Chapter Ten
Expecting Anything – Excalibur – Not the Geneva Convention – An Interested Party – The Holmes Charm – Mycroft's Test – The Third Child.
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The slick metallic connect of the SA80 assault rifle cocking handle as the weapon is readied for firing has been compared to the closing of a padlock in a bath of oil. Flicking his safety from the small orange 'S', the senior NCO of the two Marine fireteams from HMS Westminster signalled with three fingers of his left hand cast forward. With their night-sights, the eight men currently running two inflatables out of the water were able to see the beach, the cliffs and the entire environs of the cove as clear as a greenish-tinged day.
Squad-leader Sergeant Patrick Calley had been monitoring activity through hi-res binoculars for the last several minutes as they approached the shore and had watched, with interest, as three men had only moments earlier, moved away from the partly-beached boat and chased a fourth person into what appeared to be a cave.
Not knowing what to expect and therefore knowing to expect anything, Calley arrayed four men around the perimeter of the beach, sending one climbing up the steep grassy-slope to gain height and perspective while the other three melted into the darkness.
He took the remaining members of his team silently into the cave, each man treading softly and cautiously on the sand floor.
With their enhanced night vision, it was a matter of only seconds to make certain the cave was empty of human forms. Nor was the fracture in the cliff that deep a formation: there was nowhere for anyone to hide. Where had the men gone? A single tap on his shoulder turned the squad-leader's head around until he was facing into the left-hand forward quadrant of the cave, a very dark spot tucked in right behind the lip of the cave opening where few eyes would think to look for anything, especially if daylight from the entrance were reducing an ability to see the dark.
Just there. A darker strip of shadow, a narrow exit leading up from the rounded bedrock. Stepping closer, he was able to see the natural flow of rock was only visible in the cave itself: looking deeper into the exit, he saw the beginning of hand-carved steps.
He nodded at his associates. They would be doing a little climbing tonight.
###
Getting the gun out of the man's hand was as far ahead as Tomas had managed to think. In his mad charge across the few feet of paved stone, he had scant time to consider what might happen next, but reasoned that, if there were no gun, then whatever else came next surely couldn't be that bad. All he knew was that a man who had chased him into the cave was about to shoot Sherlock and Tomas couldn't bear the idea. The men from the boat had been trying to catch him and the knowledge that someone else might have to pay for his lack of thought was unacceptable.
As soon as he'd crept back down to the steps at the dark edge of the open table area, he'd heard the man's threats; that he was going to kill Sherlock; that he was going to use the gun.
Thus the gun had to go.
Tomas had no illusions about his physical strength: if any of the men managed to get their hands on him, he'd have no chance at all; therefore speed and surprise were his only options. His first idea was to hurl himself at the gun-wielding man, but he saw that would do little good, not unless he had something else with which to frighten him.
Then he saw the rusted, ancient machete, thrust somehow into the heart of the wooden post. There was no way it could be shifted, not even Uncle Mycroft had been able to shift it. These points passed through Tomas' thoughts in a second but when the man with the gun pointed it at Sherlock's head, all logic vanished; he simply screamed and ran, heaving the weapon out of the wood as a modern-day Arthur might extract his Excalibur.
As the first rising wail of terrible sound, Totoni Elbaneh froze, only momentarily, but sufficiently long for a wild-eyed, screaming assailant to hack at his gun with a huge knife. As the rusted edge of the blade descended, sliding horribly down along the top of the barrel and finally catching on the front sight, Elbaneh felt the gun torn from his already-numbing fingers by the force of the blow. It flew away from him and clattered across the floor.
Carried forward on a tide of pure adrenaline and fear, Tomas waved the cracked blade at the man's chin, although he wasn't sure what to do next, not really having thought of anything after he started running. His list of alternatives non-existent.
"I suggest nobody moves," Sherlock's voice was calm but authoritative as he walked forward with Elbaneh's Beretta held firmly in his right hand.
As the realisation that he might not be responsible for anyone's death tonight, Tomas felt his knees go funny and he sagged to the floor, clawing at the rough wall as he crumpled.
Sparing the boy only a brief glance, Sherlock gestured with the gun. "If you run, gentlemen," he said, turning to Bisset and Joubert. "You might still be able to make it to the water before the contaminant permeates the dermis and you become seriously unwell," he added. "I genuinely recommend a swift bath. Better scrub hard, just to make sure."
"This muck really is poisonous?" Joubert's face was stricken. "You were not lying?"
