Chapter Seven
Blackmail – A Dream of Gracious Living – Cate Makes Inquiries – Mycroft Does Lunch – Blythe - The Pedigree of a Dog.
#
#
The red phone rang.
The red phone on his desk almost never rang without him expecting the call, but today, its soft single rill came out of the blue. Mycroft had the handset to his ear before it rang a second time.
"Yes?" There was no need of pleasantries. Of the three people with access to this number, none would desire the social niceties.
A second letter had been received at the palace. Almost identical to the first, the person or persons behind this entire, incredibly sensitive situation was still unidentified, though not quite so unknown as before. Through a rigorous process of elimination, the security services had narrowed the field of possibilities down to a scant handful.
Neither of the letters contained any of the trigger-words or phrases so beloved of extremist factions; there were no death-threats or promises of ongoing violence and disaster. For this, at least, Mycroft was thankful.
Nor were the missives accompanied by anything other than an old-fashioned Polaroid photograph, each photo, in fact, of another document. The photograph in the second letter confirmed whoever was behind this intrigue had access to at least two extremely confidential letters, both, it seemed, quite genuine. Both displayed the formal and unmistakable signature of the highest and most august public figure in the land.
That her signature adorned either of these documents was in itself something of a scandal; the documents' subject matter old, though not of sufficient age to be dismissed as irrelevant. That either of these documents existed in the first instance was an even bigger scandal, and the government departments involved in their creation would be severely compromised both politically and in the public eye were such information ever to reach the public domain. That not one, but now two of these communications had reached their destination, causing immeasurable grief and upset to the individual concerned, was deplorable and a scandal of an altogether different magnitude. That the photographed documents were being used in order to further a private agenda irrespective of damage such a scheme might cause, was intolerable. That they might be manipulated to place the very succession to the British throne at stake was unthinkable.
Mycroft was incensed, and not only because his family were caught up in one of the central roles in this detestable undertaking. Blackmail. He despised his ongoing inability to simply swoop down upon the culprits and convey them hence to a place of long-term incarceration. But if he pushed for a swift solution, a physical solution, he risked putting an as yet undetermined flood of sensitive material on the market in full national and international view, and this he dare not chance. The first photographed document had been verified as genuine; he had little doubt the second would be equally so. While he prided himself on the consistent application of cool reason to resolve the problems facing him, on this particular occasion and in a dark corner of his heart, he acknowledged a desire to visit some quite personal carnage upon those behind this current dilemma.
He had instructed his people to bring him the most probable options, running on a logical search algorithm he had devised. There were fewer common denominators than were at first imagined, and only one name had so far appeared twice. In such strained circumstances and under such pressure, it was imperative that each step be resolved, taken calmly and with the full knowledge of all concerned. Everything was being triple-checked and checked again. And yet the name had still appeared twice. Three times, if one counted the separate letter unearthed by his brother and John Watson in the files at Carlton Gardens.
James Francis Devereux.
It was almost certain now that Devereux had to be involved in the blackmail attempt, though no hard proof of such an involvement had yet been uncovered. His letter of recommendation, proposing Mycroft for the barony might have been a totally innocent gesture. Such letters of commission were all part of the honours system, but they almost inevitably came from people whom the nominee knew very well. Mycroft had had no previous contact with Devereux other than reading the man's name in the papers after yet another financial debacle. Nor, frankly, was he the type of individual with whom any of the Holmes would wish to socialise. Therefore, Devereux was either an innocent dupe, being used in much the same way as Mycroft was himself, or he had to be part of the actual scheme. Since even a superficial investigation had made it abundantly clear the man was as far away from innocence as the original serpent in the garden, it was increasingly difficult to supply Devereux with any benefit of the doubt. Mycroft was convinced he was in this up to his neck, the man's open involvement a mark of extreme ego.
Yet despite his unsavoury past, Devereux still had his fingers in many influential pies, had access to so many committees, despite his less-than-stellar reputation. He had gone to the 'right' schools and belonged to the 'right' clubs. Devereux's sense of self, along with his grossly inflated sense of entitlement could easily have led him to this; after all the scheming and international schemes he'd attempted, the slight matter of blackmailing the Crown would be a mere peccadillo. He was also an extremely ingenious man. If indeed he was the instigator behind this overall plot, whatever the end goal might be, then he must have been planning this for a long time. Possibly years.
