Chapter Three
The Secret Passage – Swimming in La Manche – An Adverse Reaction – A Flying Visit – A Strange State of Mind – Ready to Sail – Something is Very Wrong.
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A salt-laden breeze wafted out of the opened entrance suggesting that somewhere along the way, the passage met the shore.
"Did you know that was there?" Tomas kept his eyes firmly on a swag of ancient cobweb as it ebbed and flowed in the current of air.
"No," Mycroft pushed the unlatched shelving more securely to the side, ensuring it wasn't going to slide back. "But I'm not terribly surprised by its existence," he said, scanning the entire framework of the entrance. "Many owners of these larger coastal houses were in league with smugglers, and I believe this passage will lead us down to a harbour of some kind."
"But how did you even know to look for it?" Cate was itching to get a torch and follow the passage to wherever it went. "Did someone tell you there might be a passage?"
"No," Mycroft rubbed his nose and looked fractionally sheepish. "I wondered if there might be; discovered it the same Tomas did, by considering the angles and dimensions of the room. Well done, that man."
A smile curled his mouth as the boy enjoyed the praise. He didn't get much of it at home, apart from his mum, but she praised everyone. It felt good to have it from someone like Mycroft.
"Can we have a look inside?" he asked hopefully, meeting his uncle's steady blue gaze.
Mycroft considered. Tomas was technically a minor, but was already beginning to put on his adult height; his voice already starting to deepen and his current situation demonstrating an adult's desire for independence. To forbid the adventure would be cruel. He stared down into a pair of eyes that reminded him uncannily of Cate. Maintaining a mostly straight face, he looked across at her.
"I'll leave that decision to your aunt," he was carefully neutral. "Your mother might prefer you to remain above-ground."
"Please, Aunt Cate," Tomas turned to her, putting his hands together in mock-prayer, realising, for the first time that he was now the same height as she. "Please," he groaned. "I never have the chance to do anything fun at home. Please, Aunty Cat?"
Catching the brief twist of amusement on Mycroft's lips, Cate realised there was no possible way she could deny the appeal.
"On two conditions," she folded her arms. "If you go in there, you do everything you're told to do, and you agree to stay the night here with us," she said. "I have no desire to drive around Cornwall in the dark just to give you time to explore secret tunnels," she added. "Either, but not both. Your choice."
Tomas considered. He was really keen to get to London, especially now he had somewhere safe to stay and knew he wouldn't be all alone. On the other hand … secret passages didn't come along every day …
"Would you be willing to take me to the station tomorrow sometime?" he asked, hopefully.
"If you want me to take you to the station tomorrow, I will do so," Cate nodded. "Now come with me and hunt for some torches while I ask Nora to keep an eye on the twins."
Mycroft smiled. Getting the boy to stay overnight meant Cate had cleverly extended the window of persuasion. If they could just keep Tomas with them for a few days, he was sure any intention to go to London could be deflected, or at least postponed. He had no wish to lose his young relative's particular skills to the general job market: there were some very specific people he wanted Neve's son to meet.
They were back within two minutes, and Cate handed him a large square torch liberated from the Bentley. "This is probably going to be the brightest we have," she said. "And since I assume you're going to claim the lead, you'd better have the best view," she said pragmatically.
"Sherlock would have adored this," the elder Holmes observed with a faraway smile. "I must remember to tell him about it in exquisite detail."
Lifting her eyebrows, Cate turned to her nephew. "If you think your brothers are ever going to stop teasing you, you're going to be very disappointed," she said, indicating Mycroft's faintly self-satisfied expression. "Exhibit A."
"What, never?" Tomas looked uncertain.
Cate nudged her husband. "How old are you?"
"Tomas, my boy," Mycroft met his nephew's eyes with a philosophical look. "Never marry if you seek a peaceful life," he smiled at Cate's indignant squeak. "When we get inside," he continued, "I want you to stay behind me and walk only where it is clearly safe to do so." Lifting an eyebrow, he looked between the two of them. "Shall we?"
