Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter 19
That's the price you pay/Leave behind your heart and cast away
Just another product of today/Rather be the hunter than the prey.
And you're standing on the edge face up/Cause you're a natural
A beating heart of stone, you got to be so cold to make it in this world
(Imagine Dragons)
""She wants to speak to you."
"Why?"
"I have absolutely no idea. I merely deliver the message."
""When?"
"Now might be a good idea. She has been interviewed and charged with murder attempted murder and illegal possession of a firearm. Signed her statement. Lestrade released her to SIS for debriefing. When she has spoken to you she will be taken to Bronzefield. Probably to never again see the light of day."
"Sounds adequate."
"So: will you come?"
Which was how, the morning after the evening before, Sherlock Holmes found himself back in the same interview room, looking through the same two way mirror, watching the same scenario: Mycroft Holmes calmly interviewing a woman. A guilty woman this time.
The same faded elderly little lady she had always seemed, wearing the same navy blue and beige; but no handbag with it's lethal contents this time.
He watched and listened, and had to clench his fists and dig his nail into his palms to distract himself with pain from the pain of wanting to break through the reinforced glass and throttle her.
Such emotional responses were alien to him, and he found them embarrassing and demeaning, forced them down only with great effort of will. But every time he closed his eyes he could see Mary Watson on the ground, blood pumping out, eyes glazing, saying "I'm sorry…." and "I like you" and remembering her formal opinion of him: as her "dear and trusted friend."
Not much of a friend who could not save a life. Who made a vow and could not keep it. Who deserved all the scorn and hatred in John Watson's eyes. Yes, indeed.
Always failed. Failed people. Failed himself. Always got something wrong. Deserved the mental torment that had kept him awake all night, peering unblinking into the dark, waiting for his telephone to ring. Waiting to hear John Watson's voice: however vicious, however broken. Bleeding out bile. Being saved by bleeding.
But no call came. And when he tried to ring John Watson instead, that very act an admission of vulnerability, displaying his own grief, his own human weakness, there was no reply.
Every time the call system prompted him to leave a message after the tone, he had no idea what to say. Confused and floundering, utterly without words in the silence before the phone switched off. No words would do, words and reactions somehow wandering, lost in his own head.
Sleep deprivation headache, he diagnosed. Guilt and grief, worry and self reproach and loneliness…images behind his eyes repeating on repeat.
But now he listened intently as Mycroft calmly led Vivian Norbury through her betrayals, her treachery, her disloyalty. Both were calm, icily detached, disdainful of each other. The interrogation seemed to take hours as he stared into that particular void.
Finally Mycroft stood and abruptly left the interview room, leaving Norbury alone except for the two female police officers - immobile and impassive - who stood guard over her and would eventually take her to prison. Alone with the unblinking red light of the digital recorder.
"I feel dirt under my fingernails," Mycroft declared as he entered the viewing room. "Obnoxious little woman with her little mind and it's little slights."
"Until Tblisi. The big slight."
"Indeed. Over to you. See if she will tell you what she won't tell me." The brothers shared a look, a lift of eyebrows.
"And for my next trick I present a rabbit out of a hat." the younger brother said drily.
"Wouldn't put it past you."
The older brother offered the younger a slight smile, a little compliment to lighten both their moods.
"Hm,"
"Or Doctor Watson, for that matter. Please give your bereaved colleague my condolences."
Mycroft's formal softly spoken words addressed only the closing door. He sighed, shook his head, and turned to face the two way mirror. Concentrate.
Hinges creaked on both doors, out and then in.
"You wanted to see me? Make it brief, I'm a busy man."
Vivian Norbury half turned towards him, lifted her head a little to regard him levelly.
"Oh, I just wanted to compliment you. So lucky to be alive."
"If you say so."
"Oh. Guilt, is it? Yes. Yes, I suppose it would be." She settled her hands demurely in her lap and nodded to herself. "Always one for the grand gesture, Ro Adams. Always an AGRA failing. Not that her noble self sacrifice was going to make any difference, of course. Well, a few seconds. Perhaps. I was going to kill you anyway, regardless." She nodded to herself, visualising it.
"Shoot you first, turn a little to my right, very fast, then shoot her. My plan."
"Because she was the only person left from Tblisi who could condemn you?"
"Oh dear me. How dramatic you make it sound." She dipped her head, allowed a secret smile to herself. Felt herself in control despite everything, he thought. "But then, you have always been one for melodrama, haven't you?"
"Have I?"
She looked up at him, locked eyes. Like a headmistress regarding a naughty child sent to her study for punishment.
"I remember you, William. A precocious child, a noisy little show off. Never understood children should be seen and not heard. Is that why you changed your name to Sherlock? William not superior enough for you?"
"That's right."
"Yes, thought so. Snotty big brother too. Both smart arse kids."
The words sounded wicked - spiteful - coming from that old tired face, that deceptively genteel exterior. He tried to suppress his anger as she assessed him before deciding to continue.
"I remember your father. How is he, these days?"
"Very well, thank you."
"A nice man. I wonder how he managed to produce two such obnoxious children?"
"Oh, you know; superior blood lines. Natural talent."
"Horrid children, horrid adults, both of you. You chased me down, then Mycroft's appearance stopped me shooting you. Neither of you change. Ironic, don't you think?" she reflected as if he had never spoken; perhaps irritated he did not rise to the bait, he thought. But he had endured a lifetime of slights and abuse, and it took more than that to reach him.
"And yet, here we are," he drawled.
The whole world was in those five words, and she finally recognised that. Looked up at him and decided to talk on; still seeking his reaction, to impress or to wound. He could not have despised her more at that moment.
"I was never a field agent but I was a good spy. Useful. Invisible. For years," there was an edge of pride in her voice. He looked at her and realised he could still throttle her.
"As Lady Smallwood's secretary you had wide access to all departments. Trusted by everyone. Manipulating little indiscretions, glancing at documents. Little leaks that annoyed SIS came from everywhere and nowhere. Just you. Nothing major, nothing to trigger a full blown investigation, nothing you could put a finger on. Backgrounds, character assassinations, shortcuts. That was your forte, wasn't it? Being nothing special. Years of experience facilitating the enemy." He looked at her with undisguised disgust. "Sleep at night, do you?"
"I was owed."
"Owed? Oh, please."
"My husband died in the service. But no-one helped or supported m….."
"He was run over crossing Whitehall at 2am, going back to the office from a late night meeting because he had forgotten paperwork. That is hardly dying in the service of his country." He looked at her more intently. "Is that what you told everyone down in Cornwall? The brave little widow in her country cottage? Playing the sympathy card? Pathetic."
"There's nothing pathetic about me!" .
She half rose from her chair, stung.
