Rebel Fire (11 page)

“I think this is where the bullet hit,” she said.

“Another bit of luck. A couple of inches to the left and it would have gone through his temple.” Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to stop his hands from shaking. “We ought to find a doctor.”

Virginia shook her head. “We need to get him back to the cottage. I can look after him there. As long as there's no broken bones, what he needs is rest.” She sighed. “I've got a feeling he's been through worse than this and survived.” She glanced at Sherlock, glanced away, then glanced back again, noticing his various bumps, scrapes, cuts, and bruises. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I've had worse while playing rugby,” he said.

She frowned and shook her head.

“It's a game that I don't like and that I don't play very well. The point is, I'll be all right.”

“Did you get him?” she asked angrily.

“I stopped him,” Sherlock replied, “but I think your father and my brother will want to talk to him, so I didn't hurt him too much. Even though I could have done.”

“Maybe you should have,” she said darkly.

Thinking about head injuries, Sherlock asked: “What about concussion? The ball injured your father's head, and he may have hit it as well.”

Virginia gazed at him. Her expression was fixed and angry, but her eyes told a different story. They were desperate.

“We'll have to watch him,” she said. “Look for signs of dizziness, sickness, nausea, or confusion.”

“I've suffered from all of them in my time,” Crowe said, faintly but distinctly. “Can't say I enjoyed 'em much, but they were mainly self-inflicted. This time it wasn't my fault.”

“Father!”

Eyes still closed, he reached up and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. “I rolled when I hit the ground. Technique was taught to me by a rodeo rider in Albuquerque. If a body relaxes all its muscles and rolls up like a porcupine, it can probably survive a fall worse than that.” He glanced at Sherlock, “I can see that you found out the same thing yourself.” He paused, closing his eyes momentarily and breathing slowly. “What happened to the coach?”

“They got away,” Sherlock said angrily. “With Matty.”

“An' the man who stayed behind an' shot me?”

“Alive but unconscious. We can take him back and question him, I suppose.”

“Yep,” Crowe said darkly, “I s'pose we can.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I can tie him up,” he said. “Then we can sling him over my horse. If you're all right to ride, Virginia can ride Sandia and I'll walk.”

“We need to move fast,” Virginia said. For some reason she was blushing, and she wouldn't look at Sherlock. “Walking would take too long. You can ride behind me.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” Crowe said, chuckling. “The ideas are good, but what are you goin' to use to tie the man up?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. They didn't have any ropes with them. He could use the reins from his horse, he supposed, but how would they make sure that it stayed with them when they rode off? Could he make some bindings from the reeds on the riverbank? Too wet, and it would take too long. “My belt,” he said finally. “I can tie his hands behind his back with my belt.”

Crowe nodded. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Or you can use the twine in my pocket.” He glanced up at Sherlock. “There's some things a man should always travel with—a knife, wax matches, an' a ball of twine. There ain't much you can't do with a combination of knife, matches, an' twine.”

Sherlock took the twine from Crowe and tentatively walked back down the road to where Gilfillan still lay. It was nearly dark by now, and for a terrifying moment Sherlock couldn't locate the man in the shadows, but eventually he found where he was lying. He tied the man's hands, wrist crossed over wrist, then left him and walked back to where his horse was cropping grass by the side of the road as if this kind of thing happened every day. Leading the horse back, he left it beside Gilfillan and bent down, trying to work out how to get the man up and onto the horse. Eventually he managed to manoeuvre the American, still unconscious, to his knees, then slipped himself underneath the man as he slumped forward, taking the weight onto his upper back. He straightened, pushing with his knees and feeling his muscles protesting as he stood, head bowed forward, Gilfillan's body balanced precariously across his shoulders. For a moment he panicked, unsure how to proceed, but by that time Amyus Crowe was standing upright and Virginia could come across to help him. Between the two of them, they got Gilfillan slumped across the saddle of Sherlock's uncomplaining horse. To stop him sliding off, Sherlock tied Gilfillan's wrists to the stirrup on one side and his ankles to the stirrup on the other. Finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“I been meanin' to ask,” Virginia said from beside him, “what did you end up callin' your own horse?”