Almost vibrating with excitement, Tomas took the torch Cate handed him, flashing the light all around the entrance as he stepped though, shadowing Mycroft's footsteps to the inch.
Making sure there was a heavy old book wedged beneath the displaced shelving, Cate followed.
As he stepped through the rough opening, the temperature dropped immediately. There was a sensation of dampness and the salt-smell grew even stronger, although there was also another smell, Mycroft noted; vaguely metallic and disagreeable.
Immediately inside the doorway was a smallish level area, about ten feet square, mostly level and paved with smooth stone slabs. To the right there was a rock face with an old iron counterweight on a short rusty chain, itself connected to the door-opening mechanism within the shelves.
To the left appeared to be a relatively level stone corridor, its entirety difficult to see due to the complete darkness; a smell of the sea coming from out of the shadows. Flicking on the torch, Mycroft explored the cold air ahead of him. It was pitch black, but fortunately the spiders seemed to have avoided this part of the tunnel and there were no cobwebs to impede his movement. Light from the torch picked up old iron sconces in the wall at points where once flaming brands would have best illuminated the passage.
Walking carefully along the dry stone passage, he noted the flickering beams of Tomas and Cate following behind. His torch showed a stone wall up ahead and the edge of a stairway leading down. There was an echo of their footsteps as they moved cautiously along the narrow passage.
"Steps," he announced, pointing the light downward his feet following immediately behind. The walls here turned from smoothly masoned stone to roughly-hewn rock, with some form of grey algae blooming in the light of the torches. The air was even fresher now, but still there was an odd smell underlying that of the beach.
Swinging the strong beam of the torch up the wall to his right, Mycroft noted a line of lighter stone moving sinuously along the excavated rock face. Bordered by several inches of what seemed to be a curiously orange-yellow chalk, the central core of the snaking stripe was a whitish-grey ore, crumbly in parts and shiny in others. It was a seam of tin.
"This was Cornwall's wealth in the sixteenth-and seventeenth-centuries," he said, his eyes tracking the seam down the wall. There was a shiny section of rock within reach of his hand. He rubbed his fingers along it, feeling a thick, greasy sensation against his skin. Bringing his fingertips to his nose he sniffed: the same unpleasant metallic-chemical smell was running right through the rock itself. Perhaps this was what raw tin-ore smelled like, although there was an odour that reminded him of something else; he'd summon the memory later, but right now, there were other considerations. Rubbing his fingers to rid them of the oily residue, he carried on down the steps.
The steps stopped at another and much wider area, roughly oblong in shape and about twenty feet in length and two-thirds as wide. Waiting until Tomas and Cate were beside him, Mycroft took his time exploring this larger space.
Clearly it had been a room where time had been spent waiting. There was a crude table and chairs over against the far wall, with what looked like old leather coats or blankets hanging from pegs hammered into the wall. Cracked and yellowing candles stood on the table, permanently stuck in a heavy pool of old wax.
"If we could light them, we'd better see the place this used to be," Mycroft shone his torch up and down the wall, curious to see the exact dimension of this unexpected addition to the Cornish house.
Extracting a box of matches from her jeans pocket, Cate shook them, smugly. "Used to be in the scouts, remember?" she said, lighting all of the candle-stubs cemented so heavily to the table. It took several moments for the dried wicks to catch, but eventually, a glow of yellow light cast around the space.
To the far right of the room, there were the stone steps leading back up to the library in the house. The space they were in now had a decent height and was sufficiently airy that the spiders had been unsuccessful here too, although the stone slabs were gritty underfoot with the dust and detritus of untold years. Old wooden crates and boxes were partly stacked, partly heaped in various piles around the edges of the room.
The table and chairs were placed well over towards the far side of the space, allowing free-passage towards a second exit at the other end of the room; another stone stairway leading downwards.
As they turned to go through the lower exit, Mycroft pulled up short.
There was large knife, almost a machete, thrust hard into a solid wooden post. At eye-level, it was impossible to miss, since the knife's wooden handle protruded ominously into the passageway. Anyone going in either direction would have to pass it.
