by Amelia Price
She couldn't imagine Myron ever wanting to put himself out just to protect her, especially if he felt it was her fault she was in trouble. He'd turned her away when she'd been scared of her stalker, although he had dressed as a rubbish collector to keep an eye on her once she had been hurt. That had always struck her as an act of guilt, however.
“You were so happy when Craig was around. We'd like to see you that happy again. Please don't settle for anyone that isn't at his level.”
Amelia smiled at this. She didn't talk about her late husband much but she knew they meant well.
“I promise I won't accept anyone in my life who isn't at least the man Craig was.”
“Good. Now let's see if we can keep our lead in finding geocaches.”
David put his arm through Amelia's, giving her no choice but to be hurried along by him to catch up with the others. She desperately wanted to read her letter but she also really wanted to show her friends that there was nothing to be worried about. The changes in her life weren't bad. If anything, she was living more than she ever had before. It just kept her far busier.
For the next three hours she pushed the letter from her mind and continued to hunt for little boxes in the English countryside. By the time they were done, she had found four, David had found three and James and Sophie had finished with a sole find each.
“Let's go to the pub,” James said, linking his arm through Sophie's and leading the group towards the cars.
“I can't,” Amelia replied without hesitating. “I've got some work I need to do this evening.”
“You're a writer, you can work any time.”
Sophie gave her a pleading look, matching the tone James had used.
“It's research, and someone else is helping me out with this bit. I'm really sorry, guys, I can't keep them waiting. I'll have drinks with you another night.” Before any of them could object any further Amelia hugged James and David and hurried towards Sophie's car. She knew her friend would drop her off before heading to the pub. She'd berate Amelia the whole way, but the hard part was over.
As the front door clicked shut behind her, Amelia sighed with relief. Sophie was a good friend but incessant about Amelia needing to socialise more, and they were never going to agree. An afternoon geocaching with her closest friends was more than enough chatter for the week. The effort had left her drained and eager to return to having her own thoughts and characters for company.
Now she felt like she could hole up and refocus on her books, or whatever task Myron had planned for her next. Assuming he really was called Myron. She'd tried not to think about her discovery of him possibly being Mycroft Holmes and over one hundred and fifty years old, but occasionally her mind revisited the notion, even if it wasn't something her mind could quite grasp as a possibility. If the science existed to make people live that long now, she might just believe it, but if all the signs were right, then it had existed for far longer than that.
She hurried to remove her boots and push the thoughts from her mind. It wouldn't do to dwell on them. Once her soft slippers were on her aching feet, she padded over to the sofa, removed the letter from her jacket pocket and sat down. It didn't take her long to prise off the seal and open the small envelope. Inside was a small length of paper folded in half twice. She read the words and frowned.
A: The art of a number is made up of observed facts, and this is the important cache.
As the lines deepened on Amelia's face, a small sigh escaped her lips. Myron never made her tasks easy, but then she was meant to be learning from one of the brightest men on the planet. The sentence made little sense to her, so she put it down and removed the rest of her outdoor clothing. When she still had no idea where to begin, she filled the kettle and flicked the switch to start it boiling. Even he would approve of her having tea while she tried to solve the problem.
The first object of confusion to her was the letter A. It implied this was the answer to a question, but she had no idea what the question was. If it didn't mean that, then the sentence had an answer that had A as part of something else, perhaps. She did suspect Myron might start to bring several different answers together to provide information for one final task. It was more natural to have to learn and notice things before you might need them. The art of seeing possible key pieces of information before you knew you needed them was something hard to teach.
The answer being related to some future event would also fit with the last few lessons she'd had with Tom. He'd momentarily paused their martial arts lessons to teach her techniques in moving stealthily, as well as spent several hours heightening her memory recall. For several days she'd suspected something else was coming, even if it was sooner after the last set of lessons than normal.
With a cup of tea in hand, she settled into the leather sofa and held Myron's letter in front of her, studying it for some kind of clue.
Several minutes passed by and she found herself growing frustrated. Neither Holmes brother would take this long to work out what it meant, and she needed to get as close to their level of skill as she could. It wounded her emotions that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't be as good as they were.
In an attempt to calm down, Amelia placed the letter on the coffee table, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She then finished her tea and picked up the letter again. Instantly the answer clicked. She'd been thinking about the message as a whole when it was probably a sentence within a sentence.
Amelia grabbed her pencil and quickly went through possible words to skip and what was formed if she followed any sort of pattern. After several minutes of underlining and rubbing out, she had one possibility that looked feasible. Every fourth word.
The number of this cache.