"Not lying," John stepped forward. "You should get that stuff off fairly quickly now, and should see a doctor in case it affects your breathing. Wouldn't want you to die before you get the chance to explain what you're doing with a known terrorist on a Cornish beach, would we?"
"Terrorist? Die?" Bisset headed back down the steps at speed.
Staring between the gun in the tall man's fingers and the grave look in the blonde man's eyes, Joubert decided that a cold, salty bath might not be such a bad idea and propelled himself down the steps after his captain. They made it all the way to the old iron gate, yanking it open, only to find themselves making an intimate acquaintance with the business-end of two SA80s.
"Evening, Gentlemen," Commando squad-leader Patrick Calley smiled.
###
Elbaneh stood, grim-faced and silent as John tipped the table back upright and re-lit the candles. The oppressive darkness gave way to a muted glow.
"Not your lucky night," Sherlock looked impassive. "Caught the minute you step foot on British soil, then poisoned by the same stuff. You should have stayed in hiding," he said. "And now we have the dreary job of holding you until the police get here, although you'll probably be unconscious by then, so I don't suppose we'll have much to concern ourselves with at that point."
"Even if you are telling the truth, you would not let me die," Elbaneh scowled. "It is unlawful in your country for the police to allow harm to come to prisoners. You do not frighten me."
"Firstly, Mr Elbaneh," Sherlock held the Beretta very still, "we are not the police," he looked at John. "Before you see to our young Galahad," he said, "pull one of those chairs up, would you?"
Stepping back, John righted one of the old chairs they'd tossed aside as emergency cover.
"There's a coil of cord in my left pocket. After you've removed your gloves, tie our guest to the chair, please John," he paused. "Nice and tight, I think. We don't want him falling over and banging his head when he passes out, do we?"
There was a satisfied little smile on the doctor's face as he found the cord and slowly unravelled it, yanking it hard between his hands several times to test its efficacy.
Elbaneh was starting to feel concerned. If they were not the police, then this mud on his skin might truly be deadly and they were going to tie him to the chair … "You cannot leave me here," he spluttered. "If I am poisoned, you cannot leave me to die!"
"Oh, but I think we can do whatever we wish," Sherlock's voice was a lethal blend of callousness and disdain.
"The Marines are on their way up from the beach," Tomas groaned as he gave up trying to stand. "Uncle Mycroft arranged for them to come in from some ship. They should be here any moment …" he paused, eyes drawn to the far side of the space by the sound of scuffled footfalls on the dry stone, "…now," he said, as two commandos walked silently into the candlelight.
"One of you chaps called Holmes?" the leading marine asked, his rifle poised as he took in the scene.
"That would be me," Sherlock scrutinised the man's stance, "…Sergeant," the younger Holmes held out Elbaneh's gun. "I imagine you have the other two?"
"Indeed we do, Mr Holmes," the man grinned: shining white teeth in the middle of a dark-painted face. Checking the safety, he shoved the proffered weapon deep into a side-pocket. "They were screaming about being poisoned and demanded to go in the sea," he added. "That would be your doing, I assume?"
"As long as they can scrub the slurry off their skin, they should be perfectly well, although you might like to keep an eye on them."
"What was it?" Sergeant Calley looked interested. "In case the medics want to know; they tend to worry about minor things like death, you understand."
"A recombination of DDT and metallic salts," Sherlock made a face. "Highly toxic once it enters the bloodstream, but complete dermal decontamination and rapid treatment with activated charcoal, plus stimulated bowel-activity to enhance faecal elimination should have them sorted out in a jiffy."
"Strip them, hose them down and feed them laxatives?" the commando laughed. "Sounds like something the Geneva Convention would frown on."
"Or they can get horribly sick," John grinned. "I think you'll find they'll be happy to endure the treatment."
"What do you want to do with this one?" Calley nodded at an increasingly woebegone Elbaneh.
"I think you'd better treat him with the others," Sherlock was thoughtful. "His name is Totoni Elbaneh and you'll find the FBI will be fairly interested in getting their hands on him."
"The FBI? Really?" Sergeant Calley lifted both eyebrows and looked fairly interested himself. "Always nice when we can assist our cousins across the pond," he said, his smile returning. "Is there anything else you need from us here or shall I advise command we're done for the night?"
