A/N: Another chapter. Now we're nearing the end. I told you, I'd explain the animals. ;)
I don't know for sure how many more chapters there will be, but at least two more.
Enjoy!
Dot walked next to John, who was linked arm and arm with Sherlock, his cane between him and her. After the adrenaline had worn off, John was limping a little bit more now. Sherlock did his best to keep John upright without looking like he was trying to help.
Dot would have thought it was comical if wasn't so sweet. So she kept a weather eye out for anyone who might tell on the two men. Of course, there was really no one around, Mycroft had given the servants the day off. But she was mindful nonetheless.
In her constant vigilance it was Dot who spotted the dead bird first. "Oh how horrid!" she exclaimed, pointing to the poor raven in their path. As they got closer they could see that the animal had been mutilated, and not by any beast either. "Who would do such a horrible thing?" She pulled out her handkerchief and covered her nose to protect it from the stench.
"Whoever it was," John growled, "has got to be the same person poisoning the estate's animals. Right, Sherlock?"
Sherlock smiled down at him sadly, "Yes, I'm afraid it is." He unlinked himself from John's arm and squatted next to the remains. "And I'd say this is a warning, telling me to back off on investigating the dead creatures."
"But why?" Dot asked. "You're the only one who seemed to care that it was happening."
Sherlock grinned at her. "Because eventually I would have convinced Mycroft to look into it. And if my brother started thinking that the animal deaths were suspicious, he would have moved heaven and earth to find the cause. He takes his duties as master of Undershaw very seriously."
Sherlock picked up a nearby stick and began poking the bird. "But by choosing a raven as a warning, I'm afraid he's rather shown his hand." He stood up and dusted off his trousers.
"How's that?" John asked.
"Most of the town knows that I keep birds and shelter wounded animals, but only four people know I keep a nesting pair of ravens," Sherlock explained.
"Four?" Dot asked, confused.
"Yes," he replied. "Mycroft, who had been there when my mother gave them to me. John, of course, and there were two others there the day I showed John the ravens for the first time." Sherlock looked at John. "Do you remember who they were?"
John frowned. "I remember Mary was there. But she couldn't have done this. The blood looks fresh, killed today. Mary has been dead for longer than that."
"Very good, John," Sherlock praised.
"So who was the other?" Dot asked.
John frowned as he thought and thought. "Who was it...?" Then suddenly his eyes snapped open.
"Oh God!" he shouted.
Sherlock grinned. "Yes, he was there, too."
"Who?" Dot asked, beginning to feel impatient.
"David Lancaster," John breathed.
Mycroft walked into the interrogation room with a black leather legal folder clutched in his hand and closed the door tightly behind him.
Anthea looked up and small smile appeared, "Oh, it's you. I thought those bumbling idiots were back for another go."
"I think they did well enough," Mycroft said, sitting down on the other side of the table. "After all, Gregory managed to surprise you."
Anthea frowned at the familiar air that Mycroft used DI Lestrade's given name. "Why on earth would anyone give up a high ranking position at the Home Office for this?" She gestured vaguely at their surroundings.
"I've heard of many who sought the quiet life after the War," Mycroft lifted his chin. "I did."
Anthea leaned back against her chair, "Which is something I have never understood."
"As heir, I had to come home to Undershaw after my father fell ill," Mycroft reminded her, "Which is something I wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't killed Sherrinford."
Anthea's face twisted into an ugly mask. "If it wasn't for Sherlock, Sherrinford would still be alive," she retorted.
Mycroft sneered, "In what world would having only one brother have spared him in any way?"
She leaned forward earnestly, "MI6 courted you, time after time. They came in person, they called, they sent letters and telegrams, begging, pleading, bowing and scraping and you turned them away. For what? For a disturbed little boy who should have been drowned at birth?"
"You will not speak of my brother in such terms," he snapped. He stood up and placed both hands on the table, leaning toward her menacingly. "You continue to call him such names, but for all his peculiarities he's never killed anyone and you have. This isn't even a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this is more like comparing apples to oranges."
She looked up into his eyes and said, "Yet."
Mycroft sat down, "Who knows what tomorrow may bring? It's true that he could turn to a life of crime. He'd be brilliant at it, but I think you'll find that my brother, Sherlock, errs on the side of the angels more often than the devils."
"No matter which side he is on now or in the future, MI6 knew that as long as Sherrinford lived and aided in the war effort, you wouldn't leave Sherlock's side. So we removed the elder brother and 'believed' the lie you told about the younger. My superiors knew your real ages, they aren't that stupid."
Mycroft scoffed. "I never said or implied that they didn't, but if it had gotten around town that Sherlock avoided the draft because of that deal, it would have ruined us all. Do you know how many fathers, brothers, sons lost their lives in this town alone? Twenty. Musgrove isn't big enough to take such losses lightly. They wouldn't wish Sherlock's death upon me, but they would feel bitter that he got spared and their loved ones did not."
Anthea sneered, "So that's what Mary had on you, those imbeciles implied that it was your war record that she had over you. I never would have thought it was this."
