Chapter Fourteen

"Mister Stephens, I am grateful that you were willing to make the journey into central London."

The elderly man came into the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club leaning heavily on his stick, but his handshake was still firm and there was a bright spark in his eye. As he sat down in the leather wingback chair opposite the man in a three piece suit now sitting down as well, the attendant offered him his choice of a cup of tea, "or something stronger, sir? Perhaps a whisky, or gin and tonic?"

It was after five pm, so Robbie Stephens accepted the Scotch with a bit of ice and a splash of water; both men waited quietly until the servant left the room.

"Well, cheers, Lord Holmes; it's not every day that a retired Chief Superintendent gets invited to drink with someone as exalted as you. And ever since your man telephoned, I've been dying of curiosity. How can I be of service to you, M'Lord?"

"I don't use the title, Mister Stephens. Plain 'mister' is more appropriate for a minor official in the British Government."

The former policeman looked at the man sitting opposite him. He had used the title, because unlike most people who came into contact with Mycroft Holmes, Stephens knew the estate in the county of West Sussex, the ancestral seat of the Viscounts of Sherrinford, which was in his former jurisdiction. He'd had no personal contact with the heir of Viscountess Violet Holmes either before or after he inherited his father's side of the family wealth when he was 22. But, Stephens knew about him. One did in the force. Rumours abounded about just what the son had become.

"You've been retired for twelve years, Mister Stephens, but served in the West Sussex force for twenty three years."

"Yes." Why did he feel that this was like the opening questions one asked a suspect in a crime? He suddenly felt rather uncomfortable.

"I'd like you to recall an incident that occurred in 1994."

"An 'incident'?" The grey haired man cautiously took another sip of the rather excellent scotch.

"Yes, as I understand it, the police were not called on the night of the 17th, but the Fire Department reported it to the police as suspected arson on the next day. Does that match your memory?"

The seventy year old thought back to the month in question and realised that the Viscount's interest was…personal, rather than professional. The tension in the muscles of his back tightened a little. "It does."

"So, I'd like you to tell me what happened when you investigated that report."

The elderly man snorted. "Nothing. Nothing at all. There was no case ever filed, no proper investigation. You can relax, M'Lo…Mister Holmes- the secret is safe. Nothing was ever recorded on any police blotter."

That provoked a thin-lipped almost predatory smile on the younger man's face. It reminded Robbie of his father's look. He'd gone to the house and seen Richard Holmes when he got back from an overseas business trip. The Assistant Chief Constable as Stephens was then wanted to impress Holmes, an important person in the county, that he was taking his responsibilities seriously. It had been a seriously bad mistake. He'd left that conversation quite shaken by how close he'd come to a career-limiting move. And, for the second time in a minute, he was reminded of the similarities between Richard Holmes and his elder son.

Then Holmes sighed. He was clearly annoyed as he reached into his pocket and removed a mobile phone, eying the caller ID. "Excuse me, Mister Stephens, but I must take this call. Please enjoy your drink. This won't take a moment." Holmes took the call with no greeting, listening for a moment. Then he just said "Very well. I want to know the name of everyone attending. Get ears in there, somehow, and a full file on my desk by the morning."

The elderly man realised that the call had ended without a goodbye, and that Mycroft's attention was now fixed on him with an intense expectation. The younger man returned to the earlier point. "I want you to recount the conversation you had with my father. I need to know exactly what was said. So, please think carefully, and take the trouble to remember it as accurately as possible."

As Stephens took another sip of the whisky, the ice cube moved in the glass, bumping up against his teeth and giving them a jolt of cold like an electric shock. He was a little confused, so decided to play safe. "I was told to forget the conversation had ever taken place. So, this puts me in a bit of an awkward position."

"I can ensure that it will be much more awkward, Mister Stephens, if you do not co-operate." It was mildly said, yet Robbie felt his skin crawl. As much as he'd felt discomforted by his conversation with Richard Holmes, this discussion was putting it into perspective. The man sitting across from him did not need to threaten and bluster to get his co-operation, as had his father. It was the implied menace that lay behind every word that made Stephens realise he had better come clean. How does he do that? The former chief constable decided that Holmes took the aristocratic authority from his mother combined with the money and influence of the father and then added those to his chosen profession – well, it created one hell of a scary package.

The old man cleared his throat, self-consciously. "Well, let me start at the beginning. The West Sussex Fire & Rescue service delivered their report on the fire at the estate on the afternoon after the fire. It was brought to my attention simply because of whose property it was. Arson is a crime. Sometimes, it's just teenagers playing with matches in a run-down neighbourhood, but we did try to maintain good relations with the big houses, so the view was I should take it up. I called the house, and was told that your father was away, out of the country, expected back in about three days. I was put through to the estate manager. He told me that the fire was insignificant, in a purpose-built equine facility away from the main house or any other estate buildings. He had spoken to your father on the phone who had decided it did not warrant 'wasting police time' on an investigation. I thought that a bit odd; most property owners want a police report so they can claim on insurance, particularly if the Fire service was suggesting that the blaze was deliberately set. I left my number and said I would contact Mister Holmes when he returned."

