing here Sherlock? Does anyone know you are here?"
"I am here to be told what you did not tell me last time. What you kept from me."
The consulting detective was pacing a slow circle around him, around the sofa Hilary Weatherstone had been lying on. Now, standing, the diplomat found himself pivoting on his heels to keep the commanding presence of the younger, taller and far more handsome man in his sight.
Knight in a panther's skin he thought; decidedly fanciful. 'He could have sunk in an abyss, or flown to heaven's gate, and through.' The quotation came to his mind, unbidden.
It was a disconcerting thing to be facing in his own house. But then again, Sherlock Holmes was a disconcerting presence. From the set of his shoulders to the tilt of his head. Discomforting levels of concentration and perception, and today, the sense of a low burn of anger. Turned his way.
"Whatever do you think I have kept from you?"
"Oh, Hilary. As if you don't know. An awful lot about the siege you should have told me and shown me from the first. But didn't. Why was that? Am I supposed to believe you were such a sensitive soul, protecting Nico? When you were actually protecting your own back."
"I don't know what you mean." The response was arch and slightly sulky: the class toady discovered in his plotting.
"Seconds in command. Deputies. Sidekicks. They always see more and know more than anyone realises. So what did you see and know about the siege, Hilary? About the circumstances of it? About your boss?"
"Think about that for a few minutes. While you are showing me the scene of crime photographs you kept from me before. Chop chop, Hilary. Boot up your computer and let me see."
"The photographs are in boxes at the Embassy…"
"But you will have copied them onto your computer. In case you needed them. Well, now you do."
The diplomat did not answer, but sighed and moved from the sitting room to his study, Sherlock Holmes close behind.
As the computer started up, he found some words.
"I was doing what I thought was best. Didn't want to see Nico upset. Not again."
"Sologashvili is a professional. He would have lived with it. I am a professional. And am very annoyed."
The calm voice was somehow more threatening than threats.
"Here," Hilary Weatherstone finally rose from the captain's chair in front of his desk, vacating it for the detective. Who sat down to go through the many official scene of crime photographs in fierce and silent concentration as if the diplomat no longer existed.
After some moments Hilary Weatherstone finally spoke. "Anything I can get you?"
"Tea," was the terse instruction. A pause, then: "And chocolate biscuits."
He took his time in the kitchen. It was a good excuse to be out of the detective's orbit. To try and gather his shaky wits and practise excuses. But after those long minutes hiding he knew he had to return. And this time Sherlock Holmes looked up at him.
"Complicated. Differences in photographs before and after the terrorist skirmish that followed the breaking of the siege. Sensible thing to do. But another layer of problem. That should, in fact, help me."
"Yes."
The briefest of replies brought forth another narrow frown that seemed to see inside a soul.
"Look at this," the command drew Hilary Weatherstone close to his side.
"AGRA. Part of it, at least. Mary - Ro Adams - under a pile of other bodies in a doorway," He remembered Nia Sologashvili's words as he spoke, words that had concentrated his searching, "Can't see her face, but couldn't mistake something as telling as size four military boots."
The diplomat peered, but could not see the differences the detective saw. "Typical arrangement of casualties in the aftermath of concussion following explosion. Yes. And then the same scene three hours later. See?
"Do you see what I see? No tiny boots or short legs there, now. But she has gone all the same. Must have slowly wriggled out backwards when she came round without shifting the bodies on top of her too much. One of them was also AGRA, I think. Probably the German. In the chaos no-one would have noticed she had gone. Hard to tell even when you know."
He nodded; sent the entire file to his own email without asking,, without comment. This time Hilary Weatherstone offered a brief prayer for mercy but knew better than to object.
"And here are the photos of Tamora you censored. Has Nico seen these? Ever?"
"I don't know. I never dared ask. I wasn't part of the investigation. I am a bureaucrat, not an investigator. They upset me. I knew her, you see. And of course I knew the Ambassador even better…"
The both looked at the photographs.
Taken in the quiet aftermath beyond the fear and tumult of the siege being broken, the awfulness of that aftermath, the tableau before them was both tragic and raw.
The photographer must have been lying on the parquet floor to capture what should have been sanctuary beneath the large table in the centre of the main hall. But was carnage instead.
A slim man with dark hair was lying to one side, limbs tossed anyhow, quite dead. Colin Travers, holidaying husband of Madame Ambassador. She was mere inches away from him, sprawled under the table, facing the camera.
A surprised look on her face; plumply pretty but undistinguished English rose features, long brown hair parted to the side, eyes blank in death.
Shoulders covered in a grey blanket, marked with congealed blood from exit wounds darkening the wool. Blood on her torso, on the floor beneath her. Shot in the back, the messy site of the exit wound obliterating her front.
One hand was still braced on the floor, the other outstretched….held by the woman facing her.
Auburn red hair, tumbling in soft curls around her shoulders. Perfect bone structure, slight laughter lines around bright blue eyes with long lashes. A looker. The little mark between her eyes could have been overlooked as a mole, perhaps.
Except that mark was the entry point of a single bullet. She would have been dead before even knowing she had been hit, one chipped pink nailed hand reaching forward to Julia Tregarron.
"Can't you stop peering at those photos?" Hilary Weatherstone asked peevishly "So many photos of that scene is nauseous overkill…"
"No. Not overkill. Thorough.." Cold grey eyes slid his way. "What makes you so uncomfortable about these photographs, Hilary? Especially when there are far more traumatic ones on file?"
There was a brief silence.
"You don't like to see your dead boss in the same shot as her husband and her friend. Why is that? Because it shows they were together? Communicating before they were shot?"
The diplomat moved uncomfortably, but did not reply.
"Oh, Hilary. You know as well as I do that not showing me these photographs had nothing to do with shielding Nico from upset: he would have already seen Tamora dead, formally identified her body. These photographs would not have upset him any more than he was already. So - why?… Ah. I see."
He pointed at the screen.
"It looks to me as if they were both killed with a single shot, that passed through Tregarron to make a fluke hit on Tamora. Looks more accurate and cold blooded than it was. The intent was to kill Tregarron, then. Tamora was just collateral damage. In the wrong place at the wrong time.
"But it was…..Oh. I see. Their closeness. Their intimacy in death disturbed you. Yes?"