"Can you impound the boat that's on the beach?" John stepped forward. "It belongs to one of the men you have under restraint and it's clear it's being used for improper purposes, so better it be in safe hands," the doctor smiled cheerily. "I'm sure you can find a good use for it," he said. "Training and the like …"
"There's always a need for target-practice," the commando nodded, entirely sincere. "I'll have a couple of my men remove it to a neutral location until the powers-that-be decide what's to be done," he added, already beginning to step back. "Take him," he nodded at Elbaneh, as the other marine waited for instructions.
In moments, even the whisper-sounds of their footsteps had gone.
John met Sherlock's eyes and sighed, as they both turned and looked down. Tomas was still crouched on the floor, his back to the wall, arms around his knees and with his eyes closed.
"I know you hate me now, so just get the shouting over with, will you?" he mumbled. "And before you start," he added. "Everything you're about to tell me off for is perfectly fine except the last bit."
"What last bit?" John grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled the boy upright until he was leaning against the wall and looking sick.
"The bit when I came screaming in here and attacked a man with a gun … oh my God," he groaned, bringing his hands to his face again. "I can't believe I did anything so dumb," he moaned, starting to slide back to the cold floor.
"Oh no you don't," John dragged him back to his feet. "Not until you tell your Uncle Mycroft about what you just did."
"He'll think I'm an idiot," Tomas looked sick again. "He'll hate me too."
"He already knows you're an idiot, and my brother is far too selfish to waste emotion," Sherlock observed. "Hurry up," he frowned at the teenager. "We have a cure to produce."
###
When Cate woke the next morning, she knew without moving that she was alone in the bed. After the previous night, with all the excitement of the boat on the beach and the marines and then her nephew's personal tale of deeply mournful remorse which would have been acceptable had he not entirely forgotten to be woeful about half-way through. She smiled. It was difficult to remain angry with Tomas, especially as she understood his motivation so well. Mycroft had been all tight-lipped frowns until the boy presented him with the machete, old and rusted though it was. The group-conversation immediately turned to the seven-fold method of Japanese sword-smithing and comparisons were about to be made between Occidental and Oriental metallurgy, when she declared enough was enough and dragged the teen away to the front room where she handed him a phone.
"Your mother," she directed. "Right now."
"What should I tell her?" Tomas looked lost. "What should I say?"
"You tell her everything and you say it like the grown-up your uncle expects you to be," she said, standing with her arms folded until he made the call and spoke to Neve. As soon as the conversation was underway, Cate returned to the kitchen where Mycroft and Sherlock were still debating the finer points of low carbon hocho-tetsu.
"Tea?" she smiled at John.
"You have no idea how good that sounds," he sighed.
Bringing out another of Nora's masterpieces, John sighed again as he sipped his tea and chewed on a slab of sticky fruitcake. "Sherlock knows what made Mycroft ill," he said in passing. "I think he's got an idea what to do about it, too," he added.
"How soon?" Cate spoke softly into her cup, unwilling to tempt fate by an open acknowledgement.
"Soon, I think," John's tones were equally low. "Tonight, perhaps."
"And when will we know if it's worked?" she asked, a tension growing in her stomach. What if it didn't work? How would Mycroft cope?
"No idea really," the doctor sipped tea and sounded thoughtful. "But if it's a chemical imbalance, or a problem caused by the overproduction of some minor enzyme or hormone, then it could equally be as fast to fix as it was to damage. Just remember," he said, "to keep an open mind about all this. Even someone like Mycroft has to be finding all this a little scary."
Not only Mycroft, she thought.
He had been particularly demonstrative when he came to bed later, his fingertips brushing her skin as his mouth claimed endless kisses of unending variety until her mind as well as her body was on fire for him.
"I love you," his whisper against her throat was the last she heard as sleep rolled over them both.
And now it was morning; the sun was rising and birds were singing and she was alone in their bed. Cate felt suddenly very afraid.
Throwing back the duvet, she pulled on a long cotton robe and headed down to the still-quiet kitchen, too early yet for Mrs Compton or the twins.
Opening the door, she saw the three of them seated around the old wooden table, their faces turning to her as she entered. There was a small box on the table in front of John that he tucked into his pocket with a slight smile. Mycroft's left sleeve was rolled up and there was a spot of red at the inside of his elbow. He didn't bother to roll it down, but held out his hand to her.
"Did we wake you?" he brought her fingers to his lips.
"What have you taken?" Cate stood still, breathless with anxiety.
"An ion-exchange resin, similar in action to cholestyramine but designed specifically to match a unique organochlorine I was able to identify," Sherlock linked his fingers and nodded. "It should catalyse the remaining toxin in the bloodstream while simultaneously isolating and purifying the reaction," he paused, looking down at his fingers. "It should work."
