Chapter 20

In which the unexpected happens.

###

True to his word, it was only late morning of the following day when, after hearing the bell ring, Kit opened the big front door to see a very substantial man standing on the steps. Behind him was an equally substantial van bearing the name of a local carpenter and joiners firm that seemed vaguely familiar; she narrowed her eyes in thought. "You were here before," she remembered. "When you brought over that big table for the games room upstairs."

"Indeed we wuz, Missus," the big man grinned. "And seems we made a good impression, since the Boss got a phone call at home early this morning and had this faxed into the office at the crack of dawn," he said, holding up a smaller version of Sherlock's masterpiece of architectural design covered all over in tiny pencilled calculations and measurements. "The instructions that came with it said if we could get the thing costed and installation started today, there'd be a big bonus," he grinned hard. "Big bonus it was, right enough," he added. "Which is why I'm standing talking to you this minute, with a van full of finished timber, a case of power tools and an apprentice called Steve," he turned as a younger man walked around the back of the van into view. "Say 'Hello' to the lady, Steve."

"Hello," Steve did as he was bade, waved, then opened up the van's rear doors and began to unload boxes and cases and all manner of carpentry tools and equipment.

Shaking her head at Mycroft's habit of arranging things at the speed of light, Kit smiled and walked the men up the stairs to the old school room. "This is the place you'll be wanting, no doubt," she nodded. "And since you've been here before, then I won't worry about telling you where everything is. Fancy a cup of tea?"

Having made a pair of friends for life by the offer of the staple British beverage, Kit walked a detour past the open Library doors on her way towards the kitchen. Sticking her head inside, though she couldn't see Sherlock, she knew he had to be in here somewhere; the boy hardly left the place these days. She'd taken pity on Mycroft and handed the child her entire collection of medical texts, some of them woefully out of date now, but they still held the basics. She'd found the appropriate entry in one of them and added a paper bookmark on which she'd written 'Paroxysm of Ecstasy' in her neat script, adding a brief note: ask Mycroft for specific details.

"The builders are here to make your new study for you, if you're interested," she called out, not waiting for an answer before she turned back towards the kitchen. Even at a slight distance, Kitta could hear the faint whoop of excitement and she smiled. The boy had come along in great leaps and bound these last few days; it was a like watching a small flower cautiously unfolding its tightly spiralled petals, letting a hint of joyous colour peep through. If it hadn't been for the new weight on Mycroft's shoulders, Kit would have imagined everything was perfect.

Except it wasn't perfect at all.

The way Mycroft had said he had a new enemy, which made it all the more likely he already had old enemies as well. That didn't sit well with Kit for a variety of reasons, not the least being she didn't think anyone who knew the man could be his enemy. But then, she realised as she poured boiling water into the teapot, she really didn't know Mycroft all that well now, did she? She only knew what he had chosen to let her know which, considering, was a fair bit, but by no means all. Yet she also realised that her ability to accept him for what he was … whatever he was, was also partly the reason he felt able to discuss these things with her. Kitta knew that Mycroft Holmes was an incredibly clever and knowledgeable man, far cleverer than herself, but was just as able to recognise that she had something which he valued enough to keep her around at a scandalously high salary. He wanted her ear and her honesty; if there were anyone in the world Mycroft needed right this minute, it was someone like her, able to listen and evaluate without having any prior bias or long-standing vested interests. She would never give him less than the truth because it was the most perfect thing she had to give; no matter what it was she might say. And in turn, Mycroft was just as honest with her.

Which put this latest development a bit on the worrisome side. If Mycroft thought this new man … this new vampire … was the most dangerous person he'd ever met, then he wasn't simply saying that for effect; he really meant it. Which also meant that he, at least, was in danger. Possibly all three of them were, but that was probably a conversation best left unsaid for the moment. Kitta remembered the old stories about the ancients, the Druids, about how silver and salt and fire were feared. Her fingers lifted absently to touch the heavy silver chain clasped around her neck. She'd get a Saint Christopher medallion for Sherlock one of these days; with all the money Mycroft was paying her, she could get the lad a very nice one. It couldn't hurt. Superstitious it might well be, but they were all in the land of superstition now, weren't they?