"Look at them…." Hilary Weatherstone managed. "Dying together. Holding hands."
Sherlock Holmes made no immediate comment; sifted through photographs of the same scene taken at several different angles, brought them all up onto the screen together.
"Not holding hands, no. Look closer. At the angles. Tamora has Tregarron by the wrist. Tregarron's right hand is clenched. Was she resisting Tamora? Arguing, perhaps? Is she holding something? Or is that clenched fist just rigormortis? " he pointed at another photograph. "In this later shot her fingers are uncurled. Somewhat awkwardly, but still…."
He finally turned back to the diplomat.
"There was a rumour, wasn't there? That Tregarron was having an affair? Attractive older woman, husband safely away in Britain most of the time. No sex, and a need for sex. 'While the cat's away,' and all that…..
"You jumped to the conclusion it was Tamora? That Julia Tregarron was having an affair with Tamora Sologashvili? You decided that solely on the basis of these photographs, on a spiteful little rumour? The fact that the two were together a great deal in the weeks beforehand? Planning the exhibition? Yes?"
"How? Did you know? How could you possibly know?"
"Because that is who I am, and what I do," the tone was arch, dismissive. "Doesn't take a great brain to work that one out. Knowing the petty minds of most people."
"Despite the anger, despite the black ops team breaking the siege….there was something else going on here. Something involving the women, something so urgent between them it took priority over their own safety. Now, whatever could that have been? What was it, Hilary?"
"I don't know"
"Clearly. If the best you could suggest was an affair between the women then you weren't using much imagination, were you?"
He paused, frozen, still staring at the computer screen.
"There is a proper puzzle here. Far too complex for your tiny brain."
"No need to be so bloody offensive, Holmes."
"Ah, but there is, Hilary. Manners maketh man and allow truth to be obscured. That's what good manners are about. The lies and obfuscations of social interaction. Useful. Boring."
He clicked off the computer with a melodramatic flick of the wrist.
"Well, that's been a very interesting chat, Hilary. But mustn't take up any more of your time, you really do need your beauty sleep." He gave the diplomat his falsest, brightest smile.
"I need you to access all the forensic reports. Get them to me Every single one, Hilary. Got that?" He waited for the grudging, hesitant nod. " Good man. Running along now," he added. Paused.
Put a hand to Hilary Weatherstone's face fleetingly as he passed by.
"But if you hear anything abut the siege, about Margaret Thatcher, about Tamora or Julia or anything at all really….you will let me know, won't you? I would be terribly grateful."
Hilary Weatherstone felt the whisper of threat behind the smile and the words. Opened his mouth to speak, but too late. His nocturnal visitor had gone.
o0o0o
The dark and narrow underground office Mycroft Holmes claimed for his own within the Diogenes Club was the place he went when he needed solitude and secrecy.
When he needed to assimilate facts and make decisions no-one else need to know. When he wanted more peace and quiet than his official office in Whitehall offered. Or when he needed to meet people he may not want to be seen meeting.
It amused him that his secret space had once been the private wine store of the head butler when the Diogenes building has been a great gentrified house. Had been 13, London.
Which was where his younger brother found him after he left David and Emma Welsborough. Deep in thought and not happy with those thoughts.
He entered the office without knocking. Took off his coat, slung it deliberately onto the back of a chair and began to pace in front of the desk. His brother looked up from the file he was engrossed in and said nothing. Watched tension and thought process bleed out.
"You have just returned from the Welsborough's," Mycroft said eventually, when he could stand the silence no longer. "You had the death of the boy solved before you even left Baker Street So why bother going to his parents? And what is exercising your little grey cells now, brother?"
So one brother told the other about Charlie Welsborough and his father's shrine to Margaret Thatcher. About the missing plaster bust.
" Don't know what that means," Mycroft confessed. "It seems random. Disconnected."
"I thought that too," his younger brother admitted. "I now think I was wrong. A conclusion based on insufficient data. But the Welsborough's have no connection with Tblisi and the boy acquired the Thatcher bust. He died a natural death in a freak incident. Not murder nor malice aforethought."
"A great pity. That would have been helpful."
"Indeed. But this case is like that. Red herrings. Something not coming into focus. And Thatcher is a complication I could do without."
"I met her once," Mycroft offered.
"Thatcher?"
"Rather arrogant, I thought."
"You thought that?"
"I know." A low chuckle at the irony of it. Takes one to know one, they both thought, but did not need to say. "She was always arrogant, you know. No discernible sense of humour, everyone said. Even her Cabinet ministers. Not a single friend at school. Apart from her headmistress…..what does that say about her?"
"Shut up, do. Really not interested."
Mycroft Holmes was miles away in memory when his brother sighed, pressed the mobile phone into his hand to distract him, and watched the British government look down at the screen automatically without expression.
"Why am I looking at this?" he asked in vague frustration, that familiar curl of a superior smile never reaching his eyes.
His brother sighed again, clicked his tongue to the back of his teeth, momentarily looked at the ceiling as if seeking tolerance and strength.
"That's her," his younger brother said with deliberate patience as if talking to a child. "John and Mary's baby."
"Oh, I see." Mycroft Holmes lifted an eyebrow, trying to read any feeling reaching across the desk to him without looking to check. " Yes," he drawled. "Looks very…fully functioning."
He slanted a quick glance, seeing his younger brother's distraction, his exasperated frown. And for a moment the British Government was at a loss. Perhaps what his brother had intended? Or was it? Sherlock had always been hard to read as far as human responses were concerned; especially since he had delivered the Watson's girl child in the back of a car.
" Is that really the best you can do?" The scorn was as quiet and controlled as it was deliberate. But what Mycroft Holmes liked least about that attitude was it was so far removed from disdain for the commonplace he and his brother usually shared.
"Sorry," he said automatically, not sounding sorry at all. "I've never been very good with them."
"Babies?"
"Humans." He clarified with asperity.
Sherlock Holmes heard the disdain in his brother's words: stepped forward to take his phone from unresisting fingers and return it to his jacket inner pocket.
He did not show in expression or movement if he regretted sharing such a human failing; baby pictures. Or why he had done it.
