The Prodigal Son

In which Mary Russell shakes the Holmes family tree,
and Sherlock reveals a bit more of himself than he had planned.

by "My Lady's Daughter"

Part Two

Sparkling and bright in liquid light
Does the wine our goblets gleam in;
With hue as red as the rosy bed
Which a bee would choose to dream in.

It was ultimately decided that Mycroft would join us on this unprecedented family gathering. I suspected that Holmes wanted to make sure that as the prime instigator, Mycroft would not escape any mockery that might ensue. We drove to London, where we joined Mycroft and the car he had arranged to take us north. The idea of taking a train had been vetoed, given the curtailed rail service following the coal miners' strikes.

The large saloon car was waiting for us at Mycroft's flat, chosen no doubt for its ample room, rather than its luxurious appointments. I sat facing the two brothers and the picnic hamper nestled between them. Whilst ostensibly buried in my book, I could not resist eavesdropping on their conversation. To most people, it would sound no more like a conversation than shorthand would appear to be a form of writing. I was used to the abbreviated volleys back and forth, but it never ceased to amuse me. It would make the perfect blind for speaking in code out in the open. The topic of their conversation, however, did not include Sherrinford, and my interest waned by the time we passed Islington, and I began to read in earnest.

We arrived in the town of Kirby-on-the-Moor in the early evening, just as the bells of its Norman church tolled the quarter hour. We rode past the sleepy village and farmers' fields, over which the bright red sun, still just above the horizon, cast a golden hue.

"Mycroft" sat at the end of a long drive, lined by great oak trees whose branches arched and joined together, forming a deciduous cathedral over us. The house itself was a tall Georgian country home. On a rainy afternoon in late November, it would have seemed cold and uninviting, but on that warm September evening, it was merely imposing. As the car drew to a stop, I saw Sherrinford standing on the steps of the portico, a great sheep dog at his feet, waiting for us. He was the picture of an English squire.

Physically, he seemed somehow to combine the diametrically opposed characteristics of Holmes and Mycroft. At least as tall as Holmes, he appeared much larger, weighing at least 3 stone more. But unlike Mycroft, whose girth reflected inactivity and a passion for rich meals, Sherrinford's great barrel chest spoke of a life of outdoor pursuits, the gentleman farmer at work and at play. His hair was thick and white; his cheeks ruddy and scored by the sun. His eyes were the same steely grey as Holmes's, but they lacked the penetrating intensity of my husband's gaze. There was, instead, a mischievous twinkle.

He greeted Holmes and Mycroft warmly as each stepped from the car, and then turned to greet me. He held my hand in both of his, and looking at me with such pleasure, I felt enveloped by his warmth.

"Welcome to Mycroft, my dear. You must be exhausted after your journey. Although knowing my brothers, the fatigue is mostly from having to keep up with their incessant bickering. Please come inside so that we can revive your flagging spirits and attend to your more corporeal needs."

And with that, I stepped inside the Holmes's ancestral home and began my journey back in time.

Sherrinford insisted upon escorting me to my room himself, giving me a brief tour of the house as we went. I took particular note of the closed door that he indicated led to Holmes's room as a boy. The tour concluded at the far end of the hallway, with a room that had once belonged to their mother, Violet.

Despite a Louis XVI armoire standing in the far corner, the room was dominated by a mahogany half-tester bed. It was massive, and yet made feminine by the curtains that hung from the canopy. They were pale cream jacquard, woven with the Emperor's emblem: the honeybee.

I was drawn, however, to the dressing table, which stood by the south-facing window. It was covered with a lady's ephemera, untouched except for the occasional and thorough dusting. In the centre sat a silver comb, mirror and brush, waiting for its owner to perform her evening's ablutions. I picked up the mirror - heavy silver, adorned with intertwined initials, VS. Violet Sherrinford. A small, framed portrait executed in pastels rested to its left. I knew the face as Holmes's grandmother, for I had a miniature of the portrait in a locket that he had given me years before. There was a small charcoal sketch at its side, also signed and dated by her uncle. It had been executed quickly, in the artist's attempt to capture the motion of the little boy at play with his sandcastles. Holmes? When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains...

