Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  “A sensible decision, if not a very-”

  “I know. Please. Leave it.”

  Dr. Watson had the decency to enter the room just then, cutting all talk of Thompson short by his presence. I didn’t know how much he knew, and he had never let anything on, but it was still a difficult topic, and while I trusted him to hold many secrets, there was always a danger in mentioning details in passing. I had absolutely no desire for anything to be known. The matter with the Service had almost cost me my job, but this could cost me my life. Luckily my parents were no longer around to pester me about producing an heir. I had no qualms about letting the Holmes family line end with me.

  “Mycroft, my friend! What a pleasant surprise!” Watson exclaimed as he saw me, and I could barely stand up before he embraced me. It had become somewhat of a tradition between us since Egypt.

  “I’m here to say goodbye for a while,” I said as I patted his back amiably. “I’ll be retiring to the Holmes’ manor near Ashdown Forest for at least a few weeks.”

  “That sounds lovely,” the doctor replied as he detached himself. I gave him a weary smile and heard Sherlock barely suppress a laugh behind my back. Watson frowned.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Imagine Mycroft sitting in a room in the countryside with nothing to do for weeks,” my brother said as if that explained everything.

  “Well, we all deserve a holiday every now and then, don’t we? Especially after... everything that happened.”

  “Certainly,” I replied and left it at that.

  I could already see myself falling back into my old habits, too lazy to even leave the house, barely managing to pick myself up to even attend breakfast at the appointed time. Oh, the servants would make such a fuss. I knew they liked me for giving them such freedom to live in the house unobserved for most of the year, and they showed it every time I visited. But that didn’t make it more relaxing - rather the opposite. Maybe I could dust off the old easel and drag myself out of the house for at least a landscape painting or two. I hadn’t held a brush in years.

  “Oh, before I forget. A letter arrived for you just now, Holmes. I took the liberty of bringing it up with me,” Watson said and drew a small envelope of a curious, grey colour from his pocket.

  My brother snatched it from his hands and turned it about. It was addressed to him by just his name in a neat, cursive writing. I recognised it immediately, but I said nothing. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice my surprise, and neither did Watson. He stood up and grabbed the knife from the mantelpiece, which he used to carefully slice open the paper, then rammed it back into the wooden frame.

  “Curious...” Sherlock mumbled as he turned about the small, black card that he drew out of the envelope, before he handed it to me.

  It was made of a sturdy, heavy paper, completely painted black. A few words were written on one side with what seemed like white paint, in the same handwriting as on the envelope.

  Our most heartfelt condolences on the passing

  of your brother Mycroft Holmes.

  “Who is it from?” I asked, and the quality of my voice made Sherlock perk up.

  “Watson?”

  “The delivery boy wasn’t known to me, but I didn’t think him odd. I don’t know anything beyond that.”

  “Then I can only speculate,” Sherlock mused. “And I don’t like to speculate without complete information.”

  “Let me give you another clue, then. I’ve received an envelope and a card a few years ago, which were remarkably similar in all details, only that your name was mentioned instead of mine,” I said.

  “A mutual acquaintance, then?” Watson wondered.

  He had helped himself to a spot of tea in the meantime, having brazenly stolen Sherlock’s cup. My brother didn’t seem to mind. In turn he had picked up his pipe and started to fog up the sitting room with smoke.

  “A mutual acquaintance, who wants to remain anonymous, but feels it necessary to express their condolences,” I confirmed. “Curious, indeed. If you’ll let me, I’ll look into the matter. Unfortunately, the letter I received is lost in the rubble on Gloucester Road, so you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “I take your word over almost any other, Mycroft. But you, doing investigative work? Voluntarily?”

  “Weirder things have happened over the last year, brother.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Well, have at it. You know where to find me when you get stuck.”

  “What a wonderful vote of confidence.”

  Watson actually laughed and quickly turned away in embarrassment.

  “Mr. Holmes?” we heard the housekeeper call from the corridor below. “There’s a lady to see you!”

  “Send her up!” my brother bellowed, but gave no indication that he would move to welcome the guest.

  Watson shrugged and emptied his cup, before walking to the door. He welcomed an elderly, motherly looking woman into the room, who nodded politely at everyone and asked which one of us might be Sherlock Holmes. Watson drew out a chair for her, on which she took a seat. I rose to pick up my coat and hat. I had already said my goodbyes and had received a little something to keep me busy in the weeks to come. With a nod at both my brother and the doctor, I made for the door. The woman excused herself for interrupting us.

  “Don’t worry yourself,” I replied. “I was about to head out. Sherlock, Dr. Watson. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Goodbye, my friend,” Watson replied and put a hand on my arm. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You know me.”

  “That’s why he’s saying it,” Sherlock added.

  I turned towards the door and just as quickly, my brother’s attention had already shifted to his potential client. I wouldn’t have it any other way. As I slipped into my coat, I could just hear the beginning of his initial interrogation. Part of me wanted to stay, but this was not my world. I would be able to read the account of the case in the Strand Magazine at a later date.

  “Thank you for welcoming me on such sudden notice, Mr. Holmes,” she said, just as I was leaving. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to seek you out.”

  “Please, Mrs...”

  “Merrilow. Of South Brixton,” she replied.

  “Mrs. Merrilow,” Sherlock repeated and weighed the name on his tongue. “What brings you to me?”

  “You see, one of my lodgers, Mrs. Ronder, is of a very peculiar sort. She’s been my lodger for seven years, but I’ve only ever seen her face once...”

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