He was puzzling how he could remove them with no tools, when he absent-mindedly touched the door handle… and felt it lowering in his hand.
The door was unlocked.
That startled him more than finding himself blindfolded and chained in a garret. He waited a moment to still his breath, then he opened it as quietly as he could and stared out into a narrow, dark hallway.
He heard Mycroft’s voice a second time dully, faintly, calling his name.
“Mycroft!” he called back, but his own voice sounded hoarse and weak.
He tried again.
“Mycroft!” he called out with all of his might as he lumbered his way down the pitch-black corridor.
Suddenly, a shadow was coming towards him at a goodly clip. Crying out had been a mistake, for he had no energy left to fight.
A moment later, he was enveloped in familiar arms. Mycroft removed his own coat and wrapped it about his shoulders, then—keeping a steadying arm about him—slowly walked him to freedom.
40
DOUGLAS AND MYCROFT SAT IN THE BACK OF THE carriage, with Douglas all but buried in blankets, on their way to the London Hospital in Whitechapel. For although Douglas had longed for nothing more than his own warm bed, Mycroft had pointed out the awkwardness of explaining to staff and boys alike why Mr. Smythe’s personal secretary (and suspected tattle-tale) Cyrus Douglas would need to come half-broken to convalesce at Nickolus House, of all unlikely places. With his head still smarting and his teeth still chattering, Douglas gave up on his rather feeble protestations and allowed himself to be transported wherever Mycroft wished.
“You said that the bolt was inside,” Mycroft said. “But, in order to leave you alone in there, with the door bolted, that inside bolt had to be put into position from the outside. How?”
“The crossbar, it was on a hinge,” Douglas explained. “With a point of balance in the middle, a sort of fulcrum. To have it lock from the inside, you had but to place the bar at that point of balance, walk out without jostling it, and then slam the door behind you—and the bolt would fall into its bearings.”
“Clever,” Mycroft said.
“By half. Even in the dark, that medieval-looking crossbar was an intimidating sight. And though I have no proof, the room had the feel of a torture chamber.”
“Well now that it has been discovered, I doubt it shall be used for that purpose again.”
“How long did you search for me?”
“It took a while, I’ll admit,” Mycroft said. “From the docks I went home to get into dry clothing, seething all the while at how Zaharoff had bested me. And more and more, your being gone at this particular juncture seemed less coincidence and more by design. Once I made up my mind to search for you, it took three hours. With Zaharoff’s minions no doubt reporting each moment back to him for his amusement.”
Mycroft’s voice all but dripped with venom. Douglas pitied anyone who could reduce him to such a state, for he was not one to turn the other cheek.
“So you believe that Zaharoff planned all of this from the first? That seems a bit too diabolical,” Douglas said.
“No, I think he just made the best out of a bad situation,” Mycroft replied. “Zaharoff never planned to have me nosing about, looking into Bingwen Shi’s kidnapping. That was a surprise to him. Given that, he had to let me know that he is not the canary to my cat, as you had it, but I to his. That nothing I care for is beyond his reach. Including you.”
“Then why did he not simply kill me and be done with it?”
“To begin with, he sees himself as a businessman, Douglas, not a madman. He does not kill willy-nilly. And, as you pose no threat to him, it would be a risk to no good end. Secondly, he must realize that if he kills you, he shall never be rid of me.”
“Yes, I can imagine that he would be none too happy to have you as his albatross. But how did you track me?”
“Track?” Mycroft repeated, feigning offense. “I am no Afghan hound. I leave that to my brother. No, once I reasoned that he would not kill you, I knew he had you abducted. As it so happens, I had just read about him. I therefore recalled all the buildings that he owned in the vicinity. Regent Tobaccos was point zero, as it were, and I began searching for you in concentric, ever widening circles. I called out your name, figuring that sooner or later you would be clever enough to respond. Thank Providence that it had finally stopped raining, else I would not have heard you at all. I assume that Zaharoff was also curious about your prowess in capoeira—”
“Yes. Unusual to be left chained but shirtless and barefooted,” Douglas said, smiling.
