Chapter Nineteen

Sherlock Holmes scowled out at the Roumanian countryside passing slowly by. He had not been impressed with the country’s train system last month, and today’s journey was doing nothing to change his mind. In Brașov, he had managed to claim a corner of what purported to be a first-class compartment, but if things grew worse when they reached Sinaia—as they had on his earlier such trip—he would have to consider some means of taking revenge on his brother.

The engine had managed to clear the Predeal pass without actually breaking down, and would soon pull into the tumult of Sinaia, summer capital and resort town for the wealthy and unemployable. After that would follow four hours of loud voices, unwashed bodies, and endless maize fields all the way to Bucharest. He did not imagine he was going to sleep.

Not that he was going to sleep even before reaching Sinaia. There were matters on his mind, matters that called for decision. Sherlock Holmes did not at all care for the sensation of being undecided.

Four and a half years of being married to Mary Judith Russell, and he was still finding the adjustment difficult.

For his entire adult life, until the night he signed his full name upon a church register, Sherlock Holmes had been accountable to no one. All decisions were his alone, all secrets his to be kept or shared. Any loyalties owed—to monarch, client, or even brother—were entirely secondary to his unflinching pursuit of the case at hand. When he judged it necessary, he had bullied, ignored, and lied, even to his friend Watson, without hesitation.

But not to a wife. A wife meant a contract of a different sort, one that stood before him and demanded an honest reply.

Serving the needs of brother and Britain had become increasingly incompatible with his partnership with Russell. He had already forced her uncomfortably close to a lie regarding Mrs Hudson’s situation—forced her to prevaricate to him—and he could not avoid an open confrontation forever. Oh, husbands and wives deceived each other all the time—a detective learned that early in his career—but a lie here would fester and spread, deadly as a case of blood poisoning.

Almost as deadly as an agreement to leave matters undiscussed.

Four and a half years ago, Russell had come to him with a charade that a casual and convenient partnership might be an option. He had known the proposal was coming, had even anticipated its timing to the approach of her twenty-first birthday. So he had been prepared, and had taken care to meet her hopeful fairy-tale ending with a cold, brutal message: pretence was not a thing that could survive between them. It had to be the truth in all its manifestations, or nothing.

That was one of the few times he’d been aware of their difference in age: one life new enough to retain some wishful fantasies, the other having survived half a century of hard experience.

He had made it clear, on that cold London night, that the decision was entirely hers. He occasionally wondered what would have become of him—of them both—if she had not found a path to their particularly colourful wedding, some weeks later.

Amusing, and ironic, that a man known to the world as a cold thinking machine could be more clear-sighted than a woman when it came to emotional truths. But just because emotion interfered with rational decision did not mean a person could dismiss its effects. He was quite clear that the problem of Mycroft’s demands would have to be dealt with, very soon.

In the meantime, his brother had a point: Roumania was both vulnerable and essential, and required all the help Britain could offer. If Queen Marie’s reputation was being attacked, whether by a personal rival or some political enemy out to split the country, he might be in a position to do something about it.

He only wished that he did not feel the same danger to his partnership with Russell. He’d spent years learning to bite his tongue when she put herself at risk, and even more years learning to accept the value of her occasionally opposing views. He enjoyed…well, he enjoyed a great deal about Russell, including the occasional rivalry, but only because of their deeper singularity of purpose.

So, no: he was not at all pleased to have another sharp wedge poised over their relationship—a wedge by name of Mycroft Holmes.

His mind circled around and around the matter. He may have slept, for a time, before he noticed that the train was approaching Bucharest. He folded away his unread newspaper, tucked the cigarette case back into his pocket. He would meet with Mycroft’s collection of Communist agitators, spies, and possible traitors, then escape as soon as he could, back into the clean mountain air.

He wondered how Russell was getting on with the Queen. Two strong-willed women being polite over the dinner table. Rather unfortunate the daughter could not be there, too—it would be interesting to see how the next generation of Victoria’s heirs was turning out.