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lizbeeTitle: The Weight of the World in Her Hands
Summary: "Police custody was every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated."
Notes: I don't even know. I had an irresistable urge to wrap up the dangling threads of LANG in such a way as to make Russell suffer. (And that separates this from the rest of my fic, how? you ask.)cesario said it was worth releasing to an audience. I always do what she says.
Warnings: Implied offscreen kidnapping and rape. Mostly unspoken? I don't know.
The Weight of the World in Her Hands
by LizBee
Police custody was every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated. The endless waiting, punctuated by the turn of keys in locks and interviews with officers rendered either awestruck or contemptuous by his reputation. Holmes gave brief answers to their questions, and waited for Lestrade.
He filled the hours with trivia, listening to the conversations of officers, and later to the murmurs of his fellow prisoners – a drunk and a petty thief, neither of them original conversationalists. He paced the length of his cell, or cultivated stillness in the interview room, and did not once let his mind drift to Damian (had he gotten away, or was he, too, in a cell somewhere?) or Russell (it was too many weeks since she'd made contact; even longer since he had seen her in person – if she had been killed in this misadventure, he was not sure how he would be able to look at his son—).
He did not think of them.
Lestrade arrived in the early hours of the morning, red-eyed, unshaven and ill-tempered. Holmes was almost pleased to see him, if only for the relief he offered from the stolid semi-competence of the Truro constabulary.
Lestrade's companion, by contrast, was neatly and expensively dressed in a City suit, clean-shaven and serene. He returned Holmes's gaze with a blank mask of his own and seated himself without waiting for an invitation. One of Mycroft's colleagues, Holmes deduced, possibly even a superior in the opaque hierarchy in which his brother operated. The man's presence explained much about Mycroft's recent silence.
Lestrade did not introduce him. In fact, Holmes decided, watching the chief inspector closely, Lestrade did not care for the man at all.
Very well, he decided. A weakness. He pasted a smile on his lips and said, "And what can I do for you, Inspector Lestrade?"
"You could tell us where your son is, Mr Holmes."
Holmes concealed his satisfaction behind a look of amused disbelief.
"I think perhaps you need to check your facts again," he said.
"Born 1894, in Ste Chapelle to the late Irene Norton, British citizen resident in Shanghai until late last year, a string of criminal offences including no less than two accusations of murder against him – not to mention the damned art." Lestrade scratched his stubble. "One of our typists was reading the Doyle stories. Once we knew what we were looking for, it was simply a matter of locating the, er, misfiled paperwork."
In another time, Holmes might have praised his efforts. Now he merely said, "I haven't seen him for some time."
Hours, at least.
"He's wanted for the murder of his wife," said Lestrade. "Which, you, of course, know already, having gone to the trouble of concealing evidence and hiding the suspect. I wouldn't have thought you were the sort of man who'd protect a killer just because of a family connection."
"In the course of your investigations, have you found any trace of the man who calls himself Thomas Brothers?"
"The, er, religious leader? Vanished. We rather think Adler might be able to explain that, too. It seems that his wife was carrying on with Brothers."
"Nothing so mundane," Holmes murmured.
"Speaking of wives," Lestrade added, "we're rather eager to have words with Miss Russell, too."
Holmes shrugged. "I haven't seen her for at least two months," he said. "Perhaps she's in Oxford? She was eager to get back to her work there – interrupted by our travels, you know."
"You're telling me she is not involved in this ... affair."
"Hardly the act of a gentleman, expecting a woman to involve herself in the crimes of her husband's unlawfully begotten son."
Lestrade wasn't taken in, but he looked at his notes and said, "She was seen in Edinburgh in early September, with a young Chinese child in her care. The officers up there traced her as far as a, um, boarding house—" Holmes interpreted Lestrade's pause to indicate that Russell had risked the danger of a raid and hidden herself in a brothel, probably teaching the prostitutes Hebrew or somesuch nonsense – "but she hasn't been seen since."
This time, Holmes's smile was genuine. "I'm relieved to have more recent information," he said. Lestrade, realising he'd been taken in, scowled, but he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Telephone call," said the young PC hovering on the threshold. "It's—" he cast a terrified look at Holmes, "she's asking to speak to you, Chief Inspector. Won't have anyone else."
Lestrade was on his feet and out the door. Holmes stretched, and grinned at the nameless government official.