"Really? Wasn't that how you wormed your way into favour with diplomats, charmed and chatted them into divulging their secrets? To you? Someone harmless, someone they trusted? Someone like Julia Tregarron, for example?"
"Dear Julia." A smug little smile. "She was always going to get to the top; you could tell Even when she joined the office for her first mentoring period. We became chums. It was easy. She was ambitious, thought I could help her."
"And you both loved pearls. "
A question straight from left field; a connection no-one had ever made before.
"What's wrong with that?" She accepted the question as a natural connection, but shafted a sharp look at him, expecting scorn. Saw none. Just a little frown of concentration as he listened. She twisted her rope of pearls unconsciously between her fingers as she spoke,
"These were my mother's. Excellent quality. Julia noticed, and complimented me on them. A human connection. We stayed friends even after she moved on, gained her first posting…Whenever she returned to England we always met for a meal." A little huff of laughter. "Yes, she trusted me. Divulged so much information to pass to my handler….never realising. Oh, she was priceless!"
"And then she got Tblisi;" he prompted.
"Yes. a rising star, as I'd predicted. Having been at Oxford, she worked the Wardrop connection. Spoke enough Georgian to get by, understood the culture."
"She told you about the exhibition being planned at the new British embassy. About the exhibits. The golden lions, the artwork, the rare Knight In The Panther Skin editions on show. The Sologash Diadem. With that very special black pearl that appealed so much to you both."
It was a shot in the dark, but logical, he thought. She accepted the guess for the fact it was. As if she knew he already knew. Even though he hadn't, until that moment when she confirmed it.
A shot in the dark. A good one. When I needed one,.
"She was unusually chatty that day….."
"To distract you? Because you knew something about her? Or was it her about you?"
Vivian Norbury sat back in her chair. Blinked.
"You are an arrogant sod, but I'll admit: you are good."
"Of course I am. My father's son. My brother's brother. Tell me."
A little wriggle of a shrug.
"Oh, come on! Tell me. Who else will understand?"
He thought he had laid it on a bit thick, but she gave a little nod as if agreeing…
"We always met at The Trevi near Shad Thames; a nice pasta and chianti. A leisurely chat. But that last time we met she was early. Spotted me in Potter's Fields Park with my handler. I could tell she recognised him; had probably met him as a cultural attache.. But she didn't say anything, and I certainly wasn't going to. She gabbled away all lunchtime. To avoid the subject, I expect."
"Someone like Yuri Bondarenko, you mean? A master at the Romeo trap and drawing in lonely women?"
"How did…..? Oh, never mind." She frowned, remembering. "I could see she chose to believe - and I let her - that Yuri was, hmn, what you might call a dalliance. I couldn't believe such an assumption. Until I realised she was seeing me as a reflection of herself. That she was somehow connected to a man - a younger man - who wasn't her husband Colin."
"Go on."
"She didn't say much, not directly. Turned untypically coy. I got the impression this young man of hers was not worthy or nice, not predictable, like Colin was. Quite the opposite. Perhaps that was the attraction…." She tossed her head, "A bit of rough was my impression. Chunky and a bit er….."
"Passionate? Unpredictable? Sexy? Dangerous?"
"All those things," she muttered, with a moue of distaste.
"A conversation hovering around both your secrets linked you irrevocably. And when she realised what she had seen, what she had gabbled, she realised you could blackmail each other. If pushed. A strange equilibrium."
"Quite so."
He paused and looked and considered.
"She didn't know you as well as she thought. She would let sleeping dogs lie - she had more important things to do than create hassle. Perhaps she even cared for you and was prepared to turn an uncharacteristic blind eye.
"She never thought you would go for a pre-emptive strike. Silence her to safeguard your secret, your precious lifestyle. So when the siege happened…..Julia taken hostage with all those other people….you took your chance and played your advantage."
She did not reply, silence it's own admission.
"Especially as the siege went on. Julia became more recalcitrant. Why was that? Because she thought, with the secrets you shared, you would pull strings for her in the background?
"Perhaps," she agreed. Then:. "Julia was arrogant. She would play to the gallery; make the siege seem hard, so that when she resolved it…her talent and courage would score her points."
"Oh? Interesting." He found a new line of thought; filed it for later. "But other rescue attempts failed. So AGRA was brought in.
"You were running out of time. Because AGRA always succeeded. So you imagined Julia alive and free, clawing her way deep into favour. Betraying you to do that."
"Bound to, I'd say," Vivian Horbury agreed dispassionately.
"You'd never agreed with the freelance black ops policy, too unpredictable. You hated Ro Adams doing what you had wanted - be successful in the field. Spiteful to tip off the terrorists, bring forward AGRA's order to go in, though. So the terrorists were ready for them."
"I prefer to think I levelled the playing field."
He looked at her and it was an effort not to react, finally release his grief and anger.
"All those unnecessary deaths. To save your skin."
She lifted an indifferent shoulder, pulled a face.
" Well, Julia could never betray me now. I was home and dry."
"Until I came along."
"And ruined everything."
"I wouldn't say that." He could no longer contain the bitter smile, the caustic tone. "But don't expect to see your cats or Cornwall again. "
"As I said before: a horrid boy, a horrid man." She lifted her head and looked him in the eye, unbeaten, unbowed. "But you will never see your friend Mary again, either. And I daresay Dr Watson will never forgive you for getting his wife killed." She smiled up at him, an uncomplicated smile of pure delight. "So there are compensations."
"That thought will keep me warm at night. While I earn every privilege I can. Adorable little old lady and model prisoner. Blackmail is a rewarding hobby in prison, I'm told.
"But what can you look forward to, William? The constant fear of being bumped off by some random villain? No-one to mourn you? Think I come off best."
She stood slowly and with great dignity and turned to her stolid guards. Glanced back.
"Do have a nice life. What's left of it, anyway. My dear boy."
He waited until she left the room, one hand braced against the table. After a moment, he reached out and switched off the recorder.
o0o0o
"You'll get me shot!"
Professor of Oriental Studies Sir Guy Curbishley grasped the arms of his chair and pushed back to look incredulously across the desk at Sherlock Holmes, standing at enigmatic parade rest before him. In the stolid quietness of the familiar study in the rabbit warren of one of Cambridge University's oldest colleges the idea just put to him seemed preposterous..
"No. I can promise that won't be you."
The tone of voice was unusually grave, accompanied by a flash of something deep and unspoken, and Sir Guy stilled his laughter in response.
"I was joking, Sherlock. But you will get me shot."
He paused and considered. The man to whom he owed his life and career had appeared at his door without appointment or warning ten minutes ago. Tall, dark and handsome, just as he remembered him from a brief and intense double murder investigation in college the year before, when everything had been at stake.
