Chapter 11:

Sherlock found John walking back and forth in the driveway outside the front door. It was starting to rain again. The doctor looked up when he heard his name and turned back towards the house at once.

"Sorry," he said, sounding embarrassed. "Wanted some air. Tell that bloody brother of yours, 'No more helicopters,' okay?"

Sherlock studied his friend's face intently. It looked a more natural colour now than it had earlier, which meant either that the grey paint Trevor and Lance had chosen for their walls really was unflattering to the human complexion or the fresh air had done John good.

"You should just walk away when he does that," he pointed out. "That's what I do."

"I don't have your detailed knowledge of back alleys, roof tops, and other CCTV-free escape routes."

"We'll have to work on that," Mycroft's brother said, seriously.

John's eyes met his with a gleam of amusement in them, the first his friend had seen there all day. Something shifted then in Sherlock's mind, the darkness and heaviness he had been conscious of as an almost physical weight pressing down on him ever since he had walked into the house giving way to an unexpected sense of something lighter.

"Come on," he said. "We don't want to miss anything. Lestrade's going to interview the suspects; it's always entertaining to see what he doesn't think to ask."

John shot Sherlock a look, then took another deep breath of the blessedly cool, moist air, nodded, and strode resolutely back into the house behind his friend.

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Because of the urgency of the investigation, Lestrade had decided to override regular procedure and conduct his interviews of the staff at the house. He started with the housekeeper, Muriel Briden, a fifty-something local woman who came in to clean and sometimes cook for the two men.

This was one of the mornings when she had been expecting to cook. She had arrived at the house at her usual time, 6:00 a.m., and had in fact been the one to raise the alarm when Trevor did not appear for breakfast by 6:30. Lestrade found her sitting in the kitchen, weeping quietly, but she wiped her face when he came in and offered to make tea and coffee, which he gladly accepted. When Sherlock and John came in the police team was sitting around the long harvest table in front of a bank of French doors overlooking the garden, Greg asking the housekeeper questions while Sally recorded the whole exchange.

Muriel Briden had been working for Trevor and Lance since they had bought The Gables a year ago. She had cleaned for the previous owners, a family called McPherson, before that, and been passed on by recommendation. She said she had been glad to keep the job; it was conveniently close to her home in St. Mary's Wold, and the men had paid her well and been considerate in their personal habits and demands on her time.

They seemed to have been very considerate indeed: the renovations had resulted in a great deal of extra dust and inconvenience, but as the men had stayed in their London house throughout the worst of it—the work on the kitchen—she had not had to cope with that. Trevor had, in fact, insisted on paying her regular wage throughout that time, even though they had not needed her—a gesture that had clearly earned her undying gratitude.

"Really, you know, he didn't have to do that," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue from the box Greg had made sure was on the table. "The McPhersons would never have thought of it. I even argued with him about it, but he wouldn't hear of anything else."

"This was Trevor," Greg asked, "not Lance?"

"Mr. Gabriel? No, not him! It was Mr. Victor, of course. It would never be Mr. Gabriel. I—well, perhaps I shouldn't say that." She dropped her eyes from Greg's and crumpled the tissue in her hands.

"Please say whatever you're thinking, Mrs. Briden. We need to understand as much as possible about what Victor Trevor's life was like if we're to find out what happened here this morning."

"Well . . . I . . ." She shook her head and stopped again, her eyes still on the tissue she was now twisting to bits in her hands.

"You didn't like Gabriel Lance," Sherlock broke in, earning himself a glare from Sally Donovan and a reproving "Sherlock!" from Greg. But the statement, leading though it might be, seemed to be exactly what the housekeeper needed someone to say. She looked up, relief washing across her face.

"That's right," she said. "How did you know?"

"I've met him. And I knew Victor quite well once."

In spite of the evidence of the portrait, that admission brought a little gasp from Sally. Even Greg startled; Phil Anderson sneered.

