by Amelia Price
She tried again once she was on the train to Paddington, but again he left it to ring. Not wanting to annoy him if there was a good reason for him not picking up, she decided it would be the final time and tucked the extra phone in her jacket pocket, where she would be able to feel it vibrate if he replied in some way to her request for communication.
To keep her mind occupied and her emotions as calm as she could, Amelia wrote more on the train, but the letters kept popping into mind every time she wrote Dalton's name. After only a few hundred words, she gave up. A now familiar sick feeling settled into the pit of her stomach, and she found herself wondering if she would ever find stories about Dalton easy to write again. The longer she felt scared and the more letters she received the more she would associate the character with the stalker.
The train journey felt like it took all day, and by the time she was getting off in London she was exhausted and tense. At every stop she'd felt the nagging sensation that the next person to get onto her carriage would be him. That somehow he'd know exactly what train she was on and where she was going and he'd appear like he had the night before.
When the train grew busier and a man sat down beside her she had to stifle a squeal, but it wasn't him, just another weary traveller in a business suit. Something about his eyes looked familiar, but not enough for her to think she'd seen him before He smiled at her and she tried to reciprocate before turning to the window and finding the scenery fascinating.
Once she'd got used to him being there and showing no interest in her, it had made her feel safer. Guy couldn't plonk himself down next to her if someone else was there, but now they'd arrived in London he could appear from anywhere. The next person who rounded the corner in front of her could be him, or he could sneak up on her from behind, lost in the masses of people until he was close. Her only comfort was the audience the other passengers provided.
She spent the next twenty minutes making her way through the underground system, frightened about being alone in case Guy found her and tried to abduct her, and panicked about seeing other people in case he used them as shields to get to her. Every time she saw a coat of a similar beige to Guy's she bit down on her lip and stared at the wearer until she was convinced it wasn't him.
Once at the right stop, she hurried to the surface and found the nearest taxi. Only when she was sat in the back and the driver was already making his way to the road next to Myron's did she begin to relax. Guy couldn't get to her before she was safe with Myron now. The taxi wouldn't stop until she told the driver to.
It took another twenty minutes for the car to get the three miles from the tube stop to the neighbourhood Myron lived in, bringing her total journey time to over four hours. She checked her phone one last time, concerned that he hadn't called her back or even messaged, but it didn't deter her from her goal. Hopefully he would forgive her for turning up at his house unannounced. She'd done everything she could to let him know in advance.
Ten minutes later she was still walking down the road he lived on, confused by the houses. It had only been nine weeks since she'd stayed the night at his house, but now she wasn't sure which one was his. So many of them looked alike, set back in the trees with large gates and sweeping drives.
A few hundred metres down the road she spotted one on the other side that was wider than the others and set back a little farther. Her feet hurried her over to the front gate and the refuge she finally recognised. She'd fought back panic from so many little reasons that she was tiring from the effort, and as she stopped by the buzzer she realised she was exhausted and starving.
“Hello?” a male voice said a few seconds after she buzzed.
“Daniels?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Amelia Jones. I need Myron's help. He should know why,” she said, hoping the chauffeur would take that as a good enough explanation. She didn't know what Myron would let his employees know. Daniels didn't reply but the gate swung open and she slipped through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to admit her, checking over her shoulder one last time.
The familiar car was sat across the front porchway of the house, forcing her to go around the back of it. By the time she got to the front door Daniels stood there, preventing her from seeing inside the house.
“Can I see Myron, please?” she asked.
“He's not expecting you, is he?” Daniels asked, frowning and not moving out of the way.
“No, but I tried to phone him, several times. He has been helping me with something and it's taken a turn for the worse. I really need to see him.” Amelia gave Daniels her most pleading look.
“He's not here.”
“Oh!” She furrowed her brow, not sure what to do and feeling the tightness return to her stomach. She didn't think she could simply leave again. “Where is he?”
“I don't think he'd want me to tell you that.” Daniels looked away and she could tell that he wanted to help her. She bit her lip and looked more worried.
“I really need to find him. If you won't help me, I'll have to try and get to him another way. Maybe his brother will...”
“All right, get in the car. I'll take you to him.” Daniels relented and walked towards the car door to open it for her.
“Thank you,” she replied, barely above a whisper. With a sigh, she sank into the back seat of Myron's car. In here no one would hurt her. She was safe, and it even smelt faintly of Myron's cologne. For the first time since leaving the hotel that morning she let the tension drain from her body.
From the inside of a hidden space the world didn't seem so terrifying. The sight of a beige coat still sent a flutter through her stomach, but seeing Guy wouldn't mean she was in danger right then. No one but Daniels could see her, tucked up in the back of the large black car.
Eventually Daniels pulled up on the gravel drive of a large stately manor house. On the way in she'd seen signs proclaiming the place to be the Diogenes Club, but she'd never heard of it before.
