Chapter Eight
Author's Notes: Thanks Elsie Cubitt, Silverthreads, J.A. Lowell, mierin-lanfear, Hermione Holmes, and HouAreYouToday. I'm glad I didn't get any flames for that last bit, and I can't tell you how rewarding it is that you guys are getting my subtle foreshadowing! No scary and unexpected plot twists in this chapter. That's not until next chapter, which I have half-written, so hopefully it won't take as long to update next time... ;-)
A light flared briefly in the think black night, illuminating for a moment the faces of two men, identical in stature. Their faces were huddled close together around a single match, both endeavoring to light their cigarettes. One of the men cursed as the flame was snuffed out by a gust of wind, but touched the end of his unlucky cigarette to the glowing amber end of that of his companion. There was a short silence while the burning stubs floated up and down in the darkness, lost occasionally in exhalations of smoke, like fireflies on an August evening.
"We need to find a replacement for Norris," said one of the men, quietly.
"Who got him?" asked his companion, with surprise and dread in his voice.
"No one got him. He was out buying a paper, then he turned all red, his eyes bugged out and he fell over. Collapsed, just like that. He's dead."
"What about Shipton?" came the suggestion after a thoughtful silence.
"He knows too much. Better to stay in Buffalo." There was another silence, and the second man spoke again, slowly.
"I might know someone. Met him almost a year ago on the train from Washington. Even let him stay with us at first, till he got settled. Name's Altamont. Might be a bit old, but he's still spry and he's real eager to help. Joined the Fenian order last month and now he has itchy fingers. Memory like an elephant -- dates, names, anything. Real good with engines too."
"What does he know about Ireland?"
"Says he was born there. County Cork, he always says."
The first man tossed the remains of his cigarette in the gutter and turned to go. The burning ashes reflected briefly in a stagnant pool of sewer water and then sank, hissing as they disappeared in the black liquid. Over his shoulder, the man gruffly called to his companion, "Bring his round next week. We'll see what he's made of." His receding footsteps echoed on the deserted streets.
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"There's really no reason for you to continue," said Mycroft as he lit a cigarette. "It has been nearly a year, and you have nothing to show for it."
Beatrice tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair where she was sitting. "Is it really so inconvenient to indulge me?" she asked.
Mycroft let out a series of blue smoke rings into the air and watched as they dissipated. "When a line of inquiry yields no results," he mused, "then accepted wisdom would have us abandon it. No, your country house frolics are not inconvenient, and no doubt they relieve some of the dullness of your routine, but surely even you grow tired of not achieving your purpose?"
"I am tired," Beatrice admitted. "And it is true, I have not had many fruitful leads. But neither has Holmes! Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong places."
"Perhaps you have been looking for the wrong things?" suggested Mycroft.
"Do you have any better ideas?" Beatrice asked, growing frustrated.
"Not at this time, said Mycroft, but his eyes were focused on some fixed point in the far distance, as though he was waiting for it to come nearer and reveal itself. "It is too quiet," he murmured, and Beatrice was sure he was not referring to their present surroundings. She sighed.
"I'll just continue on, then. There's a party in Harwich in a fortnight," she said, rising to leave.
Startled from his reverie by her motion, Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. "Be sensible," he said in parting. She smiled her sad secret smile once again.
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Ollie James seemed cheerful as he reached over the greasy table for his cup of coffee. As he did every time Holmes had seen him over breakfast at any of the reluctant restaurants they had eaten in across America, James sipped at the dark beverage, grimaced, and said,
"Tastes like shite."
Needless to say, the abhorrent flavour of the coffee neither stopped him from drinking all of it, nor altered his mood. It was the incongruous latter which occupied Holmes' thoughts now.
James, a professional burglar of some distinction, had been assigned to recover spare parts from a factory outside Buffalo. The job had been commissioned by the Fenian Brotherhood, a local secret society into which Holmes (or rather, his alter ego, Altamont) had recently been inducted. Altamont had been recruited for this job too, on James' urging. The younger man had taken a liking to the gruff Irish-American and found his skills in dissembling and disguise useful.
Holmes, his mind not content with petty thievery and masquerade, had also been developing his knowledge of machinery. His memory, keen as ever, grasped forms and relationships easily, so that he was now familiar with the internal workings of every engine from an automobile to a trans-Atlantic liner. It was this ability that made him useful to the Fenians, but even it was not enough. Infiltrating the factory had proven to be more difficult than originally estimated, and time was running out. James was not supposed to be humming contentedly under his breath. Yet, he had left their shared lodgings last night (a fact that Holmes knew, and Altamont feigned ignorance of) and Holmes could only conclude that the result of that nocturnal tryst had been a happy one.
"Have I ever introduced you to my brother?" asked Ollie as he swallowed a piece of blackened toast. It was a rhetorical question of the kind that irritated Holmes by its vagueness and futility. Altamont answered with a negative shake of his head.
"His name's Jack," Ollie continued. "He's visiting for a few days and I saw him last night."
"When did you manage to do that?" asked Altamont with false incredulity.
"You were asleep," Ollie said dismissively. "He wants to meet you. Might have a job for you that'll let you get back at those English you hate so much. He said to bring you around. You in?"
"I'm in," said Altamont, smiling at his imminent success.
Later, on a rainy evening in the middle of the next week, Altamont found himself smiling again. He and Ollie had recovered the necessary machinery and had earned their reward. The mission completed, Ollie was due to return to Chicago, but without his partner in crime. There had been a letter: His brother Jack had to depart immediately for Ireland and had left an invitation for Altamont (much-celebrated for his spectacular escape from the Buffalo police) to join his struggle against the English. Altamont was only too happy to comply.
He was on the trail, he was sure; and he would soon reach the centre.
