Chapter Seventy-Six

Strolling along Ashtead Village High Street in broad daylight, Sherlock found, was a very different experience to the night before, in the dark with the shops all closed and the local population safely tucked up in their beds. Now in the early afternoon, the street was a veritable hive of activity, the pavements thronging with shoppers, dog-walkers, ladies who lunch and passers-by just going about their business. The traffic, consisting of buses, cars and delivery vans of every shape and size, supplied a noisy sound track to the scene.

He had arrived back in Ashtead by train, thereby keeping two promises. The first was to Eurus, whom he had assured he would return today with his violin. The second was to Molly, when he accepted her challenge to reduce his carbon footprint by relying more on mass transportation and only use cabs when speed was an imperative. Of course, he had pointed out that they were two of only a handful of passengers occupying the four carriages of the train on which they were travelling at the time, which was not exactly an ecologically sound use of the electricity powering that train. But Molly made the point that, at other times of the day, the trains were over-subscribed with passengers packed like sardines so the two extremes balanced each other out, with the busy times subsidising the quiet times.

There was a strange symmetry to this journey – on his way to visit his sister, violin in hand - which was not lost on Sherlock. How things had changed over the last seven months!

The fish and chip shop, he noted, was closed, presumably choosing not to compete with the other food outlets in this small but thriving community - the trendy coffee shop and the health-conscious vegan café, both of which closed by five pm. No, the chippie catered for the creatures of the night, who weren't too concerned about their calorie intake or their hipster credentials.

He reached a familiar junction and turned left up the leafy lane that led to Alicia's house. At first, the homes that lined the route were fairly modest two- and three-bedroom semi-detached residences but they soon petered out to be replaced by larger detached properties with wrap-around gardens and double garages and, eventually - separated from the other buildings by a small private wood - the Grade II listed Arts and Crafts edifice with its imposing electric gates came into view. He pressed the button on the entry key pad, as before, and waited while the gates swung open.

In the pale Winter sunshine, the house and its surrounding gardens looked even more impressive than it had in the dark. It would have been easy to imagine members of the Bloomsbury Set inhabiting this space, completely at home in the environment – Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf strolling together under the trees, perhaps discussing the plot to 'Orlando'; John Maynard-Keynes, T S Elliot, Vanessa Bell and E M Forster playing croquet on the lawn; or relaxing in the sun, sipping cocktails and dissecting the contentious issues of the day with intellectual fervour - were Sherlock of that particular bent.

Fortunately for him, he wasn't. Sherlock walked up the drive towards the front door completely untroubled by such fanciful notions.

As he approached the main entrance to the house, the door burst open, a figure flew out and charged straight at him. Fortunately, he had previous experience of this rather unique form of greeting, and his reflexes were sharp. He caught Eurus in a one-armed hug as she threw her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist.

'Oh, it's so lovely to see you again!' she squealed, planting a kiss on his cheek.

It was good to find her in such high spirits, considering how low her mood had seemed the day before, but it did occur to Sherlock that these dramatic mood swings were a little extreme.

'And Molly, too, of course,' she added, disentangling herself from her brother and looking around, expectantly. 'Oh! Where is she?'

'St Bart's Pathology Department, probably up to her elbows in a dead body,' Sherlock replied, laconically.

'Oh, that's a shame,' Eurus pouted, clearly a little put out. But it did nothing to dampen her childlike enthusiasm.

'Ah! Is this for me?' she exclaimed, snatching the violin case from his hand and hugging it to her chest before turning to lead the way back indoors.

'Come on inside,' she urged. 'I can't believe how cold it is down here in England. I thought Scotland was supposed to be chilly but Edinburgh is positively balmy compared to this.'

Inside the hall, Sherlock was once again relieved of his coat and scarf by Mrs Davenport, then dragged into the drawing room by Eurus.

'Look who's here!' she announced, as though it were an entirely unexpected event.

Charlotte and Sherlock exchanged more sedate greetings and they both sat down. Eurus, however, wasted no time opening the violin case and extracting the instrument.