"Was this planned in advance?" the man asked.
"No," Holmes admitted, "but Russell's timing is always impeccable."
Lestrade had left the door open, the PC standing in the doorway. His connection was obviously poor, for despite the distance to the telephone and the thick walls, Holmes could hear snatches of conversation.
"No," he was saying, "that's not – Miss Russell, you're not in a position—" He paused, then, evidently remembering his lack of privacy, continued more softly. Silence, then Lestrade said, "Very well. As soon as possible."
His face, on returning, was set in a scowl.
"Your wife," he said to Holmes, "has requested our presence – she very specifically asked for you, now, how could she know you were arrested six hours ago? She claims to be in the village of West Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire—"
"I investigated a case there once," said Holmes. "The caves," he added, his mouth dry, "are said to be prehistoric."
The thought persisted through the long drive from Cornwall to Buckinhamshire. What a fool he'd been, to tie himself to a family – Irene had been right, to keep Damian from him. Russell, at least, was alive – although as the hours passed, his doubts grew; anything could have happened since she 'phoned. If Estelle had been harmed, he would lose Damian again. One way or another. How arrogant he'd been, to believe himself above the weaknesses of emotion. How Russell would tease him.
She had given Lestrade the address of a house on the edge of West Wycombe, past the major streets and the notorious caves. It was, in fact, a farmhouse, isolated and desolate, despite the lush countryside. Its only concessions to modernity were the telephone wires leading from the road, and the empty, open garage that stood by the main building.
The front door stood open. There were no outward signs of life.
Holmes did not wait for Lestrade, his officers or his government shadow before entering. The house was silent, but not, he thought, empty.
The downstairs rooms were pristine, but for a shattered vase and a painting – a cheap, garish print – that had fallen from the wall. Holmes started up the stairs, then paused, waving at Lestrade and the others to be still.
Yes, there it was again. A muffled sob, like a child in distress.
He quickened his pace.
The front upstairs room had been designed as a bedroom, but someone in the intervening years had turned it into a sitting room, perhaps for an invalid. Most of his attention, however, was on the extraordinary scene that dominated the room: the bound, unconscious man on the floor beneath the bookcases, the rich variety of bloodstains surrounding him, and the woman and child seated at the table by the window.
"It's about damn time," Russell said. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes suspiciously bright, her face was marred by bruises and her hands and dress were covered in a quantity of blood. Something in her demeanour warned Holmes to keep his distance, but then she reached out her hand – blood under the fingernails, he noted, and a deep cut on the palm – and he raised it to his lips.
She shifted, a flicker of pain crossing her face, and the child in her arms stirred. Estelle's face was red, her eyes and nose swollen, and she cringed away from the strange men that filled the room. Russell flinched as Estelle burrowed against her chest; Holmes diagnosed a broken rib.
"Estelle," she said quietly, "this is your grandfather. I promise he won't hurt you."
The child considered Holmes for a moment, then stretched out her hands to him. He lifted her insubstantial weight from Russell's lap, holding her tightly. There was a blanket behind Russell's head; she pulled it around herself, concealing her body from display. Sensing Holmes's gaze she said, "It's not my blood. Mostly."
It was not precisely what he had been thinking of, but he nodded and squeezed her hand.
Across the room, Lestrade was examining Brothers. His hands and feet were bound with a necktie and a strip torn from the hem of Russell's dress. He was very pale.
"Be careful," Russell said, "he fell on his knife in our struggle." She nodded at the bloody weapon on the table before her.
Lestrade gave her a look of faint disbelief.
"If I wanted to kill him," Russell said wearily, "I'd have done so. He fell on his knife. I patched it up as best I could, but he lost a lot of blood." Her hand trembled slightly as she pushed her hair back. Holmes watched her for a second, as still as a marble sculpture, then turned his attention to the papers that sat beside the knife.
There was Testimony, and the other one, Brothers's Book of Truth. Beside it was a folder of loose-leaf papers, a journal of some kind. The dates were not consecutive; it looked as if Brothers used it to record his thoughts prior to editing and transferring them to one of his religious texts.
Holmes shifted Estelle and leafed through the pages, searching for key dates. The murder of Fiona Cartwright had been acknowledged with a few scrawled paragraphs on the nature and uses of women, but Yolanda Adler's murder passed without comment. Holmes turned to the later pages, but the most recent entry was dated three weeks earlier.
