Rebel Fire

by Andrew Lane

  He straightened up, brushing dirt and grass from his linen trousers. “Instinct tells me,” he said, “that it’s nearly lunchtime. You reckon your aunt and uncle can make some space at the table for a wanderin’ American?”

  “I’m sure they can,” Sherlock replied. “Although I’m not so sure about the housekeeper—Mrs. Eglantine.”

  “Leave her to me. I have bottomless reserves of charm which I can deploy at a moment’s notice.”

  They wandered back across the fields and through coppices of trees, with Crowe pointing out clumps of edible mushrooms and other fungi to Sherlock as they went, reinforcing lessons that he’d taught the boy weeks before. By now, Sherlock was fairly sure that he could survive in the wild by eating what he could find without poisoning himself.

  Within half an hour they were approaching Holmes Manor, a large and rather forbidding house set in a few acres of open ground. Sherlock could see the window of his own bedroom at the top of the house: a small, irregular room set beneath a sloping roof. It wasn’t comfortable, and he never looked forward to going to bed at night.

  A carriage was sitting outside the front door, its driver idly flicking his whip while the horse munched hay from a nose bag hung around its head.

  “Visitors?” Crowe said.

  “Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna didn’t mention anyone coming for lunch,” Sherlock said, wondering who had been in the carriage.

  “Well, we’ll find out in a few minutes,” Crowe pointed out. “It’s a waste of mental energy to speculate on a question when the answer’s goin’ to be presented to you on a plate momentarily.”

  They reached the step leading up to the front door. Sherlock ran up to the door, which was half-open, while Crowe followed on sedately behind.

  The hall was dark, with buttresses of dusty light crossing it from the sun shining through the high windows. The oil paintings lining the walls were nearly invisible in the gloom. The summer heat was an almost physical presence.

  “I’ll tell someone you’re here,” Sherlock said to Crowe.

  “No need,” Crowe murmured. “Someone already knows.” He nodded his head towards the shadows under the stairs.

  A figure stepped out, black dress and black hair offset only by the whiteness of the skin.

  “Mr. Crowe,” said the housekeeper. “I do not believe we were expecting you.”

  “People speak far and wide of the hospitality of the Holmes household,” he said grandly, “and of the victuals it provides to passing travellers. And besides, how could I forgo the opportunity to see you again, Mrs. Eglantine?”

  She sniffed, thin lips twitching under her sharp, thin nose. “I am sure that many women succumb to your colonial charms, Mr. Crowe,” she said. “I am not one of those women.”

  “Mr. Crowe will be staying for lunch,” Sherlock said firmly, though he felt a tremor in his heart as Mrs. Eglantine’s needlelike gaze moved to him.

  “That is up to your aunt and uncle,” she said, “not to you.”

  “Then I will tell them,” he said, “not you.” He turned back to Crowe. “Wait here while I check,” he said. When he turned back, Mrs. Eglantine had faded into the shadows and vanished.

  “There’s something odd about that woman,” Crowe murmured. “She don’t act like a servant. She acts like she’s a member of the family sometimes. Like she’s in charge.”

  “I don’t know why my aunt and uncle let her get away with it,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t.”

  He walked across to the salon and glanced inside. Maids were bustling around the sideboards at one end of the room, preparing plates of cold meat, fish, cheese, rice, pickled vegetables, and breads that the family could come in and graze on, as was the normal way of taking lunch at Holmes Manor, but there was no sign of his aunt or uncle. Heading back into the hall, he paused for a moment before approaching the door to the library and knocking.

  “Yes?” said a voice from inside, a voice that was used to practising the sermons and speeches that its owner spent most of his life writing: Sherlock’s uncle, Sherrinford Holmes. “Come in!”

  Sherlock opened the door. “Mr. Crowe is here,” he said as the door swung open to reveal his uncle sitting at a desk. He was wearing a black suit of old-fashioned cut, and his impressively biblical beard covered his chest and pooled on the blotter in front of him. “I was wondering if it would be possible for him to stay for lunch.”

