Chapter Seven
Like a Rabbit – A Convenient Resting Place – They Will Know – A Deadly Black Pit – Can You Catch? – The Cost of a Life – A Debt, Still.
#
#
After a full morning down on the little beach, they had brought the children back up for their midday meal after which the twins fell immediately asleep, enabling the grownups to have a relaxed lunch of their own, for a change.
Sherlock and John had taken Tomas and headed off for a walk around the headland, though whether that had anything to do with the investigation or not was unknown.
So they were alone for lunch, sitting at a small round table in the kitchen garden, surrounded by perfumed, heavy-headed roses and the chirp of grasshoppers. It was rather pleasant.
"Does the child need anything? Or can we help his mother?" Cate looked across the lunch table at Mycroft. "Are we able to see if he's alright?"
"We can ring the hospital and check on the boy's progress, if you wish," Mycroft savoured the light chill of a rather good Australian Chardonnay which harmonised very nicely with their lunch of fresh local crab and green salad. "But the hospital is unlikely to tell us much other than his general condition."
"I think we should be a little more supportive than that, if we can," she raised her brows. "There may be out-of-pocket expenses, all sorts of things. I doubt Mr Purrun's group have private health insurance and a child in hospital can be expensive."
"You want to pay the medical expenses?" Mycroft smiled into his glass. He remembered a time when a similar suggestion from him about her own medical costs had been met with a stern rebuff.
"And don't look so smug," she added, sipping from her own glass. "Nobody has to know. We could ask the hospital people simply to say nothing at all, but to send any bills to us."
Cate paused, widening her eyes as Nora placed a dish of summer pudding and cream down on the table between them. There was no way they'd be able to fit anything else in after one of her famous lunches. The older woman walked away, smiling happily to see them enjoying their food.
"You wouldn't be able to do anything, even if you were to ask," Mycroft swirled the golden wine in his glass and continuing the conversation. He smiled.
"And why's that?"
Saying nothing, her husband merely met her gaze and allowed his mouth to curve slightly higher at the corners.
Cate realised. Of course.
"You beat me to it," she looked glad. "Of course you would; you've already fixed the entire thing up, haven't you? But still," she added. "I'd like to go and see if the child or his mother needs anything the hospital can't give them."
"Then we shall take a short drive after lunch. Sherlock may need additional supplies as well, so we might even take a turn into Penzance, if you're willing?"
"As long as Nora can keep an eye on the twins," Cate gave in, dipping a spoon into the brilliant scarlet sauce of the dessert and tasted the results of their housekeeper's culinary expertise. "Oh God …" she closed her eyes and allowed the sensation to dissolve in her mouth. It was beyond decent.
"There's no immediate rush, is there?" Mycroft smiled at her blissful expression, taking a small portion of the fragrant sweet for himself and adding a dollop of clotted cream.
"I hope you'll be feeling energetic enough to work all these extra calories off," Cate murmured, giving in and helping herself to a dish of the dessert. And the irresistible cream. "Or we're both going to be bigger than this house."
His lips twisting in the same subtle manner, Mycroft said nothing but looked upon his wife with indulgent contemplation.
"I feel certain there will be means of expending all manner of energy before the day is out," he said in great good humour. Dipping a finger into the sweet juice of the pudding, he sucked it gently away.
Cate's stomach did a full three-sixty degree somersault as his blue gaze remained constant and unwavering, a slight flush rising up her neck at his unabashed desire and shameless intent.
"You are probably right," she blinked at him slowly, refusing to be provoked by such arrant lechery. "If we don't fall into a sugar-coma first," she added, sipping the white wine.
Travelling companionably in the Landrover, they headed back to Poltair after lunch, to bump into Leah Henessy by the main reception desk.
"Oh, hi, back again?" she smiled, looking at Mycroft and then across at Cate.
"My wife," he introduced them.
"I was concerned about the little boy," Cate held the younger woman's attention. "Is there anything he needs or wants, or that his mother would like for him?" she asked. "I wouldn't want there to be any embarrassment on anyone's part, but if there is anything, we can get it and you might say it's from the hospital … could you?"
Henessy lifted her eyebrows. "Actually, there's nothing you can really get the lad that he hasn't already been given, although if you go in and see him now, be warned that he's a little upset."
"Upset, why?" Mycroft frowned.