"How long have you been here?" he asked Russell.
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "At least two weeks, I think." Her tone was deliberately off-hand; she was gazing steadily out the window.
Holmes ignored the milling police officers – one was being despatched to call an ambulance for Brothers – and looked at the fireplace, but it was cold and clean. He went to look at the other rooms.
In the larger bedroom, the one that contained masculine clothing in Brothers's size, the fireplace contained ash. Fresh, he judged, by the lingering warmth of the grate. The ash was soft and papery.
Estelle stirred.
"My grandmama is very brave," she said.
"Yes," said Holmes, going downstairs. There was a bottle of Veronal in the kitchen, looking out of place beside the salt and sugar. Holmes drew a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to carefully lift the bottle by its lid, placing it on the bench, where even the least competent and imaginative policeman would find it.
"My grandmama says she is with child." Estelle pronounced the euphemism carefully. "She says if she has a baby, it will be my great-aunt or uncle."
"That is quite true," said Holmes, shifting her so he could look her in the face, "but you mustn't tell anyone else yet."
Estelle smiled, despite her tear-stained face. "That's what she said."
Returning to the upstairs sitting room, he took a seat by Russell's side.
"There was more than enough evidence against him," she said in a voice too low for the police to hear. "I thought – the notes he made after killing Yolanda were ugly enough. As part of a court case ... I couldn't do that to Estelle. Or Damian. Or," she smiled weakly, "Yolanda."
Or herself, Holmes thought, but said nothing. He was thinking of another house, three years ago, and of injecting Russell with drugs to protect her reputation from the assumptions of the police.
"Quite right," he said.
An ambulance was pulling up outside, and Lestrade was dismissing his men to gather and record evidence. There was no opportunity to ask Russell if there was any further evidence she wanted concealed, but she caught his eye and shook her head imperceptibly.
Her face was a mask as the ambulance-men loaded Brothers onto their stretcher. Had her hand not been resting on Holmes's arm, he might not have felt her tense as Brothers moaned. Holmes gave her a sharp look, but her face was unreadable.
"Do you feel up to making a statement, Miss Russell?" Lestrade asked.
"No," she said, "but let's get it over with." She paused, hesitating. "Holmes..."
"Indeed," he said, "come with me, Estelle, you look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."
There was a flash of gratitude in her face, then he closed the door and took the child away.
They lingered over a rudimentary meal, while Holmes watched the policemen gather their evidence and listened to the low voices overhead.
"He said he was going to take me away," said Estelle, her gaze distant, "and that he was going to be my papa from now on. Mary got angry, and he said something I didn't hear, and she hit him." Estelle chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cheese. "Where's my real papa?" she asked.
"Somewhere safe," said Holmes, and added with rather more certainty, "he misses you."
Footsteps descended the stairs; the nameless Intelligence man entered the kitchen.
"Your wife's statement is incomplete," he said.
"Is it?" Holmes cut another slice of cheese for Estelle and nodded at the Veronal, still sitting on the bench. "Perhaps the drug impaired her memory."
"Perhaps ... she's lucky, then."
Holmes did not answer.
"Brothers is patently mad. He need not stand trial. Your wife's ordeal may be kept quiet. A jury might not find her a sympathetic witness. Your son even less so. It would be ... ideal."
"And Brothers shall live out his days in the comfort of an asylum. And Yolanda Adler shall have no justice."
There was a trace of a smile on the man's face.
"That's what your wife said."
"Then I trust our business is done?"
The man hesitated. "Your brother is getting old," he said. "Sooner or later, we shall have to replace him. If his health doesn't go, his mind will, and then where will we be? If your wife were a man – as it is, we could make allowances, if she could be persuaded—"
Holmes felt a stab of bitter humour. "Refused you, did she?"
"In very blunt terms."
Holmes smiled. "Good." He gathered Estelle into his arms. "As for my brother's future, you shall have to discuss that with him. I'll thank you to keep your machinations away from my family."
Curious: although he had barely spoken above a whisper, he felt as if he had been shouting. He caught his breath and turned his back, and went upstairs to be with Russell.
*
She refused to go to hospital. Holmes had expected this, and had prepared himself to back her up over the protests of officialdom. Instead, Russell merely said, "Please deal with it, Holmes, I'm too tired."
