Chapter Nine
Julius – The Eloquence of Dust – Sub Rosa – Hitting the Fan –The Grilling Begins – Into Sussex – Mycroft Decides – Revelations of the Brotherly Kind.
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Julius replaced the phone in his jacket pocket and closed his eyes with a groan of frustration. He was half-tempted to call Blythe straight back and tell her he'd changed his mind and that it really wasn't a good idea for her to head off into darkest Sussex with Landry Banister. She had been told, quite categorically by their father, she was not to see the Banister boy and Dad didn't make those kinds of demands without a very good reason. Jules chewed his bottom lip as he wondered if he'd just made a massive mistake in agreeing to his sister's impromptu plan. Not that she couldn't take care of herself. Since they were infants their mother had been teaching them the legitimate and graceful art of Hapkido as well as the illegitimate and extremely ruthless science of self-defence. Were anyone to have a go at his sister, he'd be more concerned about the attacker's welfare than hers and if it were Landry ... Jules smiled crookedly. Anyone who pushed their luck too far with Blythe would end up in the hospital and then, of course, whoever it was would get a little visit from Blythe's brother.
But still.
Turning on his heel, Jules about-faced with the idea of walking back to school, but then he stopped, realising they would already have left. Most likely headed for Victoria Station with trains heading out into Sussex and the South-west. The place was massively spread-out over nineteen platforms and they could be anywhere. It was even possible that they might be being picked up by car ... three seconds after putting his phone away; Jules pulled it out again and hit Blythe's speed-dial.
The number you have called is not available at this time.
Bloody hell and damn. Jules sighed hugely. After calling him, she'd immediately turned her phone off to ensure nobody could stop her before she was ready. He knew his twin as well as he knew himself and Blythe had done exactly what he would have.
There was nothing for it now but to get home and face the music. There was no point even attempting to cover this up; for good or bad, Blythe had gone off the deep end this time.
Taking a deep breath and securing his backpack a little more tightly, Jules began to jog.
###
Mycroft blinked slowly. Managing without sleep for a night, even two when necessary, was not an issue after so many years of enduring such occasional but inevitable need. But even after spending the last thirty-six hours going through everything his team of analysts had been able to pull out from the two letters and the enclosed photographs, there was almost nothing solid upon which to hang a justifiable accusation. After verifying the technical aspects of the photographs, his people had turned their collective attention to the accompanying letters, the paper, the printed words, the language, latent fingerprints … anything. But virtually nothing of use had been revealed about the author of the missives. Whoever it was had been extraordinarily careful; probably wrapped themselves up in a full HAZMAT suit to avoid leaving any convenient clues such as hair or skin samples.
Was Devereux involved? Yes; the man's name cropped up in three separate instances. It was impossibly coincidental to be merely coincidence. Was there a more deeply hidden agenda beneath all of this? Obviously. One would not go to all this planning and effort to either steal or inveigle such sensitive materials in the first place without having a clear plan of how they were to be used. That there were possibly multiple objectives in the scheme was where the picture began to go a little blurry at the edges. Was this entire gambit merely a ruse to embarrass the Queen and himself? If so, to what ends? And if public embarrassment was all there were to it, there were far easier ways; he himself would have opted for compromising photographs if scandal was the only objective, so there had to be more. That apart from the demand that the barony be offered, there had been no other demands for money or services, not any exhortation of political, religious or personal grievances, suggested that this entire thing was based on some personal need or desire, but if so, then what? That there was also a clear determination to hold up the entire British honours system to international and extremely public ridicule seemed equally clear, though the rationale was not, as yet, properly established.
Sitting at his desk, Mycroft stared in dissatisfaction at the two Polaroid photographs, each one laid carefully within a soft and completely transparent envelope. He had been glowering at these two images for several minutes, as if he knew they had something more to tell him, but couldn't quite hear what it was they had to say.
He stared. Each photograph was of a letter. Each letter was on Palace-headed paper, from the desk of the Queen herself. Each letter was no more than three paragraphs in length, both documents ending in the fully validated signature of Her Majesty.
Shaking his head in annoyance, Mycroft looked at the background in the photos behind the document, not that there was much to see since the letters took up virtually all the available space.