My clothing seemed lost in the great wardrobe. It had been empty save small bundle wrapped in fresh white tissue. I pulled back the paper to reveal a pale lilac wrap, edged with a row of deep purple violets embroidered in the finest stitches I had ever seen. It was so soft to the touch, a pashmina fine enough to pass in its entirety through a wedding band. I turned back the tissue and dressed quickly for dinner.

We dined by candlelight. Seated at the foot of the table, I was mesmerised by the display that unfolded before me. The conversations between Holmes and Mycroft had done nothing to prepare me for this. It was like watching wine being poured into three separate Venetian glasses - each one crafted by a Master to the same pattern, yet each revealing individual nuances. I sat and marvelled as the conversation highlighted the facets of each.

"So, Mary," began Sherrinford. "No doubt you are waiting for me to regale you with stories of Sherlock in his mis-spent youth. Like the time he was almost caught with the parlour maid." He paused while he waited for Holmes to recover from his coughing fit after choking on his tournedos lakmé.

"You must forgive my elder brother, Russell," said Holmes when he had fully recovered. "Living here has addled his brain to such an extent that he is now given to inventing fairy stories."

Sherrinford just smiled benignly.

"Actually, " I said, "one thing I would like to know is where did you grow up?"

"How did you mange to go to school?"

"Our education was as eclectic as our surroundings. From time to time, we did attend more formal schooling, when we were settled long enough. We spent one delightful winter in Grasse where Aunt Emelia lived. I suppose it would have been difficult to find sufficient stimulation for the three of us in a formal environment, especially given Sherlock's inquisitive nature. Do you remember," he said, turning to Holmes with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "your initiative at the Vienna Opera?"

I was surprised to see the tip of Holmes's ear turning pink. He said nothing, only shook his head and resigned himself to his fate.

Seeing no objection, Sherrinford continued. "Father had arranged for us to see a performance of Swan Lake, which was being staged to test the changes after its disastrous premier in Moscow. We did not notice that at the conclusion of the second act, Sherlock had slipped from the box. Once the performance was over, we turned the Opera house upside-down. We ultimately found him in the dressing room of the prima ballerina. He was seated on her dressing table, being petted and fed chocolates by the corps de ballet. Father could not punish him until his stomach-ache subsided."

"I simply wanted to see what had become of the mechanical swan," Holmes interjected somewhat sullenly. "Surely I could not be held responsible for a gaggle of overly maternal dancers?" No, I thought, but it does rather explain your love of the theatrical.

"Well, at least my childish investigations did not threaten economic stability. " said Holmes, toying with his Christoffle knife in a menacing fashion. Looking at Mycroft seated opposite him, Holmes enquired "Do you recall your own youthful outburst while we were lunching at the Hotel Banhof in Bern?" Turning to me as he warmed to his task, he continued. "Mycroft left the lunch table to point out to two rather senior Swiss bankers that the programme they were discussing for monetary reform lacked the necessary provision for potential volatility in the price of bullion. Picture it: two men whose discussions affect the European monetary supply being lectured by a boy in short trousers!"

Mycroft grew very red in the face, and drained his glass before responding. "At least, " he began in a controlled voice, "I was able to maintain my composure throughout our stay in that canton. Sherrinford, on the other hand," he said to me with a wry smile, "established his reputation for what can euphemistically be called an overactive imagination.

"We were staying at the Chateau du Lucens, outside of Bern. It is a 14th century fortress, enclosed by a circular keep, and overlooks the town of Lucens. At that time, the owner had recently opened it as a private hotel. Sherrinford insisted upon having a room off by himself in the tower. This was so that he could indulge in his secret pleasure, reading a book our father had expressly forbade: Frankenstein. So, late on the first evening, after having had his fill of contraband, Sherrinford was awakened by the sound of what he thought to be bodies being brought from the local cemetery. In fact, it was two Swiss Army officers carrying their inebriated comrade to his rooms. But nothing so simple as the truth could keep our dear brother from running down the tower steps and into the forecourt, screaming like a Banchee. Woke the whole place up. Absolutely mortifying!"

I was pleased to see that Sherrinford was laughing so hard he was obliged to wipe the tears from his eyes.

After the poires marquise, Sherrinford suggested that we take coffee in the drawing room. I rose slowly, my sides aching from the laughter.