This admission of weakness was more disconcerting than anything that had gone before. Holmes obeyed without question, arguing with Lestrade and the police doctor until – as much, he suspected to get him out of the way as anything else – they were escorted back to Sussex in a government car.
With Russell in the hands of Mrs Hudson and the discreet Doctor Amberley, Holmes was free to restore Estelle to her father and watch as Damian began reconstructing his life. There was a sort of surreal domesticity about the situation, except that Damian didn't sleep, and Russell had nightmares.
Over a game of chess in the laboratory – the only room barred to everyone else – he said, "What did—"
"Nothing," she snapped, and took his queen.
Halfway into the next game, she abandoned the board and stood before the two bullet holes that had been left in the walls six years earlier.
"I don't remember," she said at last. "Not much, except that he was fixated on my connection to Yolanda, and his need for an heir. I've made enquiries in Shanghai, through Mycroft's people. He had written to Yolanda's parents about Dorothy Hayden. He was going to take Estelle to Shanghai." She picked up an empty test tube, holding it up to the light. "He wouldn't have killed Yolanda, if she hadn't realised what ... what he was doing. Meant to do. But he didn't regret her death, only that it wasn't timed for the, er, maximum cosmic impact." Russell smiled distantly. "He thought I would be an acceptable substitute. I disagreed. The rest you know." She returned to the chess board and moved her bishop. "Checkmate."
*
The call came in the early hours of the morning, as Mrs Hudson prepared breakfast. She came out to answer it, but saw that Holmes was already up. Truth be told, he hadn't slept; judging by the sounds of movement upstairs, no one had.
He wasn't surprised to hear Mycroft's voice, nor the news he delivered. Holmes dropped the mouthpiece and went upstairs.
Russell was sitting at the window, wrapped in his own dressing gown. She looked up at his entrance, wary with expectation.
"Brothers is dead," Holmes told her. "Found hanged in his cell three hours ago."
"Mycroft's people?"
"He didn't order it."
"That hardly seems to matter anymore." She shifted. "I've been bracing myself for the trial."
"I know."
"Holmes, I—" Russell froze, her face crumpling. She clutched her ribs as the first sob tore through her. "Oh hell – I can't – damn."
Holmes caught her as she reached for him.
end
Summary: "Police custody was every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated."
Notes: I don't even know. I had an irresistable urge to wrap up the dangling threads of LANG in such a way as to make Russell suffer. (And that separates this from the rest of my fic, how? you ask.)
cesario said it was worth releasing to an audience. I always do what she says. Warnings: Implied offscreen kidnapping and rape. Mostly unspoken? I don't know.
The Weight of the World in Her Hands
by LizBee
Police custody was every bit as dull as Holmes had anticipated. The endless waiting, punctuated by the turn of keys in locks and interviews with officers rendered either awestruck or contemptuous by his reputation. Holmes gave brief answers to their questions, and waited for Lestrade.
He filled the hours with trivia, listening to the conversations of officers, and later to the murmurs of his fellow prisoners – a drunk and a petty thief, neither of them original conversationalists. He paced the length of his cell, or cultivated stillness in the interview room, and did not once let his mind drift to Damian (had he gotten away, or was he, too, in a cell somewhere?) or Russell (it was too many weeks since she'd made contact; even longer since he had seen her in person – if she had been killed in this misadventure, he was not sure how he would be able to look at his son—).
He did not think of them.
Lestrade arrived in the early hours of the morning, red-eyed, unshaven and ill-tempered. Holmes was almost pleased to see him, if only for the relief he offered from the stolid semi-competence of the Truro constabulary.
Lestrade's companion, by contrast, was neatly and expensively dressed in a City suit, clean-shaven and serene. He returned Holmes's gaze with a blank mask of his own and seated himself without waiting for an invitation. One of Mycroft's colleagues, Holmes deduced, possibly even a superior in the opaque hierarchy in which his brother operated. The man's presence explained much about Mycroft's recent silence.
Lestrade did not introduce him. In fact, Holmes decided, watching the chief inspector closely, Lestrade did not care for the man at all.
Very well, he decided. A weakness. He pasted a smile on his lips and said, "And what can I do for you, Inspector Lestrade?"
"You could tell us where your son is, Mr Holmes."
Holmes concealed his satisfaction behind a look of amused disbelief.
"I think perhaps you need to check your facts again," he said.