The housekeeper looked at Sherlock curiously, and John was surprised to see the lines of his friend's face soften a little as some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them.

But of course, he thought. They both liked Trevor, and neither of them thought this man Lance was good for him. He can't have been, if he was shallow and materialistic enough to get them heavily into debt, as Sherlock thinks, and then dishonest enough to pull that stunt with the pictures, trying to get out of it. I wonder if Trevor knew?

Probably not, if he was as honest as he sounds. Sherlock seemed to know a good deal about those pictures. They must have belonged to Trevor when he knew him. If Trevor liked them—and he must have done, if he had them hanging in his house—that was a rotten thing for his lover—husband, whatever—to do, pretending they'd been stolen. No wonder Sherlock didn't like him. He'd have taken one glance around that house and known what was happening. . . .

And for a moment he wished that he'd gone to Astor Mews with Sherlock the day before and met Gabriel Lance, instead of haring down to Lewisham with Major Amberley. Perhaps he'd have more insight into the current situation if he had. But of course he couldn't have put the old man off. He'd have to remind Greg about his promise to look into that theft, once this case was over.

"Why don't you like Gabriel Lance?" Greg was asking the housekeeper now.

"No good reason," she said. "That's why it seems wrong to say. I just—oh, he's all right, really. I don't hate him or anything; I'm just not as fond of him as I am—as I was—of Mr. Victor. They're so different. Mr. Gabriel is very keen on how everything looks, you know. All those fancy clothes of his! And the jewellery! Great heavy cufflinks and chains and things."

"Chains, eh?" Anderson whispered, giving Sally a nudge. "What did I say?"

"Anderson!" Greg snapped.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Briden said. "Gold ones, round his neck or on his wrist. And a diamond in his ear sometimes. I don't know, I'm a bit old-fashioned, maybe, but I don't like to see a man all dolled up like that, even if he is a—" She broke off, flushing with embarrassment at what she'd been about to say.

"He thinks such a lot of himself," she went on, hastily, "that's what puts me off. Mr. Victor wasn't like that at all. A real gentleman, he was. Must have had a nice mother, —and a nice father, too, I'm sure. I used to think it was a shame he hadn't found himself a good woman; he ought to have had children; he'd have been a wonderful father. Or, if he had to have a man, then a different kind of man—one cut out more along his lines."

"What kind of lines were those, Mrs. Briden?" Greg asked.

"Oh, he was a very special man, Mr. Victor. So generous and kind, as I've told you, and so honest; I'd have trusted him with my life, I really would. And talk about intelligent—my word! He seemed to know everything there was to know. I didn't think Gabriel Lance was good enough for him, that's what it boils down to. I always thought he was too shallow and too self-centered for a man like Mr. Victor, though I guess he did know a lot about art. That was an interest they had in common."

"How did Trevor seem to feel about Lance?" Greg asked, curious. They might have been married, but that didn't guarantee either man's feelings about the other, as the number of murders committed by domestic partners showed.

"Oh, he thought the world of Mr. Gabriel, poor man. Anything he wanted done to the house, Mr. Victor always told him just to do it. This kitchen, now—this was all Mr. Gabriel's idea. Mr. Victor would have been happy enough with the old one, I'm sure. Such a production it was, too, putting this in! They had to get special permission—the house is listed, you know—and it cost an arm and a leg. That fridge there, and the dishwasher—they're German, they cost the earth—and then these worktops! But I will say, Mr. Gabriel does use it. He's a fine cook, always making something special. I haven't had to do a lot that way, just these past few weeks since he's been away."

"Lance has been away?" The Detective Inspector sounded surprised.

"Oh, I thought you'd know! Yes, he was staying up in London, in their house there. Well, he was until two nights ago."

"Lance came here two nights ago?"

"That's right. Got here day before yesterday, just as I was leaving—but that was the first I'd seen of him in ever so long."

"Do you have any idea why?"

"Well, he said he'd been busy with evening engagements up in the city—art shows and such; he has a gallery, you know."

