SKYE WAS STILL SLEEPING THE NEXT morning, and so was Dr. Wilder, when Sherlock dressed and slipped across the hall and into the study for a very special appointment. Shortly after his arrival, there was a crackling sound and a smell of ozone.
“Hello there, Holmes,” Chadwick’s voice said cheerily. “I see you’re quite unharmed, and I hope the explorations went safely. Where’s the Other Me? Did she get a nice break and some fresh air?”
Sherlock’s brows knitted, and he pondered how to explain.
“What is wrong?” Holmes’ urgent voice queried immediately. “What happened to her?”
“She has influenza,” Sherlock admitted, “a serious case. She was delirious a good part of the night. We very nearly had a disaster on our hands.”
“Oh no,” Chadwick’s voice murmured in distress. “How bad?”
“She did not know me, at one point,” Sherlock confessed, “and she was calling for her mother. I believe she thought she was a child again.”
There was dead silence from the other end of the tesseract.
“Then we do have a disaster on our hands,” Chadwick whispered in shocked dismay.
“Do, you don’d,” an identical voice—though decidedly more nasal—came from the doorway.
Sherlock spun with a wordless exclamation. Skye stood there wrapped in his dressing gown, which, he assumed, had been handy. She was clutching at the doorframe and leaning heavily against it to keep herself upright.
“Defocusing. Get her!” he heard his other self exclaim as he lunged for his wife.
“Skye, my dear, what am I going to do with you?” Sherlock muttered, trying hard to sound annoyed and reprimanding, but not quite succeeding, as he scooped her up and carried her to the nearest chair. “You should be in bed.”
“I dow, but I’b deeded here worse jusd daow,” she murmured, allowing him to spread a lap rug over her. “Sis, are you dere?”
“Of course, dear,” Chadwick replied. “I take it you remember, after all?”
“Yeah,” Skye nodded. “Bud I’b jusd doo dired and headachy doo work on id righd daow. Doo bud id bludtly, I feel like dog poo. Add I’ll probably be like dis for adother couple ob days. So I was woderig if you waded doo dake de nodebook add see whad I’b dode, den dry to pick ub where I lefd off, udtil I’b able doo cobe back doo id.”
“You mean tag-team the calculations?” Chadwick wondered.
“Yeah,” Skye grinned weakly, obviously exhausted already. “You work od id for awhile, add I resd add stubb, you dow, add ged bedder. Den you cad had back off doo me whed I’b a liddle more healthy, add I cad fidish dem ub while you sdard makig de chages doo de desseracd. Are you gabe? Add doo I ebed bake sedse, wid all dis sdot for braids?”
There was a long pause. Evidently the other side of the tesseract is attempting to work their way through the effects of Skye’s congestion on her speech, Sherlock decided. Even the other version of her is having trouble comprehending. “Snot for brains,” indeed. He stifled a snort. Thank God I can understand her, or life would quickly become even more confusing than it is already, what with two of both of us.
Finally Chadwick offered, “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “It might even prove beneficial so, as we can see where you are going with your theories, and I can commence a more detailed planning of the modifications while Chadwick works on the calculations.”
“Excelled,” Skye sighed, relieved. “Sherlock, udlock de filig cabided add obed de middle drawer. The nodebook is od de dob of de sdack.”
“I have it,” Sherlock noted, going to the filing cabinet and doing as she directed. “Holmes, Chadwick, how shall I give this to you without risking…?”
“Hang on a second,” Chadwick said. “We’ll invert…”
Slowly the room around them faded, revealing the pink granite of the Chamber in the other continuum. Chadwick waved with a grin from her seat behind the control console, and Holmes rose, moving between two of the monoliths, just outside the core itself, where Sherlock and Skye sat.
“Hand it to Holmes. But be careful,” Chadwick urged. “If an instability wave comes through while you’re both so close to the boundary, it could be catastrophic.”
The two men, so nearly identical, nodded in unison as Sherlock moved to face his counterpart. Both men braced themselves firmly against any tremor, then Sherlock offered the notebook to Holmes, holding it gingerly by one end. In his turn, Holmes accepted it, grasping it in a similar manner.
“Thank you,” the other detective murmured, stepping back from the core to increase the safety factor.
“You are quite welcome,” Sherlock responded. He, too, moved away from the continuum interface, returning to Skye’s side and standing behind her right shoulder.
“May I enquire as to how your Dr. Chadwick came to contract such an obviously virulent case of influenza?” Holmes wondered. “Especially as you are well, and she herself was fine yesterday morning?” He turned and walked to the console, handing the notebook to his companion. Chadwick accepted it, opening it and leafing through it.
“She was deliberately infected.” Sherlock scowled. “I cannot yet prove it, but Dr. Victor infected her.”
Chadwick’s head snapped up. Holmes and Chadwick both frowned, glints of anger in grey eyes and blue.
“And you are pursuing the matter?” Holmes pressed.
“Of course,” Sherlock replied grimly. “The issue is under investigation—and more—as we speak. I started Ryker upon that little matter last night.”
“Capital,” Holmes nodded approvingly. “Precisely what I should have done.”
“I’m glad you’re doing better than last night, Skye,” Chadwick added. “Your hubby said you were in a bad way.”
“Thags, Sis. I coulde’d dell ya for sure aboud lasd dight, bud whad I do rebeber wase’d pleasad. Dod ad all.”
“When do you want us to dial back in?” Chadwick asked. “Give yourself plenty of time, girl.”
“Uh. Gibbe a couble days,” Skye decided. “Aboud fordy-eighd hours, I thigk.”
Behind her, Sherlock shook his head. He held up his hand, index finger and thumb separated by an inch or so; then he deliberately increased the spacing by a significant amount. Holmes’ eyelids instantly fluttered slightly in acknowledgement; Chadwick’s fluttered a second or two later.
“Well, let’s give it a little longer, just to be on the safe side,” Chadwick suggested smoothly. “We wouldn’t want to load too much on you too soon, and throw you into a relapse.”
