The Curse of Christmas (34 page)

Was she really who she claimed
to be or was she a foreign spy? What was her connection to Mycroft?
More to the point, what was her connection to Moriarty? He’d
spotted the Irishman hanging back in the recess of the bay window
of the mews that morning so he’d ordered the coachman to stop on
Old Park Lane. After a few minutes he’d doubled back on foot in
time to spot the Irishman slipping into number 6.

He and James Isambard Moriarty
(known as Jim because of his initials) had been at military college
at the same time. An unknown benefactor had stumped up for their
training and provided a monthly stipend for living expenses. He
always thought it might be General de Merville, but lately, just
lately, he had started to suspect Mycroft Holmes. He had graduated,
as had Jim, with honours, but it was the wrong time for wars. Too
late for the Crimean War. Too late for the Anglo-Afghan War. Too
late for the Indian Mutiny. Too late for the 1
^st
Boer
War.

Jim had gone on to serve Queen
and Country in Ireland, keeping the peace, but there was always a
question mark hanging over him. Most Fenians started life in the
British Army. The really good ones were still there working as
double agents until the time came to turn traitor.

He and Jim had met up by chance
years later in Gibraltar. Jim had been promoted several times
despite the question mark. He always was a cocky bastard, shrewd,
cunning, and a gifted liar. You could always spot Jim in a crowd –
loud laugh, bald head, front and centre.

“So what have you been up to,
Nash?” he had asked; all casual like.

“Oh, I got recruited to a desk!
Shuffling papers in Bermuda and Nova Scotia and now at the War
Office.”

In reality, he had been
approached by Mycroft Holmes to join the Secret Service. A few
years of living in foreign hell-holes and then he got promoted for
real to ADC to the primus baro, arguably the most powerful man in
the government though most people would never have heard the name
Mycroft Holmes.

He suddenly wondered if Mycroft
had coughed up the money for Jim as well. Their stipends were
identical. They had once joked that they must have shared the same
benefactor.

That would explain the rapid
promotion of an Irishman in the British Army. There was talk about
forming a regiment of Irish Guards next year. He could see Jim
shooting straight to the top now the 2
^nd
Boer war had
started. They’d promote him to General in no time. No time at all
if he had a rich society wife who was the saviour of the heir to
the throne.

She was the most eligible widow
in England, the most desirable woman he’d ever met, and probably
the smartest; and if Jim stood in his way, he would take him
down.

This was war…

Battersea Park was the
battlefield…

New Year’s Eve would see the
first casualty…

Sherlock winked at his daughter;
which looked odd considering he had an ocular device stuck in the
other eye. “Hot chocolate, ham sandwiches and Mrs Hudson’s
shortbread,” he announced happily. “That is the extent of my
culinary skills. Tomorrow it will be shucked oysters, lobster
bisque, roast goose with chestnut stuffing and apple sauce, winter
greens, plum pudding and lots of brandy!”

Dr Watson helped himself to a
sandwich. “I remember now where I’ve seen Major Nash before. I
thought I recognized him. He was at the St James Street Club when I
was talking to Langdale Pike about the big fat lie. He sauntered up
to the table – we’d just been interrupted by Petheridge from the
London Gazette
– and he casually invited Petheridge to a
game of billiards at the Carlton Club.”

Sherlock threw back his head and
laughed richly. “One of your tricks, Mycroft!”

Mycroft grimaced. “Leaving
things to chance is not my style, Sherlock.” He turned to the
doctor. “I bet you didn’t notice Nash until he came to the table.
He’s good at blending in. He is equally marvellous at a royal gala,
golf course, grouse moor, or fox hunt. I realised years ago he’d be
handy to have on our side and dangerous to work against. Women are
dotty for him and men find him easy to like. He’s courageous,
clever, ridiculously good-looking, and a baronet.”

“It is a fact of life,”
pontificated Sherlock with cavalier disdain, “that ridiculously
good-looking people are always easy to like. Unfortunately, we
three dipped out, gentlemen.” He raised his cup of hot chocolate
for a toast. “Here’s to my daughter who inherited more of her
mother’s good-looks than mine!”

“And a goodly portion of both
brains,” added Dr Watson, smiling broadly.

“I was always the smartest
person in the room,” chuckled Sherlock, never modest, “and I think
it safe to predict my daughter will follow in my footsteps.”

“That was clearly a room from
which I was absent,” added the elder Holmes dryly, raising his cup
to his lips. “Ugh! This hot chocolate is disgusting! Pass the port,
Sherlock!”

When the port ran dry, Dr Watson
borrowed Sherlock’s pony and trap and saw the Countess back to her
lodgings in Fullworth.

“Well, what did you make of the
great man?”

“I liked him. He might not be
good-looking but he is easy to like. I think we shall be firm
friends.”

“I think he was in awe of you.
In fact, I think he was frightened of meeting you for the first
time. I have never seen Sherlock show the slightest fear of
anything but I think he wanted Mycroft and me there for moral
support.”

He wasn’t the only one who was a
bag of nerves! “What I still don’t understand is why the need for
such strict secrecy. He has made a miraculous recovery and the
mechanical devices enhance his supernatural aura. They will add to
his extraordinary reputation as the foremost consulting detective
in England. Criminals will quake in their boots at the thought of
facing off against a man with a telescopic eye and an exo-skeleton
arm.”

“Ah, yes, but he had time to
prepare himself for your visit. He suffers from periodic blackouts,
possibly as a result of severe concussion and prolonged
unconsciousness. And he started using cocaine fairly early in life,
quite heavily, evidenced by the lack of recollection of his
encounter with Miss Adler twenty-four years ago.

Moreover, the last eight years
have been a battle against constant pain. His reliance on cocaine
has increased considerably. It plays havoc with his memory. He
often forgets things and sometimes simply misremembers. It is a
type of confabulation. Chronic alcoholics suffer from the same
thing. He was on his best behaviour tonight. I hope he will be the
same tomorrow but anything is possible. He may sound lucid but it
could be his memory playing tricks on him. Take what he says with a
grain of salt.”

“Mycroft seems very
protective?”

“Sherlock wouldn’t have survived
without his big brother. It was Mycroft who refused to give up the
search for the body. He refused to give up hope of a full recovery
too. He might make light of it but it was touch and go for years.
He was the one bullying Sherlock into making progress, goading his
little brother into proving him wrong. It worked brilliantly. They
love each other even more than they love themselves, and that’s
saying something. I feel privileged to know them. They are good
men. None finer on this earth.”

The pony trap pulled up in front
of a thatched cottage that overlooked the village green.
Candlelight and oil lamps could be seen burning in all the windows;
plumes of white smoke billowed from the brick chimney. The Peugeot
was parked by the front gate.

“I see Fedir and Xenia have
finally arrived. I’ll wait until you go inside,” he said, glancing
off into the sinister darkness. “Do you want me to come back
tomorrow at midday to collect you?”

“No, I’m gifting the Peugeot to
Sherlock. I’ll drive myself over.”

A blaze of golden light framed
her in the cottage doorway as she waved Dr Watson off and noted the
silhouette of a man standing under the shadow of the lych gate.
Major Nash was obviously still wide awake. Hmm - two suitors? Was
Sherlock lucid or confabulating?

New Year’s Eve might provide an
answer.

The new century was sure to
usher in a new way of life. A rich young widow might even decide on
a dalliance or two. Let’s face it, she was not only the daughter of
the no-nonsense Sherlock Holmes; she was also the daughter of the
formidable Irene Adler.

Merry Christmas, she said to
herself, and a Happy New Year too.