"And when he returned?"

"No one telephoned me, so I decided to pay a courtesy call about a week or so after my first call. I didn't want anyone to think that we did not take a crime like arson seriously."

"You met my father?"

"Yes. He wasn't best pleased to see me, I have to say. Told me in no uncertain terms that he didn't care if it was arson, he didn't want it investigated. I explained about the insurance requirement, and he just laughed at me. I remember his comment 'do you think we can't afford to replace a burned out building?' It felt odd, and I didn't exactly warm to the man. I think I might have said something along the lines that it didn't matter what he intended to do, we still had a duty to investigate a crime like arson. It might not be an unoccupied outbuilding next time. If the public was at risk, then we had a public responsibility."

The older man took another sip of the whisky. The ice had almost completely melted now, because the hand that was holding it was warm. Stephens felt the heat of the gaze that had not left his face since he started talking.

"Please continue." Despite the words used, it was not a polite request.

"Your father's attitude changed rather abruptly. He said that he knew who had set the fire, and that there was no threat to anyone else. The crime would not be repeated. He had no intention of pressing charges, either."

"I was surprised by this. I replied that it might not be a civil case where his pressing charges mattered, if criminal intent to destroy property was clear. That's when he told me about your brother."

"What about him?" The question was asked very quietly.

Stephens almost squirmed under the intensity of the gaze. "Are you telling me, Mister Holmes, that you are not aware that the fire was set by your brother?"

"Is that what my father told you?"

"Yes, of course. He said your brother was …not quite right in the head. The boy had a fight with the horse trainer who'd gone off back to London, and your brother was mad enough to try to burn down the barn, him and the horse included."

Mycroft Holmes slowly sat forward in his chair. "And you believed him? Just took him at his word?"

The old policeman had the decency to look offended. "Well, I did ask for proof."

"And what 'proof' did my father provide?"

"He showed me a suicide note- faxed to him in Jakarta at midnight on the night of the fire. He'd already left the hotel for a breakfast meeting, and didn't pick it up until five hours later, when he got back, by which time I think someone at the estate had told him that the boy had survived and was in hospital."

Holmes sat back in his chair, adjusting the line of his waistcoat while he considered what Stephens had said. Then another quiet question, "Do you remember what the so-called suicide note said?"

Stephens drew breath. "It was over twenty years ago, so can't say that I can roll it off my tongue word for word. But it was something along the lines of some bloke being fired that he 'couldn't live without' so he was going to do himself in."

Mycroft just closed his eyes for a moment. So, it must have been Guilliams. And like an idiot, I offered Sherlock the man's photographs. He had been sent the package of photos by the trainer's nephew, when he cleared the man's estate. Cancer was too easy a death, under the circumstances. He came to life again. "Was the fax hand-written?"

"No, but it was signed. But, in any case, if I'd had the slightest doubt, then your father sorted that out straight away."

"How?"

"He took me upstairs to where your brother was lying in bed. He'd been brought home from the hospital that morning. Your father walked in with me in tow, and asked him outright- 'Tell the police, Sherlock. The stable fire, the death of your horse- are they are your responsibility?' The boy could hardly speak, it came out all croaky and rough, but it was a definite yes. And then your father pulled out the fax he had showed me, and asked if the boy had sent it. Again, your brother said yes. Then your father told him to tell me what had happened. Out came a wheezy couple of sentences about setting the fire, but then being unable to get his horse out of the stall. He didn't want him to die, but couldn't get him free. That's when he got bashed up and the horse was fatally injured."

The older man finished his whisky. "The lad looked awful. Really torn up about it. He was all bruised and battered, his arm was in a cast; he could hardly speak. Smoke inhalation, according to your dad. Just looking at him, well, I figured he had suffered enough. He certainly looked remorseful, so I didn't have the heart to ask anything more."

Mycroft raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it slightly, as if coming down with a headache. "And what happened after that?"

Stephens realised he was in the home stretch of the story and decided to be as quick as he could. "Well, we went back downstairs again. Your father said that your brother was mentally unstable and that he'd spent time in an institution before. He didn't want any publicity, no police investigation, nothing that would drive him even more crazy. He said the boy was under a psychiatrist's care, and that he would really, really appreciate it if I forgot that the conversation had ever taken place, which I did, until now."

"Well, Mister Stephens, I am grateful for your candour now and your discretion before. I am going to be rather like my father now, something I very rarely admit to being. I want you to forget that this conversation ever took place." He stood up.

The former policeman stood up and shook the offered hand. "Mister Holmes, for what it's worth, the crazy things we do in our youth can be put behind us. I'm really glad these days to read about your brother's crime solving work- the cases in the newspapers and on that blog. It seems he came good in the end, you know."

Mycroft gave him a thin smile and walked him to the door. "Thank you, Mister Stephens. My driver will make sure you are returned home. I am grateful for your willingness to meet me, and for your continuing discretion. Good Evening."