The Unexpected Coincidence (2 page)

Each of the three
bedrooms contained a single or double bed frame with a clean,
barely used mattress. None of them had a single stain or blemish,
although he noticed the surfaces weren't perfectly even. They had
been slept on, but just like the couch, the occupants had protected
them from the transference of any dirt, sweat or substance.

He took his time
to look over the floor around each one, hoping to find a hair or
flake of skin, but he could spot neither. The bathroom was equally
as unhelpful. The shower looked like it had been hosed down and the
faint smell of bleach lingered in the air. Whoever was in charge of
these men, he had them being far more careful than terrorists of
their type usually were.

After two hours of
combing the house for clues, Mycroft gave up and headed back to his
car. Other than the small scraping of dirt, he'd found nothing. It
made him feel a little better about the competence of his own men,
as they'd reported a similar story, but it didn't solve his
problem. Somehow, the terrorist cell was staying one step ahead of
him.

Once he was on the
way back to his house, Mycroft thought over everything he knew and
had done in response to the recent threat. He had under-cover
operatives in Ukraine, Russia and South Korea, as well as several
working on the case in London, but so far none of them had found
anything useful. He knew if he sent his brother to one of the
countries the information might be found immediately, but the
British best weren't normally so ineffective. He also knew his
brother disliked leaving London almost as much as Mycroft disliked
being anywhere but the house or club.

He sighed and knew
he would have to do some more digging himself. At least until
Sherlock snapped out of whatever notion he'd got himself into over
Amelia. She wasn't ready to help with the sort of work he needed -
that was something he knew even she would admit.

By the time the
car arrived at his house, grey clouds had pulled in and covered
over the sun sufficiently to bring an early evening. It would rain,
something that had happened surprisingly little for November in
England.

“Have this taken
to my brother,” Mycroft said as he got out the car and gave the
envelope to Daniels. “Be careful with the contents.”

Daniels nodded and
tucked it into his own pocket, ensuring it remained the same way
up. It might take a day or two for Sherlock to get around to the
experiment, and then another few days for him to bother passing the
information on to Mycroft, but it was some progress.

Once inside,
Mycroft went straight to his study. He was late for his afternoon
tea, but the usual tray with a teapot full of hot water was there.
The biscuits weren't. He clamped his mouth shut over the desire to
yell for some, knowing he had told his housekeeper not to bring
them for a few weeks. Although his supernatural abilities gave him
a younger man's metabolism, he still had to be careful with what he
ate. If he wanted to keep to a healthy weight he needed to manage
his diet.

When he pulled
open the nearest desk drawer, he noticed the thud as his spare
mobile phone jerked against the edge. The light on the bottom
flashed green to let him know it had a message. He frowned.

Only Amelia Jones
had the number, and it was quite a large coincidence for her to be
contacting him today if his brother hadn't followed through on his
threat and told her about his difficulties. As he grabbed the
device, he started to think of all the ways he would punish
Sherlock for the betrayal. When he managed to pull the text up on
screen, the lines on his forehead deepened even further.

Stage 2?

Her question gave
nothing away but impatience, and definitely didn't give him an
indication of why she'd decided to message him now.

Is your lack of
patience the only reason you messaged? I won't reward
impatience.

Mycroft pressed
the send button before he thought that his message sounded angry,
but he wouldn't apologise for it. If she chose to message him
because of something Sherlock had said to her, it would only fuel
the temper that already simmered. It didn't take long for her to
respond. He flicked the screen on again, hoping she had a good
answer for him.

I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to sound impatient. I just noticed that it has been ten
weeks since you last sent me a message. As always, I await your
instructions.

He exhaled and
considered the reply. If Sherlock had prompted her, she'd have
said. Lying to him wasn't something she'd risk when she was so
eager to learn from him.

After leaning back
in his chair he thought over her request. Ten weeks was a long time
to leave her without a lesson of some kind, but he'd had little
time to think about it since their last communication. It would
take little effort from him to begin the second stage of her
teaching, and he knew just the person to start her off. He used his
main phone to send instructions to one of his agents before typing
a one-word reply and sending it to Amelia.

Tomorrow.

Darkness
surrounded Amelia when she opened her eyes, and the dull ache of
her head soon let her know that it was still early. The combination
of a message from Myron, her nerves at starting a brand new book
tour, and the rain that had only stopped in the early hours of the
morning, had prevented her from getting much sleep.

With a groan, she
glanced at the bedside clock. It was a few minutes before six, but
she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Her mind already whirred
through the many questions and worries she had.

After rubbing the
dust from her eyes, she turned off her alarm and wrapped herself in
her favourite dressing gown. She padded through to the rest of the
ground floor flat and her large open-plan kitchen, dining area and
living room. Off to the far corner, the front door stood like a
silent green sentinel in the ochre walls.

Immediately her
eyes were drawn to the large white envelope on the mat. With a
raised eyebrow, she wandered over to it. The postman wouldn't come
for several more hours yet, and only her name appeared on the
outside in a blocky but neat script. Given Myron's message, she
wondered if it might be from him, but it wasn't his handwriting,
and when she flipped it over there was no familiar seal holding the
envelope shut. She did notice three large splotches of what must
have been rain water.

Still not opening
it, she wandered to the window and peeked out of a gap in the
curtain. It wasn't raining and didn't look like it had been for at
least an hour or so. Whoever had delivered this letter had done it
at a very early time of the morning. She searched her memory of the
previous night while she'd been tossing and turning in bed, but she
didn't think she'd heard the letterbox clatter shut after the
envelope would have been pushed through. Given the lack of sleep,
she was fairly certain she'd have noticed it, and that meant it had
been posted some time between one and five-thirty that morning. She
shivered, not sure she wanted to open it and find out why.