"Better ask his mother," Leah nodded towards one of the side wards. "Go and see the boy for yourself, he's doing fine, but I'm keeping him in for a couple of days, to be absolutely sure."
Walking quietly into the indicated doorway, Cate saw there were only two occupied beds in the long room, and only one with a small boy.
A dark-haired woman sat beside the bed talking quietly to the child.
"Hello, again," Mycroft greeted the boy's mother, who stood, smiling.
"You have come to see my baby is getting better?" she smiled, nodding. "He is, but he is unhappy he has to stay here alone."
"He misses his family?" Cate looked understanding. "But you are here; won't they let you stay with him?"
"Ah," Purrun's daughter smiled, resigned. "He is having a poor time of it," she said. "He misses his plaything and there is nothing I can do about it."
"But you brought it with you, I saw you put it into the bag," Mycroft frowned again. "Was it lost?"
"Not lost," the child's mother looked uncomfortable. "The nurses said it was too unhygienic to sleep with in here and asked me to take it away," she sighed. "It is a foolish thing, but he always has it with him at night and will find it hard to sleep with it gone."
"The hospital told you to take your boy's toy away?" Cate was scandalised. "That's outrageous."
The boy's mother shrugged. "What can I do?" she said helplessly.
Mycroft had been watching Cate's face as a particular expression darkened her eyes. He knew precisely what was in her mind and wagered he could predict almost to the syllable what she was going to say. His years of necessary diplomacy came to the fore.
"I have a suggestion, my love," he smiled mildly at Purrun's daughter, drawing Cate to one side.
"I've got a suggestion for the Matron or doctors or whoever told that child he couldn't have his toy," Cate growled, her sensibilities offended.
"While it would be a simple matter to ensure the hospital authorities rescind their dictat, it would require a disproportionate amount of effort."
"Shotgun to kill a mosquito?" Cate was unmollified.
"Of that nature, yes," Mycroft slid an arm around her shoulders, leading her towards the exit. "There is an easier way."
Which was why, a few minutes later, Cate found herself in the same situation as John had only that morning. The ride between Poltair Hospital and Penzance was less than five minutes, but Cate was in no mood for a scenic trip. Mycroft was motoring far too demurely for her liking.
"I know you can drive better than this," she muttered, still irked by the hospital policy. "Put some wellie into it, please."
Without a word, Mycroft's foot pressed the accelerator down to the legal edge and the quiet road flew past.
Cate recalled seeing a shop just down the hill from the supermarket. It looked the sort of place that would have all kinds of weird and wonderful objects in it, as well as … toys.
"What kind of thing was it?" turning to him, Cate realised she didn't even know what it was they were looking for.
"Some kind of long-eared knitted rabbit affair," he wrinkled his nose, thinking. "Pale yellow," he added, looking around.
"Over here," Cate touched his elbow, leading him to a side wall stuffed with various soft and knitted things. "Any of these look close?"
There were large wicker baskets of teddy bears, long-legged rag dolls, squeaky fluffy birds and, for some reason, bright green fish. No rabbits, knitted or otherwise.
Going to the front counter, Cate smiled at the woman adding up numbers on the back of an envelope.
"Can I help you find something?" she asked, dropping the pen and smiling.
"Rabbits," Cate nodded seriously. "Knitted, long-eared and yellow. If you have any."
"Always good when a customer knows exactly what they're after," the woman puffed out her cheeks, thinking. "Not sure if we … hang on a minute," she stopped, suddenly pensive, turning around and looking into the body of the shop. "There may be something … hang on," and she dashed through a doorway behind the desk.
There were several muffled thumps and the sound of cardboard boxes being moved.
"How about …" the owner came back through the door, a pleased grin on her face as she plonked something sunflower-bright down onto the counter. "This?"
A yellow, long-eared rabbit, not knitted, but definitely of the brightest golden that could be imagined. It was also one of the most unattractive creations Cate had ever seen. Sitting upright like a kangaroo, the thing's ears were down to its feet and it wore an expression of slightly manic surprise but, God, it was so yellow.
"This is an exceptionally ugly animal," she lifted her eyes back to the owner.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" the woman smiled happily. "Been trying to sell it for ages but nobody wants it," she added, pushing it a little further forward on the counter. "Except you."
"This is a rabbit?" Mycroft bent forward to examine the toy carefully.