'Oh, Sherlock, when did you last clean this thing?' she exclaimed, holding the object at arm's length and wrinkling her nose in disgust.

'Erm…about 1998? Give or take a decade,' he replied, with a dismissive shrug.

Pulling a disgruntled face at his sarcasm, Eurus held the body of the violin up to her ear and began fine-tuning, employing nothing more than her perfect pitch. Once turned to her satisfaction, she planted her feet a foot apart, took a deep breath and, with a flourish, tucked the instrument under her chin before resting the bow across the strings. There was a short pause – perhaps three heartbeats - and then she began to play.

Sherlock was immediately transported back to the day he first heard the sound of Eurus playing. Disguised as a Sherrinford guard and feigning a pretty unconvincing Scottish accent, he had stood outside the panopticon, surrounded by people wearing ear defenders. Their lack of appreciation for her exquisite artistry stunned him at the time. It stunned him again, today. He recognised the piece immediately – the Andante from Sonata No 2 in A minor by JS Bach.

The first time he played for Eurus, she had told him in no uncertain terms,

'Don't play Bach! You clearly don't understand him.'

Listening to his sister play now, he saw how right she was. He did not understand Bach but she absolutely did.

Closing his eyes, he opened his heart and allowed the music to flow though him, like the pure, clear waters of a chalk stream, bubbling up from deep underground and rippling over flint gravel beds, on its inexorable journey to oblivion. Lost in the moment, he allowed the music to carry him along its path, feeling every nuanced note as a physical entity rather than a purely auditory experience, touching his soul wit its simple sincerity.

As the music, pouring so effortlessly from her bow, drew to its graceful conclusion, Sherlock opened his eyes and was surprised to find his cheeks damp from tears. He quickly brushed them away but not before catching Charlotte's glance, which was also moist with emotion.

'Breath-taking, isn't it,' she sighed, wistfully. 'Almost unbearably so.'

But now, completely oblivious to the effect her performance was having on her audience, Eurus had segued into the Allegro and her fingers were flying effortlessly up and down the neck of the violin as the bow danced over the strings. Sherlock had never heard his own instrument sing so beautifully, so brightly, with such passion. He actually felt a pain in his heart at the injustice he had inflicted on an inanimate object with his blatant lack of skill, in all those years it had belonged to him! Would he ever dare play it again?

Eurus brought the Allegro section to its end and slowly lowered the violin and the bow.

'Wow,' she breathed. 'That felt so good! Thank you so much, Sherlock, for suggesting I play again.'

'My pleasure,' he replied, and it was.

Eurus tenderly returned the instrument to its case and closed it up.

Meanwhile, Mrs Davenport had taken the absence of music emanating from the drawing room as her cue to enter the room bearing Afternoon Tea. She placed the tray on the sideboard by the door and exited, discreetly.

As Charlotte set about dispensing the tea and cake – coffee and walnut, almost everyone's personal favourite – Eurus took a seat on the sofa opposite Sherlock and tucked her feet under her.

'It's lovely here, isn't it?' she exclaimed. 'We went for a walk in the garden, earlier. There are actual tennis courts around the back!' She was clearly impressed.

Sherlock had never understood the point of tennis; or any sport, for that matter, apart from fencing and cricket, both of which he regarded as art forms, not sports at all. But he understood that for Eurus, who had been denied the opportunity to experience any sports, the possibility of a game of tennis would be hugely exciting.

'Did you give it a try?' he asked.

'Er…no. We didn't have any balls or rackets. And the nets have been put away for the winter,' she shrugged, 'but Charlotte says we can join a tennis club in Edinburgh, when we get home, and I can have lessons!'

It was heart-warming to see Eurus appreciate such simple pleasures. When one had virtually nothing, even small gains were landmarks. Like the tea and home baked cake they were currently enjoying. Charlotte served generous slices but every last crumb was savoured and greedily consumed.

Then:

'So, brother dear,' Eurus exclaimed, in a passable impression of Mycroft at his most pompous, 'I can see you have questions.'

