Chapter Five
The Interrogation – Tulip Lawson – Blackmail – The Questions Continue – A Simple Solution – Parents and Teachers – Simonson – Discovered.
###
They waited until they were in the cab heading back home before it began, 'it' being the twins' systematic and methodical annihilation of any and every attempt on Jack's part to divert their interest from the recent scene in the wine department of Fortnum and Masons.
Not quite sure how he ended up wedged between the two of them in the back of the taxi, Jack Parrish knew he was in deep trouble when both Holmes siblings turned to stare at him in some eerie, silent, symmetrical, ballet.
"Before we start, you should know that we are, in fact, both certified as high geniuses," Blythe spoke very gently, as if dealing with a young and frightened child. "We've also been trained by our father to detect a lie as soon as it breathes air."
"In addition to which, neither of us have the slightest compunction about grilling you relentlessly until we get the information we want," Jules grinned unnervingly. "Our uncle is a very skilled interrogator and we've learned everything he can teach us."
"Further," Blythe patted Jack on the arm in a kindly sort of way. "In case you were tempted to make a dash for it, our mother is an Hapkido black-belt and has ensured that the both of us are more than capable of handling any form of physical imposition which may come our way from any direction, no matter how unlikely," she smiled, dreamily.
"Plus, we're absolute experts in making up excuses for our teachers and we'll certainly be able to spot any dissembling from a mile off," Jules met his sister's eyes. "So tell us."
"What's dissembling?" Jack folded his arms and looked straight ahead.
"Yes, just like that," Blythe nodded. "Well done. Now, again. Tell us."
"Nothing to tell," Jack's eyes were resolutely front and centre.
"Lie number one," Jules smiled brightly. "Why are the police after you?"
"The police?" Jack frowned.
"Ah, so not the police," Blythe sounded intrigued. "Then why did you try and hide when you saw the uniformed police officer in the doorway of the wine department?"
Jack folded his arms tighter. "Didn't."
"Lie number two," Jules looked sad and shook his head. "And you wanting so much to be a butler in some posh Home-Counties household," he sighed. "Such a shame."
"What's such a shame?" Jack turned to look at the boy who was almost as tall as he was.
"Well ..." Blythe looked artless. "You know how these things get out," she shrugged off-handedly. "Once the butler-recruiting agencies get to hear that you're a wanted man who lied to the children of a certain household to cover up his immoral and debauched past ..." her small cough was an understatement in elegance.
"You wouldn't?" Jack didn't know which of them to glare at first. He tried Jules.
Who blinked, lazily.
"You'd be amazed to find out just how easy it was to get hold of the email addresses of the fifty-two registered butler-training and recruitment organisations in Britain," Blythe continued. "Just one little email saying the right words ..."
"Or even the wrong words," Jules agreed, nodding cheerfully.
"Especially those, yes," Blythe smiled back at her brother.
"And that, as they say, would pretty much be that," Jules looked sad. Then he raised his eyebrows in a singular expression from which even a total stranger would recognise Sherlock as his uncle, and met the blond man's grey-blue eyes. "So tell us," he said.
"I can't believe the two of you would do anything like the things you're saying," Jack's expression wasn't quite as confident as his words. "Couple of nice young people as you, from such a good home," he felt he was back on more solid ground.
"Oh dear, I was rather hoping we wouldn't have to go down this particular path, Jack," it was Blythe's turn to look sad as she met her sibling's gaze.
"Looks like he won't believe us without it, Sis," Jules glanced out at the buildings they were passing. "Best get on with it though."
"Hang on a second, get on with what?" Jack was starting to feel decidedly uneasy again. It was clear they had something up their collective sleeve, but it couldn't be all that bad, could it? After all, they were in a public taxi.
"Oh, very well," Blythe leaned back and closed her eyes. "You come from a good and probably landed family despite your attempts to conceal the fact," she began. "Your diction and vocabulary are of a type and level uncommon these days in any but the better class of educative establishment. Of course, you could have been educated overseas, but there's not a smidgen of an accent in any of your words that suggests such a possibility, ergo, it makes sense to assume you went to a good school or schools right here in Britain," she paused, opening her eyes and passing the deductionary baton to her brother.
"Which is where you experienced growing up with servants and, most especially, at least one though more likely several butlers; the way you have taken so completely to various aspects of the role argues that this isn't something you've simply picked up from a few training sessions in a London class of wannabes, no," Jules shook his head. "You come from a family who had its own butlers, Jack. Individuals whom you respected very deeply and who probably reminded you of a time in your childhood which was golden and good."