"Long ears, big feet, whiskers," Cate looked at him sideways. "Says 'rabbit' to me," meeting the shop owner's smiled she nodded. "I'll have it, if you can add one small detail for me …"
The return to Poltair took even less time than the leaving of it and Cate nodded meaningfully at the nurse as she strode right into the child's room and straight up to the bed, a white cloth bag in her hand.
The boy's mother turned a curious expression on her face.
"May I ..?" Cate indicated the side of the child's bed.
The boy looked at her wearily. Too many strange things had happened today. He felt sick. He was hot. His leg hurt and the nurse had told maman to take Waggy away. He closed his eyes and was miserable.
A strange lady sat carefully on the very edge of his bed. She was talking to him … what was she saying? Something about helping someone get well? He opened his eyes.
"And it would be doing everyone a very big favour if you could look after him while you are here because nobody else wants to, you see, and he's not very well at all," Cate pulled the yellow objet from the cotton bag, standing it up in front of the child.
"As you can see," she pointed to a small white bandage around the rabbit's left ankle. "He has a poorly foot, just like you do," she said. "He needs looking after for a few days, but nobody wants to do it."
It didn't look a bit like Waggy. Well, maybe a bit. The long ears were the same, and the strange look on his face was because he had a sore leg: perhaps that was why nobody wanted to look after him? He knew how it felt to be in a strange place and not be feeling very well.
"I'll look after him until he's better," the child lifted a hand towards the toy, blinking slowly as Cate handed it over, helping tuck it down inside the cool white sheets as two small arms wrapped around the yellow softness and the boy's eyes closed.
In only moments he was asleep.
Cate felt her wrist being held and gently squeezed. Purrun's daughter smiled at her, eyes sharing her silent gratitude.
###
Sherlock stood, perched like a long-legged black bird on the very edge of a solid granite outcrop, staring out to sea. A light ocean-breeze fluttered the curls of his hair as he looked across into the blue. From a distance he seemed like some ancient statue, carved out of the very rock on which he remained so motionless.
"What's he looking for?" Tomas turned to John who was staring in the opposite direction, back over the bracken and scrubby woodland behind them.
"Whatever he can see," John's words were vague and barely there, as he tallied the number of old pit heads in immediate sight. "There's eight of them in this area alone," he counted. "That's a hellish amount of mining going on in this small area; must have been a crazy place when it was all going on."
"The granite around here is so hard that rather than try and follow a seam when it began to run thin, it was easier to start a brand new mine-shaft a little way away and go back down that way," Tomas nodded. "That's why there's so many pits," he added, "but a lot of them join up underground, you gotta be careful going down one of those."
"Are they dangerous?" John assessed the lay of the land in front of him. It seemed solid enough.
"Oh, the land around here is pretty safe," Tomas wrinkled his nose. "But once you get into any of these old pits, then you're taking your life in your hands. There's no telling what kind of things has happened down in the dark."
"Cave-ins?"
"Oh yeah," Tomas nodded again. "Lots of those, as well as some of the more shallow galleries caving-in right the way along," he pointed. "Like that one, over there."
It took him a while to spot what the boy was pointing at, but then John saw. A long and deep trench-like cut into the ground, stretching for at least thirty yards or more. It was all overgrown now with grass and bent old trees, but you could still see what it was if you knew what you were looking at.
"Any really deep shafts around here?" John turned to look for Sherlock who had vanished.
"They're all pretty deep," Cate's nephew scanned around, "A few of them go down for a couple of hundred feet, only stopping when the lower workings used to get filled by the sea."
"You ever been down any of them?" John lifted his eyebrows, curious.
"If my mum knew I'd been down an old tin-mine, she'd skin me alive," the boy grinned. "But yeah, I have," he admitted. "They're scary places."
"What are?" Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, making him jump. "The mines? Indeed," he shoved his hands in his pockets. "A convenient resting place for many a corpse, I've no doubt."
"Murder?" John frowned. "Or just disposal?"
"Either. Both," Sherlock shrugged an elegant shoulder.
"Which would explain all the stories about ghosts and the hauntings that go on around here," Tomas grinned. "Every pit has at least one ghost."
"At least," Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking around. "Any mine in particular with lots of stories?"
"Around here?" Tomas made a face. "Hard to tell … every one of 'em will have tales about things that go bump in the night."
"Do they now ..?" the tall, dark-suited man looked contemplative.
"But there's a couple not far from the house which are supposed to be some of the deepest in the area and therefore the ones with the most bodies," the boy grinned cheekily. "I'm game to take a look if you are."
