Rebel Fire (3 page)

“First things first,” he said. “After quite an exhaustive investigation by the police, we have found no trace of Baron Maupertuis. We believe he has fled the country for France. The good news is that we have not found any deaths of British soldiers, or anybody else, due to bee stings.”

“It's debatable whether Maupertuis's plan would have worked,” Crowe said soberly. “I suspect he was mentally unstable. But it was best we didn't take the chance.”

“And the government is suitably grateful,” Mycroft replied.

“Mycroft—what about Father?” Sherlock blurted.

Mycroft nodded. “His ship will be approaching India by now. I would expect him to disembark with his regiment within the week, but we will probably not get any word from him, or from anybody else, for a month or two—the speed of communication with that far continent being what it is. If I hear anything, I will tell you straightaway.”

“And … Mother?”

“Her health is weak, as you know. She is stable for the moment, but she needs rest. I understand from her doctor that she sleeps for sixteen or seventeen hours a day.” He sighed. “She needs time, Sherlock. Time and a lack of any mental or physical exertion.”

“I understand.” Sherlock paused, fighting a catch in his throat. “Then I am to stay here at Holmes Manor for the rest of the school holidays?”

“I am not sure,” Mycroft said, “that Deepdene School for Boys is doing you much good.”

“My Latin has improved,” Sherlock responded quickly, then mentally cursed himself. He should be agreeing with his brother, not disagreeing.

“No doubt,” Mycroft said drily, “but there are things a boy should be learning other than Latin.”

“Greek?” Sherlock couldn't help asking.

Mycroft smiled despite himself. “I see that your rather pawky sense of humour has survived your time here. No, despite the obvious importance of Latin and Greek to the increasingly complicated world we live in, I rather think that you would respond better to a more personal and individual style of teaching. I am considering withdrawing you from Deepdene and arranging for you to be tutored here, at Holmes Manor.”

“Not go back to the school?” Sherlock searched himself for some sign that he cared, but there was nothing. He had no friends there, and even his best memories were those of boredom rather than happiness. There was nothing for him at Deepdene.

“We need to look ahead to your matriculation,” Mycroft continued. “Cambridge, of course. Or Oxford. I think you will have a better chance if we focus your learning a little more than Deepdene can manage.” He smiled again. “You are a very individual boy, and you need to be treated that way. No promises, but I will let you know before the end of the holidays what arrangements have been put in place.”

“Do I presume too much when I ask if I will have some small part to play in the youngster's teachin'?” Amyus Crowe rumbled.

“No,” Mycroft said, lips twisting slightly, “you've obviously kept him on the straight and narrow so well to date.”

“He's a Holmes,” Crowe pointed out. “He can be guided, but he can't be forced. You were the same.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said simply. “I was, wasn't I?” Before Sherlock could check his sudden realization that Crowe had been Mycroft's teacher as well, Mycroft said: “Would you be good enough to allow Mr. Crowe and me to speak privately, Sherlock? We have some business to discuss.”

“Will I … see you before you leave?”

“Of course. I won't be going until this evening. You can show me around the house, if you like.”

“We could go for a walk in the grounds,” Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft shuddered. “I think not,” he said. “I do not believe I am properly dressed for rambling.”

“It's just around the outside of the house!” Sherlock protested. “Not out in the woods!”

“If I cannot see a roof over my head and cannot feel floorboards or pavement beneath my feet, then it counts as rambling,” Mycroft said firmly. “Now, Mr. Crowe—to business.”

Reluctantly Sherlock left the library and closed the door behind him. Judging by the voices coming from the dining room, he thought his aunt had joined his uncle for lunch. He didn't feel like subjecting himself to the constant stream of chatter from his aunt, so he headed outside. He wandered around the side of the house, hands in pockets and kicking at the occasional stone. The sun was almost directly overhead, and Sherlock could feel a thin film of sweat forming on his forehead and between his shoulder blades.

The French windows to the library were ahead of him. The
open
French windows.

He could hear voices from inside the library.

A part of his mind was telling him that this was a private conversation from which he had been specifically excluded, but another part, a more seductive part, was saying that Mycroft and Amyus Crowe were discussing
him
.

He moved closer, along the stone balcony that ran beside the house.

“And they're sure?” Crowe was saying.

“You've worked for Pinkertons before,” Mycroft replied. “Their intelligence sources are usually very accurate, even this far from the United States of America.”

“But for him to have travelled
here
…”

“I presume America was too dangerous for him.”

“It's a big country,” Crowe pointed out.

“And much of it uncivilized,” Mycroft countered.

Crowe wasn't convinced. “I would have expected him to head across the border to Mexico.”

“But apparently he didn't.” Mycroft's voice was firm. “Look at it this way—you were sent to England to hunt down Southern sympathizers from the War Between the States who had a price on their heads. What better reason for
him
to travel here than because
they
are here?”

“Logical,” Crowe admitted. “Do you suspect a conspiracy?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “‘Conspiracy' is probably too strong a term as yet. I suspect they have all gravitated to this country because it is civilized, because people speak the same language, and because it is safe. But give it time, and a conspiracy could grow. So many dangerous men with nothing to do but talk to each other … we need to nip this in the bud.”

Sherlock's head was spinning. What on earth were they talking about? He'd come into the conversation just too late to make sense of it.

“Oh, Sherlock,” his brother called from inside the room, “you might as well join us, given that you're listening in.”

 

T
WO

Sherlock entered the library through the French windows with his head hung low. He felt hot and embarrassed and, strangely, angry; although he wasn't sure whether he was angry with Mycroft for catching him eavesdropping or with himself for being caught.

“How did you know I was there?” he asked.