And if it were Devereux, what did he want? Thus far, there had been no demands, not even a threat as such, only the clever presentation of the photographs to confirm at least two documents were in the blackmailers' possession. This was the weakness in the theory. Thus far, Devereux, if he were involved, had asked for nothing, nor, apart from large sums of money, did his background suggest any particular objective or long-term desire. However, were money all that he desired there had to be easier blackmail victims than ... her. No, there was far more at stake here, and Mycroft was not prepared to move on Devereux until he had all the details at hand. He would simply have to grit his teeth and follow the instructions he had been directed to follow, no matter how much he might wish for an alternative solution.
The letter accompanying the first photograph directed that a Royal Writ be produced, declaring Mycroft Holmes as Baron of Esgair, which made no earthly sense. There was nothing, so far, that might be of any benefit to another individual. Anyone with any brains at all would immediately suspect Mycroft himself of orchestrating this, which is why he suggested his retirement be mooted, as well as the plan for him to write and publish his memoirs. It would at least allow for a delay in answering difficult questions if nothing else.
In the meantime, Devereux's entire family was under very close watch. The man himself, of course, but also his semi-estranged wife's coming-and-goings at their jointly-owned training stables near Pulborough, as well as the son still at school ... the very same school as his own children. How he wished that Blythe had never met the Devereux boy; odd things had been noted in Landry Devereux's school and medical records: his changeability, his strange moods and tempers. Even if his father had not been held in the deepest of suspicion, Mycroft would not have wished that particular young man into his daughter's life. Oh yes, he nodded grimly to himself. A very careful eye was being kept on every member of the Devereux line.
But right now, there was the matter of the second letter.
"I want the special team on analysis immediately," he instructed. "Every scrap of information, every detail and inference. Initial data and assessment to me by the end of the hour, with updates every thirty minutes thereafter."
There was an urgent-sounding reply before the line to MI5 went dead.
Mycroft sat at his desk, absently biting the tip of his thumb as he tried to imagine what James Devereux could possibly be planning. In the interim, however, he had a decoy rumour to promulgate. He sighed and picked up a second landline, a far more normal piece of technology yet almost as secure as its brightly coloured mate. For at least a while longer, Mycroft had to be seen to be following his own cover story by departing his role for retirement into family life. As a private individual, his situation could not be used against any of the security services or the officers of the Crown, but until he was a private individual, there were things he had to do.
"Get me the Political Commissioning Editor of Penguin Random House, please," he rubbed his temple where an incipient headache was attempting to make itself at home. "I believe we should meet over lunch. Somewhere public. One-ish."
There was a brief response from Anthea at the other end.
"It wasn't an invitation," Mycroft scowled forebodingly as he replaced the phone.
###
"And up here is where you want to have your room?" Jack was up in the attic with Jules who, on a teaching-free day, was helping the temporary butler to rummage around in an ancient steamer-trunk that Cate had said housed several ornate silver-plate candlesticks which saw the light of day only at Christmas. Now that he'd reorganised some of the storage in the kitchen, there was an entire shelf in the wall-wide, glass-fronted display cabinet, and Jack wanted to exhibit the silverware. He'd already found a couple of nice trays and a large silver water jug that nobody seemed to know existed, but the promise of candlesticks, even silver-plated ones, was sufficient to send him on an unswervable quest. The image of gleamingly polished silver was, to Jack, the epitome of gracious living. All the best houses displayed their silver and he was determined that the Holmes' residence would be no different. Pulling out one of the three drawers in the dusty trunk, Jack saw a heavy linen bag filled with intriguingly lumpy contents. With a grin on his face, he pulled the bag carefully towards him.
"Yep," Jules stood up and looked around. Right at the top level of the townhouse, the attics comprised a significant space, the footprint of this upper floor a basic rectangle with a central opening for the stairs leading down to the floor beneath. He cast a thoughtful eye along the line of the walls and windows. If his parents allowed him to live up here, he'd really push to try and get at least a couple of the windows raised; maybe even see if he could have a small balcony; it would be great to look over London first thing in the morning from his own private viewing deck. "Nice and quiet and private and mine to do whatever I want to do in it," he grinned down at the blond man on his knees, digging into a big cloth bag. "I can't wait."