"There is no way we are letting you get anywhere near an abandoned tin-mine," John shook his head. "Your mother might threaten to skin you alive, but your uncle could actually do it."
Sherlock snorted quietly, staring at the tangle of old wood still scaffolding some of the mine shafts.
"Uncle Mycroft?" Tomas was uncertain. "But he's so nice."
Sherlock and John shared a glance.
"Yes, he's very nice, unless you annoy him and get in his way," John looked introspective.
"And then what happens?" Tomas was madly curious.
"If you get in Mycroft's way, you will very quickly find yourself in a place where you cannot annoy him anymore," Sherlock grinned brightly. "Not to worry," he added. "I'm sure your extreme youth would act in your favour."
"Yeah, but ours won't," John shook his head. "No stunts, Tomas."
Looking philosophical, the youngster tipped his head in concurrence.
Turning back towards the house, they found themselves on a narrow, rutted track.
"The Gypsies have their camp further on down this track," John pointed up ahead to the roofs of caravans just visible through the scrubby trees. "Maybe they might know something?"
"Excellent idea, John," Sherlock nodded briskly. "Tomas and I will investigate one of the mines, which you practice your inimitable bedside manner and see what you can find out," he looked reflective. "Ask them if there have been any strange events in the area recently."
"Events?" John looked puzzled. "What sort of events?"
"Just ask them and see what they say," Sherlock patted Tomas on the shoulder. "Show me those deeper mines you were talking about," he said. "I want to see what condition they're in."
"Tomas do not let him persuade you to do anything stupid or dangerous," John lifted a finger. "I have no wish to explain a dead or injured relative to your Uncle Mycroft," a circumspect look came over his face. "I'm not that brave."
###
"You are one of the men who came here this morning, you took Purrun's daughter to the hospital to be with the young boy," the old woman nodded. "It is good what you have done for them."
"Always happy to help,' John smiled, engagingly.
"And why are you here now?" she asked. "If you wish to speak with Leander Purrun you will have to wait as he has gone into the village to get some supplies and won't be back until later."
"No, I've not come to speak with anyone in particular," John shook his head. "I'm only wondering if anything strange has been happening around here recently, wondered if anyone had seen or heard anything?"
"There are always things to be seen if you know how to look," the old lady narrowed her eyes and nodded sagely.
"Yes, of course," John smiled again. Keeping old ladies talking was something doctors were supposed to be good at. "But if I didn't know what I was looking for, who might be able to tell me?"
"Ha," strong fingers raking though her grey hair, the woman curled her lip. "Those other two grandsons of Purrun are his Watchers, he calls them," she said. "Anything that happens within ten miles of this place and those boys know about it; you should find them and ask."
"And where are the boys now?" John looked around in case they might be in sight right here in the camp.
"Out there, somewhere," the woman waved a careless hand, indicating the local countryside. "Like wild ponies, all of them," she sniffed. "Out all hours of the day and night, coming home to eat and sometimes to sleep."
"If you see them, will you tell them I'd like to ask them some questions?"
"Police?" the old eyes were suddenly sharper, as was the tone.
"Not police, no," John smiled again and shook his head. "I'm a doctor and a friend of mine staying in the house just over there is ill," he added. "We're trying to find out if there's anything in the area that might have made him sick."
"And you think the boys might be able to tell you?" she tilted her head from side-to-side. "You may be right," she said. "If I see them, I shall get them to find you."
"How will they know where I am?" John was curious.
"Trust me," she laughed shortly. "They will know."
###
"And these few around here are probably the deepest," Tomas pointed at three particular old shafts, spaced erratically within an area of several hundred square yards. It was difficult to believe that anyone would have tried to chase the elusive tin with such obsession, but people had always done strange things for money.
Of the three gaping but overgrown holes, only one seemed to have any sort of safety fence erected around it and Sherlock felt a quiet amazement more idiots hadn't fallen down the things as a result. Or perhaps they had, but nobody knew.
An intriguing notion.
The two least protected shafts were heavily overgrown with long hanging grasses and withies, whip-thin regrowth of trees cut down in previous years. Dangerous though it was to have these holes unfenced, nobody in their right mind could claim they were hard to spot. The only way anyone would fall down one of these would be if they deliberately entered of their own accord or … were thrown down.