"Hence the reason you find the prospect of being a proper butler in a big house so attractive, "Blythe jumped back in. "You felt safe in that particular period of time and you are trying to recapture the feeling."
"Which then makes the questions of why someone with all the advantages of a good home and family and education would even be considering a career in domestic service in the first place," Jules looked openly curious. "Not that there's anything wrong with such a career, of course, but you would have naturally been exposed to all manner of opportunities and possibilities as you were growing up, so it really doesn't make a great deal of sense for you to want to do this unless there was another reason; something else that was driving you to take this particular road."
"Or perhaps you weren't driving towards something," Blythe paused, considering, "But away from something," she said, looking back to the blond man. "Something with which you no longer wish to have any association," she frowned. "Something in your life which has made you unhappy and wanting the security and peace of the only good time you can remember in your life when you were growing up," she added, softly.
"Who are you running from, Jack?" Jules looked a little worried, as if he had never intended to take a stroll down this particular path. "If it's not the police, then who is it? Tell us, I'm sure we can help; we'd really like to help."
Inhaling very deeply and slowly, Jack rested his head back against the top of the car seat. He knew this whole set up in the Holmes household had been entirely too good to be true. He'd have to offer his apologies to Mr Holmes and then make a swift and discreet departure. But these two were right, and besides, there was only so much running a man could do.
"I wasn't trying to hide from the police officer in the wine department," he exhaled a long sigh of release. "But the man with whom the police officer was talking."
"But why would you not want another Fortnum and Mason's customer to see you?" Blythe scowled in thought. It made no sense, unless ... unless there was prior acquaintanceship between them.
"You knew the man," she said, realising.
Jack laughed shortly but without humour. "The man was my father."
###
On the basis of numerous personal recommendations and several phone conversations, Cate had already narrowed down the choice of architect to two companies and she was leaning towards one of them who had done a great many refurbishments of listed Georgian properties. Though money, fortunately, was not the greatest issue here, Cate wanted an innovative solution to the problem of providing her two very distinctive offspring with the space and solitude they both needed. She and Mycroft had already agreed that the townhouse freehold would be made over to the twins in the future so that they would have both a place to live in London as well as being able to rent out the larger part of the house itself as a means of continued income, if that was what they wanted to do. So now, she was taking the first step in the greater plan that would ensure they each had a small but self-contained flat in which they could begin the next stage of their maturation.
It had been helpful that each of the twins, though similar in many ways, were also sufficiently if not diametrically different, that giving one the attic and one the cellar would not cause more problems than it solved.
There was the necessary space and there was the necessary money. All Cate needed now, was the necessary architect.
"And as you can see, Mrs Holmes," the immaculately groomed man in the immaculately groomed suit swanned over to a large wall-screen, "our firm has had great success over many years providing our clients with precisely the type of service you are discussing."
"I have some very particular requirements," Cate had already gone through quite a number of existing floorplans and blueprints; none of them were quite what she had in mind.
"Of course, madam," the man's shiny smile was beginning to feel ever so slightly sycophantic. "The firm of London and Nobles will be delighted to customise any of our existing apartment models, designed especially for the historical dwellings of our wonderful city."
"But I don't want one of your existing apartment models," Cate smiled sweetly back. "No matter how well they've been designed to meet the historic needs of this or any other city," she said. "As already indicated, I want something that not only fits within the frame of the building, but also meets some very particular prerequisites."
The sales representative didn't miss a beat.
"In which case, madam, I'll bring you one of our top-qualified architectural designers who will, I'm sure, be able to deal with your every inquiry," he beamed, walking sideways until he disappeared through a recessed door.
Cate made a face. This wasn't at all what she had imagined the place would be like. In her mind's eye, she had pictured a working factory environment, with old-fashioned drafts people hovering over long tables covered in stretches of white paper and detailed drawings. But apparently not any more. Everything today was done with technology and necessitated someone in a very pretty suit oozing insincerity. She wasn't the least bit impressed.
But this company had been so strongly recommended by a number of people in whose judgement she had great faith. And she had to admit, that some of the 'models' she'd seen were pretty good, even if they weren't exactly what she had in mind.
She sighed.
The recessed door opened again, and a dark-haired, woman in her late twenties came through carrying a slim black laptop, her free hand already outstretched. The woman smiled.
