Chapter Eight
A Postponement – Interrogating the Past – A Matter of Trust – The Contemplations of Holmes the Elder – A Dangerous Plan.
#
#
As soon as he'd returned to his office, one look at Anthea's face and Mycroft knew the situation had degenerated during his brief absence.
"The Head of Palace Security has somehow found out about the second letter and has been asking all sorts of difficult questions in a very loud and very public way," Anthea was almost brusque with irritation. "Honestly, if these people can't handle a minor flap, what on earth are they in these jobs for?" she snapped, stepping away to answer her phone for the tenth time in ten minutes.
Selecting the red phone on his desk, Mycroft pushed one of three buttons and heard the new Head of MI5 explaining the fiasco almost before he had the handset at his ear.
"How the bloody hell the man even got wind of the situation is still a mystery. We've kept the entire situation on a need-know basis only," Lawrence Hapton-Gill swore softly in his beautifully cut-glass accent. "Only two of the senior Palace staff who had actually seen the first letter had been brought into the briefing since they were the ones who had to be able to account for all the extra activity on the Palace premises," Mycroft could hear the man sigh as the far end of the call. "However, the damage is apparently done, and we've got a very cross Head of Palace Security detained in a meeting room at Buck House itself," he said.
"Have him brought in for questioning," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "It will keep him out of harm's way and give him something else to worry about for the moment, at least until he agrees to shut up, or we can have him tucked away somewhere nice and quiet for the duration."
"And when he decides to go public and sue for false arrest and illegal imprisonment?" Hapton-Gill was well aware of how delicate such matters were these days.
"The man's signed the Official Secrets Act," Mycroft shook his head. "He'll do neither when he's calmed down," he added. "The important thing at the moment is to ensure he infects nobody else with his knowledge or his concerns; we cannot risk this thing going public."
"I'll ensure you're informed when my people are done," the MI5 chief hurriedly ended the call.
There was almost no possibility that this thing was going to die down at any time in the near future, with every likelihood that it might, in fact, become progressively worse before the evening was out, especially as more information became available. It was at times like this that his people's ability to move swiftly and in utter secret made Mycroft's task just that little bit easier.
But he would need to be on deck the whole time, which meant ... pulling his Nokia from an inside jacket pocket, he dialled Cate.
"I'm terribly sorry, my love," his voice reflected his own disappointment. "But we're going to have to postpone our little escapade of this evening until the situation I'm currently dealing with is resolved," he said. "I had hoped to have it all cleared away by now, but it's become more complex than I initially imagined. Will you forgive me?"
It wasn't the first time either of them had had to postpone arrangements and Cate knew it was unlikely to be the last, either.
"Both the theatre and the Langham will still be there in a couple of weeks' time," she smiled down the phone at the man who could ask anything of her and she would give it; an unswerving loyalty, an unquestioning love and admiration. "But this may cost you a foot-massage, on top of everything else, you realise."
"Only your feet?' Mycroft's voice dropped to the place that gave her shivers.
"You can start with my feet and we'll see where we go from there," Cate laughed. She loved him, loved his endless teasing romantic streak. He was everything she would ever desire in a mate. "Now go and save the nation and I'll see you later, perhaps?"
"If I get away from here tonight, it will probably be late, so don't wait for me, my darling," Mycroft's voice was still in the region of his boots. "But I wish you pleasant dreams ..."
Still laughing, Cate farewelled him and ended the call. Ah well. Looked like tonight was just her and the twins. They should do something different for dinner, in that case, something unusual. She wondered where young Mister Parrish was; she had a question for him.
###
Back at 221B, John sat in his chair contemplating whether to have tea or a beer. The thought of a nice frosty bottle of lager was sufficiently persuasive and he went to the refrigerator. "Want one?" he asked over his shoulder as Sherlock settled in his own preferred seat, laptop in hand.
"Mmm, yes, okay," the younger Holmes sounded unusually preoccupied.
"Still working on the Devereux family connections?" John looked over his friend's shoulder at the complex spreadsheet that Sherlock had been compiling since they returned from the College of Arms that morning.
"The depth-first search is taking longer than I thought it would," Sherlock accepted a chilled bottle of Stella but held it absently, at arm's length. "There are more possibilities than I imagined and I can't afford to disregard any of them until I know their present whereabouts. It's a wretched nuisance."