She caught a glance at a similar sign near the entrance to the building and noticed one of the founding men had been a Holmes. Without waiting for Daniels to come around to her and let her out, she pushed the door open.
“I won't be long,” she called over her shoulder.
“Amelia, I'm not sure... I should go in and let Myron know you're here.”
She ignored Daniels and hurried through the massive wooden double doors that stood ajar, and had to stop herself gaping at the grand stone entranceway with its large sweeping split staircase. It was like a house from a fairy tale. A butler came hurrying up to her, his eyes wide with an edge of panic.
Not quite sure why she might be scaring him, she quickly scanned over her attire. She was dressed well, as she always ensured whenever the chance to see Myron was there.
“I need to see Myron Holmes,” she said when he came closer. This seemed to only worsen the matter. He appeared to choke and his eyes grew even wider. Realising he would be of no help to her, she tried to walk right past him and called Myron's name. Daniels pulled on her arm and drew her attention back behind her but he was no longer looking at her, and he also appeared as if he was about to have some sort of panic attack. She followed his gaze and saw that Myron had appeared to one side of the staircase, by a door that had looked like part of the wall the last time she'd seen it. He motioned with one hand for her to approach. Daniels let go of her and the butler moved out of her way.
“Myron,” she said with delight. She hurried over to him, her boots clicking rapidly on the marble floor. As she got closer she noticed that he was clenching his jaw and shaking with barely contained rage. She stopped in front of him, suddenly finding she couldn't speak. He was more angry than she'd ever seen him, and the way he stared at her made it obvious the reason was her.
Chapter 7
Mycroft pointed at the room to one side of him, hoping Amelia would hurry up and get inside before he dragged her in there. In all his years at the club, such an embarrassing incident had never occurred be
cause of him. Not even Watson had made such a blunder.
Some level of understanding seemed to finally come to her as she walked into the room before him and held her gloved hands demurely in front of her. She stopped in the middle of the room while he pulled the door closed and made sure it made no sound.
Once it was closed and providing them with an insulated bubble to make noise within, he strode around to his side of the desk but found he couldn't sit down.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he said, his voice even and clipped, but full of the emotion he felt.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”
“Not only is this a gentlemen's club and you are most decidedly not male, but this is also a silent club. You've made more noise in less than a minute than is heard here in a whole year.
“I really am sor...”
“And on top of all that, I distinctly remember telling you not to contact me in any way that could be noticed or discovered by others. Everyone here just heard you were looking for me.”
Amelia finally shut her mouth again and stopped trying to apologise. He thought this would be an improvement until he saw her eyes water with the threat of tears. He let out a disgusted growl and turned his back on her. Trying to keep all the rage within him from boiling over and making him explode into an angry tirade, he closed his eyes and focused on smoothing out his breathing.
When he felt calmer he faced Amelia again and found she was doing the same thing. One tear had escaped and tracked down her cheek, but she was standing, shaking and fighting with her breathing. Impressively, she appeared to be regaining control.
He sneered as the small amount of respect he couldn't help but feel flared his temper once more.
“Explain,” he said, snapping his mouth shut over the word. Her eyes flew open but she didn't speak. Instead, she swallowed and looked down at his desk.
“I found another letter this morning.”
“At the hotel?” She shook her head and then nodded. He raised an eyebrow, not willing to play games. “Spit it out.”
“I found it at the hotel, but it was in my handbag, and he could only have put it in there last night. It was angry, and hinted at violence.”
A shiver ran through her and he felt his face sneering once more.
“You're scared,” he said, not phrasing it like it was a question. He hoped his disgust at the emotion was evident.
“Yes. He could hurt me, if he tried.”
“And you think I'll protect you?” He didn't hide his scorn at her assumption.
Shock widened her eyes and she took a step back as if he'd slapped her. He immediately regretted mocking her instinct to run to him, which only made him angrier. Not once had he ever softened towards someone, and he didn't want to start now.
Silence filled the room again, something normally comfortable in this place, but not while she stood there, full of emotion. While he watched her, she opened and closed her mouth several times, but he didn't want to relieve her awkwardness and speak even if he'd known what to say.
“I bumped into Guy Thomas,” she said, finally speaking.
“No. I've already told you. It can't possibly be him.”
“I was followed to dinner last night.”
“It was my man. He said he thought you saw him.” He expected this to comfort her, but her breathing only quickened.
“Then how did Guy know to be there? How did...”
“Oh, for Christ's sake, even I knew you were going to be there. Ms Brent advertised it all over her social media.”
Amelia frowned but didn't back down.
“I know it's him, Myron. He's the only person who's been there every time. You're wrong, you have to...”
“Enough,” Mycroft yelled.
She was stunned into silence, but it was too little too late. He fought to lower his voice to say one last thing.
“Get. Out.”
For just a second, she hesitated, searching his face, but then she fled and he heard the clattering of her soles on the hard floor as she ran from the club. He faced the wall again, shaking uncontrollably.