When Sherlock Holmes had returned to his old college like some force of nature to
restore order and sanity and catch the killer with cold and admirable efficiency.
And here he was again.
Calm and controlled as ever, but with shuttered eyes and some heaviness of sorrow about him. And Guy Curbishley knew this request was indeed serious. With more meaning than the request itself.
"You're not joking, are you?" he added, rather unnecessarily. "You really want me to loan you our rare and uniquely valuable copy of the first edition of Vepkhaistqaosani, The Knight In The Panther's Skin? Published by King Vakhtang Vi in 1712? Really?"
"It is a matter of life and death," the melodramatic phrase sounded oddly sincere and not at all melodramatic." I cannot tell you why. Just that it is vital to the government and to justice."
Into the silence he added:" I will only be your messenger, returning it to Tblisi for restoration of the illustrations, as you had long planned. It will just arrive at the Museum Of Manuscripts three months early. Delivered by me. From the home of the great Georgian art expert and ArtAime activist Nico Sologashvili. Neither the book nor I could be in better hands."
"And you want it now?"
"Immediately. Please. I will take it anonymously and in great secrecy to Georgia on the next flight. Only you and I - and the museum - will know about this."
"Do not lose it. Do not let me down."
"You know I won't. You have my word. Thank you, Guy."
o0o0o
Thus the rare and special edition, with it's illuminated text and a cover encrusted with tiny opals and amethysts, travelled to London enclosed in a simple card folder inside a Tesco carrier bag. Tucked tightly under Sherlock Holmes' elbow.
Part of a plan. Bait.
He had left the Ziggurat, cold with anger, clammy with anticipation. Mycroft had attempted to speak to him as he left the interview room, but he had brushed him off, tight lipped.
"Not now. Things to do."
A black cab delivered him to King's Cross, and he was on the first train to Cambridge to arrive in around eighty minutes: thinking time.
Vivian Norbury had told him more than she had thought. Had raised new questions in his mind: Julia Tregarron was a diplomat down to her soul. If she had been difficult as a negotiator, delaying the end of the siege - why had she? Simple arrogance? Or her own agenda?
What was important here? The terrorists or the captives? The cultural icons or a cause? Politics or people? Or just Julia? Showing her pure self under stress?
J home. R with me. Both safe. F.
The text was an interruption. He glared at it. It told him nothing. He should be there. Helping. Seeing for himself.…..but Faithful was too wise to judge him. Would not berate him for asking a simple question.
How is he? SH
How do you think? How are you?
Thank you for asking. SH
Will keep you informed. Don't worry.
Not worried. SH
Concentrate! Think! There is nothing you can do. He won't let you. Let you in.
So. Think. Where did Rivaz Ingorkva fit in the puzzle?
As they had waited for the book to arrive from the college library vault he had casually asked Guy Curbishley if he knew of him, expecting the answer no. Guy had snorted immediately but not replied..
"What?"
"Mixed up kid. Bit too old for all that misunderstood prophet in-his-own-land bollocks. Wants to be both a revolutionary poet and a thug. Che Guevara reincarnated sort of thing. As if. The joke is, he really is quite a good poet. "
"Rivaz Ingorkva? Really? Tall bear of a man? Red hair, gold teeth?"
"Yes, young Holmes; that's him. A curious psychological study; if you are into that kind of thing."
"Kind of thing?"
"Well; he's an anachronism; wants Georgia back under Russia's yoke, all that passé power to the downtrodden people stuff. Cloistered idealism. Spends a lot of time in Russia, enjoying being indoctrinated as a martyr of the people. Sad, really."
"Go on."
"His elder brother took the other path. Lecturer in modern art at the university in Tblisi. "
"I've met him."
"Assessment?"
"Too clever for his own good. Hot headed. Too passionate."
"Indeed so. And having such a kid brother must be a trial."
Sherlock Holmes nodded, stood and looked out of the window into the peace of the ancient quadrangle. Did not reply. Raised a hand to cradle his jaw.
"Sherlock?"
The patrician head turned, the sea storm eyes slanted towards his old tutor. "Be careful. I wouldn't trust either of them. The combination of blinkered idealism and hot heads is dangerous."
"Yes, Guy, I know. Thank you."
o0o0o
A news conference waited for him in the executive lounge of Tblisi's airport. Reporters and news cameramen. Hilary Weatherstone representing the British Government. Nia as translator.
When Guy Curbishley finally discovered that the secrecy he had demanded had been ignored… he would apologise and say he had forgotten. But that was for later After the bait was taken.
For now he needed to brandish the book; let all of Tblisi know a great cultural icon had come home for a while and be on temporary display before restoration.. For the taking, if anyone was so inclined.
Bait. To catch a bear with gold teeth…..
"He must still be in Tblisi. His passport has not registered on any travel systems. But we cannot find him," Nico Sologashvili had said at breakfast, a glum voice on the telephone.
Sherlock Holmes had no time for such inefficiency. Mary Watson was dead but still warm in his mind. Pushing him on.
"We need to flush him out of cover. This case has gone on long enough. He is behind it all, somehow."
"You're not….clutching at straws?"
"Not at all. I never do something so unscientific. He was there, inside the siege; people identified him."
He thought of Mary, transfixed on an embassy landing, confronting a hostage taker. Of Ajay, captured and tortured. Of diary diplomatic doodlings of gold teeth and clues; cryptic personal notes; of Tamora as excuse to hide behind; of Guy Curbishley's warning words. A vicious unprovoked blow that could have broken his jaw.
"He was having a fling with Julia Tregarron. Or more precisely, she with him. The only question is why; and which of them was the instigator, which of them the tool. Who gained the most."
"Sherlock! You think… you fear…this has something to do with the death of Tamora? The disappearance of the Black Pearl?"
"Yes. Of course." He spoke and committed himself to action and reaction. "Make a noise about this book coming home. That it will be at your house overnight before official presentation to the Museum for restoration. Lay it on thick."
And Nico had. The national and local press were enthusiastic, had photographed the book in and out of it's ancient soft leather pouch, had interviewed with enthusiasm.
Had caught a moment when a muttered remark from Sherlock Holmes had made the girl turn, laugh up into his face, put a hand on his arm and lean in. A moment of amusement that only looked like love. The very idea irritated him, but as a familiarity he knew it would also goad a reaction….
He turned to Hilary Weatherstone, impatient.
"Why didn't you tell me Julia was having a fling?"
The diplomat stepped back from the harsh tone, the probing words.
"I…didn't…not for certain…."
"You should have told me. Good Christ, Hilary - your job is to help me You hindered. At every turn."
"I'm sorry. But I wasn't sure. And Julia was fearsome. A bit scary. If I'd got it wrong…."
"She would still be dead."