The consensus was that each letter had been photographed while lying more-or-less flat on a flat surface. The nature of that surface was almost impossible to discern, save that it was darker than the pale material of the letters themselves, yet not so dark as to be an invisible blackness. He could just make out a sliver of coloured background behind the second document, a long and narrow triangle with a faint golden-reddish tint. What might that be? Possibly some kind of painted surface? The lighting of both photos was clearly that of an internal exposure; neither had been taken outdoors. So what might be an internal flat surface of this possible colour?
Moving across to his laptop, Mycroft pulled up a digitised image of the second photograph, zooming in on the wafer-thin sliver of colour. Magnifying it as high as the software would allow, he squinted at it as closely as he possibly could.
Wood. The faintest of grains was just visible to the naked eye. At least one of the letters had been laid out on a wooden table to be photographed; he could even see a suggestion of timber grain in the tiny section of background visible in the image. He sat back, the slightest sense of triumph uncoiling in his chest.
If Devereux was involved, and he patently was, then such an ego as his would never permit either of these documents out of his immediate grasp. These photographs had to have been taken at a location where the man felt himself to be safe and where his activities would be private and without oversight. Whether he had taken the pictures himself, or had another do it didn't matter; what mattered was that they had been taken in a place that Devereux felt secure. His office or his home or club.
And if a certain wooden table were to be found at any of these locations, it might be possible to check three very distinctive details. Organic surfaces retained the faintest of temporary bleaches when exposed to the bright light of a camera flash. It didn't last long, and washed out in bright sunlight, but the weather these last few days had been overcast, and with luck, this place might be shaded. It might still be possible to see the darker silhouette of anything that had been photographed lying across its flat top.
The second detail which had Mycroft's mouth curve a little at one side was the fact that wood-grain was almost as distinctive as human fingerprints. If these photographs could be enhanced to reveal even a fraction of the wood in greater detail, it might be possible to match it to any potential wooden surfaces located at Devereux's boltholes.
And then there was the DNA. Both the distinctive paper of the letters as well as the wood itself, was organic. All organic substances shed degraded matter ... dust. Mycroft smiled. As his brother was fond of saying, dust was indeed eloquent.
If the entire combined resources of the British security services were unable to find a wooden table that tied these photos to James Devereux, then it was just as well he'd browbeaten his way into a lucrative publishing deal. He might be needing the income.
Lifting the red phone, Mycroft Holmes summoned his experts and set them firmly onto Devereux's trail.
###
The endlessly detailed computer search had not yet concluded. Not only had each potential candidate for the barony of Esgair to be checked along both maternal and paternal lines of descent, but also for primogeniture within their own immediate family. If a first cousin had a slightly stronger claim from either an agnate or distaff relative, then the lineage-claims of parentage, siblings and children must also be unravelled before they could be dismissed from the search. It was an atrociously complex process and agonisingly slow. Had it not been for the fact that Sherlock had now brought in another five laptops, begged and borrowed from a variety of sources, the search might well have taken weeks.
In addition to the potential legitimate claimants, there were also the illegitimate ones, those ancestral descendants of the Baron's family who stemmed from natural relationships rather than those of a more formalised character. And on top of all this, there were the inevitable syntax and grammatical search errors; people whose names had been incorrectly spelled in national records, or whose marriage hadn't been correctly noted in the archives of both families concerned. It was equally incredible to note the sheer number of James Devereuxs there were currently extant in the British Isles.
In short, it was a bloody nightmare.
Sherlock had entered an apparent fugue-state several hours earlier and John watched as the tall man sat unnaturally still in his chair, only the faintest of chest movements confirming he was still breathing.
The silence, which had begun the previous day, had stretched out for far too long now, and even the usually phlegmatic doctor felt his nerves strained to their farthest limits. If he didn't move, or just do something, he was going to start biting the furniture.
"Right then," John stood, booth voice and sudden movement shattering the deep silence. "I've had about as much of this as I can handle for one day," he said. "I'm getting lunch in for a change; what do you fancy? Indian or Chinese?"
"Nothing for me, thanks," Sherlock's voice was as soft as dust. "You know I've never wanted to eat while we're on a case."
John knew only too well that his friend and partner–in-crime would run himself ragged if he was left to fend for himself. Nodding, he pulled out his phone and ordered sufficient food for two. Even if Sherlock didn't eat today, he might eat tomorrow.