"How many possibilities have you got so far?" John flicked his eyes to his own laptop as well as the three spares currently all open and on the kitchen table, each one on a scrolling search through various engines, each one looking for specific names in a variety of countries and languages.
"Three definites, though their specific standing in the family pecking-order is still impossibly vague," Sherlock looked annoyed as he tasted the icy beer. He waved the bottle in the air. "And I keep coming back to James Devereux, in any case; looks like he might actually have a legit claim to the title through, of all people, his wife."
"The one with the horses in Sussex?" John sounded surprised. "In which case, why isn't she going for the jackpot? Why would Devereux be the one to make all the moves?"
"Because this writ of inheritance was drawn up more than a hundred-and-fifty years ago, at a time when male-preference primogeniture meant that titles and property passed only through the male line," Sherlock pointed his bottle at the laptop. "But the race is about to be opened up to all and sundry, regardless of which side of the family they come from, or even which side of the blanket."
"Meaning that anyone in the family can apply for the position?"
"Not quite. They would still have to be considered a legal successor as far as their biological relationship goes, but they needn't have been a legitimate heir at the time of their birth."
"Which is why the inheritance so clearly specified all male-born heirs, but not necessary legally born male heirs," John paused, considering the remains of his lager. "But where does Devereux fit into that?"
"Not entirely sure at the moment," Sherlock cast a practiced eye over the running search on all five laptops. "But if he can somehow trace a cognatic relationship to the late Baron's line from both his own as well as his wife's lineage, then he'd have a pretty strong case for inheritance."
"But then why would Devereux want to be involved in any kind of scheme which is forcing Mycroft to be named as the potential new incumbent?" John frowned. This made no sense at all.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took a long pull from his bottle. "What better way to prove one's own right to the barony than to have another's claim help up for detailed inspection in the cold light of day?" he asked. "By discrediting Mycroft in the full glare of a nasty public inquisition, and there will undoubtedly be a trial by Press, even if a Royal Writ is produced ... especially if a Royal Writ is produced," the younger Holmes sucked on his beer and scowled. "Then not only will Mycroft and everyone associated with the Holmes name be publicly discredited, but because the Queen's own reputation is involved, he won't be able to say or do a damned thing to save himself."
John was quiet for a moment. "The we have to stop that happening," he said. "Cate and the kids don't deserve to suffer because of Mycroft's enemies, and if this Devereux is simply using your brother as a means to an end, then we have to stop him," he paused, finishing his beer. "It's that simple."
"In theory, perhaps," Sherlock lazed back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "But there's little point going in guns blazing if we don't also have something with which to finish Devereux's lordly ambitions once and for all."
"Like what?" John wondered idly what it would take to frighten off a man like that. If push came to shove, he'd not be above having a bit of a chat with James Devereux himself. Catch him somewhere quiet and lonely ... with a little planning, it could be done.
"Like a better candidate for the barony itself," Sherlock's attention was taken by the soft beep from one of the searching laptops. "Hang on," he said. "This may be something ..." he stretched over to peer at the paused screen.
But it was nothing; a semantic error in the search program, a different James Devereux. Hitting the Enter button, he continued the search for every extant relative of the late Baron of Esgair.
###
"Oh, but I couldn't possibly," Jack Parrish smiled but shook his head. "It simply wouldn't be right."
"Nonsense," Cate grinned. "I'm absolutely positive you should come and therefore, if you've not already arranged to do anything tonight, I believe you should escort me and the children to dinner."
Well ... put that way.
"Very well, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... Cate," Jack took a deep breath and nodded. "Where would you like to go for dinner, and how may I facilitate the evening for you?"
"I managed to make a booking for here," she said, turning her phone so that he could see the restaurant details on the screen. "The children haven't been there before and I really want them to broaden their experiences in every way possible."
"A commendable goal," Jack nodded. "Transport?"
"We'll need a cab, and I'm going to get changed, so I suppose the twins might want to dress up, or not," Cate shrugged. "Up to them, but if you could let them know, it would save me doing it," she paused. "Did you have time to bring any spare clothes with you when my husband dragged you away from wherever you were when he found you?" she asked. "If not, then there's no need to go to any effort ... as you are is fine."
"I'll see what the young ones want to do, and I do actually have something reasonable to wear, thank you," Jack grinned. "I'll arrange a cab for fifteen minutes, would that suit? At this time of evening the traffic will be slow, so we should probably go sooner than later."