"A warning or a promise?" Cate asked, wondering, playing her torch over the fearsome-looking thing.
"Does it have blood on it?" Tomas got as close as possible, shining his light over the dull and rusted blade.
"Gruesome infant," Cate patted him on the shoulder as she smiled across at Mycroft.
"I suspect both of ours will be equally macabre," his expression was benign.
"That would definitely be a thing from your side of the family then, not mine," Cate raised her eyebrows. "The Adins are not the macabre type, whereas the Holmes' probably have the word engraved on their hearts."
"Firstly," Mycroft nodded at the youngest Adin currently scraping the blade with his torch to see if any blood-like materials resulted. "Macabre? Q.E.D.," he smiled. "And secondly, the only word engraved on my heart is your name."
Cate brought his hand to her cheek. "Macabre and romantic," she grinned, and then frowned, holding his fingers away. "What is that awful smell?"
"Something on the wall," Mycroft extracted a handkerchief and attempted to wipe the sticky deposit away.
"Shall we continue the expedition?" he pointed his torch forward to the top of the next stairway.
More stone steps led downwards again, the scent of the sea distinct and pungent now, although it was still utterly dark. Cate knew they had to be making their way down towards the shore, somewhere, but where would they emerge?
This part of the stairway was considerably longer than the first one and as several of the steps had sunk or cracked, they were cautious as they stepped down.
Eventually, Mycroft's torch illuminated what seemed to be a dead-end, right in front of them.
All three played their torches over the obstacle; an apparent landslide of rocks and earth blocking the entire passage.
"Oh, no," Tomas looked desperate. "This can't be the end of the tunnel, Uncle Mycroft? There has to be a way around this. Can we unblock it?"
"One moment," Mycroft stepped close to the blockage, his fingertips brushing over the surface. He felt … not rock. Strange.
"How clever," his words were quietly appreciative, as he pushed his hand further forward … and it disappeared.
"That doesn't look terribly safe, darling," Cate wondered what he was doing shoving his entire hand into a pile of fallen rock.
Mycroft turned back to face them both, a light smile on his lips. "The architect of this little blockade was an expert in the art of concealment," he nodded. "See."
Lifting his invisible hand, there was a slight but definite movement beneath the surface of the fallen rock, as if he were lifting it from below.
But that wasn't possible, Cate realised. Nobody could lift that kind of weight with a flex of the wrist: there was some mystery here. She stood beside her husband and reached out to touch the same place he had.
Instead of cold, rough rock under her fingertips, she felt something hard and dry, but much lighter. It felt like …
"Canvas?" she said looking up at Mycroft. "This is fake?"
Nodding, he moved to the side, feeling for a handle and pulled at the rigid material which parted, grudgingly in his insistent hands. Behind the several layers of artfully arranged trompe l'oile, he felt something colder and harder; something much less organic.
It was an old iron gate, stretching from the floor right the way up to the curved roof of the tunnel, complete with a corroded padlock so large and ungainly. It had to have been hand-made. But no key, even if one might be found to fit, would ever open this specimen again: it was rusted to a solid mass.
"Hand me one of those stones, would you?" Mycroft pointed Tomas toward a few of the real things at the foot of the fake landslide.
Juggling the substantial lump of rock in his hand until he found a good grip, Mycroft dashed it hard against the old lock at the point where the locking-bolt connected to the main body of the device. As the mechanism crumbled into red dust, Mycroft inspected the centre of his hand. The sharp edge of the rock had left several small cuts. There were several spots of blood.
"With luck, we may be able to continue our explorations," he looked pleased, taking out his handkerchief again, pressing it against his palm. Pulling the dried and withered canvas carefully to one side, he tested the gate itself. Although he was able to knock the closing bolt free with the rock, the gate itself wouldn't budge.
Mycroft stood back, thinking. "How thick are the soles of your shoes, Tomas?" he murmured, examining the rusted hinges.
"Plenty thick, Uncle Mycroft," the boy's grin was tangible.
"And how strong are your legs feeling at present?"