"You know, if you told Mycroft what we're actually doing for him, I dare say he'd arrange access for you to one of those incredibly fast super-computers," John raised his eyebrows. "I understand that he's not prepared for anyone to get on the inside track in an investigation involving the Queen, but if you told him what you'd uncovered so far, then surely ..."
"My brother, though vastly irritating at times, is also a vastly intelligent man, John," Sherlock still hadn't moved from his meditative-like position. "But even those of vast intelligence usually have at least one or two blind-spots," he blinked rapidly and sighed. "And anything whatsoever to do with British royals is one of Mycroft's," he shook his head wearily. "The moment he thought we might be endangering his own investigation he'd have us shut down and all our research confiscated for the duration … no," Sherlock shook his head again. "Until we have something concrete to give him, this has to be done sub rosa."
"Then in that case, I'm giving everything a break and having something to eat," John stood up and looked serious. "And so should you. The computers are doing their thing and you need a rest."
Looking up at his blond friend, Sherlock smiled a little. Always the mother hen. But perhaps a bite or two wouldn't hurt in under the circumstances; there was unlikely to be any major breakthrough in the immediate future in any case. "Did you get anything from the tandoor?" he asked.
"Would I order anything else for you?" John grinned.
There was a faint beep from one of the laptops as it paused on yet another potential candidate for the Esgair inheritance. Sherlock was up and at the table the moment the faint sound caught his ear.
Another James Devereux. Unbelievable. Sherlock scowled in annoyance until his eyes noticed one of the other associated names in the extended listing of secondary and tertiary search parameters. Banister. Devereux's semi-estranged wife was Sheila Banister, mother of one Landry Banister, erstwhile boyfriend of Blythe Holmes.
Still scowling, Sherlock leaned in closer, reading all that there was to read in a matter of a few seconds. There was almost nothing he hadn't already seen. Almost nothing.
But there was something. And it was a very intriguing something indeed.
Selecting a screen-dump, Sherlock hit Print.
###
Tulip Lawson took a seat at the kitchen table as Cate bustled around making tea for them both. Jack had vanished back up into the attics almost as soon as the twins had left for school, only popping downstairs to see if there was anything that needed doing. He'd already decided on herbed pork with a stir-fry of vegetables for dinner, so there was nothing demanding his presence in the kitchen until later, which was fine. It meant Cate actually had the chance to get in and make her own tea for a change. The trainee butler was so keen to help that she'd had to look and see where everything was, a situation exacerbated by the fact that Jack had made one or two minor changes to the way the kitchen was organised. Still, Cate had to admit, the changes made sense. And she could always change things back when the young man left to continue his quest for butlering nirvana elsewhere.
"The twins should be home from school shortly," Cate poured tea. "I'm sure they already know exactly what they want, but you'll have to be clear with them if what they want and what can be done are mutually exclusive."
"Don't worry," Tulip laughed. "I've been through a few of these conversions involving teenagers, and I have a fairly good feel for the kind of things they might want. I'm sure everything will be fine."
Cate wasn't so certain. "My daughter is almost certainly going to request a large laboratory space with commercial-sized freezers built into the walls, just as my son is almost equally certainly going to be looking for a James Bond-style retractable skylight in the roof for his art studio," Cate shook her head. "I'm happy to give them anything that will stand the test of time, but please don't allow them to bully you; they can be most compelling when they put their mind to something," she added. "Just like their father," Cate smiled at the thought as she sipped her tea.
The architect was not unobservant.
"Given that you plan on renovating the guest rooms on the first floor once the children have moved into their respective hobbit-holes, I could maybe do you a deal on renovating your Master suite as well," Tulip's face was the epitome of innocence. "Something romantic and indulgent, with a double bath and some really spectacular mood lighting, perhaps?"
Cate allowed her eyes to widen as she thought of a new bedroom designed with seduction in mind. "You are a very bad woman," she said eventually, over the rim of her cup.
"So that's a possible yes, is it?" Tulip grinned cheerfully.
"That a possible perhaps," Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Depending just how big a financial heap I'm going to have to shell out for everything else first ... though," she shrugged noncommittally. "I admit it does sound intriguing."
The front door clicked open and closed.