"You didn't think I would want to know?" she looked down into blue eyes. "That I might be an interested party in all this?"
"You are frightened for me," Mycroft stood then, an arm suddenly around her shoulders, bringing her close to his chest. "Don't be."
"Easy for you bloody Holmes's to say," she muttered, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "If you get worse I am going to be extraordinarily cross with the both of you, you know this, don't you?"
"Sherlock and I have several escape-routes at our disposal, but I doubt they will be needed," Mycroft's voice sounded amused in her ear.
"They better not be," she listened to his heartbeat. It was normal and solid and Cate found herself relaxing. They would all just have to wait and see.
###
Knowing that Sherlock and John were heading back to London before lunch, Cate made her farewells while Mycroft was closeted on the phone with his Chief of Security.
"Thank you," she hugged Sherlock close, unwilling to let him go just yet. She felt his hands rest lightly around her shoulders.
"I have every confidence my brother will recover his full intellectual capacity," his voice was confident and calm above her head. "As much as he might be said to possess such a thing," he added, with benign malice.
Cate smiled. "You are such a troll," she prodded him ungently as she went to hug John. "Thank you for taking care of Tomas and not strangling him," she said, pressing into his arms. "It would have been difficult to explain to my sister."
"Plenty of time for strangling in the future," John grinned, kissing her on the cheek. "See you all back in town after we've finished doing a little bit of clear-up work for your husband."
Lifting her eyebrows, Cate was curious but knew it was probably better not to ask. "Then take care," she said smiling from one to the other. "The both of you."
Once they had parted, she walked the twins and Tomas back down to the beach for a few hours before the sun climbed too high and became too hot for tender skins.
Her nephew had a natural way with the children and instead of getting to grips with her unco-operative novel, Cate found herself fascinated at the manner in which the teenaged boy was able to invent and take part in some wildly imaginative games with two small children. Though she kept the twins to the pool, Tomas was able to wade out into the shallow waters of the cove and bring back all sorts of things for them to play with: shells, worn and rounded driftwood and even a small crab which they put into a rock pool. Julius barely moved for the rest of the morning, his hazel eyes alight with his first close encounter of different life.
Watching his enthrallment, Cate wondered if they should get a puppy. She looked at Blythe. Puppies.
Hiking back up to the house in the late morning, Nora not only had lunch ready for the twins, but a cake of such extravagance and magnitude that everyone stared. It was more an architectural edifice than a piece of baked confectionary.
"My God, Nora," Cate held her breath. "Is it meant to be eaten or worshipped?"
"It's for the young lads at the camp, Miss Cate," the older woman smiled widely, entirely satisfied by the response to her little bit of cooking.
Jules' eyes were the size of bicycle headlamps as he watched the cake make its stately way back into the pantry. He turned to his mother, eyebrows raised high and for the briefest of moments, Cate saw a very young Sherlock. It was impossible to stop the smile that came to her face.
"Is Nanny Nora's cake for us?" her son was intensely hopeful.
"Not this time, my darling," she smiled again as his eyebrows dropped. "It's for some boys and girls who don't have cake very often, so Nanny Nora has made them an especially big one so it will last a long time." Probably about ten minutes after it arrives, she thought.
"Is she going to make any cakes for us again?" Jules sounded so sad that Cate was pressed not to laugh.
"I think there will be lots more cakes, lovely boy, but you will have to be very nice to her always."
Nodding very seriously, Jules slipped off his chair and went to start being nice immediately.
Deciding an attempt to transport the enormous cake by hand and on foot would be madness and seeing that he still appeared to be feeling well, Cate asked Mycroft to drive her to the camp, after Nora announced she'd better get another edifice in the making. Evidently Jules' attempt at niceness had paid off, having guilted the housekeeper into a minor frenzy of baking.
"Your son is becoming as devious as you," Cate held the cake box very carefully as Mycroft took the Landrover around a sharp bend in the lane. Though he said nothing, she saw his mouth curve. "We shall probably have to ply Nora with vast amounts of very good sherry in order to calm her frazzled nerves," she added. "I have no idea what Jules said, but she had the cake pans out even before he and Blythe had finished lunch."
"The Holmes charm strikes again," Mycroft kept his eyes on the road ahead, but by the way his eyes crinkled, Cate could see he was greatly entertained.
"Holmes sweet-talk, you mean," she smiled, shaking her head.