  “I would welcome the opportunity to talk to Mr. Crowe,” Sherrinford Holmes said, but Sherlock’s attention was distracted by the man standing over by the open French windows, his long frock coat and high collar silhouetted by the light.

  “Mycroft!”

  Sherlock’s brother nodded gravely at the boy, but there was a twinkle in his eye that his sober manner could not conceal. “Sherlock,” he said. “You’re looking well. The countryside obviously suits you.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “An hour ago. I came down from Waterloo and took a carriage from the station.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  He shrugged, a slight movement of his massive frame. “I will not be staying the night, but I wanted to check on your progress. And I was hoping to see Mr. Crowe as well. I’m glad he’s here.”

  “Your brother and I will conclude our business,” Sherrinford said, “and we will see you in the dining room.”

  It was a clear dismissal, and Sherlock pulled the door closed. He could feel a smile stretching across his face. Mycroft was here! The day was suddenly even sunnier than it had been a few moments before.

  “Did I hear your brother’s voice?” Amyus Crowe rumbled from the other side of the hall.

  “That’s his carriage outside. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

  Crowe nodded soberly. “I wonder why,” he said quietly.

  “Uncle Sherrinford said you can stay for lunch. He said they’d meet us in the dining room.”

  “That seems like a plan to me,” Crowe said in a louder voice, but there was a frown on his face that belied the lightness of his words.

  Sherlock led the way into the dining room. Mrs. Eglantine was already there, standing by the wall in the shadow between two large windows. Sherlock hadn’t seen her pass him in the hall. For a moment he wondered if she might be a ghost, able to pass through walls, but he quickly decided that was a stupid idea. Ghosts didn’t exist.

  Ignoring Mrs. Eglantine, he headed for the sideboard, grabbed a plate, and began to load it up with slices of meat and chunks of salmon. Crowe followed and began at the other end of the sideboard.

  Sherlock’s head was still spinning after the sudden reappearance of his elder brother. Mycroft lived and worked in London, capital city of the Empire. He was a civil servant, working for the government, and although he often made light of his position, saying that he was just a humble file clerk, Sherlock had believed for a while that Mycroft was a lot more important than he made out. When Sherlock had been at home with his mother and father before being sent away to live with his aunt and uncle, Mycroft had sometimes come down from London to stay for a few days, and Sherlock had noticed that every day a man would turn up in a carriage with a red box. He would give it only to Mycroft in person, and in return Mycroft would hand across an envelope containing, Sherlock presumed, letters and memoranda that he had written based on the contents of the previous day’s box. Whatever he was, the government still needed to keep in touch with him every day.

  Mouth full of food, he heard the door to the library open. Moments later, the tall, stooping figure of Sherrinford Holmes entered the dining room.

  “Ah, brōma theōn,” he proclaimed in Greek, gazing at the sideboard. Glancing in Sherlock’s direction, he said: “You may use my library, my psykhēs iatreion, for your reunion with your brother.” Turning to Crowe, he added: “And he specifically requested that you join the two of them.”

  Sherlock put down his plate and moved quickly towards the library. Crowe followed, his long legs covering the ground
quickly despite his apparent slowness of gait.

  Mycroft was standing in the same position over by the French windows. He smiled at Sherlock, then walked over and ruffled the boy’s hair. The smile slipped from his face as he glanced at Crowe, but he shook hands with the American.

  “First things first,” he said. “After quite an exhaustive investigation by the police, we have found no trace of Baron Maupertuis. We believe he has fled the country for France. The good news is that we have not found any deaths of British soldiers, or anybody else, due to bee stings.”

  “It’s debatable whether Maupertuis’s plan would have worked,” Crowe said soberly. “I suspect he was mentally unstable. But it was best we didn’t take the chance.”

  “And the government is suitably grateful,” Mycroft replied.

  “Mycroft—what about Father?” Sherlock blurted.

  Mycroft nodded. “His ship will be approaching India by now. I would expect him to disembark with his regiment within the week, but we will probably not get any word from him, or from anybody else, for a month or two—the speed of communication with that far continent being what it is. If I hear anything, I will tell you straightaway.”