The grass around each hole was long and lush, the early summer heat not yet sapping the sweet juices from the stalks, rendering them straw-like and frail. This greenery was still in its first robust flush: the slightest crushing and it would be obvious to a blind man. Nobody had been near these in weeks.
"What about the fenced one?" he asked, pointing to the one that seemed, on the surface of things, to be the most well-guarded.
"I know this one's deep, but I don't know how deep," Tomas strolled towards the mine head, hands in both his pockets. "It's also a bit bigger than the others," he added. "Probably because they dug further down and brought out more stuff."
Sherlock was more interested in the ground around the pit than the shaft itself. Kneeling down, he tipped his head sideways, scanning the lie of the ground, noticing the faint lines of heavy-duty tyres crossing and re-crossing one another in the light dust.
In another second, he threw himself onto his stomach, pocket-glass at the ready as he searched for more details than might be seen by the naked eye.
"Cross-ply re-treads," he muttered. "Cheap and worn hard. No money wasted on those, unfortunately."
"You can tell what sort of tyres were here?" Tomas looked astonished. He couldn't even see a hint of a track, only red-brown dust.
Leaping back upright, Sherlock dusted himself off distractedly. "Why would a heavy-goods vehicle of an industrial-carrying capacity be here in the last week?" he wondered, looking more closely at the stout wooden fence circumnavigating the pit.
It was then he saw. Ah.
"See here," he pointed as Tomas craned his neck to see. "This fence has been moved several times, and within the last few days," he added. "Careful. It's unsafe."
"How can you tell?" the boy wrinkled his forehead, shaking the wooden barrier with his foot, trying valiantly to see what seemed so obvious to the tall man beside him.
"Look," Sherlock bent down and ran fingertips over several crushed stalks of grass. "These posts have been lifted out and replaced just long enough ago that new growth has not yet had an opportunity to cover the marks, and yet not so long that the damaged grass has had a chance to completely die," he stood. "Given the growth-rate of the common bent fescue," he added, "and considering the time of year, as well as local humidity and sprouting -averages," he nodded knowingly. "Four days at most since the vehicle was last here, although it has been here several times before. There are multiple and underlying tracks."
"But what was it doing here?" Tomas looked around, hunting for some clue, before turning back to gaze down into the open shaft that sank down into the depths almost at his feet.
"I am beginning to formulate a hypothesis," Sherlock took two steps away, scanning a gentle rise that led away from the mine and towards the rutted track they'd been following. "It would seem tha …"
His words were cut off by a terrified scream as the fencing Tomas had just pushed his weight against suddenly gave way, hurling him head-first into the deadly blackness of the pit below.
###
John was already following his flatmate and their new young friend back down the track when the horrific cry rang out. He immediately sprinted towards the agonised sound, searching wildly for the source. It was only when he heard Sherlock's shout that he realised his friend was lying flat out over the brink of one of the old mine shafts, his fingers desperately clawing at open air.
There was no sign of Tomas and a dreadful coldness began to make itself known in his belly. "Oh, God … no …" he ran.
"He's not fallen more than ten feet or so, John," Sherlock had one knee locked around the nearest upright post, although John didn't like the look of it. The slightest pull and the thing would probably give way entirely, sending his friend tumbling down into the hole after the boy he was trying to rescue. "We need rope to pull him out."
"Are you hurt, Tomas?" John leaned himself over the edge as much as he dared, although he couldn't see anything.
"Not really," the teen's voice was close, though shaken and on the reedy side. Clearly the boy was scared half to death. "But there's a bit of an overhang and there's no way I'm going to be able to climb out by myself without something solid to hang onto,' he added. "I'm standing on a big chunk of dried mud in the side of the wall but there aren't many handholds and if I try and move I'm gonna fall."
"Then don't move," Sherlock sounded calm as he took off his jacket. "Can you reach this?" he asked, throwing the garment over the edge by one sleeve.
"No, it's too short," Tomas tried to stop his legs shaking so much.
"I'll go and get some rope from the camp," John muttered. "Try and keep him calm, will you?" he added, softly. "No point having him faint from fear."
"Hurry," Sherlock sounded tense.
John hurried.
Making it back to the traveller's camp in a world-breaking sprint, he shouted as he roared in "Rope! Anyone got any rope?! A boy's fallen down one of the mines."
"Here!" Leander Purrun dropped the bags he was carrying, racing around to the side of a pale-green van, returning in an instant with a large coil of lightweight woven rope. "Where?"