Mycroft stopped the car, took her face in both hands and kissed her adeptly. "You like my sweet-talk," he said, starting the engine again.
With hands full of cake, Cate was unable to respond in the way that crossed her mind, and so she looked out of the window on her side of the Landrover and grinned.
As they pulled to a halt in the clearing beside the camp, Leander Purrun recognised the vehicle and walked forward with a happy expression. "Welcome again," he said. "Your timing is excellent; my grandson arrived home not thirty minutes ago, and the excitement is dying down a little."
"I have a gift from the lady who makes us such spectacular cakes," Cate smiled, handing him the carefully-boxed up cake. "Nora always keeps her promises," she added, lifting the lid enabling Purrun to see inside.
Giving a silent whistle, Leander grinned at her. "The children will think it's Christmas," he said.
"Then please take it for the children with all our good wishes," Cate stepped back, about to return to the Landrover.
"But you haven't seen my grandson now he has recovered," he exclaimed. "You must … he is so much happier than the last time you saw him and I know my daughter would be pleased to see you again as well."
"As long as we're not intruding," she looked across at Mycroft whose expression was mild but noncommittal.
"Of course not, please … this way," Purrun gestured them both towards a van that had several old chairs arrayed on the grass outside. A small boy was sitting in one of them as his mother fussed, putting his bandaged foot up onto a cushion. Turning at the sound of visitors, Leander's daughter smiled broadly as she recognised them from the hospital.
"He is much better now, as you can see," she said, tousling her son's hair. "And he still has that yellow toy you gave him; tells me he won't let it go until the bandage comes off," she nodded at the binding on the boy's ankle.
"Once the bandage comes off your foot, you can take the bandage off the rabbit's foot too," Cate bent down to the level of a pair of very solemn dark eyes. "I was told you like cake, is that true?"
The boy nodded slowly.
"That's good, because your grandfather has a big cake that needs to be eaten and everyone knows that cake is very good for helping sore feet, did you know that?"
This time, the head shook from side to side.
"It's true," Cate smiled. "Have some cake and see how good you feel afterwards."
"Will you have some?" the child asked.
"I think I have some waiting for me at home," Cate smiled. "You can have my piece as well and feel twice as better, how would that be?"
"Okay," the boy smiled for the first time.
The child's mother walked over with a slice of cake and gave it to her youngest son, watching fondly as he picked at it slowly with his fingers.
"I must repay all your kindness to me and my boy," she said. "The people at the hospital gave him everything he wanted and let me sleep there in case he was lonely and I am sure it was because of you and your husband," she added. "So I must do something to repay this debt."
"There is no debt at all," Cate shook her head, smiling. "Honestly, we are both happy enough to see the child recovering and safe, that is enough."
Purrun's daughter shook her head, thinking, then grinned. "Let me read your fortune," she said, happily. "I have been told I have a gift for it and am positive it will be nothing but good news. Let me, please?"
Turning to look at Mycroft who still wore the same indistinct expression, Cate shrugged, acquiescing. "If you really want to," she laughed. "I haven't done this in a very long time."
"Come," the woman beckoned her to a chair, pulling up a second chair next to it. "Sit."
Sitting, Cate waited at the woman settled herself. Closing her eyes for a few moments, the Traveller's daughter hummed softly, breathing slowly as her body relaxed.
"Give me your left palm," her voice was almost a sing-song.
Lifting up the desired hand, Cate felt Mycroft stand behind her. Clearly she wasn't the only one who found this intriguing.
Pulling Cate's hand close into her lap, the gypsy drew a slow, deep breath and opened her eyes, focusing on the shape and lines of the palm in front of her. She spent several seconds tipping it from side to side; gently pulling the fingers back to stretch the visible lines, stroked the smooth rise of muscles and the curve of the wrist.
"You are involved with the giving of information to others," Purrun's daughter said abruptly. "This tells me you are a counsellor or someone people ask many question of, perhaps a lawyer or a teacher?"
"I am a teacher, yes," Cate was riveted. Nobody outside the family would have known that little detail.
"But I do not see a small school," the woman shook her head. "You work in a large building in a big city and are highly respected."
That could have been a clever guess.
"I work at a university in London," Cate lifted her eyes and met Mycroft's gaze as he came to sit in the chair opposite. He crossed his legs and looked amused.
"You sometimes walk a line between the light and the dark," the gypsy spoke softly, hesitantly. "You have crossed that line in the past and have been in grave danger," the woman paused. "You will do so again in the future."