"Perfect," Cate headed for the staircase. "Just enough time to get tidied up. We should all meet down here for the taxi."
Nodding, Jack waited until Cate had walked down the passageway to the master suite before he knocked on first one and then the second of the twins' bedroom doors.
"Yes?" Jules swung his door open wide, pulling a set of headphones from his ears. There were opened books all over the floor and precious little space for anything else. No wonder he was looking forward to moving into larger quarters.
"We're all going out for dinner," Jack checked his watch. "Your mother said if you wanted to change, to be quick about it; the cab will be here in ten minutes."
Jules sniffed inside his t-shirt. "I could do with a bit of a clean-up, I suppose," he grinned. "Downstairs in five."
Blythe had already heard the conversation and needed no additional chivvying. Pulling a dark jacket on over her shirt and jeans, she slid a bright blue headband into her hair to keep it from falling into her eyes. "Ready when you two are," she smiled, already heading for the stairs.
"I'll just be a minute," Jack called over his shoulder, running up the stairs to the next floor. Pulling open the door to his wardrobe, for a moment he was tempted to slide into his formal butler's garb. It would be thrilling to do that, but perhaps this evening was not the right time. Instead, he grabbed a second dark suit and made swift work of slipping into a beautifully ironed dark-grey shirt and maroon tie over which the jacket hung with an elegant line. It was his one good suit and he didn't often get the opportunity to wear it. Dinner out with the Holmes family sounded just the thing.
The cab was right on time and they all managed to fit into the back. The restaurant was only in Harrow Road, but Jack had been correct; the traffic was on the dense side and there was a snarl on the Edgeware Road. They arrived almost ten minutes after their booking time, but he'd already phoned the place to advise them they were enroute so they wouldn't lose the table.
"Where too tonight, Mum?" Jules kept track of the landmarks they'd passed. They were heading north and west, and could be going to any one of a dozen different places they'd been to before in the Wimbledon or Hampstead area. When the cab turned into Harrow Road, he grinned. This was somewhere new.
"Because your father is going to be working late tonight, we are going to be sampling the delights of Ethiopian cuisine," Cate was also watching the roads go by. "The place we're actually going to be eating at tonight specialises in serving group meals in an Injera," she said, wondering which one of the twins would be able to locate the reference the quickest.
"A communal dish served on flatbreads?"
Of course, it would be Blythe; she had her father's memory for minutia.
"Often served in a wide woven basket made from naturally coloured reeds and grasses common to the Ethiopian highlands," Jules added. "A big woven dish filled with bread and thick stews," he grinned. "Sound like fun."
"Yes, but both you and Mummy are left-handed," Blyth grinned nastily. "Technically, you're only supposed to eat with your right hand ..."
"Yeah, but that's because you would normally use your left hand to wipe your ..."
"I don't believe it will be a huge issue if your brother and I use our left hands to eat in this particular situation," Cate interrupted the incipient argument, knowing from experience how quickly these discussions could get out of control. Looking across to the hitherto silent trainee butler, she smiled. "Left or right-handed?"
Assuming a faintly smug superiority, Jack grinned. "Ambidextrous, actually," he admitted. "My writing's fractionally better with my right hand, but my left is a little more flexible. I can use either hand for heavy work or fine detail; it's always been a great help for me, whatever I was doing."
"Can you draw two circles simultaneously?" Blythe demanded. "Da Vinci could; it was said to be a mark of a perfectly bi-hemispherated brain, where he could only see a single circle in his mind, regardless that he could draw two at the same time."
Jack laughed. "I'm no Da Vinci," he grinned again. "But I can flip two pancakes at the same time."
"You're on. Breakfast tomorrow before school," Jules demanded. "We insist on proof of such bragging!"
"I think that's just a sneaky way of saying you and your sister want pancakes for breakfast," Jack nodded out through the cab's window. "Looks like we're here."
Scrambling out the kerbside door first, the tall blond held it open as first Cate, then the twins exited the vehicle. They'd stopped almost directly in front of the place, so the only walking they needed to do was brief. Jack was already paying off the cabbie even before Cate had her hand in her bag.
"Well, if you're going to pay for everything, you may as well have this," Cate handed him a black bankcard with a royal purple blaze across the centre. "It's the Holmes general account that we all dip into for everyday stuff," she added. "Paying for anything in the house. I should have thought of it earlier," she added, smiling. "The PIN's a square, square circle, square."