The room was large and comfortable. A Lanseer hung above the mantlepiece, and a small fire was burning in the fireplace below. The smell of applewood scented the air, and I regretted that shortly it would be overpowered by pipe and cigar tobacco.

"I have something here which I am sure will interest you, Mary," Sherrinford said, patting a large leather photo album he had retrieved from a side table. Holmes just rolled his eyes Heavenward, and Mycroft pretended not to notice.

Sherrinford seated himself on the chesterfield, motioning me to join him. Holmes and Mycroft took the leather chairs on either side of the fireplace, distancing themselves as far as possible from what was about to happen. Coffee was brought in, served in a Limoges porcelain coffee set. As I drew the gold-edged demitasse to my lips, I noted how even the soft light revealed its translucency. No doubt a memento of the Bohemian life in France.

Page by page, Sherrinford took me through the photographs that recorded the Holmes family history. Sherrinford on a pony, basking in the pride of his father, who was mounted on a horse 17 hands high. Mycroft, looking quite satisfied with himself, standing beside artfully arranged cricket stumps, at the Kennington Oval. ("Boys' Day," Sherrinford informed me, sotto voce). Sherlock, kicking up baby legs on a bearskin rug. He didn't smile at the photographer; in fact, I would be hard pressed to deny that there was murder in those tiny eyes. They were the same eyes in one of the last pictures - Holmes in Peckwater Quad at Christchurch, wearing his college scarf, blazer and flannels.

Holmes remained quiet during the proceedings, seemingly indifferent and busying himself with his tobacco and the draw of his pipe. But his restless hands gave the game away. In contrast, Mycroft took none of it in, and after preparing his cigar, promptly feel asleep, the smoke curling up from the ashtray at his side.

Eventually, we came to the family photograph that sat behind Holmes's desk in Sussex. There was Siger Holmes, his chin jutting forward, a hand resting on Mycroft's shoulder, and Violet, in tiny bonnet and enormous hoop skirt, with Holmes cross-legged at her feet. But no Sherrinford. I asked him why, and he replied, rather surprised, "Because I was taking the photograph!"

"And amazingly, it was actually in focus" said Holmes, blowing the gaffe on his feigned disinterest.

At the end, Sherrinford closed the book and passed it to me, saying simply "For you".

"Wonderful!" cried Holmes, " a small bonfire when we return to Sussex will suit my purposes admirably."

"And that," said Sherrinford, turning to me, " is why I am entrusting the pictures to you. Posterity should see that even the Great Sherlock Holmes was capable of appearing foolish a few times, at least in his younger days."

I bid the three brothers good night, clutching the album to my chest, and headed upstairs, thinking of what marvellous material it would make for future episodes of marital blackmail.

I retired to the great bed, determined to finish the final pages of my book. The sheets were linen, worn smooth with age, and smelled of sunshine and lavender,. By the time I heard Holmes's footsteps outside the door, the scent had lulled me half to sleep.

He entered the room, making little noise so as not to disturb me. He drew back the heavy drapes and opened the window that looked east. He stood there motionless, looking out at the starry night, lost in thought and time. Taking up his pyjamas and sponge bag, he retreated down the hall. When he returned, I was sitting up in bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, and wide awake. He carefully hung up his clothing in the wardrobe, pausing briefly at the shawl that still lay on the bottom. It was strange, sitting here, watching him. So familiar in his surroundings, and yet out of place in this feminine boudoir.

"Holmes!" I said suddenly, taking him by surprise.

"Yes?"

"Were you born in this bed?"

His face relaxed, and he shook his head. "I am afraid that while my powers of observation began at an early age, it was not quite that early. Why do you ask?"

"I'm just feeling ridiculously pleased at the idea of seeing you in your native surroundings, and I was just wondering how far back the trail goes."

He sighed as he climbed into the great bed. "Tomorrow, to oblige you, dear Russell, I will search the attic for some swaddling clothes that you may pretend were mine. In the mean time, while I appreciate your efforts in leaving the Wellingtons downstairs, I am afraid your wool socks rather spoil the effect of that delightful French night-gown."

"While I appreciate your sartorial commentary, it does nothing to address the problem of the open window and the cool night air."

"Ah, I stand corrected," was his reply, as he set about showing me that there were better ways of staying warm on a cool Yorkshire night than wool socks.