"And her reputation besmirched." He shook his head. "How could I ever say anything to her? The time was never right. Then Colin and the kids were there,and the siege started….."
"Kids? Her children?"
"Yes. Two little girls. Lucy and Holly."
"Children. Yes. Had forgotten ;they'd been mentioned before.. They died in the siege? I saw no debriefing reports."
"No. The kids survived."
"They were not in paperwork….."
"No. It was felt the children could contribute nothing. That formal interviews would distress them. Five kids survived the siege. They were held separately, in a sort of staff rest room. Seems they were mainly bored. Nothing to report."
"There is always something. However slight. " He thought furiously, watching the press pack talk to Nia, oblivious.
"What happened to them?"
"They went to live with Colin's sister. They'll be - oh - nineteen and seventeen now."
"Locate them. I need to speak to them."
"They don't know anything. Don't….don't frighten them, Sherlock."
"As if I would."
o0o0o
Hilary Weatherstone's official car dropped them off at the town house afterwards. Nia still exuberant after the lengthy press call, Sherlock Holmes subdued, clutching his overnight bag and the soft leather pouch.
He hesitated on the doorstep. His hand on her arm, he took a deep steadying breath.
"If anything happens… stay calm. Nico and Iwill protect you."
"In Nico's house? What could happen here? No-one dare attack here."
"I don't know. Wouldn't expect reaction. Not so soon," he said, almost to himself. Glanced down at her. "Whatever happens…follow my lead."
"Well….of course," she said with puzzlement and total trust.
They stepped inside, shut the door. There was a light on in the sitting room, and they moved automatically towards it.
"Ania? Is that you? And who do you have with you? Mr Potter?"
Nico Sologahvili's voice, the usual urbane tone. Except….he never called his sister by her full name. And had long since abandoned addressing Sherlock Holmes as Mr Potter in tribute to Selwyn Jephson's pseudonym. A warning, of sorts. The best he could do.
The newcomers exchanged a look. But still moved forward, edging open the door.
The fire was lit, sidelights on, the room cosy and inviting.
Nico Sologashvili sat at his desk.
"Nico…"
"Forgive me not standing to greet you," he said calmly. "But I am tied to my desk….."
He lifted his wrists, imprisoned by bright green zip ties.
At the same time the door slammed shut behind them.
"Gamarjobi," was the supercilious greeting; hello.
The man was big; within the confines of the elegant room he seemed taller and broader and rougher than before. He moved across to block the doorway, dressed in jungle fatigues and a beanie hat; the unruly red hair and beard sprouted what should have been comically wild, like a fancy dress party version of what punters thought a terrorist might look like.
Except for the old Mauser C91 he held levelled at them.
No-one replied.
"Ts'i gui mometic," he said. Give me the book.
"Speak English before a visitor," Nia snapped.
"Visitor?" was the harsh reply. "Capitalist infidel. Like all of you."
"Rivaz…." she began.
"I saw you on television." He turned to her and there was no ease or familiarity in his look or his voice. "So easy together. Like lovers. And with the book. I want the book. So I come immediately to claim the book. It should belong to the Georgian people. In the care of our Russian compatriots. Not you. Not a foreign university."
No-one replied. Unimpressed by such outmoded ideology.
He looked from one to the other. Almost disappointed. Unaccustomed to a lack of fear in his presence.
"You should have fear of me. I have the upper hand. I have the gun."
"What?" Sherlock Holmes drawled. "That old Mauser? The German design is over a century old, and yours looks like a cheap Chinese copy. I wouldn't trust it . Liable to blow up or backfire."
"So much you know, Englishman!" Scorn and distaste. "It works well for me. It has killed people."
"Childish boasting."
He took a step deeper ito the room, a step further away from Nia; dividing the target. Part of his brain was screaming to be heard - Facing down a gun! Another gun! What sort of repeating joke is this? How many more times? Until I get it right? And die? Is that the idea, then?
Another part of his brain ignored that voice.
He raised his hands slowly. Nico, strapped to his desk, was powerless; outwardly calm, but seething. Nia looked on with stunned disbelief. This was her ex brother in law: family, her expression said, however far removed, should not threaten family.
The same book pouch Sherlock Holmes had displayed in the airport, was in his left hand.
"That is the book. Give me the book."
"No."
"Give me the book."
"Please yourself."
He threw the pouch with a disdainful flick. And followed it, moving in fast.
Bur Rivaz Ingorkva was faster. He ducked as the pouch went over his head, whirled and brought the pistol round and up; no stranger to pistol whipping.
The heavy Mauser made brutal contact with Sherlock Holmes' face, and he went down in a crumple of legs and coat, rolling away even as a a booted foot stamped down on his head.
Distantly, as the world erupted into pink and silver stars, he heard Nia scream; Nico shout some Georgian expletive.
"Shut up!"
He wasn't sure, later, if the order came from him or from Rivaz; for this was between the two of them. He was both poised and in limbo. In pain. Angry, losing and lost,.
"Nia. Come here."
She complied with the order; didn't dare do anything else; The safest thing. He saw her ankles, her black court shoes stop close to his head.
"Here. Secure the foreigner with this." Disdain.
Will be your undoing….overconfidence of a thug…..
From the thigh pocket of the fatigues a bright red zip tie passed from one hand to another, and he was hauled into a sitting position by his hair.
She looked the consulting detective in the face, seeing blood, eyes bright as if about to cry.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Yes you can," was Ingorkva's hard response. "I have twelve rounds in this pistol. One of them can be for you."
Sherlock Holmes put his wrists together. Made her decision for her. Waited.
"I can't," she said, looking up, appealing, "His wrists are already damaged."
"So what?" was the answer. "Just do it."
Sherlock Holmes lifted his hands encouragingly.
"Don't worry," he murmured, so only she could hear. And as she slotted the strap into it's keeper he tensed and ordered simply: "Tight. Tighter."
Whatever she saw in his face gave her courage, and she pulled the plastic tight even as he flinched. Backed safely away.
"Now what?" he asked. "Torture me for fun? Like you did Alex and Ajay?"
It was a taunt, calculated to draw truth from anger.
Rivaz Ingorkva was reaching for the pouch on the floor behind him.
"What?" he said. The hint of a Liverpool accent seemed incongruous when he spoke English:
Studied at Liverpool University at some point, then. So that was how Guy Curbishley knew him - from his last post before Cambridge.
"The black ops you captured at the Embassy siege. The ones you kept imprisoned for fun."
"Not just fun. They were either too tough to be broken or they knew nothing. Boring."
That very answer confirmed he had indeed been a leader of the siege terrorists. Had held Alex and Ajay captive.
"You wanted to know about the Englishwoman. Which one? Why?"