"Pretty strong, actually," Tomas bounced on his toes.
"Sufficient to loosen a couple of petrified hinges, do you think?"
"Easily sufficient, Uncle Mycroft," his nephew-in-law was almost smirking.
"Would you care to test that assumption?" Mycroft turned, a faint look of invitation on his face.
"Where do you want me to hit it?" Tomas examined the solid-looking but rusty construction.
"I think a reasonably authoritative strike in this region would do the job," Mycroft waved his fingers just above the loosened bolt.
Without another word, the teenager planted the sole of his trainer flat against the gate and gave a vigorous shove. With a dusting of iron flakes and screeching metal, the tall gate resisted no more. While not swinging freely, it was at least passable.
Tomas turned and grinned hugely.
Cate smiled. Mycroft knew with her Hapkido training, the gate would have been little challenge, but he had wanted Tomas to feel necessary to the adventure; that he was needed. It seemed to be working: the boy was almost puppy-like with pleasure at being so useful. And if anything might convince him to think twice about running off to London, it would be because he realised he didn't have to leave home to achieve the freedom he sought. A little bit of self-confidence might do wonders.
As they passed through, they could see the other side of the gate had also received the landslide illusion treatment. Unless you knew it was fake, you wouldn't bother getting close enough to find otherwise. It was a brilliant disguise.
And now the passage beckoned once again as they walked down, always down. The smell of the sea was all around them now, and within a minute, the darkness had lifted, the stone steps beneath their feet turned into uncut but flattened bedrock, gritty with sand and limpets as they exited from a deep cave onto a perfectly sheltered cove. A few more steps and they were on a small beach surrounded by high cliffs on two sides and a steep hilly slope on the third. Before them lay a Mediterranean-blue watered inlet, tiny ripples of clear water creeping up and back on the smooth and untouched sand.
Almost untouched sand, Mycroft noted with a subtle frown.
Over at the far side of the small beach was a clear elongated scar, as if something long and heavy had been hauled ashore and then dragged back to the water. He looked at the surrounding cliffs and hillside: nothing that weighty or with that mass could have reached this place other than by sea or by a heavy-lift Chinook or Sikorsky. There was no obvious escape via the cliffs, therefore any passage from this discreet anchorage must be via the only remaining route; the steep hillside. Sharpening his focus, Mycroft could make out several places at the base of the grassy slope that showed signs of the recent passage of many feet. As he looked even closer, he was able to discern the faintest hint of a path zigzagging up the dusty bank.
Pursing his lips, he nodded to himself. Interesting.
"Oh, but this is fantastic," Cate enthused. "If the children had longer legs, I'd have them down here every day."
"Why do they need longer legs?" Tomas was uncertain.
"I don't think a toddler could handle all those steps, and I'm not sure I'd want to carry one all the way back up, let alone two of them," she sighed. "But I'd use the passage every day if I could," kicking off her canvas deck-shoes, she buried her toes in the warm sand. "This is too lovely for words."
The heat of the afternoon sun on the back of his head made Mycroft feel a little uncomfortable and he decided shade would be more appropriate. For some reason, he felt the onset of a faint headache.
"At least we know the house has at a passage and where it leads," he said. "There might be something about it in the early plans of the property if they can be found.
Knowing now that Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied until he'd unearthed any existing plans, Cate smiled.
"There was supposed to be a private beach with the house, wasn't there?" she asked. "But not this one, I think."
"No, there's another small bay just in front of the house; a brief walk down a fenced pathway and it's there," Mycroft started walking back to the shade: the sun was surprisingly potent and his head throbbed for a moment.
"Then let's go back and take the twins down to the beach so they can spend a while getting acclimated to a real beach," she said, grinning. "Race you two back up the steps."
With a whoop of still-childish laughter, Tomas dashed into the mouth of the cave to grab his torch, with Cate not far behind.
Mycroft followed at a more responsible pace, still feeling the unexpected heat of the sun on him. Perhaps he was dehydrated and needed a cool drink of water. Even the thought of it made his mouth dry. Picking up his feet, he followed the others back into the cave and up the steps.
