Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [52]
My gaze kept coming back to the handkerchief. I found myself idly wondering whose it was and why it had not been tidied away. I must have stared at it for a full minute or so before I realized that it wasn't a handkerchief at all. It was a gloved hand, perched motionless upon the arm of the chair. The owner was hidden from me by the high wings and, bereft of context, the hand was just an abstract white shape upon the maroon leather.
'Your spleen is misplaced, Sherlock,' Mycroft boomed. 'I know little more than you do. I merely tried to contact the last name upon the list of visitors to this Library, and found that he was still here in London. He has agreed to see us.'
There was something about his ironic tone of voice that made me suspect he found something amusing about the situation. Whilst he spoke, I surreptitiously shifted my position so that I could see the occupant of the chair.
'And where is he now, pray?' Holmes's voice was icy.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the Doctor was moving too, paralleling my course but on the other side of the chair. I glanced up at him.
He nodded slightly towards the hand. His expression was calm. His habitually fatuous smile had vanished.
As I moved, a face came into view around the wing of the chair: such a familiar face that I had to glance back into the body of the room to check that Holmes was still there, eyeball to eyeball with Mycroft. I looked again at the occupant of the chair. The hawk-like profile, the supercilious expression, the deep lines around the closed eyes . . . it was as if the very essence of Sherlock Holmes sat before me, a distillation of my friend down to the basics that made up his character.
The Doctor appeared around the other side of the chair. He too looked back into the room, then across at me.
For a moment I entertained the thought that the face was just a model, a wax bust perhaps, but then the eyes opened and shifted first to examine me and then the Doctor with an impassive gaze. A slight smile played around the corners of the mouth as, behind us, Mycroft Holmes called out,
'Ah, gentlemen, I see that you have discovered our host. May I present our elder brother, Sherringford Holmes!'
I was stunned, but perhaps I should not have been. It had taken Holmes long enough to reveal the existence of one brother. For him to avow another would have been asking too much.
Sherringford Holmes swung the chair around to face the room. In the light, I could see that he was twenty or so years older than Sherlock, and therefore thirteen years older than Mycroft. He had the build and demeanour of the one offset by the surprisingly mild brown eyes of the other. His hair was grey and close-cropped. Taller and thinner than either of his brothers, he dominated the room even whilst seated. His white gloves, unnecessary with his dark and rather severe suit and the travelling rug which hid his legs, added a touch of menace.
'Still an impetuous youth, eh, Sherlock?' he said in a dry, sardonic voice.
'And you, Mycroft, as smug and as well-fed as ever, I see.'
Holmes was incredulous: Mycroft amused. The Doctor glanced across at me, and murmured, 'I thought two of them was bad enough.'
'I am . . . surprised . . . to see you outside the North Riding,' Holmes said eventually. He seemed cowed. Turning to me apologetically, he remarked,
'There are some details of my family life to which I have not made you privy, Watson. My family derive from old Yorkshire stock. Sherringford chooses to live on as squire in the old family farmstead, whereas both Mycroft and I prefer the attractions of London.'
'Sherlock has always tried