Chapter Ten

Author's Notes: Thank you Silverthreads, Haley Macrae, and Hermione Holmes. My apologies for the month-long delay. I started a new full-time job, and it's been a real learning curve. I envision maybe three or four more chapters (maybe less, depending on how well-spoken I am) so hopefully I'll finish this by the end of the summer. Or not, as the case may be! This is a very artistic chapter, now that I think of it. There are plenty of allusions to paintings, which makes me wish I could illustrate this story. Charles is inspired by Brideshead Revisited, though I am fully aware that that story takes place much later than does this one. Oh, and I chose Eton because Jeremy Brett went there.

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The three of them sat a table at the back of the dining room of the Diogenes Club. It was half-past three, and the waiters wafted around the room like flies in the lazy afternoon sunshine. It was too late for lunch but not early enough for dinner; most of the table emptied of patrons, the waiters arranged plates, cutlery, napkins and glasses, causing distant clinks and chimes to occasionally reach the ears of the three Holmeses who sat talking.

The dining room was a long rectangular space, without windows. From his seat, his back against the farthest wall, Mycroft presided over the expanse of tables covered with white linen tablecloths. Brass light fixtures recessed into niches in the walls dimly illuminated the red flocked wallpaper. Here and there, wilting potted palm trees shielded from view certain unavoidable fixtures of a restaurant from the eyes of the gentility – sideboards, stacks of extra chairs, and so on. The room hadn't been redecorated since the club took over these premises, but that suited most of its members perfectly. Many were misanthropes anyway; some, like Mycroft Holmes were too preoccupied to really consider the aesthetics of their surroundings.

Indeed, in addition to being too intellectually busy, Mycroft was the product of an earlier era. It was an accident of fate that life had so accelerated recently, but his own lifespan had not altered with it. Mycroft was nearly a generation older than his sister-in-law Beatrice, and even she was being left behind by a rapidly changing society. While they were still living and governing, their traditions might still survive – but it was clear even now that they were no longer truly relevant. The customs and habits which informed their daily routine had become a comfortable background, like the old-fashioned dining room, instead of a vital aspect of their lives.

To an observer with an artistic eye and a developed imagination, the sight of Mycroft, Sherlock and Beatrice Holmes around a table would have called to mind paintings of war councils. The elder Holmes brother sat at the head of the table, files, folders, and dossiers spilling out in front of him. To his right sat his younger sibling, attired simply and soberly. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his trouser pockets, his bearded chin like an apostrophe in body language. To Mycroft's left sat Beatrice, lingering over a long-cold cup of tea. In her left hand, she held a biscuit and used it to gesticulate, pointing it at this or that paper as she spoke softly. The triangular composition of the figures, the restricted color palette, the chiaroscuro lighting, combined into a sort of tableau-vivant, a pastiche of a Jacques-Louis David. Here too, just as in Revolutionary France, the Empire was at stake.

"It is certainly an extraordinary stroke of luck that you stumbled onto Von Bork," Mycroft said to Beatrice.

"It is neither luck nor coincidence," she retorted. "It was a matter of months of precise calculation and the careful elimination of suspects. According to your methods," she nodded towards Sherlock.

"I do not always have the luxury of making my conclusions at dinner parties," Holmes replied sardonically. "And I usually try to have some hard evidence."

Mycroft nodded. "Scotland Yard will not arrest him merely on your suspicions – reasonable though they may be. The German government would not respond kindly to one of their citizens being arrested without due process, and the Foreign Office does not wish to deal with another international scandal."

"—Though that is exactly what they will have if Von Bork isn't stopped,' Holmes remarked crisply, knowing full well that much of the Foreign Office's reluctance was due to his involvement in this case, and the reputation that he still held in diplomatic circles as a result of the events of 1891-94.

"Well, if direct action will not work, then we must resort to trickery," suggested Beatrice.

"Spoken like a true woman. You are a testament to your sex," Mycroft smiled.

"I have already made myself indispensable to his organization," mused Holmes. "It will not be such a drastic step to make myself indispensable to its leader. I could provide a service, something he needs badly."

"—Britain's military and naval plans," completed Beatrice.

"Exactly!" Holmes exclaimed as he tipped his chair forward again in his enthusiasm. "I could provide him with altered copies or forgeries, papers that would mislead the German generals if – or rather, when -- they found their way into their hands, but would be traced back to Von Bork if intercepted by the British." Holmes looked at his brother levelly. "I would need the government's full cooperation in this."