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed firmly. “I should say another twelve to twenty-four hours at the very least, wouldn’t you, Chadwick?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Chadwick nodded vehemently. “If she feels anything like I do when I have the flu, every bit of it. Maybe a couple of days more.” Seeing her other self about to protest, she added, “It isn’t like it’s gonna hinder us, either way. It’s only a matter of what numbers we enter into the computer.”
“I’b so sorry aboud dis, guys. I dow de whole boid of by doig dese calculations was dat I could dake aboud as log as I deeded doo do dem widoud much dime havig bassed id your codinuum. Bud dis is a real bokey wredch id da works.”
“No worries,” Chadwick shook her head, throwing Skye a smile.
“Quite,” Holmes agreed. “We had already anticipated at some point that Chadwick would need to do some of the calculations herself, to ensure everything was properly set up to compensate for any differences between your apparatus and ours.”
“It’s just happening earlier than we figured, which is probably good,” Chadwick finished.
“Okay,” Skye acknowledged, comforted.
“Now, may I suggest we depart,” Holmes observed, “so the Other Me can get the Other You back into bed where she belongs, my dear Chadwick?”
“I think that’s an excellent plan, Holmes,” Chadwick grinned. “Let’s go. Holmes—uh, the other Holmes—you get some rest, too, Hon. You look tired yourself. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I shall be fine, doctor,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I am anticipating a report from Ryker sometime soon.”
* * *
Chadwick raised a contentious eyebrow.
Holmes saw it.
“I suggest you agree to rest if you become weary, old chap,” Holmes offered to his other self. “The look in Chadwick’s eye does not bode peace if you do not.”
“I am no fool,” Sherlock answered tartly. “I will do what is necessary to maintain my own health when it is needed, but not at the expense of a critical situation.”
* * *
“That’ll do. Catch y’all in a couple days.” Chadwick looked mollified.
The Chamber faded, replaced by the study. The air sizzled, a whiff of ozone filled the room, and the other couple was gone.
Sherlock scooped up his wife and carried her back to bed, just as Dr. Wilder came looking for them to check on them.
* * *
February 11
Skye is considerably better today—in one respect—and rather the worse in others. Her fever is much lower, hovering around 100º F; but her congestion is substantial, and she is quite weak. Weakness is normal after such a high fever, however, so it troubles me only in the respect of Skye being so very weak and helpless. It feels strange to be feeding my wife as if she were an infant, but there it is. Dr. Wilder is staying close, and at least for the time being, so are the guards whom Ryker has set about us. I am still awaiting Ryker’s report, however. I anticipate his arrival here soon, indeed at any moment, and it should be very interesting to hear what he has to say. I shall be surprised if he arrives alone…
* * *
But Ryker did arrive alone. However, he did not arrive without news.
“Well, I’ve intensified the guard on the cave,” he declared, as Sherlock led him back to the bedroom so Skye could be updated as well, “and put most of ‘em in camo. HQ knows what’s in there now, too; I sent in a full report to the Director first thing this morning. Oh, and no indications of any earthquakes in the entire UK anytime in the last five months, by the way, so we’re safe there, I think. I checked with the Geological Service right after I reported in to the Director. Then I turned around and called her back and told her that, too.”
“Good,” came a firm, if nasal, editorial from the bed.
“We’ve initiated the process to buy the farm from McFarlane’s nephew,” Ryker continued. “He hates to do it, but we’re giving him a real strong heads-up that there might be something there that he reeeeally doesn’t want to deal with.”
“Aid’t dat de druth,” a stuffy, pyjama clad Skye noted from her sick bed.
“Yeah,” Ryker agreed. “Of course, he’ll be given all the personal effects, contents of the house, and such. But the government has told him it would be best for the land to be in our hands. The cattle will be vetted for health, the healthy ones sold off, and the proceeds given to the nephew. Any cows with serious radiation induced illness will be humanely euthanized. A fair price for those will go to McFarlane, as well.”
“Sobethig occurs doo be,” Skye murmured. “Does adyone dow if dad cabe was used for adythig by de McFarlades?”
“As a matter of fact,” Sherlock recalled, “I do remember in a chat during the drive to the McFarlane farm, Mr. Carver saying something to the effect that the couple used regularly to picnic in it during the summer, as a cool spot to have a pleasant outing. The Carvers even joined them once or twice, shortly before…”
* * *
Grey eyes abruptly widened as Holmes’ voice tapered away.
“Sherlock?” Skye queried anxiously.
“…Shortly before their infant child died,” the detective finished grimly. “Of causes unknown.”
“Aha,” Skye nodded knowingly, growing sad. She sighed. “Dad’s exacdly whad I was afraid of. Guys, I bed de McFarlades were udable doo habe kids because of de radiation frob dis ding, seebing up through de cabe floor. Id fids, based od whad I read of Wadsod’s medical repords. Add den de Carber baby died, probably frob oberexposure. Beig odly ad idfad, de lethal radiation dose would’ve beed a lod sballer…”
* * *
Ryker sent Sherlock a confused glance, and the detective translated Skye’s stuffy English.
“The radiation likely sterilised the McFarlanes. ‘And then the Carver baby died, probably from overexposure. Being only an infant, the lethal radiation dose for it would have been a lot smaller,’” he summarized solemnly, quirking his fingers around the quotation.
“Oh,” Ryker said, subdued.
The three were silent for several moments.
“What a tragedy,” Ryker murmured. “All because of an underground directional error.” He shook his head bitterly. “And there’s no way we can even apologise.”
“You can make some amends, however,” Sherlock said sternly, “if you give young McFarlane an excellent purchase price for the land and buildings.”
“True,” Ryker agreed. “I’ll call the Director and tell her our conclusions. I’m sure she’ll agree.” He thought for a moment. “We might even be able to arrange for the Carvers to be government suppliers of search dogs.”
“That, my dear Ryker, is a capital notion. As excellent as are the Carvers’ dogs, the benefit will be mutual, I can assure you.”
“Whad aboud de sarcophagus idself?” Skye wondered, then hastily grabbed a tissue and sneezed hard into it. “’Scuze be.”