He spoke quickly. As soon as the Georgian looked inside the pouch there would be a reaction….
"There was a traitor in the British camp. Julia said so. She tippd us of about AGRA,. I thught, if I could find who that woman was…I could use her as Julia would use her. With blackmail. To further my cause."
Opening the pouch one handed took time as he kept the Mauser levelled.
"Julia didn't tell you the name. Is that why you shot her?"
The question was more than a guess. And it stopped Rivaz Ingorkva with his hand half in, half out of the pouch.
"I shot her because she betrayed me. Betrayed my cause. She pretended she loved and believed….but she did not. She just wanted the siege to show she was so clever, negotiating with terrorists, winning through. She thought I would make her a hero before her masters. Especially with the raid brought forward. To our advantage, not AGRA's.""
"So you shot her for that? With this Mauser?"
"Of course. She was returning to her husband. Humiliating me. And she wanted….." He drew out a book. Looked down at it for a long moment of silence.
"What the fuck is this, Englishman? Some joke?"
"Oh, no. More important than that."
The supercilious voice was itself a goad. As Rivaz Ingorkva looked down at a paperback tourist guide to Georgia….
He heard both Nico and Nia gasp. At the surprise. The audacity of the sleight of hand. At the danger…
"Give me the book."
"Can't. Haven't got it."
And just to push closer to the edge, he smirked. Thought about that invaluable book, safe in Hilary Weatherstone's briefcase. Hilary, who had been heedless of the switch; who didn't even know the precious book was in there. For Sherlock Holmes had even stolen his briefcase key…...
Rivaz Ingorkva surged to his feet in anger, levelling the Mauser at him. Instead of fear there came a flash of déjà vu that took his breath: of facing Mary, of facing Vivian Norbury. Facing guns.
This is getting to be a habit…Third time unlucky?
In the same half second several things happened to tilt the world on it's axis.
The Mauser barked, and the shooter absorbed the recoil, all concentration on Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes, already surging to his feet and sideways out of the line of fire, flung his arms above his head, throwing out his elbows to bring his arms down in front of himself fast and hard. The zip tie unlocked, the arms sprung free and the consulting detective staggered forward.
And as this happened Nico Sologashvili, with a roar of anger, threw his antique desk -and himself - at the gunman.
The shot went wild. The bullet thudded harmlessly into the wall, the desk crashed to the floor inches from Ingorkva and a leg snapped off.
Nico - shouting, distracting - kicked the desk forward. Sherlock Holmes advanced, a deskleg in his hand and a set expression on his face.
The girl was between the shooter and the door, when escape was suddenly the only course of action..
So Rivaz Ingorkva scooped her up as shield and hostage and ran with her; a lightweight under his arm, as he charged from the room.
"Leave me! Save Nia!" .
Her brother shouted up from the floor as Sherlock Holmes turned. And without a word he was gone - out of the door and running.
The street was empty of people in the midday heat; not so much as an alley cat; never mind a policeman when you needed one, he thought bitterly.
Ingorkva was heading down the hill, slowing appreciably under his burden as Nia struggled in his arms. So Sherlock Holmes followed, catching up despite the headache and the blurred vision.
"Rivaz!" he shouted. "Rivaz! Stop! I'm right behind you! Turn and face me!"
The man slowed and stumbled to a halt. With the weight of a wriggling, protesting woman slowing him, confrontation was inevitable. He turned. Raised the Mauser.
And, yet again, Sherlock Homes looked down the barrel of a gun into infinity.
This time. It will be this time. And better me than Nia….part of his mind registered a lack of fear. Just anger and disappointment and anticipation….
Rivaz Ingorkva leant back against the railings to the river gorge for balance and clamped his former sister in law close to his body as she struggled in his hold. He was sweating and he smelt. Her revulsion and fear made her gag. Fight harder to escape.
Dipping her head she caught Sherlock Holmes' silver, unreadable eyes intent on her face. He made a claw of one hand and released it again.
Follow my lead….
She sucked a deep breath and copied his action, clamping down upon the tattooed hand - not the hand holding her firm, but the hand pointing the gun. The barrel fell away from it's target; and they began to struggle in earnest.
Twisting, breathless. Grabbing and pushing down in flat panic and cursing. She was using all her strength, desperate….
Another hand fell on top of hers - Sherlock! Sherlock! - turning and twisting the hands beneath his. And as it did there was the sound of a shot. A jolt of bodies responding. The smell of an explosion. Ears ringing with the enormity of the sound so close…..
For a second all three bodies froze.
Sherlock Holmes' hand fell away from hers. Her hand starting to lift in sympathy: was he hit? Did he need help?.
"No! Keep hold!" The harsh command was impossible to refuse.
There was a low groan. Not him! Not her!
She felt something wet, something warm, seeping into her side. Looked automatically. Almost screamed.
Blood. A lot of blood, fresh and bright and pumping.
Rivaz Ingorkva was slumping beneath her. Suddenly pale. Dropping to the ground to sit, legs sprawled, with her incongruously and obscenely in his lap.
She did scream then, a high aborted noise that stopped as Sherlock Holmes came closer and put a hand over her mouth.
"Sshh," he said. "He can't hurt you any more."
"Can!" the snarl was venomous. The body language still angry, the gun still held firmly although now resting on the ground. Too heavy.
But now skin was turning grey, sweat on the hairline, wildness in the eyes. A gaping wound in the gut. Blood pouring through the thick shirt, a shining flood, through raw red and pink edges of a huge wound.
"'Can you?. Hero of the people? With a wound like that?." Sherlock Holmes was on hands and knees before them. "You shoot people who defy you and your cause. And now you have shot yourself. Martyr to your cause."
The shooter's lip curled; the Mauser twitched in his hand.
"No….."
"You're dying, Rivaz. Too much shot away. Can't help you. Sorry."
There was no sorrow in the voice, which continued, remorseless.
"Live by the gun, die by the gun. Is that why you shot Julia? To stay top?"
"She spurned me. Lost face. Respect…."
"You shot her Her husband. Tamora."
"Yessss…"
"What did you do with the Black Pearl?"
A hiss of disdain, even at the last.
"The foreign trinket? As if I….Oh."
The voice stopped abruptly. Became stuttering breath, fading sounds of pain.
Nia, still with one hand over his hand that held the Mauser, curled her fingers around the wrist, probing.
"Sherlock….he's….he's gone."
"I know," The voice was calmly detached. Concentrating on stopping the bile rising into his mouth.
He stood slowly, offered a hand to help her up; ignoring his pain, the dark whorls of bright blood on her.
Put the other hand down to what was now a body. And she watched him, disorientated, the smell and sight of blood overwhelming her.
Watched him fail to close the dulled eyes or lift away the black gun, or neatly arrange the corpse with dignity.