Back to business. Why did I just do that? To Mycroft, of all people? To impress him? Or myself? Demonstrate before the toughest audience of all how well I could mock human softness of heart? Make them all think I am growing and weakening. Being emotional; being human. If I fool Mycroft I can fool anyone
Fool John and Mary. Then they will think I am growing a heart and lending it to them. Let me in closer. Let me find the flaw in the machine, the handle I need to turn the players in this game until they become automata.
But first….Snap back from sentiment, it has no place here. Concentrate! Now; hit the ground running…..
"Moriarty, he snapped. "Did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?"
"Why on earth would he?" Mycroft Holmes demanded, wrong footed, surprised.
"I don't know. You tell me." Irreverent, sing song. Calm, mocking patience. Two could play at that game, the younger brother thought.. My turn!
Mycroft sniffed in irritation, yet opened a folder already on the desk before him. And his brother saw that; how Moriarty was also in his brother's mind.
Did such a nebulous case as this, lost in the past, unresolved, bring Moriarty to Mycroft's mind also? Not just me, then? Interesting. Why was it interesting?
Watched Mycroft refer to his notes. The younger brother wondered in passing if the older really needed to read, whether he knew all about James Moriarty's after their extensive interviews. Whether he also suspected the Irishman was still alive…
"In the last year of his life, James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over seventy assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in South Korea, and had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgia's." Mycroft read. Looked up, a brief basilisk glare.. "Which is still missing by the way. In case you feel like applying yourself to something practical."
Their eyes met and clashed. The sarcasm was not veiled. Sherlock Holmes breathed out tension through his nose.
He is not to know how deep I am in the midst of this affair of that bloody pearl! Not so much as a whisper to warn him I am on my way back to Tblisi.
"It's a pearl. Get another one," he dismissed haughtily.
Mycroft Holmes heard the carelessness and rolled his eyes, frustrated in his purpose.. Yet his brother did not heed his words, nor bother rising to the bait. He was looking thoughtfully to one side, concentrating.
"I have studied political assassinations around that time. Several in the areas one would expect - Africa, Asia. The last assassination in Georgia was three years before the siege - Guram Sharadze, historian and politician. Trying to form yet another breakaway political movement. Surely not the sort of petty move Moriarty would bother with."
"Indeed," his younger brother agreed. "But there's something important about this, the Thatcher and Tblisi connection. Or Moriarty,,,,," he said with total concentration, eyes and mind elsewhere.
"Thatcher? Moriarty? Which? Both? In the past? Or now?
"I'm sure." The reply seemed irrelevant, unconnected, deep in his own head, unheeding. "Maybe it's Moriarty. Maybe it's not. But something's coming."
Mycroft Holmes frowned and leant forward, peering into his brothers eyes and folding his hands with precision on the desk top.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…..Mycroft Holmes was not given to quoting Shakespeare. But then, neither was his brother. He frowned.
"Are you having a premonition, brother mine?"
The question was unexpected, delivered with less scorn than it should have been. Sherlock Holmes controlled his expression except for a little blink, and stared at his brother; expecting more. But there was nothing, simply a level stare. Genuinely enquiring.
"The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other," he expounded. The reply was a quotation, but he didn't bother seeking to remember where from. "What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If to every strand of quivering data you could attenuate, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics."
Which engendered a brief smile of understanding.
"Appointment in Samarra."
"I'm sorry?"
"The merchant who can't outrun death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then."
Sherlock Holmes narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not sure I like it now," he admitted.
Picked up his coat from the chair, put it on. Back to his brother, apparently not listening.
"You wrote your own version, as I remember," Mycroft continued, on more comfortable ground finally. "Appointment in Sumatra. The merchant goes to a different city and is perfectly fine. Then he becomes a pirate for some reason."
No reaction, not even a smile of shared childhood memory.
"Goodnight Mycroft." He turned to leave. "Keep me informed."
"Of what?"
"Absolutely no idea."
The mellow baritone voice drifted back into the office. Arch, mannered, offhand.
Mycroft listened to the disappearing footsteps, heard the silence falling back into place. He looked down at the folder in front of him and pushed it away with distaste..
o0o0o
He was reminded of that conversation as he walked from Hilary Weatherstone's house to Nico Sologashvili's a couple of miles from one side of the old town to the other, through streets busy and bustling with life even at such an early hour of the morning.
From the Digenes Club he had crossed several courtyards to Lady Smallwood's office. Just a quick visit while he was close by, the answer to a single question.
He had pushed his way imperiously past Elizabeth's elderly secretary without a second glance (past retirement age; still fit and capable, good genetics; widowed; cat owner; oh - and likes Mivvi ice lollies, he recalled from the Magnussen debriefing.)
And I daresay proud of her silent efficiency, her devotion to her boss, her cherished special status as Lady Smallwood's second in command. Watched cricket and rugby and enjoyed the sight of fit young men exerting themselves in a socially acceptable setting; probably bit the heads off jelly babies with the sort of vicious snap only the pussycats saw…
Got flustered when challenged on the minutiae of life. Felt out of control. Pathetic. Life happened.
"Yes, William," Lady Smallwood had agreed when he asked the question of her. "Mycroft selected the operatives for the Tblisi mission and laid down their contract; I gave their final briefing and signed off the paperwork."
"As I suspected. You still feel any guilt for authorising such a disastrous mission? So many deaths?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, her expression never changing.
"Of course not. Dealing with the siege was simply reactive. It had to be broken, and AGRA was the best option available at the time. Fortunes of war, balance of probability and a failed result that could never have been predicted.
"A regrettable episode. The United Kingdom does not lose ambassadors like that. Not in modern times."
"You believe all that bureaucratic bollocks?"
"Of course I do. How dare you question my judgement?"
"Because that's my job. As well you know. Why are you being so snippy? You threw this problem at me to solve, after all."
"I did not throw it at you. I happened to mention it in passing…."
"And Mycroft is chivvying. While neither of you are helping!"
"You never need help. You repulse help."
"Quite so. Normally. But this is a problem and a mystery deep within the very bowels of government bureaucracy. Your bowels."
The words were calculated to knee jerk a reaction. But her nerves and her response were stronger than that.
"If I knew anything - could have done anything - this would have been resolved long ago. You do know that. Which is why you are on your own in this. A ghost in the machine. Looking inside from the outside. To see what no one else can.
