Sherlock’s initial reaction was to say yes. He was growing to like Mrs Loran more and more. Before he answered, he glanced over at Mycroft. His brother had obviously heard Mrs Loran’s question, and he shook his head briefly.
‘I wish I could,’ he said, ‘but I need to go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast, then,’ she said, smiling, and walked off.
Mycroft beckoned to Sherlock and Rufus Stone to join him.
‘I apologize for spoiling your evening,’ he said to Sherlock, ‘but the more time we spend socializing with these people the more likely it is that we will let something slip, and they will realize that we are not what we seem. Our best course of action is to be polite but reserved.’ His glance moved to Stone, and then back to Sherlock. ‘The journey has been tiring,’ he said quietly, ‘and I see no reason to exert ourselves this evening. Get some rest. Tomorrow, when the remainder of the company head for the theatre, Sherlock will accompany me to the apartment of my agent here in Moscow. I wish to establish what exactly has happened to him.’ He glanced at Stone. ‘You, I am afraid, should go to the theatre with the rest of them. As principal violinist, your absence would be noted.’
‘You might need me,’ Stone said, ‘if there’s trouble.’
‘If there’s trouble, I suspect that nothing will help,’ Mycroft said soberly. ‘We are in a foreign country in which the free expression of any thought that runs counter to the Tsar’s is ruthlessly suppressed by both his official and his secret police forces. But we do what we must.’
‘Then why take Sherlock?’ Stone pressed. ‘If it’s that dangerous, he should come to the theatre with me.’
Mycroft shook his large head. ‘I accept the logic of your thoughts, but I may need Sherlock’s sharp eyes, sharp wits and athletic skills. It may be necessary to gain access to the apartment through a window, in which case I am entirely unsuited to the task. Once inside, he may spot some clue that I miss. At the very least, he can keep watch for the police while I am inside. And if something happens to me, he may be able to return and warn you.’
Stone nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. If that’s all…?’ Receiving Mycroft’s nod, he walked away, towards the restaurant.
Mycroft gazed critically at Sherlock. ‘There is something on your mind, I perceive.’
Sherlock shrugged. ‘It’s not important.’
‘It is important. You are displeased with me because I did not tell you that I was employing Rufus Stone, and you are displeased with Rufus Stone because he did not tell you that he was working for me. You believe that you have been let down by both of us – that you cannot trust us.’
Sherlock steadfastly looked away, refusing to meet Mycroft’s eyes.
‘Sherlock, like it or not, I have a responsibility to look after you. Setting Rufus Stone to watch over you when I could not was a part of that.’
‘I thought…’ Sherlock started, surprising himself, ‘I thought he was my friend’
‘People can be several things at once,’ Mycroft cautioned. ‘I am your brother, but I am also an official of the British Government. Amyus Crowe is a bounty hunter, but he is also your tutor. Mr Stone is a violinist, and he is also an occasional agent of mine. That does not, by the way, preclude him from being your friend as well.’ He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘If it comes as any consolation, on his return from America Mr Stone told me that he had come to regard you with something approaching brotherly affection. He enjoyed your company. He asked me if I considered this a problem. I told him that I did not. I would rather he was looking out for your welfare because he wanted to, than because I had told him to.’
Something that had been wound up tightly inside Sherlock’s chest for several days seemed to loosen slightly. Not completely, but slightly.
‘Now,’ Mycroft said, ‘let us sample the delights of Russian gastronomy. I am led to believe that Russian chefs are almost as good as French ones.’
They walked into the restaurant, which had a high, arched ceiling. Its walls were lined with paintings showing soldiers in brightly coloured uniforms – blue, green and red – riding horses and slashing at each other with sabres.
Mycroft noticed the direction of Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Ah, the Crimean War,’ he said. ‘Fought with Britain, France and Turkey on one side and Russia on the other. A curious and rather pointless conflict. And here we are, barely a dozen years later, having dinner in the capital city of our enemies. Diplomacy makes strange bedfellows.’ He paused, and a shudder ran through his large body. ‘Sherlock, I think this will be the last time I leave England. It may well be the last time that I leave London. Travel may broaden the mind, but so do newspapers and books of reference, and they can be experienced from the comfort of an armchair and in the presence of a bottle of fine brandy. I shall, in future, allow things to come to me, rather than me going to them.’
‘You must badly want to know what happened to your agent, for you to be here,’ Sherlock said quietly.
The maitre d’hotel looked up from his book of reservations as they approached. ‘A table for you, gentlemen?’ he asked in perfect French.
‘If you please,’ Mycroft replied. As the maitre d’ led them across the restaurant, Mycroft said quietly: ‘His name is Wormersley: Robert Wormersley We were at Oxford together. We shared digs, and we would talk long into the night about our hopes and dreams for the future. When we left Oxford we went our separate ways: while I went into the Foreign Office, he travelled the world adventuring and writing well thought out pieces of travel journalism, but we would still write letters to each other. Eventually our orbits intersected again, and he became my most trusted agent abroad.’ He paused. ‘We were friends, Sherlock. We were the best of friends. Acquaintances are ten a penny, but one does not get the chance to make friends like that very often in one’s life. When they come along, they should be cherished. That is why I need to be here. I owe it to him.’
‘I understand,’ Sherlock said as they sat down. ‘Or, at least, I think I do.’
‘Of course you do. You went all the way to New York to rescue young Matthew Arnatt. Now,’ he said, taking the menu from the maitre d’, ‘what do you wish to eat this evening? I understand the seafood in this city is particularly fine.’
The meal was excellent – good enough to please even Mycroft – and Sherlock’s brother allowed him to have a glass of wine with the meal. They talked of inconsequentialities – the different types of grape that could be used to make wine, the way brandy, sherry and port were made either by distilling or by fortifying wine, and the fact that sparkling wine was first made by Benedictine monks in the sixteenth century.
Sherlock sensed his feelings towards his brother easing as the meal went on. He still felt angry that Mycroft – and Rufus Stone – had gone behind his back, but he realized that part of that anger was directed against himself for not working it out.
He resolved to learn a lesson, though: never take anything on face value ever again.
At the end of the meal, while Mycroft was relaxing with a glass of brandy and a cigar, Sherlock said, ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Mycroft nodded. ‘Sleep well. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.’ He frowned. ‘I have a feeling I am missing something obvious. It is not a comfortable feeling. If I was back in London, safe in the Diogenes Club, I am certain I would work it out in an instant, but here, with all these distractions…?’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed will help. Goodnight, Sherlock.’
Sherlock’s room was small, and on an upper floor, but it didn’t matter. It was more comfortable than his room back at Holmes Manor, and he was asleep within moments of undressing. If he dreamed at all then he did not remember what his dreams were.
The next morning was bright and crisp. Snow still lay on the ground, but the sun shone from a clear blue sky. Sherlock washed and dressed and then headed down to the same restaurant where he and Mycroft had eaten dinner.
Mycroft was sitting with Mr Kyte. He nodded at Sherlock as he entered the restaurant, then went back to his conversation.
Sherlock looked around. Mr Malvin and Miss Dimmock were eating together, while Mrs Loran was sitting by herself. She caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled at him. He smiled back. He liked her: she seemed to be treating Sherlock more and more like a surrogate son. He wondered about the missing and unmentioned Mr Loran. Had he died, or run off with another woman, or was he waiting at home for her?
The four stagehands – Rhydian, Judah, Pauly and Henry – were sharing a table and bickering. The musicians were scattered across three different tables, segregated by instruments: strings on one, brass on another and