"Name's Tulip Lawson," she said, smiling some more. "Yes, awful to have in school, but I doubt you'll forget it. Shall we sit over here?" she suggested, pointing to some chairs beside a wide low table.
"Are you another sales person or are you actually an architect?" Cate sat, waiting to see which way this one would go. She didn't think she could stand any more obsequious nonsense.
"Definitely not sales," the newcomer laughed. "Have you just had the George treatment?" she laughed some more. "He's the son of the senior partner; he used to sell Bentleys but they laid him off and now he works here," Tulip rolled her eyes. "He can be a little over-enthusiastic."
Their gaze met in understanding.
"Your firm is well-recommended," Cate began. "But I'm not sure if I'm the sort of client you want; I have very specific requirements and I don't think they'll be met by something off-plan."
"Of course not," the dark-haired woman sounded serious. "And regardless of what George might have suggested, we always work to meet our clients' unique preferences. I've actually had a good think at all the photographs and measurements you've provided, and wondered if you'd like to have a look at my first concepts on the matter; perhaps you could tell me if I'm anywhere near what you had in mind?"
Opening the computer and turning it so that Cate had full view of the wide screen, the architect sat back and watched every expression as it crossed her potential client's face.
Flicking through several of the screens that each offered an architectural rendering of several possible options for both the attic and cellar arrangements, despite herself, Cate was reasonably impressed. All of the alternatives seemed to have taken most of her own concerns on board.
"I think you may have something there," she said, tapping the screen on one particular image before sitting back and looking thoughtful. "Not yet exact, of course, but you appear to have got my basic ideas in the right places," she paused. "So what happens now?"
"If you're interested in any of these, then the next step is for me, or any of our other partners if you'd prefer someone else, to come and spend a day at your house going over the very smallest details that no photograph can possibly provide," the young architect said. "Then we sit and talk with you to ensure we have every single thing that you need, although in some cases we may need to negotiate a compromise if we can't give you everything you want."
"And then?" Cate was feeling more reassured; at least this one sounded as if she knew what she was doing.
"And then, when everything has been detailed down to the number of cabinet- handles and the size of the last shelf in the smallest cupboard, we produce a unique design that will fit your specific needs and no other," Tulip smiled again. "But by that time, you'll already have a totally clear picture of what to expect, so unless there's any last minute problems, you should be feeling very confident in what you're going to get."
"And your company will work with any building firm we choose?"
"Naturally," the dark-haired woman smiled again. "We have enjoyed a productive relationship with a great many builders and suppliers in and around London, though we also have our own builders who can be guaranteed to complete on time as they'll have no other contract competing for their labour; something to think about, perhaps?"
"Possibly," Cate nodded, making up her mind. "When can you come to the house?"
"Me, or would you prefer to speak with a more senior partner?" Tulip didn't seem the slightest bit put out that she might not be considered sufficiently practised.
"If you produced these drawings," Cate smiled now, tapping the laptop again, "then I most definitely would like you to come along and tell us what else we could do with the spaces available."
"Excellent," pulling out her phone, the architect consulted her diary. "Usually this takes a couple of week to arrange, but I've had a cancellation for this Friday; any good, or is that too soon for convenience?"
"Friday would be marvellous," Cate nodded. "The children will be home from school early, so you can meet them and find out exactly what they want; they can communicate their needs far more specifically than I can."
Tapping a few keys on her mobile, Tulip Lawson nodded, pleased. "Friday, then."
###
The atmosphere in Mycroft's Whitehall office was tense, to say the least.
"I cannot believe you'd be so reckless as to risk your reputation with such an idiotic stunt, Sherlock!" Mycroft rubbed his brow with irritated fingers.
"And yet, no thanks to you, John and I have been able to provide you with vital information, and simultaneously circumvent a London-busload of red-tape," Sherlock sat, quite undisturbed at his brother's wrath. It would pass.
John rubbed his thigh, remembering the stun gun; depleted battery or not, the thing had still stung. "So just who is this James Devereux when he's at home, then?"
"Taser, John?" Mycroft's eyebrows lifted even higher as he turned back to face his sibling. "Not content with risking your own neck, you saw fit to drag Doctor Watson along on your imprudent escapade? And have him injured in addition to everything else? He's not as young as he used to be, Sherlock; we none of us are."
"Hey, watch who're you're calling not young," John stopped rubbing his leg. "And how did you know it was a Taser?"