Bringing the tea tray up in the lift to the second floor, Kit smiled as she heard the very serious tones of Sherlock explaining yet again his plans for the room. Hopefully, some of the worst excesses had been toned down, but who knew; the boy was a cunning persuader and Mycroft was being just as daft about this as was the boy; the pair of them were good for one another. "Tea," she announced, walking into the room that already held the fragrance of new wood as young Steve was piling yet another load of smooth-planed oak up against the wall. "And will the pair of you be wanting lunch? I can cook for four as easy as two," she said, and while I 'spect you might have sandwiches in the van, I think a hard day's work would go more easy with a proper meal inside you," she added. "And I'm a nurse, you see, so I knows what I'm talking about."

Though he said nothing, Kit didn't miss the interested look on the apprentice's face. Young men of that age were walking stomachs; best thing to give him a proper meal, in that case. "Lunch will be at twelve-thirty down in the kitchen," she said, walking away. "Sherlock, I expect you to be on your best behaviour in the meantime."

"She a bit of a dragon, eh?" the big carpenter grinned down at the child beside him as he helped himself to a heaped spoonful of sugar in his tea.

"Not in the least," Sherlock shook his head. "Though Miss Penderic has a mild fetish about getting me to eat and an unhealthy relationship with cleanliness, she's quite a nice lady, actually, even though she won't let me have a laboratory in my bedroom or the laundry."

"So this room's going to be your top-secret den, is it?" Steve the apprentice looked around. "Nice room," he said. "Nice house. Probably full of secret passages, I bet."

"Yes, it is a nice house," Sherlock nodded, looking around him as if for the first time. "It is a very nice … house. Turning to gaze back down at his drawn plan, then around the room, he nodded, a very strange expression on his face. "There's something I have to go and do," he said. "But I'll be back shortly in case you have any questions, if that's all right?"

"No questions from us yet, lad," the older man unrolled a long steel tape-measure. "Not for the basic stuff, at least. Off you toddle."

Deciding against engaging in a discussion of why he might want to toddle, a thing he hadn't one for a great number of years, instead of run, a feat he had been able to accomplish for some time now, Sherlock left the room and ran straight down the winding staircase, not bothering to wait for the lift. Something that had been in his head for a while, even though he'd not consciously been thinking about it, made him run directly into the Library but instead of returning to his books, he stopped and looked around the room. Really looked. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the huge space, staring closely. He needed a frame of reference for what he was going to be looking at, so he needed to absorb all the other details in the room so he had something against which to compare the … other details. He stared at the shelves, at the corners, at the floorboards, the pattern of wear on the wooden floor, on the faint layer of dust as yet uncleaned. Even the faintest sign of a cobweb in one particularly deep crevice. It was important that he do so, because he didn't want to jump to a false conclusions.

He remembered that Mycroft had come into the Library the other night while he was dozing in one of the big chairs; the breeze of his passing causing Sherlock to waken enough to watch as the tall man walked over to the wall and then, he simply seemed to have …vanished. It hadn't even registered before, but the carpenter's comment about secret passages had clearly triggered some half-recalled memory, and Sherlock knew he had to work out what it was or he'd probably never sleep ever again in his entire life.

By now, he'd completed a three-quarter circuit of the entire room and was level with the enormous portrait of two men, one of whom was sitting in a large and ornate chair while the other stood, leaning casually on the chair's back. It was here, in his sleep-befuddled state of several nights ago, that he'd last seen his guardian standing. Then the man seemed to have disappeared. Had it really happened, or had it really been nothing more than a dream?

Mycroft had already told him about his ancestors who had mostly been military men, or so it seemed by all the portraits he kept of them stashed in different places around the house. But none of them were as large as this one … or as detailed. Stepping as close as he could without losing sight of the details, Sherlock stared and stared, taking in a raft of minutia he'd not really been aware of before.