"This way," John turned on his heel, haring back off down the track, hoping in his gut that nothing had happened in the interim.
If Tomas were to be seriously hurt … or worse …
Within five minutes of hearing the boy's initial cry, John was back with Purrun and another of his men who had also grabbed a coil of rope.
His chest heaving, John threw himself down on the edge, reaching backwards for the rope Purrun was already methodically paying-out.
"He's still hanging on, but I think his foothold is about to give way," Sherlock muttered too quietly for Tomas to hear. "We need to get this to him very quickly now."
"Catch, Tomas," John yelled, dangling the leading end of the rope down over the edge of the pit.
"Can't reach," the boy's voice was almost whisper-dry with fright. "It's too far away from me and if I go for it I'm going to fall; this ledge is already starting to crumble … help me please …"
About to risk everything and climb down over the edge, John realised that someone was already ahead of him, as Leander Purrun, a separate rope tied beneath his arms, allowed his man to lower him slowly over the edge.
"Come to me, boy," he instructed, as John grabbed onto the rope and helped steady the weight of the older man as he hung suspended over the gaping hole.
"Can't let go …" Tomas was at a point beyond rational thought, his fear blinding him to any thought of movement.
Tying the other rope swiftly around a heavy but rusted spike buried deep into the bedrock, Sherlock wasted no time, but tied-off the rope beneath his own arms and slid easily over the edge.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John closed his eyes in frustration. "We didn't need two of you going down the bloody thing!"
Allowing himself to slide carefully over the lip of the overhang and manoeuvring himself into a position beside Tomas, Sherlock saw that the boy's tenuous foothold was about to give way. There was no time to lose. "Can you catch?" he looked across at Purrun with a meaningful expression.
Nodding once, Purrun braced his feet on the curve of the shaft behind him and steadied himself.
"Tomas, I'm going to grab you and swing you across to the man on the other side. I want you to relax and not fight this, do you understand?"
"Can't move …" the boy was groaning now.
"Yes, you can," Sherlock was almost at the teen's side now. "Give me your hands,' he said, in a more normal tone of voice. "Trust me, Tomas; this will all be over shortly."
"Don't drop me," the words were whispered but no less heartfelt for that.
"Trust me," Sherlock smiled as he leaned in close, grabbed the boy under the arms and pushed them both off with a powerful kick of his legs.
In less than three seconds, they had covered the width of the chasm beneath them, and Leander Purrun had the boy tightly clasped in his long, strong arms.
"Up!" he shouted, as Sherlock allowed himself to swing backwards to the far wall.
Clinging to the older man for his very life, Tomas was silent as John and Purrun's helper dragged them both up and back over the lip of the overhang. It took only a few more seconds and both the rescuer and the rescued were lying flat-out on the dusty grass, their chests heaving as reaction set in.
"Sherlock?" John shouted back over the edge. "Hang on; we'll have you out of there in a second."
"A moment, John," the younger Holmes sounded disembodied and distant. "I need a moment to check something while I'm here … I doubt there'll be another opportunity like this."
"Stop bloody messing around and get back up here," the doctor had had enough frights for one day.
"Whenever you're ready," finishing his inspection, Sherlock waited, using his feet to help push himself up the crumbling walls as the other men heaved him back up and over the edge to safety.
Standing, Leander Purrun helped the shaking teenager to his feet, only to have a pair of skinny arms thrown around his chest.
"Thank you," Tomas choked, his eyes wet with relief. "For saving me."
"You are fine now," the older man wrapped an arm around shaking shoulders, his words soothing. "Which is more than I can say about this old jacket of mine," he added ruefully, looking down at the ripped and scarred fabric where the rope had dragged at the seams. Not to worry," he added, smiling. "Let us get you home to your family. They will need to be told what has happened, but will be happy you are safe."
Returning a re-coiled length of rope to Purrun's man, John rolled his eyes. He didn't think Mycroft or Cate were going to be particularly happy about any of it.
###
"Are you hurt? Are you injured?" standing in the front room of the Cornish house, Cate cast frantic eyes all over her nephew, her fingers touching his face, his hands, his arms; her expression as conversant as her words.
"Honest, Aunty Cat, I'm fine," Tomas stood still as she fussed over him, letting her check for herself that he really was in the same shape now as he was when he had left earlier. "I'm not even bruised."