"You didn't believe him?"

"Well. . . ."

"Please, Mrs. Briden. All your thoughts, remember, whether they seem relevant or not."

"It's just—Well, Mr. Victor's the busy one, isn't he? Was the busy one," she corrected, trying to wipe her eyes with the tissue in her hand and finding there wasn't enough left to do anything with.

Greg pushed the box toward her and she took another, wiped her eyes with it, then blew her nose decisively.

"Very busy he was, what with being a Cabinet Minister and all," she went on at last. "They used to come down here just for the weekend—Friday night to Monday morning, regular as clockwork. Then suddenly Mr. Gabriel was staying up in London and Mr. Victor was down here all the time, having to get up before dawn so he can exercise and wash and dress and have a bit of breakfast, and then drive to the station to take the train in to London, and then a taxi from the station there to his office! Crazy, that's what I call it. I told him so one day, and he said he liked this house best and Mr. Gabriel was welcome to the other if he wanted it. Which made me think—well, you know."

"That they were splitting up?"

"Well, yes, it did seem like that. I was relieved Mr. Trevor was planning to keep the house—it's a special place, so private here by the nature reserve, and I knew they'd had offers for it, lots of them, and Mr. Gabriel thought they should sell. But then there was Mr. Gabriel coming down day before yesterday, about five, just cool as you please, with a car full of groceries—things from Harrod's and Fortnum's and places like that—and saying he was done work for a while and so glad to be home again—home, that's what he called it, which really surprised me—and I didn't need to stay and cook dinner as he was going to do it. And I didn't know whether to be sorry or glad, because Mr. Victor had been so quiet and sad the past few weeks, and even if I didn't think Mr. Gabriel was good enough for him, I knew his coming back was going to make Mr. Victor happy. And that seemed like it could only be a good thing, you know?"

"Of course," Lestrade said, although it was Sherlock she directed her remark to. He had been watching her intently, fingers steepled under his chin; now he nodded briefly.

"But . . .?" he said.

Of course, John thought. Of course there's a 'but.'

He glanced down the honey-coloured pine table to the opposite wall, where the huge red Aga was glowing cheerfully. It was the traditional kind, always on. He could feel its warmth from where he was sitting; it had been seeping into him while he'd been sitting there, like the heat from the mug his hands were wrapped around, gradually banishing the chill that he'd actively sought outside.

"Heart of the home," a kitchen was supposed to be. Lance had brought groceries and said he was glad to be home again.

"But. . . ." There was always a "but" about coming home.

"But then he left again the next morning. I'm not usually in every day, but I came in yesterday because I wanted to finish cleaning the silver. Mr. Victor has—had—quite a collection of it, all antique—candlesticks and serving dishes and tea sets and old sports trophies, ever so many of them, as well as all the cutlery, of course. They're all over the house; it's a big job to get everything clean. Once I've started I like to keep going until it's done."

And you wanted to see how things were going with Trevor and Lance, John thought, glancing at Sherlock. But the detective's face gave nothing away.

"And Lance had already left?" Greg asked. "Or did he leave after you got there?"

"He'd already gone. They both had. And—" She hesitated, her already ruddy cheeks deepening several shades.

"And?" Greg prompted.

"Oh"—she started picking at the tissues in her lap again—"nothing, really. Just that I'd thought they'd both still be here, but they weren't."

"You were going to say," Sherlock suggested, his voice dark and silken, "that when you went upstairs to clean you found that one of the guest-room beds had been slept in, and you could tell that Trevor had slept alone."

"Well—yes." Mrs. Briden looked startled. "But how on earth did you know that?"

"That's Sherlock," Greg said, staring at Sally and Phil to remind them to keep their mouths shut.

"Because he's a fr—" Anderson started, having entirely missed his D.I.'s look.

Sally hissed "Shut up, you moron" just in time to save him from finishing the word, making Greg wonder why she'd bothered, while John flexed his hands and thought how satisfying it would be to clock Phil Anderson on the nose.