"Born 1894, in Ste Chapelle to the late Irene Norton, British citizen resident in Shanghai until late last year, a string of criminal offences including no less than two accusations of murder against him – not to mention the damned art." Lestrade scratched his stubble. "One of our typists was reading the Doyle stories. Once we knew what we were looking for, it was simply a matter of locating the, er, misfiled paperwork."
In another time, Holmes might have praised his efforts. Now he merely said, "I haven't seen him for some time."
Hours, at least.
"He's wanted for the murder of his wife," said Lestrade. "Which, you, of course, know already, having gone to the trouble of concealing evidence and hiding the suspect. I wouldn't have thought you were the sort of man who'd protect a killer just because of a family connection."
"In the course of your investigations, have you found any trace of the man who calls himself Thomas Brothers?"
"The, er, religious leader? Vanished. We rather think Adler might be able to explain that, too. It seems that his wife was carrying on with Brothers."
"Nothing so mundane," Holmes murmured.
"Speaking of wives," Lestrade added, "we're rather eager to have words with Miss Russell, too."
Holmes shrugged. "I haven't seen her for at least two months," he said. "Perhaps she's in Oxford? She was eager to get back to her work there – interrupted by our travels, you know."
"You're telling me she is not involved in this ... affair."
"Hardly the act of a gentleman, expecting a woman to involve herself in the crimes of her husband's unlawfully begotten son."
Lestrade wasn't taken in, but he looked at his notes and said, "She was seen in Edinburgh in early September, with a young Chinese child in her care. The officers up there traced her as far as a, um, boarding house—" Holmes interpreted Lestrade's pause to indicate that Russell had risked the danger of a raid and hidden herself in a brothel, probably teaching the prostitutes Hebrew or somesuch nonsense – "but she hasn't been seen since."
This time, Holmes's smile was genuine. "I'm relieved to have more recent information," he said. Lestrade, realising he'd been taken in, scowled, but he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Telephone call," said the young PC hovering on the threshold. "It's—" he cast a terrified look at Holmes, "she's asking to speak to you, Chief Inspector. Won't have anyone else."
Lestrade was on his feet and out the door. Holmes stretched, and grinned at the nameless government official.
"Was this planned in advance?" the man asked.
"No," Holmes admitted, "but Russell's timing is always impeccable."
Lestrade had left the door open, the PC standing in the doorway. His connection was obviously poor, for despite the distance to the telephone and the thick walls, Holmes could hear snatches of conversation.
"No," he was saying, "that's not – Miss Russell, you're not in a position—" He paused, then, evidently remembering his lack of privacy, continued more softly. Silence, then Lestrade said, "Very well. As soon as possible."
His face, on returning, was set in a scowl.
"Your wife," he said to Holmes, "has requested our presence – she very specifically asked for you, now, how could she know you were arrested six hours ago? She claims to be in the village of West Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire—"
"I investigated a case there once," said Holmes. "The caves," he added, his mouth dry, "are said to be prehistoric."
The thought persisted through the long drive from Cornwall to Buckinhamshire. What a fool he'd been, to tie himself to a family – Irene had been right, to keep Damian from him. Russell, at least, was alive – although as the hours passed, his doubts grew; anything could have happened since she 'phoned. If Estelle had been harmed, he would lose Damian again. One way or another. How arrogant he'd been, to believe himself above the weaknesses of emotion. How Russell would tease him.
She had given Lestrade the address of a house on the edge of West Wycombe, past the major streets and the notorious caves. It was, in fact, a farmhouse, isolated and desolate, despite the lush countryside. Its only concessions to modernity were the telephone wires leading from the road, and the empty, open garage that stood by the main building.
The front door stood open. There were no outward signs of life.
Holmes did not wait for Lestrade, his officers or his government shadow before entering. The house was silent, but not, he thought, empty.
The downstairs rooms were pristine, but for a shattered vase and a painting – a cheap, garish print – that had fallen from the wall. Holmes started up the stairs, then paused, waving at Lestrade and the others to be still.
Yes, there it was again. A muffled sob, like a child in distress.
He quickened his pace.
The front upstairs room had been designed as a bedroom, but someone in the intervening years had turned it into a sitting room, perhaps for an invalid. Most of his attention, however, was on the extraordinary scene that dominated the room: the bound, unconscious man on the floor beneath the bookcases, the rich variety of bloodstains surrounding him, and the woman and child seated at the table by the window.