“Headquarters is on it,” Ryker assured them. “Ever since Chernobyl, some of our scientists have been working on containment methods for nuclear accidents, and they’ve developed some pretty good stuff. Sandwiched lead sheets, rebar, and concrete doped with lead powder, things like that.”
“Leejade?” Skye queried intently, much too stuffy after sneezing to enunciate properly. She grabbed several more tissues.
“What?” Ryker wondered, no longer able to understand her at all.
“Leachate,” Holmes repeated clearly. “Our physicist wishes to know about possible lead leaching from the containment materials. Which is a very valid concern.”
“Thag you,” Skye nodded at her husband, reaching for the tissue box. “Bigo.”
“Oh,” Ryker nodded. “Not to worry; they’ve developed a sealant that goes into and over all that stuff. No environmental contamination, according to the experts. Meantime, we’re working on embedding a lead shield with a locked door for access. It’ll be hidden inside the entrance, with a guard on it, so it’s not visible from outside. But the cave is under majorly serious, clandestine guard now, and as soon as that’s installed, it’ll be locked down.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock decreed. “Now, as to the attack on Skye…”
Skye pushed herself up in bed to listen alertly.
“Okay, first off, I verified Victor did have access to the influenza virus,” Ryker ticked off his finger. “Not only did he have access, but he had access to the pure, concentrated strain, through some research he was doing at Suffolk New College, in the health care department.”
“No woder id clobbered be,” Skye sniffled, reaching for another tissue.
“Indeed,” Sherlock said, scowling, seeming to grow taller. “And where is the miscreant now?”
“Popped by the house and the office,” Ryker informed them, “but he wasn’t at either place. Receptionist said he was off on an emergency house call. Something about a birth going too quickly to get to hospital. We followed up on that, and it’s legitimate, so we didn’t interfere. He, his house and his office are being watched. We’ll know as soon as he shows up at one place or the other.”
“Good,” Sherlock said coldly. “When he does, bring him here straight away.”
* * *
Dr. Nathan Victor returned to his office around lunchtime, and was promptly, if clandestinely, taken into custody by Ryker’s unit. They, in turn, brought him directly to Gibson House.
“We got the handkerchief from his laundry hamper, Holmes,” Ryker noted immediately. “Enid already pegged it positive.” He handed him a note, and Holmes scanned it briefly.
“Excellent. Ah, Dr. Victor,” Holmes said politely from his seat in the armchair next the sitting room fireplace. “Won’t you sit down?” He gestured imperiously at the chair across from him. Ryker and his men moved out to stand guard at each potential room exit.
“Um…certainly,” a nervous and unsure Victor took the indicated seat. “May I inquire as to what this is all about?”
“It is no less than attempted murder,” Holmes noted calmly, but letting a dangerous glint flicker in his grey eyes. “The deliberate introduction of the pure strain of Influenza Type A, serotype H7N7, to Dr. Skye Chadwick-Holmes, to be specific.” He waved the note Ryker had handed him.
“At-attempted murder?” Victor stammered, paling. “She…did she actually contract the flu?”
“She did,” Holmes noted, “and very nearly died of it, last night. Aside from her importance to me, her death would have assumed catastrophic proportions in a matter which cannot be discussed, for reasons of—”
“National security,” Ryker sternly finished for him. “According to my unit physician, her fever topped 40.6ºC.”
“Dear God,” Victor whispered, horrified. “Hadn’t she had the vaccine?”
“It seems to have been an inadvertent oversight in her vaccinations, before we travelled here,” Holmes replied crisply. “Hence her extremely strong response to the pure strain.”
“Oh, dear God. Oh, dear God,” Victor groaned, putting his face in his hands. “Not that lovely, sweet woman. God, help me!”
“Tell us everything, and perhaps we can be His hands,” Holmes suggested sternly.
“Yes! Yes!” Victor exclaimed, looking up in desperate appeal. “Please, I never meant to hurt her! I know how much you love each other! You have to understand! They told me to! I told them it probably wouldn’t work, but they insisted. I never dreamed…I’ve been living in terror for weeks. I thought she’d need the pure strain for it to even affect her, because I assumed she’d been vaccinated before flying overseas. At most I thought she’d have the sniffles and maybe feel unwell. I was only supposed to delay your investigation for them. I SWEAR.”
“’They’ being the pair who killed McFarlane,” Holmes deduced.
“Yes! How did you…?” Victor looked astonished.
“Never mind that. What hold do they have upon you?”
“They have my twin sister Mary,” Victor moaned pitiably. “They’ve had her for weeks. Our parents are dead; we two are the only ones of the family left. They’re using threats against her to force me to help them. Rape, torture, death; the good Lord only knows what they’ve already done to my poor sister! God help me! God help me! But I swear, I didn’t help them with McFarlane! I swear! They asked me how to kill someone and make it look like a heart attack, and I told them—in order to keep Mary alive, you understand—that it would take potassium chloride, but I did NOT tell them how to DO it! I flatly refused! I swear! And I didn’t give them anything!”
“How did they know, then?” Ryker wondered, and Victor shook his head miserably.
“They went to one of the local veterinarians and asked,” he told them, obviously sick at heart. “I didn’t think about that. Their story was that they wanted to put down a sick animal. It was Dr. Mark Peterson,” he added, trying to help. “He can tell you more.”
“Speaker mode, if you please.” Holmes pointed imperatively at the telephone.
Dr. Victor submissively moved to the phone and dialed a number, hitting the speaker button.
“Dr. Peterson’s office,” a female voice answered.
“Is Dr. Peterson in, please?” Holmes inquired.
“May I say who is calling?”
“This is Special Investigator Holmes. I am looking into the death associated with the local UFO sightings. I should like to ask Dr. Peterson some medical questions, as I believe one or more of our murder suspects may have consulted him to obtain information to aid them in dispatching their victim.”
“Oh! Right away, sir!”
There was a pause; then a male voice came on the line. “Dr. Peterson here. Is this Mr. Holmes?”
“It is,” Holmes replied in a businesslike tone.
“What’s…all this about a…a murder?” Peterson wondered, voice betraying more than a hint of nervousness.