"Your flushed face said you were embarrassed," Sherlock said. "Given all the indications that the men had quarreled earlier, and the fact that Lance had returned only the night before—clearly expecting to stay—but then left, the deduction was obvious."

He likes her, John thought, or he wouldn't have explained that so gently.

Muriel Briden looked at Sherlock with admiration.

"You are clever, aren't you?" she said. "Yes, that's right. When I went to make up the main bed—well, it was obvious that only one person had been sleeping in it. I knew it must have been Mr. Victor, because he always sleeps on the right side, even when he's alone, but if it's Mr. Gabriel here by himself—and it has been, a few times, when Mr. Victor had to work all night in London—he sleeps on the left."

"And the guest room bed had been slept in?" Greg asked.

"Yes, that's right. They often bring guests home at short notice, so I keep all the beds made up. I went into the north-east room later to get the silver and saw right away that the bed there had been slept in. I didn't know what to do— whether I should take the sheets off and wash them or whether he was going to want them another night."

"You don't have any idea what the problem was?" Trevor had spent the night before his murder at The Gables; there was a good chance, Greg thought, that Mrs. Briden had extended her silver-cleaning into the evening so as to be there when he got back from London.

The housekeeper tipped her head thoughtfully.

"Well," she said, after a moment, "I don't know for certain. But I did think they must have quarreled about that picture again."

"What picture?" Greg asked.

"Again?" Anderson exclaimed. "How would you know what they'd quarreled about the first time?"

Sherlock fixed him with his coldest narrow-eyed stare, the one that always made Anderson feel as if he'd been fixed on a slide and was being looked at under a microscope. He tried not to squirm.

"Do you really not know, Anderson," Sherlock inquired, acidly, "that it is virtually impossible to keep anything from an intelligent housekeeper who cleans your rooms?"

"Mr. Victor drove down here alone the night after one of their big parties," Mrs. Briden said, sniffling again and reaching for another tissue. "But Mr. Gabriel stayed in London that night and every night after until two nights ago. When he came down after the party, Mr. Victor had that picture with him; it's been sitting on the mantel in his room there ever since. I'd never seen it before. I was sure that must have been what they'd argued about, or why would Mr. Victor have brought it away with him? He never did that normally; it was always Mr. Gabriel who was changing the paintings about."

"What picture?" Greg asked again. Muriel Briden looked at him as if he had two heads. Sherlock closed his eyes and re-steepled his hands under his chin.

"Why, the one Mr. Victor brought down with him, of course! I thought when I first saw it that it was Mr. Gabriel, but then I looked more closely and saw it couldn't be him. And then when you came in,"—looking at Sherlock—"Well. It is you, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?"

Eyes still closed, Sherlock inclined his head in the briefest of nods.

"I thought so! I thought so, even before you said you'd known him. It's a small world, isn't it? I've often wondered what Mr. Victor was like when he was younger. I'm sure he was a fine man even then. He was, wasn't he, dear?" That last word seemed to slip out almost unconsciously.

"Yes," Sherlock said, quietly. "Yes, he was."

The look on Anderson's and Sally's faces would have been worth filming, Greg thought later, if only the one that passed briefly over Sherlock's—so briefly, Greg almost missed it—hadn't been, like the one he had caught there when Sherlock first saw Trevor's body, so much like pain.

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"So, what do you think?" Greg asked, after telling Mrs. Briden she could go home. "Any idea yet how our murderer got through two locked doors, when both of them were locked from the inside and nobody seems to have had a key? Windows all shut tight, no footprints or ladder marks in the wet grass or flower beds outside, no indication that anyone could have gotten up on the roof, security cameras and armed guards everywhere. . . . It's the classic locked-room mystery and then some—like a bloody Agatha Christie, damn it all to hell!"

Sherlock flicked his eyes in Greg's direction.

"You don't find it obvious?"