"Fantastic!" Jack sat back on his haunches, pulling a very heavy three-branched candelabrum from out the fabric bag, so Jules wasn't sure if the trainee butler was agreeing with his desire to have a rooftop pad, or voicing delight at the silverware.
The metal was tarnished and dull, but not so dirty as to conceal the silver hallmarks on the base and Jack held it up to the light from the uncurtained windows. His eyes widened a little as he hefted the piece in his hands.
"I thought your mother said this stuff was silver-plate," he muttered, turning the candelabra in his hands and rechecking the hallmarks.
"Why? Isn't it plate at all?" Jules sounded a little bored. "Some knock-off stuff from an old flea-market, probably."
Jack held out the weighty silver. "Check it out for yourself," he said, holding the piece upside down. "See the lion passant, then the crown and a big 'C' beside it?"
Jules squinted, nodding.
"Not plate at all, in that case," Jack returned to rummaging in the other drawers of the trunk. "Solid sterling, that one," he added. "1823, Sheffield, and the maker's mark is LJ Brown, a good name in nineteenth-century precious metals. It has to weigh more than twenty troy ounces. Worth quite a bit, in fact."
"I know Mummy brought a few things up from Deepdene for a huge Christmas bash we had here a couple of years ago," Jules' eyes went vague in the act of recall. "The PM came, as well as a bunch of ministers. There were a few ambassadors in there too," he shrugged. "But it was a lot of work for her, despite getting caterers in, so we haven't had another one that big for a while," he added. "Shame, really. It was good fun trying to work out who was lying to whom."
"Big party for senior politicians and diplomats, eh?" Jack closed his eyes. He could picture it all now; the glow of magnificent candles, the sound of discreet music, a ripple of elegant conversation and the genteel movements of well-organised, uniformed waiters. An immaculate presentation of style and ultimate class.
"Yeah. Shame you won't be around for the next one," Jules shrugged again, his face unreadable as he returned to look out the window at his favourite skyline.
The realisation that the boy was right; that he wouldn't be around for the next Christmas, or probably any other kind of party in this house gave Jack a prickle of dissatisfaction. He frowned, even as he pulled out another bag containing two, separately-wrapped items. Uncovering them, he found the candlesticks that Cate had described. Edwardian, heavy-based, square. He checked the hallmarks. These definitely were plate, but of a very good maker, and they sat heavily in his hands. Beautiful things.
"There's some really nice stuff here," he murmured, putting the candlesticks back into their wrappings.
"Did my mother mention the trophy cups?" Jules asked. "There a big box of them somewhere," he looked around. "Some are the General's for sword-fighting competitions while he was in the army, but Mummy won a few for her martial arts championships. They're actually quite nice, for silver."
Jack closed his eyes and groaned softly. He was going to need another shelf.
###
Now that she'd made at least an initial commitment to an architect, Cate decided nothing was going to get in the way of the renovations. The money was available and, as she had no plans to approach a bank for a loan, she could go right ahead and begin looking for ideas to show the twins. She was fairly sure, however, that both her children would already have very clear requirements. Her mind returned to the previous evening at the school. How quickly they had grown up.
She was currently browsing the furniture design shops in and around London, both the modern, edgy, industrial-feel ones, and the older, more traditional versions, but in the end, she gave up. The twins would both know far better than she what kind of look they'd prefer. As she sat thinking about the twins' needs, she remembered what Mycroft had whispered to her the previous night. There was little point asking if he were sure; he invariably was.
With the thought fresh in her mind, she picked up her mobile and called a number almost as familiar in her memory as her own phone.
A neutral-sounding voice answered and Cate smiled.
"I'd like to speak to someone about the Advanced Entry program you have for under-eighteens," she said. "I'm in need of advice, please."
The person at the far end of the conversation was clearly pleased to assist, putting Cate though to another number where another pleasant voice came online. After only a couple of minutes of focused listening, a completely new idea floated through her head.
"I'm sorry," she smiled down the phone. "Can I stop you there for a moment?" she took a deep breath. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to put me through to another extension?"
###
Sherlock folded his arms and rested his chin on his chest, frowning in deep thought. James Devereux was either involved in this moderately interesting blackmail case, or he was an innocent party, coerced into the fray exactly as had his brother. However, from the information Mycroft provided, Devereux's complete innocence seemed unlikely in the extreme, the one flaw in that supposition being the lack of any evidence whatsoever of gain, either financially, physically or otherwise, that might be considered a payoff. Though it was tantalisingly obvious Devereux had somehow to be involved in the extortion, there was not yet one shred of proof. Mycroft's people would be examining the smallest fragments of data surrounding the man and his family in their present situation, as well as their recent past. How recent, he wondered.