"That's the children," Cate nodded. "If you could speak to Blythe first as she's probably going to want to dash off to her uncle's in about five minutes, so that would be ..." she stopped as Jules walked into the kitchen. Alone.
Even without words, Cate knew that something was wrong. His face not yet anxious, but Jules was clearly on the brink of genuine unease. Putting her cup down with a soft clink, Cate raised her eyebrows. "What?"
Dropping his backpack on the floor, Jules took a large breath.
"Blythe has gone to Sussex to have tea with Landry Banister and his mother," he said. "She rang me and said she'd be back before dark, that Landry was going to bring her back to London afterwards and that Mrs Banister was fine with Blythe going to her place for tea," he added.
"And why didn't Blythe ring me or her father about this?" Cate frowned. Blythe was normally the more sensible and logical of the two of them. If she had wanted to go off with one of her friends, it was no big problem, though Cate had insisted that at least one parent was to be informed before any such trip was undertaken.
Jules stood still, the faintly stricken expression on his face making it clear he knew there were choppy waters ahead.
"I'll just head downstairs to the basement to check on the measurements," Tulip smiled and excused herself from what was clearly shaping up to be a difficult family discussion.
As soon as the architect had left them alone, Jules sat down at the table. He took another deep breath.
"Dad told Bly not to have anything to do with James Landry."
Cate nodded. This much Mycroft had already said.
"Bly thinks it's because Landry and his father, James Devereux, are somehow mixed up in whatever the problem is that's making Daddy consider resigning," his hazel eyes never left hers. "I think she's gone with Landry to Sussex to find out what she can about the situation so that she can bring the information back and so that Daddy isn't going to be forced into retirement or anything else he doesn't want to do ..." his voice lapsed into silence as he waited for his mother to speak.
"Your sister has gone off with the young man she met at school because she believes him to be involved in some nefarious scheme involving your father?" Cate held a palm to her forehead as she tried to take it all in. "Why on earth didn't you stop her?"
"She rang me to say what she was going to do and then hung up and by the time I phoned her back, she'd turned her own phone off," Jules looked grim. "There was little point going to Victoria Station as they could have been anywhere, and I didn't want to try and explain all this to you or Daddy on the phone because I know how you'd ..." he paused, looking into the troubled eyes of his mother, "react."
Scrabbling in her bag for her own Nokia, Cate pressed the requisite keys.
The number you have called is not available at this time.
Ah, Blythe …
Considering her remaining options, Cate bit her lip before taking as deep a breath as her son … and speed-dialled Mycroft.
###
They just made the 2.15 train on Platform Two just as the doors were being closed and whistles were being blown. Luckily, as it was the middle of the day, the train wasn't packed and Blythe and Landry were able to find a pair of reasonably isolated seats.
Sliding his fingers between hers to hold her hand, Landry grinned, an air of excitement about him.
"Mum's going to be really happy to see you," he smiled. "She keeps telling me I should bring friends home."
Keeping her face in a calm, agreeable expression, Blythe loosened her fingers from his, adjusting her headband and combing through her fine dark-brown hair. "Then I shall be sure to make a good impression," Blythe smiled. "Will your father be there?"
Caught, Landry couldn't very well lie outright or Blythe would recognise the untruth the minute she saw his father waiting for them at the station. "He might be," he extemporised. "He wasn't there earlier, but he comes and goes as suits him, so he might be there later," he nodded, pleased to have gotten out of that particular little awkwardness.
Blythe felt her expression turning into the same, vaguely shark-like one her father used when someone said something unspeakably stupid within earshot. She couldn't help it; no matter how she tipped her head forward and strained to keep her mouth straight, the corners curved up she held Landry's gaze from under her eyebrows. How had she ever felt any kind of friendship for this oaf? Not only was he a shockingly bad liar, even, if such a thing was possible, worse than her mother, but an unimaginative one as well, which made the whole thing entirely too tedious and boorish. The urge to laugh at his uninspired efforts made her bite the inside of her cheek until the pain returned her to a certain level of gravitas.
"Oh well, if he's there, it will be nice to meet him as well as your mother. Will we be able to look at the horses?"
"Sure," Landry sounded pleased. "It's one of the only good things about living out in the wilds of Sussex," he said. "Plenty of room for riding," he turned to her, a calculating tone in his voice. "You ride, do you?' he grinned.