Like how the painting of Mycroft's Great Uncle showed the man to be uncannily like Mycroft himself, even down to the silver watch hanging at his coat-front, the watch Mycroft had eventually allowed him to take apart and clean on the absolute assurance it would be put back together before the evening was out. There had been designs on that watch which, Sherlock saw, were replicated in the painting. There was no doubt it was the same watch. He looked even closer at the faces of the two men. The one in the chair looked vaguely like his grandfather, but the one standing beside the chair … looked awfully like Mycroft. Even the curl of his forelock, the line of his mouth, even the moles on his face … even the … Sherlock felt his heartbeat go slow as his breath stopped. Something about faces was inside his head trying to get out, but it wouldn't come. Biting his lip in frustration, the boy closed his eyes tight where he stood and tried to picture the big room inside his head that, like Marcus Aurelius, he had made to keep all his thoughts in place … big, like the Library, but even bigger. Like a house, even; like a castle. Like a palace.

And on one small shelf, in a tiny cupboard, in a corner of one part of a small room in that big palace he was already designing in his head, Sherlock remembered the things from Kit's medical books. He hadn't gone all through them yet, of course, but a couple were so interesting, he'd already read them twice and had stored the information very safely, just as he planned to do with all the rest of his new books. He was going to try and store all of Mycroft's books as well, but that would take a very long time. Right now, he wanted something very recent, so recent, it was right at the top of his memories. The stuff Kit had talked about; about using patient observation to assist diagnosis; looking at the colour of their skin, was it yellowish with jaundice? Flushed red with high blood-pressure? Pale and waxy thyroid? Dark and mottled with rash … he remembered the section on eyes, but that wasn't what he wanted either. Kit had told him to watch people's faces as that often said a lot about the people themselves. Flicking through the pages of the book in his mind, he rushed past Haematology ... Neurology ... Pathology... Impatiently, he waved the eye-chapter aside, flicking backwards and forwards through the pages of the book in his mind, chapter by chapter until he came to … Moles, Freckles and Nevus. Ah. At last. Pausing, he rescanned each page in his thoughts, looking for the section on hereditary growths … he nodded to himself. Got it. In a few seconds, he re-read the information he'd stored, his breathing slowing all over again as the information told him, very clearly, what he had half-remembered before.

He opened his eyes and looked back up at the painting.

At a painting that was easily over a hundred years old.

At the painting of Mycroft.

Breath gusted out from his lungs as he realised all the things he'd been seeing without observing; all the small evidences and hints that, taken alone, were nothing extraordinary, but taken all together … that Mycroft couldn't eat; that he never seemed to sleep; that alcohol never affected him … lifting all those heavy books in Waterstones … why he had nothing in his kitchen …why there were so many different era paintings of him in the house … why he lived alone and in a house that nobody else had been in the attics for dozens and dozens of years …

Looking closer at the brass label beneath the painting, the words 'Granville Holmes and Friend' were as clear as day, though … and this was odd … the part of the brass with the word 'Friend' was shinier than the rest. As if it had been recently polished. Without conscious thought, Sherlock lifted his fingers to the bright section of metal and rubbed it hard enough to make it glow.

There was a soft click.

###

He had been enmired in CCTV feed from around the locale of his house and St James's Park for the greater part of the day and even Mycroft's eyes were beginning to weary of the effort to focus on every tiny detail. The cameras watching the previous night had spotted first himself, and then Daveth very clearly as they strolled individually down St James's Square Road towards the park, then cut out until there were several simultaneous camera-feed of the both of them standing on the moonlight-striped grass in the garden's centre. Fortunately, there was no audio available at this point in time, though Mycroft knew it would come, at some point in the future. He made a mental note to be more aware of the words he used and the things he said in the future. No point maintaining bad habits.

Seated at his desk in his habitually dimmed-down office and flicking between camera-feeds, Mycroft found himself swearing methodically beneath his breath as Daveth headed into the shadows and it seemed that every camera lost him at precisely the same moment.

