Secret Pact

by

G M

Winter 1889

---

Wind rattled through the cracks between the curtains. The wood of the four-wheeler creaked as the carriage bounced its way across London's uneven thoroughfares. The vehicle came to a stop and the single passenger peeked out of the curtain. Cold November rain slashed against the glass, but the man could see his objective halfway down the quiet street in the borough of Marlybone. The warm glow of gaslamps shown from behind the closed curtains on the first floor of the anonymous house. Shadows of two people occasionally crossed the shaded windows.

So, his targets were home. Just as he had anticipated.

A single figure passed by a nearby streetlamp and approached the carriage. Right on time, as scheduled.

There was a double knock on the door, then the man from the street entered. Rain and cold wind swept in with the lithe man who quickly closed the door behind him.

"What a night for an operation."

He removed his hat and combed fingers through his light, thick hair. Taking a hand from a glove he wiped rain from the chiseled face which bore the mark of aristocratic breeding from centuries of education and luxuries. His light blue eyes flicked to his companion, then glanced out of a corner of the window.

"It pays to have an inside conspirator. No one's been out of the house for hours." With the relish of excitement to come; and to keep warm, he vigorously rubbed his hands together.

With the tolerant amusement of an older, wiser brother, Simon Blakeney shook his head. "You have been here the whole night?"

"Not the whole night. But I have been checking back here periodically. No one has come or gone."

"Who would on a night like this?"

"Our quarry is nearly the cleverest in the land. Never underestimate an opponent."

"I don't. That is why we are still alive to enjoy this magnificent London night in the freeze of November."

Andrew Blakney leaned back against the carriage seat and studied his brother. "When employed upon Her Majesty's service, we can hardly dictate terms, times or weather for our little missions, can we?" The words were teasing rhetorical barbs. Andrew often wondered how brothers could be so alike physically, yet have so little in common in temperament. Losing his slight patience with Simon, he nudged his brother's foot with his boot. "Do cheer up, Simon. In a few moments the final member of our secret pact will arrive and action will follow."

"Nearly the cleverest? Who, pray tell, is more clever?"

"Why we are, brother dear, for engineering this little stratagem."

Unamused, Simon drew his greatcoat closer round his neck to stay the draft. "We shall see when the operation is over, Andrew. Who is the cleverest, and who is the more arrogant as well, I suspect."

There was a double knock at the window and the door swung open. The large bulk of a man filled the space so thoroughly that no rain and little wind came through the opening.

"Are you prepared for this ill-advised folly?"

Automatically Andrew straightened to a more respectful attitude. Orders from this deep, solemn voice had directed foreign policy, held governments together and sent men to their just rewards. This man was his superior, his mentor, and his elder relation. Still, there was no reason to degrade a perfectly sound operation. Andrew was quite proud of his secret operation.

"This is going to work, cousin. Must you always be so dour?"

"When called from my warm rooms on a dismal, rainy night? Yes."

"When called from your rooms at all," Simon corrected with a brief flash of a smile.

In understated appreciation of the apt humor, Mycroft Holmes' lips twitched in a subdued reaction to the droll wit, which was a family trait.

"Our victim sits by his fire, unaware of the dangers lurking in the street. He will never suspect."

"Hmph," Mycroft Holmes gruffed. "Let us get this over with."

Muffling their faces and clinging to their hats, the brothers emerged from the four-wheeler and followed the bundled form, which proceeded them across the street. They paused only for the doorknob of the house to be slowly, silently opened. So far so good. Their accomplice inside the house had left the door unlocked.

For the ten years since his graduation from University, Andrew Blakeney had been employed in Mycroft Holmes' personal, secret faction of the Foreign Office. Simon Blakney and other handpicked agents, conducted covert operations for the British government (some felt Mycroft was the government) at various locations throughout the world. Andrew, like his great- grandfather, Sir Percival Blakeney, lived for adventure. And each operation, even this one in the heart of the Empire, brought a quickening of breath. As he climbed the dark staircase his mind automatically dissected the possibilities of success and failure and eagerly anticipated the final goal.

They paused at the end of the landing. Light and warmth came from under the door of the nearest room. There were subdued voices, the scent of cigar smoke, from the other side of the door. The three crowded round the door in a final pause of unity. Then Simon turned the knob and they rushed in.

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, who's birthday we can't deny!" Andrew sang in top voice.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson leapt to their feet at the surprise intrusion. The former in speechless surprise, the latter in amused triumph.

The Great Detective accepted birthday accolades and handshakes with embarrassed, curt, barely verbal responses. He frequently glared daggers at his friend, who was consumed with assisting Mrs. Hudson, pass round glasses of champagne. After several toasts and well wishes, Andrew sought to ease the annoyance of his most famous relation.

"We've been after you to join the family for holidays and you never will."

"So we have brought the mountain to Mohammed. You don't really mind, do you, Sherlock? It was Andrew's brainchild, but we all thought it was an excellent idea. You and Mycroft can't seem to be budged from this old city." Simon paused, not sure how to read either of his reticent cousins. "Well, no hard feelings?"

"Of course not," Holmes assured, more relaxed after the explanation. "As you will learn as you grow older, there is little reason to celebrate the passing of the years."

"Then we must look upon this as a long-overdue family visit, then," Mycroft offered. "One that will not be repeated for my birthday."

"Of course not," Andrew promised. "Where would be the sport? You wouldn't be surprised, what?"

"Speaking of surprise," Sherlock commented and cast an accusing look at his biographer. "Obviously you had an inside man in the aid of your attack."

"Guilty as charged," Watson admitted. "How could I refuse such a challenge? The most skilled adventurers in England tricking the cleverest detective. I was a small cog in the secret machinery."

"But our key operative," Andrew insisted. "You have a natural turn for this covert work, Watson."

"No. I don't have a secretive nature."

"Hidden fires, Watson," Holmes remarked. "You managed to fool me completely."

"And a good job done by all," Andrew complimented. "Now how do we come up with a way to get the reclusive Holmes brothers to visit for Christmas?

"Christmas?" Holmes gasped.

"Well, that's more than a month away,"

Andrew's mind was churning on the complexities of the problem even as they drank their final toast of the birthday celebration.

THE END