He checked his watch. There was a certain royal corporation that might offer some answers, and it was just after ten in the morning. Even government employees should be up and at their governmental ... things ... whatever it was that these particular employees did these days.
"John," he shouted upstairs. "Hurry up. We have a twenty-minute taxi ride ahead of us; your blog can wait."
A minute later, the sound of slow footsteps on the stairs announced the blond man's presence.
Sherlock looked up, about to chivvy his friend along, but the chastisement died unspoken. John wore a certain and highly specific expression, the kind of expression he only usually wore immediately following an unpleasant telephone conversation. Since there were relatively few individuals with whom John was able to hold such a conversation in the first place, present company included, then the likelihood was that he had just been speaking to his ...
"I take it Harry's not doing well with the rehab?" Though John's sister's drinking problem was of no more interest to him today that it had been for the last ten years, Sherlock had learned to be a little concerned. Harry's situation upset John and an upset John was an unhelpful John.
"Not really," the blond man sighed, dropping heavily into his chair. "Although she's stuck this one out far longer than any of the others."
"Which is why she's trying to bully you into agreeing she can return home," Sherlock nodded. "Trust me, this is a good sign. It means she's already past the first stage of exhaustion."
"You think?" John sounded sceptical.
"Absolutely," the younger Holmes nodded again. "She can feel a change starting to happen and it hurts and it's hateful, and she's terrified and looking for an out. Don't give her one."
"I didn't,' John smiled faintly. "I told her to go and speak to one of the counsellors and I'd call her back tomorrow."
"Excellent idea," Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Fancy a cup of tea?"
Heaving a huge sigh, John sat back in his chair, dragging fingers through his tousled hair. "Didn't you shout something a minute ago about getting a taxi?"
Keeping his face mildly expressionless, Sherlock pursed his mouth. "If you feel like a bit of an historical investigation," he said artlessly.
"Something historical to do with Mycroft?" John looked puzzled.
"Something like that," Sherlock stood. "Do you want tea or shall we go?"
Standing, John rearranged the look on his face. He needed something to distract him from the ongoing saga of Harry's dysfunctional existence. "Let's go," he grabbed his coat, pausing. "Where are we actually going?"
"One-thirty, Queen Victoria Street," Sherlock gave the address to the cabbie as he held the door open for his shorter friend, settling into the seat beside him.
"We're going to see a man about the pedigree of a dog," he said, his eyes a hundred years away in thought.
"A dog?" John knew his friend of old. There was more to come.
"Or possibly a swine," Sherlock nodded. "Maybe even a snake in the grass."
"Can you please try explaining things for once, without resorting to indecipherable metaphors?" John sounded more that usually exasperated.
Sherlock remembered the Harry conversation.
"The College of Arms," he announced, as if that were all that needed. "They keep pedigrees."
"Of dogs?" John frowned.
"Of people, John, of people," Sherlock turned to look at his friend. "The College of Arms, also known as the College of Heralds. They keep pedigrees ... family trees."
"Ahhh ..." light began to dawn. "You're thinking there's some link between what James Devereux is doing and historical record ... but of what?" John frowned again.
"An excellent question and one which I'm hoping will be resolved by this visit," Sherlock's mobile beeped as a text arrived. "Another letter's been sent to the Palace," he murmured, reading from the screen. "Mycroft is probably going to be frothing at the mouth very shortly ..."
A second beep sounded. Sherlock laughed as he read the new text.
"My brother is having a public lunch meeting with a publisher to discuss his memoirs," the younger Holmes grinned widely. "Oh to be a fly on the wall for that one."
