Training Exercises

by Maer, aka 'merely a whim'

Our Mary (or so I'd taken to calling Miss Russell internally and never mind the Papist associations!) had just left the cottage with another armload of books. Holmes had her studying in preparation for a chemistry experiment, due to commence in a few days' time when she returned - after which I would commence with a thorough airing out of the cottage. I had accompanied her out to the gravelled drive and helped her tie a hamper (with the books and a sizable rations packet stowed within) onto the rear fender of her bicycle. She said good-bye and I gave her a hug and a cheery wave farewell. Presently standing on the threshold of the front hall's venerable oaken door, I could discern her distant figure in the late afternoon sunlight, pumping hard on the pedals up the long rise roughly a mile away. Then she was over the crest of the hill and down the other side, out of sight. I closed the door, feeling anxious for her well being, as she was still recovering from her long convalescence and the privations suffered under her malicious aunt. Shaking my head, I admired her youthful energy and resilience. I could just recall being a young girl on the brink of womanhood myself... if only just.

"She's off, sir. Safe and sound." I announced as I passed through the sitting room on my way to see to dinner. Holmes looked up from his desk as I drew abreast of it, and his voice, though strong, was hoarse from a fit of coughing.

"Good. I fear Russell sees entirely too much for my purposes."

Or peace of mind, I thought. As if he could manage to hide much from her, in any case. I looked pointedly at the long thin cut on his face, now a week old and healing nicely, and said in my most resigned you-know-best manner: "That's as may be, sir. However, I've told her only what we'd agreed upon beforehand."

My impertinence elicited a raised eyebrow, but my employer said nothing. Satisfied that I had at least tendered my dissenting opinion, I let the matter rest and gave my apron a twitch.

"Would you care for some tea and honey, sir?"

Holmes scowled and went back to his papers, irritated that I, on top of everything else, had noticed his throat trouble. "Have we any apple-blossom honey?" he grumbled, capitulating with ill grace.

"There's still a jar of it from last year, sir."

"Then that will do. No biscuits, if you please."

Too scratchy to swallow, I mentally agreed.

"Certainly, sir. Dinner shall be ready shortly."

The cottage was quiet, the hour late, when I retired to my quarters. All the windows and doors had been double-checked and locked. The sitting room lay dark. In the front hall, the grandfather clock muttered to itself and in the familiar voice of Big Ben announced the time: midnight. The sonorous notes followed me into the kitchen and were echoed by the little porcelain clock I kept on the Irish dresser, where the dishes lay gleaming softly on the shelves. I gave the kitchen table one last swipe with a tea towel, turned down the great oil lamp suspended overhead, and pushed in an errant chair. Satisfied everything was ready for the morning I went to fetch Marmalade from his favorite perch, an old cane-bottomed chair by the stove.

My shoe caught on the crack in the slate underfoot, the result of a bullet fired from a revolver on a night much like this one. Both the gun and its owner were still held under lock and key in London, as they had been for the past seven days. I fancied I could still smell the gunpowder, despite the time that had elapsed. A grue travelled down my spine as I gathered the cat into my arms and held him to my face, breathing in the clean feline scent of him.

That bullet missed me by a cat's whisker, so it did. Thank you very much for the loan, Marmalade. I hugged the orange tom and turned toward my door.

Rest eluded me that night, as it had every night for a solid week. Likewise as they'd had for a solid week, Marmalade and Chutney settled into place on the bed with me; but the now-familiar weight of their snuggling bodies gave me no measure of comfort, their purring failed to lull me to sleep. My prayers, which had before been an uplifting end to my day, yielded me no relief. I sighed into the dark and, giving up the battle for the nonce, I turned up the bedside lamp and quit my bed for my writing desk. Once seated there I gazed dully at the slim leather-spined journals that lined its top shelf, a long row covering events occasioned by more than half a century of living. As fate would have it, I had only just begun a new volume a fortnight before. As if of their own volition, my fingers plucked the book from its place with the others and opened it to a fresh page.

Under ordinary circumstances, the creamy white paper coupled with the smooth flow of ink from my pen would draw the words from me as water is drawn up the roots of a plant. However, recent events had rendered me unable to record even a single syllable of what had happened in my journal. It was a decidedly odd sensation, the urge to write, nurtured by long habit and genuine inclination, warring with a reluctance to make the events real by recording them here. This ambivalence compounded the difficulty I had in sleeping, as my mind kept replaying what happened that night, keeping it always lurking behind my eyelids and tainting my dreams with a vague unease that lingered long after waking, that dogged my daylight activities with a curious state of inattention that would find me, moments later, suspended mid-action at a task. Today I had lost nearly half a cup of precious sugar to the floor as I poured it overflowing into the sugar bowl.

This unsettled state of affairs had to end. If this continued for much longer, no doubt I'd become so distracted that I might very well season the soup with rat poison as with salt. I knew what I had to do. The solution lay before me. I picked up my pen and, after making a business of loading it and tapping off the extra ink, put it to the page and began to write...

The disarray of the immediate surroundings had been partially restored to a semblance of order: the overturned chairs had been righted, the broken china and the remains of what once had been a Majolica cachepot on the hearth had been swept up. I had donned a fresh starched work dress and apron, having sent my ruined ones on to London "for analysis" at Holmes' request. It was a bright sunny morning, a scant week into the month of June 1915. Through the wide-open kitchen door, I could hear a dog barking from afar amidst the fainter bleating of sheep. Bees hummed in the herb garden outside. Birds sang. The warmth I could feel from the rays streaming in from the eastern windows and door did little to settle my insides, nor did the steaming cup of tea I'd poured myself after first serving the men who currently tramped through the cottage with their lights and camera equipment, their tweezers and paper envelopes, their notebooks and marking chalks, and their hushed voices and loud boots.

Holmes had gone off to London with the armed contingent of Mycroft's agents, likely to pore over the physical evidence that would be gathered here, as well as to assist his brother in extracting whatever information could be had from the men who had been transported in cuffs and chains (and in one case, in a plain pine box) to Mycroft's tender mercies. I sipped my tea, sat at the kitchen table, and did my best to ignore the progress of the men upstairs, their footsteps drumming overhead and their clever eyes prying into I knew not what. In many ways, this current invasion - of the law, or whatever form of it that Mycroft and his agents represented and summarily dispensed - was just as unwelcome as the one that had necessitated it. However, there was a War on and I accepted that certain niceties toward both the innocent and the guilty might very well be suspended toward the successful conclusion of this matter. That knowledge kept me from voicing my dismay at the inevitable disruption that attended the scene of a crime.

That this unassuming Sussex cottage was the scene of a crime or even, as some would say, an act of war, was indisputable, certainly not when the stink of gunpowder still lingered in the atmosphere of the kitchen and my ears persisted with a faint ringing from the loud report of the bullet that had narrowly missed me before destroying the unfortunate Majolica pot. Our two resident cats, Marmalade and Chutney, were nowhere to be seen, having had the wit to quit the premises for quieter environs. I selfishly wished myself with them. Then I pulled myself together, banished my craven self-indulgence, and got down the business at hand, which was delivering my statement to one of Mycroft's men, a 'debriefing' agent, or so he was introduced to me.

The agent, one Mr. Anthony Carmichael, in his late twenties and possessed of a mind as inquisitive as his eyesight was poor - the latter explaining unequivocally his presence here in England rather than in the trenches of France - pushed his spectacles back up his nose and ticked off an item in the margin of my handwritten deposition. Its pages lay spread out on the table between us.

"So, Mrs. Hudson, would you please tell me again at what hour Will Thompson arrived at the cottage?"

"Well, I can't exactly be sure of the time, as I had my back to the clock," I gestured toward the dresser behind me. "But it must have been about ten or ten-fifteen in the evening, because I had just begun washing the last of the day's dishes..."

I was up to my elbows with the dinner washing-up, when Will came striding into the kitchen.

"Goodness, Will, it's late. Did you forget someth-- ? " I said to his back as it disappeared into the pantry. A sense of urgency radiated off him like the heat from the water before me. I left my work and saw Will standing amongst the sacks and bins and jars of provisions I had managed to put up, taking down the box of ammunition from the top shelf. It was then that I noticed the blood. Dried threads of it wreathed his finger joints and his knuckles, splotches of it peppered his coat and shirt front.