To put the moment
off for a few minutes, she decided to make herself a cup of tea
first. She took the envelope back towards the kitchen area and
placed it on the counter while she boiled the kettle and prepared
the teapot.

Once she had the
warm mug of hot tea in her hands, she still couldn't quite bring
herself to open the letter. She stared at it while leaning against
the island behind her.

It wasn't the
first time she'd had strange letters from fans, and it was probably
just another of those, but it was the first to be delivered by hand
to her door, and the first to arrive at such an odd time. That
alone made her more wary of it.

Knowing she
couldn't put it off any longer, Amelia put her drink to one side
and lifted the envelope up. The publishers had given her advice the
first time she'd had one, and she followed it now, keeping her
fingers near the edges to help preserve any fingerprints the writer
might have left. She turned it over and used a knife from the
cutlery drawer to slice open the flap.

After covering her
fingers with a piece of cling film and making an improvised glove,
she pulled the letter out. It was folded in half with no writing on
the back and no distinguishing features of any kind. She sniffed at
it as she brought it slowly towards her, but no particular scent
came off it either. With nothing else to do, she opened the paper
to read the letter.

Amelia,

I've been a fan
of yours for some time now and have had the pleasure of meeting you
several times. You're far lovelier than any of the other authors
I've met, and I'd love to get to know you better. I am just like
your character, Dalton. It's like you already know me and the way I
think, and I know you like him. You've said many times that he was
your favourite character.

I know you'll
remember me from your last book tour. I came to several of the
places you visited and I keep the photos of us from the Waterstones
in Trowbridge in my wallet. I'm so pleased that you're going on
tour again. I've noticed you don't write in public places very
often. It's a shame. If you did, I could join you sometimes and
help. I know I'd make a great muse when you're writing about
Dalton.

Your biggest
fan.

Amelia exhaled.
This wasn't quite as sweet as some of the others she'd received.
After tucking it back into the envelope, she pulled off the cling
film and hurried over to her laptop. Something like this would be
best dealt with by her publishers. They'd know what she ought to do
in response.

Her hands shook as
she typed out a quick message to them, letting them know the rough
details and that she had no idea who it could be. The last time
she'd been in Trowbridge to sign books was several months ago, and
no one came to mind that had stood out from the usual crowd. It was
also fairly common for her fans to come to more than one of her
signings when she did lots of stops in one area.

By the time she
was done, she realised she needed to shower and dress or she'd be
late for her first location of the day. Despite being on edge
because of the letter, she couldn't let it put her off when the
tour was only just beginning. It also might give her an opportunity
to spot who this letter sender was. If he was too scary or
obsessed, she could always tell Myron and Sebastian about it. Both
of them would know what to do.

Comforted by the
thought of her mentor and friend helping, she went about her
morning routine as if nothing had happened. Only tiredness made her
day any different, and she was a couple of minutes late walking
into Bath's biggest bookshop.

Every time she
started a tour she insisted it was her first location, and the fans
were used to this. Despite it being early in the day, a long line
of people wound inside the shop floor and then out the door and
down the street. She smiled and waved as she normally would,
apologising for being late to the fans nearest and the staff who
were already helping organise the large queue.

It didn't take
long for the manager, a greying, softly spoken man, to come over to
her. They hugged and he kissed her cheek before guiding her to the
familiar table in its usual location. She apologised for being late
once more before stepping into her usual spot. Instantly, the
normality of being in this shop made her feel better. Starting here
always made it easier to go from being alone to being surrounded by
people.

“Amelia!” a
recognisable low voice called from near the door. She glanced in
the direction of the heckle and saw two of her friends standing in
the long line: James and David. They weren't too far back, but she
knew it would take her quite a few minutes to get to them. With a
grin, she tried to wave them over and start with them, but they
wouldn't move from their position. It wouldn't be fair of her to
give them preferential treatment, but she rarely let that stop her
if she thought it was the right thing to do.

Instead, she had
to work her way through to them, signing, making small talk and
posing for photos until they were in front of her. James launched
himself at her and gave her a bear-hug so tight it squeezed what
little air her corseted waist-coat allowed into her lungs right
back out again. She chuckled as he put her back down onto her feet,
and his friend then repeated the same action.

“We know you get
nervous about the first few days of signings, so we thought we'd
come be moral support. We're totally your biggest fans,” James
said, gushing the last sentence in an exaggerated manner.

“We even have
books for you to sign.” David thrust a bag under her nose and
opened it so she could see two newly purchased copies of her most
recent release.

“You know you guys
didn't have to buy them. I'd have given you signed copies if you'd
said you wanted them.”

“But we're your
biggest fans, remember?” James winked. “We have to pay for
them.”

She laughed and
hugged them both again.

“How are you both
doing?” she asked as she took the books from them to sign.

“You know us,
we're working hard.” David smiled “We've almost finished renovating
the house. We'll have a proper welcome party when you're back.”

“You had better. I
want to see what you've both been up to for the last few
months.”

A cough from off
to one side drew Amelia's attention from her friends. A guy in his
thirties, wearing a large coat and thick-rimmed glasses, was
looking expectantly at her. In his arms was what appeared to be
most of her twelve published books, with several of the more recent
ones in hardback. They looked heavy.