She paused. "This has always been a matter of the utmost delicacy. So no one else for this but you. No-one."
The customary steely look. The ice maiden lift of the head. The implacable stance he recognised only too well.
"Thank you so much for your support."
She gave him a blank look and turned away from his words. The secretary offered a silent sympathetic shrug, which he ignored. Lady Smallwood was still looking out the window, her shoulders a tight forbidding line, when he left.
o0o0o
Things did not get any better. He returned to Baker Street feeling a childish sense of betrayal, tried to expunge the feeling and what caused it: what that instinct might mean.
He knew he needed to return to Tblisi; ask questions that could only be asked face to face, to read hesitancy and body language to determine truth. To access historic files. He would have time to pick up his passport and get to the airport. There was no need to inform anyone of his plans.
There and back before anyone would notice him gone. It was clear he was on his own with this investigation; although why he was on his own was not totally clear, nor had it been justified. Not that that mattered. Or was anything new.
'I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' The determination from Kipling kept repeating in his head.
Eidectic memory was a curse. That very first line of the Just So fable - 'Originally all the tame animals were wild, but especially the Cat; he walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.' Yes. He had read that line aged eight, and had never forgotten it. Mycroft was at Eton and he was at prep school, already long conditioned to being alone.
But now the second sentence of the story had relevance too.' The man was wild too, until he met the Woman'
John and Mary. How much simpler life would be without such ordinary additional obligation to John and Mary. Stop! It is what it is! No regrets, no blame game, no looking back. Think only of the end of the tale: 'the Cat keeps his bargain. But on moonlit nights he roams the woods or the roofs, walking by his wild lone.'
Dammit! Analogies are for fools….!
o0o0o
John Watson let himself quietly into 221 Baker Street, his key rasping softy in the lock.
Hr had left the white plastic carrier bag beside Mrs Hudson's hall chair, and it was a matter of ten steps from door to chair, the action of seconds to stoop to pick it up, to retreat the way he had come. He was quietness personified: the visit to the Welsborough's home had unsettled him, and returning to town with Lestrade had been an awkward journey, ('OK, John. You should know. What's up with him? I've never seen him as off beam as today….') and meant he had forgotten his shopping for Rosie completely.
It was only later he realised what he had forgotten, when the supplies were needed, when he had cursed his unusual absentmindedness, so he gave his excuses to Mary and headed for the Tube. It would take less than an hour to get to Baker Street and back, all hopefully before Rosie woke for her bedtime feed and needed the nappies and the only cream that cleared her nappy rash, and they could not get from Boots.
He was congratulating himself on his speed and had the black front door open again when something that was not a sound made him halt, and turn and look up the stairs in the direction of 221B.
A tall familiar figure stood silently on the half landing, a mere silhouette in the semi darkness, leaning back into the turn in the stairs, seeking invisibility..
"Oh! Hello! You startled me. Didn't expect to see you there," John Watson spluttered. Into the silence. "Just came to collect Rosie's shopping. Left it here while we were at the Welsborough's. Then forgot all about it in the rush….."
No answer. No movement.
"Get all that thinking done, then? In the taxi? I assume you went off to talk to Mycroft….?"
A tiny shift of suppressed irritation.
"You were a bit weird earlier. Is everything OK? Sherlock?"
He took two steps closer to the stairs. A closeness that provoked an answer.
"Fine."
"You sure?"
He put out a hand and clicked on the stairwell light. They both blinked, vision adjusting.
John Watson could see the consulting detective was wearing his Belstaff and scarf.
"Going out?"
"Yes. Need to be somewhere."
Instead of clattering down the stairs in his usual whirlwind of movement, pushing past and away, Sherlock Holmes remained where he was, and John Watson found himself walking gently forward, slowly up the stairs to meet him. It felt, he thought fleetingly, like approaching a wild animal.
"Sure you're OK? Only you were very strange earlier. And you don't look…..right," he finished lamely.
"There's nothing wrong with me!"
"I'm not saying there is. Just that you aren't - weren't - quite yourself. And I'll help - I'd like to help - if I can."
"Don't need help. Thank you. After all, you have said it yourself You are not my doctor."
John Watson bite back a quick retort. He had asked for that.
"Are you using again?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Haughty head carriage, superior sniff of impatience..
"Ridiculous to notice? Or ridiculous to even ask?"
"Just stop it. I haven't time for this."
"Why?"
"Told you. Have to be somewhere."
"Sherlock. You're being a bit strange."
"I am strange."
"No, you're not. That's just something you hide behind." He too a deep breath. "Look: there's no easy way to say this. I'm worried about you. Since we got back from Aalburg you've been really off. Not your usual self. Distracted. Bit wobbly Not as immaculate as usual. I do try to warn you. About trying to do too much. Spinning too many plates."
"Thank you. Your concern is noted." The tone could not be bleaker.
"And doing that thing as well." He was frustrated now. It was showing "Talking at me in clichés."
No reply except a tight smile. The sort of physical and mental withdrawal he had not seen since their first days together in Baker Street.
"And I have no idea what you are thinking. It's unsettling."
"Then stop thinking about it. About me. Time you did."
"Oh, God. Not that again. You are my friend, Sherlock. Probably my only friend."
"You don't need a friend. Me as a friend. You have a wife. She takes precedence."
"I've told you - we've both told you - you are beyond friend, you are family."
For the first time Sherlock Holmes looked down properly, and met the concerned eyes close to him.
"How much do you talk to your wife, John? About what she was before she became Mary Watson? About what she used to do?"
"I - we - we don't. I told her; when I forgave her for deceiving me. I never read the AGRA memory stick. I couldn't face it. Didn't want to know. Told her. Her past was her own affair. Only her future was mine. Ours."
"Bit short-sighted of you, don't you think? Isn't it best to know the truth?"
"I know the truth," he was too vehement, he could hear it; pulled back into honesty, however shaming. "But some of it I just can't face."
"What? Her capacity to kill you? And walk away?"
"No. That she nearly killed you. And lives with the shame of that every day."
"Shame? What shame? She is a professional, she should know better." He snatched his arm away as John Watson reached for it. "And I don't ask that from her. You must know."