###
Oliver S. Penton, the London-based Political Editor of Penguin Random, only son of Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Penton, accountants both, of Amherst, Kent, who had sent their child away to the best school they could afford as soon as he'd turned seven, waited. He'd sat at the table, by himself for at least five minutes now and he was bored, so bored, that he fiddled with his silverware. In the thirty years since he'd left home for boarding school that first time, awash in infantile tears and pre-emptive homesickness, he'd never found himself in such an inexplicable situation, and though he'd developed something of a reputation as a hard-ball player in his particular field, this meeting was, he had to admit, a little different. He smiled knowingly as he took a sip of water and looked around the place. The last time he'd been here it was to discuss the advance contract for the publication of an autobiography by a soon-to-be-retired politician, a senior minister, who had eventually left the restaurant professing his grateful thanks that Penton was going to even consider publishing his scribbles. The idea of an advanced payment had only been mentioned once, but Oliver had soon put paid to that. Times were tight; no publisher these days could afford to throw cash around like confetti. The bad old days of pandering to author's whims was gone and never coming back, if Penton had anything to do with it.
But today, he'd been instructed by no less than the Chairman of the Board to arrive and wait like a good little boy. He'd been waiting for forever and since he was more used to having others wait on him, he took his ennui out on the silverware. His breadknife was first to be hefted and used as a drumstick and, when that wasn't a sufficient distraction , he rearranged his forks into a more pleasing diorama.
As instructed, he'd sat himself at the rearmost window-facing table in The Avenue in St James's, expecting the arrival of someone who, he'd been told, wished to discuss the publication of his memoirs. Another politician or an antediluvian civil servant, most likely, Penton yawned, more bored than before. His fingers caressed a soup spoon.
"My apologies," a tall, dark-haired man interrupted Penton's thoughts. "Traffic." The man smiled briefly as he sat. "I see you ... attended Eton," he murmured, his glance flickering over Penton's opened menu back to the man himself.
Uncertain as to a response with such an unorthodox opening, Oliver Penton paused, then nodded, "The teachers were good." He was already experiencing a feeling that he might lose the initiative in the conversation. Time to make his presence felt. Turning slowly as the newcomer seated himself, he made a show of looking the stranger up and down, as if speculating on potential weaknesses.
The ultrafine merino and clearly bespoke dark blue pin-stripe screamed authority; the darkly-rich gold and red of the indulgent yet still understated silk tie proclaimed a vast independence of spirit, the fabric itself picked out with the most delicate of hand-embroidered designs suggesting utter indifference to opinion. The pristine, high-count white linen shirt fitted without wrinkle or line to mar its smooth luxury and heavy gold gleamed subtly at tie and cuffs. Penton caught the faint whiff of an expensive cologne. Even the man's hands, the long-fingered lines of either pianist or philosopher, were smooth and spare, with an elegant, manicured appearance. Without a word spoken, Penton realised he might have to lift his game a little with this one. He smoothed down his own impeccable school tie, strands of the light blue silk stripes reflecting the overhead lights.
A polite cough brought his attention back to the moment.
"Mycroft Holmes," the man said, lifting a single finger at the nearest member of restaurant staff who hurried over. "The salmon penne, no wine, thank you," he smiled economically at the waiter before turning his entire attention to the editor. "I wish to discuss the publication of my memoirs," he said, a set of piercing blue eyes seeming to spear Oliver through to the back of his seat.
About time, Penton thought, to start putting his own stamp on the proceedings. "I'll take the prime rib and a bottle of the Chateau Le Commandeur," his smile was smooth and aimed generally at the waiter and surrounding tables for the best effect, as he turned easily towards his guest.
"Very glad to finally meet you, Mycroft," the younger man smiled glibly as he reached for and shook the manicured fingers. "Heard a lot about you from the Chairman; told me I needed to see what kind of arrangement we can come up for your auto, assuming, of course, it meets our publishing standards which, I have to say," Oliver lifted his eyebrows in a coyly meaningful way as he smiled again. "Are rather high."
"What is your organisation's usual advance for a publication of this nature?" Mycroft allowed the returning waiter to unfold a starched white napkin and lay it across his lap, just as a second servitor arrived with a wide white bowl sitting on an equally wide white plate. The fragrant steam of dill and lemon wafted over the table as the waiter also brought a wine cooler containing a bottle of mineral water in ice. He poured a tall glass, leaving it with arm's reach before nodding and backing away.
"Please, don't wait for me," Penton waved Mycroft towards his lunch. "I'm used to running around after clients," his laugh was a little too self-sacrificing and noble.
"The usual advance?" Mycroft ignored his lunch and Penton's inanities. "I will require at least the usual amount, though a somewhat higher sum might be beneficial in sending the right message."