There was a quiet knock on his office door. "Come," he kept his eyes glued to the multiple television screens on the wall in front of him, each running a different feed. He found that he could just as easily absorb multiple data as a single stream.

It was Jude Roberts and he looked uncomfortable; among the various papers in his hand flashed the pale yellow of a confidential internal memo. "For you, sir," he held the paper out. "Do you want to send a response?"

The scrap of paper conveyed a very brief message, entirely too brief for the seriousness of its contents. Martin Olam's body has just been pulled from the Thames. Other than those injuries sustained while in the water, there were no marks on him at all. He hadn't been put into the water then; the man had jumped. Apparently Olam had not been exaggerating when he'd claimed the woman he'd known as Karen Redhill was his life. He had been entirely serious about it, in fact. Deadly so.

Leaning forward to place an elbow on his desk, Mycroft closed his eyes and rested the side of his head against two extended fingers. This was not going to be a good day.

"No response," he said. "Has Olam's family been notified?"

"Uniformed police enroute, sir," Jude nodded. "Both MI5 and MI6 are a bit keen about this one," he added. "Seeing how they were equally involved with the initial operation."

"Have we heard anything about Irina Bortzov since she returned to Moscow?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair. He rather hoped the woman had managed to avoid any negative repercussions; she had, after all, done nothing more than obeyed instructions.

"Nothing yet from our people since they advised us Miss Bortzov was taken by car to her father's country estate," Roberts frowned, though we do have this, if it's of any interest," he added, handing Mycroft a second piece of paper, a brief medical report.

It was a summary of the ultrasound scan the woman had undertaken the week before she was deported. The child was a girl.

"Then let us hope both mother and infant survive all this without further interference," Mycroft looked momentarily sombre. He always felt something at a loss when the delicate mortality of people reminded him of his own personal lack of understanding in this area. He had been existing on a different time-scale for so many centuries, that unexpected death always came at him with a little shock. He inhaled heavily, turning his thoughts to the more pressing problem. "Any progress with the list of ancient buildings?"

Following Daveth's slip that he usually dwelt in an isolated castle somewhere in the British Isles, Mycroft had instituted a thorough survey of all recorded ownership for any building that wasn't actually a ruined shell. The man would not have stayed in London waiting for Mycroft to make up his mind, and no vampire dressed as richly or appeared as elegantly groomed as Daveth would be living in a hole in the ground. Given that there were still approximately eight-hundred extant castles in Britain though, his bolt-hole would not be easy to track down

"We've already gone through most of the Castellarium Anglicanum, sir," Jude nodded, thankful they were back on firmer ground. Mr Holmes didn't so much as flinch when issuing necessary termination orders, as a rule, but whenever a hapless bystander became collateral damage, the man brooded; Jude had seen it with his own eyes, just as he was seeing it now. "And we've managed to exclude a great number of structures based on the fact that families are and have been in residence for the last five years," Roberts paused. "You did say that we could ignore any structures that had been turned over to the National Trust, as well as any country houses with the word castle in their names."

"And how many does that leave us yet to investigate?" Mycroft knew the last few would take a great deal of work to eliminate from the search as the possible candidates were narrowed down.

"We're down to about thirty or so now, sir," Jude handed him a third piece of paper. "Any of those ring a bell for you?"

Swiftly scanning the brief list, Mycroft frowned. "It would be old; something very early," he said, thinking. "Nothing modern. Something ancient and solid, with its roots in the bedrock," he murmured. "Something no tourist would want to visit," he added. "Somewhere that would be dark and difficult to reach for most of the year, perhaps."

"Always dark?" Jude hesitated, eyebrows rising. "There actually was one place, but we were about to discount it since nobody in their right minds would want to live there, we thought," he said. "It's got no windows, you see … one moment; I have the particulars on my desk."

A castle with no windows? It might fit the bill.