"I do know. What I don't know is how you seem to understand her. Forgive, even. Give every impression of liking her. Do you like her, Sherlock? Are you attracted to her?"
Oh. There is something insecure in this oh-so-perfect relationship. Or there would be no creeping little jealousies on show, especially near me.
Think, John! You know Mary. Safe with you, shielded, being allowed to be as ordinary as she wants to be. You know me. You know I do not allow myself to be attracted to anyone….
"No, forget that. Not fair of me to ask," he hurried to amend his words. Sherlock Holmes watched the man who had been his best friend for so long deliberately pull back from a brink of his own making. Change the subject completely. "Mary says you had a gorgeous girl with you in 221B the other day; a girl who was about to kiss you and go for your body if she hadn't happened to walk in at the wrong time. Hope she didn't disturb anything too pleasant?"
He read and understood John Watson's deflection. Appreciated it. Nodded briefly, smiled a little. Shrugged a shoulder.
"That would be telling," he said. And John Watson smiled at him. Transferred the carrier bag from hand to hand.
So keen to think of me in his vision of happy. Being with another person. As a sexual animal. Having a close and loving relationship. The sort of relationship he liked to think his own was. With Mary. Established, loving, safe and steady. Oh, John.
"Well, this has been a lovely chat, but I really must be off." Hs voice sounded arch and artificial, even to himself. He watched John Watson's eyes narrow, but be was pleased to have turned the conversation from himself, from her; from what she really was. Everything John Watson did not want to see.
"And you need to get home. Your offspring will need those supplies before too long Or else you would not have come back to retrieve them until tomorrow."
"True." A hand rested briefly on his arm as the father remembered his other responsibilities. "Will we see you tomorrow?"
"No. Busy. I'll be in touch,"
They walked down the stairs together, through the big black door.
Outside they headed in opposite directions. To home. To Tblisi. Did not bid each other farewell. Each lost in their own thoughts.
o0o0o
The front door of the old town house opened as he approached it, the tall dark silhouette of Nico Sologashvili beckoning him inside. He had been expected.
"Hilary rang to tell you I was coming," Sherlock Holmes said by way of greeting as he stepped inside.
Yes. But I already knew you were coming. Nia said." the Georgian closed the door behind them. The house was quiet, a single lamp burning in the hall.
"And did your sister say why I would be coming to see you?"
In answer he turned away and into a small sitting room to the left, knowing the detective would follow.
Two sofas facing each other with a fireplace in between, the orange glow of a fire. The host gesturing to the guest to sit.
"Where is your luggage? I assumed you were coming to stay the night? As before."
"I would not presume to invite myself. This a flying visit. I intend to catch the morning flight back to London. But first…..you seem very alert. Keyed up. What has happened?"
The Georgian grinned. The rare expression created laughter lines and took years off his stern face.
"Nothing to worry you, my friend. ArtAime has just had good victory. A treasure trove of 23 important stolen paintings have been found. Will be returned to their owners, to the world. The press release goes out tomorrow. It will be a sensation!"
He could hardly sit still, he was so highly emotionally charged.
"Freud, Bacon, Munch, Zoffany…all stolen from homes and museums in Belgium. The thief worked in contract catering; spent his entire career denying any interest in art, whilst coveting and stealing. All displayed in his flat, his own private art gallery. Thorough detective paperwork found him to be a common temporary staffing denominator at all places involved. He has admitted his deeds. The biggest single recovery in the history of the organisation."
Nico Sologashvili grinned. "Such things makes the blood flow in the veins all the way to the heart. You know this feeling, I suspect?"
"Congratulations, Nico."
"Thank you. We work hard. Sometimes we are lucky." He rose from the sofa, all energy and impulse. Moved to a console table and the silver tray there, poured himself a brandy, another for Sherlock Holmes without asking. Handed him a generously filled taster's glass which the detective took without comment and placed on the side table without tasting.
"You won't find your precious black pearl that way," he said. Comment, not criticism.
"You trying to ruin my mood?"
Nico Sologashvili shot him a dark look, but sat back with a satisfied sigh and took a long pull of the spirit.
"So. Here you are again. What can I do for you this time, Sherlock? Or is it Mr Potter today?
"Neither. Both. Depends how much you hate me by the time I leave."
"And why would I hate you?"
"Because I need answers to questions you do not want to answer."
"I am intrigued. So ask."
The grin and the goodwill lingered. Advantage needed to be taken.
"And destroy your mellow mood?"
"Why not? If you feel you have some advantage tonight, use it while you can."
He was leaning back into the sofa, glass in one hand, the other hooked casually behind his head. Dressed in white linen shirt and dark chinos, he looked relaxed, comfortable buoyant. But his eyes were guarded.
And Sherlock Holmes knew he needed to unsettle that look, that habitual assumption of superiority.
Into battle.
"Your wife died in the embassy siege. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Straight for the jugular. Mycroft would be proud of you. Well…. I assumed you would have been briefed before you reached me. That you had already been told."
"So Mycroft knew? About Tamora?"
"Mycroft has always known. I did not lie when I told you he is my friend. When I realised you did not know….you might say I ran out of nerve."
"Nerve? You? Try again."
"So."
He sat forward, focussed and intent now, brandy glass between his hands.
"Your reputation goes before you, my friend. Formidable and ruthless. A machine. As I would expect as the brother of your brother. But to meet you, see you in action….I realised you are more than your brother. With a talent for what he calls leg work. And realised how accurate your reputation is.
"With anyone else I would have confessed. Told all, tried for human empathy, get you onside. But I saw the human approach would not work. Not with you.
"Bleeding my grief over you would never get you on my side, end my nightmare .On the contrary. It might well have turned you away in disgust instead. Repulsed by my emotion. My obsession."
"You accuse me of being a machine and then tell me you feared I would be subjective? Somewhat contradictory."
"There's being human for you. I am too close to this to be consistent in my thinking. I could not take any risk that would harm my Tamora's memory. Her reputation.."
He shuffled forward on the seat, dark eyes intent and burning. Put the glass in his hand aside.
"Because you know something, Sherlock Holmes? Grief at a death like my Tamora's, a death without reason, or understanding, without culprit or closure….the agony only increases with every passing year.