Examining the card as they entered the comfortably dim light of the restaurant, Jack spoke with the waiter, confirming they had a reservation in the name of Holmes. They were led to a very low table over to one side of the room, a round table surrounded by substantial and solid-looking floor cushions.
Leading the way, Cate sank down onto one, crossing her ankles and leaning forward to look at a menu.
"This is a Coutts card," Jack sat opposite her, his face uncertain as he held the slip of plastic in his fingers. "Coutts. The Queen does her banking with them."
"They have very reasonable terms and rates," Cate nodded, her attention focused on the food menu. "And an extra-long payment cycle; very handy if we've had a heavy spending month and need to shift cash around the accounts. No wonder the Queen prefers it," she added, her eyes widening as she saw something on the menu she liked the look of.
"And what's a square, square, circle, square?" Jack was still entranced by the thin black card. He'd never dreamed of having access to an account at the same bank as British royalty.
"Oh, sorry," Cate smiled, looking up from a description of mildly spiced goat's stew served with crushed peanuts. "That's how I remember pins; I use shapes, you see, as I inevitably forget numbers. Four-four-zero-four is the PIN for that card ... easier for me to remember it that way."
"Mummy's hopeless when it comes to anything numeric," Blythe was deep into the menu herself. "If you see any scribbled notes lying around the place with drawings of squares and dots and polyhedrons, for goodness sake, never throw it away; it might be the incredibly secret password to the family vault, or something."
"You're letting me use the family's bank card from Coutts?" Jack still couldn't quite take it in, he paused. "You have a family vault?"
"No vault," Cate glared at her daughter. "But yes, of course you can use the card," she finally gave the trainee butler her full attention. "Would you rather I didn't?" her dark eyes met grey ones. "Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"
"No, nothing likes that," Jack screwed up his face. "But it does rather imply a great deal of trust, and you've only known me a matter of days."
"Are you telling me you're not to be trusted?" Cate smiled, her eyebrows raised in amusement.
"No, it's just that ... this is Coutts" Jack said, laying the card reverently on the table.
"And the PIN is square, square, circle, square," Blythe nodded. "Now can we please order something; I don't think I've eaten today."
"Everything goes on the card, Jack," Cate laid a careful hand on his arm. "Consider yourself part of the family no matter how short your stay with us might be," she smiled and turned back to the menu, looking to see what the twins fancied.
Jack felt a strange tightness in his chest. This was how he wished his own family had been; friendly and warm and welcoming ... instead of ...
"I can't make up my mind," Jules frowned. "It all sounds good and I'm feeling quite starved right now."
"I'd like to try the lamb and the goat and the spiced chickpeas," Blythe held her stomach as it grumbled emptily.
"What about you, Jack?" Cate still fancied a try at the stewed goat.
"I rather like the look of some of the different vegetables," he admitted. "If you approve of them, I could adapt the recipes for dinner one night."
"Then I suggest we go the whole hog and order one of those big central dishes," Cate closed the menu. "That way, we all get to try what we want and Jack can have a think about making it at home."
Ordering several entrées as well as the variegated main meal and a large jug of the restaurant's special non-alcoholic Cocalime, Cate decided to tell everyone about Tulip Lawson's visit the following afternoon.
"And I think it a far more sensible idea for each of you to sit down with the woman and tell her in your own words what you would like to have in the space that can be allocated to you," she said. "There are a few things I've already told her I would want, which is for you both to have an ensuite bathroom and a small, practical kitchen area, even if you decide you don't want to use it right now, I'm fairly sure you will in the future," Cate added. "There are also safety and security issues to be addressed, so there will have to be an emergency exit in both apartments, as well as properly secured windows and burglar alarms, and you know how your father is about security, so there's no getting away from that aspect, I'm afraid."
"I've already agreed to go to Uncle Sherlock's after school tomorrow," Blythe nibbled fastidiously at a tiny square of spiced pastry. "I said I'd go straight there after we finished early. We're going to do some experiments on the anaerobic digestion of human flesh."
"Human flesh?" Cate was the veteran of far too many Holmesian idiosyncrasies to be even remotely shocked at Sherlock's experiments anymore, but she wondered where he'd got the samples. Hopefully he hadn't stolen them; that would be simply too macabre.
"No really human," Blythe picked unconcernedly at a spicy dip. "Swine-flesh, it decomposes in a way almost identical to human remains."