A grin spread across her face as she retrieved her laptop from her computer area and booted it up. She then went to the main geocaching website and looked up the day's finds. The geocache itself was the sixth one of the circle they'd picked out, although it was their fifth of the day because they'd started slightly farther around the route and ended with the first. While Amelia was wondering which of these it could be, she also realised there was the total number she'd found, as well. Working backwards from the current total, she noticed it was her fifty-first geocache find. The answer to Myron's question could be any of the three possibilities.
Hoping to get a little more information out of the man himself, she rummaged in her handbag for the phone he'd given her. It didn't take her long to tap out a message.
Got your letter. Unique delivery system. Any time frame on my answer?
When she was done, she read over the message several times, feeling her stomach flip at thoughts of him being well over a hundred and under a false identity. It wasn't the first time that she'd wondered if she wanted to be involved with the man. She really didn't know very much about him, and immortality was a complication.
Pushing aside her fear, she pressed the send button. It was too late for regrets. She was already in deep with the Holmes brothers. All she could do now was learn to swim.
While she waited for a response, she pulled up the latest file for her novel and threw herself into the second draft. It was a little earlier than she would normally like to take a second look at a book, but it was better than sitting, doing nothing, and her publisher would be pleased if the book was finished early. Something she'd never yet managed.
She'd been working just long enough to lose herself in her characters' world when the phone buzzed, making her jump. Her heart leapt in her chest as she looked at the reply.
I hope you enjoyed your modern treasure hunt this morning. You've got time to figure out the answer. Not all problems have deadlines that are apparent at the beginning, or information that is obviously connected.
Amelia almost dropped her phone in shock. This was extra teaching and advice and very forthcoming for Myron. He was either in a good mood or pleased with her, for some reason. Whatever the cause, she wasn't going to waste the goodwill.
; I did enjoy the treasure hunt, and my extra surprise. I even managed to retrieve the letter without my friends noticing. Are you well and in the government's good graces again?
Amelia relaxed and made herself another cup of tea. She could do this; she just needed to trust herself and keep going. Whatever Myron's world involved, as long as she stayed calm, she could cope with it. As she sat down with her fresh beverage, Myron's reply came through.
I'd be very concerned if you had let your friends notice you take the letter. Sebastian insisted you'd become very adept at sleight of hand or I'd never have put the letter there. I am as well as can be expected if you're referring to my health, and the government soon remembered how much they needed me. Now, get back to your writing and do stay alert. We wouldn't want you to miss anything important.
A grin spread across her face as she imagined Myron saying the last part. It wasn't a question, but she knew she could get away with one quick reply.
As you command.
She allowed herself a brief thought over whether the message would make him smile or not before she did as she'd been bid and continued with her work.
Chapter 3
The brandy glass sat almost empty, and entirely forgotten, to one side of his desk, while Mycroft stared at his computer screen. After the busy start to the day, he'd hoped to be finished with his work, but a James McGregory of Lockerbie had been traced as the initial source of the anonymous messages. It had taken his people a little over a day to comb through the records from the stationery store and get him a name. Several minutes after that, they'd found his younger brother had been the temporary postman for the local area and delivered parcels to the MP's office on several occasions. Only an hour later, they had an address and someone lined up to visit the men.
On his screen was a report of what had occurred at that meeting. He'd read it through twice. The second perusal had only served to make him wish he'd handled it entirely himself.
Met with McGregory snr. Seemed awkward but polite at first. Signs of nervousness and agitation but hidden reasonably well. Offered to recompense him for his time and cooperation with ensuring the information only got in the right hands. He refused the money but grew even more uncomfortable and possibly nervous about something. Tried offering a higher amount but this only made him angry and he claimed the MP didn't deserve so easy an escape. Didn't want raised voices so have left. Younger McGregory has cooperated fully. Didn't seem to understand what he'd acquired. Awaiting further instruction.
D
For whatever reason, Mr McGregory had refused the bribe, and his agent hadn't handled the man's offence at being bribed very well. Mention of awkwardness or possibly nervousness was unexpected. The agent wouldn't have seemed threatening, which meant McGregory had some other reason. It was enough to make Mycroft want to dig deeper. With the lack of results, he had no choice but to get involved.
Ten minutes earlier he'd abandoned his evening's usual relaxation to demand further details. Something wasn't right, and until he had answers he couldn't allow his mind to rest.
Thankfully, his secretary was still awake, and she emailed him more information long before anyone else could. He briefly considered giving her a raise.
Bank records show payment from currently unknown source, amount just a little under our first bribe offer. I'll keep digging to find out who sent it.
Mycroft sighed, realising the Scotsman had sold the information to a reporter already. He had a pretty good idea who it was. His secretary would have it confirmed before the morning, which meant only one thing: someone going and reminding the reporter why it wouldn't be a good idea to write about the misappropriation of government funds. And he evidently couldn't trust the government agents to handle the matter. The same people would only bungle it further. This task now required a Holmes brother.