"I would, if Lance had been here. He'd have a key to the rooms, if anybody did, and he's got motives all over the place: the quarrel with Trevor"—Greg studiously kept his eyes off Sherlock's face—"and then the possibility that Trevor had found out about that attempt at insurance scam and threatened to expose him. And we don't know where he was last night: he left Astor Mews just after 7:30, with two suitcases and his car, and he hasn't been seen since. I've been trying to reach him but he isn't answering his mobile or responding to texts."

"That sounds suspicious," John said.

"Yeah, it's suspicious as hell, but you thought Trevor was shot between 4:30 and 5:30, the housekeeper was here by 6:00, and the agents say Lance hasn't entered this place since he left it yesterday morning. We'll double-check all the video, of course, but the whole property is securely fenced and guarded, and he never came in by the driveway and the front gate. There's a back gate, off the woods—I suppose he could have come in that way—he'd know the keycode—but the agents were patrolling the perimeter all night long; they're sure they'd have seen him. And anyone who came in through the back gate would set off alarms as they approached the house. I'm told they can only be deactivated from the central server."

"Where's that kept?" John asked.

"Not sure. I haven't had a chance to do a proper walk-around yet. We only got here twenty minutes before you did; I was held up trying to track Lance down to break the news. I want to interview the agents now—I've talked to Morton, the head of security here, but not the other two. And then there's the neighbours in that cottage next door; they might have seen or heard something. And the carpenters who've been building that wardrobe—I'd like to know how long they've been working on the house and whether they're really what they're supposed to be."

"You think one of them could have done it?"

"Could be. Sherlock's brother's been on the phone to me already to remind me of the political and security implications of this for the Olympics. An assassin working for a foreign power or a terrorist organization could have disguised himself as a workman, especially if this had been planned for a while. Though the Powers That Be are still worried it's one of our men."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Greg said. "It's bad. If it's one of our guys, we're in deep shit. We're in deep enough as it is, since we've let this happen on our watch. My watch," he added, grimly. "The Commissioner was expecting me to find the security hole before something like this happened. Of course," and his voice brightened a little, "they don't know what Sherlock's worked out about Astor Mews yet. If nobody got into the house at all, then there's no reason to think the agents weren't all doing their jobs."

John nodded. Greg sighed.

"But they might not care too much about that," he went on, his voice darkening again. "If they're looking for heads to roll, mine's right on the line."

"Not if you find out who did it, surely?" John said. Greg shrugged.

"We'll see. I'm going to grill these agents, that's for sure, and anyone else I can think of. You want to listen in, Sherlock? I'd be glad if you did. If there's anything there to pick up on, you'll be the one to see it."

Sherlock nodded curtly.

He was certain he already knew how the murder had been done—so certain that he hadn't yet bothered to take a walk outside and find the final piece of evidence that would confirm it beyond all doubt. But who and the full details of why were still unanswered questions that concerned him for more pressing reasons than Lestrade's job security, important though that was to his ability to go on getting really interesting cases from the police.

He had always accepted the fact that being a consulting detective involved considerable risk. Still, he had no desire to die any sooner than was absolutely necessary—but if that was to be avoided now, he was going to have to find out who had shot Victor Trevor before they succeeded in shooting him.

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Note:

If you're enjoying this story at all, I'd really appreciate your taking a moment to let me know. It's great to be favourited or followed, but a written review, even a short one, makes all the difference in the world.

I don't mind constructive criticism, so if your feelings about the story are mixed, please don't let that stop you from telling me what you think. It's been all planned out in detail from the start (yes, all the pieces really will fit together!) and many parts of the remaining chapters are already written, so short of my being hit by a bus it will be finished. It's taking much more time and effort to write than I had expected, though, and pretty much consumes all my leisure time and then some, so it would be very helpful to know that people are enjoying it - or, if you're not, why not.

My thanks to Fang's Fawn for her edits and suggestions on these last two chapters, and indeed throughout this story. Any mischaracterizations or errors that remain are entirely my own fault.