“Firstly,” Mycroft said without any trace of emotion, “I expected you to be there. You're a young man with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, and recent events have shown that you have little regard for playing by the proper rules of society. Secondly, there is a slight breeze that blows in through the gap in the French windows. When you were standing outside, although you could not be seen, and your shadow wasn't cast in front of the windows, your body occluded the breeze. When it ceased for more than a few seconds I surmised that something was blocking it. The obvious candidate was you.”

“Are you angry?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied.

“What would have made your brother angry,” Amyus Crowe said genially, “is if you had been careless enough to let the sun cast your shadow across the balcony in front of the windows.”

“That,” Mycroft agreed, “would have demonstrated a regrettable lack of knowledge of simple geometry, and also an inability to predict the unintended results of your own actions.”

“You're teasing me,” Sherlock accused.

“Only slightly,” Mycroft conceded, “and with only the best of intentions.” He paused. “How much did you hear of our conversation?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Something about a man who has come across from America to England, and you think he's a threat. Oh, and something about a family called the Pinkertons.”

Mycroft glanced across the room at Crowe and raised an eyebrow. Crowe smiled slightly.

“They're not a family,” he said, “although sometimes it feels like they are. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency is a company of detectives and bodyguards. It was formed by Allan Pinkerton in Chicago 'bout eighteen years ago, when he realized that the number of railroad companies in the States was growin' but they had no way of protectin' themselves against robbery, sabotage, an' union activity. Allan hires out his people like a kind of super police force.”

“Entirely independent of government rules and regulations,” Mycroft murmured. “You know, for a country that prides itself on its democratic founding principles, you do have a habit of creating unaccountable independent agencies.”

“You called him ‘Allan,'” Sherlock realized. “You
know
him?”

“Al Pinkerton an' I go back a long way,” Crowe admitted. “I was with him seven years ago when he an' I snuck Abraham Lincoln through Baltimore on his way to his presidential inauguration. There was a plot by the Southern states to kill Lincoln in the town, but the Pinkertons had been hired to protect him an' we got him through alive. Since then I've been consulting for Al, on an' off. Never actually taken a salary, but he pays me a consultancy fee on odd occasions.”

“President Lincoln?” Sherlock said, his brain racing. “But wasn't he—?”

“Oh, they caught up with him eventually.” Crowe's face was as still and as heavy as a chunk of carved granite. “Three years after the Baltimore plot, someone took a shot at him in Washington. His horse bolted and his hat blew off. When they recovered his hat later, they found a bullet hole in it. Missed him by inches.” He sighed. “An' then a year later, just three years ago, he was at the theatre in Washington, watchin' a play called
Our American Cousin
, when a man named John Wilkes Booth shot him in the back of the head, jumped onto the stage, an' escaped.”

“You weren't there,” Mycroft said softly. “You couldn't have done anything.”

“I should have been there,” Crowe said, just as softly. “So should have Al Pinkerton. In point of fact, the only bodyguard lookin' after the president that night was a drunken policeman named John Frederick Parker. He weren't even there when the President was shot. He was in the Star Tavern next door, drownin' himself in ale.”

“I remember reading about it in Father's newspaper,” Sherlock said, breaking the heavy silence that had descended in the room. “And I remember Father talking about it, but I never really understood
why
President Lincoln was killed.”

“That's the trouble with schools these days,” Mycroft muttered. “As far as they are concerned, English history stops about a hundred years ago and there's no such thing as world history.” He glanced at Crowe, but the American seemed reluctant to continue. “You are aware of the War Between the States, I presume?” he asked Sherlock.

“Only from the reports in
The Times
.”

“Simply put, eleven states in the southern half of the United States of America declared their independence and formed the Confederate States of America.” He snorted. “It's as if Dorset, Devon, and Hampshire suddenly decided that they wanted to form a different country, and declared independence from Great Britain.”

“Or as if Ireland decided that it wanted to be independent of British rule,” Crowe murmured.

“That's a different situation entirely,” Mycroft snapped. Turning his attention back to Sherlock, he continued: “For a while, there were two American presidents—Abraham Lincoln in the North and Jefferson Davis in the South.”

“Why did they want independence?” Sherlock asked.

“Why does anybody want independence?” Mycroft rejoined. “Because they don't like taking orders. And in this case there was a difference in political views. The Southern states supported the concept of slavery, whereas Lincoln had run his election campaign based on halting the spread of slavery.”

“Not that simple,” Crowe said.

“It never is,” Mycroft agreed, “but it will do for the moment. The war began on April 12, 1861, and during the next four years 620,000 Americans died fighting one another—in some cases, brother against brother and father against son.” He seemed to shiver, and for a moment the light in the room grew darker as a cloud passed across the sun. “Gradually,” he continued, “the North, known as the Union of States, eroded the military power of the South, who were calling themselves the Confederacy of States. The most important Confederate general, Robert Lee, surrendered on the ninth of April 1865. It was as a direct result of hearing that news that John Wilkes Booth shot President Lincoln five days later. That was part of a larger plot—his confederates were supposed to kill the Secretary of State and the Vice President—but the second assassin failed in his task and the third lost his nerve and ran. The last Confederate general surrendered on June 23, 1865, and the last of their military forces—the crew of the CSS
Shenandoah
—surrendered on the sixth of November 1865.” He smiled, remembering something. “Ironically, they surrendered in Liverpool, England, having sailed across the Atlantic in an attempt to avoid having to surrender to the forces of the North. I was there, representing the British government. And that was the end of the War Between the States.”

“Except that it wasn't,” Crowe said. “There's still people in the South who want their independence. There's still people agitatin' for it.”