Resisting a growing temptation to visit great pain upon a very delicate part of his anatomy, Blythe smiled again as if his increasingly repulsive creepiness was not in the least off-putting. Now that her eyes had been opened to his unexpected deviousness, she was observing all manner of unpleasant little habits she'd never really noticed before. No wonder Jules hadn't always been impressed by her admirer.
But that was then and this was now, Blythe realised she needed to start getting information if this trip was to be any use at all.
"So tell me more about your parents," she demanded, leaning her arm casually against his. "I know your mother trains racehorses, but what does your father do?"
"Well, technically, he's something in the National Crime Agency, but that's only part of what he really does," Landry looked thoughtful and tried to catch her fingers again.
Blythe managed a deft evasion.
"But what else can he possibly do if he's in such an important national service?" she sounded quite legitimately puzzled. "Isn't it all official secrets act and meetings in underground carparks? What else can he possibly do beyond that?" She batted her eyelashes.
Landry laughed. "Oh, Dad has a whole range of international investments and things going on behind the scenes," he said. "Some of them are really important."
Nodding reflectively, Blythe allowed a second curious look to mould her face. "Then why is my father telling me to have nothing to do with you?" she asked. "Does my father know your father? Do they work together in the Agency?"
"Not that I know of," Landry frowned and shook his head. "Technically, Dad's a Civil Servant, even though he does a lot of private travelling for his other business ventures. I'm not sure he'd even heard of your dad."
"Well, my parent has heard of yours," Blythe sighed. "If only I could pinpoint what it is your father is involved in that's upsetting mine, then I could clear the whole thing up and there'd be nothing stopping … us," she smiled innocently, resting her fingertips on the back of his hand.
"Well, there might be one thing that Dad's been involved with recently," Landry made a face. "Not that I know much about it, though."
"Oh do say," Blythe turned in her seat until she was staring up into a pair of pale grey eyes. "I can't bear the idea that there might be something really silly standing between us like the Capulets and Montagues," she sat back, folding her arms and pouting. "My father is a total fascist at times."
"Mine too," Landry grinned again, locating her hand and holding it fast this time. "I know Dad's got some plans about something to do with an inheritance; I've seen envelopes come through the post for him with return addresses to places like the College of Arms and all kinds of places that do genealogical searches. I think Dad may have found out he's related to someone important."
"But why would that upset my father?" Blythe's mind raced ahead of her words. She had known for years that her father was deeply involved with British security and all manner of anti-terrorism organisations. It took no great stretch of the imagination that his job in Whitehall might also involve him with not merely the security of the nation and the national interests, but also and quite naturally, of the family ostensibly at the nation's head. The only thing that might make sense of her father's vehemence towards James Devereux was if the man represented some kind of threat or obstacle to her father's role. But what that threat or obstacle might be, she had no clue.
She needed more data.
"Tell me about your mother, then," she said, artlessly.
She even remembered to smile.
###
In the middle of making a sandwich with some garlic naan and a dollop of Rogan josh, John registered that Sherlock's phone was ringing. "That's your phone," he mumbled around a hot mouthful.
"Mmm ..." Sherlock had returned to his chair and his contemplations.
The phone rang again.
"It's one of the twins, you know," the blond man added, at the sound of the ringtone.
"Mmm ... Jules," Sherlock leaned his chin onto his hand, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Might be important," John raised his eyes as he sucked in the steamy aroma of a carton of Chicken Razala.
Heaving a sigh and rolling his eyes, Sherlock made a long arm and reached for his phone. "Yes?"
There was extended discourse from the initiator of the conversation.
Sherlock sat up in increments.
"Does your father know?"
An equally long quantity of speech ensured. Sherlock drew in a long, slow breath.
"Has there been any other contact?"
The interchange proceeded haltingly and finally ended.
"Tell your mother not to worry and that John and I will bring her home before dark," Sherlock finished, ending the call and standing upright, his eyes apologetic as they cast themselves over John's lunch.
With a forkful of rice and creamy savoury sauce half-way to his mouth, John's shoulders slumped. "We sit on our arses for almost two days and then the minute I get something to eat, you're going to try and drag me off to do something, aren't you?" he ate the food with dogged determination.
