Chapter 4
Ashes of His Youth
Author's Notes: Thank you Masked Phantom, and welcome to my other fic as well. Elsie Cubitt, nope, that's not the pun, sorry. Fflewddur Fflamm, you got it! (Well, half of it. Her middle name enters in here as well…) Mierin-lanfear, glad you think its simple. Its a pain to write, mainly because I'm writing two chapters in one, essentially. Hermione Holmes, no, you're not misreading it. That's the way those two are. I just can't picture them being all lovey-dovey togetherness. But they have unspoken bonds, many of which have yet to be revealed. Lindsay, can you guess where the spy bit comes from? The postcard mentioned is an actual historic postcard that was acquired by an American couple on their return visit to their Irish homeland in 1908. You can find it on the web under its title. The "fashionable" vice is, of course, homosexuality, and I am referring to the Oscar Wilde trial of 1895. Younghusband invaded Tibet in 1904. He followed Sherlock's route to Lhasa. ;-) The chapter title is taken from Shakespeare's sonnet 72.
The knock at the dark mahogany door was answered after several agonising moments. Mycroft Holmes was now approaching seventy, and one was never sure if he would answer the door. His solitary, sedentary lifestyle meant that few would notice if he was missing. His younger brother suspected that Mycroft used this to his advantage. The anonymity allowed to a harmless old man likely meant that important people were more likely to commit indiscretions in his presence; indiscretions that would haunt them, for although his body appeared frail, his mind certainly was not.
Mycroft Holmes did appear on the other side of the door at last. He was just as corpulent as ever, but age and gravity had pulled his weight downwards, so that the cheeks that had been full before were now heavy jowls. He had the appearance of an angry bulldog, with his eyes squinting in suspicion, and his chin set in defiance. When he identified his visitors, however, his facial expression softened, and he stood aside to allow Sherlock and Beatrice to enter.
Beatrice perched sideways on a narrow bench; her fashionable skirt did not allow her further movement. Sherlock flipped his coat-tails and sat on the sofa. Mycroft limped towards a leather armchair and with a great sigh, sank into it.
"How did you fare in Ireland, brother?" he asked.
"I contrived to disguise myself as a country doctor," Holmes began. "I had the addresses of the suspects arrested by Scotland Yard in the last year, and I tracked them to their native villages. I made some inquiries, but met with little success. However, all the suspects lived in the county of Cork."
"Most accessible to England," commented Beatrice.
"Indeed," Holmes concurred. "But it is impossible that a rebellion would start there."
"Why?" inquired Mycroft, and sat back to hear the answer.
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"Look," she said later, as they stood in the dark cellar kitchen of Manor Farm. "The needle cannot pierce flesh." With a swift stroke of sudden and shocking violence, she brought down the point of a knitting needle sacrificed by Abigail for the occasion into a cut of pork being prepared for dinner. The force of the impact bent the needled for a few moments, until it suddenly splintered. The lower half glanced off the meat and fell to the tile floor. The upper half remained in Beatrice's hand, but even after a few desperate stabs, the broken needle left only tiny indentations in the meat.
Holmes bent down and examined the violated animal flesh through his magnifying glass. Sure enough, a few slivers had pierced the surface, but the damage was not fatal in any sense. Satisfied, he put down the glass on the wooden cutting board.
"We will have to look elsewhere for our weapon," he concluded.
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"The Irish," Holmes concluded, "are not capable of starting their own rebellion. There are a few rebel intellectuals, sure enough, but the leadership lacks the resources necessary for an effective uprising."
"But you think there will be an uprising?" clarified Mycroft.
"Wiser and more politically astute men than I have predicted it with certainty," shrugged Holmes, fingering his cigarette case.
"Yes, but those are the same men who were sure that the Russians were in Tibet, despite your reports to the contrary," objected Beatrice.
Mycroft leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "The Younghusband expedition was sheer tomfoolery," he sighed. "But the whole business was nearly ten years ago, and there are new men in power. They might be more open to your conclusions."
"But is that enough reason for Holmes to endanger himself again? After all, just because Scotland Yard's idea of a spy is a beautiful young woman carrying large amounts of foreign currency in her purse, does not mean that other nations are so naïve." Agitated, Beatrice stood up and began pacing.
"Of course you are correct, my dear," Mycroft attempted to soothe her. "But there are some very intelligent men on our side. Take James Bryce, for example. He is an Irishman, but he is ambassador to America now."
At this, Holmes began to search through the pockets of his discarded overcoat, rifling madly until he produced a stack of postcards. He extended the topmost one to his sibling, and Beatrice came over to look over Mycroft's shoulder at the image. At a sunset shore, a maiden bedecked with clover sat with her harp. A hound lay at her feet, while two flags, including the Union Jack lay beside it. An eagle carrying the American shield flew over the scene, and a caption read, "United by our love of Erin."
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked his brother.
"I think you will have to go to America," answered Mycroft at length, peering at the image. "They would certainly be capable of providing the resources you spoke of."
Holmes nodded. "Will you arrange a meeting with the ambassador for me?" he asked.
Mycroft grimaced. "Whitelaw Reid is a Republican, the worst kind of American. But I will arrange something."
"What a pity we are not younger," Beatrice repeated again. "It would have been so useful to have some young man well-placed in the ministry to keep us informed of any developments. Anything to help! Even if I could attend a house party or two where such things might be discussed!"
Ignoring the dangerous look from his junior sibling, Mycroft intoned, "That can be arranged."
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In the end, the answer was clear. The killer had as much as confessed to Holmes while attending one of Beatrice's dinner parties. He was a tutor at Stackhurst's academy, but he had been to South America, on an expedition through the Amazonian jungle. It was this fact that put Holmes in mind of the methods of Lesseps the poisoner, whom he had apprehended in 1889. Using a poisoned dart, the otherwise mild-mannered tutor had killed Seeman from a distance. He had been clever enough to remove the offending dart, and to leave an alternate weapon for the police to find, hoping that the poor farmer's wife would be implicated. The motive for the murder was unspeakable, but then popular in London society. Inspector Williams was notified, and the tutor duly charged with murder and gross indecency. The incident shocked the community and Stackhurst refused to speak to Holmes for some months. Genius, Holmes reasoned, was bound to be a pariah sometimes. Justice was simply more important than good company.
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"Good luck in your investigation, brother," Mycroft said as he saw the couple to the door. "I shall wire with the particulars of your assignment, Beatrice." She blushed a little as Sherlock's elder sibling kissed her hand in parting with an air of careful, old-fashioned courtesy.
"Anything else, Mycroft?" inquired Holmes, tapping his foot impatiently.
"May the wind be at your back," smirked Mycroft. Beatrice collapsed in a fit of giggles entirely incongruous of a woman of her years, but was immediately silenced into shamefaced repentance by a single quirk of Holmes' left eyebrow.
