Chapter Nine

Author's notes: Thank you Silverthreads (yes, I know, I don't update enough, but things have been busy!) Masked Phantom (good to see you back), HouAreYouToday (indeed), AerynFire (what wonderful compliments from one of my favourite writers!), Hermione Holmes (yes, she is determined, but I think the chase keeps her going, as I tried to say in chapter 6), and Elsie Cubitt (I can always count on thoughtful and thought-provoking comments from you, and I appreciate them tremendously. Apologies for the length – I was rereading this so far, and it does seem to be a collection of episodes rather than a narrative, but that's rather how it comes to me, I'm afraid…) Brewster Budgeon has been gleefully stolen from My Fair Lady. The house party guests are all fictional, but their names are stolen from the Monty Python 'Upperclass Twit' sketch. Why? Because I can. Sherringford's young lady is also stolen, you can guess from where. I figure, England is a small country, and it's my fantasy. Why couldn't one fictional character meet another? If J.M. Barrie and Conan Doyle played cricket together, then this can happen, too.

"Is there really no other way to get there?" Beatrice, who was clinging with white knuckles to the inner door handle of the speeding automobile as it lurched across the country roads, called over the noise of the engine at the driver.

"No, Aunt Beatrice, there is not. Not unless you want to ride on the back of an ox-cart," answered her nephew, Sherringford, coolly manouvering around just such a contraption as he switched into a higher gear.

"I detest automobiles," said Beatrice miserably, not for the first time. "It's all right for you young people, but my aging bones can't take all this bump and go!"

"It'll soon be over," said Sherringford, and lowered his speed as they rounded the corner and turned into a gated driveway. Sure enough, a house soon appeared into view. Sherringford Holmes parked his vehicle beside the other motorcars and got out to help Beatrice. Alighting carefully onto the gravel, Beatrice glanced around at the house, from which was emerging the hostess of the coming festivities, Mabel Budgeon. Letting go of Sherringford's hand, Beatrice waved in greeting.

"You've arrived safely!" exclaimed Mrs Budgeon, coming closer. "I do hope your nephew didn't drive recklessly, my dear – I don't know what I would have done if he didn't deliver you in one piece!"

"The journey was tolerable, thank you," answered Beatrice. "Have all the other guests arrived?"

"Most of them, yes," replied Mrs Budgeon, taking beatrice under the arm and leading her into the house. "Boozie's looking after them, and they're all such bores. I'm so glad you're here, my dear. Your conversation is so much livelier!"

'Boozie' was how anyone in the know referred to Mrs Budgeon's husband, though he had been christened Brewster. The old school nickname had stuck however, as most of his colleagues in the Home Office were, after all, old classmates. He had had the misfortune of marrying a woman of a lower social class, and although she had, with the decades, been grudgingly accepted by the other ministry wives, she had never gotten over her resentment at her previous treatment at their hands, and lost no opportunity to gossip about them behind their backs. Her companion of choice for such conversations was none other than Beatrice Holmes.

Beatrice, for her part, was only too happy to listen to Mrs Budgeon's stories of back room politics. As Sherringford's spinster aunt and chaperone, she listened very sympathetically to such tales, often asking her nephew for clarification later; Sherringford, though somewhat lacking in social graces, had an alarming talent for personal details that Beatrice could only hope he would never abuse. Now, at the Budgeon's home near Harwich, Beatrice hoped for a final opportunity to put all the gossip to a useful purpose.