'I do,' Sherlock replied.

'Ask away,' she invited.

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and took a preparatory breath.

'In the letter,' he began, 'Rudi mentions something about childish drawings. To what is he referring?'

The speed with which her bright smile faded was proof, if proof were needed, of something Sherlock already suspected – her mask of jollity was just that - nothing more than a thin veneer masking a deep and painful sorrow.

'I knew as soon as I read that line in Rudi's letter, that you would ask me about this. In fact, I thought you would ask me last night but you left, instead. But here we are, anyway.'

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt for forcing her to confront this last issue but it was the only part of the story still untold and that needed to be rectified. He made no attempt to coax. In fact, taking a leaf out of Eve Matthews' book, he sat back in his seat and tried to blend into the background, giving her the freedom to answer in her own time.

'The drawings Rudi referred to were my drawings - ones I had done of our family and our house…' she said, at last.

He nodded but remained silent.

'I used to draw lots of pictures, all the time, of our family – Mummy, Daddy, you, me and Mycroft – sometimes all together and sometimes not. It depended what we'd been doing. That summer, I was thinking about giving them to you as a sort of present. You see, you had spent so much time - nearly the whole of the long school holiday - playing with Victor. I wanted to remind you that, even though he was your best friend, you still had us – especially me.

I told Uncle Rudi what I was planning but he came up with the idea of hiding the 'treasure' down the well and that plan seemed so much better than mine because it involved mystery and adventure - all the things you loved - so I put the pictures away in a drawer in my room…

But then, the plan went wrong…well, at the time, I believed it had gone wrong…and…I remembered the pictures.

I knew how much you liked the gravestones in the pretend graveyard, so I drew you one of your own with your name on it – 'Sherlock, RIP', it said! I was going to give it to you, along with all the others, to try and make up for taking Victor away…'

'That day – the day the house burned down – Uncle Rudi had been to visit. He'd been trying to persuade Mummy and Daddy to let me go and live permanently with him. I think Mummy was almost persuaded but Daddy was having none of it. For once, he stood up to Uncle Rudi, against Mummy's wishes. After Uncle Rudi left, I went up to my room and found all my drawings scattered across the floor. But they had all been...altered.'

'How?' asked Charlotte, who had moved to sit beside Eurus as she began her tale. 'In what way were they altered?'

'Well, there was one of the whole family that I drew the day we went to the beach and Daddy let me film you all with his cine camera. But, Sherlock, you had been crossed out - scrubbed out, really angrily - with a black crayon. And the others…mostly ones of just you…had had things added – a red slash across your throat, with blood squirting out and a knife beside you; a rope around your neck, as if you were being hanged; and one that had been turned on its side, so it looked like you lying on a stone slab, and RIP written underneath. I didn't do that! It wasn't me!'

Charlotte slipped a comforting arm around her waist and spoke quietly, soothingly.

'We believe you. We know it wasn't you. He's admitted it, remember? You're safe, now. This is all in the past.'

Eurus took some deep and measured breaths to calm her thundering heart and suppress the sense of rising panic in her chest. When she was able, she continued.

'There was one picture I had done of our house, Musgrave Hall. I was going to ask Daddy to make a wooden frame for it so I could hang it on my bedroom wall. But the person…I had no idea who had altered my drawings. At the time, I thought it might be fairies or a witch or something, like in the books Daddy read to us. I never thought for a second that it might be Uncle Rudi… The bad person had drawn flames coming out of the roof and the windows, as though it were on fire…'

The narrative stalled, with Eurus in need of another series of steadying breaths, then…

'Well, I knew those pictures must not be found because everyone would think I had drawn them like that, and that I wanted to hurt you. So, I decided to rip them up and flush them down the toilet but then…'

More rapid, shallow, panicky breathes interrupted the flow.

'We're here for you, Eurus,' Charlotte soothed, gently. 'We're listening. Take your time.'