“I haven't given it a name,” Sherlock replied.

She seemed surprised. “Why not?”

“Couldn't see the point. Horses don't know they have names.”

“Sandia knows his name.”

“No, he knows the sound of your voice. I doubt he understands words.”

“For a kid who knows so much,” she said critically, “you sure don't know very much.”

The four of them made a sorry-looking bunch as they cantered back to Amyus Crowe's cottage—Crowe slumped forward on his horse, Virginia on Sandia with Sherlock pressed close behind her, and his own horse bringing up the rear with Gilfillan lying across it. The journey back seemed to take forever. Tiredness weighed Sherlock down like a heavy blanket. His scratches itched, and all he wanted to do was to roll into bed and sleep for as many hours as he could possibly cram in.

It was well and truly night when they arrived back, and Mycroft was standing in the doorway.

“Sherlock!” he called, “I was—” He stopped. His voice, it seemed to Sherlock, was higher pitched than normal. He seemed to be struggling with some great emotion.

“It's all right,” Sherlock said tiredly. “We're fine. I mean, Mr. Crowe has been shot, we have a prisoner, and we didn't get Matty back, but we're all still alive.”

“I had no way of knowing what had happened,” Mycroft said as Sherlock slipped off Sandia's back. “There were several courses of action open to me, but I was not sure which one was best.”

“Shouldn't you have caught your train by now?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “If necessary, I can find a comfortable hotel for the night.”

“But won't your superiors be annoyed when you don't turn up to work tomorrow?”

Mycroft frowned, as if the notion of a “superior” was a curious concept. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out. “I suppose so.” He brightened. “Although what is happening here may well have a direct impact on international relations, and so does fall within my ambit. If necessary, however, I can always charter a special train to take me back to London overnight.”

Sherlock gazed at him, wide-eyed. “You can
do
that?”

“I have never had to, so far, but I believe my Terms of Reference do permit me the occasional indulgence, yes. Now, tell me everything.”

While he and Virginia helped Amyus Crowe off his horse and the four of them went inside, leaving the American unconscious and strapped to Sherlock's horse, he told his brother the events of the night since they had left the cottage earlier. Virginia filled in some details that he had missed, and when he was talking about the fight with the American he felt Virginia's hand resting on his arm in concern. Mycroft too winced at how close Sherlock had come to death on several occasions.

“It is not clear what the best course of action is,” Mycroft said eventually, when they were all settled in chairs with drinks in front of them. “Until your prisoner wakes up, we seem to have made use of every bit of information we have. Time and resources are not on our side.”

“I could wake him up,” Crowe said quietly. “And then have a quiet word with him. Civilized, like.”

“Forceful questioning is not an option,” Mycroft said warningly. “The man may be a villain in at least two countries, but he has the right to be treated in a civilized manner until he is actually convicted of a crime, and even then he is not something that can be treated roughly at the behest of anyone in authority. As one of the oldest and one of the youngest civilized countries, Britain and America have an obligation to set an example to the rest of the world. If we act barbarically then we have no right to stop anyone else from acting barbarically, and the world will slide into anarchy.”

“Even if politeness leads to the injury or death of someone we should be protectin'?” Crowe asked.

“Even then,” Mycroft said. “We must maintain the moral high ground, no matter what tempts us down into the valleys of iniquity.”

“I have an idea,” Sherlock said, surprising himself. It was true, something was rolling around in his mind like a marble in a tin tray, but he hadn't quite figured out the full implications of it yet.

“Go on,” Mycroft said. “If it can prevent Mr. Crowe from pulling out our prisoner's fingernails with a pair of pliers, then I, for one, am all for it.”