Both Holmes men threw their medical associate a deeply pitying look.
"So," Sherlock returned to the matter in hand. "Devereux. Who is he and why is he attempting to have you made Baron of Esgair? More importantly, why are all the Queen's most senior advisors listening to him?"
"Will you not let this thing go, brother?" Mycroft sighed. "There is information on which even I must be silent."
Sherlock's eyes widened as he sat up straighter in his chair. "Really?" he said. "That serious?" he sat back in the upholstered leather and looked very thoughtful.
John looked slightly bewildered. "Who are we talking about now?" he asked, uncertain.
"Not one of those people on the Privy Council would support your bid for the barony," Sherlock pursed his lips as he spoke to his sibling. "As a Commoner, and given the nature of your position within the British Government, you lack the lineage, the breeding or heroic notoriety deemed essential for such a peerage," he said. "The only way you could possibly be considered a suitable bearer of the title would be by Royal Writ, something that, even today, must come directly from the Crown itself, ergo, the final decision to offer this little prize to you has come from the Queen's hand and none other."
"I knew you and she were on nodding terms, Mycroft," John smiled, curious. "But I had no idea you were such good buddies."
The facial expression on the elder Holmes would have turned a lesser man to stone.
"My brother and Her Majesty may well be BFFs, John," Sherlock's eyes stared hard into his brother's face. "But not even she would so lightly dismiss centuries of tradition and to bypass both the Privy Council and the Committee of Privileges in the House of Lords without some excessively good reason," he added. "To fly in the face of every English law and to turn a deaf ear to every naysaying voice?" he shook his head. "That must be costing her dear ... so," Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes burning now with the light of a real mystery. "What is forcing the Queen to ennoble you with a barony that you don't want and that she doesn't wish to give?"
"Sherlock ..." Mycroft's voice held a distinctively warning note.
"And where does this James Devereux fit in?" John asked. "His name was on the letter we saw; he seems to be the one pushing for all this to happen."
Mycroft linked his fingers on the desk and closed his eyes but said nothing.
"Very well then, brother," Sherlock sat back in his own seat. "If you will not help us to help you, then I'll be forced to take steps in this investigation whether you wish them to be taken or not."
"You will do no such thing," Mycroft's anger moved his voice abruptly into the imperative. "You will do nothing to bring any of this situation into the public domain; it is a private thing and is to remain private, or there will be ... consequences."
"I will do this, despite your apparent willingness to allow your family to suffer distress and public imposition," Sherlock's face reflected his own anger. "If you won't act to protect Cate and the twins from the unsavoury ramifications of this situation, then I feel little compunction in going beyond your inexplicable quiescence and taking the matter into my own hands."
"And if this thing holds even the slightest possibility that Cate and the kids might be caught in the fallout, then you know I'm not going to leave it either, Mycroft," John's solid voice was equally implacable.
The elder Holmes stared first at one, then the other, his face impassive, but his eyes brilliant with outraged indignation.
All of which suddenly departed as he relaxed, allowing his body to step back from the brink of provocation and dispute. He exhaled long and low, his shoulders easing as the outlandishness of the situation made itself clear. He could not possibly win this argument.
A small smile crept onto his mouth. "Ironic," he said, softly.
"Ironic how?" Sherlock looked confused, this sudden reversal of his brother's mental state disconcerting.
"Ironic that you should opt for blackmail as your modus operandi," he said, meeting his brother's eyes. "When that's precisely what's being done to Her Majesty."
###
"But the man had his back turned," Blythe sipped her tea at the kitchen table as both she and her brother watched Jack unpack the few things he'd actually brought home with him; the rest of the shopping booty being delivered the next morning.
Jack stopped what he was doing. "You couldn't recognise your own father from the back?" he asked.
"Point taken," Jules watched, fascinated as their trainee butler began setting out small cartons of olives and marinated artichokes. "Are we having antipasto for dinner?"
"Your mother said she had planned for an Italian dinner this evening, yet you all have to leave relatively early to get to your school by seven, so I'm going to give everyone antipasto to begin, then an asparagus risotto, followed by Tiramisu and coffee," Jack nodded. "That should see you through the rest of the night without being overly heavy on the brain," he said.
"May I help with the preparations?" Jules was already washing his hands, giving Blythe a very specific look over his shoulder. She nodded back.
"You don't think making dinner is beneath you?" the tall blond smiled at the almost equally tall teenager.