“Dr. Peterson, first of all, I wish you to understand that you are under no suspicion,” Holmes noted more casually. “I merely wish to ask you some questions, and have you answer to the best of your ability. I have reason to believe two men approached you some time back—shortly before the death of Mr. McFarlane, supposedly of fright from a UFO sighting—and obtained not only information upon putting down an ill animal, but possibly pharmaceuticals and paraphernalia.”
“Very well,” Peterson answered a bit uncertainly. “Yes, I distinctly remember the two men who came in. It was unusual for several reasons, because they weren’t any of my regular patients, and weren’t even British. One was French, and the other sounded American. Short, dark featured; and tall, medium complected, respectively.”
“That’s them,” Victor whispered, looking as if he might be sick.
“What are the other unusual circumstances, Doctor?” Holmes queried.
“Well,” Peterson responded, not having heard Victor’s remark, “most of the people around here that are my patients—clients, rather, I suppose—are farmers. Either they put their animals down with a gun, quick and simple; or they call me in to do it for them, if it’s a large animal; or they bring a small animal to me. It’s not very often I get someone coming in, asking how to do it themselves.”
“I see,” Holmes said, nodding to himself. “Pray, continue your most interesting narrative.”
“They said they had an ill pet—it had cancer—and wanted to put it down,” the veterinarian continued. “They also said they’d been told potassium chloride would do it, but didn’t know how. I told them it would, if they injected it intravenously, because it would induce a heart attack, but there were a lot more humane ways of euthanising a pet. I told them if they’d give me the pet’s weight and come back the next day, I’d have a euthanasia kit ready for them. They told me it was a large dog, a male German mastiff, around seventy kilos, and I gave them the dosage for several different drugs, including the potassium compound. And I had the kit ready for them, the next day, with a humane euthanising agent. But they never came back.”
“I see,” Holmes nodded to himself, steepling his fingers. “And did you give them any equipment?”
“No sir. I gave them nothing but information and options. But it wouldn’t be hard to get what’s needed from a local chemist.”
“And were they charged?”
“A nominal fee for a consultation, but they paid in quid. So I’m afraid I don’t have any paper trail you can track.”
“Do you, perchance, still have the money? We might be able to obtain fingerprints,” Holmes considered.
“No, sir. I’m afraid it’s already long since been taken to the bank with the rest of our deposits. I’m sorry. It’s not unusual for my fees to be paid in money, rather than cheque or card, so it didn’t raise any red flags here at the office.”
“I see. Thank you very much, doctor. You have been an immense help,” Holmes said. “We may need a formal statement from you later.”
“Anything I can do,” Dr. Peterson agreed, and they ended the conversation.
* * *
“I’m on it. We’ll see what we can dig up on any chemists’ purchases,” Ryker offered, scribbling in a notepad, which went into his uniform pocket.
“Good,” Holmes agreed. “Meanwhile, we must look at rescuing Dr. Victor’s sister. Doctor, have you anything you can offer us as a clue as to where she might be?”
“I don’t know,” Victor moaned, terrified and grieving. “I know you probably don’t think highly of me, Mr. Holmes, but I assure you, I AM a good doctor, and I DO love my sister. I didn’t know what to do. They said…they said if I told anyone, they’d kill her outright.”
“Do you know what they are after?” Holmes queried.
“No.”
“…Where they are headquartered?”
“No. They either come by my home, or contact me by phone.” The physician shook his head. “And they know exactly when to do which.” He shivered, paling further.
Sherlock sighed in frustration.
“By PHODE,” a hoarse, nasal voice floated out of the back of the house.
“Ah, of course,” Sherlock sat up straight. “Do you have caller ID?”
“Yes, on both cell and office phone,” Victor admitted. “But the ID is blocked. That’s how I know it’s them—they’re the only ones around here who block their ID.” He shivered violently, paling.
“Hm. Were any of these calls with your sister, to ascertain her health?”
“Yes, there were two. I demanded to speak with her, and they put her on.”
“Were there any unusual sounds in the background, whenever these phone calls were made?”
“Um…” Victor racked his brains, nearly ready to literally pull out his hair. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, staring at the detective. “Now you mention it, I do remember a prolonged rumble once, which put me in mind of a train crossing. And twice I heard the distant sound of…” he shrugged, “I took it to be a boat whistle.”
“But not a ship’s horn?” Sherlock pressed.
“No,” Victor shook his head definitively. “Too high pitched. And not loud enough, either.”
“Very good, Doctor Victor. I shall want a good description or possibly a photograph of your sister, and any other such information you think may be useful in her identification. Be patient, and trust me. Ryker, do you take him back to his office.”
“What?!” Victor exclaimed, terrified. “Back to my office?! They’ll kill Mary, then come after me!”
“On the contrary,” Sherlock pointed out, “if you disappear now, they will most certainly know you have betrayed them, and your sister’s life will not be worth a moment’s purchase. But if you return and go about your business as normal—albeit with clandestine security,” he glanced hard at Ryker, who nodded understanding, “it will give me time to scout your sister’s whereabouts and perchance effect her liberty.”
“At which time, we can whisk you both out of here and into hiding,” Ryker added. “I promise you, you’ll be safe, Dr. Victor.”
The physician looked back and forth between the two men, then nodded.
“All right,” he agreed. “I can see that. Let’s do it.”
The unit slipped out of Gibson House and returned Victor to his office, while Sherlock extracted his pipe and prepared for a prolonged smoke.
Skye, who had been listening in the bedroom, settled down for a nap.
* * *
Holmes pulled out maps of the area and surveyed them, then headed for the bedroom.
“Skye,” he wondered softly, seeing her resting, “would I upset any apple carts were I to use the computer in the study?”
“Do,” a drowsy Skye murmured. “Dod buch od de ‘buter. Beed doig id all od baber add d’ blackboard. Whadcha doid’?”
“I intend to perform a search for a location where one might hear trains—possibly at a crossing—and boats at the same time. I have some preliminary areas ascertained, based on paper maps, but I need finer detail.”
