Chapter 11
In which the plot thickens and emotions rise.
###
It was rather amusing, really. Watching them scurry about the place like so many ants under the glare of a magnifying glass. First this one, and then another running around with absolutely no clue as to what they were doing or what was being done to them. And by the time any of them worked out exactly what was happening, it would be entirely too late and the whole thing would be over: Mycroft Holmes and all those close to him would be dead.
The man whom a large part of the Serious Crimes Division of the London Met had come to think of as the 'Vampire Killer' smiled to himself as he drove by the closed-off streets and secured police forensic sites, his sites, with their garlands of garish yellow barricade tape: Crime scene – Do not cross. Standing now in the dark at an uncurtained window of his very expensive hotel penthouse suite, he sipped from a crystal glass of brandy and watched the blue and red flashing lights far below as yet another police vehicle rolled down another London street. It was like watching chickens squabble and fight over meal-scraps; since nobody knew what had happened, what was happening and what, more importantly, was still going to happen. Those supposedly in charge of the situation he had created with such care and forethought, were essentially at sea, in the middle of a midnight-dark ocean, having neither compass nor starlight to fix their position.
Savouring his brandy again, the man laughed, turning away from the view and flicking on one of the suite's several large plasma televisions. He was still chuckling when the early evening news came on; leading with a story of the latest political scandal and nary a whisper of the messy stage-show he'd left for the police in SoHo. Clearly, someone was determined to keep things under wraps which was something of a pity as he would liked to have seen a minor panic sweep through the city. But no matter. He'd arranged things in such a way that the very cryptic nature of the crime, the sheer obscurity and heinous manner of the killings was such that the police would undoubtedly be wallowing in their own bafflement, so much so, in fact, that it would be painfully obvious they would need every bit of help they could get in this case. A case so evidently calculated and yet so unspeakable that one person in particular would eventually, inevitably, be involved; Sherlock Holmes. And once the young Holmes was enmeshed in the coils of his plan, then so too eventually, inevitably, would be his so-called elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. And once Holmes the Elder was involved, the endgame could begin.
It had taken a great deal of effort to set the scene, as it were, in order that the final act of the performance might be properly appreciated. It was a virtuoso accomplishment that had already run under the police spotlights for several weeks and soon to be approaching its final curtain call.
The last night was very close now.
###
Ellis realised she was in a very odd frame of mind as she made herself comfortable in the back seat of the luxurious black BMW that had drawn up to the front of the Holmes' Pall Mall residence not five minutes after Mycroft's Jaguar had pulled away. And while it was obvious the man was incredibly central and critical in whatever job he did for the government, especially to be called away so suddenly as he had been, it seemed to her that he hadn't really wanted to end the evening the way it had been forced to end. Or was the champagne making her imagine things?
Waiting for her promised ride home, Ellis stood just inside the partially open front door, watching Mycroft slide elegantly into the back of his opulent government car; that alone being quite sufficient to tell her that he didn't exactly work as a clerk. The car and its passenger sped off into the dark of the growing evening and Ellis didn't know what to make of things.
"Mycroft Holmes is the best of men," Kit's voice was quiet at her shoulder. "I bin with him for more than twenty-five year'n, and I won't have no word spoken against him," she nodded emphatically. "Even if he do rush hither and yon when he ought not to."
"Does anyone speak badly about him?" Ellis found herself curious on the point. It was to be expected that someone of Mycroft's obvious importance would have accumulated more than one or two opponents in his career.
"Not that I've heard," Kitta's smile was unexpectedly wicked. "He has a way about him of worrying people away if he don't like 'em, see," she added, pausing as the BMW swung into view. "Seems he likes you right enough though," she spoke in a thoughtful voice. "Seems proper smitten, in fact," she wrinkled her forehead in consideration and sniffed reflectively. "Now don't you wait here talking to me and catching your death," she said. "Off you trot; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him before long, my dear." There was a vaguely speculative tone in her voice.