"I appreciate the delights of rotting bodies far outweigh the boring demands of designing your own living quarters, but can you come home first and talk to the architect before you go and see your uncle?" Cate watched her daughter nibble at the entrées exactly as her father would. "It is for your own space, after all," she added. "It won't take long and you can go around to Baker Street afterwards."
"Yeah, that makes sense," Blythe smiled and looked expectant. "It's all quite exciting, really."
"Can we honestly have anything we want?" Jules sampled one of the bit-sized sambosas that had been brought to the table. "Seriously?"
"Your father and I aren't going to be building any trapeze rigs in the ceiling or installing industrial lab equipment," Cate smiled, "but yes; within reason, you can tell Ms Lawson what you want and if she can fit it in for you, then you can have it. Just remember, whatever you choose, you are going to have to live with until you have the money to change it yourself."
"So I can have my tall windows?" Jules looked pleased.
"If we can lift at least some of the present windows without damaging the structural integrity of the roof, then I don't see why not," Cate leaned back as a waiter brought over a simply enormous round woven platter, easily two feet in diameter, covered with all manner of flat breads and small heaps of different-coloured stews spaced equidistantly around the platter.
"Everyone know how to eat this stuff?" Jack tore off a small portion of bread, scooped up a chunk of some dark-red spicy paste and popped the whole thing into his mouth. "It's a really practical way to eat," he smiled, watching as both twins dived in. "Wastes nothing and very good for the hungry traveller who might happen to be passing anywhere along the North African coast," he added, lifting his eyes to Cate as she watched her offspring ploughing into the savoury food.
"I think you might have a job for life trying to keep these two fed," Cate laughed as she tore some of the soft bread for herself. "Don't wait on ceremony, Jack," she indicated the platter. "Get in while you still can before these two scoff the lot."
"We can always order a little more," Jules was in fact using both hands, regardless of custom. "This is really spicy," he grinned. The hotter the better as far as he was concerned.
"Take notes, please Jack," Blythe licked a thumb. "This would be great for a weekend; I'd love to watch Daddy trying to navigate his way around one of these," she shared a glance and a quiet cackle with her twin.
"Evil child," Cate shook her head and scooped up a different mix.
Jack suddenly felt a sudden wave of deflation at the realisation he might not be around the Holmes family long enough to do this again. There was almost a sense of loss about it. He took a deep breath and tore off another fragment of bread, dipping it into a different one of the stews.
"Everything okay?" Cate had heard the sigh.
"Everything's fine," Jack smiled... but only on the outside.
###
Mycroft sat in the darkened shadows of his office. He often thought better in the dimness, when outlines of things were blurred and unclear, and where there was no single point of light to distract the contemplative mind. He had been in many similar positions as this in the past, endless instances when he had been required to pit his mind and intellect against a variety of clever opponents. Invariably, he'd been successful, when the stakes could be weighed with from an icily objective perspective and when the only thing he had occasionally risked had been his life. But this situation was different. This situation, if it went pear-shaped, would damage not only the constitutional monarchy of Britain, but also himself, Cate and the twins, and in the worst of ways. Blythe and Jules would be tagged with the infamy of the situation for the rest of their lives, and it would be he who would bring this down on their heads if he couldn't work out exactly what Devereux was planning and then find a way to stop him.
Unrealised, his upper lip had curled into a moue of self-disgust. Momentarily tempted to phone Sherlock for some nicely articulated defamation of character as a pleasant change from the rancorous self-beration he'd endured since the second letter arrived at the Palace, Mycroft blinked hard and shook his head. Leaning forward onto his desk, he rested his chin on linked fingers. Had he always been able to take the logical, clinical approach towards the resolution of any problem no matter how personal things had become ... but this time ... this time he was caught between two polarised demands of equal personal weight. One the one hand, there was his deep and abiding loyalty to the service and protection of the Royal Family, yet, on the other, there was the boundless care and protection of his own family. In previous dilemmas, he'd always been able to weigh up the costs in favour of Queen and Country ... but this time ...
Perhaps then, it really was time for him to consider a retirement from the role he'd held for the larger part of his adult life. Perhaps he'd reached the place where the demands of the job needed someone with fewer emotional ties to bring their decision-making to a stuttering halt. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face.
"You've been sitting there thinking bad thoughts for nearly seven hours," Anthea walked in with a tray of tea things. "I know this is a difficult one for you, especially as you're trying so hard to keep Cate and the twins out of it all, but you need to stop dwelling on what you can't do, and focus more closely on what you are actually able to achieve."