"This problem Mycroft finds himself in is due, at least in part, to the machinations of James Devereux, which argues someone with major personality issues, not the least of which is a pathological determination to achieve his own ends regardless of collateral damage, be that personal or public," Sherlock strode towards the door and his coat.
"Yeah?" John sat back, waiting for the inevitable call to arms that meant he'd be expected to abandon yet another meal for the sake of Sherlock's appetite for the dramatic.
"It seems my niece may become embroiled in the fallout if someone is unable to stop her; she's taken off to Pulborough on what appears to be a personal reconnaissance of Landry Banister, youngest son of Devereux and the boyfriend Mycroft refused her permission to see."
Blythe landing herself in serious danger? John was surprised at his surprise; she was a Holmes, after all. Without realising, he had risen to his feet, already moving towards his jacket. Nobody messed with those kids if he had any say in it. Anyone who even looked at Jules and Blythe in the wrong tone of voice, and both their father and uncle would have to crawl over him to get dibs on the offender. What was left of the offender.
"Well, come on, then," after a swift detour to his room for a few essential items, John was already out the door and clattering down the stairs.
"I've got the address in Sussex," Sherlock sounded ever so slightly hesitant.
"Problem?" John patted his pocket, feeling the hard contours of one particular essential item as he clambered into the cab.
"Victoria Station," Sherlock instructed, before turning to his friend. "Not a problem as such, though it's going to take over an hour to get there ... but Mycroft's people will probably be on their way too and if they see us, then our involvement in the rest of the case will be out."
"As long as we get there before any harm is done," John stared grimly out through the front windscreen. "Then I don't really much care what else happens."
Nodding, Sherlock sat back in the wide seat of the cab, already wondering how he might capitalise on this unexpected visit to the Devereux-Banister property. It would be a shame to go all the way out there and return with only his niece. Who knew what data might be simply lying around, waiting to be inadvertently picked up by some passer-by? Blythe was a quick study; she'd be able to take a hint and create all sorts of diversions for him if he wanted.
"Whatever you're thinking, stop it," John angled his head towards his friend. "You're cackling and it's unnerving."
"I do not cackle," Sherlock was surprised.
"Yeah, you do," John faced forward again. "Been doing it for years; it usually means you're planning on doing something completely unethical."
"I was not ..." Sherlock stopped and closed his mouth.
"Thought so," John nodded, a faint smile on his face. "It's the cackling, always a dead give-away, is that."
Making a pointed mental note to delete any ability to cackle from his repertoire, Sherlock cast his thoughts back to the small revelation the computer search had kicked up before Jules phoned.
"James Devereux's son, Landry Banister, is the one that Blythe has been seeing," he said, by way of introducing the subject.
"Yes," John's forehead wrinkled. "We already know this."
"But the boy has not taken Devereux's name," Sherlock added. "One wonders why."
"Aren't he and his missus semi-estranged?" John sounded thoughtful. "If Devereux walked out on the family when the boy was a small kid, maybe the wife simply decided to put everything in her maiden name, even if there was no formal divorce. People do that, you know."
"Or it might be that there was no formal marriage in the first place," Sherlock widened his eyes and drew in a salutary breath. "People do that, too."
"What?" John was intrigued. "You're suggesting that James Devereux and Sheila Banister were never actually married? Does that mean that Landry is Devereux's son or not?"
Reaching into his coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out the screen print he'd made of the genealogical search page and handed it over. He pointed to one particular line about a third of the way down.
For a couple of seconds, John wasn't sure what the information was telling him. But then it sank in ... he met Sherlock's waiting gaze.
"But if this is correct, it means that ..."
"Indeed it does."
"Which means that ... and Mycroft already knows this?"
"I can't think of any other reason why he'd go to such lengths," Sherlock sounded fatalistic.
"Oh my god," John sat back, his mind whirling. "He's known this, all this time."
"Though how he planned on using the information is unclear," it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "I'm assuming some form of dramatic denouement at the critical moment; my brother is ever the drama queen."
Considering the source of that comment, John felt it was a bit rich, but said nothing. "So what are we going to do about it?"
"Do?" Sherlock shook his head. "Absolutely nothing, though we can at least be prepared now for a whole new set of potential variables, now that we know."
"Yeah," John nodded. "That's for sure," he said, his fingers feeling, of their own accord, the comforting weight of the gun in his pocket.