Jules grinned, taking the apron Jack handed him. "Mum has made sure the both of us are as equally equipped in the domestic sciences as we are in the applied and intellectual ones," he laughed. "What do you want me to do with this feta?"
Leaving Jack to carry on with dinner preparations and Jules to carry on with their investigation, Blythe ran upstairs to her room, closing the door firmly behind her. Throwing herself on the bed, she fished out her mobile, laying it on the bedcovers in front of her and just looked at it for a few moments.
Reaching a decision, she lifted it and dialled a speed-number. Within a couple of seconds, it was ringing. A voice answered.
"Hello Landry," she said, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
There was an answering response that made her smile wider.
"Are you going to be there tonight?" she asked. "My entire family's going to be in attendance."
There was another round of whispery sounds.
"Oh, sorry to hear that, but not totally unexpected that your father won't be there," Blythe shrugged. "He never has been, has he?"
There was yet more chittering at the far end of the conversation, at which Blythe grinned happily, settling down for a nice long chat. She wasn't actually being alone with him, nor in any situation that might cause either of them trouble and Blythe decided she was still mostly on the side of the angels as far as her father's unreasonable diktat went.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the makings of a classic platter of antipasto was taking shape, with chargrilled mushrooms and sweet potato, even some charred aubergine that even now was crisping nicely beneath the small grill.
"My father can be a bit of a pain sometime," Jules busied himself setting out a small dish of sardines. "But at least he's always been around. When did yours leave?"
"Oh, dad was usually off on one venture or another," Jack trimmed the asparagus, breaking off the tips and dropping the stalks in boiling salted water. "He was always telling us about how the next big deal or the next really important discovery in the Transvaal or in Australia or somewhere equally exotic would be the making of the family and return us all to our proper place in society," the blond paused, his face a rueful moue. "Everyone's got a different idea of what they want," he smiled philosophically and shrugged.
"So what was he doing in Fortnum and Masons this morning, do you think?" Jules kept his head down, his entire attention seemingly fixed on the tiny fresh figs he was halving.
Jack turned to look at the boy's innocuous expression, he was still asking an awful lot of questions, but it seemed to be a normal discussion for him; it was already plain that both twins were exceptionally inquisitive individuals.
"I have no idea, nor am I particularly interested," Jack's tone was detached. "My father and I parted ways several years ago when it became clear he was never going to accept my career choices," the trainee butler wiped his hands and came over to watch what Jules was doing with a dozen translucent slices of prosciutto. "Right then, what's happening here ... roses, eh?" Jack grinned. "I'll make a chef out of you yet," he laughed, slapping the boy on the shoulder. "Now tell me, young Padawan, what kind of wine should be served with a Mediterranean repast?"
###
"Typical Mycroft," Sherlock poured boiling water into the teapot in the kitchen of 221B. "Has to play up the mysterious in everything; why couldn't he have simply said the Queen was being blackmailed?"
"Possibly because he'd been forced to agree not to tell anyone?" John accepted his mug and blew on the contents. "Unlike us, your brother really does prefer to stay mostly within the law ..."
"If it suits him," Sherlock scoffed. "And the instant it doesn't, you can be sure he'll do whatever it is he feels will get the job done as effectively as possible and hang the consequences."
"Then why aren't we leaving him to sort this situation out by himself?" John raised his eyebrows. "Mycroft is hardly an intellectual slouch now, is he?"
"Because this time the consequences involve not only Cate, but Blythe and Jules as well," Sherlock put down his tea and looked sombre. "When it was only him, or even he and Cate, things were different."
"Yeah, you're not wrong there," John nodded slowly. As honorary uncle to the twins, and feeling more like an honorary parent at times, he would not support any action that offered risk to either of the next Holmes generation. "So what are we going to do about it?"
"Simple, John," Sherlock leaned back and linked his fingers in his lap. "We shall ascertain the nature of the blackmail and the identity of the blackmailer, then remove whatever materials form the basis of that blackmail, return or destroy them and save the Queen from forcing Mycroft into accepting a peerage he does not want."
"Simple, eh?" John grinned. His friend was as mad as ever.
"There is one minor speck in the ointment, however," the younger Holmes screwed up his face.
"Which is?" John waited. There was something coming he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
"My brother must be kept entirely in the dark."
###
"Excellent choice of Chianti," Mycroft nodded at Jack, impressed by the younger man's knowledge of wines. A superb Tuscan Classico, even Blythe had found favour with its fruity qualities though it was still on the dry side for her taste.