"Dear God, Will! You're hurt!"

"None of it's mine," Will said tersely. He didn't look at me but emptied the box's contents into his trouser pockets and made for the front hall.

My internal alarms were at full ring now, and I grabbed the first likely weapon at hand as I followed him. I arrived in time to see Will reach into the case of the grandfather clock and take out the shotgun. He began loading the rounds quickly and methodically, and finally looked at me.

"Can you shoot?" he asked, eyeing me critically.

"No, but I do have this." I hefted my best maple rolling pin, which I'd taken up off the dresser. "At this range, I'm less likely to miss."

"At that range, I should hope not." Will pushed in the final shell and gestured up the stairs behind us. "We've got trouble. German agents are closing in on the cottage. Don't bother," he said as I reached for the telephone. "The line's been cut where it branches off the main line. I saw it on the way in. I telephoned Mycroft from the village. His men are on their way, but we're on our own for the next forty minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"Outside." Will surveyed the grounds from the hall window. "Meet me in the kitchen in five. Get Holmes ready to move. We may have to make a run for it. Lock this behind me."

With that parting command, Will was out the front door and gone.

I locked up as Will ordered and made it up the stairs in record time, yet apprehensively paused before Holmes' door. He had undergone a sleepless two days and had just retired not a half-hour before. Therefore, I was loath to disturb him. Not to put too fine a point on it, Holmes could be as unpleasant as an irritated bear when woken prematurely, following a stint of insomnia. Perhaps that vexation could be taken out on the approaching Germans. I firmly tapped on the paneled surface before me and tried the door.

The knob was yanked from my fingers and my elbow was seized in an iron grip. In a trice, I was pulled into the room beyond and Holmes had closed the door, putting a finger to his lips for silence, listening intently. There was stillness then, broken only by the sound of our breathing. The blue glow from the turned down bedside lamp kept the room from total darkness and I could see the gleam of a gun in Holmes' hand. After a moment, I saw him relax and though I could not clearly ascertain his expression in the enshrouding dimness, I could perceive no trace of anger in his voice when he spoke, loud enough to be heard yet too low to alert anyone lurking in the hall beyond.

"You knocked, Mrs. Hudson?"

One could almost see the eyebrow cocked toward his hairline. Good, he'd decided to be reasonable about this.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir. I--."

"A shotgun being loaded makes quite a distinctive sound, one that it is foolhardy in the extreme to ignore." Holmes crossed his bedchamber in two quick steps and delicately parted the window curtains, doubtless squinting into the dark outside. "Especially when it is being done practically under one's nose. Where's Will?"

"Outside hunting Germans." That got Holmes' attention. His head whipped round and I could feel his keen eyes on me.

"Who are they?"

"He didn't say."

"How many?"

"I don't know." I modulated my voice and tried again. "Sir, Will sent me to get you. We are to meet him downstairs in the kitchen in five minutes."

"We've three minutes left. Just enough time..." Holmes returned to the door. Signalling for silence, he eased it open and checked the corridor before bypassing the stairs in favor of the lab. "Thank God, we've no windows," I heard him mutter as he closed us in and turned on the light. For the next minute and a half I, by now quite anxious about the passing time, stood and watched as he gathered several chemicals from the shelves that lined the room and mixed them as easily as I would a cake batter. He made two batches. The resultant mess was carefully poured into a pair of test tubes, which were securely stoppered. They disappeared in different places about his person.

"That should do. Let's go."

Despite the gravity of the situation, I felt faintly ludicrous skulking through the dark in Holmes' footsteps, the hefted rolling pin in my right hand a comic echo of the gun he likewise held in his. Down and down we carefully crept like mice past a sleeping cat, into the front hall and through the sitting room--oh, how thankful I was for the blackout curtains drawn closed over those horribly revealing south windows! Even so, my neck prickled until we gained the relative cover of the kitchen. Will was there waiting for us.

"You're in good time, sir," Will said by way of greeting.

"I see you've been busy," Holmes gestured at the dried blood on Will's clothing. "None of that is yours, I take it?"

"It isn't," Will verified.

"How many are out there?"

"Five. Three are down. One, possibly two more to go. We have to get you out of here." Will made to grasp Holmes by the arm but Holmes halted him with his next words.

"Can we detain them for questioning?"

Will looked at Holmes as if the man had suggested inviting the Germans in for tea.

"Disregard that for now," Holmes said impatiently. "Where are the three that are down?"

"Unconscious and tied up outside."

"The others still out there may find them and be forewarned. Get the three inside and lock them in the pantry. It has no windows, and the door hinges and the lock are on the outside. I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson." The last was addressed to me. Holmes' voice held an equal mixture of regret and annoyance. "Let us hope that when they come to their senses they will be kind to our provisions. I really don't fancy dining on tinned beans and toast as a consequence of their captivity." Holmes checked his revolver and nodded to Will. "Lead on. You take the shoulders and I'll take the feet. Mrs. Hudson, the door if you please..."

At this point in my narrative, Mr. Carmichael held up a hand, clearly puzzled.

"Excuse me, madam, but am I to understand that Mr. Thompson overpowered and tied up three enemy agents inside of five minutes?" He blinked at me through his spectacles. His eyes, made small by the lenses, were incredulous. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, as if he wasn't certain if perhaps the gunshot that had sent my poor abused ears to ringing hadn't also addled my wits into the bargain.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that, sir. The person to ask is Mr. Thompson. Perhaps," I said, taking the cue from some firm prodding by my empty stomach and rising from the table, "if you would care to call him in here, he could tell you that part of it while I throw together something to eat. Have you breakfasted, Mr. Carmichael?" Although, judging by the light outside, it was on the far side of elevenses than the near side of breakfast.

"I won't deny a bit of something wouldn't be appreciated, but having the two of you together while making your report is highly irregular. It could twist the facts in your mind and you might change your account based on what you'd heard from Mr. Thompson, rather than what actually happened."

"You have my report in front of you, sir, do you not? If I stray, I am sure you should have no trouble seeing exactly when and where, and warning me. Please pardon my tone, sir, but I am certain our minds would work better for having eaten. I can as easily cook for ten as for three." I added shrewdly, including the men still tromping about doing whatever it was they did in situations like this. If I'd counted correctly, there were seven pairs of boots overhead and nearby. The clock on the dresser ticked off the seconds and I could see Mr. Carmichael weakening.

"Well, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition..."

"Right, then. Will that be soft boiled or poached, sir?" I smiled and reached for the eggs.

For all Holmes' hopes to the contrary, the pantry had suffered some damage during the affair and I doubted my chickens could be convinced to lay for another few days due to the excitement. Despite the shortcomings, I spared nothing in making the heartiest breakfast possible for Mycroft's men. There were bubble and squeak, toad in the hole, fried bread, all but three of my eggs from the basket cooked to order, a lovely summer sausage, some early tomatoes, and slices of mild cheddar. Multiple pots of tea and generous amounts of cream and sugar improved everyone's mood.

Even so, the meal was somewhat less than I customarily liked putting before my guests. The men didn't seem to mind, however. The food disappeared as if they were starving. They probably were. They certainly had wasted no time in getting here from London and had likely had little opportunity to fortify themselves before they'd left. Once I was satisfied the company had been provided for, I served myself a plate and boldly joined them.

During the meal, in which the last smear of yolk was mopped up and the least scrap of meat consumed, eight faces beamed forth their gratitude and the ninth concealed its amusement. Will, dressed in a clean shirt borrowed from Holmes, regarded me as I refilled his empty cup, his blue eyes crinkling in a smile as if to say he knew what I was doing. While it was true everyone was hungry and could stand a substantial feeding, he also knew of my habit of distracting myself with cooking to relieve emotional stress. It was an old and familiar subject between us, and I acknowledged it by passing him the sugar bowl with an admonitory smile of my own. Mr. Carmichael and the other men did not notice the silent exchange in the general chaos of eating.

Half an hour later, after I'd given the dishes a scrape and left them soaking in the scullery and Mr. Carmichael had conferred with his men on their findings over a last cup of tea, I found myself seated again at the table (now cleared of everything except the pertinent paperwork and the tea things) with Will to one side. The two cats, Marmalade and Chutney, having magically appeared from hiding as soon as the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon wafted up and out the door, sat at Will's feet industriously washing their paws and whiskers. He ignored their vigorous ablutions, despite the moist noises audible from below. I was aware of his habit of slipping the little beggars food from his plate but, for once, I let this transgression pass. Even cats as self-sufficient as they needed the reassurance derived from forbidden tidbits at a time like this.