“He hoped you would put on a good show.”
“I tried my best,” Douglas muttered.
“And your old bullet fragments held steady!” Mycroft exclaimed.
“That they did,” Douglas said, nodding.
There was still so much that he wished to know and to discuss. There was Ai Lin, and Bingwen Shi. And Mycroft still had that infernal compunction to skirt morality, to embrace—what was it that he had said once?—ah, yes. Necessary Inhumanity. But instead of continuing the conversation, he found himself lowering his eyelids and sinking into the inestimable luxury of a safe sleep.
* * *
Mycroft was sitting in Edward Cardwell’s library just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed midnight. He had requested, and been provided, a glass of Cognac as he waited for his former employer to be rousted from bed. The Camus brand, though prestigious, was not his favorite. Nevertheless, he was gratified that it was not tea. Mycroft made a silent and solitary toast to his friend Douglas, recovering at the London Hospital, and took a sip.
Mycroft had insisted upon paying for a private room with a nice view of the grounds, along with round-the-clock nursing care. But he knew that Douglas would make scant use of it and might even, the moment he was better, rally enough to pour his own liquids and to make his own bed—perhaps even give the personnel a hand with any other small tasks they might be too busy to execute.
“Mr. Holmes?” Cardwell said as he walked in.
“Forgive this intrusion, sir,” Mycroft replied, rising to his feet.
“No bother, no bother, for I was not yet abed,” he replied, though creases in his left cheek and a tuft of hair knotted by a sleeping cap, hastily removed, gave the lie to his words.
“Scotch,” he muttered to his butler, who had followed him inside. Then, suppressing a groan, he fell into the seat opposite.
Mycroft removed a document from his inner pocket and passed it over.
“What’s this?”
“Zaharoff’s declaration that Bingwen Shi had naught to do with arms sales to Japan,” Mycroft said, sitting down again. “That Shi never spoke to any Japanese officials about arms, and that no one in Japan can contradict that claim or say otherwise.”
Cardwell reached for a set of spectacles on a small table beside his chair and peered at the paper.
“The original is on its way to China as we speak,” Mycroft added.
“Is it legitimate?” Cardwell asked.
“Quite, in the sense that Zaharoff wrote it. But I would need the War Office to mark it as perjury, for that is the quickest way to nullify it.”
“Though it is not perjury.”
“No, sir.”
“Then you might want to explain, and carefully, from the beginning…” Cardwell growled. He put down his scotch in one swallow, and as the butler poured another, Mycroft began.
“Bingwen Shi’s family is aristocratic but in need of funds; while the Lins are very well off but lack social cachet. So they made a good match. And, once the nuptials were arranged, Shi went to Zaharoff with a deal to utilize his father-in-law’s ships. When Zaharoff agreed, Shi went to his father-in-law, who consented to the partnership.
“So Zaharoff began arranging for his weapons to be transported on the Lin ships, vaunting their speed and their reputation for efficiency and timeliness. But when Lin’s daughter got wind of it, she put her foot down. And so
her father—without telling her that a deal had already been struck—abruptly called
off the partnership.
“By that time,” Mycroft concluded, “Zaharoff had made promises abroad. When Deshi Hai Lin severed the relationship, Zaharoff lost face and money, and that would not do. He had to make an example of the weakest link in the chain.”
“Bingwen Shi.”
“Yes, sir,” Mycroft replied.
“I take it that Shi knew what his future held: that he would be beheaded?” Cardwell asked. “That he knew it was just a matter of time before Zaharoff would have to make an example of him?”
“Yes, sir, he knew. And he panicked.”
“As would we all,” Cardwell said, motioning to his butler to refill the glass.
“Shi was desperate,” Mycroft continued. “So he went to Zaharoff with an alternate plan. If he and Ai Lin could marry in China, and something untoward were to happen to his father-in-law, he would inherit the ships.”
“You are saying that he planned to murder Deshi Hai Lin?”
“I am saying that he was willing to do so. And possibly his future wife. But to do so in Britain, our laws of inheritance being what they are, would not serve. So he and Zaharoff set a scheme into motion: Zaharoff let the Chinese government know that they had a traitor on their hands, and Shi was duly abducted and spirited off to China for trial.”