Mycroft looked up at his dark-haired assistant, the faintest line of a smile lifting his mouth.
"Is this your version of a pep-talk?" he asked absently, watching as she poured the tea. Lifting a flat bottle lying on the tray, Anthea poured a generous dollop of it into his cup.
"No," she said, wiggling the bottle for him to see. "This is. Don't worry," she added, "it's not the good stuff."
"I don't need alcohol to think," he said.
"This is not about making you think," Anthea checked the bottle. "And it's barely even alcohol," she frowned at the label. "A bit of rotgut I found stashed away in the kitchen; probably used for cleaning drains."
"The poisoning of one's direct supervisor has not been a terribly successful promotion route since the Borgias," he said, lifting his cup and sipping the hot brew. He wrinkled his nose. Most definitely not the good stuff.
Even diluted in the tea, the high-proof alcohol burned at his throat, filling his sinuses with a heady, alcoholic vapour and making his eyes water. He gasped as the burn flowed down inside his chest and belly. Almost immediately, he felt a little more awake and alert.
"This is quite revolting," he said, taking another sip. "I may need some more before the night is out," he added, pushing the tea things to one side and reaching for his laptop.
"But in the interim, I want a meeting with the special analyst team heads. I want to know what we have and what we know as of this moment. Five minutes." Lifting his head, Mycroft looked a little fierce.
Smiling, Anthea pocketed the bottle. "Sir," she said, already on her phone to the team. It sounded very much as if the shit was about to hit the fan.
About time, too.
###
Her father had still not returned home as she dressed for school the following morning, just as Blythe realised it was long past time for her to have a haircut, unless, of course, she was about to start growing it again. It was nice when it was down past her shoulders, but it was incredibly time-consuming and necessitated all manner of effort to keep it tidied away so it wouldn't become a bother whenever she was doing anything non-hair related. She was sorely tempted to simply take a pair of shears to the whole lot and wear a hat for the few months it would take to grow out again.
She'd done it before.
But right now, she didn't even have time to do that, so grabbed the bright blue headband she'd worn the previous night to the restaurant and pulled the thick length of hair back and away from her face. She shoved a handful of clips in her pocket in case she wanted to do something else with it later when she went to her uncle's, but it would do for now.
On bright sunny days, the twins often walked the almost two miles to school; it only took them about forty minute and gave them both an opportunity to get in a spot of people-watching. Sometimes they'd stroll up to the Bond Street tube and take the Jubilee Line down to Westminster. But today it was tipping down outside, so they had the luxury of a ride to school.
Being a Friday and heading toward the end-of-term exams, this was a half-day for non-boarders. The morning began with double English for them both, but as they'd read their way through the school's entire English curricula before they were seven, there really wasn't much work for them to do. Blythe had elected instead to wade her way through a pile of Formalist Russian literature, some of it in the original Slavic, though she was the first to admit she used a dictionary at times. Julius had gone more towards nineteenth-century romanticism, and was currently deciphering the mad metaphors of the Symbolist poets. After break, he had double Japanese, while Blythe headed off to the Physics labs.
"Don't wait for me to go home," she told her twin at the end of the English class. "I'm meeting Landry before I leave today; I want to explain to him why we have to cool things for a while."
"You want some backup or are you okay with it all?" Jules knew his sister was one of the most competent individuals he'd ever know, and more than capable of handling all manner of unpleasantness it the conversation became less than cordial. Plus, if the meeting were on school grounds, Blythe wouldn't be alone. There wasn't much she'd need any help with, but it was a brother's job to offer, regardless.
Blythe smiled a little sadly. "No. I doubt it'll be a long conversation, but I don't want to hold you up; I know how much you want to speak to the architect about your new bachelor pad," she grinned.
Observing her faintly unhappy expression, Jules realised that even though their father might have his reasons, it wouldn't be easy for Bly to simply ignore Landry just like that. "If you're sure?" he didn't like to see her upset, no matter the cause.
"Go, silly," Blythe pushed his shoulder. "I'll probably be about half-an-hour behind you, if that, but I'd rather do this by myself, I think."
"'K," Jules waved at her over his shoulder as he headed for the language studios. "Catch you later."