'I saw the box of matches,' Eurus gasped, 'just lying there on the rug, next to my drawings…just there…'

'And it gave you the idea to burn the pictures,' Sherlock supplied. Of course, it did. Rudi knew that.

'I knew it was wrong!' she exclaimed. 'Daddy and Mummy had always kept the matches locked away in a safe place, along with all the sharp things, like knives. And we had always been warned never to play with fire…but this wasn't a game, it was serious. I wasn't playing.'

That would make sense to a childish mind, Sherlock conceded, even a genius one.

'I had to get rid of the evidence. So, I lit a match and dropped it onto my drawings, right there on the rug. I didn't realise... I never imagined what would happen! It was so…terrifying!'

She was weeping, now, with huge fat tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping off the end of her chin, reliving the trauma of that day as though it were happening right here, right now. Painful though it was to sit by and do nothing to intervene, Charlotte knew this needed to run its course in order to exorcise the final ghost of the past, once and for all.

'Tell us what happened next,' she encouraged, gently.

'The paper burned so fast.' Eurus spoke slowly in a hollow, distant voice, staring into space as though watching the action on an internal video screen. 'And the wax from the crayons…it melted and ran onto the rug. And then the rug caught fire and I tried to stamp out the flames but they licked at the skin on my legs and it hurt so much I jumped away…and then the wooden floor was burning… It spread so fast! In no time at all, the bed was on fire and the curtains, too. And, then…'

She dropped her head into her hands and her shoulders shook with a renewed bout of sobbing and, this time, Charlotte did intervene, pulling her into her arms and rocking her gently, like a small child.

Anxious to give his sister and her partner some space, Sherlock excused himself from the room and went in search of the kitchen, where he found Mrs Davenport making preparations for dinner.

'Could I trouble you for a glass of water?' he asked.

'Of course, sir,' she replied, walking to the cupboard where the glassware was stored and returning to the sink to fill a large glass with water from the tap.

'I do hope the young lady is going to be alright,' she said, handing the glass to him, thus supporting Sherlock's contention that domestic staff always know more about what is going on in a house than the residents realise, but rarely let on due to their impeccable discretion.

'She will be,' Sherlock replied, succinctly, thanked her for the glass of water and returned to the drawing room. During his absence, with Charlotte's support, Eurus had regained some composure but she was grateful for the glass of water.

'You don't have to continue, if you don't wish to,' he advised her. 'I think we have the gist of it, now.'

But Eurus was determined. The story would be completed.

'I didn't know what to do,' she went on. 'I couldn't think. I just wanted to escape… I ran out of the room, down the stairs and outside. By the time I got clear of the house, the flames were leaping out of my bedroom window and up through the roof, just like in the drawing…And Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft were running about and shouting and you were crying…

Daddy tried to put out the flames with the garden hose…' She shook her head, sadly, at that memory. Their father had always tried to solve all their problems but some were just too big, even for him. 'Then the fire engines came and rolled out their hoses into the lake to pump up the water and put out the fire… But it was too late. The house was gutted. And after that…'

'I know what happened after that,' Sherlock assured her but still she was determined to be heard.

'…Uncle Rudi arrived and took charge. He said he knew of a safe place where I would be looked after and helped to get better. He said, I warned you this might happen but you didn't listen. He made it sound like I was ill or something and…well, I think Mummy and Daddy didn't know what else to do, so they agreed. And Rudi took me away.'

When Eurus stopped speaking, there was a deathly silence in the room, a silence which no one seemed to know how to break until Sherlock stood up, walked around the coffee table and knelt on the rug in front of Eurus, much as he had the night before. He placed his hands on her shoulders but this time there was no 'almost shaking' and no verbal reprimand. He smiled fondly and said,

'Well done. You're free now. He doesn't own you anymore.'

ooOoo

It had been an exhausting experience for all concerned, exposing Rudi's final betrayal, but particularly for Eurus. Charlotte was adamant that she should lie down to rest and escorted her up to their room, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

Sitting on the sofa, he closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace where he was able to review the Mystery of the Secret Sister, as John had taken to describing this 'case'. All the evidence was spread out before him like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Taking up this final piece of information – how the fire was started – he slotted it neatly into place and then sat back with a deep sigh of satisfaction. This case was finally closed.