As she and Mrs Budgeon entered the drawing-room, Beatrice noted all the familiar faces. On the left, near the window were Lord Hurlingham and the Right Honourable Vivian Smythe, engaged in what appeared to be a rousing debate about pork belly prices. Standing in a secluded corner by himself with a glass of brandy was Simon Trumpet-Harris, who was hardly ever interested in anyone else except when it came to money. Sir Nigel Jones and his much-younger wife were, as usual whispering angrily to each other, no doubt about her liason with Gervaise Brook, CBE, which was common knowledge. On the right, admiring the tapestry hanging against the oak panels was Oliver St John, who had recently left the Guards at his father's urging to hold the portfolio for Ireland. Beatrice had watched him closely before deciding that he knew no more than what his secretary told him. However, standing in the centre of the room, conversing in a very friendly manner with Boozie Budgeon was a man Beatrice did not know. His face was sunburned and his features aquiline. Although he held himself like a lifelong sportsman, his eyes were intelligent. Turning to her hostess, Beatrice nodded towards him.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"That's Adolph Von Bork," replied Mrs Budgeon. "He's a neighbour. He and his wife and children – he has six, can you imagine? – moved into the house down the lane two years ago. Boozie adores him because he loves sailing too. All they ever talk about is masts and rigging. There was a bit of a fuss at first, because he was a German, and apparently some people thought he was spying because the Chancellor happened to say something or other about our politics."

"What happened?" asked Beatrice eagerly.

"Well, some of the other Cabinet ministers thought that Adolph was passing on information from the parties and that he shouldn't be invited, but Boozie wouldn't hear any of it. He told them that a sporting man like Von Bork wouldn't be interested in something as womanly as gossip."

"And was he?"

Mrs Budgeon shrugged. "There hasn't been any trouble since. He's harmless, really. All he's ever shown any interest in is polo and hunting and yachting and races."

"Just guns and boats," murmured Beatrice as she continued to observe Von Bork.

"Exactly!" rejoined Mrs Budgeon merrily. "Now tell me, doesn't Lady Hurlingham look just like a table lamp in that frock?"

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It was all becoming a bit tedious and juvenile, really. Giving trouble to the police was something Sherlock Holmes was an expert in, what with his decades of dealing with criminals, and in his current incarnation as George Altamont, rioting in the streets and breaking glass was hardly a mental challenge. Jack James, the brother of his American friend Ollie, had put him to work as a sort of associate in a gang who called themselves the "Furies," and took it upon themselves to terrorize English shopkeepers and businessmen. While it was the younger men who carried out any actual brutality, Altamont was responsible for appropriating anything that seemed useful – documents, receipts, and sometimes, goods. These were usually transported to alternate locations and sorted. A man named Steiner, who ran a dry-goods store during the day, was responsible for the papers, and a man named Hollis, who employed a warehouse of workers, disposed of the goods. Had Holmes been born a more incredulous man, he might have gaped at the complexity and vastness of the network of crime in which his alter ego was now engaged. As it was, however, he was very busy trying to determine who was at the centre of this network. As he waited in the dark alleyway, waiting for the signal that his work could begin, his meditations were dispersed by the sound of shattering glass, and screams. After some moments, tiny footsteps rained down the little alley as a child tore past him. In the dim light of a corner streetlamp, Holmes saw the boy could not have been more than five. His heart gave a little tug in his chest.

A little boy in a sailor suit buried his head in his mother's lap. He could not have been more than five years old, and his body shook with sobs.

"But why must he be so, Mama?" the child cried, his voice muffled by his mother's skirts.

His mother stroked his black hair. "You did break something of his, did you not?"

"Yes, Mama, but I did not mean to! I was just looking, and it slipped from my hands! But Papa was so cross with me!"

His mother laughed a little, gently and indulgently. "Well, Papa can make a tempest in a teacup sometimes. But don't you think it makes life more interesting?" Looking up and gazing at a point far away in the distance, she mused, "I have found that I like the chaos. On just has to make sure that one is in the eye of the storm. You think his work is interesting, don't you Garridan?" The boy nodded. "When your father invites you in, you will see it is a fascinating world. Oh yes, it's like being inside a kaleidoscope or a magic lantern at first, but it is a magical world."

"I like my kaleidoscope," said the boy, and his mother smiled at him.

"And you would not like it if someone broke it. Now, go and apologise to your father, and ask him to show you properly. Mind you don't touch things without permission."

His father, who had witnessed this scene without moving from his place in the corridor, resolved then to come home at last.