"You know our great national poem, The knight In The Panther's Skin? There is a line in that to sum up my Tamora: '"she made the sun seem flawed, the sun that imitated her.'"
There was a silence that lasted a beat too long. He risked a glance and saw Sherlock Holmes' lift his head, lip curled in something like distaste.
"Sentimental claptrap. I expect better of you, Sirius. I am really not interested in any of that sob stuff. Back to reality. What was Tamora's connection to the siege?
Sherlock Holmes watched the older man control his hurt, hold onto his anger at having his feelings dismissed with such scorn; make a visible effort, offended by both words and attitude.
Good! Come down from your high horse, Nico. I am hurt and angry too - at being poorly briefed, facts kept from me, at being treated like a child by you because I am only Mycroft's younger brother.
Dismissed by you as an investigator. Too young and detached. Too alien, too deficient in humanity and understanding. How dare you judge me and waste my time, Sirius? How dare you?
" My wife, like my sister, held a degree in fine arts," Nico Sologashvilli's voice - pay attention, stop thinking! - was hard, tight. "That was how we met - because of Nia. Georgian cultural history was Tamora's abiding passion.
"The exhibition was her brainchild. To reflect the way Georgia was restablishing her own identity after throwing off the shackles of being a Russian satellite for far too long.
"She saw the time was right for a celebration of our culture, our nation. Inspired by the influence of the Wardrops in opening up Georgian culture to the west via England, she naturally took her idea to the new UK ambassador, Julia Tregarron. Julia immediately saw the importance, the ambition, of what could be achieved. They bubbled with ideas between them. It was wonderful to see."
His face softened as he recalled those heady days.
"What did you think of Julia Tregarron?"
"A strong and determined woman. A person who got things done. Her strength of purpose seemed merely fitting at the time. It was only later…"
"Did you ever doubt her? Suspect her motives? Her relationship with your wife?"
There was a dangerous pause for judgement.
"You are very sharp. Too sharp. Ever cut yourself?"
He ignored his sarcasm thrown back at him. Saw only too well how his hard tone was drawing out truth at speed..
"Hilary Weatherstone is under the impression your wife and the Ambassador were having an affair. That the siege lasted so long only because there was some lover's tiff between them thwarting diplomacy. So when they died it was because they were arguing between themselves about something….which distracted them from self preservation."
"What?"
Nico Sologashvili was on his feet. The urbane façade surging into real passion, real anger, raw pain. Fists clenched, eyes burning. Towering over Sherlock Holmes as if about to pummel him to pulp. With an effort Sherlock Holmes stayed coolly where he was, did not rise to face down that explosive response to his words.
"Grow up, Nico," he drawled. Hoping to diffuse the anger focused upon him. "Behave yourself. None of this emotional vomit impresses me. Just tell me."
Oh. My impatience is showing. And my repulsion of emotion. Not good. This is a strong man and his face has just folded inwards. Bugger. He might stop talking, stop telling truths now…OK - push more buttons Different buttons…..
"You have a bad mouth, Sherlock. My Tamora was beautiful. Perfect. Kind and clever Ah, you give me a sceptical look. What else would you expect me to say? But it was true. I had a failed marriage before I found her. I know the difference. And we were a team. The same passions, the same dreams." he dragged in air and controlled his fists with an effort..
"What you are suggesting is….disgusting."
"Is it, though? It would make sense of the way they died. Together, hands linked. Posed as if they were outside the world. Despite the danger. It makes sense. And if it makes sense as a theory then it is the first lead we have had to answer the entire situation. Do you see?"
"No! It does not make sense, Sherlock!"
"And yet," he drawled in reply " And yet you kept facts from me when I was here before. Wasted my time and effort. What did you think that would achieve?"
"I don't know." He stepped closer; no less angry, frustrated in his fear, but still talking. "I have waited so long for an answer. If anyone will get an answer, it is you: I realised that as soon as I met you."
He flapped his hands in frustration.
"But then I thought…what if he finds something I dare not - do not - want to know? Will knowing be worse than not knowing? I had no answer and was in despair. Because of you.
"You lack compassion to see this thing as you should …you are too hard. Too harsh. A machine. I warned you then.
"Where is your humanity, Sherlock Holmes? Hiding in the same place Mycroft hides his? Because - both of you are seriously fucked up. Oh yes you get the job done. But at a cost. And in this - Tamora and me are part of the cost."
"Stop it, Nico. I am not here to heal your bleeding heart.."
"What are you here for? To solve the mystery of the siege? Recover the Black Pearl? Or destroy my past and my future?
"Oh, for God's sake! I am sick of hearing about that bloody pearl! It is not important!"
"Yes it is!" Shouting now, at the end of his tether, Nico Sologashvili reached down to grab his upper arms and hauled Sherlock Holmes to his feet. Shook the man in his grip, two short, fierce off balancing thrusts and pulls. "And Tamora is! The two most important things in that bloody siege - and you don't give a damn!"
He did not resist or argue. Let himself be manhandled. Too absorbed in encouraging words from the other man's mouth to worry about his own physical safety. Listened.
"You don't answer." Another shake. "You want to think the Black Pearl is some cheap trinket, not a unique, uniquely valuable, footnote to history."
"I didn't say that."
"You don't have to. To you this is all just stuff. Dreadful in itself. What is worse is your disdain for the human cost of the siege. Your disdain for love and being human is written all over your face. Haughty, supercilious…."
Spit out that bile, Nico. Read me right, read me wrong. Keep bloody talking
"I apologise, but my face is made that way. It fronts a high functioning sociopath. A freak. That's me. Hello. My face should warn the unwary to deal with me fast and true when they need my help. You know my brother; so you should know that about me, Nico"
They were inches apart, and the air sparked electricity between them.. He leaned back against Nico Sologahvili's hands, trying to release the tight grip on his biceps without resorting to self defence.
"My God, Sherlock. You actually believe that bullshit? Sounds more like Mycroft to me. I've told you before - be human. Make yourself a better man and a better investigator."
No reply, but a disdainful twitch of the head. The older man drew a deep breath. Calmer, yet still angry; confident again, seeing Sherlock Holmes' stance as weakness not wisdom, and he chose to read the younger man's silence as admission of that.