“But this letter proves that Zaharoff always had the means to free him,” Cardwell said.
“Yes, sir. But he could not do so directly; it would raise suspicions. He needed someone like me, sir. Someone who thought he was forcing Zaharoff’s hand. A dupe, in other words.”
“You are no dupe, Holmes.”
“Not usually, no. But certainly in this case, I was. Then there was a fortuitous trip to Scotland that proved Shi was not in London on the 4th of April,” Mycroft explained. “Now, a trip to Glasgow by train would not—strictly speaking—be necessary. It is not difficult to prove that one is not in London on a certain date, if one is aware of the date in advance.”
“Nevertheless, it was convenient,” Cardwell opined. “For it legitimized his relationship with the girl, with Ai Lin. He might even be able to hold it against her, if she ever thought to break off the engagement.”
“Yes, sir,” Mycroft said, swallowing. “What he did hold against her was her strong-willed but compassionate nature. If he could have her believe that she was his only salvation, she could be counted upon to sail to China to rescue him. And of course her father would never let her go without him. So you see, sir, what must be done in order to save them both.”
Mycroft paused and took a sip of his Cognac, and Cardwell grew pale.
“Holmes, you do know what you are asking. If we declare that this note from Zaharoff is counterfeit—”
“—I do. It gives Zaharoff and Bingwen Shi no time to recalibrate. The execution will be carried out as planned.”
“It is not just an ‘execution,’ but a terrible way to die,” Cardwell said, shaking his head. “I do not see how we can justify—”
“Mr. Cardwell,” Mycroft interrupted. His tone was even, though there was steel in it. “Deshi Hai Lin and his daughter are naturalized British citizens, whereas Bingwen Shi is a Chinese national who conspired against his own countrymen. Just because he did not personally do the deal, he was still instrumental in attempting to transport arms to Japan. As I said from the first, ‘If Shi was in fact treasonous to his homeland, should he be saved?’ In my humble opinion, sir, the answer is no.”
Cardwell finished his glass, took a full one from the butler’s tray and drank half before putting it down again.
“It appears that we have just condemned a man to death,” he said.
“No, sir, we have not. He condemned himself.”
“What about Zaharoff ?” Cardwell said quietly, after a moment. “How shall he be punished?”
“With Zaharoff, I cannot hope for a victory, but I can work for a détente. Stop him from doing harm to Deshi Hai Lin or to his daughter, or from attempting ever again to procure any ship that flies the British flag.”
Cardwell reached for a half-smoked cigar upon the nearby ashtray, and Mycroft noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Allow me,” Mycroft said, lighting it for him, his own hands as steady as a stone.
41
IN SPITE OF HUAN’S SILK AND CANVAS AWNING, IT WAS A wet, nearly four-hour slog back to London. Visibility was nil, slowing their progress significantly, and even the best of shelters could not prevent the wind from blowing the rain sideways. Since Huan’s small victory with the cat, he had continued to press his way, insisting for example that Sherlock not place the golden frog inside his jacket pocket.
And, even though Sherlock had taken every precaution to lay not a finger upon the little creature—he had even wrapped it in his handkerchief!—Huan seemed suddenly immune to reason.
Huan’s solution, in fact, was an abomination; he had suggested entombing the beast at the bottom of the flower vase on the inside of the carriage door, where any rut in the road could knock it out and onto the floor.
Sherlock managed a compromise: a very nice mahogany and copper box with red silk padding, wherein both of his finds—frog and thorn—fitted quite well.
“It protects a very dear carriage clock, Master Sherlock,” Huan fretted when he saw the clock lying unprotected upon the seat, where Sherlock had left it.
“This might be a very dear frog, Huan,” Sherlock replied.
The two finally arrived at St. John’s Wood just after midnight. Sherlock was so anxious to be about his work that he all but dashed to Mycroft’s front door without so much as a nod of farewell.
“Good night, Master Sherlock!” Huan called out behind him.