Mycroft's genteel cough made her look up and see his carefully blank expression. A single eyebrow lifted. Cate frowned at him, fascinated now by the reading. What else was coming?
"I see pages of words," the woman said. "Many, many white pages covered in black writing, endless in number, and they are all from this hand," she added, looking into Cate's eyes "You are a writer and you are left-handed?"
There was no way anyone would have been able to tell her that, Cate thought. She even used her maiden name Adin on her books, so there was no way …
"I see you doubt me," the woman smiled. "But I told you I have a gift for this," she laughed, returning her eyes to Cate's palm.
"You possess a great love for a man," the words were slow, as if the speaker were unsure they were the right ones. "It burns inside you with the fire of the sun, yet you sometimes fear it," a whisper.
Cate felt her face flush. This was stuff so deep she hadn't even thought it herself. She didn't dare look up.
"I also see a craving for adventure and excitement and danger," Purrun's daughter flexed Cate's fingers a little more. "But your passion for this man conquers your other desires and you put them instead into the endless pages of words."
Taking a deep breath, Cate wondered if that was it. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear any more.
"I know you have two children," the woman continued, but I see you have been thinking a great deal about your next child."
Cate's eyes shot wide open and she stared rigidly at the chair opposite. Mycroft looked as if he'd stopped breathing.
"It will be a male child," the sing-song words kept on. "He will become famous."
"I think you may have that a little wrong," Cate coughed, her throat parched. "I haven't been thinking about children."
"But you have," the woman looked confused. "It is so clear that you are longing for this one … is that why you have not spoken about ..?" she stopped, her eyes flicking towards Mycroft, finally realising he was a very interested spectator.
"You will be happy and have good health and good fortune in your future," her voice was upbeat as she finished off, clearly wanting to end on a happy note.
"That was wonderful, thank you," Cate inhaled slowly as she stood, her face still a little warm. "You were incredibly accurate in some of the things you said," she smiled.
"Only some?" Purrun's daughter allowed a sly curve to tilt her mouth. "Are you sure?"
"Is that the time? Goodness," Cate looked at her watch. "The children will be wanting their tea," smiling brightly, she waved at the youngest grandson who was still deep in his cake. He grinned back, stickily. She waved at Purrun as she headed back to the car.
"Allow me, my love," Mycroft was already at the Landrover with the door open as she approached, still not quite ready to meet his eyes.
The drive back to the Cornish house was brief, uneventful and quiet. Cate wasn't yet sure on the best way to deal with the experience. Laugh gaily and dismiss it out of hand? Shrug and look philosophical? Ignore it completely?
Reaching the Cornish house, Cate slipped from the vehicle and headed towards the front door, only to find that Mycroft was there before her, swinging it open, a strange and somewhat intense cast to his expression.
"Allow me, my love," he smiled, pushing the door inwards for her to enter. Stepping into the shaded cool atmosphere was a relief, although, after seeing the twins happily engaged with their evening meal, she felt somewhat at a loss.
"Need any help with dinner, Nora?" she asked, hopefully.
"Not a thing, Miss Cate," the older woman smiled back. "Got some lovely smoked mackerel for your dinner tonight; takes no doing at all, you go off and relax for a while," Nora wiped her hands on a cloth, wandering back into her private realm of magic.
"Cocktails, are called for, I believe," Mycroft linked his arm through hers, drawing Cate into the front room where an eighteenth-century walnut bureau played host to an imaginative assortment of alcoholic beverages.
"Gin and tonic for me, please" Cate sighed, sliding down into the soft chintz-covered sofa. She rubbed a hand across her face. "A large one."
Taking the icy glass from Mycroft's hand and sipping it with unspoken pleasure, Cate allowed her eyes to close as she pondered the meaning of life, the universe and everything. She exhaled, long and slow.
"So," Mycroft's voice was suddenly soft in her ear. "Care to enlighten me about these longings of yours?" he was teasing, she could hear it in his voice.
"The boy's mother was clearly delusional," Cate sipped her drink. "Making stuff up for tourists all the time must have affected her thinking."
"And yet she seemed so accurate on so many points," Mycroft's lips brushed the side of her neck. "So many points," he repeated softly, nibbling her earlobe.
Cate felt a tremor rise through her. "Lucky guess," she said.
"Which?" Mycroft put his drink down and reached for hers. "The teaching or the writing?"
"Both of them," Cate tried to get her drink back.