Holmes turned, about to go after the child, when a shrill whistle sounded in the night air. He shrank into a doorway as he watched the Furies tumble out of the shop and into the waiting arms of the police. Some minutes later, when all was once again quiet, he turned up his collar again and emerged from his hiding place. Walking briskly out of the alley, he strode past the violated storefront, and towards home. A heavy hand hit his shoulder.

"You'd best come along, too," said a voice which would brook no argument. Not fancying a bout with a billy club, Altamont complied.

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"What do you know about A. Von Bork?" asked Beatrice later, as she escaped Mrs Budgeon and found her nephew.

Sherringford shrugged. "He has a villa that overlooks the sea, owns several prize-winning racehorses, and is generally thought to be quite a decent fellow for a German."

"And where does he get his income?" pressed Beatrice. "What is his profession?"

"I believe he owns some kind of shipping company. There are always people reporting to him with plans and papers."

Satisfied, Beatrice nodded. "We are leaving."

"Now?" asked Sherringford incredulously. "We can't leave now! I won't go!"

"Don't be insolent, Sherringford," said Beatrice. "You will take me back to London. And if you are concerned about that young lady –" she paused and looked over at a pert young woman who was laughing with a young man of military bearing "—then I suggest you give up your pursuit. She is obviously taken with another."

"How do you know?" her nephew insisted, his chest swelling indignantly. "Miss Jane Marple is a charming intelligent young woman…"

"… who is not destined to be your wife," concluded Beatrice, as she maneuvered Sherringford out of the room. "Luckily for her," she murmured under her breath.

"How are we to explain ourselves?" blustered the young man.

Beatrice stopped in her tracks and looked her nephew straight in the eye. "You will tell them that your hysterical aunt is insisting on leaving and that you must take her. It is as simple as that."

Indeed, as they drove away, Beatrice once again proved herself to be right.

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Daylight streamed down from a skylight into the interview room at the jail, and made the inspector's bald head gleam with perspiration. It had taken some convincing for the local authorities to bring in Scotland Yard. Having been arrested without his official documents, Holmes had had to muster all his negotiation skills to argue that he was not, in fact, George Altamont, American citizen, but Sherlock Holmes, loyal subject of His Majesty the King of England, and renowned detective. It seemed that even the Scotland Yard inspector, once he arrived, was entirely convinced.

The man leaned back in his chair and stared across the table at Holmes. "So you say that these men Hollis and Steiner are receiving orders from someone?"

"Of course they are. Hollis runs a warehouse of men who assemble guns. There must be someone who needs the weapons."

"Could it not be Steiner himself?" asked the suspicious inspector.

"But someone has to pay Hollis, and Steiner does not have the money," pointed out Holmes, feeling weary of this interrogation.

The inspector stood up and began to pace the tiny room. "So now we have this information. Now we must arrest the criminals."

"No!" exclaimed Holmes. "They must stay in place until I find out who is at the head of this operation."

The inspector's face was marred by an ugly smile. "And what will be our guarantee? Another alias, perhaps?"

Holmes drew himself up. "I think, Inspector, that your superiors, to whom I have been very useful in the past, will guarantee my integrity and reliability."

The inspector sniffed. "Very well. Your bond's been posted, anyway. You're free to go." And with a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured for Holmes to exit.

Reunited at last with his belongings, Holmes looked for his savior in the lobby of the prison. All that he could see at first was a giant hat. As he came closer, the mass of feathers and silk flowers moved and revealed beneath the wide brim a very familiar face. Waiting for him alone in the marble hall on a wooden bench, dressed in a smart tailored suit, and a parasol in her gloved hands, was Beatrice. She stood to meet him.

"I've got your man," she declared by way of greeting.

"Is he perchance hidden in your chapeau?" asked Holmes acerbically, gazing in wonderment at this masterpiece of the milliner's art.

Beatrice sighed. "I would have you know that this is the height of fashion, Holmes. You would not imagine the lengths to which I have gone to be so fashionable, and all for you."

"For that," Holmes said, taking her arm, "I am truly sorry." They walked out of the building together into a waiting cab.