Mycroft Holmes liked her? Liked her more than ... smitten? Ellis wasn't entirely sure what to think about that snippet of information. What little she'd already seen of the man's private collection identified it as the equal of and quite possibly, better than any she'd seen at the best of museums, and it wouldn't have taken an expert to see she'd been enthralled by the Holmes family devotion to history. So, was it herself that Mycroft liked, or was it her professional capacity in the preservation and curation of artefacts that he liked? Ellis knew full well she'd been guilty of a little awestruck admiration, but she didn't think something like that would have much effect on a man such as her erstwhile host. More than likely he had simply enjoyed having someone new looking at the magnificent collection of treasures. Yes, that would be what it was.
Getting comfortable in the extravagant rear seat of the BMW, she gave the driver her address and felt not even the slightest judder as it pulled away from the kerb and swung into the main stream of busy, peak-time traffic. Contemplating the lights of shops and buildings as they passed silently by, the ring of her phone in her bag was a little startling in the padded silence of the car.
"Hello?" the caller's name was hidden and it was too dark in the car to see anything else.
"Apologies once again for deserting you in such an ill-mannered fashion," Mycroft's voice was velvet in her ear. "An idea has occurred and I felt it wise to share it with you sooner rather than later."
An idea?
"You did say you were going to call me, though I wasn't quite expecting anything this soon," Ellis found she was smiling. Perhaps Kit hadn't been entirely wrong in her assessment. Perhaps he did like her a little. "What's the idea?"
"Cocktails," Mycroft sounded very matter-of-fact. "Tomorrow night, if you're free, and then we could continue your interrupted perusal of the collection, if that might appeal."
If it appealed?
"Sounds like a very good plan," Ellis smiled a little more. "I'm probably going to be working until at least six or so; do you want me to meet you somewhere later?"
"Would it be convenient for me to collect you from the museum sometime around six-thirty and we can go to a little place I know not far from Whitehall? I'm afraid there won't be time to offer you dinner, but cocktails ..?"
Ellis had never been invited out simply for cocktails before and the idea charmed her. She could arrange a late lunch ... and the idea of seeing more of the Holmes collection was exciting.
And to be honest, the idea of seeing more of the man himself was exciting too ...
"Sounds like a very good plan indeed," she was grinning now. "Outside the main entrance around half-past six, then," Ellis looked through the car's window. Things seemed to happening very swiftly. "Until tomorrow, Mr Holmes."
"Mycroft, please, Doctor Wilde," his voice was dark chocolate-smooth.
"If it's Mycroft, then it really has to be Ellis," she found herself grinning again, though for the life of her, she couldn't think why.
"Until tomorrow then ... Ellis." There was the slightest of pauses, and the call was over.
As the loaned car pulled up outside the low-rise building where she had a small flat on the second floor, Ellis was surprised when the driver stepped briskly around to open her door and see her safely inside the building.
"Have a nice evening, Miss," the man in a dark, nondescript suit nodded briefly and then both he and the car were gone.
Ellis ran up the two flights of stairs to her front door, a smile stuck to her face. Whatever else, Mycroft Holmes had style.
###
Returning the phone to an inner pocket just as the Jaguar arrived at the cordoned-off police barricade, Mycroft was aware that Anthea had been listening carefully to his conversation with Ellis Wilde. Since he had already explained the reason for this evening's outing as having to do with Sherlock's involvement with the police, he was mildly surprised when she handed him one of the latest of the newly developed iPads loaded with all the relevant data on the so-called 'Vampire murders'. Flicking his gaze across the information, Mycroft pursed his mouth. Either her contacts were superior to his own, or her training was better than he had realised. He turned to face her, lifting an eyebrow but remaining silent.
"I know you've been keeping tabs on the situation," she began, "and when I heard there'd been burst of police radio traffic this evening around SoHo, I put two and two together and thought you might find a summary helpful," she said. "Especially if you want to ensure the, ah ... minimal risk to your brother."
She had deduced he'd fabricated the reason for their visit? Very well.
"Quite," he scrolled swiftly down through the pages of text. "Sometimes Sherlock's antics provide the perfect smokescreen," a smile flickered across his mouth. "Saves inconvenient explanations," he paused. "I assume the Home Secretary contacted the Police Commissioner?"