###
"This will not be simple, you realise?" Bisset lit a Gitane and exhaled the pungent smoke. "It is dangerous even when we take every precaution, and when the night sky is in our favour, but you are asking me to do this at the wrong time of the calendar: it is incredibly risky. Can your client not wait even for one more week? It would be safer."
The tall sunburned Greek shook his head. "It is more dangerous for my client to stay in France than it is for him to take the risks you describe," he said. "He must leave the country as soon as is possible; certainly within the next few days."
"It is not only your client who shares these risks, of course," Bisset narrowed his eyes and looked unpleasant.
"And it is for this reason that you are being very amply paid for your services, monsieur," the Greek raised his heavy eyebrows, perfectly calm. The Frenchman would not do anything to upset the arrangement which benefitted them both. Despite his grouching, he would take the risks.
"It will take me two more days to arrange for the fuel to be delivered," Bisset ground the cigarette beneath his shoe. "You understand that refuelling my vessel is a little more complicated than most."
Nodding, the Greek agent shrugged. "It is the way of things," he said. "Two days?"
"Will your client be ready?"
"My client is ready right now," the tall man looked around. "I have to be careful myself, in case I am followed. It would not be … healthy for my client to be apprehended by any members of the security forces, you understand."
"I do not care who or what your client is," Bisset spat on the ground. "I am only interested in the money. Half up front and half later as usual?"
"In this instance, I think I shall consider one-third before and the rest upon completion," the agent looked thoughtful. "It would be too easy for my client to go for a swim in the middle of the Channel if you were apprehended by the British coastguard and the money had already been paid," he paused. "So I think we will be a little more prudent this time."
Sighing with impatience, Luc Bisset, Captain of The Clear Sky, looked around. "Then let us hope that you were not followed, monsieur," he said. "Or swimming in la Manche will be the least of our problems."
"So when can you go?"
Making a face, Bisset scowled. "Today is Wednesday," he muttered. "I can go on Friday night. Have your client at the usual place in Saint-Pol-de-Lèon by sunset and I will take him then."
"Friday at sunset?"
"Agreed," Bisset nodded. "And make very sure that nobody follows you."
###
By the time they stepped back through the open doorway into the library, Mycroft was feeling distinctly under the weather. He was uncomfortably hot, his head ached, and his hand, where he'd cut it grasping the sharp-edged rock, was tender and oddly tingling. He was also incredibly thirsty.
Turning back to smile at him after their little adventure, Cate took one look at his flushed face and her expression changed dramatically. "Darling, you look terrible; do you need to lie down?"
About to dismiss his wife's concern as unnecessary, Mycroft changed his mind as he felt his stomach turn unexpectedly queasy.
"I think I will rest briefly," he attempted a dismissive smile as his body argued that briefly might not be enough.
"Tomas, bring a large glass of cold water up to the main bedroom please," Cate wrapped an arm around Mycroft's waist as he seemed almost ready to drop.
"A little fatigued," he mumbled. "Dehydrated, most likely."
"Let's get you to bed and resting and after a nap you might feel better," Cate smiled calmly, though she felt anything but. She had never seen him ill. Tired, exhausted, yes, but ill? And yet he had been perfectly well only an hour before. Cate kept her worries quiet. Perhaps he simply was dehydrated and a snooze might do him the world of good – he had been overdoing things at work recently; hardly surprising therefore if there were moments when he went a bit wonky.
Getting him into their room, Cate sat him on the bed and went to draw the curtains. Pulling the covers back, she helped him out of his jacket and shoes as he lay back against the cool linen.
Tomas arrived with the water and she helped Mycroft drink it. He gulped it down in seconds. "More please," he swallowed with difficulty, as if his throat was too tight for anything to go down.
Trained as a first-aider, Cate was beginning to feel seriously concerned. If she didn't know better, she'd swear the Mycroft was having an allergic reaction. Had he been bitten by something?
"My love, have you been stung?" she examined all the visible parts of his skin.