Mycroft smiled again, a sly smile that was not unlike that of Beatrice's late uncle. "Tit for tat, Sherlock. The British Empire needs guarantees."

"There can be no guarantees in a game such as this," scoffed Holmes. "All I can give is my predictions of certainty, but even I have been mistaken once or twice."

"In lieu of those, we will settle for temporary stability." Mycroft said and gestured to the dossiers on the table. "We know that Von Bork does not operate alone. For each plan provided to Von Bork, the government will require one of his men in return." He smiled again, and leaned against the back of his chair, his massive bulk resting against the hard wooden spindles. "Essentially, this will kill two birds with one stone. The Germans will be thwarted, and Britain will rid itself of these parasites."

There was silence for several minutes as Holmes sat thinking, his steepled fingertips touching the tip of his nose. Finally, he spoke. "Ruthlessly efficient, as always, brother." Mycroft bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. "Yes, I will do it, but it will not be as easy as all that."

"You've always been a stickler for details," Mycroft replied in a joking tone.

Holmes ignored the interruption and continued. "I can name names, but only Von Bork can provide the proof we need for 'due process,' as you called it. Additionally, he will have to be monitored closely to ensure that our plans are proceeding accordingly. I will need help with this." Holmes' eyes wandered to Beatrice and he quirked his eyebrow at her in an unspoken question.

"What about Sherrinford?" she asked cautiously, misunderstanding the inquiry.

Almost in one voice, at the same moment, both brothers answered, "He has served his purpose."

Comprehending at last, Beatrice's eyes widened and she shook her head emphatically. "But what can I do? I've already found him for you – I can hardly plant myself in his bushes for round-the-clock surveillance!" she exclaimed.

Holmes tilted his chair back again, balancing precariously, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face. "I had a much more comfortable place in mind for you, Martha," he said, using her old pseudonym. "You will have bed and board, plenty of servants, and the opportunity to monitor all the goings-on in Von Bork's household."

"How?" Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?" asked Mycroft. "You will be the von Bork's new housekeeper! I would have thought such a situation would appeal to you. You do so enjoy being involved."

"We can procure all the glowing references you will need," said Holmes. "And you will be trained. The niece of my old Baker Street landlady is a housekeeper at a country estate in Surrey – you will go study with her for a few weeks while I tie up loose ends in Skibbareen. When we meet again, we shall have Von Bork from both sides."

"But I've never done an honest days; work in my life!" stammered an indignant and overwhelmed Beatrice.

"Then this is your chance to repay your debt to society," Holmes said blithely, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Mycroft, who had watched this last exchange with obvious amusement, reached over and patted Beatrice's hand. "You can be sure your help will be indispensable," he said reassuringly. "Besides, my dear, it isn't really honest work at all, is it?"

His logic, Beatrice had to agree, was incontrovertible.

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"This is where you were brought up?" Garridan's friend asked as the stern Elizabethan façade of Manor Farm came into view.

In the shadowed back seat of the chauffeured car making its way across the Downs, Garridan Holmes nodded. "It looks worse than it is. But really, it was all quite typical, just like you see it in pictures. The Grand Victorian Tradition, you know," he drawled, his emphasis making his feelings clear. "A nanny in a starched collar, a giant perambulator, an upstairs nursery and brass bedsteads, and seeing Mummy and Father every night before bedtime as they sat down to dinner."

When the car at last stopped in front of the red door in its Gothic arch, Garridan was out first. He stood on the sandy driveway and stretched slightly, taking his time to look over his childhood home again. He attended Eton, like his father had done before him, and only came back for holidays, and even then, not every one. The last term break, he had stayed with Charles and his family, and now Charles was visiting him.

Now nearly 16, he had grown tall and thin, with a keen intellect and strong instincts like his father. He had, however, his mother's soft features, and his dark eyes radiated both empathy and intelligence. He had taken up rowing, and the muscles with now embraced his lean frame complemented his youth and beauty, as was then the fashion. Running his left hand through his long hair, he patted his body with the right, in search for his cigarette case. Having found it in his coat pocket, he withdrew one, and offered another to Charles.

