Chapter 6
Author's Notes: You're all still reading! Thanks to mierin-lanfear, hermione Holmes, Haley Macrae, Elsie Cubitt, and Masked Phantom.
"I was surprised to hear from your wife," confessed Murdoch as he and Holmes walked from the docks into the teeming heart of Manhattan. "To tell the truth, I have no idea how she managed to track me at all. It has been nearly twenty years since we first met."
"Yet you remembered her," pointed out Holmes with a quirk of an eyebrow.
Murdoch smiled, the skin around his blue eyes crinkling. "It was not so much your wife that made an impression on me, Mr Holmes, but the conversation I had with you. I had just lost my fiancee, and it seemed that all the light in the universe had been snuffed out. My priest suggested that I undertake a pilgrimage, a spiritual quest of sorts. Little did I know that I would meet the man who is a hero to all of us in the profession."
Making a little noise in the back of his throat, Holmes demurred, uncomfortable with the sentiment being offered to him by the younger man. Murdoch continued to speak, "I tell you this earnestly Mr Holmes. I had lost hope, and in those few moments of conversation, my prior passion for work was re-ignited. Though I did not then know with whom I was speaking, I was again inspired to hunt down criminals of all sorts. I flatter myself that I have been successful."
"You have the air of a successful man. While your forehead is lined with the traces of concern, you do not have the weary air of one troubled by failure," observed Holmes.
"I have been lucky," admitted Murdoch. "My efforts have been recognised and my career has proceeded smoothly." Sending Holmes a meaningful smile, he concluded proudly, "I have also married an exceedingly intelligent woman. She is a coroner, and helps me tremendously in my work."
"Beatrice is not quite so involved in the practical side of my investigations," Holmes answered.
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"Sherrinford is a very popular young man among our cabinet ministers," Mycroft informed Beatrice with more than a trace of pride in his voice.
Meatrice, who had at last collected herself, replied warmly, "That is indeed convenient for what I have planned. You see, while my husband is away tracking clues in America, I would very much like to follow the political situation here at home."
"You would like me to use my contacts and report to you," Sherrinford rephrased concisely.
Beatrice smiled, "Something like that. I expect I will hear anything official in the papers, and Mycroft can interpret anything I do not quite understand. I need you to tell me the gossip, the rumours, and petty politics."
Sherrinford frowned. "It seems a tedious job. I don't have the temperament of a chambermaid."
Beatrice's smile fell and she drew herself up. "Your temperament is irrelevant. But, if you do not wish to observe such minor details, you will arrange it so that I may. I must be invited to every social function at which more than one cabinet minister is present."
Sherrinford shifted his weight from one foot to another and back again. "It will be difficult. Do you prefer ministers of the interior or ones that deal with international matters?"
Beatrice considered for a moment and said thoughtfully, "Both might be important." Raising her head, she answered confidently, "Both."
After the young man had taken his leave, Beatrice turned to Mycroft. He was sitting back in his chair, his fingers steepled in the manner of his younger sibling, and an inscrutable expression on his face. "No doubt he is popular because he is as thick as they are?" she asked archly. Mycroft only laughed.
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"What reason did my wife give for writing you?" Holmes asked finally, as he and Murdoch dodged a speeding tram.
"She asked me whether I might be able to give you some information on the Irish question in America," Murdoch answered.
"And can you?"
"The situation in America is much different than in Canada," Murdoch said. "I know there is support for a republic here, spread among all different classes. The people who have come to America, are after all, those most disaffected by English rule."
"Is there much violence?" inquired Holmes.
Murdoch shook his head. "Not much in the older cities. In Boston they are too well-settled, and it has been a generation since there were riots in New York. Perhaps in Chicago… In Toronto, we have had no end of trouble with smuggling from the cities on the lakes. You might try there."
Holmes nodded. "I will ask the ambassador also, but I thank you for your help."
"So after you meet with the ambassador in Washington, you will go on to Chicago?" surmised Murdoch.
"The situation will unfold itself in the fullness of time," Holmes remarked cryptically. He parted from Murdoch at the station and boarded a train to Washington. As the familiar sounds filled the compartment, Holmes allowed himself to sleep.
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A heavy fog swirled up from the bay and licked at the windows of Manor Farm. It was one of the few times that year that Holmes could take himself away from London to spend time at his cottage, and now the mist was so thick that he could not even have found the path that led to it. The ancient house, already dark, seemed weighted down with anticipation. Across the dimness of the room, Holmes could see Beatrice, curled over some needlework. Her uncle was unwell, and she had as many responsibilities in tending after him as he had in London solving crime. He saw her so little that every moment but this one was pregnant, filled to wholeness with speech and action, an eager intercourse of minds. They had exhausted themselves this time, though, and he spent this climatic confinement in silence. He would not see her again until the year changed to 1897.
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James Bryce, British ambassador to the United States of America, was remarkably energetic for a man of 74 years of age. He had large, sympathetic eyes under thick, bushy eyebrows and a heavy beard that curled around his mouth. Though he looked more like an eminent Harley Street surgeon, he was in reality a lawyer and a politician, a respected historian, and an avid alpinist. Sitting across from him at the embassy in Washington, Holmes noticed at once his strong hands and athletic bearing, even though they were now somewhat eclipsed by his advanced age.
"Of course you have read my book on the institutions of this country," Bryce was saying as he gestured to an impressively laden bookshelf behind him. "It is somewhat out-of-date now, but I believe the general sentiment to be unchanged since I published The American Commonwealth in 1888."
"I am familiar with the tome, yes," Holmes nodded.
"This country, with its proud history of democracy and significant Irish population, cannot fail to support the Republican quest for Home Rule," Bryce concluded. "It will happen, sooner or later, and I pray that it will happen with as little bloodshed as possible."
"Indeed," Holmes concurred. "Although it is not my mission to apprehend those who will perpetrate such bloodshed, I believe there must be a force acting to incite similar efforts. That force must be stopped."
"You will find there are many who support the Irish cause," Bryce objected. "And all have their own reasons."
"I am of the opinion that men will not do that which does not bring them personal gain. There would be much to gain here for one that was willing enough," Holmes mused.
The wizened ambassador shook his head. "You will not go far in matters of nationalism with such a narrow focus," he said. "You will certainly get no further than the milling ranks of the ragged peasants who desire revolution." He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming. "No, to reach the ones at the top, you must not think like a criminal, Mr Holmes. You must begin to think like a diplomat."