"All down to your son's knowledge of your wine cellar, sir," Jack deftly cleared the plates. "I've not yet had an opportunity to familiarise myself with your entire inventory, but I did notice some excellent labels," the blond man smiled as he poured coffee. "There are a number of cold viands left; if anyone wishes for a light supper following the school visit, I'd be happy to put something together later."
"Goodness, no," Cate enjoyed the rich smoky coffee. "If anyone's hungry when we get back," she looked directly at Jules, "then he can get something himself. You've done a fabulous job so far Jack, so feel free to do whatever you want to do for the rest of the evening."
"Thank you, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... Cate," Jack inclined his head. "There are one or two things that require my attention."
"The car will be outside at precisely six-thirty," Mycroft consulted his Hunter. "If anyone needs to change into their school uniform, they have a little less than ten minutes to undertake the transformation," he smiled as Blythe rolled her eyes.
"If we must," she sighed mournfully, getting up from her chair. Uniforms were so boring.
"Probably for the best, Darling," Cate smiled. "But it's not for ever."
"Feels like forever," Blythe left the dining table and followed her brother up to their respective rooms.
"Anyone we need to speak with specifically tonight, my love?" Mycroft finished his coffee and looked mildly interested.
"Not really," Cate shook her head. "There've not been any problems to my knowledge, and both their results have all been A-plus all the way through, so I would imagine tonight will be like the other visits; more of a formality than anything really vital."
"I'm sure you're right," he stood, holding out his hand. "Shall we go and beard the lions in their den?"
"Twins," Cate shouted upstairs as Mycroft helped her on with her coat. "Leaving now." The sound of two pairs of feet running down the stairs ending with both her children standing beside her and she suddenly saw that they were nearly grown now; not merely in the physical sense, but they were far in advance of their years and really more independent that she had consciously allowed herself to recognise. Cate's throat grew a little tight as she realised her children were already crossing the threshold of adulthood.
"In the car then," she murmured, waving them out the door, immediately attracting Mycroft's sudden glance as he caught an unexpected quality in her voice.
Looking into his wife's face, he saw the merest glint of tears. Understanding exactly the reason behind Cate's suspiciously bright eyes, he hugged her to him. "They'll still be around for a while longer, old thing," he whispered into her hair.
"Old thing be damned," Cate touched his lips with her own. "Let's go, you."
The trip to the school was swifter than anticipated, though there was already the beginning of a crowd in the main hall as they walked in.
"Advise me, Offspring," looking around at the small clumps of parents standing amid the muted laughter of roaming teens, Mycroft found himself to be a an excellent humour despite the various problems resting on his shoulders. "With whom would you least like us to speak this evening?"
"That would be Mr Simonson, I expect," Jules waved to one of his friends.
"Really?" Mycroft sounded surprised. "Your Latin teacher? I thought Latin was one of the better subjects for both of you?"
"It is, of course, Daddy," Blythe entered the conversation grudgingly. "But apparently Mr Simonson thinks we can do better," her tone made her opinion clear on that particular assessment.
"Then I shall be sure to have a chat with that worthy," Mycroft smiled mildly.
Cate raised an eyebrow; she knew that smile. "Be nice," she said. "They need school for a few more years yet."
About to add that she was going to look for the twins' Head of House, Cate found herself being addressed by a large, florid woman with greying hair and piercing dark eyes.
"Oh my dear Catherine," Leonora Costigan swept her into a practised greeting, shaking hands even before Cate knew who it was. "I've been so looking forward to meeting with you this evening."
Doctor Costigan was Head of Charter House and the twins' own special supervisor. As she looked around for backup, Cate saw that not only had Mycroft vanished, probably in search of the endangered species of Latin teacher that was now Mr Simonson, but both her children had taken the opportunity to disappear as well.
There was nothing for it. "Hello, Leonora," Cate smiled. "Tell me my two are doing as well as they can and I'll be happy to leave you in peace."
"Oh but my dear," the woman frowned and shook her head slightly, "That's why I so much wanted to speak with you," she said.
"Why?" Cate heard the note of concern in the other woman's words. "Aren't they doing as well as they should be?"
Looking vexed, Lenora Costigan shook her head again. "I'm afraid they aren't," she added. "Not anywhere near it."