Jude returned in seconds with a facsimiled photograph of a solid-looking, round building, like a squat, flat-roofed, windowless lighthouse. Made from cleverly interlinked blocks of solid granite, it appeared incredibly ancient. Not more than fifty-feet high, it seemed to have grown out of the very rock beneath it. "On the Cornish coast outside of St Agnes, sir," Jude read from the notes in his hand. "Apparently deserted. The nearest description we have for it is an Iron-age broch," he said, handing the picture over. "Though that's a Scottish term. I don't know what we'd call such a thing on the Cornish coast."

As soon as he saw the photograph, Mycroft knew it was Daveth's bolt hole. A more perfect place would not be found. "Roundhouse, perhaps?" he felt a sense of anticipation tingle in his fingertips. St Agnes? Right on the main road to London, five hours on the M5 by car. Less than an hour by helicopter. It must be the place. "Why is it deserted?"

"The entire coastline is Heritage owned and maintained, sir," Jude folded his hands in front of him. "Plus coastal erosion in that area has been particularly fierce, so the whole area is fenced off from the public, with all manner of warning signs posted at every point of possible ingress. Not sure I'd quite call it a castle, although each to his own, I suppose."

Light dawned and Mycroft couldn't help the faint smile that rounded the hard line of his mouth. An Englishman's home is his castle. Never had such a truism been more applicable. He was seriously beginning to accept they'd found Daveth's lair; everything seemed to fit. Cornwall, the remote and isolated location, the ancient nature of the building itself and the fact that inside those thick granite walls, it would be dark on a permanent basis. The perfect retreat for a vampire, in fact.

"There's also been several sightings of your man on various CCTV cameras at main rail terminals," Jude acknowledged. "I hadn't considered looking beyond London, but if Cornwall is a definite possibility, then you need to see these," he said, laying a manila folder on the desk in front of Mycroft.

There were a number of grainy photographs, clearly taken at different locales, though each one appeared to be a railway platform. Each picture was centered around a tall bearded man in a long dark coat.

"Where were these taken?" Mycroft felt he already knew the answer.

"Paddington Station,' Jude pointed to the nearest. "Truro ... Perranporth," he indicated others. We hadn't thought it could be the same chap, but if Cornwall is a definite possibility ..?"

It was a definite possibility now.

"I want the roundhouse investigated immediately, but with extreme caution," Mycroft said. "I have reason to believe it may be the haunt of this seriously dangerous individual who will not hesitate to kill anyone he finds in the vicinity. Everyone in the detail should be equipped with an M12 in addition to the usual armament."

"Flamethrowers, sir?" Though Roberts did not question his directive, Mycroft could tell the man was intensely curious.

"They may be the only things that will hold him if he attacks," Mycroft looked utterly serious. "I want no risks taken." Fire might be the only probable way to stop Daveth from rampaging his way through the entire unit if they were discovered, something Mycroft did not want on his conscience.

"Any other specialist gear to be issued, sir?" Jude queried.

"Unnecessary, as long as everyone keeps their distance; just ensure that everyone knows the man is a vicious killer who can take them apart with his bare hands if he so desired." Mycroft shook his head. "Everyone is to be on the highest alert for the man I met last night. "While he's watching me, we have the opportunity to corner him, but if he goes to ground, I want him to have no safe sanctuary. If needs be, we'll demolish the cliff beneath the building and bring the whole damn thing down."

"With the man inside?" Jude's voice was soft.

"I can think of no better tomb for such as he," Mycroft linked his fingers beneath his chin. "A million tons of Cornish clifftop should do the job rather effectively, I'd say."

"I'll make the appropriate preparations, sir," Jude turned, pausing. "And I've taken the liberty of increasing the surveillance around you in the interim," he said. "As well as your ward and my aunt."

Mycroft paused a little at that. He'd almost forgotten that Kit and Jude were related; Kit Penderic had become so much to both he and Sherlock in such a short time. "Good," he nodded slowly. "I will risk neither of them," he agreed, quietly. "I'll have no risk near the house or either of them, so keep your eyes skinned," he said, his tone brooking no discussion.

"And once we have the man?" Jude already had a good idea of what would be the next step, but he liked to have these things laid out to ensure no possibility of error.