“Lookid’ f’r Bicdor’s sisder?”
“Yes.”
“’Kay. Dad’s good. I feel bad for ‘eb. I could dell Bicdor was scared widless, all de way id here.”
“Indeed. He was patently terrified, both for his sister and for his own life. And justly so, by the sound of it. May I take it you are not quite as antagonistic against Dr. Victor as you had been?”
Skye considered that. “Do, I dod dink so. Sdress cad dake sdrage forbs.”
“Indeed it can. From bizarre dreams to unwanted advances, one may assume from the experiences of recent months.”
“Yub.”
“So, I shall endeavour to locate his sister, using your computer to ascertain possible locales.”
“Souds good.”
“And you?”
“I’b godda jus’ sdooze.”
“As you should, my dear.” Sherlock nodded, pleased. “I suppose I should request Dr. Wilder come watch over you, once I set out in search of the Victor woman.”
Skye cracked a sleepy blue eye. It had a twinkle in it.
“I god a bedder idea.”
“And that would be?”
“Call Wadsod.”
“Capital notion! I shall do precisely that.” A smile broke across Sherlock’s face.
In short order, Watson had been contacted, had volunteered his assistance before Holmes could even ask, and was en route to Gibson House. Sherlock, meantime, settled down at the computer and began a map search for appropriate locations.
* * *
Within the hour, Dr. Watson was at Gibson House, dutifully and affectionately watching over a sleeping Skye, while Sherlock slouched before the computer in the study, poring over street level maps and performing advanced searches for railroads and boat moorings.
By dinnertime, the sleuth had refined his search to three possible locations. Skye awakened, to be cheerfully greeted by Watson; and the two men repaired to the kitchen to prepare a bite. Dinner was a casual, congenial affair in the bedroom, in order to keep Skye company.
* * *
“Not to mention, I’ve a little herbal tea for you here, my dear,” Watson said kindly, placing a cup of the brew on Skye’s bed tray. “It will help those congested sinuses, while not interfering one whit with your prescription medications.”
“Souds woderful,” Skye said gratefully, picking up the cup and sipping. “Mm. Dasdes good, doo.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Watson grinned, his long years of experience as a physician enabling him to understand her perfectly. “And now I’m quite sure we’d both like to know how your husband’s researches have progressed.”
“Yes, we do,” Skye agreed, turning to look at her spouse.
* * *
“I have three locales which meet the criteria,” Sherlock decided, waving his fork in the air absently. “The first is southern Ipswich. It is fairly riddled with rails, and lies on an inlet of Harwich Harbour.”
“Sounds promising,” Watson decided. “Lots of people in which to lose three persons.”
“True,” Sherlock agreed, “but it is rather far off. I had the distinct impression from Dr. Victor that our suspects were able to keep a much closer eye on him than would be possible if their base were all the way out in Ipswich. Of course, that does not argue that the woman is not in Ipswich, imprisoned, alone. But I think it unlikely, moreso as the woman was available on the spot when Victor demanded to speak with her.”
“Mm,” Skye hummed. Blue eyes grew distant with thought. “Whad aboud de oder doo?”
“The next would be the Port of Felixstowe,” Sherlock ticked off a finger. “This shows a bit more promise, but it is still rather far away, and it is right on the junction of the Channel and the Harbour. It is a major port city. That would argue for ship horns in addition to, perhaps in excess of, boat horns and whistles.”
“Whereas Bictor said he neber heard any indications of shibs,” Skye noted, slightly less nasally than previous.
“Excellent, Watson. Skye already sounds better.”
“And she’ll stay that way. I brought Bess with me.”
“Bess?” Skye wondered, pulling a tissue from the box and wiping her nose.
For answer, Watson extracted the handle of a well maintained revolver from his pocket.
Sherlock grinned knowingly.
* * *
“Cool,” Skye grinned, congestion improving rapidly now. “Thank you, Doctor.” She grabbed a tissue and mopped at her nose, then grabbed another. Skye stared at the tissue box. “I’m gonna go through these like a baby through candy…”
“Come, come, I thought we were past formalities after my last visit,” Watson upbraided her gently. “Call me John, or at least Watson. And I brought several more boxes of tissues; don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of experience with the effects of my herbals.”
“All right…Watson,” Skye’s grin grew wider. “So, Honey, what’s the third location?” She reached for yet another tissue.
“That would be the village of Melton, within Woodbridge itself. It is well on this side of Woodbridge proper, and is now what might be termed a community within the larger municipality. But there is a major rail route through the area, and the River Deben runs through it, which has its outlet on the Channel. Too small for ships, but perfect for fishing boats and the like.”
“Bingo,” Skye nodded. She finally grabbed the entire box of tissues off the nightstand and plopped it on the bed.
“I should say you have it,” Watson concluded.
* * *
“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “Tomorrow I shall disguise myself and go to Melton and see.” He turned to Skye. “I may be gone a few days. But I shall have my ciphered cell with me, and will attempt to contact you at least once per day.”
“Oh,” Skye said, seeming to wilt slightly.
“What about Valentine’s Day?” Watson protested. “Surely you’ll not leave your lovely wife alone on your first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife?”
“Our first Valentine’s Day ever,” Skye murmured under her breath, eyes downcast. Quickly she hid her face in another tissue.
“Valentine’s Day? When is it?” Sherlock blinked, nonplused.
“February 14th—two days’ time,” Watson pointed out.
“Ah,” Sherlock said, finding himself somewhat at a loss. “Then I shall most certainly be back by then.”
“Okay,” Skye said, discarding her tissue, once more cheerful.
* * *
When the men had retired to the sitting room for a pipe—in Sherlock’s case—and a glass of brandy for both, the sleuth turned to the physician.
“Watson,” he said in a low voice, ensuring it did not carry beyond the room, “I am afraid I require your assistance.”
“Then you have it,” Watson answered simply, to the detective’s gratification. “What do you need?”
Sherlock hesitated briefly.
“What will Skye be expecting for Valentine’s Day?”
Watson’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding.
