This chapter is a bit short but quite significant, I think.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

April may be the cruellest month, according to TS Elliot, but November was making a strong bid for the title of coldest wettest, windiest and most disagreeable. Sherlock Holmes prided himself on having asserted cerebral supremacy over all his physical needs. Abstinence from food, sleep and sex were of no concern to him but cold was his bête noir. Having not an ounce of body fat on his entire person made him hyper vulnerable to low temperatures. It seeped into his bones and froze him from the inside out. This explained the ubiquitous coat, scarf and gloves – regardless of the season – rather than, as John Watson supposed, a tendency towards conceit. He really did feel the cold.

Standing in the lane just out of sight of his parents' home, sucking the last dregs of life from his second cigarette in a row, he hunched his shoulders and stamped his feet in a vain attempt to keep the English winter at bay as he waited for his father to appear. He rather wished he could have stayed in the hire car but the only parking area was on the other side of the house and he needed to get this rendezvous over with as quickly as possible, take possession of the hairband and be on his way.

He had a plane to catch for an early afternoon appointment in Edinburgh with Drew Merriman. Gatwick Airport was a forty-minute drive from his parents' cottage in rural East Sussex and the flight time was ninety minutes so he would be cutting it fine even without any unforeseen delays. He had packed for an overnight stay, in the vain hope that a trip to Sherrinford might be in the offing. If that didn't transpire, he could catch a return flight later in the day.

He dropped the spent cigarette on the tarmac road and ground it out with his heel before bending to pick up the filter end, blowing on it to make sure it was extinguished before dropping it into his coat pocket, then he re-popped his coat collar - for good measure - and, folding his arms, presented his back to the wind and rain as a last bastion of defence.

'Ah, Sherlock!'

He turned to the sound of his father's voice and saw him stride into view around the tall, thick hedge, battling with a garishly coloured golf umbrella which, when it wasn't trying to turn itself inside out, seemed determined to make a bid for freedom and fly off over the fields.

'So sorry to keep you waiting, my boy. Your mother was determined that I shouldn't venture out in this inclement weather but I managed to secure my escape by agreeing to bring along this useless contraption, which clearly has ambitions to be a kite!' As he spoke, Siger wrestled the umbrella into submission, folding it down and hooking the handle over his arm.

'There,' he said, with a triumphant grin, 'that's that sorted. Hello, dear boy!'

The two men hugged each other, warmly.

'I'm so sorry to drag you out on such a foul day, Pa, and I'm afraid I can't stay, this time.'

'Of course! I understand,' his father insisted, reaching into his coat pocket for the aquamarine headband and holding it out. As Sherlock set eyes on it for the first time in many years, several fleeting images flashed up on his internal video screen but quickly faded before he could get a proper look at them. He took the hairband, with a nod of gratitude.

'Thank you, Pa, thank you. You have no idea how crucial this might prove to be.'

'No, son, but I hope you will tell me one day.'

Sherlock took his father's hand firmly in both of his.

'You have my word. As soon as it's safe to do so, I will explain all this cloak and dagger nonsense to you and Mummy. For now, it's probably best that you know as little as possible.'

He refolded the hairband and tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket then reached out to embrace his father again.

'Thank you so much,' he repeated. 'Now go home before you catch pneumonia! Tell Mummy she was right, after all!'

'She usually is,' Siger replied, with a rueful grin. 'You go and do whatever it is you need to do. And take care.'

The two men parted, Siger returning the way he had come, back to the cosy warmth of his country cottage, and Sherlock taking a slightly circuitous route back to his hire car, avoiding said cottage and any risk of being spotted by his mother's sharp Neighbourhood Watch eyes.

As he slipped into the driver's seat and started the engine – a plug-in electric this time, in deference to Siger's previous comments with regard to gas-guzzlers – Sherlock wondered how long his father would be able to keep shtum about their clandestine meeting. Long enough to get this headband to Eurus, he hoped. Long enough to convince her that the lawyers were genuine and not part of some fiendish plot. Once those papers were signed, Rudi's grip on her would be loosened and her journey to freedom could perhaps begin in earnest.

ooOoo

The flight to Edinburgh was mercifully straight forward and, on landing, Sherlock hopped in a cab, giving the Faculty of Advocates as his destination. Once ensconced in the back of the vehicle, he called Merriman's mobile number to alert the Advocate to his imminent arrival.