Mr. Carmichael murmured something to one of his men and nodded, dismissing all of them from their various duties. They thanked me for the meal and trooped out to the van waiting patiently on the gravel drive, its sides blazoned with a fictitious plumber's establishment. The engine coughed and caught, gears meshed, and it was but a moment before I could no longer hear the van driving away. So went all but one of Mycroft's agents.

That agent put down his teacup and cleared his throat.

"Mr. Thompson," he began. "Mrs. Hudson here tells me that when you were reunited in the kitchen, there were three German agents tied up outside. Am I to understand, then, that you had apprehended all three of them as Mrs. Hudson was escorting Mr. Holmes from his bedchamber?" Mr. Carmichael's tone said he himself doubted it.

Will shook his head.

"No. As you will see, if you look over my statement there, sir, that they had been apprehended on my way in to the cottage, before entering to warn Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Holmes of the situation. I had merely taken a quick turn about the immediate grounds."

Mycroft's man scanned the report, shuffling the papers until he came to the correct spot. He put his finger on it and quoted:

"'I came up from the landward side of the orchard and surveyed the area beyond the fence... one agent I took from behind as he crouched at the base of the old apple tree...'" His voice faded as he read on silently. He slid the papers back into a neat pile and set it precisely next to mine. "So you apprehended them... in the orchard, next to the hen house, and by the potting shed. Have I got that right?"

Mr. Carmichael reached over as he spoke and placed the creamer, the sugar bowl, and the tea strainer in a loose semi-circle around the teapot - the cottage in his impromptu map of the grounds. Will adjusted the sugar bowl (the hen house) an inch or so to one side. What followed next was an account of events that I myself could scarce credit if I hadn't had the advantage of working with Will for the past five years. Perhaps Mr. Carmichael hadn't seen past the affable yet respectful attitude that Will assumed with strangers to the steel beneath. Perhaps Mr. Carmichael hadn't noticed the way Will moved with a sinuous grace that anyone with a discerning eye would recognize as deadly, or how he always seemed to pick the best vantage point in any room he settled in, the better to watch all entrances and exits. Perhaps. But I am absolutely sure that Will's verbal account dispelled any doubts Mr. Carmichael might have had as to his loyalty by the time it was done.

For my part, I sat and listened, thrilled and appalled in turns, but at bottom, grateful for this rare glimpse into the clandestine side of Will's life and to have my long-held curiosity as to his methods satisfied.

I paused in my writing and stared blankly at the flame burning steadily in the bedside lamp. I wondered what would happen if by some chance my journals fell into another's hands. Should I continue and set down what I had heard from Will that day? I decided it should be safe. Any secret information would be in London and under Mycroft's watchful eye, not in any of the reports Will or I had given, should I record them here. Aside from that, what would there be in my journals that could harm anyone? Recipes and reminiscences, the occasional announcements of friends' weddings and the births of their children, small mementoes of trips to London in the way of ticket stubs and theatre programmes - hardly the sort of thing that would jeopardise King and Country.

Perhaps when I am gone, I thought, I could have these journals sent to Jamie in Australia. He, at least, would appreciate them to remember me by...

You'd best get on with it, Martha Amelia. Keeping it all bottled inside has not only made you daft, but morbid as well.

I looked at the cats on the bed. They lay curled together in a tandem knot of orange and white fur, quite oblivious to the world, including my stalling. I rallied my flagging resolve and returned to my self-appointed task...

"Perhaps I should start from the beginning, sir," Will said, returning the tea things to their original places on the table. "It all began about, oh, sixteen hours ago now, after nine, nine-thirty in the evening. I had finished my supper with Ginny and Seth--"

"Excuse me, who?" Mr. Carmichael interrupted.

"My grown daughter and grandson. They live with me in Covingdean."

"Ah, here it is, thank you," he said as he checked it off. "Please continue."

"As I was saying, it was about nine-thirty in the evening..."

I had just helped Ginny square things away for the night and had stepped outside to take in a pint at the Monk's Tun, when I saw a note had been left in one of the dead drops Mycroft and I had arranged. It was but a simple matter to retrieve it and put it in my pocket as I passed by, and I continued on my way. Once there at the Tun, I folded myself into the lobby telephone booth and read the note.

I was on the line to Mycroft mere minutes later.

"Message received. How solid is it, sir?" I didn't waste any time getting to the point.

"As solid as a man in hospital. He's just come out of a three-day coma. Simmons could only tell us that the subjects were heading south towards the coast before he lost consciousness again."

"So, it is Beckmann, then."

"As best as can be determined, yes."

"You said 'subjects.' How many were with him? Did Simmons say?"

"Not certain, 'several' is the word. It happened rather quickly and he didn't see much before-- well. The doctors are hopeful for his recovery."

"I'll get back to you." I rang off and contemplated the note, digesting the information I'd received. The name in the message had been confirmed. Damn, why did it have to be him? I had crossed paths with Walther Beckmann over a decade ago in German East Africa. I had considered myself lucky at the time to extricate myself and evade capture by him. A nasty piece of work that man was and I was not eager to formalize our acquaintance.

A little closer to home, Beckmann had done work for Von Bork, during those instances when Von Bork had a problem that he'd wanted to 'disappear', when Von Bork had been working his spy ring in England before the War. Beckmann, unfortunately, was not among those men Holmes had managed to apprehend last August, when Von Bork's operation had been closed down. It was not known then or now where Beckmann had been, or if he had been in communication with Von Bork, at that time. There was only Beckmann's name in some of the papers taken from Von Bork's personal effects to suggest that he had been involved. In any case, news of Von Bork's capture would reach Beckmann's ear eventually and it would be in his best interest to disappear himself if he wished to avoid capture as well. One way to make certain of that would be to eliminate all who could possibly know of his connection to Von Bork, much less anyone who could finger him now, on English soil, with a war on.

And yet... Simmons had been left alive. Beckmann did not normally leave live men behind. Therefore, he had either been sloppy, neglecting to make certain of his kill, or he had been in a considerable hurry. Since his reputation did not support any history of sloppiness on his part, Beckmann must be on the trail of other, more compelling, prey.

For all that he was astonishingly easy to access once one knew of his habits and movements (should one be in a nefarious frame of mind), Mycroft was too powerful a target for such as Beckmann. Therefore, however much of a threat Mycroft was to Beckmann's liberty, he was safe from any hostile reprisal. Mycroft's brother, on the other hand, living in the relative isolation of the Sussex Downs, would be another matter entirely. If Walther Beckmann was indeed in England and headed this way, there was little doubt in my mind where he would go.

At first blush, the hard part of Beckmann's mission would be finding Holmes. The number of newspaper accounts of Holmes' retirement in 1903 had been few, oddly enough, the story not widely circulated. Even so, try though the locals might to keep the inquisitive at bay, his existence in Sussex was something of an open secret, and anyone with reasonable intelligence and a measure of patience could track Holmes down to his very doorstep. Erstwhile admirers of Holmes' published cases showed up every summer with depressing regularity, trampling the flowerbeds and generally making right bloody nuisances of themselves. As two such groups had put in an appearance already now that the warm weather had arrived, I had little hope that Beckmann would overlook Holmes, if Holmes were his objective. At this point, I had to determine if Beckmann had been successful in his hunting, and if there was any time remaining to prepare for such an eventuality.

Mycroft's message had been dated this afternoon. The information it contained was, at minimum, three days old. A conservative estimate would have Beckmann at large for almost a week, an advantage that I somehow had to compensate for. Any way I looked at it, I didn't have much time.

All this passed through my mind in less time than it takes to tell it. I crumpled the message I held and shoved it back into my pocket. I would have to call Holmes and warn him. I disliked having nothing more substantial to support my argument than an injured man and a shakily confirmed sighting. However, I would be remiss in my duty if I said nothing.

I asked for Holmes' cottage from the exchange operator.

"The line's out, love, shall I try it again?"

"Thanks, Elsie, but no, it can wait. I'll get back with himself later. 'Bye."