"It's about damn time," Russell said. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes suspiciously bright, her face was marred by bruises and her hands and dress were covered in a quantity of blood. Something in her demeanour warned Holmes to keep his distance, but then she reached out her hand – blood under the fingernails, he noted, and a deep cut on the palm – and he raised it to his lips.
She shifted, a flicker of pain crossing her face, and the child in her arms stirred. Estelle's face was red, her eyes and nose swollen, and she cringed away from the strange men that filled the room. Russell flinched as Estelle burrowed against her chest; Holmes diagnosed a broken rib.
"Estelle," she said quietly, "this is your grandfather. I promise he won't hurt you."
The child considered Holmes for a moment, then stretched out her hands to him. He lifted her insubstantial weight from Russell's lap, holding her tightly. There was a blanket behind Russell's head; she pulled it around herself, concealing her body from display. Sensing Holmes's gaze she said, "It's not my blood. Mostly."
It was not precisely what he had been thinking of, but he nodded and squeezed her hand.
Across the room, Lestrade was examining Brothers. His hands and feet were bound with a necktie and a strip torn from the hem of Russell's dress. He was very pale.
"Be careful," Russell said, "he fell on his knife in our struggle." She nodded at the bloody weapon on the table before her.
Lestrade gave her a look of faint disbelief.
"If I wanted to kill him," Russell said wearily, "I'd have done so. He fell on his knife. I patched it up as best I could, but he lost a lot of blood." Her hand trembled slightly as she pushed her hair back. Holmes watched her for a second, as still as a marble sculpture, then turned his attention to the papers that sat beside the knife.
There was Testimony, and the other one, Brothers's Book of Truth. Beside it was a folder of loose-leaf papers, a journal of some kind. The dates were not consecutive; it looked as if Brothers used it to record his thoughts prior to editing and transferring them to one of his religious texts.
Holmes shifted Estelle and leafed through the pages, searching for key dates. The murder of Fiona Cartwright had been acknowledged with a few scrawled paragraphs on the nature and uses of women, but Yolanda Adler's murder passed without comment. Holmes turned to the later pages, but the most recent entry was dated three weeks earlier.
"How long have you been here?" he asked Russell.
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "At least two weeks, I think." Her tone was deliberately off-hand; she was gazing steadily out the window.
Holmes ignored the milling police officers – one was being despatched to call an ambulance for Brothers – and looked at the fireplace, but it was cold and clean. He went to look at the other rooms.
In the larger bedroom, the one that contained masculine clothing in Brothers's size, the fireplace contained ash. Fresh, he judged, by the lingering warmth of the grate. The ash was soft and papery.
Estelle stirred.
"My grandmama is very brave," she said.
"Yes," said Holmes, going downstairs. There was a bottle of Veronal in the kitchen, looking out of place beside the salt and sugar. Holmes drew a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to carefully lift the bottle by its lid, placing it on the bench, where even the least competent and imaginative policeman would find it.
"My grandmama says she is with child." Estelle pronounced the euphemism carefully. "She says if she has a baby, it will be my great-aunt or uncle."
"That is quite true," said Holmes, shifting her so he could look her in the face, "but you mustn't tell anyone else yet."
Estelle smiled, despite her tear-stained face. "That's what she said."
Returning to the upstairs sitting room, he took a seat by Russell's side.
"There was more than enough evidence against him," she said in a voice too low for the police to hear. "I thought – the notes he made after killing Yolanda were ugly enough. As part of a court case ... I couldn't do that to Estelle. Or Damian. Or," she smiled weakly, "Yolanda."
Or herself, Holmes thought, but said nothing. He was thinking of another house, three years ago, and of injecting Russell with drugs to protect her reputation from the assumptions of the police.
"Quite right," he said.
An ambulance was pulling up outside, and Lestrade was dismissing his men to gather and record evidence. There was no opportunity to ask Russell if there was any further evidence she wanted concealed, but she caught his eye and shook her head imperceptibly.
Her face was a mask as the ambulance-men loaded Brothers onto their stretcher. Had her hand not been resting on Holmes's arm, he might not have felt her tense as Brothers moaned. Holmes gave her a sharp look, but her face was unreadable.
"Do you feel up to making a statement, Miss Russell?" Lestrade asked.
"No," she said, "but let's get it over with." She paused, hesitating. "Holmes..."