With closed eyes, he shook his head slowly, clearly unwell.
Thinking, Cate cast about for anything that had happened in the last hour – they'd been together almost the entire time – if anything had happened, she would have seen, would have noticed something …
"Let me see your hand," she said reaching out to turn his wrist palm-up.
The skin was bright-red and angry, with several small cuts already suppurating a clear yellow liquid. This was bad: whatever it was that Mycroft had touched was clearly a venomous substance. The fact that his condition had gone down so rapidly meant he was reacting badly and there was no saying how much worse he might become. There was only one thing for it.
Hospital.
But first she had to clean his skin of any toxic substance. Tomas returned looking alarmed.
"I have to wash Mycroft's hand," she said. "But I need help getting him to the sink, so grab an arm," she added, taking the side nearest her and lifting. Between the two of them, they got a feverish and staggering Mycroft to the ensuite where Cate proceeded to scrub both his hands and wrists with hot water and soap. He groaned wretchedly.
"Sorry," Cate was focused on the task. "I have to get all this gunk off your skin and then get you to a hospital; you'll ill."
"No hospital," he mumbled. "New security protocol."
"Rubbish," Cate didn't waste time arguing. "Lie back down and I'll get my bag. Where's the nearest hospital?" she asked the boy.
"Poltair, about ten-minutes from here. It's a small place, but they have everything a bigger hospital has."
"Good," Cate nodded. "I'll need directions."
"No hospital," Mycroft muttered again. "Get one of my doctors here."
"My love, we're not in London, I have to get you to a hospital," Cate struggled to keep her voice level.
"No hospital!" Mycroft snarled, grabbing her upper arm in a cruel grasp as both Cate and Tomas jumped, neither his shout nor movement expected.
"Mycroft, you've been poisoned," Cate moved to hold his face between her hands. "I can't take care of you here, my love."
His eyes strafed her with caustic reproach.
Cate paused, she had never seen him look so antagonistic before.
"No hospital," he was peremptory. "Just listen for once and do as you're told."
This was not like him, not even on the rare occasion when he'd been furiously angry. The chill of his voice was physically discomforting. Even Tomas stared.
"Mycroft, you're ill, I need to get you to the proper care as fast as possible," Cate was not about to back down, despite his belligerence.
"Phone Chief of Security … Beaumont; he arranges these things …" his voice faded as he lay back against the pillows, pale and sweating.
Exasperated, Cate dug out his Blackberry from an inside jacket pocket and scrolling through Mycroft's contacts, she found an Alex Beaumont. In a second she had dialled the number and was waiting breathlessly for a response.
"Beaumont," a drawling American accent was in her ear. "Thought you were on vacation, Mycroft?"
"Mr Beaumont, my husband is seriously ill but refuses to let me take him to hospital. He's been poisoned, and if I don't get him medical attention, his condition may worsen. He says it's a new security protocol and told me to ring you," Cate drew a shaky breath. "Are you actually forbidding Mycroft hospital treatment?"
"Good God, no," Beaumont was shocked. "Merely that he needs to be supervised when being treated in case of deliria," he added. "Where are you … no, scrub that," Beaumont's voice faded for a few seconds. "Got the GPS of the phone you're using," he said. "I've already scrambled the nearest emergency medical support we have in the area; a Sea King helicopter search and rescue team from HMS Seahawk in Culdrose," he continued. "Should be there in less than ten minutes," he added. "Can they land?"
"There's an open field about a hundred yards down the lane from the house," Cate was heady with relief. "I'll be waiting for them."
"Can Mycroft hold on until the medics arrive?" Beaumont sounded worried.
"I hope so, Mr Beaumont," Cate looked at Mycroft's unnaturally pale face and shallow breathing. "He's not well."
"Just try and keep him going until the Fleet Air Arm guys arrive, Professor Holmes," Beaumont clearly knew who she was. "Keep talking; I'm patching our conversation into a mike on board the helicopter enroute to you now: please describe the problem; whatever you tell me they'll hear too."