"She was so certain about the desire for danger and excitement," he slid an arm behind her back on the sofa, pulling her closer so that he might reach beneath her ear and down the warm skin of her neck. "And that you loved me with the heat of the sun," he muttered, nibbling his way down to her shoulder. "Was she right, Catie?" he murmured as she rested against him, unravelling in the warm circle of his arms. "Do you want another child?"
"The twins and you are quite enough for me to deal with," she sighed as his mouth caressed her throat. "I am honestly not thinking about another baby."
"Then what did she mean that you feared your feelings for me? What would make you frightened, my love?"
It was too much. Cate felt a lump in her throat and fell silent.
"Cate? Catie?" Mycroft lifted himself away from her in order to see her eyes. "What is it, darling?"
"Only that I sometimes worry about this not lasting," she closed her eyes and leaned into his warmth again. "I don't know how I'd manage without you now."
She felt his face come to rest in her hair as his arms tightened fiercely for a second. "You need never be afraid of that, my love," he whispered. "Of all the fearful things on this planet, that is one you need not consider."
A moment of silence claimed both their thoughts.
"Dinner won't be for at least another half-an-hour," she pressed her mouth to his. "I might be in need of some additional reassurance."
"A craving for excitement and danger?" she could hear the laughter in his voice.
"Something like that," she smiled back and reached for his hand.
###
It was late afternoon two days after the visit to the traveller's camp, when Mycroft suddenly announced he was to return to London that evening for a crucial meeting, though he would only be up there for the meeting itself and return directly to Cornwall.
"I'll be back late," he said. "Don't stay up for me."
"You absolutely have to go? Absolutely positively?" Cate was about to take the children for a walk around the garden to pick flowers for Nora before tea as a thank you for the lovely cakes. Julius was especially keen on the idea.
"I must," he said. "It's important."
"Then you should go," Cate smiled as she kissed him a lingering goodbye. "I'll keep the bed nice and warm," she kissed him again; enjoying the little haze she was able to put in his eyes.
He drove the Bentley to Land's End Airport, only minutes from the Cornish house. A sleek Cessna Citation ready for him, steps down. By the time he had buckled up, the jet was already taxiing along the short runway.
In less than an hour, he was touching down at London City airport, where the black Jaguar prowled, waiting for him.
As was Anthea.
"Is everything in place?" he asked unceremoniously.
"Everything," she nodded, turning to assess him. "A tan suits you," she observed. "Looks like you've been getting some sleep too, for a change."
"The delights of the English countryside," he smiled briefly. "Let's go."
The journey to a lesser suburb of Gravesend was relatively swift. Darkness was setting in and the roads were clearing. The car headed to a small, post-eighties industrial estate near Ebbsfleet, now mostly container parks and recycling dumps.
And one medium-sized chemical disposal company.
There were stacks of rusting old steel drums for as far as the eye could see, some relatively fresh-looking, while others seemed about to dissolve where they stood. There was an acrid, metallic taint to the air.
Drawing to a silent halt on a close-by rise, Mycroft left the comfort of his car, walking to the very edge of the road overlooking the unsavoury-looking stockpile.
Sherlock and John were already waiting. The night was still and sound carried.
"When?" Sherlock asked without turning, knowing his brother's footstep out of hundreds.
Checking his Hunter, Mycroft took a short breath. "Now," he said.
Virtually simultaneously, the sound of revving engines and shouts rose from the far entrance, as half-a-dozen squads of police including several dog-teams, EU Environmental Commission officials and even a contingent of army engineers descended, en masse upon the location.
Havoc reigned for some minutes as various employees yelled and tried to make a fight of it, or ran and tried to hide. It made no difference: they were all rounded up and hustled away.
"Looks like that's it, then," John stuck his hands in his pockets. It hadn't been terribly exciting.
"Not quite," Mycroft stood, unmoving, waiting.
Moments later a single, handcuffed man was led out into the dark shadows towards the foot of the rise upon which the three men stood. The man was clearly unhappy with his singular treatment and attempted a mixture of aggressive bravado and threat. From the violence of his language and the specificity of the threats, it was clear he was the company owner and the one ultimately responsible for the illegal dumping. His escorts led him to a flattened clearing beyond some old metal tanks, right at the foot of the rise.
There was nowhere for the man to run, nowhere to hide. Fear grew on his face. The escorts stepped back and folded their arms.