"Well, now I see where you are spending your allowance," came a voice behind him, and his mother's hand snatched the offending cigarette out of Garridan's mouth, throwing it to the ground. "It is a disgusting habit, as I have many times told your father," she said sternly as the two boys turned to face her.

"Mother –" Garridan began, and paused, not knowing whether to resist this act of parental authority, or whether to surrender and merely introduce his friend in greeting.

Beatrice's expression softened, and she extended her hand to Charles. "You must be Garridan's friend," she said, smiling. "He wrote to say you were coming together. I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much as Garridan enjoyed his Christmas break with you and your family."

"Thank you," said Charles, shaking his hostess's hand. "Garridan told me that the scenery here is superb. I have even brought my painting kit in the hopes of capturing some of it." He nodded toward the trunk of the car, where a small suitcase was being lifted out by the chauffeur.

"An artist?" Beatrice exclaimed. "How very interesting! You will certainly enjoy it here. The Downs can be very picturesque, and several of our tenants live in rather quaint rustic cottages that lend a certain spirit to the countryside."

"I'm not really an artist, I just daub a little here and there," Charles said bashfully.

"I'm sure you're just being modest," said Beatrice generously, and spread out her arms, ushering the boys inside. "Let's go in and have some tea," she said, and her guests obeyed.

As he looked at her serving tea and asking her son and himself polite questions, Charles could not help but think of a certain painting he had seen reproduced in a book. Garridan's mother reminded him of the Baroness Rothschild, her eyes and posture indicating intense interest in the conversation. Even her hair, arranged as it was in soft folds around her face, evoked an echo of the Ingres work. It did not matter that Beatrice was older, and her dark glossy hair beginning to turn grey – Charles saw the silvery sheen as reminiscent of the feather arrangement that crowned the Baroness's head. It was clear to him the overall quiet dignity, the intellectual curiosity that united the two women across time.

While his friend pondered matters of high art, Garridan was also observing his mother. What he saw, however, disturbed him. Beatrice was flushed, her usually-pale face having acquired an unnatural redness around the cheeks and nose. Her skin was not the smooth surface it had been, and her eyes were tired and a little swollen. As she passed him a plate of sandwiches, he noted that her hands were rough and chapped. He reached for the sandwich, but took her hand instead, examining it in his own palm.

"What have you been doing, Mamma?" he asked with some concern, oblivious to the fact that he had interrupted what she was saying to Charles.

Beatrice let out a small carefree laugh, and shrugged. "I expect I've been out in the sun too much this summer. Your father wishes me to look after his bees, and so I'm always in the garden. He's back from America, you know, but he is still away on business. Somewhere in Ireland, I believe."

Garridan was not convinced, but allowed his conversation to be steered away from his concerns about his mother to what he believed to be the unrelated topic of his father; for he had not realized, as many children do not realize, that the fates of his parents were always connected.

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"What is that delicious smell, Martha Hudson?" came the familiar, but unexpected voice.

With a start, Martha dropped the spoon with which she had been stirring the soup over the stove, and let it clatter on the kitchen floor. "May the Devil take you, George Altamont!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron, and bending down to retrieve the utensil. "You scared me out of my wits!"

"Are we alone?" Altamont asked, a rakish twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, thank Providence. The whole brood is gone, sailing to back to Germany. Dismissed the rest of the servants, too. The master thinks he's nearly finished here."

"And so he is," confirmed Altamont, twirling his moustache with one long finger.

"Who is it this time?" Martha asked quietly, though there was no one left to hear.

"Steiner. His name would have given him away if I hadn't," shrugged the American.

"And the signals?"

"Are ready. In both versions, of course." Altamont walked over to the stove and leaned down to smell the simmering broth. "I will miss this, Martha, when it ends," he said.

"But it must end, and it will be out of your hands," Martha replied, knowing he referred not to their kitchen trysts but to the larger problem.

Altamont nodded. "I will come tomorrow night. Ready the signal, as always, and don't worry – I have it all in hand. And now, if you wouldn't mind sparing me some soup for my journey back to my sad bachelor flat?"

Martha shook her head and smiled, but obliged, ladling out the steaming stew into a smaller pot. "Be on your way," she said, rushing Altamont out the door. "I think I hear the master coming."

"Until tomorrow, then," Altamont waved as he disappeared into the thick night.

"Until tomorrow," Martha whispered, and awaited her own meeting with Von Bork.