"Immediate incarceration in maximum security facility and then I shall deal with him personally," Mycroft's voice was coldly lethal. "He is too dangerous to leave alone, his long-term obsession with me would merit permanent incarceration, but I fear he is too dangerous even for that," he exhaled slowly. "He is a menace to anyone around him and I would have done with this sooner rather than later." He picked up the nearer of his two desk phones, called an external number and delivered a brief directive. "I'll be there within the hour," he replaced the phone.

"Sir," Jude Roberts had rarely heard such a bitter tone in Mycroft's voice before but then this was clearly a situation unlike any other they been through. "I'll ensure the operation is instigated as soon as we know this man is actually going to be inside."

"Don't wait; instigate it immediately," Mycroft looked certain. "I can assure you he will be inside the building," Mycroft stood slowly, walking around his desk. "All the situation needs is the appropriate bait."

"Bait, sir?" Jude Roberts felt a distinctly uneasy sensation slide into his stomach.

"Mmm," Mycroft slid into his overcoat. "Call my car, would you?"

###

Sitting on the modular arrangement in the centre of the underground room, Sherlock felt his thoughts alternate between a mad spin and icy, still clarity. He had not actually been certain of his deductions and his reasoning, only his observations. And now, not only had he been proven entirely correct, but he was privy to a secret that even a nine-year-old could work out might be incredibly dangerous to possess. He knew he shouldn't be down here, down in this very private place among the secrets of centuries and of serious possibilities. Turning his head again, he stared once more at the long racks of clothing, the endless shelves of boots and hats; cockaded tricornes and Tudor bonnets. There were the great glass-fronted cabinets, each piled with slowly disintegrating papers, held in situ by casually placed brass lamps or aging electronic prototypes which in themselves, were enough to make his head whirl.

He should leave. Leave now before he was discovered, before Mycroft came home and found him sitting in the middle of the place that he had succeeded in hiding for ... judging by the vast assortment of antiquities around the place ... more than three hundred years. And it had to be all his; nobody would collect all this stuff and hide it away in such a private and secret place unless it was something he didn't want known. There were no other signs that anyone else, apart from Mycroft, and now himself, of course, had even been down here before.

He really should leave, even though the tantalising scent of history was thick down here; the armorials on the walls; the tall containers of silver-handled swords, the open long boxes of ancient rifles just lying on the floor. Sherlock's eyes were attracted once more to the long shelves literally covered in arcane and unknown pieces of electrical debris; fragments of old scientific paraphernalia that made the stuff in the attic look brand new by comparison. The long drape of fusty and ragged old battle flags resting in serried rows along the walls, above the lure of stacked and closed boxes that he knew without any doubt, must be chock-full of endless mysteries. His fingers itched. But he had to leave. It wasn't right for him to stay in a place like this; Sherlock knew that this was what real trespassing felt like; the paralysis of guilt at war with the thrill of transgression and unfettered exploration.

Turning his head a little more, the boy was able to see a massive glass-fronted display case fixed to the wall behind him. Containing an incredibly old leather hide, Sherlock was lost in awe as he contemplated the age and implications of the thing.

He had to leave. He turned his head to look further into the darkness...

It was very quiet in the secret room beneath the Library, the whole place muffled and sound-proofed by the very best methods that money could buy. So well insulated from the rest of the world was it that Sherlock never heard the sound of the front door opening and closing as Mycroft returned early from his Whitehall office. Nor did he hear his name being called or, a few minutes later, the door of the Library opening wider.

Nor did he hear the quiet footsteps that paused on the golden parquet floor outside the secret door behind the great portrait. Not even those same footsteps as they descended into the dim basement room, following the same path his own feet had taken.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Mycroft saw the boy sitting statue-still on the edge of one of the moveable seating blocks. "How long have you been down here?"

Slowing turning his head to face his guardian, Sherlock blinked, fear and worry flying away in the concerned tone of the man's voice.

"How long have you been a vampire, Mycroft?"