"You were above such social mores," Mycroft noted, "Much like Sherlock in a lot of ways." He smiled at her and she snarled in reply. "There is something else you should know: when word came to Undershaw that Sherrinford had been wounded in battle, I called up MI6 and agreed to come work for them. I was on my way to London when I received a telegram saying that Sherrinford had succumbed to his wounds. Three days after I agreed to come work for them."
Anthea frowned. "But I only received word to go ahead that morning, that's not possible."
"Oh but it is," Mycroft said coldly. "They didn't have to kill him, that was them sending me a message that my life was not my own. But I got the last laugh. I always do, including this." He opened the folder and turned it to face her. "This is a writ of annulment. This states that you married me under a false name, therefore perpetrating fraud."
"Anthea Barclay was my name," she insisted.
"Legally?" Mycroft asked. "Or merely a cover name supplied to you?"
Anthea's expression grew dark.
"As I suspected," Mycroft sneered and pulled out a pen. "Now, if you'll sign at the bottom, we can dispense with this charade forthwith."
"And then that's that?" Anthea growled. "Twelve years together and you're just going to throw it all away?"
"Well, isn't that what one does when they find that their golden treasure is merely gilded? Throw it way?"
He handed her the pen and she signed it. With her real name, Andrea Yates.
"Thank you, Miss Yates," Mycroft said, taking the pen and folder back from her.
"Go to hell," she spat.
Mycroft stood and dripping with scorn, said, "You'll get there first."
Phryne flopped on a chair in the sitting room, sighing dramatically, even though there was no one to see the act.
What she needed was to have Mr Butler appear with a glass of Scotch. But alas, he was in Melbourne and she was in Musgrove. How she wished she was back in Australia. Sunny, beautiful Australia. She needed Cec and Bert to help her in her schemes. She was feeling melancholy and even the weather matched her mood. It was dark and grey, heavy with rain.
She could feel the oppressive air.
Suddenly the door opened and Mac rolled her eyes. "If you miss Australia that badly, you can go home. No one is holding you hostage." She went to the sideboard and poured them each a glass of the finest brandy. Mac walked over and handed one of the glasses to her.
Phryne took the cup gratefully. "It's this case," she explained after taking a sip. "Lestrade and Jack think they've got this whole thing tied up in a pretty, Anthea-shaped bow, or Andrea or whatever her real name is."
Mac sat down in the chair opposite her friend. "And you don't think she did it? She had means, motive, and opportunity, where's the lie?"
Phryne crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward on the arm of the chair. "I don't know, but there is something we're missing, something else we aren't seeing..." She shook her head. "Anyway, what have you been up to? You can't have been examining the body for this long."
Mac smirked and took a drink of her brandy, "Depends on which one you're referring to."
"Really?" Phryne replied with an arched eyebrow. "And whose body could be more interesting than that of a murdered girl?"
"Doctor Molly Hooper," Mac remarked casually.
"I see," Phryne said. "Let me guess; small stature, brown hair, warm brown eyes?"
Mac's smirk vanished. "Are you saying I have a type?"
"Of course you do," Phryne said, settling back into her chair. "Most of us do."
"You have one too, and you know it," Mac snapped back.
"Dangerous," Phryne agreed.
"Yes, which is why I know that Jack Robinson is more your type than he realizes."
Phryne cocked her head to the side and smiled, as if to say 'But of course.'
"Now if only I could get Jack to listen regarding Anthea," Phryne said with a huff. She downed the rest of her glass and pouted.
The door slammed open and Sherlock burst in, "It was David!" He strode into the middle of the room, Dot and John hot on his heels. "Where's my brother?"
"In town," Phryne replied. "But what's David?" Her mind went to the murder.
"The animals of course!" he bellowed.
"Animals?" Mac asked confused.
"You know, the ones that have been being poisoned around the estate?" Dot supplied.
"Sherlock figured it out," John said proudly.
"It all fits," Sherlock explained. "The servants often kept weed killer by the tennis courts and it wouldn't look suspicious if he was seen feeding the animals, as it was something he and Mary did often when they were here. But they had stopped about a month ago, and in his anger at being spurned, he began to poison them."
"I find that very hard to believe," Phryne said.
"He was cowardly," Mac argued, "and all that are cowardly are cruel. He was no different." And then she went on to relate what she saw in the gardens after the tennis match. How he grabbed her arm and shook her.
Phryne stood up and nearly shouted, "I need to see the body!"
"What for, Miss?" Dot asked.
Phryne ignored her and turned to Mac, "When he grabbed her arm, was it hard?"
Mac rocked her head back, "Most certainly. What is going on in your funny, little head?"
Phryne locked eyes with Sherlock and he grinned in response. He had gotten the same idea.
"Bruises!" they said together.
A/N: This scene with Anthea and Mycroft was me thumbing my nose at TPtB. When your wife is a murdering assassin who tried to kill Sherlock; you divorce the bitch, not play house.