'Excellent timing, Mr Holmes,' Drew exclaimed. 'I have some good news to impart but I'll wait until you're here and I can tell you in person. We're just off to grab a bite to eat so ask your cabbie to drop you at the Burgers and Beers Grillhouse. It's right next to the Faculty… Och, they'll know where it is!'

For a Friday lunchtime, the traffic was light and the cab deposited Sherlock at the Grillhouse door thirty-five minutes later. He entered the eatery, very popular with the legal professionals of Edinburgh due to its convenient location, and was immediately hailed by the man he recognised from their Skype calls. In the flesh, he was imposingly tall and proportionately broad. And far more animated, too, than he appeared in the head shots on screen, oozing good humour and bonhomie. Perhaps this was his 'off-duty' persona. He was, after all, on his lunch break.

He was accompanied by a short, slight young man wearing round, brown-framed spectacles whose powerful prescription lenses magnified the appearance of his eyes quite considerably, reminding Sherlock of a rather startled owl. Both men stood up as he approached, shepherded by an attentive waiter.

'Do come and join us, Mr Holmes,' Drew Merriman insisted, indicating the empty third chair. 'This is my tutee, Robin. He'll be accompanying me to my meeting with your sister.' Hands were dutifully shaken all round. 'I'm sorry, we had to start lunch without you. We're due back in court this afternoon so no time to wait but please choose whatever you like from the menu. I'll just add it to the fee.' He made the last comment with a twinkle in his eye but no one was in no doubt that he probably meant it.

Sherlock reached into the deep Poacher's pocket on the inside of his coat and drew out the document case containing Dr Taylor's report then relinquished his coat to the hovering waiter before taking his seat and placing the document case on the table in front of him. He dismissed the waiter with an order of black coffee and a glass of water. Flying always made him dehydrated.

'It's a pleasure to meet you properly, at last,' Merriman gushed, loading his fork with a sizable chunk of hamburger and an eclectic mix of vegetables from the salad side order then stuffing it all in his mouth and munching on it, enthusiastically. It would be fair to say that Mr Merriman really enjoyed his food. Whether a lunchtime hamburger or a Cordon Bleu dinner, he approached it all with the gusto of a Tudor king at a Medieval banquet.

Robin the tutee – a cheese and mushroom omelette with a side order of quartered tomatoes - could not have been more opposite in his eating style. With his elbows tucked neatly into his sides, he proceeded to slice off tiny slivers of omelette and slip them, almost surreptitiously, into his mouth, barely opening his lips throughout the whole process.

Sherlock was briefly mesmerised by the juxtaposition of the mismatched duo but time was a pressing factor so he opened the conversation by asking the obvious question.

'You said you had some news?'

'Mmm, yus,' the Advocate mumbled through his mouthful of food then waved his knife at Robin, who swallowed politely before replying.

'We received confirmation just before lunchtime that we have permission to visit Miss Holmes tomorrow morning.'

'It's out of office hours, of course,' Merriman elaborated, having cleared his pallet with the aid of a large swig of water, 'but in many ways that's fortunate. We're so busy in court just now that a weekday appointment would be out of the question.'

'And where will the 'visit' take place?' Sherlock enquired.

'On the island. We're to be flown in and out by helicopter, weather permitting. But I believe the forecast is favourable. However, due to the top-secret status of the Sherrinford institution, only myself and one assistant will be allowed to attend so we won't be taking an Appropriate Adult, I'm afraid, but I rather got the impression you were a little dubious about that idea, anyway.'

'I am, for reasons already given,' Sherlock confirmed. 'And what about my request? Sherrinford is no secret to me. I've been there many times.'

'You, unfortunately, will not be allowed to accompany us. Lady Smallwood was quite adamant on that point, I'm afraid.'

Mycroft, more like, thought Sherlock but acknowledged the predictable veto with a shrug.

'No matter,' he huffed. 'I believe I have an effective alternative.' He took the hairband from his jacket pocket and held it out for the others to see. 'This might serve to reassure Eurus and encourage her to cooperate.'

'The first time I met Eurus at Sherrinford, when we were alone together, she asked me, 'Have you brought it?' The 'it' in question was our mother's special hairband. Apparently, she asked me to steal it for her, the day our uncle took her away. I don't remember, of course – my memories from that time are still vague, fragmented or just…absent – but I remembered this hairband and have managed to secure it.' He took the hairband from his jacket pocket and held it out for the others to see. 'This might serve to reassure Eurus and encourage her to cooperate. When you meet, you must give it to her and tell her that I sent it. She'll know that it could only have come from me. Consequently, she will know that you have come from me.'