"Mycroft touched some oily substance on the wall of a cave beneath the house. The substance has a profoundly bad smell: metallic, chemical, nasty," she paused, drawing another shaking breath. "Then he managed to get several small cuts in the same hand and I think some of the substance, whatever it is, has got into his bloodstream …" Cate's voice trailed off as Mycroft's breathing began to grow rough and strained.
"Oh, God, please hurry," she spoke faster. "His breathing is getting worse and I'm not sure he's going to remain conscious for long."
There was a scratchy crackle as a new voice sounded in her ear.
"This Pilot Captain Dunford. ETA to landing site approx three minutes, M'am," an educated British accent delivered the comforting news. "Is the patient breathing independently?"
"Hang on," Cate handed the phone to Tomas while she grabbed two more pillows and, pulling Mycroft forward, got him sitting further upright. Then she ripped open his shirt and listened to his heart and his chest.
Thank God. His heart, though beating fast, sounded strong, and there was no obvious wheezing in his chest. Cate took the phone back.
"He's sitting up and breathing unaided, but it's strained and I'll initiate CPR if it worsens," she said, her fingers on Mycroft's pulse. It was thin and bouncy. He had not spoken now for several minutes, and his pallor was severe.
"We have your house on-screen, M'am," the Pilot's announcement made her feel weak. "Be with you in a jiffy."
"Tomas," Cate pointed out the bedroom door. "Go let them in, please."
###
The Watchers had been wide-eyed as the bright yellow helicopter landed in the field right behind their bolthole. The tall grass that functioned as their main screen blew nearly flat under the downdraft from the Sea King's four-bladed main rotor.
Almost before the aircraft touched down in the waving green ocean, two men in matching yellow uniforms leaped out, both carrying large square cases in their arms. They ran very fast towards the house where the people were staying.
There were still another two men on the helicopter, so the watchers decided to lay low for a while and see what was going to happen next.
Several minutes later, a third man came out of the machine, carrying a lightweight aluminium stretcher, which he took into the house. A few minutes after that, all three men came out again, carrying someone one the stretcher, but as the person was all wrapped up and strapped in, the Watchers couldn't see who it was. The lady they had seen earlier in the garden talking on the phone came with them, carrying a small suitcase.
Everyone climbed into the yellow helicopter, which started its long blades spinning and whirring again, until it took off into the sky, heading back the way it had come.
As soon as everything went quiet, those who watched became those who reported.
###
They had been at the West Cornwall Acute Diagnosis and Treatment Centre since yesterday afternoon; the first day of their 'holiday'. It had been pretty full, Cate reflected.
A runaway nephew; the discovery of a secret passage; a hidden cove and a poisoned husband, followed by a night in the acute treatment centre of a local hospital.
The Sea Kings' medic had eased Mycroft's breathing with an injection of an epinephrine-based drug, but had pronounced continued observation and treatment in the West Cornwall to be critical. And so they'd come here. Cate yawned, feeling worn out with all the events of the last twenty-four hours. They'd put Mycroft into a twin-bedded private room, and she'd managed to doze lightly in the empty bed during Mycroft's unconscious fight with the anaphylactic reaction to whatever it was he'd absorbed. Nurses had drawn phials of blood on several occasions for a range of tests.
She had informed Alex Beaumont of the situation and had, as per his request, not left her husband's side in the hours he'd been here, first unconscious and now sleeping.
There was an extended sigh as Mycroft began to wake. Rubbing the sleep from her face, Cate sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. His eyes flickered open.
"How are you feeling, my love?" she brushed the hair back from his forehead.
He looked around. "Hospital?" His voice was back to normal, at least.
"The West Cornwall Acute Treatment Centre," Cate nodded. "Your Mr Beaumont knows you're here and all is well."
Visibly relaxing, Mycroft observed her appearance. "You are tired."
Looking fatalistic, Cate shrugged. "The joys of married life," she stroked her thumb along his cheekbone as his bandaged hand reached up to touch her fingers, bringing them to his lips, he kissed the softness of her palm, eliciting the soft intake of her breath.