“Of course. You would never have celebrated it, in your own day. And you’d have no idea how it’s celebrated now, in any case.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock sighed.
“Well, the usual types of things are chocolates and jewellery, as well as a special dinner, candlelight preferred, and that usually at a nice to expensive restaurant. Oh, and an appropriately sentimental greeting card. But knowing your reputation, you’d like it to be unique. Skye will be in no condition for an evening out anyway. So what, in your mind, would be a romantic gift? Whatever that is, that’s what you should get her. And I’ll do any preparation for a special dinner at home that you’d like, then clear out when you do get home.”
Sherlock drew a deep breath, thinking. Suddenly an image of Skye in her favorite blue nightgown popped into his mind, and he knew what to get.
“I shall handle the gift, if you will set the table for a formal dinner for two—with candlesticks—and perhaps chop some vegetables for a curry.”
“Curry is my speciality,” Watson said, beaming. “My wife always said my curry was better than any restaurant’s. Tell me how spicy, and what meat, and it’ll be simmering when you get home, and the rice steamed.”
“My dear Watson, you are priceless. Chicken, and of moderate heat. All the necessary ingredients should be in the kitchen already.”
“Consider it done, my friend,” Watson returned the detective’s grin. “And I shall spend the night on the sofa with Bess while you are gone. I will not leave your dear wife incapacitated and alone.”
“You are not as young as you once were, Watson. Are you certain a sofa…?”
“I’m a considerable way from the grave yet, young man,” Watson retorted with asperity. “I’ll do well enough.”
“Dear God. How I have missed you,” Holmes murmured, unaware he’d spoken aloud. Watson merely gazed at him for a long moment before recovering his power of speech.
“I have never been…more honoured in my life,” he said quietly.
“Nor I, to have a second chance,” Sherlock added softly.
They sat by the fire for long hours, simply chatting.
* * *
The next morning, Sherlock dressed as a rural resident, in worn jeans, battered work boots, a work shirt, and barn jacket. Eschewing shaving, and pulling a tweed newsboy-style cap on his head, he wrapped a muffler about his neck, clapped Watson on the shoulder, kissed Skye, and headed for Melton in a vehicle procured by Ryker for the purpose.
Sometime later, Sherlock entered Woodbridge’s bedroom community of Melton in a beat-up, nondescript pickup truck and drove around, getting a feel for the overall layout of the streets, especially relative to the railroad and the river.
Further information obtained from Dr. Victor had not only included a description and color photograph of his sister Mary, but also further data regarding the sounds he had heard. Whereas he had reported the rumble of the railroad had been very loud, almost enough to create difficulty in conversing with his sister, the boat whistles had been more distant, and occasionally changed pitch in mid-whistle.
“Doppler shift,” Skye had declared, and Sherlock had nodded assent. “It was passing by.”
So Sherlock avoided the docks proper and concentrated on the area around a rail spur down the river from the principal docks. After deliberately driving around randomly enough to be noticed by the locals, he pulled over at a fishmonger’s shop, parked, and went inside.
“’Ello there,” he remarked cheerfully to the clerk. “I ‘uz wonderin’ if ya might be able ta he’p me.”
“Of course, sir,” the friendly young clerk replied. “What may I do for you?”
“I live a good piece nor’west o’ here,” Sherlock answered, “an’ my sister, she jus’ moved back inta England wi’ ‘er ‘usband from France. ‘E an’ ‘is partner ‘ave an import business, an’ she writ t’ tell me they were livin’ ‘ere, or had a shop ‘ere, or summat.” Sherlock winked drolly. “Sis never was real clear in ‘er explanations. Ta beat it all, ‘z if that weren’t bad ‘nuff, the postal got th’ letter rained on ‘r sumpin, an’ th’ bloody address is right unreadable. I knows they’s around ‘ere summat, but I ain’t got a notion where, eezackly.”
“My mother is exactly like that.” The young clerk chuckled. “I learned years ago to get directions from my father whenever possible, if I didn’t want to waste a tank of petrol. Have you a name?”
“Well, I think they ‘uz usin’ th’ import company name, an’ I’ll be bound iffen I c’n recall it,” Sherlock rubbed his unshaven chin. “But she’s a bonny little tow-head of thirty-one,” here he extracted the photo Victor had provided from his wallet, “’bout five an’ a half feet tall, wi’ hazel eyes. ‘Er ‘usband’s a Frenchman, some shorter’n me, real dark complected, an’ ‘is partner is a tall American chappie. Mary’s a stay at home type, so’s ya might not see much o’ her. But that husban’ o’ hers an ‘is partner are real balls o’ fire.”
The clerk examined the picture intently, thinking deeply, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the lot,” he said apologetically. “I wish I could help.”
“Thankee anyways,” Sherlock said, nodding his head politely. “I reckon as how I’ll jus’ try some ‘a th’ other shops. Mebbe somebody’s aroun’ what knows ‘em.”
He was about to leave the shop when an elderly lady grasped him by the arm and pulled him behind a display of fish fryers.
“I seed yer sister’s pichure. I know the couple ye’re talkin’ of,” she declared, “an’ if ye’re a good brother, ye’ll be a’ takin’ ‘er outta there.”
“Whazzat?” Sherlock said, pretending surprise and hiding his jubilation. “How do ya know ‘em?”
“They moved in down th’ street from me, few weeks back,” the old woman explained. “Mebbe ‘round the first o’ th’ year, mebbe a bit afore. An’ I’ll be bound she’s bein’ mistreated by that husband o’ hers an’ ‘is partner, or my name ain’t Martha Southern. An’ my name mos’ certainly is Martha Southern, as anybody ‘roun’ these parts ‘ll tell ye,” she added, “so’s ye c’n put y’r hat on’t.” She jerked on his arm with a withered, claw-like hand. “Wait ‘ere whiles I git me dinner, an’ ye c’n drive me home an’ I’ll show ye.”
* * *
Ten minutes later they were en route to Martha Southern’s cottage. It backed upon the railroad, and some fifty yards of riverbank lay between the tracks and the River Deben.
Perfect, thought Sherlock. It fits known conditions to a tee.
