soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story. Violet Merville is “played” by Katie McGrath, only somewhat older.

Timeframe: After Sherlock’s return. John has been married to Mary for about a year and moved out of 221B Baker Street.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 09 – THE PRINCESS BRIDE

September 6th 2014

As a rule, Sherlock disliked asking – or even passively accepting – any help from his brother.

No; dislike was a way too mild a word for that. He positively hated it, and not just because doing so put him even deeper in Mycroft’s debt. He was proud of his independence, proud of the fact that he managed to do things on his own and at the speed of his own decisions.

Mostly, that was.

Sometimes, however, he had no other option than allow his brother to meddle. Especially if Mummy was involved somehow. Like now. It was the unwritten law in the Holmes family that one went the greatest lengths humanly possible to avoid getting Mummy upset.

Regarding the plans of Baron Gruner to marry Violet Merville, the only way to avoid upsetting Mummy was to solve the case in record time and get rid of the Baron. Permanently. To that end, though, Sherlock needed insight into Gruner’s finances, and the quickest way was to have Mycroft’s minions do the sniffling.

Oh, he could have hacked into Gruner’s accounts, given enough time. Or have one of the incredibly talented young hackers of the homeless network do the dirty work. But time was of the essence here, and why waste it when Mycroft could have it done by a simple phone call?

Therefore, Sherlock swallowed his pride, found out where Mycroft was at the moment – his brother happened to be working from home today – and texted him, telling him that he was about to visit; and the reason for said visit. He didn’t for a second doubt that Mycroft would be available and more than willing to help. After all, Mycroft was even more concerned about upsetting Mummy than he was – just for different reasons.

So Sherlock fully expected Mycroft to be available and cooperative. What he didn’t expect was that he wouldn’t find him alone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When the cab pulled up in front of Mycroft’s pretentious townhouse on Pall Mall, Anthea was already waiting for him, her eyes glued to her BlackBerry, as always.

“Go on in,” she said, without looking at him. “Himself is waiting. And be careful.”

Sherlock frowned. During his three years of absence he’d had to cooperate with Anthea a few times and came to realise that she was more than just a pretty girl in a designer dress. Much more. In truth, she was a strange amalgam of sexy secretary, computer genius, incredibly talented organiser, and ninja assassin.

What she wasn’t was somebody who’d waste as much as a second with idle chatter. If she’d chosen to warn him, she must have had a reason. But he knew she wouldn’t tell him any more, so he simply nodded and swept into the house with the usual dramatic swirl of his long coat.

He found Mycroft in the living room on the ground floor – having tea with Violet Merville, of all people. He had to admit that the two made an impressive picture (if one was easily impressed by posh and haughty, that is), with Mycroft in one of his usual pin-striped three-piece suits he preferred to wear at work and Violet in a charcoal grey, tailored trouser suit and a blouse of true silk beneath.

She didn’t seem to be the naïve, lovesick young girl as Sir James had described her; not that Sherlock, who’d known her from birth on, would ever believe that. For starters, Violet wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was beyond thirty and had managed her personal property quite successfully since turning twenty-one.

Much more successfully than her father had ever done, in fact. She was a ruthless businesswoman who enjoyed the battle as much as she enjoyed the victory, and she looked every bit like one.

She was of middle height, slim and trim like an athlete, with a fair skin even paler than Sherlock’s, and long, pitch-black hair that she wore in a French knot on the nape of her neck. She wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense of the word, but her slightly hawkish features, with the straight black eyebrows, the cold blue eyes and the fine scimitar of her nose, spoke of a good deal of self-confidence and a strong character.

For a moment, Sherlock wondered who in the Baron’s game was truly the hunter and who the prey.

When he entered, Mycroft rose from his seat with one of those false smiles that could have induced a saccharine shock in a diabetic.

“Ah, Brother dear,” he said. “How good of you to join us. As you see, we’ve got an unexpected visit from our lovely Cousin Violet.”

“Really, Mycroft, your gift of stating the obvious keeps growing in direct proportionality with the loss of your hair,” Sherlock threw himself into one of the empty armchairs, without bothering to take his coat off. “Or do you believe that my observation skills have completely abandoned me?”