Smiling, he tugged her down towards him, lifting his other hand around the back of her head, bringing her closer. His kiss was gentle but as her lips parted for him, he became more interested in her active response, holding her closer and deepening the embrace with a low grumble of pleasure. It was clear to both of them where this was heading.
Gasping and laughing, Cate pulled herself away.
"You've been quite ill," she murmured. "Plenty of time later."
"I want you now," his eyes were dark as he gazed at her. "Here."
Still smiling, Cate shook her head. "This is a public place, Mycroft. People walk in and out all the time."
"I want you," he repeated, a strange smile on his lips. "Lock the door."
Uncertain, Cate paused. It was half-tempting and half-strange. For Mycroft to be so unconcerned with discretion was unlike him.
"Later," she decided, laughing again, her fingers stroking the side of his face.
A faint frown appeared between his eyes as he absorbed her refusal. He raised an eyebrow.
Catching sight of a ring of blue-black bruises around her upper arm, his frown increased. They had not been there the previous day and were clearly made by a hand that had tightened hard around his wife's supple limb.
"Who did that?"
Lifting both her eyebrows and looking rueful, she looked down at him and made a face.
"You did, my love," Cate tipped her head to one side. "But don't feel bad about it: you weren't in any state of mind to know what you were doing and they'll soon go, in any case."
Tracing an arc gently around the outer part of her arm with the ball of his thumb, Mycroft regarded the marks he had left on Cate's flesh. Dark and angry, their genesis must have been a fairly painful event. It was odd, but he could not find it in himself to feel guilty about it, or that the act was worthy of repentance.
It wasn't even displeasure he was feeling.
Bringing her hand to his lips again, he smiled.
###
La Ciel Claire edged almost silently out of her very discreet and very well hidden mooring just outside of Troguérot, as soon as Bisset judged the night was as dark as it was ever going to get. Though the moon was not full, it was certainly providing a greater illumination than he wanted. His right-hand man was equally unimpressed. Joubert stood in the bow, hiding the light of his cigarette in a cupped hand and scowling.
"It is too dangerous to travel in this," he muttered, his quiet words carrying easily in the still night air. "We will be discovered for sure."
"You share of this contract is fifty-thousand Euros," Bisset eased his boat through a bank of tall marsh-reeds that masked a hidden anchorage with a short wooden jetty. "For that kind of money, you can handle a little danger."
At the top of a jetty stood a number of two-hundred litre drums of diesel fuel, left there less than an hour previously for Bisset to collect. He would align The Clear Sky next to a small electric pump and empty every drum in order to fill her capacious duel tanks. They would need to refuel once they reached the Scilly Isles, but that arrangement had likewise been put in place.
Tonight they were fuelling-up and preparing for the trip tomorrow to the Scilly Isles. They would hide out there during the day, refuel as soon as dark arrived and then make for the Cornish coast on the following night.
Saturday night.
###
After speaking with Alex Beaumont for several minutes on his Blackberry, Mycroft had hugged his children when he and Cate arrived back at the Cornish house.
"Daddy better?" Blythe rested both her hands on his face as he lifted her up in his left arm. Her expression was troubled, her blue gaze probing his. She smoothed his eyebrows with her dainty fingertips.
"Your daddy is all better now, my darling," Mycroft spoke gruffly as he held her tight to him, an unanticipated stinging behind his eyes. That this small child had only his welfare in her thoughts was overwhelming.
"Daddy!" Julius threw his arms high, demanding a whirl which he inevitably managed to get. The sensation of his son's two small arms tight around his neck was so overwhelming that he closed his eyes with the intensity of his reaction.
In that moment, Mycroft realised something was very wrong. He did not usually experience this level of emotional sensitivity, nor had he previously had any difficulty quantifying or resisting actions of moral ambiguity. Why did his children's affection have him close to tears? Why did he feel a near sense of gratification at Cate's bruises? What was eroding his moral compass and the capacity to control his responses?
With a horrifying chill, Mycroft Holmes realised he was still being poisoned.