"As you requested, sir," Anthea handed Mycroft a lightweight Tokyo Marui sniper rifle and a single round of ammunition. Nodding his thanks, the elder Holmes lifted the rifle to his shoulder, chambered the bolt-action round into place and took careful aim.
"Christ, Mycroft," John sounded disturbed. Not that he was particularly traumatised by the notion of death per se, but this was a little cold-blooded even for a Holmes.
Ignoring everything else, Mycroft closed his left eye, focusing everything through the right. He saw the micro-metered 'scope register a neat circular target in the dead centre of the man's forehead. He held the rifle steady and still for another ten seconds, knowing that, with the most gentle pressure of one finger, the man's life would be forfeit.
The desire for revenge, the ripples such an act would have, tendrils of consequence and retribution, the wider picture and the deeper importance of every minute fragment of this moment flashed through his thoughts with the clarity and certitude of ice.
He exhaled and relaxed.
Releasing the round and dropping the weapon back to the vertical; he took a deep breath and returned the gun to his assistant. Anthea lifted her phone and spoke several quiet words.
"Better," he murmured. "We can leave everything to the police and the relevant agencies now."
"What's better?" John was still uncertain what was going on. "What was all that about?"
"My brother is recovered, John," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "And that was a test," he said, turning to his sibling. "Only one round?"
"I only needed one," Mycroft smiled, faintly.
"Admirable restraint," Sherlock grinned.
"I'm a better shot than you are, Brother," Mycroft grinned fleetingly in response. "Plus, his indirect gift, though undesirable, was not altogether bad," he added, reflectively. "I have been able to perceive a number of things of recent; things I might not have been able to observe without the temporary inhibition of my higher faculties," he paused. "For that, he may go to gaol."
"Gaol-time for giving you something you appreciated?" John was confused.
"Good-night, Doctor Watson," Mycroft smiled absently and turned on his heel towards the Jaguar.
Sherlock watched the handcuffed man being taken towards the far front gates. "Rather gaol than a nasty little accident no doubt involving the very toxins he littered so destructively across Cornwall," the younger Holmes was fatalistic. "Mycroft's going soft in his dotage."
Lowering the car's window, Mycroft looked out. "Thank you, as always, for your assistance in this matter, Sherlock. I am in your debt."
"Are you returning to Cornwall?" Sherlock was curious. "Not heading into the office to see what disasters have cropped up since you were last there?"
"Not tonight," Mycroft's smile was genuinely cheerful. "I'm on holiday."
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The small beach echoed with the sound of the twins' laughter as they splashed in the sun-warmed pool. Every time one of them came within grabbing-distance, Cate slathered on another layer of waterproof sunscreen.
Returning to her laptop, she forced herself to focus on the problem that had been plaguing her since they had left London nearly three weeks before. It was now or never. If she couldn't find a way around this apparently insurmountable block, she had decided to dump all her ideas and start again. The publishers would simply have to wait.
Sitting on a newly-installed wooden-lounger, complete with a thick, towel-covered plastic mattress and umbrella, she was as comfortable as she could imagine, but still the structure of any design refused to coalesce. It was unbearably frustrating.
Heaving a deep sigh, Cate lifted her eyes away from her keyboard to look at the two figures standing at the water's edge; one tall with long legs and an aristocratic incline to his head, the other shorter, stockier around the shoulders. Both were in khaki shorts and light t-shirts, both had their bare feet in the shallow ripples of the water, both had their hands in their pockets. They were talking quietly.
Mycroft lifted his left arm and rested a hand on Tomas' shoulder, eliciting a turn of the boy's head and his quiet laugh.
Cate felt dizzy for a moment as her mind became a fountain.
From that single gesture at the water's edge, she felt an explosion of ideas catalyse her brain, as an entire novel, plotted, connected, written and complete, landed in her head; silent, but with the impact of a crashing asteroid.
She was giddy with the sense of it all, hardly daring to breathe. "Bloody hell," she laughed as the knowledge ran hot in her mind. With one careful finger, Cate typed the title of her next spy novel.
The Apprentice.
"Did you say something, my love?" Mycroft strolled back from the tide-edge, relaxing down into a second lounger beside her own.
"I've just chosen the name of my third child," she grinned madly as his eyebrows rose.
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THE END
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NEW STORY COMING SOON … Mycroft Holmes: Tabula Rasa
A romance. Accident, absence, amnesia and the Auvergne. The race to find a lost love.
A Cate and Mycroft story.
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Massive thanks to everyone who has felt the desire to read and review this story.
Your appreciation never ceases to thrill.
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