Part 22 (1/2)
”My dear doctor, they own three-quarters of the aristocracy, lock, stock, and wine cellar. Most, if not all, of the barons have developed secret armies of their own.”
”What?” Watson exclaimed in astonishment.
”And furthermore, she has no means to make her objections stick. She is a woman of advancing years, losing her children one by one. Once she is gone, where is the forceful personality who will ensure the council stays meek and mild? Where is the next generation's Albert?”
Gloom descended on the table like one of the thick Thames fogs. Watson made a helpless gesture. ”So where is this all to end?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. ”You would raise a hand to help our beleaguered queen?”
”Of course. What truehearted Englishman would not?”
”Your loyalty, as always, is beyond reproach. So, thank G.o.d, is your marksmans.h.i.+p.”
Statements like that gave Watson a very bad feeling.
”Oh, look,” said Holmes blandly. ”Here comes my brother.”
The timing was a little too pat. Holmes had been expecting this. Mycroft, who was every bit as tall as Sherlock but rather wider, strolled up to the table with an indolent swagger. He made a perfect picture of bureaucratic elegance in gray flannel tails, a top hat, and pristine white linens.
”I would like to point out, Sherlock, that you're at my table,” Mycroft said with a slight fidget. ”I reserve this table from two o'clock on. You know my habits are precise.”
”A Mr. Holmes reserves this table,” Sherlock replied, with a smugness only a younger brother in the right can muster. ”I merely took advantage of the fact that you were being imprecise. There are other seats to be had.”
”But this is the one I sit at.”
”You could join us,” Holmes suggested.
”I dine alone.”
The brothers were intolerable once they got started. ”Look here, Holmes,” Watson broke in. Both Holmeses looked his way. Watson sighed. ”We were done eating in any event.”
”That is hardly the point,” said Sherlock, rising from the contested spot. ”And I was waiting for Mycroft to appear.”
”Why?” his brother asked suspiciously.
”To advise you that I am taking Watson with me to Dartmoor.”
The doctor pushed away from the table, rising to his feet. ”You are?” This was the first he'd heard of it.
”I'll explain everything to him in due course, but I thought you should know.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. ”I suppose medical expertise would come in useful, but the decision about the team wasn't yours to make.”
”My piece of the game,” Sherlock said firmly, ”my rules. Come along, Watson, let us leave my misanthropic sibling to his repast.”
”Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, irritation leaking into his tone. ”We need to have a conversation about this.”
”In due course, brother mine. Perhaps when it is all over with.” With that, he swept from the restaurant, stopping only long enough to inform the maitre d'hotel that Mr. Mycroft Holmes would be covering their bill.
”I do hate being the youngest,” he purred. ”My brother never lets me pay.”
Being a good servant, the maitre d' only bowed.
Watson hurried after Holmes into the fading afternoon. The detective aimed his steps toward the riverbank, where the golden gaslights were already shedding their glow. It was gloomy and growing cold, with a mist already forming over the water.
”I did not follow a word of that exchange,” Watson grumbled. ”Dartmoor? What, pray tell, is in Dartmoor?”
”A great many wild ponies, from what I hear,” said Holmes. He swung his walking stick with a jaunty air. The chaos of the street eddied around them, but he seemed oblivious to it. ”The game is a-hoof, Watson.”
”We have a case?”
”Indeed. Let me paint for you three facts. One, word has been put about that a dangerous criminal has escaped from the Dartmoor prison, thus giving the excuse for soldiers to roam the countryside without arousing the curiosity of the local population. But it is not a common prisoner they seek. Second, the local baronet, Sir Charles, well known for his philanthropy, was the one to find the escaped convict roaming the moor. A smart and capable old gentleman, loyal to our queen, he had the good sense to raise the alarm with the right people. Third, he has just been found dead. Word has it that he was murdered.”
”There is hardly a case there,” said Watson. ”My guess is that Sir Charles died because he helped the convict.”
”In all probability, you are standing closer to the truth than you know-but as always, facing the wrong way.”
”You already know who did it? Where is the entertainment in that?”
Holmes didn't answer, but flagged down a cab. Once they had climbed inside, he resumed. ”I need your literary talents, Watson. I need you to spin something out of these events.”
”I always do.”
”No, I need your invention beforehand.” Holmes fiddled with his walking stick impatiently. ”Fiction is your purview. Concoct a reason that I will require my niece to join us. Something supernatural that only her talents can unravel.”
Watson knew little of magic, but he liked Evelina. Nevertheless, his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him. ”Isn't that a bit tawdry, Holmes? A man has died. Why use his death as cover for our own purposes?”
”I would not be stretching truth too far if I said more may die unless we can free my niece.”
”Why? How can she prevent death?”
Holmes gave him a dark look. ”Humor me.”
Watson made a gesture of surrender. ”Very well, then. A family curse perhaps? A banshee?”
”This is Dartmoor, not Scotland.”
”A ghost?”
”Rather dull, don't you think?”
”I don't know,” Watson said, growing annoyed. ”What do they have there besides ponies? Little s.h.a.ggy horses don't make terribly convincing monsters. The Dread Pony of Dartmoor, whickering death to carrots across the-”
”No, it doesn't quite work, but you've got the idea. There are rumors of a savage dog roaming the place. Perhaps you can work with that.”
”Tell me the truth. Is this all a plot to get Evelina free?”