“That man—the American—jumped out of the carriage to stop us when it looked like we might prevent the carriage getting them to the docks and out of England.”

“Correct,” Crowe rumbled.

“From what he said to me, he was prepared to send a telegram to the others telling them that he'd either succeeded or failed.”

“Accepted,” Mycroft said.

“And if he doesn't send a telegram, if one isn't waiting for them when they get to the end of their journey, they will have to assume that we overcame him,” Sherlock pointed out. “They will assume that we rendered him incapable of sending a telegram and that we are still chasing them, in which case their best option is to kill Matty because he's not useful to them as a hostage anymore.”

“Oh no!” Virginia whispered.

“Where would he have sent the telegram?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, it's not as if the others were going to stay at a hotel until he arrived. They were heading straight for a ship, as far as we know.”

Crowe and Mycroft looked at each other.

“The boy has a point,” Crowe said after a few moments. “They would need some way of getting a message back and forth. Maybe some agreed place near the ship—a local post office, or something, where any message he sent would be picked up.”

“They would have had to agree on it in the few seconds before he jumped out of the carriage,” Sherlock pointed out. “What are the chances of him remembering in the stress of the moment—?”

“Unless one of the others wrote it down for him,” Mycroft finished. “Sherlock, you have a fine mind on those bony shoulders of yours. We need to search that man's pockets for an address.”

Crowe levered himself up from the chair. “I'll go,” he said. At Mycroft's warning look, he added, “Don't worry, I won't try to wake him up if he's unconscious, and if he's already awake then I won't do any more than ask him a polite question before riffling through his pockets.” He raised an eyebrow enquiringly. “I take it that theft is acceptable, even if pressured questioning is not?”

“We'll make an exception,” Mycroft said calmly. “In this case.”

Amyus headed outside to search Gilfillan. Sherlock noticed that Virginia watched her father leave with a troubled expression on her face. He wanted to ask her about it, but Mycroft gestured him over with a flipper-like hand.

“Sherlock…” he said quietly, then hesitated. “Sherlock, I suspect that I am failing in my duty to look after you properly. I am sorry.”

Sherlock gazed into his face, trying to work out if he was serious or not. “What do you mean?”

“Our father entrusted you into my care. He looked to me to ensure not only that your education continued, but that you were kept happy and safe. In the time since he left for India with his regiment I have abandoned you into the care of relatives whom you had never even met and then stood by while you became engaged first in the lunatic schemes of a mad Frenchman with delusions of grandeur and now in some bizarre attempt to return to America the man who killed its former president. During the past couple of months you have spent more time looking death in the eye than most men experience during the course of a lifetime. You have been knocked out, kidnapped, whipped, drugged, chased, shot at, burned, and nearly stabbed, not to mention forced to survive unsupervised in the dangerous London metropolis, in a foreign country, and in rough Channel waves at night. If I had known everything that would happen to you, I would—”

He stopped, apparently overcome with emotion. He turned his head away. Sherlock thought he saw the gleam of tears in his brother's eyes. He reached out tentatively and put a hand on Mycroft's broad shoulder.

“Mycroft … you've always been the steadiest thing in my life. I've always come to you for advice, and you've always been more than generous with your time. You've never made me feel like I'm bothering you, even when you've had more important things to do.”

Mycroft tried to say something, but Sherlock kept going.

“We've never been the kind of brothers who would climb trees together in the garden. You've never had the energy and I've never seen the point. That doesn't matter. You are the person I've always looked to for guidance, and you've never let me down. I doubt that will ever change. You are what I want to be when I grow up—successful, important, and self-reliant. You have never let me down, and you never will.”

Mycroft looked at him and smiled. “When you grow up,” he said, “I suspect you will carve a path for yourself in the world that nobody else has ever carved. I can foresee a time when I will be coming to you for help and advice, not the other way round. But despite everything you have said, I have stood by while you have been in danger.”