Sending the right message? Who did this joker think he was? Oliver managed to keep his features reasonably straight.
"Sorry Mycroft," he looked appropriately apologetic. "Advances for autobiogs aren't really happening all that much at the moment," he screwed up his face. "Even if your manuscript meets our quality control parameters, we might not be able to offer much of an advance, if any, in fact," he shrugged and took a big mouthful of the rich burgundy. His steak arrived, surrounded by all the trimmings and he smiled in deep satisfaction. Not many people could boast of this kind of treatment during the week.
"Mr Penton, I don't think you quite understand the situation," Mycroft was still ignoring his lunch, his eyes remaining focused on Penton's face. Resting his elbows on the table, he linked his fingers and smiled, thinly. "This is not a matter of what you think, or even of what you are prepared or not prepared to do," his smile didn't waver. "Your organisation will offer me a full and proper contract for the unabridged publication of a manuscript which I will, at some point, agree to provide. Information regarding the contract will be made public through the usual sources, and I believe it would be permissible for your publishing house to make it known that a personal memoir of mine has been accepted for publication by you personally," he sipped his water. "You might even let slip that it contains certain salacious details."
Oliver Penton blinked as he set down his knife and fork. Clearly this one was a little too thick to understand a subtle message and needed a bit more clarification.
"Now look, Mycroft ..." he got no further.
"Your parents clearly know nothing about the small embezzlement you embarked upon with your previous employer," Mycroft withdrew a slender notebook from an inner jacket pocket, consulting a specific page. "Nor does your current employer, but believe me, that can very easily be remedied."
Oliver felt a wash of ice roll over him. Who was this guy?
"I have no idea what you're talking abo ..."
"Moreover, "Mycroft closed the book, clearly not needing its contents to continue. "The woman with whom you're currently associating believes you to be one step away from a more senior management role, possibly one that would take you and she to New York where the lady has high hopes of resuscitating a stage career in an off-off Broadway revival of some insignificant tragicomedy," he paused. "Were she to discover that not only are you not on a senior management track, but that your present role is being considered for termination, then I dare say your romantic life might hit something of a slump," he added blithely. "Don't you agree?"
"I ... I ... you have no right to say these ..."
"Further," Mycroft's smile verged on the indecent. "If you really want people to think you attended Eton, then occasionally wearing an internet-bought tie and ordering an Eton Mess is never going to work," he added. "And at least learn the correct terminology," he muttered. "Teachers."
Penton felt the walls closing in. "Who are you and what do you want?" his voice sounded curiously hesitant.
"The usual advance for a political memoir is ..?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows.
"Depending on how big a name and public profile the author has, then anything between £150,000 and £800,000," Oliver swallowed hard but said nothing else.
"Good man," Mycroft smiled his thin smile again. "I don't want to appear greedy, so shall we say a £400,000 advance and the usual royalties?"
Nodding, Penton swallowed again. "I'll have to get a sign-off for that amount," he said.
"I think you'll find it's already been taken care of," Mycroft sat back in his seat and admired his lunch, picking up a fork. "Well then," he sounded pleased. "Now that business is out of the way, what shall we discuss?"
Penton swallowed another large mouthful of the red wine but choked a little, spilling a fair bit of the dark red wine on his expensive school tie.
"Oh, that's never going to come out, I'm afraid," Mycroft sounded almost sympathetic.
###
Though Blythe sat alone in her room, she knew she was not alone, knew, in fact, where every member of her family was at this moment and she imagined herself at the centre of a thickly bound familial web. The knowledge left a calm feeling deep inside the still waters at her core. Jules was in the attics with Jack Parrish doing something probably unnecessary and, knowing her brother, already making plans for the allocation of dimensions in his new apartment. It was what she would have done had she not already known precisely what she wanted in the cellar, thus there was no need to keep revisiting the space. But Jules liked doing that sort of thing; the artist in him always demanding another look.
Her mother was in her office downstairs, either working on press-releases for her new novel, or doing something else connected to the book-publishing world, though whatever it was, it wasn't actual writing. When a new book was in progress, the office door was closed tight and the faint sound of rapid typing was all the sound that came out of the room. Blythe had heard her mother's voice faintly on the phone not so long ago, so no writing today.