After standing, Mycroft summoned Daniels. Sherlock would still be awake. Mycroft could only hope his younger brother didn't have a case.
London was wrapped in mist as Daniels drove the usual black car off the drive and into the streets. The pale orange of the old-fashioned street lamps loomed out of the fog like strange little suspended angels watching over the few scurrying inhabitants of England's capital city.
Something about this sort of weather always made the city feel as if it had gone back in time. As if he would see a horse and carriage next, or a penny farthing, instead of the modern cars and bikes that filled the streets now. On evenings like this, Mycroft missed the days of his youth. There were definitely downsides to being alive far longer than the average human.
When Daniels pulled up on Baker Street, Mycroft hurried towards the front door. As he pushed the door open, he straightened the number '221b'.
“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Wintern called out from her living room. Her door was open, and he caught a glimpse of her getting up from her chair and heading towards her small kitchen. If nothing else, she brought some semblance of routine to his visits with his brother.
The stairs creaked in all the right places as he walked upwards, and the door gave off the familiar slight squeak of the hinges. Immediately, he noticed the faint smell of sulphur in the room and Sherlock sitting over by the open window, studying something on his desk. A breeze brushed past him, strengthened by the passageway he'd opened up for it.
“Whatever it is, I'm busy,” the younger Holmes brother said before Mycroft could even speak.
“It's important.”
“It always is with you. The fate of the country or its reputation is always at stake when you come in. Occasionally, there's even lives in danger.”
Mycroft tried not to show his annoyance, and walked the rest of the way into the flat. Sherlock finally looked up from the piece of paper he had in his hands.
“Two siblings are squabbling over who is responsible for an aunt's dog dying.”
“And that's important?”
“Yes. The dog was actually killed because of a pesticide. Rather interesting really. Of course, they only care because the aunt is threatening to disinherit them, but people are shallow like that.”
“Well, if you've figured it out already, then you're not busy, are you?”
“Oh, I was explaining the smell. I've got three other cases to work on.”
Mycroft didn't need to see Sherlock's face to know this wasn't entirely true, but when his brother was like this there was no way to make him budge but offer him the task and see how bored he really was.
“I need someone to go to Scotland and plug a leak for me. I don't trust anyone else not to bungle it. The only thing at stake is a man's reputation, but finding a way to stop the reporter should be at least somewhat challenging. Enough so, that I don't have an agent who can do it.”
As soon as Mycroft finished speaking, he knew it was useless. Sherlock only frowned. It didn't interest him at all.
“Send Amelia. She can be very persuasive, especially if the reporter's male.”
“No, brother of mine, I won't send her when trained agents won't be good enough.”
“Well then, you'll have to go yourself, as much as you'll dislike that. If you won't send her, then that's your only option.”
“Very well. If you reconsider before tomorrow morning, let me know.”
Mycroft walked back out of the flat and was about to start down the stairs when he noticed Mrs Wintern coming up them with a tea tray in hand.
“Not staying?” she asked.
“I'm sure Sebastian will oblige the effort,” he said and stepped to the side out of her way. She pursed her lips but didn't complain, and it wasn't long before Daniels was opening the car door to let him hide within.
Only once he was settled in the back of the car did he express his frustration. A small grunt of annoyance escaped his lips when Daniels glanced in the rear-view mirror, obviously wanting directions on where to go.
“Home, Daniels,” he said. “We're going to Scotland tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur replied, not quite
managing to stop his look of surprise. Mycroft hadn't been out of London in several years. By the time the car had joined the flowing traffic, Daniels had regained his composure and Mycroft's thoughts were focused on the next day.
When he was still a few miles from home, his phone buzzed with a message from Amelia. He frowned as he pulled the device from his pocket. The task he'd set her shouldn't be solvable yet as she still missed a vital piece of information to know which numbers were relevant. That meant there could only be one reason she was contacting him. Mycroft cursed at the interference of his younger brother. Why did he never understand the word no?
Your younger brother has just informed me that you need my help tomorrow. He said it would require a trip to Scotland. I can make the day available, or even longer, if necessary.
In response, Mycroft began tapping out his declination of her help, but before he could send the message, he paused. A second later he deleted it.
You'll get the 6am train from Bath. Buy a return to Dumfries, but get off at Lancaster. I'll await you there.
It was an impulsive decision but she might prove useful on the day, and if not, she could shadow him and learn. If he was going to go to the effort of leaving London, he might as well teach Amelia something at the same time. In the future, it might mean he could do exactly as his younger brother had suggested and send Amelia. Whether it was bad taste to think it or not, a female often had better results persuading a man to do as she wished.