"You need to learn about life, Sherlock. And damn me if I won't teach you, whether you want to learn or not."
"Oh, yes? Teach me about what you call love? Or just teach me a lesson?"
The Georgian tugged remorselessly, pulling the younger man in towards him. Saw a way to use his own anger and his own passion to convince Sherlock Holmes to look elsewhere, look deeper..
"That's up to you. You ask what I see," he continued, voice a seductive purr beyond the anger. "I see a man not handsome, but beautiful. With a face that could belong to a god. I see a body supple, almost boyish, yet strong. I see a poise that comes of intelligence, not the assumed arrogance."
"Utter bollocks," was the charmless, dismissive reply.
The Georgian kept talking as if the scathing words had never been spoken.
"I see an attractive man with no clue he is attractive. Nor how attractive that very lack of self awareness is….."
"This is a waste of breath. Shut up. Let me go."
Stop it, Nico! I don't need this.
"I still burn with love for Tamora, even so long without her. I am not a sad case looking for her replacement. Gender is not the secret of attraction, Sherlock. It is the fire, the spirit of a person. Their intellect and the challenge of reaching down and finding another's heart, if only for a little time. Even your heart."
Sherlock Holmes jerked backwards. But did not break the firm hold he was in.
Let me go. Do not make me…..
"I talk, yet you do not listen," Nico Sologashvili pleaded. "What must I do to make you understand?"
He shook the detective again. Eye to eye, neither man yielding. Nico Sologashvili looked into grey eyes, fascinated by the brown speck he saw over the iris of the right eye Such an intimate and human physical flaw in such a beautiful frame.
But perhaps that very flaw was an indication that there was a human being behind the physical armour? That external beauty reflected beauty within? Wanting to know encouraged him to press forward.
"Oh, I am angry with you - your hard heart, your vicious tongue, your filthy mind . But you are a challenge, Sherlock Holmes. .
"How do I make you feel emotion and take the human element seriously? The people who died have people who loved them, who need closure only you can deliver. You must learn feeling is not just theory. Must I seduce you to teach you emotion?."
"No." A single word of protest.
Sologashvili was taller and older. Broader and stronger. Could not himself decide if he was angry and punishing, or pitying and tutoring. Being in the same room as Sherlock Holmes did that to a person, he thought.
Regardless, he stepped in even closer, finally shifted his arms to settle his hands around Sherlock Holmes' waist. Persuasive, almost possessive. Dominant. He paused.
Waited for physical withdrawal, for resistance that did not come. The slim frame under his hands held still, the body warm, gently exuding the fresh clinical aroma of L'Eau de Monsieur.
"I do hope you are joking, Nico." The baritone was deep and mellow. Mildly censorious.
"Look at me, Sherlock."
The patrician head rose, slanted backwards with chin tilted high as if in defiance, yet the half clenched hands remained low and still, carefully not touching. Their eyes met.
"Is this really an attempt at seduction? Or Georgian over familiarity? The determination of the Sologashvili family to get what it wants, regardless of anyone else? Your very intimate version of a power game?"
The cool voice was apparently unmoved, but the Georgian could have sworn he felt a shallow tremor under the skin he held firm; a tell of fear, was it? Fear of intimacy? Unfamiliarity? Arousal, even?
He suddenly realised he had no idea of Sherlock Holmes' sexual inclination; or if, like his brother, he admitted none. But he knew something of the boy's history, what he had endured in the past. In Sri Lanka, on the streets of London. Could only guess at what had happened since. What happened during his nocturnal wanderings in Tblisi.
He knew the boy was no blushing virgin. To plumb what he really was could only help ….
Despite the anger still simmering, he waited, tightened his grip on the younger man's waist, knowing it was becoming uncomfortable. Waited; to read the detective's response to his proximity and intent. To see if there really was a human being inside the formidable façade that was Sherlock Holmes.
He was disappointed when the voice that came to him remained scornful and remorseless. Pushing him to the edge of his intent, his own self control.
"The sister tries to seduce me in London; the brother tries it on here in Tblisi. I cannot believe either of you really want to fornicate with me for any purpose other than thinking it will weaken me and strengthen your hand.. Give you some advantage that lives only in your heads by seeking vulnerability in me. Control of me. Thinking that persisting, getting me naked, will give you advantage over me. How pathetic."
"I can seduce you, Sherlock And if it helps my cause, then I will."
The hard, mirthless laugh told it's own tragedy.
"Better men and women than you have tried. I know the power of sex; how it is works and is wielded. How empty a victory sexual domination is. You can tell me nothing about the humiliation of it, Nico."
The Georgian smiled at him then, regardless of a sudden pity that shafted into his heart. Leaned in. Breath ghosting warm over the boy's mobile mouth. But the words coming from it did not stop speaking despite the encroaching physicality.
"But what do you know of sex as love and not just transaction, little boy?"
The face opposite him became even paler, but did not answer directly.
"You are a handsome man, Nico. Do those looks and charm normally get you whatever you want?" Sherlock Holmes tried to lift his head away from the face relentlessly approaching his. Could not pull back far enough. "Even me? Melt to your touch? Go willingly to your bed? Well, well."
He heard the involuntary quick intake of breath from the Georgian, who smiled then as he shifted forward. Feeling victory approaching.
Watched Sherlock Holmes dip his head and drop his shoulders. Thawing towards temptation? Submission?
The lean face inched closer to Nico Sologashvili's. Nuzzled it, ever so slightly. Allowed a smile to move against the planes of the other face.
Submission it is then? Will that work?
"First you and then Nia, is that the plan?" the voice was softer now, almost caressing. Still relentless. "Is this your famous Georgian hospitality, Nico? Or should I say - Sirius? Because you are the brightest star in the sky, and you think everyone is your satellite?"
Mouth and brain still working, then. Must not allow anger and hurt to influence me. Fight the magnetism of Nico Sologashvili, his open emotion.
I do not like emotion, why is everyone in the world trying to make me emotional these days? Is it trendy? Some sort of weird self help thing? Like mindfulness, whatever that is?. Or a plot?
Stop it. I really, really, do not like being pulled into actions I will regret.
But I need to see how far Nico will go with this; his level of resolve. How that can help me.