"Of course, sir," Anthea nodded. "DI Lestrade should have been fully briefed on your presence at the scene, though most everyone else will assume you're there because of Sherlock."
"Good," looking out of the window, the flashing red and blue lights suggested they had arrived at their destination. Stepping out from the big black Jaguar, Mycroft felt the chill of a winter's evening bite as he pulled a pair of heavy leather gloves onto his hands. Scanning the assembled groups, the senior officer was relatively easy to spot, since most of the people waiting were all looking in the same direction.
"Evening," Lestrade nodded towards the well-dressed stranger as the last of his team headed off to do their job. He looked at the pair of constables in hi-vis gear standing at the cordon and keeping the public at bay ... supposedly keeping the public at bay. "This is an ongoing police investigation, sir," he blocked Mycroft's progress, extending his arm back towards the cordon. "However you got in here and whatever your reason for being here might be, I strongly suggest you leave now." He smiled his best and most portentous senior police officer smile.
"Holmes," Mycroft stood with both hands resting on the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella. "With the Home Office."
Ah, so that was the reason for the call from the Commissioner not ten minutes before.
"And what makes you think there's anything you can see or do here that might in any way help me and my team do our jobs, Mr Holmes?" Greg smiled again, though not as friendly as the first time.
"Finally!" Sherlock appeared out of the darkness to interrupt them, coat flaring with every long stride, Byronic curls waving around in the cold night air. "You took your time."
Looking between the two dark-haired men, Lestrade proved he was not a detective for nothing. "You two know each other, I take it? Any relation?" he asked, turning back to the older man.
"Inspector Lestrade, may I introduce my brother Mycroft who does all manner of things for the British government and for any other government whom he feels needs his help whether they actually want it or not," he turned to meet Mycroft's dark eyes, glinting in the flashing blue lights. "Mycroft, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Serious Crimes Division and one of the slightly lesser incompetent individuals at the Met ... now can we please get on?"
"You sure you want to be in on this?" Greg fell into step beside the taller man, only then noticing the dark-haired young woman a couple of steps away who seemed intent on accompanying them. "This is no sight for the squeamish, nor ..." he paused delicately, "is it something I'd want my daughter to see," he added, carefully not looking in Anthea's direction.
"Just as well I'm not your daughter, Inspector," she smiled tightly. Based on the case photographs she'd managed to see from the two previous incidents, she wasn't particularly looking forward to walking around a grisly crime-scene, but she'd be damned if she'd let a man tell her she couldn't.
"Have it your way, then," Lestrade looked sideways at the elder Holmes' elegant outfit. "Pardon me from saying, but you don't seem the type to get your hands dirty," the detective paused by the taped-off doorway, looking between the newcomers. "Last chance to not see this."
Ignoring the words of advice and stepping boldly into the actinic police lighting, Mycroft observed and mentally documented everything within the range of his vision.
The staged performance, the eviscerated arrangement, the sheer voluptuousness of the entire production. Someone had put on a show for them. About to comment as much to Sherlock, Mycroft's attention was taken by the sound of a suppressed cry. Turning, he saw Anthea with both hands tight across her mouth, what remained visible of her face was tragic in the blinding white lights.
"Outside, I think," Mycroft wrapped an arm around her waist and half-carried her from the building into the icy clean air of the street beyond, where he had he lean against the still-warm bonnet of the Jaguar. "Breathe deep," he directed, keeping a very watchful eye on her face. If she were going to faint, he'd catch her, but he'd rather not embarrass his assistant without cause. She appeared to be regulating her responses more successfully now.
"Better?" he asked softly. "It was a somewhat more gruesomely contrived setting than either of the other two," he said. "Little wonder it took you by surprise."
Sucking down great lungfuls of the freezing air, Andrea finally felt the dizziness and nausea retreat. "It wasn't the scene itself," she muttered grimly. "It was the smell."
Ah, yes. Mycroft nodded in understanding. As a veteran of many battlefields, he'd forgotten how the stench of blood and death could affect those unused to it.