He didn't feel the usual post-case euphoria – far from it. The family's ordeal was not over. Eurus and Charlotte still had to face a grilling from the Committee of Enquiry; he and Mycroft had yet to confront their parents with the irrefutable fact of Rudi's guilt for Victor's death; Eurus and Maura needed to meet, face to face, and the whole family were scheduled for Sunday lunch. How, or even if, the latter event proceeded would depend very much on how all the others went.

In spite of all the trauma thus far, and yet to be endured, Sherlock's overwhelming emotion was of relief. The air in his lungs seemed clearer, fresher, lighter than it had been for months – since that day in his sitting room, in fact, when he learned he had a secret sister and that she had been influencing, manipulating and directing his behaviour pretty much his whole life.

A quite tap at the door snapped him out of his reverie. It was Mrs Davenport.

'May I take the tray, sir?' she asked, eyeing the remnants of their Afternoon Tea.

'Please do,' he replied.

'Her Ladyship just rang,' she added, 'to say that she and Mr Holmes are on their way here with an update on the day's proceedings.'

'Thank you,' he replied.

Mr D gathered everything up and disappeared through the door, leaving him frowning at the implications of this news. He had come here today with a single objective and it had been achieved so his intension had been to collect his coat and depart for the railway station.

He did want to know what the interrogation of Sir Edwin by the Committee had thrown up and also whether the letter had passed all the tests of its authenticity. But how did he feel about spending more time in Mycroft's company?

Then he thought back to his comments of the night before – it was time to forgive ourselves and each other. He would be a hypocrite if he didn't cut Mycroft some slack and not be so prickly toward him.

And what was there for him to rush home to? Molly was working until eight o'clock; John would be busy with Rosie and Mrs H would be either out with Mr Chatterjee from the café, out with her friends from the Marylebone Landladies' Association or dozing in front of TV with a glass of her herbal soother.

But now he was stuck here for who knows how long? When Alicia said they were 'on their way', what did that mean, exactly? Were they just setting off or were they just around the corner? He hated hanging around with nothing to do.

He glanced at his violin, lying innocently in its case. Before today, he would have just picked it up and started playing but not after hearing Eurus play earlier. His sense of utter inadequacy was still quite raw. Perhaps he would go for a stroll in the garden, check out the tennis courts that impressed Eurus so much? But, glancing toward the window, he could see that it was already dark outside. There wouldn't be much to see in the garden at night.

Then the decision was taken for him when the door opened and Charlotte entered the room.

'How is she?' he asked.

'Ah, good question!' Charlotte exclaimed, flopping down on the sofa opposite him. 'Well, she's absolutely exhausted, of course, but she's strong, stronger than she looks. She didn't survive thirty-plus years in solitary confinement by being weak. And talking about the fire has been enormously cathartic. I have asked her how the fire started so many times, over the years, and she has always refused to discuss it. Seeing it written down in Rudi Vernet's own hand, that he deliberately engineered the fire, has absolved her of all blame. So, painful as it was to relive that event, she is so relieved that the truth is now known. And we have you to thank for that,' she concluded.

'Not just me,' he insisted. 'This has been a group effort. Mycroft and Alicia are on their way, by the way…'

Even as he spoke, they heard the unmistakeable sound of a government staff car approaching. It could only mean one thing.

'Ah, speak of the devil,' he quipped.

Getting up from the sofa, he crossed to the huge picture window and watched as the car drew up outside and Mycroft and Alicia alighted. He studied his brother intently. Mycroft still moved like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders but his facial expression of grim resolve was encouraging. He no longer appeared utterly defeated.

Sherlock waited by the window as the new arrivals approached the front door and were greeted by Mrs Davenport. The seconds ticked by until the drawing room door opened and Alicia entered, closely followed by Mycroft.