Watched instead as he closed his hand around the dead hand, tightened the dead fingers around the weapon. Put both hands to the body and roll it, tipping it over the edge of the path, under the guard rail, to tumble slowly, then gathering speed, as it rolled and bucked down the ravine into the Vere River below.
"Sherlock!"
"A disillusioned hero of the people. Committed suicide. Sad. But inevitable with his cause dead and Georgia turning to the west and freedom. Poor boy. To be remembered as a poet who died too young."
"Sherlock!" Sagging against him, she was appalled and looked up into his face. Grim, unreadable. Frightening.
"Home, Nia. You saw nothing, did nothing. With any luck the body will be trapped in one of those steel river tunnels under the motorway. And he will still be clutching his Mauser in death and showing a self inflicted wound. With no DNA from either of us on him to complicate things, all washed away in the flood."
He lifted her bodily to keep her on her feet.
"Nico should have got free by now. If he sees this on CCTV he will appear with a bucket of water and swill all this evidence away." He looked up then, and laughed briefly.
"And here he comes now….."
o0o0o
The headache was almost beyond thought and tolerance. He mended his wounds with super glue, and asked for ketamine, not paracetamol.
"As if I would have any!"
"Worth asking. One never knows….".
He slumped into the corner of a bench in the breakfast room. Accepted strong black coffee and ibuprofen. Drifted in and out. Remembered snatches of conversation afterwards…of explanation..
"Never know for sure; but I think Tamora had been arguing with Julia, knowing Julia stole the Black Pearl in all the chaos of the siege breaking. Just as Tamora reached for the pearl to grab it back, Rivaz shot them both.
"He'd shot Colin first. Then another heavy bullet from the Mauser went straight through Julia from behind and up into Tamora. Neither would have known anything about it. Tamora was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
He watched. Unmoved, as Nico Sologashvili put his hand to his face to hide the tears. Hugged his sister to him to remember there could be a future, now.
"In the final analysis she was the heroine of the siege," he continued; reaching for comfort for someone else torn by the death of a woman. "Because of her the pearl was saved, not destroyed in the fire that surrounded the Sologash Diadem display case. But Tamora didn't have the pearl when she was found. Nor was the pearl in Julia's hand. So where is it?"
o0o0o
Hilary Weatherstone swapped the book for the briefcase key, and was flabbergasted. Sherlock Holmes barely bothered to explain hat had happened before he delivered the book to the museum, as planned.
But the diplomat had names and an address for him. So the next day, pale and shaky but back in London, he sought them out. The two orphaned children.
The first girl was blonde, with the classic English rose looks of her mother. Arms crossed defensively in front of her U2 sweat shirt, eyes clouded, expression sulky.
"Good morning, Lucrezia Maria. My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Yes, recognise you from the telly. And my name is Lucy. Only my mother ever called me Lucrezia." She shook her head, saw a flash of humour and sympathy in his eyes.
"My name is Sherlock. I may share a certain empathy. Name wise."
The ice within her cracked.
"Would you enjoy being named after a much married poisoner who died in childbirth?" she asked.
"No more than you might like being named after a Victorian cricketer and an uncle who died in childhood."
"Touche," she said. And grinned.
In a quiet head of department's office within Imperial College, London. Where Lucy Travers was in her first year studying computer science. Just two strangers, facing each other across a desk.
Another college, another desk, he thought. Worlds and aeons and lives changed forever, but just days apart…both base camps for changing worlds and histories….
"You want to know about Tblisi," she stated. "However much I push it away…it keeps resurfacing, swamps me."
"I know," he said. And there was something in his voice that made her look at him with sudden, unexpected focus. "Too well. I promise to understand what you tell me. Between the words. The self recrimination stops here, Lucy. With me. And I will absolve you."
Just speak the thought, the reaction. No time to prevaricate, no victim to play verbal game with.
"Oh. So you do know."
"Yes. Tell me. Where you were. What happened."
She capitulated on a sigh, relaxed.
"My sister and me lost ….three months of our lives. Our parents Our peace of mind. It aged us."
"Also made you stronger. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
"Oh yeah? Voice of experience?"
"Yes."
His eyes met hers. Cool, emitting truth.
"Hmn. Well." She made a decision and fished a hand down under her neckline, produced a pendant on a chain. Unclipped it and offered it to him. He put out a hand to cradle a long steel cartridge with a black tip, warm from her body heat.
"A Russian rimless bottleneck bullet, as used in the AK47 sub machine gun," he said. "You picked this up after the shooting ended? After the siege was finally broken?"
"So you do know what you are talking about." She took the cartridge back, clipped it round her neck again, hidden against her skin.
"We'd only arrived in Tblisi the day before," she began.. "Our holiday with our mother. She was proud of the exhibition being set up, so we went to see it. There were five of us embassy kids. Holly and me. Tim, Jesse and Petra Browning.
"We got bored so went to forage for something to eat. Then the siege started - shouting, shooting, screaming. We were in a staff rest room. We locked ourselves in. To be safe.
"By the time the men with guns found us everywhere was quiet. They swore at us and told us our parents were dead. To demoralise and keep us submissive, I suppose. They weren't cruel to us, but they said we were a bargaining tool, as no-one ever wanted to kill children. We had magazines and a TV, toilets and a kitchenette. Food got provided. We were hermetically sealed in; bored was the worst that happened…."
" But you were on edge. Frightened. Rescue attempts failed. And with every failure you thought you would die."
"Yes."
"So what happened that final day? When the shooting started?"
"We could hear it all: shooting, shouting, screaming. Again. We huddled in a corner. Then the ringleader burst in….."
"Describe him."
"Tall, thickset, red hair and beard. Scary teeth. He had one of the secretaries with him, using her as a shield. He said he would kill her if we didn't behave; that we were to follow him, do as he said and keep quiet. We did. Obviously"
She shook her head, hating remembering, unable not to. ""I was the eldest. I shepherded the others…"
"You got to the top of the stairs and there was a confrontation; a shoot out. The bad guy with the beard. A blonde lady. Terrorists versus rescuers."
"Yes. Holly and me knew where our parents were being held - we had heard their voices from time to time, despite what the terrorists had said. We made a break for it. Into the ballroom where the displays were.
"There were lot of people on the floor. They all looked dead. We couldn't see Mother and Daddy; we hoped….then we saw them. Under one end of the long banqueting table, lying together." Her eyes were bright but unseeing.
"Daddy on his side. Mother further under the table, wrapped in a blanket, as if caught while scrabbling away, one hand forward… a beautiful Georgian lady reaching towards her. She had been shot between the eyes. Blood everywhere. We recoiled and we ran."
She sighed, and paused, six years and four thousand miles away.