"Indeed," he said, "come with me, Estelle, you look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."
There was a flash of gratitude in her face, then he closed the door and took the child away.
They lingered over a rudimentary meal, while Holmes watched the policemen gather their evidence and listened to the low voices overhead.
"He said he was going to take me away," said Estelle, her gaze distant, "and that he was going to be my papa from now on. Mary got angry, and he said something I didn't hear, and she hit him." Estelle chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cheese. "Where's my real papa?" she asked.
"Somewhere safe," said Holmes, and added with rather more certainty, "he misses you."
Footsteps descended the stairs; the nameless Intelligence man entered the kitchen.
"Your wife's statement is incomplete," he said.
"Is it?" Holmes cut another slice of cheese for Estelle and nodded at the Veronal, still sitting on the bench. "Perhaps the drug impaired her memory."
"Perhaps ... she's lucky, then."
Holmes did not answer.
"Brothers is patently mad. He need not stand trial. Your wife's ordeal may be kept quiet. A jury might not find her a sympathetic witness. Your son even less so. It would be ... ideal."
"And Brothers shall live out his days in the comfort of an asylum. And Yolanda Adler shall have no justice."
There was a trace of a smile on the man's face.
"That's what your wife said."
"Then I trust our business is done?"
The man hesitated. "Your brother is getting old," he said. "Sooner or later, we shall have to replace him. If his health doesn't go, his mind will, and then where will we be? If your wife were a man – as it is, we could make allowances, if she could be persuaded—"
Holmes felt a stab of bitter humour. "Refused you, did she?"
"In very blunt terms."
Holmes smiled. "Good." He gathered Estelle into his arms. "As for my brother's future, you shall have to discuss that with him. I'll thank you to keep your machinations away from my family."
Curious: although he had barely spoken above a whisper, he felt as if he had been shouting. He caught his breath and turned his back, and went upstairs to be with Russell.
*
She refused to go to hospital. Holmes had expected this, and had prepared himself to back her up over the protests of officialdom. Instead, Russell merely said, "Please deal with it, Holmes, I'm too tired."
This admission of weakness was more disconcerting than anything that had gone before. Holmes obeyed without question, arguing with Lestrade and the police doctor until – as much, he suspected to get him out of the way as anything else – they were escorted back to Sussex in a government car.
With Russell in the hands of Mrs Hudson and the discreet Doctor Amberley, Holmes was free to restore Estelle to her father and watch as Damian began reconstructing his life. There was a sort of surreal domesticity about the situation, except that Damian didn't sleep, and Russell had nightmares.
Over a game of chess in the laboratory – the only room barred to everyone else – he said, "What did—"
"Nothing," she snapped, and took his queen.
Halfway into the next game, she abandoned the board and stood before the two bullet holes that had been left in the walls six years earlier.
"I don't remember," she said at last. "Not much, except that he was fixated on my connection to Yolanda, and his need for an heir. I've made enquiries in Shanghai, through Mycroft's people. He had written to Yolanda's parents about Dorothy Hayden. He was going to take Estelle to Shanghai." She picked up an empty test tube, holding it up to the light. "He wouldn't have killed Yolanda, if she hadn't realised what ... what he was doing. Meant to do. But he didn't regret her death, only that it wasn't timed for the, er, maximum cosmic impact." Russell smiled distantly. "He thought I would be an acceptable substitute. I disagreed. The rest you know." She returned to the chess board and moved her bishop. "Checkmate."
*
The call came in the early hours of the morning, as Mrs Hudson prepared breakfast. She came out to answer it, but saw that Holmes was already up. Truth be told, he hadn't slept; judging by the sounds of movement upstairs, no one had.
He wasn't surprised to hear Mycroft's voice, nor the news he delivered. Holmes dropped the mouthpiece and went upstairs.
Russell was sitting at the window, wrapped in his own dressing gown. She looked up at his entrance, wary with expectation.
"Brothers is dead," Holmes told her. "Found hanged in his cell three hours ago."
"Mycroft's people?"
"He didn't order it."
"That hardly seems to matter anymore." She shifted. "I've been bracing myself for the trial."
"I know."
"Holmes, I—" Russell froze, her face crumpling. She clutched her ribs as the first sob tore through her. "Oh hell – I can't – damn."
Holmes caught her as she reached for him.
end