###
Mycroft had located his prey. A thin, reedy kind of a man, slightly stooped and the type one might expect to wear tweed suits the year round, with badly matching checked shirts and ties. Possibly smoking a pipe, or at least using one to illustrate some arcane linguistic conundrum.
"Mr Simonson," Mycroft shook the unsatisfyingly limp hand that was gingerly extended.
"Mr Holmes," Simonson nodded, his Scottish accent faint but still discernible, his voice unnecessarily loud, if truth were told. "No doubt you'll be wanting to discuss the sad efforts of your progeny?"
"I most certainly would like to do so," Mycroft's voice was no less assertive. "Shall we find somewhere a little more private, perhaps?"
"Of course," Simonson sounded vaguely smug. "I can understand you not wanting for everyone to hear," he pointed to a nearby door. "Shall we?"
"So, Mr Simonson," Mycroft began as he closed the door behind them, the room a small classroom, dark and empty but for several rows of desks and chairs. "Tell me what I need to know."
Standing up straight, his stoop vanished, Simonson met Mycroft's direct gaze.
"Nothing to report, sir," he said quickly. "As directed, I've made sure everyone understands why I'm having more than usual to do with your children; though the excuse of their Latin being weak was never very good to begin with and even less so now," he smiled a little. "But they've taken it all in good stead, I must say."
"No approaches from Devereux? No unexpected strangers around the place?"
"It's a moderately large school, sir," Simonson looked pensive. "There are bound to be some strangers, but none that I've seen having anything to do with your two, although ... there has been Devereux's boy, Landry Banister."
"My daughter has informed me about young Mr Banister," Mycroft inhaled heavily. "I've told her to have nothing more to do with the boy at the present time."
"And you're sure that'll be enough?" Simonson smiled. "I have teenagers of my own," he added. "Telling them is not always effective."
"Which is why you're here," Mycroft assessed his employee, an agent who had worked for him for several years now, though never in so close a connection. "Let me know the instant anything changes; I'll not have a finger laid on them."
"Of course, Mr Holmes," Simonson nodded. "Anything else I need to know at this point?"
"Just maintain the façade a little longer," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "With luck, this will all be over very soon."
###
Blythe made sure both her parents had vanished into the crowd before she walked smartly towards the students' Lower Common Room. It was far enough away from the main stream of things tonight to be considered semi-private. The door was, of course, locked, but that made little difference; she had been picking locks since she was five and this one hardly gave her pause. Leaving the door fractionally ajar, Blythe walked over to the nearest group of couches and sat in the dark, waiting, her eyes on the entrance.
Only minutes later, it swung inwards, revealing a lanky teenager with a mop of fair hair.
"Bly?"
"Landry," Blythe stood. "We don't have long, but I wanted to see you for this conversation. I couldn't say this on the phone; I wanted you to hear this face to face."
"What?" the blond boy grinned in the dimness. "Sounds ominous."
"My father wants me to stay away from you," she stood directly in front of him, searching for the focus of his eyes. "He told me to have no contact with you, though I have no idea why."
Landry frowned. "Me neither," he muttered. "Jules hasn't said anything to him, has he?"
"Jules?" it was Blythe's turn to frown. "What would Jules have to say about us? We're just friends; what's to say?"
Landry grinned, his white teeth glinting in the faint light. "Just friends?" he said. "You sure about that?"
Blythe felt her heart beat harder in her chest at the tone in his voice. There was a note of ... something that made her pulse race a little faster. Her face felt warm.
"Aren't we friends?" she asked, her voice far more whispery that she intended.
"Oh yes," the tall blond's grin widened. "Very good friends, I'd say," he added, dipping his head, brushing his lips against hers.
Blythe felt her heart stop. It was as if her body had forgotten how to work. Or breathe. Or anything. Everything tingled.
Oh.
The door of the Common Room swung wide open, a tall man silhouetted in the doorway, his had fumbling for the light switch.
Blinking in the sudden brightness, Blythe shielded her eyes.
"So here you are," the man's voice sounded oddly triumphant, as if he'd found something for which he'd been seeking.
Landry turned slowly, his eyes widening. "Oh, my god," he murmured. "It's you."
"Indeed it is," the man swept into the room, his elegant coat swaying around him, the scent of his cologne rich and pervasive in the closed air. He looked between the two of them. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" his smile was a fraction too brilliant, the light in his eyes a degree too bright.
Turning back to meet Blythe's gaze, Landry's face mirrored his surprise.
"Bly," he said, searching for the right words. "This is my father, James Devereux."