“’Ere’s me ‘ouse,” Martha said, pointing to a small but neat whitewashed cottage with cheery yellow trim. “Make a casual-like glance three ‘ouses ta th’ left, an’ that’s where y’r sister lives.”
Sherlock glanced in the direction indicated without seeming to do so, and espied a cottage similar to the others on the street, saving that it was more unkempt. Whereas the others had tidy little lawns, pristine whitewashes, and painted trim, the house in question was faded and peeling and had large patches of mildew on the walls, with a scraggly yard filled with little but dead weeds.
* * *
“Don’t look like such as a decent man ‘d bring ‘is beloved wife to, do it? Now, c’mon in, an’ make haste abou’ it,” Martha declared, “an’ I’ll tell ye what I’ve ‘eard. I c’n even tell ye th’ comin’s an’ goin’s o’ th’ place, so’s ye c’n git ‘er out.”
“An’ ‘ow’d ye be knowin’ that?” Sherlock wondered, helping the elderly woman carry her groceries toward her dwelling. So anxious was the old lady to remain unseen with this stranger to the neighborhood, she fairly scuttled for the front door. She also refused to answer until they stood inside, behind that same closed door.
“I’m an ol’ widder woman,” she explained then, with a grin and a twinkle in her eye, “an’ I ain’t got so much t’ keep me time anymore. So I watch me neighbors. Busybody, some says what knows I does. But I don’ meddle none, I just watch, leastwise ‘til now. An’ that lot,” she nodded down the street, sadness filling her to overflowing, “makes f’r…interestin’ watchin’, b’lieve me. Comin’s an’ goin’s at all hours, argymints an’ raised voices…” The woman broke off for a moment, sobering further, “…and a woman cryin’ in the night.” She shook her head. “This is a quiet lit’le neighborhood, sir. Real quiet at night, special. So’s a woman sobbin’ ‘er ‘eart out in th’ wee sma’s…”
She met Sherlock’s pained grey eyes.
“I ain’t th’ onliest one what’s ‘eard it, neither. Y’ c’n ask ‘most ennybody ‘long the lane. You need t’ git y’r sister out’n there.”
* * *
Sherlock pretended to look perplexed.
“How’m I gonna do that? I ain’t keenest ‘bout goin’ up ‘gainst Jacques an’ ‘is partner both. Jacques is hot-tempered enuff as ‘tis. An’ me wif,” he glanced around, then lowered his voice, “no weapons t’ hand.”
“He’p me put away me things, an’ I c’n tell ye egg-zackly how,” the old woman nodded knowingly.
* * *
Half an hour later a highly satisfied Sherlock left the Southern cottage with a complete plan of action, as described by a highly astute Martha. Once well out of the area, he pulled out his cell phone and called Ryker, explaining it to him. They agreed the plan was a good one, and would be executed the very next day.
Sherlock pulled into a hotel Ryker had recommended, and got a room for the night. He carried an overnight bag inside the room, emerging as a dapper, clean shaven, casually handsome man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a woolen turtleneck sweater—in other words, his usual self—some half an hour later. A short drive to a nearby shopping mall, and he was standing in front of a lingerie store.
Sherlock wandered past the store three times before gathering himself and plunging into the store, the color in his cheeks heightened. But the manager, an older woman, spotted him and read the signs, waving off the younger store clerks, and took him in hand herself. Soon Sherlock was striding out of the store with a pink and white wrapped and beribboned package, and a satisfied gleam in the grey eyes.
He spent the rest of the evening wandering around the mall, window shopping.
* * *
The next morning around half past eight, Ryker and three of his unit members met Holmes along the railroad tracks, two blocks up the river from the house where the Victor woman was being held. The small group was hidden among several parked boxcars.
“Local law enforcement already knows,” Ryker murmured in response to Sherlock’s glance. “Everything’s on the up-and-up. There’ll be no interference.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock murmured. “Did you discuss the situation with the British Medical Association?”
“I did that, too. AND the General Medical Council. Both agreed to be lenient with Victor, under the circumstances. But the GMC says he’ll be on probation for a year. No limitations on practice, though, given the fact that he was trying his damnedest to walk a fine line of ‘do no harm’ to his sister, or anyone else.”
“Did you bring up Skye’s case?”
“I mentioned it briefly. And also indicated there was a slip-up on the American end, in that she didn’t get the inoculation. Had she had that, the committee’s consensus was that she might not have even gotten sick, or at the worst, might have had a right good case of the sniffles.” He shook his head. “Victor really was just obeying his blackmailers and trying to delay the investigation, and even that was a gamble.”
“Right. Very good, then.”
“I see ‘em leaving, sir,” Wang, staring through binoculars, reported. “Down the lane…onto the cross street…” He shifted position to peer around the corner of the boxcar. “Main street now…they’re gone.”
“Now we wait a good ten minutes,” Ryker noted, glancing at his watch.
“Indeed,” Sherlock confirmed. “It would not do to have them return for some forgotten item and stumble across our rescue attempt.”
At that, Ryker checked his radio, turning on the wireless earpiece.
“Well?” Sherlock demanded.
“The tail is on ‘em,” he answered briefly. “All systems green.”
The ten minutes ticked slowly by. “Aaaand…go,” Ryker said, eyeing his watch.
The group started purposefully down the tracks.
* * *
The back door was locked, of course. But such things were little more than minor nuisances to Sherlock Holmes. He extracted latex gloves and his lock-pick kit from a pocket, knelt before the door, and silently and swiftly unlatched the door. Holding his arm back to keep the others behind him, he scanned the doorframe, searching for possible traps or security that could notify the kidnappers.
“It is safe,” he decided, and pushed the door open, stepping forward. “But touch nothing.” Ryker and his men were right behind, the rear guard holding their weapons at the ready.
“Miss Victor?” Sherlock called softly. “Miss Mary Victor? We are friends of your brother, Dr. Nathan Victor, and we are here to rescue you.”
“I’m Captain Braeden Ryker, of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” Ryker announced in a similar tone, “and this is Detective Holmes. We’re here to reunite you and your brother, then take you to a safe house.”
