He blinked at me as if he were trying to place me. “Sherlock, son. What are you doing up so late?”
“I was visiting with Uncle Ernest. He was telling me about Mother’s case.”
“Your mother….” He sighed and glanced away. In the firelight I caught the glistening in his eyes and the empty wine glass on the floor beside him. He asked the glowing embers, “Why doesn’t she want to see me?”
“Maybe—” I paused. How much should I tell him of my visit with Ernest? “Maybe she doesn’t want you to see her in…th-that place?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps,” he said with a sigh.
“I’m going upstairs. Come up with me.”
His eyes slid under his half-opened lids in my direction, and he studied me for moment. “I’m fine right here,” he said finally.
“Wouldn’t you prefer—?”
“I-I…can’t. I’ll stay here.”
He closed his eyes again, and I stared at him, considering his refusal to go upstairs to bed—the one he shared with….
I understood at that moment he was avoiding sleeping alone there.
I turned to leave.
Before I could take a step, he called my name and gestured for me to come closer. As I did so, I was struck by how neat his clothes remained despite what I considered a state of inebriation. Of course, he had always impressed upon my brother and me the importance of remaining a proper gentleman regardless of the situation, which only made his statement even more disconcerting. Not so much the words as his tone and the emotion it displayed.
“I’ve missed you, son. Are you…are you…good at Eton?”
I glanced about me, selecting my words before I replied. “Things are…all right.”
“It’s important, you know. To go there. The contacts. That’s what you are making at school. You’ll find them essential later.”
As much as I longed to share with him that the contacts I’d made with the other boys up to this point had been primarily in the form of punches, I simply responded, “Yes, sir.”
“I do hope we’ll be able to send you back shortly. As soon as this mess with your mother is over.” He fixed his gaze on me. “You do think Ernest will be able to help her?”
“Mother has faith in him.”
“I’ve never known her intuition to be wrong,” he said with a sigh. “I was the one to push for the special inquest on Friday. That Brown man. He insisted your mother’s a murderess and got the constable involved. Then he got me dismissed from my duties.” Another sigh. “I just want her home.”
I tightened and loosened my fists.
“Yes, sir.”
“You best get to bed, son,” he said and patted my arm.
On the way up the stairs, I stopped as the full import of the conversation hit me. Once Mother was found innocent and released from gaol, no reason existed to keep me from returning to Eton. My heart raced at my next thought. If, however, she stayed imprisoned, I could continue at Underbyrne. I shook my head to dislodge even the contemplation of such an outcome. My mother’s future was more important than any torment I might experience at Eton. I would certainly undergo even worse for her freedom.
My focus had to remain on absolving my mother.
I finished my ascent but paused at the second-floor landing to glance in the direction of my parents’ room. Once again, an awkward pain filled me—similar to a toothache that may abate only to return with a vengeance. I swallowed hard and continued in the opposite direction to my room.
Mrs. Simpson had seen to the unpacking of my school things and one of the maids had turned down my bed. I set the candle on the nightstand and changed into my bedclothes. No sooner had I crawled into bed than Mycroft appeared in my doorway. “Been with Uncle Ernest all this time? What did he have to say?”
“I’m to be his assistant and help him in preparing for the hearing,” I said, having decided not to share my conversation with Father. “But mostly he talked about his new invention. A cross-bow that shoots hira shuriken.”
“Ah, the Japanese ‘sword in hand.’” That Mycroft knew of the weapon didn’t surprise me. His knowledge was quite encompassing.
“I plan to visit the garden in the morning. Why don’t you come with me?”
The silhouette in the doorway shook its head. “Too many extraneous bits of information. Simply report back to me what you find that seems pertinent.”
“All right.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted from all that had happened that day. “Good night, Mycroft.”
“Good night.” He turned and shut the door again.
I pulled the covers close and lay back in the bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling and contemplating my brief conversation with Mycroft. For most of my life, he’d ignored me. When he did direct his attention to me, it was usually to criticize me—either for my lack of knowledge or naiveté.
For the first time, I realized I now served a purpose—to bring him information, similar to what he would glean from the papers. An interesting turn in our relationship. I held the upper hand, and a desire to capitalize on it tempted me to dress and head to the garden immediately. Only the reasonable half of my brain told me to wait until morning when the light would allow proper examination.
My attention was directed to the other side of the room when moonlight broke through the clouds and spotlighted my violin case. My fingers itched to pull the instrument out and practice the last piece I’d been working on with my mother. Accomplished on the pianoforte, Mother had worked with me on a duet, and one of my last promises to her when I’d left for Eton was that I would have it perfected by the Christmas holidays. My roommates had not appreciated my efforts and so after the first week, I’d dropped my practicing. I now vowed I would rehearse at least an hour a day so that when my mother was released from gaol, I would be able to complete my promise.
I fell asleep reviewing the musical score and my fingering.
It seemed I had barely gone to sleep when someone shook me. I opened my eyes a crack to find Uncle Ernest leaning over me.
“Time to dress and be on our way,” he said in a low whisper.
“To where?” I checked out the window. The sky might be brightening slightly, but it was still very early—even in comparison to morning rising in Eton. “It’s still too dark to examine the garden.”
“The gar— Didn’t I tell you we are going to visit your mother this morning? I promised her I would bring you as soon as I could after your arrival.”
“Why so early?”
“The best time to see her alone. Besides, that way I can bring her and the staff breakfast. Bringing food to all of them allows us a little time alone. Your mother's idea. Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. Cook should have it all prepared.”
With that instruction, he left me to complete my toilette, and I joined him in the kitchen where Cook was putting the finishing touches on another basket when I entered. The aroma of spice and tea caused my stomach to growl. Ernest treated the prison staff well if he was providing them with Cook’s cinnamon buns. I must have appeared hungry, because the moment she saw me, she pointed to a plate on the table. “Don't you worry, Master Sherlock. I saved one for you.”