"I'm very pleased to hear it," Cate's voice wobbled a little as she put her arms around the boy and hugged him close. The idea that her sister's youngest might have come to such a dreadful end while under her care was beyond anything she was willing to consider. Folding him into her embrace, she felt faintly sick.
Standing behind the pair, watching, Mycroft was still and silent.
He and Cate had only just returned from the hospital when the small procession made its way into the house, with Sherlock explaining the accident and the fact that, other than Purrun's jacket, there had been no further casualties.
Given that Leander Purrun was of a similar build and height as himself, Mycroft had immediately insisted upon replacing the damaged article with an entire suit and had handed over a complete outfit encased in its own immaculate travel-bag. He would hear no refusal, and the older man had eventually shrugged and smiled, not entirely unhappily.
Sherlock had provided a few additional details, made an exasperated face and returned to his temporary laboratory with John, still on the lookout for Purrun's other young spies.
And now he stood and watched as his wife tried to maintain her equilibrium. She was not being terribly successful, and Mycroft felt the calm he had striven so hard to claw back over the last few days begin to come loose around the edge.
Tomas felt very strange. Not only was he still limp with relief from not falling down a bloody big hole in the ground, but, other than his mother, nobody had even been so worried about him before and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Putting his own arms around his aunt, he realised that it was easier for him to hold her now, rather than the other way around. It made him feel different. Grown up.
"Really, Aunty Cat," he murmured again. "I'm fine."
"Shut up, you foolish boy," Cate still held him tight. "This isn't for you, it's for me."
Catching his uncle's gaze over her shoulder, Tomas rolled his eyes in the age-old camaraderie of males being embarrassed by their female relatives. He smiled.
He noticed that Mycroft did not smile back. In fact …
As Cate's grip finally subsided and she left him to walk away, Tomas felt himself held by an entirely different kind of control; one not half so approachable. The usual cobalt brilliance of his uncle's eyes was now a storm-darkened blue.
"A word, Tomas," Mycroft sensed Cate pausing by the door. She heard the tone of his voice and knew what it meant. Hesitating for the merest moment, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Tomas started feeling strange for a different reason altogether. He took a deep breath and met Mycroft's startling glower.
There was a loaded silence between them. It grew.
"It was an accident," Tomas broke first, feeling an incredible need to explain himself. "I didn't mean to do it, but the wood gave way and …"
"After my brother had already advised you the fence was unsafe, you kept on pushing it until it gave way, you mean?" Mycroft's tone was cutting; his glare now a thing of ice and possessed of its own gravity as Tomas found himself unable to look away.
"I didn't think …"
"No! You did not think at all! And without other people risking their necks to extract you from this utterly irresponsible situation, you would have ceased thinking entirely some time ago. It will not do, Tomas," Mycroft sighed and directed his angry stare through the window. He knew the words were harsh, but the notion that the boy might have died, chilled him to the bone.
Mycroft hadn't raised his voice, but the impact of his words was palpable and the boy felt their sting. It was clear this ordeal wasn't over: he swallowed in a dry throat and wondered what was still to come. "I'm not a child," he mumbled. "I know what I did was stupid."
"I doubt you comprehend the meaning of that claim," his uncle's words were softer but there was iron in them.
"I'll pay you back for the suit," Tomas announced, quietly.
"Will you?" Mycroft turned and looked at him speculatively. "Will you really?"
"Whatever you tell me it costs, I'll pay you back," the boy lifted his chin, nodding. He had never been so determined to do something before in his life. Anything to take away the feeling that he'd disappointed his uncle. For some reason it was becoming very important to him that he not do that.
"Whatever the cost?" Mycroft's expression was reflective. "Are you quite sure?"
"I promise," Tomas stood up straighter and nodded again, more firmly this time. He would. Whatever he was told it would cost, he would find some way to pay it back.
"Then the cost is one A-Level," Mycroft folded his arms and looked the boy calmly in the eye. "The repayment I want for the suit is one, top-grade, A-level."
Shocked, Tomas felt his stomach sink. "But that means …"
"Yes, it does," Mycroft remained unmoved, watching the teen's face. "Changing your mind so soon?"
"It means I'll have to stay at school for another two years and then sit my exams and to do that means I'll have to stay at home and not go to London … and …" he choked as the realisation hit home.
He had promised.
This was a test, then. A test to see if he was really as grown up as he imagined.