Drew Merriman reached out to take the hairband but Sherlock closed his fist , denying him access.

'This hairband is precious. It has sentimental value to my mother…'

You said the 's' word without even a hint of a flinch.

'…and represents a link with lost family to my sister. I expect you to take very good care of it.'

'Rest assured, Mr Holmes, I will guard it with my life…or rather Robin will.'

Merriman took the hairband from Sherlock's opened hand and passed it to his trusted tutee before adding,

'Joking aside, it will be my top priority to ensure that the item in question is delivered to Miss Holmes according to your instructions. Now, you mentioned a file? I assume that's it,' indicating the document case resting on the table.

In an instinctively protective gesture, Sherlock gripped the edges of the document case containing Dr Andrew Taylor's report.

'This is the original copy, written in Dr Taylor's own hand. As far as I'm aware, it's the only copy in existence. I have photographed the pages for my own reference but I hope I don't have to explain how priceless this document is. The author is no longer alive and neither is the only person he discussed it with – the former governor of Sherrinford - so this is the only proof we have that this assessment of Eurus ever took place.'

Drew Merriman's brow furrowed.

'If the author isn't able to address the court under oath, the judge may not accept the report as verifiable evidence,' he cautioned.

'Dr Taylor's reputation is beyond reproach. I'm sure I could furnish any number of eminent forensic psychologists who would vouch for that report being his work and, as such, its contents should be irrefutable.'

'The law, sad to say, doesn't always see things as they 'should' be, only as they are,' Merriman shrugged. 'But do not despair, Mr Holmes. The judge might yet see things your way. One must never pre-judge a judge!' And he chuckled at his own witticism.

ooOoo

With lunch concluded, Merriman and his sidekick made a hasty exit but with assurances that they would be in touch as soon as they had anything to report, leaving Sherlock to finish his coffee and glass of water in peace and to contemplate what to do with the rest of his day. The earliest flight back to London wasn't until early evening so he had several hours to kill.

Edinburgh was a beautiful city, steeped in history and blessed with many visitor attractions. And Sherlock had never been there before. He wasn't much of a one for sightseeing but perhaps a stroll around the Old Town wouldn't go amiss…

Charlotte Storer. The name popped into his head unbidden. Governor David's next of kin. She lives in Edinburgh.

He closed his eyes, scanning his Mind Palace in search of the woman's address… And eventually found it, under a pile of random papers in his mental 'Pending' tray – the invoice from the removal company that had transported Governor David's personal belongings to the mainland and the home of his next of kin. He could see the delivery address typed, bold and clear, in the middle of the sheet of paper…

'Can I get you anything else, sir?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and met those of the attentive waiter who was clearly concerned that he might be having some sort of 'episode'.

'Yes, please,' he replied, with a bright smile. 'Do you have pen I could borrow?'

The man furnished the requested item, much relieved that his patron was quite well and had, presumably, been enjoying a power nap or something similar, sitting immobile with eyes closed for the last fifteen minutes. Sherlock took the pen and scribbled Charlotte Storer's address on a napkin then returned the pen, pocketed the napkin and stood to leave. The waiter returned his coat, holding it open for him to shrug into, and held the door for him to pass through, as he donned his scarf and pulled on his gloves against the chill – but mercifully dry – Edinburgh air.

Out in the street, Sherlock spotted an available cab and hailed it, gave the cabbie the address and sat back in the passenger seat, taking in the distinctive Edinburgh architecture as he was driven through the city. Past the Scottish Parliament and Arthur's Seat then out towards the suburbs, they arrived at last in a leafy, treelined crescent which curved around a well-tended central park. Definitely an affluent part of town.

The cab pulled up outside an imposing four-storey Georgian-style terrace, constructed from large blocks of grey stone, with tall sash windows and a narrow balcony stretched across the front elevation of the first floor and bounded by a wrought iron balustrade.

Sherlock paid the cabbie, climbed out onto the pavement and approached the front door. There was no row of bells with a list of names alongside so he had to assume this was all one singe dwelling. He used the heavy knocker to rap at the door and waited, listening as footsteps approached from the opposite side. The door opened and a woman met his eyes with an enquiring smile. Then recognition dawned.

'Ah, Sherlock Holmes, how nice to meet you, at last! Eurus said you would come…and here you are!'

ooOoo