The physics class passed in a mild blur as she dragged her way through a rather tedious college text on particle physics; it wasn't half as good as the Boyarkin one she'd read before Christmas. But finally it was over and after dumping her books back in her locker, she headed over to the student Common Room. The place would be busy at this time of day, but once she'd found Landry, they could find somewhere more private to talk.
Blythe shivered. This was the first time she'd ever knowingly gone into a meeting with someone she knew she could never trust again, simply to get information from them. It made her feel a little melancholy, but it had to be done; she had to find out what was going on between Landry and his father, and especially how whatever they were doing affected her own family.
"Heya gorgeous," Landry's warm tones made her skin prickle as usual. Blythe blinked slowly before turning to greet him, a smile across her face. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice deliberately light and happy.
"Want to find somewhere a little more quiet?" he asked. "The labs will be empty by now."
"Sure," Blythe nodded as if pleased. "How's your father? I know you two don't get to meet often, so I suppose you had a long talk about everything last night."
"Oh, you know," Landry shrugged. "The usual stuff about keeping my marks up and how Oxford is always over-subscribed in the Classics and all that. I told him I quite liked the idea of Leicester; they have a really great Humanities and Arts school there, easily as good as anything Oxford can offer," he shrugged again. "But my dad wants it to be Oxford or nothing."
"Mine's the same," Blythe pushed a door open into a deserted chem lab.
"But now we're in private," Landry grinned widely as he swooped down and wrapped his arms around her. "Maybe we can continue where we left off the other night ..."
His lips pressed soft and dry against her mouth.
"That's nice," Blythe resisted an almost overwhelming urge to bring him to his knees, squealing with pain. "But here's not really the place for ... that kind of thing, is it?"
"You want to go somewhere really private ... maybe out of school somewhere?" Landry raised his eyebrows, a lazy smile on his face.
"Maybe," Blythe looked up at him, feeling more and more repulsed by his transparent duplicity. "But I think your father might not like it any more than mine does."
"Ah, my dad is too wrapped up in his power-games and empire-building to worry much about what I'm doing these days," Landry grinned suddenly as an idea seemed to strike him. "Want to come to my mum's place for afternoon tea? I can escort you there and back to London even before it gets dark," his face was animated. "Oh, do say yes," his grin got even wider. "It only takes an hour from Victoria Station and I'm sure my mother would love to meet you," he rested both hands on her shoulders.
Blythe thought. If she went with Landry, there was an hour's travel each way which she could spend getting him to talk about his family and especially about his father's empire-building activities. It might be worth the discomfort of his company, as long as she managed to refrain from beating him up in public. She smiled darkly as she thought of all the nasty things her mother had taught her how to do.
"You phone your parent to see if it's all okay for me to come to tea, and then I'll phone mine and see if it's okay with her," Blythe folded her arms.
"Done," Landry had his mobile in his hand even before she'd finished. "Hi, Mum," he smiled, watching Blythe's face as he talked. "I'd like to bring a friend home for tea, if that's alright with you," he said. "Her name's Blythe Holmes and she's from school. I'll need to bring her back to London afterwards."
There was a soft murmur at the other end of the conversation.
"And you can pick us up from the station when I call?"
Another soft murmur.
"Great," Landry's grin got even wider. "We'll probably be there around three or so. Okay then, bye." Ending the call and returning the phone to his trouser pocket, Landry nodded at her. "Your turn."
Smiling, Blythe speed-dialled a number on her on Nokia. "Hello Mummy," she said, her eyes on Landry's the entire time. "Landry Banister has invited me to have tea with him at his mother's place in Pulborough," she said. "Mrs Banister is fine with me coming, but I wanted to check you are happy for me to go. Landry's escorting me back to London before it gets dark."
There was an urgent-sounding response from the handset at her ear.
"No, back before dark. I'll have to cancel my other arrangements for this afternoon, though," she said. "Unless you could ring Uncle Sherlock for me?"
Yet another staccato reply murmured into the room.
"That's great then," Blythe smiled. "I'll see you later. Bye."
As she turned to meet Landry Banister's gaze, Blythe knew she was committed; whatever was to happen, she would see it through. But she had something of a secret weapon up her sleeve.
It hadn't been her mother she had just called, it had been her brother. Jules would know what to do. He'd keep the lid on things for as long as he could and then he'd tell everyone where she was, by which time it'd be too late to stop her. She was bound to be able to find something out before the end of the day.
She smiled.
Landry smiled back.
It hadn't been his mother who had answered his call. It had been his father.