"While I genuinely appreciate your willingness to assist me at all times," he said. "I believe this particular instance may be considered just a little too far beyond the call of duty, don't you think? It would make me feel much better if you would take the car home and return to the office only when you feel properly recovered; perhaps take tomorrow off and focus on the world of the living for a little while, hmm?"
Sitting on the front of the big polished car, it was hard for Andrea to accept what she was hearing. Mycroft Holmes being nice? While he hadn't been actively unpleasant to her in any way thus far, she had known it was only a matter of time before the man revealed his true colours. She had seen no prior evidence that he could behave as ... as a human being.
"That won't be necessary at all, sir," she gulped as she stood slowly, her legs feeling less jelly-like than a few minutes before. "I'm fine now, thank you."
"Then take this," he said, handing her the pure white handkerchief from his breast pocket. "Do you have anything you could use to make this into a pomander?"
Nodding briefly and diving into her shoulder bag, Andrea produce a small bottle of the perfume she normally wore. After sprinkling it liberally onto the fine lawn cotton, she tied the kerchief bandit-style around the back of her head. She might look odd, but at least she was more prepared now. She stood straighter and nodded. "Ready when you are."
"You're a brave woman, Ms Worthington," Mycroft raised his eyebrows and smiled fleetingly. "Few people would be strong enough to return to such a place. I am increasingly impressed by your abilities," he paused, gesturing to the entrance of the building. "Shall we?"
Sherlock pounced again almost as soon as they made it back in through the door. "Did you see the signs?" he demanded quietly, steering Mycroft by his upper arm back into the main empty space where the bodies had been located. "The details, Mycroft ... the details!"
Mycroft had indeed noted the small trail of increasingly faint round circles, more like dots, really. The steel ferule of an umbrella, just like the one he always carried. He cast his eyes further about, not at the rigid corpse sprawled on the small wooden chair in the middle of the room, nor even at the deliberately staged artifice that was the scene of an apparent berserker bloodlust. The remains of the dead had no interest for him other than as symptoms of the killer's intent, no, what was far more interesting were all the minutia of the setting.
The umbrella tracks; the two half-smoked silk cut cigarette stubs thrown oh-so-carelessly down by the doorway; the single dark button he'd noticed lurking beneath the chair holding the dead man upright, which without doubt would be a match to the buttons Mycroft preferred for his own waistcoats. The entire tableau had been meticulously constructed, a stage-piece intended to be viewed in only one way by a very particular audience.
Someone ... someone very powerful and very dangerous, was attempting to set him up. What was even more concerning, whoever the killer was thought they knew him well enough to be able to draw a logical line between him and this savage slaughter. Whoever had done this had placed him in an incredibly grave situation. Even if the evidence was purely circumstantial, it would be more than enough to have him drawn into a very unwelcome limelight. Difficult questions would be asked. There would be ... suspicions ... possibly even a demand for blood tests. Events might shortly be in train that could threaten his very way of existence and derail everything he had so carefully assembled for the last five hundred years. Not only what he being threatened on a very personal level, but if the secret of his true nature was made public, he would never again be able to work effectively in the role he'd made his own since the end of the last war, a position so integral with the security and safety of the British Isles, that any attack on him was akin to an act of terrorism against Britain itself.
Therefore he would take steps to ensure this eventuality did not materialise, even if it meant he had to dismantle much of what he had come to think of as his life. This was nothing short of coercion, and since there could be only one real reason that anyone might wish to expose him in such a deliberate manner, then the nature of the killer was in itself of enormous interest.
"I've seen everything I need to see here," he had already turned back towards the doorway when Sherlock appeared with Lestrade in tow. He raised his eyebrows in query. "Sherlock?"
"I need to discuss the findings of the tests I carried out earlier today," Sherlock looked between the two men and spoke intently. "The results were surprising."
"Not here," Mycroft shook his head fractionally. "Somewhere less ... public," he paused, nodding at the masked Anthea as she gestured towards the exit. "I know just the place."