###
Following Cate's call, he had been faced with a choice of actions. Either he could send his people directly out to the Pulborough stables and thus prematurely reveal his hand, or he could find another way to get his daughter out of this ridiculously complicated mess. Knowing that Devereux might be in the vicinity and knowing only too well the man's temperament, it was not possible to hope that Blythe might get out of this without some misadventure. It was too much to expect, and he would not risk her safety. Thus the decision had been made. Standing and sliding into his coat, Mycroft pulled the Nokia from an inner pocket of his jacket and summoned the Jaguar.
He was her father; he would go and get her himself.
###
In the kitchen, Cate sat and pondered. There seemed to be a lot going on around here that she knew nothing about and it didn't sit terribly well. In fact, it wasn't too much of an overstatement to say that it all sat with her extremely poorly. It was all very well for Mycroft to play his cloak-and-dagger games, but that her daughter, her fourteen-year old daughter had apparently been sucked into the middle of one of his 'situations' was not sitting well with her in the least ... she stood and paced.
Despite knowing that what was happening was not really his fault, Jules nevertheless felt increasingly queasy at the idea that his sister, his twin, might be getting herself into serious trouble. If he was half as smart as he was cracked up to be, he would have told her not to be so damn silly the second she'd told him what she was planning to do. That he'd followed her instructions and phoned Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John the second his mother was on the phone to his father, didn't really help get rid of the feeling that he'd become party to a very grave mistake indeed.
Watching his mother walk backwards and forwards, clearly deep in thought, his queasiness intensified.
Still pacing, Cate felt a knot of concern coalesce in her stomach and, not that she enjoyed the sensation, but at least it told her what she really wanted to do, which was the same as she always wanted to do. She wanted to be active, to be physically active in the resolution of this situation. But how? Racking her brains as to a way in which she might actually do something, Cate found no easy solution, and so she paced some more.
The second he entered the kitchen, Jack new that something was very wrong. Apart from the thick silence, the expression on Jules' face and the fact that Cate seemed intent on wearing a pathway on the polished floorboards suggested there was something majorly amiss. He was still a stranger here; it wasn't his place to enquire, but these people already meant more to him than his own family.
"What is it?" he stood, waiting. "What's wrong?"
"Bly has gone off with her boyfriend to Sussex which is really problematic because the boyfriend's father is causing Daddy problems at work, so he's gone to get her back, but we all think it might not be as simple as that."
Jack considered. He knew Sussex rather well. Very well, in fact.
"Would it help if I went there too?" he asked. "I could offer some backup if your husband needed any ..."
Pausing her pacing, Cate managed a tense smile. "Thank you Jack, but of all people, Mycroft will not be short of backup if he wants it," she said. "Blythe's gone to her boyfriend's house for tea, but Landry's father is apparently causing a major problem for my husband and the whole situation has suddenly become a great deal more complicated than a little act of disobedience."
Jules watched Jack freeze, the blond man's expression paling at the mention of Blythe's boyfriend.
"You know him," Jules stood up from his chair. "You know Landry Banister?"
Cate stared between the two young men beside her. "Do you?"
Nodding slowly, Jack inhaled slowly. "Landry Banister is my half-brother," he said. "James Devereux is my stepfather; Landry and I have the same mother."
"But you said your name is Parrish?" Jules frowned.
"It is," Jack nodded again. "My mother was married to Edward Parrish, but he died overseas and then Devereux appeared on the scene and the next thing I know, he wants to adopt me and changes my name," Jack looked faintly ill. "But the man's a right bastard, especially when I told him what I wanted to do for a living, he didn't want to know. So I got out of there as soon as I could earn my own way and kept my father's name,'" the tall blond paused. "I think Landry's gone to the bad though," he said. "Last time I spoke with my mother, she said the boy was far more easily led astray than I was."
The knot in her stomach reached a solidity that could not be denied, and Cate made one of her own decisions.
"Right then," she said. "Coat on, Jack. You and I are taking a fast drive to Sussex where I will hopefully have an opportunity to meet your stepfather," her smile was a fraction too wild.
"You want to meet James Devereux?" Jack headed to the door to get his coat.
"Oh, I intend to do far more than just meet the man," Cate grabbed the keys to the Bentley.