  “And … Mother?”

  “Her health is weak, as you know. She is stable for the moment, but she needs rest. I understand from her doctor that she sleeps for sixteen or seventeen hours a day.” He sighed. “She needs time, Sherlock. Time and a lack of any mental or physical exertion.”

  “I understand.” Sherlock paused, fighting a catch in his throat. “Then I am to stay here at Holmes Manor for the rest of the school holidays?”

  “I am not sure,” Mycroft said, “that Deepdene School for Boys is doing you much good.”

  “My Latin has improved,” Sherlock responded quickly, then mentally cursed himself. He should be agreeing with his brother, not disagreeing.

  “No doubt,” Mycroft said drily, “but there are things a boy should be learning other than Latin.”

  “Greek?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking.

  Mycroft smiled despite himself. “I see that your rather pawky sense of humour has survived your time here. No, despite the obvious importance of Latin and Greek to the increasingly complicated world we live in, I rather think that you would respond better to a more personal and individual style of teaching. I am considering withdrawing you from Deepdene and arranging for you to be tutored here, at Holmes Manor.”

  “Not go back to the school?” Sherlock searched himself for some sign that he cared, but there was nothing. He had no friends there, and even his best memories were those of boredom rather than happiness. There was nothing for him at Deepdene.

  “We need to look ahead to your matriculation,” Mycroft continued. “Cambridge, of course. Or Oxford. I think you will have a better chance if we focus your learning a little more than Deepdene can manage.” He smiled again. “You are a very individual boy, and you need to be treated that way. No promises, but I will let you know before the end of the holidays what arrangements have been put in place.”

  “Do I presume too much when I ask if I will have some small part to play in the youngster’s teachin’?” Amyus Crowe rumbled.

  “No,” Mycroft said, lips twisting slightly, “you’ve obviously kept him on the straight and narrow so well to date.”

  “He’s a Holmes,” Crowe pointed out. “He can be guided, but he can’t be forced. You were the same.”

  “Yes,” Mycroft said simply. “I was, wasn’t I?” Before Sherlock could check his sudden realization that Crowe had been Mycroft’s teacher as well, Mycroft said: “Would you be good enough to allow Mr. Crowe and me to speak privately, Sherlock? We have some business to discuss.”

  “Will I … see you before you leave?”

  “Of course. I won’t be going until this evening. You can show me around the house, if you like.”

  “We could go for a walk in the grounds,” Sherlock suggested.

  Mycroft shuddered. “I think not,” he said. “I do not believe I am properly dressed for rambling.”

  “It’s just around the outside of the house!” Sherlock protested. “Not out in the woods!”

  “If I cannot see a roof over my head and cannot feel floorboards or pavement beneath my feet, then it counts as rambling,” Mycroft said firmly. “Now, Mr. Crowe—to business.”

  Reluctantly Sherlock left the library and closed the door behind him. Judging by the voices coming from the dining room, he thought his aunt had joined his uncle for lunch. He didn’t feel like subjecting himself to the constant stream of chatter from his aunt, so he headed outside. He wandered around the side of the house, hands in pockets and kicking at the occasional stone. The sun was almost directly overhead, and Sherlock could feel a thin film of sweat forming on his forehead and between his shoulder blades.

  The French windows to the library were ahead of him. The open French windows.

  He could hear voices from inside the library.

  A part of his mind was telling him that this was a private conversation from which he had been specifically excluded, but another part, a more seductive part, was saying that Mycroft and Amyus Crowe were discussing him.

  He moved closer, along the stone balcony that ran beside the house.

  “And they’re sure?” Crowe was saying.

  “You’ve worked for Pinkertons before,” Mycroft replied. “Their intelligence sources are usually very accurate, even this far from the United States of America.”

  “But for him to have travelled here…”

  “I presume America was too dangerous for him.”

  “It’s a big country,” Crowe pointed out.

  “And much of it uncivilized,” Mycroft countered.