The line was down. It meant only one thing. Any time I'd hoped to have had just run out. It was time to call in the reinforcements.

I had my hand on the receiver to call Mycroft when I heard boots descending the stairs from the floor above and Beckmann himself entered the lobby. I made myself small behind the folding leaded glass doors of the booth and perked up my ears as he approached the front desk. I kept my arm up across the tiny booth, resting my hand on the phone box, hiding my face and putting through the call. By stealing glances under my elbow, I could keep an eye on him and his movements. I could also hear every word spoken over the polished oak of the desk.

His accent was American and he chatted up Grace, the woman behind the desk, with the easy manner Americans were famous for. I examined him carefully, checking him against my memories of the man. He had greyed a bit at the temples, his skin was a bit tanned from being out in the sun, and he had put on about a stone in weight. Despite the changes over the years, it was Beckmann. I couldn't believe it. He'd been here in Covingdean, for at least a day and possibly more, and I hadn't noticed? I had been wrapped up in my work on Holmes' property, it was true, but--.

Quit blaming yourself. Make the call. Tell Mycroft.

The normally vindictive little gods of the telephone lines were on my side - I heard Mycroft answer within a minute, his voice clear as a bell.

"What have you got for me?" he asked, after I'd identified myself.

"Beckmann's here, as I live and breathe, standing not ten feet away from me." I paused, recalling the conversation I'd overheard. "He's posing as an American ornithologist on holiday, tramping about looking for a rare Downs bird. He's just told the desk clerk that he's found it. My money, sir, is he's after Holmes. It's for the Von Bork affair, I'm betting."

"I will have a team down as quickly as possible, but you will be on your own for the next hour and a half. The clock starts now. You know what to do."

The line went dead. I kept my thumb down on the hook, kept my arm up and nodded as if continuing the call, shamming a non-existent conversation in order to keep an eye on Beckmann.

He was checking out. Money exchanged hands, receipts were signed. A valise was passed over the counter. Beckmann was getting ready to move.

He took two steps toward the door and paused in the manner of a man remembering something at the last moment, and turned back to the desk. What the hell was the man waiting for? The line was down, Holmes was vulnerable, why wait? Then something Mycroft had mentioned clicked in my head.

There were 'several' men with Beckmann, if Simmons had it right. If Beckmann was here, then where were the others?

As I saw it, I had two options. Stay with Beckmann in the hope he could lead me to the others, or follow my hunch and get to Holmes quickly. I took a deep breath and remembered what my primary objective was. Let someone else chase down the spies and saboteurs. That was a game for younger men anyway. My duty was Holmes' safety. Best I got to it. To do that, I had to leave the booth. If Beckmann recognized me from that time in German East Africa, the game was up.

Bugger it. I'm going.

I paused long enough to make sure Beckmann was engrossed in talking to Grace before slipping out of the booth and heading for the door. I was halfway through the lobby when I heard her voice at my back.

"Oh, Will? Would you be so kind as to tell Martin to bring round Mr. Becker's automobile to the front? It should be in the stable yard."

I didn't answer but sketched an affirmative wave over my shoulder, kept my back to the desk, and kept on going. So Beckmann had a car. Excellent. I found it right where Grace said it would be. I got the keys from Martin and brought it round.

One thing you could say about the Germans: they kept their machines meticulously maintained. The motor purred like a cheetah as I changed gears and drove right past the front entrance, leaving Beckmann in my dust. I grinned into the dark as his shouts faded behind me. Stealing his car solved the problem of the lost time and coincidentally slowed him down as well. I took the road towards Holmes' cottage at all possible speed. At this rate I could make it there in five minutes - or less, if I was willing to gamble...

"You stole his vehicle?" Mr. Carmichael broke into Will's narrative to ask, more than a little disturbed. "Did you not think that doing that sort of thing would alert the enemy you were aware of their plans?"

"I needed to make up for the lost time. This was the surest way to do it. I knew I would be tipping my hand to Beckmann but I reasoned the time I gained would offset that risk. After all, there was no way he could call ahead, could he? The line was already cut. An agent on a pole with tapping equipment to listen in on any messages wouldn't be discreet enough, any more than a flare signal would be, for obvious reasons. Beckmann's need to keep this as quiet as possible limited his options, just as it did mine.

"As for the vehicle, I left it in reasonable condition. It's in my report, sir." Will looked over at me and smiled with just his eyes. "I suppose it could use a bit of cleaning up, but now I'm getting ahead of myself. As I was saying...."

At this latitude and time of year, the night sky was still bright enough to see the telephone wires overhead. I kept my eye on them, looking for the break in the line. I found it just at the turn-off for Holmes', as I'd expected. I slowed to a crawl, cut the engine, and killed the lights. By the silver light of the moon, I could see the wire lying slack against the pole and trailing along the grassy verge. The fact it was lying there in plain sight spoke of a fair amount of haste on the part of Beckmann's operatives. This could work in my favor. Rushed people often made mistakes.

Keeping that in mind, I searched the interior compartment for any clue concerning their plans. I found some thin rope and a tool kit under the passenger seat. The glove box held a map of the district and a hand torch, the latter fitted with a red lens for nighttime use. Turning it on, its ruby glow was sufficient to read the markings on the map, especially the circle penciled round the mouth of the nearby Cuckmere River. I would worry about that later. I returned the map to the glove box. The torch I tucked into a convenient pocket.

A simple tweed cap lay on the seat next to me, likely Beckmann's own, and I put it on. Beckmann and I were of a height and the cap's distinctive silhouette would give me a few precious seconds' advantage in any encounter with his men. I shouldered the rope, took the tool kit in hand, and hauled out from behind the wheel.

The car was a valuable asset, one I was reluctant to leave behind for the enemy to use. Since driving all the way to the cottage might precipitate matters dangerously, depending on whether Beckmann was expected or not, the car would have to stay here. Therefore, I had to take steps to insure that it remained here until I needed it. Up went the bonnet and off came the distributor cap. It was too big to carry with me, so I hid it in a weep hole at the base of the wall bordering the road. By stuffing the leads into the hole, the round cap blended perfectly into the irregular shadows cast by the stone courses. It would be safe there until I got back. I had just raised a hand to close the bonnet when I heard a voice hiss out from the roadside hedge.

"Sie sind früh. Ist rechtes alles ganz?" You're early. Is everything all right?

"Sie kommen her." Come here, you, I answered. And come he did. The hat had worked. Beckmann really must have been a hurry to have picked someone so green as to betray his position like that. Once I had him in my grasp, I made him betray even more.

I had once spent three months in the American West working on a cattle ranch in Texas, roping steers and even branding them. I had become quite proficient at it, certainly enough to tie the German agent's hands and feet behind him, immobilising him as I had those steers facing the branding iron. I flipped him face down in the dirt and planted a knee into his back. He wasn't going anywhere.

He started to struggle in earnest, then, and I had to clamp a hand over his face to cut off his air. I waited until he wore himself out and then released his nose. I gave him a few seconds to revive before I leant in close and whispered in his ear.

Tell me everything if you want to live.

The fool said nothing. Too bad for him.

I took up the pliers from the tool kit and got to work.

It took several precious minutes and several broken, nailless fingers later, but I found out that there were only three agents left to advance on the cottage and that they intended to approach from the seaward side, possibly going for the south wall with its large (and vulnerable) windows. I gagged my captive with his own handkerchief and dumped him into the boot. His feet I'd stripped bare of stockings and shoes, which I'd thrown over the hedge into the field beyond. If he actually did manage to get out of his improvised prison, he would find it rough going, making an escape barefoot, bound, and with both hands partially crippled. I searched his pockets for anything that would help him in that regard, working quickly and hating the time it cost to be thorough. I found nothing of consequence and left off, scrubbing the blood off my hands the best I could on the man's clothing. It was time to go.

"Vielen Dank!" I shut the boot hatch down on his muffled cursing. I adjusted the borrowed cap on my head and checked my watch using the torch. Mycroft's men were still about an hour out. Pocketing the pliers and the keys to the car, I took off on foot down the long drive toward the cottage.

One down. Three more to go.