"The action had passed by. There were more bodies - on the landing, in the doorways. We couldn't get past them to get out, so we went back to the kitchenette. We locked ourselves in. For a couple of hours, I suppose.
"Then we heard English voices calling our names; Hilary and other Embassy people.
"They guided us out…..I realised I was clutching this bullet I had picked up off the floor."
She stopped, overcome by her memories. But he knew he couldn't let her stop there.
"Tell me the rest. What you have never told anyone else."
She shook her head.
"I think you need to talk to Holly."
o0o0o
The three sat at a wooden table outside a coffee shop in the Barbican, looking towards the incongruous remains of St Giles Church, a delicate wedding cake survivor of the Blitz in the midst of the newer Brutalist architecture that overshadowed it.
There were coffee and pastries between them, Sherlock Holmes opposite the younger sister, a self possessed girl in school uniform, with the calm eyes and wiry strength of her father.
Holly had none of the wariness of her elder sister, but Lucy had explained the situation, the urgency - both to her sister and the administration of City Of London Girls School nearby.
"I'm missing double physics to talk to you," Holly said, unperturbed.
"You plan to be a scientist?" he asked. Small talk to break the ice, not sure where to begin, what she could tell him her sister had avoided.
"A doctor," she replied briefly.
He smiled encouragingly. Thought of a doctor of his acquaintance who would not speak to him any more. Felt sick at the thought.
"Good luck with that," he encouraged. "Hard but vital work."
"I think so," she agreed. Watching him, assessing, deciding what to say.
"Lucy started to tell me…what happened to you both in Tblisi," he prompted.
"Why do you want to know? After all this time?"
"No-one has been able to explain what happened. Or why. So I am trying to."
"Good luck." A shaft of irony. "Don't know how we can help. We were just kids."
"Older and brighter than just kids. Anyway, children see clearly, detail other people don't."
He could tell she was reluctant; to speak, to remember. So he told her something instead.
"Friends of mine tried to rescue you that day. Both are now dead. I mean to close the case. For them, for you. All the other families affected. So you can close the book. Finally understanding everything. Put it behind you."
Both girls nodded agreement.
"So ask," Holly prompted. The natural leader of the pair, he thought, the one who stepped forward. With the confidence Lucy gave her in support.
"Your mother was very proud of the exhibition. How was she that final day?"
"Twitchy," Lucy said immediately. "Unusually so. But it was important to her."
"Did you know Tamora Sologashvili?"
"The Georgian lady? We met her just that morning. She was nice," Holly answered. "Miffed about something," Lucy offered. "Some disagreement with Mum, I think."
"About what?"
"Something to do with the exhibits. Mum was distracted, too. Think that was why she sent us kids off for food and drink. away from a potential argument. Just lucky we weren't there when the raid started."
"Did you feel lucky?"
"I guess….yes. We had a nasty time, but it could have been worse. We would have ended up dead, too. If we had stayed in the ballroom."
"You went to live with your aunt, your father's sister? Afterwards?"
"Yes. Very sensible, our aunt and uncle. Good to us. Loving and supportive to the little orphans,"
"What is their take on what happened?"
Holly shrugged. "I don't think they ever had much opinion of mum. Felt her place had been to change her career, stay at home and care for her children. Not leave it all to Daddy."
"What did you think about that?"
"We never knew anything different."
Holly Travers was candid and thoughtful. A contrast to her complex and prickly elder sister. The younger girl was plain in speech and thought, no less intelligent.
The uniform made her look younger than her years, the old fashion plaits an affectation to give that impression. A capacious old fashioned satchel aided the look.
But before her on the table lay a leopard skin folder, a Star Wars notebook, and a fat fluffy pink pencil case, stuffed with heaven knows what, the zip laden with a collection of charms and key rings that made it heavy and three times as bulky. So a typical teenager, at heart, caught on the wing between classes.
As she spoke her fingers idly played with the charms. A long habit, he realised. She wasn't even aware she was doing that as she lifted her cup with the other hand and sipped cappuccino.
He quietly took her through what had happened during the siege, when the raid began. Her story, almost word for word, was the same as Lucy's. But there was something…he could feel it.
"Did seeing your parents dead, violently killed, upset you?"
The question was direct, insensitive. Intended to jolt pure reaction.
A sob came from Lucy's throat, and she put a hand to her mouth to stop it
Enough of an answer.
"Every morning I wake up," Holly said, quietly. "See them in my mind's eye as they were then, behind my eyelids before I open my eyes and start the day. But I think if we had never seen them - dead - we would never have quite believed they were gone."
"I do understand. I'm sorry." It was all he could say.
"Are you? Really? Do you have any idea…..?" A demand, but spoken low; she had said that before, he knew. Challenged other people against thoughtless sensation seeking, empty sentimental sympathy. He knew. Oh, how he knew. Drew breath to speak.
"When I was the same age Lucy had been, I - I watched a man and a girl I loved shot dead in an ambush, inches away from me. Saw my father shot in the head. For weeks I thought he had died. Was told he had died. Believed it. So, yes. I do know."
"Oh." Her eyes were suddenly dark and hollow. He did not know what she read in his face, what she saw there that they shared. Did not allow himself to think about any of it. His experience was nothing but a lever to use…..
"None of it was your fault. The harder thing to bear than your grief is survivor's guilt. But neither of you have anything to feel guilty about. Do you hear me?" He paused. Waited until he could be sure his voice would not come out broken.
"Holly. Tell me what you have never told anyone before, not even your sister. What happened the second time you went to their bodies in the ballroom. After you had been found by Embassy staff and were safe."
"How did you know…I did that?"
"Because it is what I would have done. To check. To be sure. To say goodbye."
He had the evidence of the changes in the scene of crime photographs. But….Too much? Was that too much empathy? He could never judge sentiment or emotion…..
"I broke away from the others. Even Lucy. Lucy, clutching that bloody bullet like a good luck charm. I needed my own good luck charm. Something….to be memory…make the horror go…"
He nodded understanding. He had come out of horror with scars and unwanted experience and expertise. High walls.
What did Holly have she did not tell her sister?
He watched her gulp and swallow more coffee to hide behind, but did not taste it.
"They were still there, still dead," she continued, committed now to her confession. "By now I had seen so many dead people it hardly impressed me at all. Isn't that awful? They were lying there, just the same, chess pieces scattered around them. I went to pick up the white queen, a memorial of Mummy. But then I saw she was holding something. A key ring thing. She'd been twirling it. The last time I saw her alive, arguing with Professor Sologashvili…..
"So I slithered under the table and prised it from her hand. And I knew she really was dead, then. She was grey, cold. Stiff. Her fingers did not want to open."
"Rigor mortis," he said.
"I know that. Now." She frowned, disturbed by the memory.