Daddy was in Whitehall this afternoon, she knew. He had left this morning wearing one of his serious suits, the ones he wore when he knew people were going to ask him to do things he had no intention of doing. Not all his suits were like that and she had long, long ago worked out how to assess his mood based on nothing more than the way he knotted his tie. Blythe wondered if it was like that for him, too; this strange awareness of detail and minutia that made the larger picture so incredibly obvious, even if the picture itself was in darkness.
She sighed. Though he'd never say anything, she knew her father was dealing with a very difficult situation right now, the fact that he'd decided not to tell his family anything, that he was prepared to have people think he was retiring, a sign of how critical and personal the problem was. And she knew she had a good idea who else might somehow be involved.
Landry Banister.
She had seen the shadows of untruth and deception in his eyes last evening at school after he'd kissed her ... she brushed fingertips across her mouth at the memory.
The pain that had cut through her entire body at that moment had been unlike anything she'd ever felt before, her voice sounding very quiet even to her own ears, but Blythe knew what the cause of the pain was, which helped a little.
Not the fact that she was losing someone who had begun to play an increasingly bigger part in her life, no, not that, even though she knew Landry's absence would leave a horrible gap. Nor was it that she had been betrayed, which of course she had. Blythe was quietly amazed at her ability to rationalise her way through the experience, almost as if she were looking down upon herself from afar. Landry's treachery was painful, not for the fact that he was attempting to use her, or even that he was so obviously in collusion with his father, James Devereux, hence her own father's direction that she have nothing else to do with the boy. It was for none of these things that Blythe felt a growing contempt for the friend she'd started to consider more than a friend.
It was because Landry had taken her for a fool.
After everything they had worked on together in school, after all the conversations they'd had, and debates and arguments, both amusing and serious. After all of these things, he'd still assumed she was nothing more than another of the other self-obsessed butterflies she'd seen floating around him before.
Alone and in her room, Blythe felt an icy sensation begin to coalesce deep inside, something so cold and hard, it felt like steel around her chest. She was perfectly aware that something would have to be done about this, what remained now, of course, was to work out exactly what that might be.
Landry wasn't even her first concern anymore, it was the arrangement Landry had agreed with his father, and Blythe realised she very much wanted to know the particulars of that. It might even be something her father could use to resolve his current situation, whatever it was.
Therefore, regardless of what her father wanted and despite the fact that she knew Landry Banister to be an untrustworthy liar, Blythe decided to keep her appointment with him on Friday afternoon. It would be at school with other people around and she would be quite safe.
There was very little that might go wrong.
###
"And so you see," the Chester Herald, an older man who'd drafted many a family tree, nodded thoughtfully as he hovered over the unscrolled pedigree of the Dignities of Esgair, waving a finger around the last incumbent. "The late Baron died in his fifty-fourth year without having formally registered any legitimate heirs," the man nodded thoughtfully. "The barony has been abeyant for almost ten years, making this moment a very interesting point of time."
"Why interesting?" John was distracted by the sheer amount of gold-leaf hanging on the walls around him. It was as if a drunk artist had gone quite mad with a spray gun. The stuff was everywhere.
"Interesting," the Herald smiled briefly, "because of what happens upon the tenth anniversary of the death of the last legal holder of the title."
"Which is?" Sherlock felt a stir of curiosity. Perhaps at last there might be some inkling of a reason for Devereux's actions.
"Which is the time when all other claimants, including those who can trace their lineage from the sinister or female side of the family may lay claim to the title, especially intriguing in this case due to the very precise wording of the terms of inheritance when the title was created back in seventeen forty-seven."
"So alternative claimants are able to throw their hats into the ring after ten years if a recognised heir doesn't turn up?" John nodded. That made sense of a sort.
"But why especially intriguing?" Sherlock fixed the Herald with an unblinking stare.
The older man smiled, tapping the edge of the long document with a gentle finger. "The terms of this particular inheritance are worded most carefully," he said. "It makes a noted allowance for all male-born heirs ..."
Sherlock's eyes widened and a brief smiled curved his lips. "Ah," he looked pleased. "So that's it."
Not sure quite what he'd missed, John looked from the Herald to Sherlock and back.
"The terms of the inheritance specify than any male-born heir may apply for the title, John," Sherlock's features were alight with amusement. "But what is does not specify is that these male heirs must be lawfully born."
"Which means ... ahhh," John's eyebrows rose as the penny dropped.