Sherlock turned and saw Huan still perched on the sprung seat, fog so thick around him that it appeared to be erasing him even as he sat, and waving so enthusiastically that he might as well have been on a tropical beach at midday, instead of wet to the bone on an unseasonably cold London night.
“Sleep well, my friend,” Sherlock managed to say, waving back.
Carriage-clock box safely in hand, Sherlock knocked upon Mycroft’s door; and when it opened, he breezed past the sleepy-faced housemaid with a, “No, thank you,” to whatever it was that she was offering, be it towels or sustenance. For the first time, he did not sprint upstairs to the guest bedroom to mull over his yarn-and-pin creation but went directly into Mycroft’s well-stocked library, where he had never before set foot; for Mycroft was so fussy about his books that it would be hardly worth the bother, were Sherlock not desperate to peruse a reference or two.
There was no fire in the hearth: a shame, for he was still quite sodden. He shooed away the yawning page boy with bloodshot eyes whom the housemaid had no doubt roused to come to his aid. Blessedly alone, he lit a couple of lamps, hoping against hope that identifying his specimen would be as simple as opening Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae, and turning to ‘Frogs.’
He sat at Mycroft’s desk, the clock box beside him, and perused the pages listed in the table of contents. But none of the fourteen species mentioned therein resembled the little golden one that he had extracted from the belly of the cat.
Ever less hopeful, he turned to ‘Accipitres,’ under which the author had enumerated ‘Corvus,’ crows and ravens. But none of the twelve species listed were in any way unusual. And another volume on botany had too many cacti with thorns identical to the one he had found.
He was rifling through this chapter and that, hoping to come upon something else that might provide a useful link, when he heard an appalled voice at the door:
“Sherlock…? In my library?”
His brother stood at the threshold fully dressed and wearing a haunted look, as if he had misplaced something of great import.
“Mycroft!” Sherlock greeted him with as much affability as he dared. “Well timed, for I could use a hand—”
“No. Do not request my aid,”
Mycroft replied, “for I can be of no use to anyone tonight… But what you are so abusing?” He drew an alarmed breath. “Not My Systema Naturae, tenth edition!”
Whereupon, he marched over and snatched both volumes out of Sherlock’s hands, and fixed him with a glare. “And is that my carriage clock?”
“Not at all!” Sherlock protested. “The clock is safely in the carriage. This is merely the box,” he explained, holding it up.
“The clock requires the box!” Mycroft exclaimed. “The box shelters the clock!”
“The clock is unmolested, brother. And even if it weren’t, you are able to tell time perfectly well by, I don’t know, wetting your finger and lifting it up into the air or something. As to why I am here,” he continued with a broad smile: “I have found a golden frog in the belly of a cat!”
Mycroft stared at him, aghast. “You have truly gone around the bend. How long has it been since you have slept?”
* * *
It took Mycroft a good half hour to catch up with all that Sherlock was telling him, for he wasted the first few moments simply attempting to calm himself down. But even then, he found that he was struggling with his younger brother’s story. His thoughts kept returning to Ai Lin, to Zaharoff, and to the allegation from the War Office, signed by Cardwell, of a counterfeit. It would arrive first thing in the morning to Zaharoff’s offices in Berkeley Square; and then by telegram to the British Legations in Peking, Wuhan, Taipei, Shanghai, and Xiamen.
In some three weeks’ time, Ai Lin and her father would disembark the Latitude, only to be told, after their long and arduous journey, that the document they carried as proof was useless, and that Bingwen Shi would be executed for treason.
Mycroft’s heart bled for her, but it could not be helped.
As for Sherlock’s tale, it sounded mad, stuffed as it was with strange birds, dead felines, cactus thorns, blowguns, and golden frogs. He wondered, not for the first time, if lunacy—of the sort that their mother occasionally suffered—might be hereditary. New theories pointed to that very possibility. Sherlock, fine-boned, thin, and highly strung like her, had all the markers of incipient madness; whereas Mycroft himself could well be a passive, or asymptomatic carrier, one who did not experience psychological imbalances, yet could pass them on to his progeny.
The Empty Birdcage Page 25