###
Scant minutes later, stepping out into the cold not far from the Carlton Club in St James, and after finally convincing Anthea to take the Jaguar home, both Holmes men waited until the following car parked nearby. That there was explicitly no parking permitted here made little difference as Greg Lestrade's silver BMW was registered with the Met, and anyone considering giving him a ticket would quickly be persuaded otherwise. In moments, the three men had entered a splendidly well-lit building, mid-Victorian architecture at its very best, heading towards a pair of panelled doors, behind which was the smooth steel façade of a lift. It descended rapidly, though briefly.
The office Mycroft had created for himself in the depths of the Diogenes Club was as elegant as it was mysterious. While his working environment in Whitehall was of necessity somewhat more functionally designed in keeping with a modern, though little-known department of the Home Office, his quarters beneath the club he had helped found over one hundred years before were the epitome of high Edwardian style. In all the time he'd owned the building, Mycroft had seen no good reason why he might not make this particular element of his life as comfortable as any other part.
As the upper floors of the well-designed building had been given over to the housing of the gentleman's club, created in the days when the measure of a true gentleman was far different from that which passed for one at the end of the twentieth-century, it was of scant surprise to Greg Lestrade that Mycroft's private subterranean office was as resplendent as everything else about the man. The place fairly reeked of money and style.
From the glorious dark maroon-and-gold intricacies of the original William Morris wallpaper, to the substantial fireplace in the centre of the main wall, braced on either side by well-filled lustrous African Sapele bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling, right down to the luxuriant hand-knotted Persian carpet, the entire place sang of personal indulgence.
"This is quite a hideaway you have down here," Greg was quite sure he'd never been in anything like this kind of gentleman's retreat before, but he could see the attraction. Throwing his heavy overcoat across a sturdy ottoman, he sank wearily into a massive dark wine leather chair, its padding so deep as to make him feel he was being wrapped up in the thing. It was incredibly comfortable, more so even than his bed at home and a lot more welcoming. "I could sleep in this," he muttered, cautiously allowing his body to relax in increments. There was a strong impression of illicit luxury about everything down here and Greg felt an almost puritanistic sense of wickedness at such decadence.
Striking a long match, Mycroft put it to the kindling in the already-laid fire, a glowing blaze very quickly threw dancing shadows across the room. Bar the crackling of burning wood, everything was quiet and lush and Greg felt himself beginning to nod off..
The clinking of a decanter roused him somewhat, as did the fragrance of some very decently aged malt as the glass appeared at his hand.
"You've never been to the club before, Inspector?" the elder Holmes handed a second glass to Sherlock before taking one for himself and sitting in a graceful swivel chair behind the vast desk. "No, of course you haven't. You should try it sometime; I could arrange a temporary membership if you fancy the idea."
"Lestrade enjoys the society of others far too much to make him a suitable member of the Diogenes," Sherlock too had lounged back into a deep armchair, watching the flickering light of the fire. "Keeping secrets to himself doesn't come entirely naturally to him, does it Inspector?" Sherlock cast a waspish glance towards Mycroft with his final words. "Unlike some."
Frowning at the unexpected venom in the statement, Mycroft leaned forward, linking his fingers together and turning his gaze towards his silver-haired guest. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this evening, Inspector Lestrade; I appreciate you not wishing to leave your people in SoHo without your guiding presence, but I assure you, this won't take long and is extremely important," he paused, his mouth slightly pursed in thought. "Do you have any other details on the killings, Inspector? Anything at all that might add to the picture that, even now, my brother and I are compiling of the murderer? Even the smallest of minutia might be of use."
Sipping his scotch, Greg thought, then shook his head. It had been a long and wearying day; he needed some hot food, a civilised cup of tea and an early night. Failing that, then sitting in a luxurious basement den with a decent scotch and a real fire at his toes made up for a little of it. "Without meaning to be disrespectful," he sat up a little. "You probably already know a damn sight more than I do, so how about a bit of a quid pro quo?" he looked interested. "While I know Sherlock here can probably work out how many breaths the killer took while he was doing the deed based on the number of footprints in the dust or the number of dead flies under the window or something, I also know that anyone with enough pull to have the Home Secretary to get the Chief Commissioner on the blower simply to gain unfettered access to a new crime scene, has to be a pretty heavy hitter in his own right," he said, squinting at Mycroft with his right eye. "I'm merely a copper in a bunch of other coppers," he added, leaning back into the meltingly-soft chair, tasting his scotch again. "How's about you tell me what's going on, eh? Any thoughts on why this killer is doing things this way? Other than killing for kicks, we can't even be sure there's a real motive; there's a pattern for sure, but there's also no rationale that we can see."