Halfway there, I scaled the wall to my right and slipped through the hedge. Before me lay the southwestern pasture, rolling along under the moonlight all the way down to the sea. I would have preferred either a little less in the way of light or a little more in the way of cover, but neither element was insurmountable. I was just grateful for the season. In the dead of winter, this would have been a miserable slog through the ice and snow (to say nothing about the inconvenience of concealing the inevitable tracks), but the summer nighttime temperatures made it almost pleasant. Only the knowledge of the danger ahead kept it from being a stroll in the park, that and the oath I'd sworn to protect Holmes at all costs.

The ground passed quickly underfoot and I was soon at the orchard fence. I could see the bulk of the cottage and the terrace wall though the trees. The white hive boxes gleamed softly in the darkness. A man-sized shadow moved amongst them, going from one to the other in a crooked line for the far orchard gate.

I slipped under the rail and closed in. The odor of cigarettes and hair pomade was strong in my nostrils as I took the man from behind. I knocked him out cold and caught him before he could hit the ground. After checking his pulse and that he still breathed, I made a quick search of his person, turning up a folding knife (which I appropriated), a box of ordinary vestas, and the aforementioned cigarettes. I tied him securely to the gatepost with a portion of the rope, and pulled his cap over his eyes in the attitude of one fallen asleep on watch. It wouldn't hold up past anything more than a cursory glance, but I needed the little time it would give me. Like the other man at the car, I left him alive: if I did indeed fail and Holmes was abducted or killed, I would need someone, preferably several someones, to hand over to Mycroft. Any information gained from them would be better than nothing.

Better still would be to get Holmes out of here.

It was a short dash to the terrace wall and I crouched in its meager shadow to consider the cottage and its grounds. Beyond the wall, the cottage was dark, the blackout curtains pulled tightly shut for the night. No violin music disturbed the crickets. No odd chemical smells drifted on the breeze rustling through the herbaceous border. That meant Holmes was reading, writing, or asleep. He could even, through a fantastic stroke of luck, be entirely absent on an unannounced trip to London or parts unknown. Were it not for Beckmann's reputation for thoroughness (Simmons' survival notwithstanding), I would have been relieved by the quietude enveloping the cottage. Tonight, however, it only increased my unease: Beckmann would make sure his men had not been dispatched on a fool's errand. Holmes would be here.

I made for the eastern side of the cottage next, pausing beside the conservatory to observe the kitchen garden beyond. From a slender crack in the curtains of the scullery window to my left, I could see the golden glow of lamplight from within, could hear the faint splashing from the pump. Mrs. Hudson was washing up the last of the day's dishes. The homely sound of it reassured me that I had arrived in time. Nothing had happened yet. I could still salvage the situation.

A cackle from the hen house to the east caught my attention. Another of Beckmann's men fell to me as quickly and silently as the man before him had. I searched him as well, finding a fully loaded revolver and another torch outfitted for night work. My coat pockets were getting full, but into them the items went. I secured him as I had his compatriot from the orchard, tied hand and foot, and left him in the shadow of the hen house, roped to one of its supports. The henhouse itself would hide him from view. I peered around the corner of the small structure and waited again, listening hard.

Now, it is a common misconception amongst city folk that the countryside is dead quiet at night. It isn't, not entirely. There are always creatures and their noises to filter out. There is the ever present chirping of crickets and other insects. The occasional noise from farm animals, or the shriek of a rabbit falling under the jaws of a hunting fox, can carry for a surprising distance over the Downs. Hardly the constant machine- and man-made din of the city, I suppose, but enough to mask the sounds I was searching for, that of stealthy movement on two legs, as opposed to four.

A foot crunched once on gravel, paused, and crunched again.

The potting shed. Right.

This time the agent had almost made it to the kitchen door before I caught him. The thought of Mrs. Hudson and Holmes mere steps away from harm spurred me to incaution and the unexpected sound of my heels hitting the path behind my target caused him to turn.

"Vas ist-- ?"

My torch caught him across the face. I changed my grip and clubbed him again at the back of his head. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. On him I discovered another revolver and a wicked length of coiled piano wire attached at both ends to well-worn wooden handles. Its purpose was clear. I didn't bother being gentle as I tied the German up with the last of my rope.

The immediate grounds nominally secured and known agents accounted for, save for Beckmann, who was likely even now freeing the man I'd locked in the boot of the car, I put my hand on the latch and walked through the kitchen door...

"All right, then. I believe that catches me up to the point where everyone is in the kitchen." Mr. Carmichael looked up from the notes he'd been scribbling during Will's recitation of the events. He took up his teacup and sipped the now-cold liquid, making a face at the temperature. I poured him a fresh cup from the pot, which had been sitting warm under a tea cosy.

Will took the opportunity the interruption afforded to scrounge the pantry for something to eat. He came back with a small cheese and a tin of homemade crackers as I poured the last of the tea into the remaining cups. While I put some fresh water on to boil for more tea, Will set up the cheese and crackers on an undamaged plate from the dresser and added a knife from the cutlery drawer. Once the water was ready, I poured it over new leaves to steep and we soon resumed the debriefing, pausing occasionally to eat and to sip our tea. Will brushed the crumbs from his lap and went on...

We had the men locked inside the pantry within minutes. I didn't let anyone linger on the premises. I had to get Holmes out of there as soon as possible, conscious of Beckmann arriving at any moment and ruining our chances for escape. For all I knew, he had reinforcements with him that he'd managed to keep secret.

My plan was to get all of us back to the car and to drive like hell for London, where I would make contact with Mycroft. From there, I would take Holmes and Mrs. Hudson straight to a safe house. Mycroft's men would continue as planned to the cottage to pick up the prisoners I'd taken, and perhaps they would even apprehend Beckmann, though that seemed unlikely. Beckmann would take one look at the situation and make himself scarce. If he came for Holmes, it would be on another day. A day we were better prepared to catch him, if I had anything to say about it.

It's a pity it didn't work out that way.

The moment I knew our luck had run out was when we were drawing near the car, running along the pasture side of hedge for cover. We had barely a hundred more feet to go, when I heard a muffled gunshot. Beckmann had found the agent I'd left in the boot and had gotten rid of the liability he'd represented. I halted and crouched, pulling Holmes and Mrs. Hudson down to the dewy grass beside me.

I could hear Beckmann advance down the drive towards the cottage. One step, two... three. He paused less than a yard away from where we hid.

I knew he was listening, just as I was, for any clue as to the presence of others. If we moved, the noise of our passing would alert Beckmann as to our position. As much as I loathed it, the next move was up to him. We crouched and waited, barely daring to breathe, as beneath us the world slowly turned on its axis and the stars overhead wheeled in their courses, supremely indifferent to the affairs of men.

The footsteps moved on, fading down the drive towards the cottage. I gave it a slow count to sixty and then motioned our party forward. We gained the car without mishap and as Holmes handed Mrs. Hudson into the passenger compartment, I checked the agent in the boot. In the red glow of the hand torch, a black wetness liberally coated the interior, blood mixed with pale gobbets of -- .

"Head shot at close range," came Holmes' quiet comment over my shoulder.

"We'd best get going, sir. Get in and stay down. I'll drive." I closed the hatch on the unfortunate agent and came round the car for the wall. I had hidden the distributor cap in the first weep hole past the left rear tire. My searching fingers closed on empty air and it took me a few seconds in my disbelief to realize what that meant: Beckmann had found and taken it.

Too late, I lunged for the shotgun I had stupidly laid across the front seat.

"No sudden moves, if you please. I would regret shooting Grandmother by mistake."

It was with a withering sense of inevitability that I saw Beckmann holding a gun to Mrs. Hudson's head. The window was down and he had no trouble making good his threat through the opening. Holmes stood beside me, frozen in the act of climbing into the compartment, one foot on the running board, the other planted on the road. The moonlight was bright enough to see Holmes tighten his grip on the doorframe in anger, though he kept all sign of it from his expression. On Mrs. Hudson's face I saw only unalloyed fear. I raised my hands slowly, my mind racing, looking for any weakness in Beckmann's position, and trying to find a way out of this predicament.

There was no way out of this. He had us. There was nothing I could do, except stand still and see what developed.

"Looking for this? I must congratulate you on the hiding place. It took me a few minutes to find it." Beckmann held up the distributor cap in his free hand. "I certainly hope the contacts are dry. It did rain two days ago and there is no telling how slowly the wall here drains, yes?"