"I think the cost is unfair, but I promised I'll do it and I will," he squared his jaw. "One A-level is not so big a thing." London would still be there afterwards. He could still go.
"Considering you have not heard the details of the qualification I want," Mycroft paused, "I think you are being somewhat premature."
"You want a specific type of A-level?" Tomas felt his stomach sink a second time.
"Whatever the cost?" Mycroft reminded him.
"Yeah," Tomas shook his head. "I did say that," he nodded morosely. "So what it is you want?"
Walking across to stare through the window once more, Mycroft linked his fingers behind his back. "If you tried hard, how many A-levels do you think you could realistically get?" he asked, focusing on the Bentley parked in front of the house.
Unsure where this was going, but realising he had better be on his toes before he agreed to anything else, Tomas shrugged grudgingly. "Maybe three or four. Probably."
"And those would be ..?" turning from garden-view, Mycroft assessed the despondent youth.
Tomas sighed heavily. This was not going in any direction that sounded positive. "Maths, of course," he muttered. "And Statistics, probably Physics and Chemistry."
Mycroft shook his head musingly. "No, that's not quite enough."
"Four A-levels isn't enough for what?" Tomas did not like the sound of this at all.
Suddenly business-like, Mycroft met his nephew's gaze. "Not enough to meet the cost of my suit," he said.
"You only asked me for one A-level," Tomas moaned, pressing both palms briefly to his eyes. "And now you're saying that four aren't enough?"
"Statistics, Physics and Chemistry should be for your mother," Mycroft seemed totally unperturbed by the boy's apparent distress. "To reassure her she did not raise a complete idiot," he added. "You will also complete one in English," he said. "That will be for your aunt as an apology for risking your life in such a foolish manner," he paused. "And then," Mycroft smiled fractionally. "You shall achieve your highest score of all in the A-level you have agreed to win for me," he said. "In Mathematics. I will have your very best, Tomas, nothing less," he paused again. "That is my price."
"Five A-levels?" the boy whispered, incredulously. "You want me to pay you back by getting five of them?"
"Oxford are unlikely to accept you with less than five," Mycroft scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Of course, there's always Cambridge, but I'd rather not speak of them, although it would please your aunt."
"You expect me to go to Oxford?" Tomas felt his head spin.
"I anticipate a First in Applied Mathematics; possibly a double-first if you take Statistics as well, but that's a later discussion."
"I could never afford university, Uncle Mycroft," Tomas shook his head. "No point even considering it."
"If you get me the fifth A-level I want, then I shall ensure you go to Oxford," Mycroft looked down into a pair of troubled brown eyes so uncannily like Cate's. "And that is my promise."
"You want me to go to Oxford?" Tomas was far beyond understanding now: none of this made sense. "Why?"
"Because if anyone should go, it is you, my boy," Mycroft rested a light hand on his nephew's shoulder. "But as with every gain in life, there is a cost and only you can say if that cost is worth it."
"You want me to go to university?" Tomas blinked. "Why?" he asked again.
Weighing honesty against persuasion, Mycroft decided on candour. "Because I want you to work for me after you have finished your degree," he said. "You have a talent I can use."
Oh.
"The numbers thing?"
"Indeed," Mycroft nodded slowly. "I need good people."
Sudden warmth stealing down his back and into his stomach made Tomas feel very strange. Happy strange. If Uncle Mycroft thought he was good people, then he would do nothing to endanger that opinion. Taking a shallow breath, the teenager found himself smiling.
"I can pay your price," he said.
###
It was much later when Purrun was finally able to close the door to his own caravan and take a deep breath of relief. It had been an eventful day and he was exhausted; every one of his sixty-something years telling him to lie down and rest. But there was one more thing he wanted to do before he retired for the night.
Laying the long zippered bag along his bed, he opened the fastenings to reveal a most magnificent pale grey Gieves and Hawkes of cashmere and silk. It was a stupendous accolade to the art of bespoken male finery and Leander Purrun sat down on his bed with a thump.
There was still a debt to be paid, he realised, frowning.
As his attention wandered with his thoughts, his eyes caught sight of a scrap of curled paper laying on the small table beside his bed.
It carried several pencilled-numbers written in an unformed child's hand.
It was the number of the lorry which had returned several times to dump its illicit cargo down the old mine. Such information might be of value.
Zipping the suit-bag closed, Purrun slipped the fragment of paper into his pocket and despite his tiredness, set out for the Cornish House with a swift step.