It was bad enough that she'd been so foolish as to come straight to him, but to let her fear get the better of her so completely that she would accuse him of being wrong? Their agreement was over. He hoped he never saw her again, but he knew he also needed to reprimand Daniels.
As soon as he could be sure he would appear dignified, Mycroft followed in Amelia's footsteps outside, making no noise in comparison to her hurricane of sound.
When he stepped outside, Daniels had just shut the car door on Amelia. He couldn't see if she was looking at him or not but he didn't care if she was.
“I'm sorry, sir. I tried to keep her in the car and fetch you but she got past me,” Daniels said, knowing he was in trouble too. Although the chauffeur's actions had contributed to the problem, he knew the man had never made a mistake like it and wouldn't ever again.
“You should never have brought her here, but most importantly, I should never have let her stay in my house. You'll take her home once more, Daniels, but it will be the last time.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
He watched them pull away before he walked back into the club. When he got back to his room, a brandy decanter and glass had appeared on one side of his desk. The butler knew him well.
Over the next few minutes he sipped a large helping of the drink, feeling its warmth in his stomach. When he had settled back into the calm of the club's atmosphere, he managed to turn his mind to other matters. He reached for his phone to send a message to the agent he'd had following Amelia to find his agent had already contacted him to let him know she was scared by something and on her way to London. The agent also pointed out that her publisher had postponed several events in Amelia's schedule for the next few days.
Mycroft frowned, feeling a flicker of doubt at sending her away. A moment later he'd crushed it and reassigned the agent to help locate the Russian and Korean men still roaming the capital of London. With that done, he also informed Daniels to come back to the club once he was done with Miss Jones. Only so much thinking could be done without him actively pursuing a new lead. Hopefully Sherlock would have visited the owners of the stolen boat and found a pathway or piece of information that shone some light on who was running or funding this splinter-cell of terrorists.
Neither government was claiming responsibility for the group, which didn't mean one of them or both of them were uninvolved for certain, but it did mean Mycroft had to dig further. At moments like this he wished he could clone himself. When he had to rely on others to hold meetings and keep an eye on places, he ran the risk of missing a vital clue. Only Sherlock's involvement gave him a peaceful oversight.
It took Daniels seven minutes longer than Mycroft estimated it would to take Miss Jones home and return to the club. One look at the chauffeur's face let him know that his prediction wasn't inaccurate. Daniels had talked to her about something before he left.
“I hope you didn't say anything of consequence to Miss Jones when you dropped her off.”
“No, sir. I wished her well with her books and waited to make sure she was safe inside a locked house before I left,” Daniels said, but they both knew he hadn't said everything and Mycroft had picked up on it. “She gave me a signed copy of the newest book, sir.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes as he got into the car. In less than a second his senses were hit by the smell of her perfume still lingering near the other seat. He tried to block it out but it was no good. Four blocks from Sherlock's he had Daniels pull over.
“I'll walk from here. While I'm at my brother's have the car valeted. I want it to smell of something other than Miss Jones by the time I'm done.”
Daniels nodded his assent to the command and Mycroft walked off. He could still see the black car in the distance when he regretted his decision. November was cold.
Knowing he couldn't appear indecisive, Mycroft tilted up his head and walked as ca
lmly as he could up to his brother's front door. After putting the knocker straight, he walked in and made his way up the stairs.
Sherlock opened the door and admitted him to the warmth of the flat before Mycroft had put his foot on the top step.
“I thought I'd be seeing you this evening.”
“Yes, I hoped you'd seen this couple who had their boat stolen.”
“Right, yes. I did.” Sherlock paused and Mycroft found himself wondering why. There was no other reason he would be visiting his brother this late at night.
“Did you find out anything useful?”
“The husband is a control freak who checks up on his wife's spending habits without her knowing. He's going to get a shock when he finds she's blown a month's wages on jewellery.”
“And how is that useful?”
“Not sure yet, but I think it will be. I found this.” Sherlock handed over a small coin. “A seven and a half, gold, ruble coin. It's genuine.”
Mycroft examined the coin and noticed it had Czar Nicholas II on one side and the double headed eagle of the Byzantine Empire on the other.
“These were only made for one year.”
“Eighteen-ninety-seven,” Mycroft said, not needing his brother to tell him. In the mint condition this coin was in, it was worth a lot.
“He had more of them.”
“They paid for the boat, then.”
“It certainly looks that way, doesn't it, brother of mine?”
Mycroft nodded and held the coin up to the light to see it better in Sherlock's dimly lit living room.
“Oh, that looks pretty. Is it valuable?” Mrs Wintern asked as she brought in a tray of tea and biscuits.
“A thousand pounds perhaps. To the right collector, even more.”
“You'd better not lose it, then.” With this last addition to the conversation she left them to talk. Mycroft poured himself a cup and enjoyed the warmth it brought. He really shouldn't have walked the last few streets.