'I hear you have news,' he said.

'Good afternoon, brother, Charlotte,' said Mycroft, nodding to each of them in turn. 'And, yes, we have news.'

Alicia walked over to Charlotte and gave her a warm hug, leading Sherlock to marvel at how quickly these women, who barely knew one another, had formed such close emotional bonds. Was it a 'woman' thing? Or was it something specific to these particular women? Perhaps it was something that he should investigate.

'Where is Eurus?' Alicia asked.

'Resting in our room,' Charlotte replied, 'but she's fine. Just tired. It's been a busy day.'

Alicia nodded her acknowledgement, then:

'Shall we be seated?' she suggested.

She and Mycroft took up their positions on the sofa that Sherlock had recently vacated, while he moved to the arm chair that he had occupied the night before and, crossing one leg over the other in a louche manner that Dante Gabriel Rossetti himself would have been proud to own, drawled,

'Come on, then, spill the beans.'

'Well, Sir Edwin has been singing like a bird all day,' Alicia announced. 'In fact, it was difficult to shut him up, even when we broke for lunch.'

'And was it gold?' Sherlock asked – 'gold' being 'Secret Service speak' for intelligence of the highest quality.

'Twenty-four carat,' Alicia replied. 'He has blown the whistle on all Rudi's schemes – not just regarding Eurus and Sherrinford but many other serious breaches of national security. If he were still alive, your uncle would be facing a lengthy trial for Treason and Gross Misconduct in Public Office, and a very long prison sentence. As it is, he will be known henceforth as the most infamous traitor in the entire recorded history of the United Kingdom.'

Sherlock was surprised at the level of his own delight at this news. At last, he had been entirely vindicated in his lifelong dislike of Rudi Vernet.

'So, what happens now?' he asked, trying hard not to smirk but failing miserably.

Mycroft took up the narrative,

'Eurus will not be required to give evidence about her treatment at Sherrinford. The committee are more than satisfied that they have all the information they require on that subject, from her prison records and from Sir Edwin. She will, instead, be asked to provide a Victim Impact Statement. This will be used by the committee to decide the level of compensation she is due from the state for what she has been forced to endure since her false imprisonment, as a child, all those years ago.'

Charlotte gasped, so taken aback by this sudden and entirely unexpected development. but, while she processed the implications of that, Sherlock was pressing on with his own agenda.

'And the letter?' he asked. 'Is it genuine?'

'The letter,' Mycroft replied, 'has been verified, beyond any reasonable doubt, to be the work of Rudi Vernet.'

Sherlock nodded his approval. So, tomorrow, they would be off to Sussex.

Tracking his brother's thought processes, Mycroft asked,

'Do you require transport to our parents' house tomorrow? If so, I can send my car in the morning.'

Sherlock thought about that. Did he want to make the journey there and back in his brother's company – and that of Dr Matthews – or would he prefer to make his own arrangements? And what would Molly think of him duplicating a journey that could be made in just one car? Of course, he could hire an electric vehicle and be carbon neutral…Goodness, this Carbon Footprint malarkey was more complicated than he had realised.

'Yes, send your car,' he exclaimed. He would weigh the pros and cons later but, as a rule of thumb, one car was probably better than two.

'You said she was resting from a busy day,' Alicia enquired of Charlotte. 'Is there anything we should know about?'

'In deed there is,' Sherlock interjected and went on to relate what Eurus had disclosed about the fire.

'What an evil bastard he was,' Alicia declared. Resorting to expletives was a rarity for her. It required something quite exceptional to provoke their use and, consequently, it was all the more impressive when she did.

'Couldn't have put it better myself,' Sherlock concluded. Then:

'I must be going,' he announced, getting up abruptly. He had already stayed longer than intended.

'Oh!' Alicia exclaimed, still not acclimatised to Sherlock's sudden exits. 'Please, stay to dinner! Mycroft and I will be returning to London after we've eaten. We can offer you a lift.'

'No, thank you,' he replied. 'I have a train to catch.'

ooOoo