I said nothing.

"Remove my hat from your head, if you please. I prefer to know whom I am addressing."

I considered flinging the hat at Beckmann, hoping to grab the shotgun while he ducked. But for the fact that he held a gun on Mrs. Hudson I would have risked it. The shotgun was as good as in the Channel, for all the use I could make of it now. Off came the hat and from Beckmann there came a satisfied sigh as he saw my face.

"Ah, so I did recognize you in the village. Your back, sir, cuts a singular profile, one I memorized in Africa. You may replace what you've stolen from me, Herr Rauch, if that be your name." He tossed the engine part over the bonnet and I caught it easily.

It didn't take long to do as he asked. I worked quickly, ever aware of the gun to Mrs. Hudson's head. I glanced at Holmes. He had eased his foot off the running board and stood very still, waiting, as I was, for an opening to present itself. Finished, I closed up the engine compartment and under Beckmann's direction I slid behind the wheel whilst Holmes worked the crank. Canny delegation of tasks, I thought as I tried the ignition. I could attempt racing off in the car, removing Mrs. Hudson and myself from the gun, but I would have to run over Holmes to do it. Beckmann knew who I was, then, in relation to Holmes and played on it, damn him. Following instructions, Holmes slid in front with me as Beckmann got in the back with Mrs. Hudson and ordered me to drive to the cottage. I did so, mindful of the shotgun that Beckmann now held leveled at Holmes' back through the seat.

Beckmann marched us into the cottage at gunpoint. The moment we stepped inside, we could hear thumping from the pantry door. The other agents had revived and had won free of their bonds, and it was toward those sounds that Beckmann ordered us next. He took in the situation at a glance and, like a huntsman silencing his hounds, shouted over the din a single word in German. Quiet descended upon the kitchen. Beckmann rounded the table toward the pantry, keeping the shotgun on us the while. Once within reach of the knob, he asked us for the key. Mrs. Hudson looked at Holmes and, at his nod, removed it from the others on her chatelaine.

"I needn't explain what would happen if you should decide to do anything rash. Push it across the table, please." Beckmann retrieved the key and without looking away, inserted it into the lock. The sound of its turning was loud in the stillness and with the freeing of the other men, the odds against us increased.

From there on it proceeded like a well-rehearsed play. We had our parts and we performed them as directed. Mrs. Hudson, Holmes and I were hostages and Beckman was our keeper. We sat in the light of the overhead lamp, the shotgun trained on us three as Beckmann had two of his men pat us down for weapons. I was first, then Holmes. He endured their brisk search without struggle or comment. They even searched Mrs. Hudson. She took it well enough, though her cheeks grew rosy with equal parts of insult and embarrassment. For their part, the Germans were respectful of her person, but pat her down they did.

I must have twitched as they turned their attentions on her, for Holmes firmly put his foot on mine under the table. From the corner of my eye, I saw him frown.

Not yet, his attitude said. Wait.

I knew the wheels were turning in his head. I knew he was trying one possible avenue of escape after another, even as I was. As much as I respected his intellect, I hoped he wouldn't, as Beckmann had warned, try anything rash. While I realized that here sat a man who had faced down the mastermind of crime and lived to tell the tale, I wondered if he also realized that whereas Moriarty was a gentleman and had fought as a gentleman (his profession notwithstanding), Beckmann was not and would not. I had no illusions as to my fate at the hands of this man, nor did I have any regarding that of Mrs. Hudson or Holmes.

The small arsenal I had appropriated from the agents quickly reverted back to the original owners and was replaced by items taken from us. It made a nice little pile on the kitchen table. They'd taken my own folding knife, the extra shotgun shells, a box of vestas, a small compass, a length of twine and, of course, the pliers and the car keys. From Holmes's pockets they turned up a revolver and enough bullets for two reloads, a smaller folding knife, and two test tubes tightly stoppered. Mrs. Hudson had only her chatelaine and the rolling pin that, in contrast to the delicate chime of silver from the chatelaine, made a loud clunk on the table's surface.

Overhead, I could hear the third man Beckmann had dispatched to go through the rooms (and the drawers, from the sound of it) upstairs, tossing things about to make it look like a robbery. Behind me I could hear the ticking of the little porcelain clock Mrs. Hudson kept on the dresser. I reckoned the time elapsed since I'd first gathered up our party to escape the cottage and Holmes' silent command finally made sense: Wait, he'd meant. Wait for Mycroft's men.

I reckoned they were only ten minutes out. We could hold out that long. We had to. If I could get Beckmann talking...

"Surely, Herr Beckmann," I addressed him directly," you could have left off manhandling the housekeeper. Or have you taken to robbing old women of their pin money, now?"

"Spare me your false chivalry, Herr Rauch. You are no more a gentleman than I. I know what you've done in Africa and in other places. Oh, yes. In a community as small as ours, even you cannot remain anonymous. People talk. Of you they had much to say. As they had of you, Herr Holmes. Your activities in the early nineties did not go unnoticed. Ah. You did not expect that, did you?"

Good, I thought at him. Keep talking.

Beckmann took a more relaxed stance, though the shotgun did not waver. One of the things I had observed in Beckmann all those years ago in Africa was his need to inspire fear and to inflict pain. Presented with three helpless captives, he couldn't resist doing a little of both. As the two men tied our hands together behind our backs, their leader revealed what he had in store for us.

"You, sir," he began with a hard look at Holmes, "have caused us no end of trouble. Your capture of Von Bork and his agents was a great blow, true, but not so great as the false information you fed us through him. The time and resources we wasted on what proved to be worthless scraps of ...well. Let us just say you have much to answer for, and I do look forward to seeing you do so in great detail.

"Have you ever been inside a submarine, Herr Holmes? It is quite the way to travel. Fast. Silent. Secure. Under the surface, no one will hear you scream. Above the surface, nothing but the vastness of the ocean, with no way of gaining land. And when we are done with you, no one to mark your final resting place, no one to mourn your death.

"And you, Grandmother." Beckmann turned to Mrs. Hudson. "You, I recognize as well. Yes, I remember the housekeeper Von Bork had hired. You were very convincing. So quiet, so retiring, so meek. So utterly perfidious."

He watched Mrs. Hudson closely to see the effect his words had on her. She, in turn, said nothing, but the firming of her chin spoke volumes.

"Leave her out of this," I interrupted, hoping to draw this out a little longer. Any delay I could manufacture would give Mycroft's men that much greater a chance of getting here in time to take Beckmann and his crew out. I had no illusions as to my value as a hostage, either. I knew I was expendable because of the three of us I had the least to offer in the way of information. Beckmann would kill me first, and Holmes and Mrs. Hudson would have no one left to defend them. If it came to a fight, having my hands bound would not inconvenience me too badly, but I had no real confidence that Holmes, and certainly not Mrs. Hudson, could likewise win free.

"Absolutely not. She shall be excellent leverage if Herr Holmes should prove obstinate. I would be a fool not to take advantage of that. It is, after all, how the game is played, is it not? Make sure his ropes are tight," he added to his men.

Holmes grimaced as an extra wrap was added round his wrists and tied down. The feeling was already half gone from my fingers and I could only hope that my ankles would not receive the same sort of treatment. I hated having to fight by using my head as a blunt weapon. It would only be good for three or four blows, at most, before the physical punishment would slow me down. Running steps on the stair treads signaled the return of the third agent. When he joined our party, Beckmann gestured with the shotgun.

"Get them to their feet and let us go." Beckmann pointed both barrels at me. "This one, take him to the cliff's edge and shoot him. If the bullet fails to kill him, the drop to the Channel will.

"You two," our captor motioned to his men. "Take Herr Holmes between you. Be careful, he is every bit as devious as his reputation claims. Leave the Grandmother to me."

Holmes was dragged to his feet. He resisted as best as he could, explosively shouldering one agent off his feet and backing into the table as he kicked his chair at the other agent's shins. Mrs. Hudson uttered a cry and tried to scramble out of the way, but was taken firmly round the waist by Beckmann himself. He'd changed weapons in the fracas, given the close quarters of the fight in which we now found ourselves, and held the gun he'd used when he first apprehended us. I could see the part it made in Mrs. Hudson's hair as Beckmann pressed it to her temple.

"Stop at once, Herr Holmes, or Grandmother dies."