He watched her fiddle with the pencil case as she spoke. Pulling the zip back and forth. Sorting the charms without looking. A red ten shilling note in a gilt and glass box; a plastic troll with green hair; a mini torch, a silver spider's web, a spinning wheel, a souvenir keyring from Tenby….her fingers finally came to rest on a shiny black heart on a delicate silver - no, white gold - chain with a tiny locking clasp; antique, he registered. Then:
Not Faberge: But. Rappoport? And his scalp tingled.
His fingers crept slowly towards hers, forcing down the sudden urgency surging within him.
"Another key ring?" he asked, sounding off hand. The heart was mirror plate shiny; nacreous, even. Not perfect, slightly misshapen and elongated. A few tiny chips. He touched it. Not jet or coal or slate. Not stone. Warmer to the touch. Softer.
"Do you like pearls, Holly?"
"Not keen on jewellery. Mum loved pearls." She looked down at the small thing between them. "That's not a pearl," she said, looking vaguely at it.. "Pearls aren't that colour. It's just some cheap plastic heart thingy that's been knocked around a bit. Something sentimental to her; to me."
"Have you ever heard of the Black Pearl of the Borgias?" He did not disillusion her.
His voice did not sound like his own.
"I thought that was a legend?" asked Lucy.
"Far from it," he said. And smiled at them. That rare, ingenuous smile that few people ever saw. "Because if it's only legend - what's it doing attached to your pencil case?"
o0o0o
"We cannot, of course, thank you publicly for your service. But the usual fee will be transferred into your account. Well done."
Mycroft Holmes' tone could not be drier. Lady Smallwood nodded agreement.
It was rare to see the two in the same room, he reflected. Perhaps for the best.
"Solving a cold case such as this is exceptional," Lady Smallwood added. "It has also removed a mole from SIS and answered a good many questions As well as restoring the legendary Black Pearl Of The Borgia's to the world. Yes. Well done indeed."
He stood before them in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club. Away from the usual pomp and circumstance of Whitehall. Uncomfortable with their praise and dismissive of it.
"I wouldn't say that. We still don't know how Tregarron and Ingorkva met, whose idea the siege was. And I daresay we never will."
"Immaterial detail, now," Mycrot Holmes offered. "How and why did the siege last so long?"
"Basic incompatibility 'When thieves fall out' and all that. The team included members of two crime gangs after profit, the Georgian Mafia fighting for control, pro Russian idealists like Ingorkva. Too many competing factions for any agreement or resolution, long term.
"And then there were the growing tensions between Tregarron and Ingorkva. Neither proved as pliant as the other hoped.
"She envisaged the siege as a demonstration of her ability, to shine in adversity, and grab the pearl for herself. He wanted to use it -and her - to change the identity of Georgia. Both egos doomed to fail each other."
"I agree," Mycroft nodded. "An interesting learning curve."
"Georgia is beyond such political division now. Creating it's own future."
"So. Case closed." Lady Smallwood stood. "So utterly Sherlock Holmes." She gave him an unreadable little smile, touched his hand briefly in passing, even as he pulled away.
The interview, the debriefing, was ended.
"Just one more task," she said, pausing at the door.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I really don't think so…."
"Your friend Dr Watson. He should be told. That the case is closed. That his wife did not live and die in vain. Nor Moonpanar, for that matter. It may offer some consolation."
She looked at him until he met her eyes, saw compassion there "Be kind, Sherlock. Bereavement is hell."
They looked at each other. Remembering the death of Jack Smallwood. Who had died alone. A body slumped in a bathroom.
"I don't do kind. Mycroft will see to that, " he said to her back as she left the room. Left the brothers regarding each other.
"Mycroft certainly will not," Mycroft Holmes was resolute. "Your friend. Your job."
There was a long silence neither was inclined to break..
"He….he won't speak to me," the admission was painful to make; a weakness of character admitted. "Won't let me speak to him."
Words not greeted with the scorn he had expected.
"He's a fool. I did tell you. Years ago."
"Yes. And he proved you wrong. Time and time again."
"Not this time." Mycroft leant back in his chair. "You seem distressed. Tell him what he needs to hear or turn your back on him. Your choice."
"Not that simple."
"It should be."
"You heard him, in the Aquarium. He blames me for Mary's death. Hates me. I ….I would hate me too."
The was another heavy silence, and a sigh.
"For a bright boy you are often incredibly stupid." Mycroft Holmes spoke with rare gentleness, without judgement or heat. "It is very basic psychology indeed to understand that it is not you John Watson hates, but himself. By punishing you - the one person he needs and trusts, the only person he has left, in reality - he is punishing himself. Obviously."
"Obviously? But why…..?"
Mycroft Holmes shook his head. Moved closer to his brother to speak very quietly. Almost, but not quite, putting out a hand of comfort.
"He told Lestrade - off statement, afterwards - what happened when they received your texts. That they read each others message, but were concentrating more on what to do with the child so they could respond to your summons rather than whose text said what."
He paused, peered, looked for reaction. There was none. His brother's face an unreadable mask, eyes elsewhere and nowhere. So he pushed on.
"Neither of them noticed you were summoning only John. Not Mary. Not even John and Mary. Just John."
"Yes." The single word sounded hollow
"He told her that if the case was not over, then it was she who should be with you. She should be the one to go ahead. While he sorted out child care. Pathetic domesticity determined how the cards fell. Who died. His fault, yours."
"Mycroft….."
"I merely relay facts you should be aware of. In the circumstances. Please do not bother to thank me."
"What for? Twisting the knife?"
"No. For telling the truth."
TO BE CONCLUDED…
Author's notes:
Bronzefield: High security female and juvenile offender prison in Middlesex that replaced the main UK women's prison, Holloway, in 2004. Privately operated, it is the largest women' prison in Europe.
Zip tie: Despite popular belief, escaping from a zip tie is easy; just needs confidence, technique and a very tight tie to provide leverage. Look it up on YouTube!
Faberge was the best and most famous Russian goldsmith and jeweller. Rappoport was a pupil and colleague.
Another version of Conan Doyle's The Adventure of The Six Napoleons is The Pearl Of Death, one of the Sherlock Holmes Basil Rathbone movies shot during WW2. (1944)
Master criminal Giles Conover steals The Borgia Pearl from a museum under the noses of Holmes and Watson, and Holmes resolves to get it back. Murders occur and feature Rondo Hatton as The Hoxton Creeper, an actor and character both famous in the horror film genre of the time.
Worth a look, even though this pearl more resembles a gobstopper - which Watson hides more than once by popping it into his mouth!
Events referenced in Sherlock Holmes's past are recounted in the two long stories preceding this one; Things We Lost In The Flames and The Magnussen Legacy.