“Nathan told me to tell you, ‘Tweedledum says hello,’” Holmes added.
A closet door burst open, and a woman of about five and a half feet, with medium blonde hair and hazel eyes, tumbled into Sherlock’s arms, sobbing nearly hysterically. A startled and decidedly taken aback Sherlock very swiftly handed her off to Ryker, trying not to show his discomfort.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” the woman cried. “I thought Nathan and I were both dead!”
They spirited her out of the house, locking the door behind them so her kidnappers would be baffled as to her means of escape.
* * *
Ryker led them to a safehouse on the opposite side of Woodbridge, then made a phone call. “The crow has Tweedledee,” he murmured into the phone. “Time to shake the rattle and roll.” Then he hung up.
“Your brother will be here shortly, Miss Victor,” Sherlock said gently, easing her into an overstuffed armchair. “In the meanwhile, do you require medical assistance?”
“No—no, I’m fine,” Mary Victor said faintly. “Well, I’m not fine, but well enough, given the circumstances, I suppose. A few bruises where they gripped my arms too hard, and I could use a bit more to eat than cold cereal and milk…”
Ryker made a couple of finger gestures to his men. Murphy, the unit’s emergency medical technician, immediately bent over the woman, examining her for injury and taking her vital signs. Wang headed for the safe house’s kitchen and fired up the stove.
After several minutes, Murphy looked up at Ryker.
“It’s as she said, Captain. She’s got finger-mark bruises on her arms, particularly in the wrist and upper arm areas, but nothing further that I can see. Enid might see more.”
“I’ll have her examine the lady when we leave with Dr. Victor,” Ryker agreed. “Or perhaps Dr. Victor himself would prefer to see to his sister.”
“Miss Victor, if you do not mind my imposing upon you after what has been a most harrowing experience,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside her chair, “I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“Y-yes,” she said quietly. “I know you need to find these men and arrest them. I’ll tell you all I can. Do you know what they look like?”
“I do. One is short, dark featured, and Gallic. The other is a tall American, with brown hair and blue eyes.”
“Yes. Their real names, as far as I could determine from listening to their conversation, are Fereaud and Cunningham. Honestly, I think they must be madmen.”
“And why is that?”
“Because all they could talk about was some stupid old cave. And whatever was in it.”
Ryker and Holmes exchanged serious looks.
“They seemed to be some sort of scavengers, or maybe salvagers,” Mary Victor explained. “Quite unscrupulous ones, though. They intended to gain control of the cave through whatever means necessary, and then get inside. That’s why they kidnapped me; they wanted to use Nathan’s medical knowledge to get around the land’s owner.”
“I’d say they managed that in spades,” Murphy muttered under his breath. “‘Stiff’ is pretty easy to get around.”
“Oh, NO! Is poor Mr. McFarlane dead?!” Mary exclaimed, distressed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryker confirmed, shooting a cautionary look at Murphy, who grasped what had happened and became anxious. “I’m afraid so.”
Murphy unassumingly reached for her wrist, checking her pulse. He looked up at Sherlock and Ryker and shook his head. “Agitated,” he mouthed. “Sorry.”
“Nathan didn’t do it, did he? Please, tell me Nathan didn’t do it!” Miss Victor cried, almost in tears.
“No, madam, your brother flatly refused,” Sherlock soothed her. “He would not do the deed himself, even at the risk of both your lives. He did tell them a chemical that could be used, in order to save your life, but not how to use it. Unfortunately, they concocted a story and got that information elsewhere.”
“He didn’t do it. Oh, thank God,” she breathed fervently. “Nathan’s a good man. He has his faults—he tends to be a hedonist, and it’s worse when he’s stressed—but he’s a good man at heart, I swear he is.”
“Agreed, Miss Victor,” Sherlock affirmed. “You have both been living in fear of your lives for quite some time, but that fear has ended at last, and you are both safe. Now, can you tell us what your captors wanted with the cave?”
“Yes. They seemed to think the government had hidden something valuable in there.”
“What did they intend to do with the contents?” Ryker joined the inquiry.
“They had three options, as far as I could determine.” Miss Victor shrugged. “One was to keep it for themselves; another was to ransom it back to the government; and the third was to auction at least part of it off to the highest bidder on the black market.”
Another grave glance passed between Holmes and Ryker.
“Did they give any indication as to what they believed to be within the cave?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes,” Miss Victor stated unequivocally. “Gold. Nazi gold.”
“What?!” Holmes and Ryker both exclaimed, startled.
* * *
By lunchtime, Mary Victor and her twin brother, Nathan Victor, had been ecstatically reunited in the safe house. Dr. Victor and Dr. Wilder collaborated in an examination of Mary, and both confirmed Murphy’s conclusion: No serious injury. Nathan joined Mary in her second proper meal of the day, then Ryker’s unit whisked them away to safety; Fereaud and Cunningham had lost their plainclothes police tail.
“What will the locals do for a physician?” Sherlock asked Ryker after the others had left. “Did you install a Service physician as a substitute?”
“No,” Ryker grinned, “Dr. Watson agreed to come out of retirement, until you catch the ‘blackguards,’ I believe he put it. Then the Victors can return, and he’ll go back to his retirement.”
“Ha!” Sherlock exclaimed, delighted. “That could not be more like Watson.”
“Oh, and he said this morning to tell you the Boss is doing much better,” Ryker added, “and that the Boss, he, and…Bess…slept well all night, and he already has the…curry simmering?”
“Capital,” Sherlock declared, mischievously neglecting to enlighten Ryker. “Shall we depart, then? I believe it is a holiday of sorts, and I do have a wife awaiting.”
“Yeah,” Ryker agreed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Enid is planning a nice dinner at her flat tonight. Er, not her home flat; the one she’s using while we’re here.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said knowingly, only the twinkle in his eyes betraying his amused comprehension. “Well, I suppose it is good to know that the head of the modern Baker Street Irregulars has his own divertissements.”
Ryker flushed, but grinned broadly.
They slipped out of the safe house, and went their separate ways.