The sight of Mrs. Hudson with her apron front askew and her hair straggling down toward her collar took the starch right out of him. The agents had to haul him off the table where he lay panting amidst the scattered contents of our pockets. In the last instant before they spun him around for the kitchen door, he caught my eye, glanced once at the table, and winked.

The test tubes were nowhere to be seen.

Then the third agent's hand fastened hard upon my shoulder and I had no more time to check the table for anything else Holmes might have filched. Following behind him and looking closely, I could just see how he'd inserted the test tubes into the waistband of his trousers, hiding them with his bound wrists and yet keeping the tubes within reach for instant retrieval.

The air outside was beginning to chill, the earth having finally given up the day's heat to the sky above. We advanced a short distance up the path through the herb garden and halted at a word from Beckmann. I craned my head round to look into the brightly lit kitchen to check on Mrs. Hudson. Beckmann still held her across her chest, he still kept the pistol to her head. By bringing up the rear, he could threaten Mrs. Hudson to force our compliance as well as shoot anyone who made a break for it. I wondered how long it would take to march to the nearest cliff edge and be shot. Not as long as I would like, that much was certain.

Dragging my mind back to the present, I looked at Holmes and had to suppress a start: the intense expression on his face as he watched Mrs. Hudson and Beckmann advance toward the open door told me everything I needed to know. I saw him nod and caught the twitch in his shoulders the instant before he threw off his keepers with a mighty shrug of his arms. I heard a shout and the raucous crash of breaking china before my own keeper demanded my undivided attention.

There is a method of maintaining one's balance in a kicking fight. Doing so with your hands tied behind your back makes the whole affair a chancy one. However, this handicap was something I'd been saddled with before, and with sharper opponents than the one behind me. Using the distraction afforded by Holmes' surprising gambit, I swept the agent's feet out from under him by hooking a foot round his ankles in one swift move and recovered my own balance before he could stand. A well-placed kick to the head put him out cold. I shouted Holmes' name and dove into the fray, and after a few fast seconds found myself standing back-to-back with him. Now the odds were one on one, the best bit of news since Beckmann captured us. I fought with renewed vigor, noting even as I did so that, for a man of fifty-four, Holmes was admirably holding his own in circumstances that would make a lesser man surrender, and pressing for advantage like someone half his age.

It wasn't elegant fighting by any means, not when all one had was one's own two legs against an opponent's use of all four limbs and any weapons he could bring to bear. The world narrowed down to action and response, trading blows and hunting for an opening to take out the adversary. After several such exchanges with the enemy, Holmes got the opening he needed. I had only half a second's warning as I felt Holmes fill his lungs with air, his chest expanding against my back. I felt him take the test tubes from his waistband and fling them to the stony path at our feet.

Glass shattered. The contents hissed like a nest of vipers as the contents mixed and tendrils of the resultant mixture snaked upwards. I held my breath and dodged a blow. Holmes, however, wasn't able to avoid a punch to the diaphragm and inhaled a lungful of the gas before it overwhelmed our opponents. Nose stinging, eyes streaming, I lowered my shoulder and half-tackled, half-shoved him clear of the noxious stuff. We both fell sprawling several yards away into a stand of rosemary, coughing mightily and sucking in great draughts of cleaner air.

It was then we heard an inhuman screech and a shot rang out.

Dear God, I thought. Mrs. Hudson!

Holmes, his face bloodied by a knife cut on one cheek, scrambled to his feet despite the coughing that racked his body, and made for the kitchen at a run. I jumped over the two prone and retching agents barely two steps behind him. With a heedless disregard to his safety (quite beyond anything I'd witnessed so far), Holmes launched himself head first at Beckmann. He connected with the man from behind, sending him to the floor just as Mycroft's men stormed the room from the other side.

It was all over now, but for the shouting. I fumbled a knife off the kitchen table and got to work on the damned ropes...

Mr. Carmichael eased his glasses off his nose and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late and the light in the kitchen was dimming. Will rose to turn up the lamp overhead and the golden light made the shadows recede. I welcomed the change and the chance to stand and stretch. I replenished the tea and poured another round. After we had settled back into our seats, Marmalade padded in through the open kitchen door (the cats had left earlier in our debriefing and now returned) and jumped into my lap. His fur smelled of hay, his breath smelled vaguely of mouse, and his expression was smug as he kneaded my apron to his satisfaction. Chutney, I noticed, had taken up her favorite station on the hearth. Mr. Carmichael sighed and addressed me as he pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off the fatigue we all felt.

"Mrs. Hudson, I realize that this must be uncomfortable for you to relate, but your report at this point is... well, sketchy... as to what happened. Mr. Thompson and Mr. Holmes had already been taken outside at this point, and therefore cannot have been in a position to witness what went on inside as they fought. Not with any clarity, anyway. Please, I have no wish to cause you any distress, dear lady, but for the sake of accuracy and understanding I must ask you to fill in the blanks. Take all the time you need. I'll just sit here with my tea until you are ready."

What could I tell him? That when Beckmann threatened me with the gun, I despaired for my life, for Will, for Holmes? That my mouth was dry from fear, so dry it hurt, with vicious pinpricks on the tip of my tongue? That I couldn't draw my breath properly, but panted in distress? That despite my deep faith in the essential goodness and fairness of the Almighty, I railed at the cruel fate that He'd decreed for me and those I held dear; that I came as close to repudiating Him in my darkest hour as any living mortal had before or since? How much of this could I tell the stranger sitting in front of me? How could I do this with Will not three feet away and able to hear every word?

I confess that I sat there and stroked the cat in my lap with more thoroughness than necessary, trying to put off what duty told me I must do regardless of my own selfish feelings. I pulled Marmalade close to my face and heartily wished Mr. Carmichael and his reports, with his seemingly endless curiosity and thirst for detail, away from my kitchen and away from my life.

"Missus Hudson." Will's voice broke into the quiet desperation of my thoughts.

I met Will's steady gaze over Marmalade's ears and saw that while Will's expression was blessedly neutral, his blue eyes were gentle and kind. You can do this, they seemed to say, as he silently encouraged me to get on with it.

He's right. You know that. For shame, taking a coward's way out of this. Gather up the courage of a goose, Martha Amelia Hudson, and tell them. Tell them everything. Will and Holmes surely have done no less.

I lowered Marmalade to my lap, took a deep breath, and began...

I saw Holmes come up from his chair fighting and I couldn't suppress my exclamation of surprise and, I'll admit it, fear for his safety. I do not know exactly how he managed to do it with his arms tied behind him, but he somehow bowled over one of the men and spun lightning quick to confront the other man at his side. I tried to get out of the way to give Holmes the room he needed and caught a glimpse of him kicking his chair into the legs of the other agent when I was grabbed roughly from behind.

I had forgotten about Beckmann. He was of a height with Will and sturdily built to match. I presented no problem to his superior strength and he held me easily with one arm.

Odd, the details the mind fastens on under such circumstances. No matter that I was in the clutches of a enemy agent, no matter that he held a gun to my head, no matter that in terms of brute strength I was no match for him and he could do with me as he wished. No, what was foremost in my mind at that instant was my astonishment that despite all of these things, all I could think of was how utterly wrong it was that the man holding me prisoner would be wearing both a Harris tweed and a lavender cologne that reminded me of my dear departed husband. I was petrified with fear, do not misunderstand me, but inside were the first stirrings of anger, of hatred, that I, an innocent woman, would have to bear this invasion of her home, her person, even her memories of loved ones long dead, at the hands of her country's enemies.

My breathing slowed from its panicked gasping and my head began to clear. I heard Beckmann order Holmes to cease his resistance and saw Holmes pulled roughly to his feet. Through the clothing that separated me from Beckmann, I felt him harrumph in satisfaction. That little show of arrogance brought me all the way back to icy calm. Instead of simply reacting, I started to think.

I knew Mycroft's men were on their way, undoubtedly armed, but there was no way of knowing exactly when they would arrive. Road conditions and automobile engines were hardly proof against the vagaries of the weather or mechanical failure. Until reinforcements arrived, it would be up to us to free ourselves. Holmes had just shown us how. By resisting we could delay them and give Mycroft's men time to catch us up.