There was a pregnant pause in which each of the three men considered what not to say.
"Mycroft is a two-thousand year old vampire and someone's out to expose his secret, wreck his department and endanger the safety of Great Britain," Sherlock leaned forward, linked his fingers and looked impatient. "Which provides a decent motive at the very least."
It was as well that he no longer required air in his lungs to remain conscious these days, Mycroft realised, setting his half-empty glass carefully down onto the solid wooden surface before him. Nor had the centuries-long practice of maintaining a perfectly unruffled expression on his face regardless of provocation been in the least wasted. Ensconced behind his great writing desk, he neither gasped nor frowned, but smiled politely and with some considerable charm. Inwardly, he was debating whether to fume at Sherlock's child-like outburst or arrange for his temporary sectioning.
"My brother will enjoy his little joke, Inspector," Mycroft's savoir-faire was impeccable and his fatigued expression utterly fitting. "And now that we have had Sherlock's opinion of the situation, perhaps you might feel able to share your own understanding of events?"
Giving the younger Holmes a stare of irritated incomprehension, Greg focused his attention on the older sibling. "We're only just beginning to put the pattern of the killings together to be honest," he shrugged wearily. "Clearly, there are repetitions of the actual murder scene which are important to the killer, but the two victims, the two er... complete victims we've been able to identify so far seem to have no connection other than they were both night-workers. The victim in the factory was a security guard at a blood-bank in the West End, and the second one, in the old church, worked at a van-hire company. We have no idea as yet who the identifiable victim is from SoHo, and, of course," Lestrade sounded disgusted. "The identities of the dismembered victims are completely unknown to us at this time, although we're doing our best to follow up on any recent missing persons reports," he shook his head slowly. "It's not a lot of progress, I'm afraid."
"But I've just told you ..." Sherlock began, halting abruptly when Mycroft raised a hand.
"Enough, brother," the older man's tone was cool and his eyes hard. "You do your case no good this way."
"Yeah, Sherlock," Lestrade gave him an accusing glance. "Stop acting the prat; it's not funny."
"My brother is correct in that the motive may, in some way, be intended to destabilise law and order in London and thus create an impossible security situation and thus affecting me more or less indirectly," Mycroft leaned forward and linked his own fingers, well aware that Sherlock was staring at him with daggers in his eyes. "And I shall be instigating my own inquiries on this matter, of course. Should I uncover any useful information, Inspector, you may be sure that I'll send it on to you post-haste."
"You mean you're going to call the national security agencies?" Greg was mildly surprised. If MI5 and MI6 were going to be involved, then there really was something big in the wind.
"My own inquiries, Inspector," Mycroft smiled politically. "In my own way."
"Fair enough," Lestrade got to his feet. "Thanks for the scotch, but I've got to get back to my mob before they think I've knocked off and left them to it for the night. I'll see myself out," he added as Mycroft rose from his chair.
Less than five seconds after the sound of the rising lift echoed quietly through the panelled wood walls, Mycroft turned towards Sherlock with a face of fury.
"And what the bloody hell did you think that would accomplish?" he demanded angrily, slamming a palm hard down on the top of the desk. "Enough of the truth is generally too much in such an instance as this," he growled. "Lestrade is not stupid!" He stalked over to the fire, then turned. "Why, Sherlock? Why?"
"And when were you going to tell me about Kit?" Sherlock leaped to his feet, his expression equally livid. "Or did you think that I'd simply not be able to see that my adoptive mother is dying, Mycroft? That she won't see the end of the year? Did you consider me so useless and so immature that you couldn't bring me into the situation? Or did you really feel I have no place in Kit's life anymore, even the small portion she has left?!"
His eyes were wild and his face pale and Mycroft's anger had nowhere to go.