Sherlock Holmes deliberately relaxed his shoulders and his posture; let his breathing grow ragged. Natural. Tilted his head slightly to one side, to see better. A curl of dark hair fell across his forehead, and he could feel the Georgian tempted to stroke it aside. But to do so he would have to let go with one hand, cede some control..
"Has anyone ever told you to just shut up and let things happen?" asked the older man, his voice a low growl. "Relax. Be seduced, simp atiuri mamak atsi. Nateli bich'i." Handsome man. Bright boy.
"I am not a boy. Never have been. So you …you really intend to try and fuck me?" Sherlock Holmes breathed into his ear. Something strange and sensual and hesitant in his voice now that the other man could not read.
He looked back into those pale shuttered eyes. Saw no fear or anger, no unwillingness. Light, rapid blinks. A tiny frown crinkling between the eyebrows.
"Would that be so hard?" he asked.
He bent his head lower, brushed his face along the side of a cool pale face with sharp cheekbones
"Not….not at all."
Finally, the hands so tight around his waist relaxed, released. Sherlock Holmes resisted the temptation to rub circulation back into the muscles.
The other man deliberately dropped his hands, rubbed his thumbs down and into Sherlock Holmes' hip bones through the fine wool and silk mix of the dark navy suit trousers. Drew those hips closer to himself. Let the feeling of the younger man into his blood.
"Hilary's theory about Tamora and Julia Tregarron…"
"Will you stop talking? Let me concentrate? On you." For a moment his hands stilled, Felt hard warmth against him, a slight lift of those hips towards him. "I tell you this. Tamora was all woman and only woman. She had eyes and body for none but me. I will show you…"
"Clearly you're not as particular as she was, then?"
Both men stilled. A point of no return. Looked at each other across the very narrow space between them.
"I am not metraki," Nico Sologashvili stated: not gay. "But for you ….I can make an exception."
"Kind of you," Sherlock Holmes murmured. "Is that because you were never able to seduce my brother?"
A tension breaking roar of laughter.
"If he was not your brother, I would ask if you had ever met him! I swear to you I have never even considered loving Mycroft: I do not even know his inclination."
"Don't ask me to enlighten you. We are brothers, not confidants." A frown quirked his features for a moment.
"Would he be peeved? To know I had had you?"
A pause for thought, a slight quirk of humour on those mobile lips.
"He might lift an eyebrow…..but you haven't had me, Nico. Not yet."
The eyes twinkled then, rapidly looked away and down. But the other man had noticed, and smiled in response.
"I am working on it," was the reply. Then another Rustaveli quotation: "'Heart mind and thought depend one upon another. Where heart goes, the others also go and follow it. A man deprived of heart cannot play the man. He is chased forth from men.' Do you play the man? Do you have a heart inside you, Sherlock?"
"I have been reliably informed, on several occasions, that I do not. Sorry."
"I don't believe that." Intrigued now more than angry. But still committed.
"Please yourself."
The off hand words were in contradiction to his actions. The detective shifted forward a little, dipped his head to deliver a rasp of teeth against Nico Sologashvili's right earlobe.
Who jumped a little, surprised at the assertive move. Grey eyes blinked rapidly at him close up, and large gentle hands crept up his arms. The Georgian was unable to repress a shiver of anticipation that went through him as lips slowly traced their way from his ear across his jaw to his mouth.
Almost of their own volition his arms crept around Sherlock Holmes' back. While Sherlock Holmes' hands lifted slowly to his shoulders, softly moving upwards.
"Shemogevie," Nico Sologashvili muttered. A Georgian endearment, untranslatable. But something closest to the phrase 'I encircle you.'
"Dim mak," Sherlock Holmes whispered in reply, his hands moving carefully and gently up the long masculine throat. Slowly closed his eyes so his long lashes fluttered against the other man's face. Relaxing it, over sensitising.
"What?" the Georgian asked. "That is not Georgian. I do not understand…."
"No. Not Georgian. Japanese. Hmmn. Parotid lymph node….."
"What….?"
" Hush now." Two words, a low seductive whisper.
He placed his lips with care onto Nico Sologashvili's. and pushed sweetly into a kiss. A proper kiss. Open mouthed, tongue pushing forward, so gently along the edge of his teeth, seeking the other's tongue.
"Sssshhhush," he breathed into the Georgian. "Ssshhush."
Cupped his hands gently around the other man's jaw. Sucked a deep breath around the alien mouth, and breathed softly out. And deliberately arched his index fingers upwards and out.
When he snapped his eyes back open they were too close to Nico Sologashvili's for him to notice the tiny movement. If only he had had his own eyes open to see that rather than succumbing to the kiss.
So. Deep breath. Concentrate.
So now!
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Patiala Peg: a measure of whisky that is the proper 'two finger' measure; the space between index and little finger of a closed hand.
The Knight In The Panthers Skin: Quotes from Georgia's epic mediaeval poem by Shoto Rustaveli comes from a modern translation. A great tale, beautifully told, and well worth reading.
'Probably the German.' The German member of the AGRA team was Gabriel (Gratz)
Number 13 London. Sadly fictitious. Famous, however, is Number One, London - now known as Apsley House, formerly home to the Duke of Wellington. 200 years ago it was the first house in London beyond the tollgate into the city, hence the number. Now 149, Piccadilly. Grade I listed, owned by English Heritage and open to the public.
The building used as the Diogenes Club in Sherlock is actually 10, Carlton Terrace, home to the British Academy. The Diogenes first appears in ACD canon in the short story The Greek Interpreter. In the books, The Diogenes is meant to be opposite Mycroft's rooms on Pall Mall.
Guram Sharadze: The assassination to which Mycroft refers was a real political killing in Tblisi in 2007.
Mivvi ice lollies: An old English favourite ice cream, with a fruit outer encasing vanilla ice cream, on a stick. First made by Lyons (Lyons Maid defunct ice cream brand) and now Nestles.
The Cat That Walked By Himself: One of the most famous Rudyard Kipling Just So stories. First published in 1902 and considered a reflection of Kipling's wife.. Critic Rosalind Meyer observed that the other animals mentioned are included to reflect husband as lover, defender and provider, while the Cat mirrors whatever else is in him, and while the Woman may never domesticate the Cat- she is obliged to live with it, as it comes with all the others!