"Come with me, Grandmother. It is time we were going." Beckmann murmured in my ear and shifted his grip from my waist to across my bosom. I squelched a cringe from the unwelcome intimacy of his encircling arm and did as I was told. The kitchen door was wide open before me, with the other agents holding Will and Holmes just beyond the threshold as they waited for us to join them. To my left was the table with its paraphernalia, to my right the Irish dresser laden with my favorite china. Holmes watched our progress with an intensity that could have cut through steel, so sharp was the look he gave me. I nodded minutely to show I understood and when I came even with the middle drawer of the dresser I made my move.

I am not a tall woman, nor am I overly large, as these things go, but I had outrage and determination to cover any lack in physical strength I possessed to affect a diversion. Without giving Beckmann any warning, I dug in my heels and shoved him as hard as I could into the dresser. Dishes showered down on the both of us. Miraculously, the gun did not go off. The pressure of it left my temple and I took heart and shoved Beckmann again.

I won free of Beckmann's hold and glanced wildly out the kitchen door, saw nothing but windmilling arms and legs, as captives and captors fought for advantage. Holmes and Will stood back-to-back and seemed to be holding their own. Then Beckmann blocked my view as he straightened with a hoarse shout and extended the gun my way. I staggered backwards around the corner of the dresser for the cover of the scullery. Broken china crunched underfoot. Beckmann took one step toward me and I knew that I would not make it. The barrel of the gun took up the whole of my vision. I offered up a silent prayer for my soul and froze, waiting for the bullet that would kill me.

I cannot be sure of the exact sequence of events past that point. Several things seemed to happen at once. As Beckmann stepped forward, there came an unearthly feline yowl from below. A flash of orange and white streaked away underneath the table, the gun in Beckmann's hand went off and something tugged at my apron front. Sparks flew off the slate floor. The Majolica cachepot on the hearth exploded, sending bits of kindling sticks and glazed ceramic everywhere. Beckmann was suddenly knocked down from behind and Holmes was there, straddling the German, coughing, bloodied, and fairly vibrating with anger as he kicked the gun from Beckmann's grasp. Will came up with a knife to saw through our bonds, bits of cut rope trailing from his wrists. There was a crash from the front hall and dark suited figures poured in from the sitting room. In an instant, the kitchen was bristling with grim silent men armed with rifles and handguns: Mycroft's team had finally arrived.

I looked down at the ruination of my apron front and saw the path Beckmann's bullet had taken, which had sliced through the apron and the blouse beneath as neatly as a pair of dressmaker's shears. It had missed my flesh by a hairsbreadth and it had embedded itself instead in a large piece of kindling that lay on the hearth where the cachepot had once stood. Marmalade sat beside it, oblivious to the chaos, as he tended to his sorely abused tail. My legs turned to water, I grasped the scullery doorframe behind me, and I slowly slid to the floor. Once there I knelt and thanked God it was all over...

No one spoke for a long moment. I kept my attention on the cat in my lap, stroking his orange-striped back as if it was the most important thing in the world. Marmalade looked up and squeezed his large amber eyes shut at me in pure contentment. His purr rumbled in the stillness.

Mr. Carmichael lay down his pen and cleared his throat delicately. "I see why you were reluctant to tell us what had happened. A near miss such as that is an unnerving thing to live with. I beg you, please forgive me for asking you to relive it all again."

"And well you should, sir," Will spoke, rising from his chair, his voice was soft and steely as he leveled his gaze at Mycroft's agent. "She risked her life to give us the opening we needed. Had she not done what she did, I would most likely be floating away on the next tide into the Channel and Holmes would be locked away in a tin can under it.

"Look, you have upset Mrs. Hudson enough. It is late and we are all of us very tired. Let it go. You have our reports both verbal and written in front of you. You should have enough there to satisfy Mr. Mycroft and his analysts. If you feel you must dig for more details, at least allow her to seek her rest. I will stay here to answer any further questions you may have on the matter."

"Will, you needn't--," I interjected.

"Mr. Thompson, please--," protested Mr. Carmichael in the same breath.

Marmalade meowed in my arms.

I was squeezing the poor cat in reaction to the undercurrents flowing between the two men before me. I loosened my grip on Marmalade and gently let him down with a whispered apology. He stalked off into the sitting room, tail and head held high in injured dignity. Chutney quit her post and followed him. Sighing, I turned my attention to Will and Mr. Carmichael.

"Gentlemen, please. I have come this far. I can go a little further, provided that it isn't too much further." I added, giving Mr. Carmichael the chance to finish his job and Will the reassurance that his concern was appreciated. My words had the effect I hoped for. The contest between the two men came to an end, seats were taken, and the debriefing continued.

"In truth, there is little more to tell." I folded my cold hands in my lap, grateful for the warmth the cat had left behind. "You and the other agents arrived in time to apprehend Beckmann. The unconscious men were gathered up and the dead man removed from the boot of the car." I shrugged to show that I could think of nothing more.

"However, I am worried about Mr. Holmes. He must have gotten a lungful of that gas in the fighting, yet he still insisted on going to London with the captured Germans. I tried to convince him to wait until a doctor could be sent for, but he refused all my arguments to see to his injuries first. You will make sure to tell Mycroft, won't you, to see to it that Mr. Holmes has someone to treat that cough of his? And that cut--."

"One of the agents got his knife out in the fight," Will filled in for me. "Holmes took a hit across the face before disarming the man."

"I promise that Mr. Holmes will get the best of care," Mr. Carmichael assured me. "You have my word on it." He shuffled our reports and his notes into a tidy stack and stood up, signaling that the long session had finally come to an end. "I have imposed upon you long enough. I leave immediately for London. Thank you for everything, Mrs. Hudson. Not many could have done what you have done, nor with such bravery and spirit. Please let us know if there is anything you need, either now or later. We, and all of England, are in your debt."

I really did not know what to say, so I simply shook his hand in farewell. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and released it. He turned to Will.

"Mr. Thompson, if you would be so kind as to accompany me to the village, I'll stand us a pint whilst I wait for the train. Shall we go?"

The two men left together amicably, the earlier tension between them forgotten in the shared camaraderie of fellow professionals. I saw them as far as the door and waved good-bye. Will saw my gesture and returned it. Then he threw an arm over Mr. Carmichael's shoulders and began telling him in great detail the quality and quantity of Tillie Whiteneck's ale. Marmalade twined around my ankles, meowing imperiously to be petted. I picked him up, my feline guardian angel, and closed the door on the soft summer evening...

The birds were singing their hearts out to greet the coming day and the cats were scratching at my door to be let out when I finally put down my pen and uncurled my cramped fingers, blotting the freshly-inked page to help it dry. I reflected again on what had happened and, unlike yesterday, I finally accepted the wisdom of keeping the knowledge of that night's events from our Mary. She was a brilliant young woman and possessed no end of courage and perseverance in the face of adversity, yet for her sake, the truth of what had occurred must remain secret. The War, the threat of another clandestine attack, or even the possibility of losing Holmes, must not be allowed to intrude here. Her friendship with Holmes was her one safe haven in a world that had proven itself to be all too heartbreakingly treacherous. To take that security away from her now, when she was finally recovering after suffering so much, would be crushingly and unforgivably cruel.

Despite the need to remain silent on what had happened, the ruse Holmes and I had agreed on had its weak points. After all, exactly what sort of 'training exercises' could possibly inflict a cough and a knife wound on Holmes in the first place? It was a flimsy fabrication at best, and she would be intelligent enough to see through it. She had been quick to study and adopt his methods, and she was fast coming to know his mind. I did not think for a minute that Holmes and I could hide the truth from her forever, but if we were careful, the revelation could take years. By then, she would be strong enough to hear the story.

I stood and stretched slowly, aching in every muscle from sitting hunched for hours over my journal. I turned down the lamp and drew aside the blackout curtains, saw the green grassy Downs tumbling to the sea in the dawning light, and gave up my thanks for another sunrise. The never-ending duties of running the cottage beckoned and I prepared myself to meet them. I opened the door and quit my quarters, leaving the personal demons of the past horrible week thoroughly exorcised by humble paper and ink.

No longer would I be haunted by what had happened. No more would I be terrorized by dark imaginings of what might have been. I knew that sleep would come to me easily tonight, as would the comfort of my prayers. It was time to pick myself up and go forward with my life.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.