  Crowe wasn’t convinced. “I would have expected him to head across the border to Mexico.”

  “But apparently he didn’t.” Mycroft’s voice was firm. “Look at it this way—you were sent to England to hunt down Southern sympathizers from the War Between the States who had a price on their heads. What better reason for him to travel here than because they are here?”

  “Logical,” Crowe admitted. “Do you suspect a conspiracy?”

  Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “‘Conspiracy’ is probably too strong a term as yet. I suspect they have all gravitated to this country because it is civilized, because people speak the same language, and because it is safe. But give it time, and a conspiracy could grow. So many dangerous men with nothing to do but talk to each other … we need to nip this in the bud.”

  Sherlock’s head was spinning. What on earth were they talking about? He’d come into the conversation just too late to make sense of it.

  “Oh, Sherlock,” his brother called from inside the room, “you might as well join us, given that you’re listening in.”

  TWO

  Sherlock entered the library through the French windows with his head hung low. He felt hot and embarrassed and, strangely, angry; although he wasn’t sure whether he was angry with Mycroft for catching him eavesdropping or with himself for being caught.

  “How did you know I was there?” he asked.

  “Firstly,” Mycroft said without any trace of emotion, “I expected you to be there. You’re a young man with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, and recent events have shown that you have little regard for playing by the proper rules of society. Secondly, there is a slight breeze that blows in through the gap in the French windows. When you were standing outside, although you could not be seen, and your shadow wasn’t cast in front of the windows, your body occluded the breeze. When it ceased for more than a few seconds I surmised that something was blocking it. The obvious candidate was you.”

  “Are you angry?” Sherlock asked.

  “Not at all,” Mycroft replied.

  “What would have made your brother angry,” Amyus Crowe said genially, “is if you had been careless enough to let the sun cast your shadow across the balcony in front of the windows.”

  “That,” Mycroft agreed, �
�would have demonstrated a regrettable lack of knowledge of simple geometry, and also an inability to predict the unintended results of your own actions.”

  “You’re teasing me,” Sherlock accused.

  “Only slightly,” Mycroft conceded, “and with only the best of intentions.” He paused. “How much did you hear of our conversation?”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Something about a man who has come across from America to England, and you think he’s a threat. Oh, and something about a family called the Pinkertons.”

  Mycroft glanced across the room at Crowe and raised an eyebrow. Crowe smiled slightly.

  “They’re not a family,” he said, “although sometimes it feels like they are. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency is a company of detectives and bodyguards. It was formed by Allan Pinkerton in Chicago ’bout eighteen years ago, when he realized that the number of railroad companies in the States was growin’ but they had no way of protectin’ themselves against robbery, sabotage, an’ union activity. Allan hires out his people like a kind of super police force.”

  “Entirely independent of government rules and regulations,” Mycroft murmured. “You know, for a country that prides itself on its democratic founding principles, you do have a habit of creating unaccountable independent agencies.”

  “You called him ‘Allan,’” Sherlock realized. “You know him?”

  “Al Pinkerton an’ I go back a long way,” Crowe admitted. “I was with him seven years ago when he an’ I snuck Abraham Lincoln through Baltimore on his way to his presidential inauguration. There was a plot by the Southern states to kill Lincoln in the town, but the Pinkertons had been hired to protect him an’ we got him through alive. Since then I’ve been consulting for Al, on an’ off. Never actually taken a salary, but he pays me a consultancy fee on odd occasions.”

  “President Lincoln?” Sherlock said, his brain racing. “But wasn’t he—?”

  “Oh, they caught up with him eventually.” Crowe’s face was as still and as heavy as a chunk of carved granite. “Three years after the Baltimore plot, someone took a shot at him in Washington. His horse bolted and his hat blew off. When they recovered his hat later, they found a bullet hole in it. Missed him by inches.” He sighed. “An’ then a year later, just three years ago, he was at the theatre in Washington, watchin’ a play called Our American Cousin, when a man named John Wilkes Booth shot him in the back of the head, jumped onto the stage, an’ escaped.”