Violet wasn’t actually related to them by blood, of course. They’d grown up calling her Cousin Violet, though, mostly because she spent so much time on the Sherringford Estate (Mummy’s property) as a child. Not that they’d have been close, ever. On the contrary, Sherlock and Violet had always despised each other. Mycroft, of course, had always made a great show of being unfailingly polite to Violet, if only for Mummy’s sake.

Not that that could fool anyone, including Mummy. Or Violet.

Still, Violet was apparently shrewd enough to come to Mycroft and try applying pressure, knowing that the only chance to make Mycroft call Sherlock off the Baron’s track would be to threaten them with Mummy’s displeasure.

Well, if she thought that Sherlock Holmes could be simply whistled back, she was mistaken. But again, she’d always been more self-confident than her actual abilities would justify. Perhaps that was how she’d walked into Gruner’s trap, with her eyes wide open.

“So, my dear cousin,” Sherlock said, after accepting a cup of tea, and gave her a smile that was as hideously false as Mycroft’s had been, although perhaps a bit less saccharine laden. “ To what do we owe the pleasure of your unexpected visit? It’s a bit surprising, considering that you couldn’t be bothered to visit Mummy during the three years while I was… otherwise occupied.”

He stirred his tea in a distracted manner, leaving it to Mycroft to watch her reaction.

“Not that Mummy would have been particularly upset about my supposed death,” he added nonchalantly, “seeing that she’s always been more interested in you than in either of us. Not even Mycroft’s textbook career and unbroken success could make up for the sad fact that he was born a boy. But one could have expected from somebody like you to be at least a bit more supportive towards the woman who’s wasted all the sentiment she always denied her own sons on you.”

Violet gave him an icy glare that could have frozen Hell over.

“As supportive as you’ve always been towards your own mother, you mean?” she asked coldly. “I don’t think that you of all people should accuse me of being ungrateful. I wasn’t the one who lived on the street, full of drugs, for months. Or the one who let her believe that I’d killed myself and allowed her to grieve for three years.”

“Well, her grief was certainly far from overwhelming,” Mycroft said dryly. “But I’m sure you haven’t come to discuss with us who of us behaved more badly during Sherlock’s… absence.”

“No indeed,” Violet agreed with icy amiability; then she turned to Sherlock. “You’ve been called, I understand, by that old fool Sir James to destroy the reputation of my fiancé, Adelbert Gruner. I assume he was instructed to do so by my father. So, in all fairness, I warn you in advance that anything you can say won’t have the slightest effect on my decision.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock put his untouched tea down and leaned back in his armchair. “So, let’s be honest with each other, cousin dear. Personally, I don’t care if you marry the lowliest tramp from the Soho. I don’t like you any more than you like me, which is not at all, and I couldn’t care less if you ruined your life by marrying a murderer. But Mummy is very fond of you, for some reason; I’m doing this for her. And for all the other women your fine Baron has already destroyed.”

Violet raised an ironic eyebrow.

“Oh, I see that Kitty Winter has already told you her sorry little tale. She does that regularly, the poor wretch, you know. She tells the story everyone who shows even the slightest interest for her drama.” She gave Sherlock a cold, disdainful look. “And we all know how unreliable drug addicts can be, don’t we?”

Sherlock refused to take the bait. “The fact that Miss Winter is on drugs doesn’t change the facts, cousin dear.”

“Facts? What facts?” Violet asked. “She followed Adelbert to Europe voluntarily. It was she who broke off all contact with her father; not that I’d blame her. It was she, who collected her inheritance in Italy. She voluntarily gave the money to Adelbert, for the renovation of Vernon Lodge and was happy enough to live there with him for years. No-one forced her to anything. And it was she who left Adelbert, not the other way round.”

“Do you also know why she left him?” Sherlock asked.

Violet shrugged. “I’m aware that Adelbert’s had a somewhat… stormy life, in which he’s incurred a great deal of bitter hatred and lots of unjust aspersions,” she replied. “You’re not the first in a long line of self-important windbags who’s annoyed me with their slander lately; nor will you be the last, I assume. I’m willing to give you – both of you – the benefit of the doubt that you mean well, if only to spare your mother’s feelings. But in any case, I want you to understand, once and for all, that I love Adelbert and he loves me, and that the opinions of the whole world mean no more to me than background noise.”

“Yes, because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock returned coldly. “Miss Winter wasn’t the only one of your Baron’s victims. She was one of the many that he’s seduced, used and ruined; and then threw into the garbage bin. He’ll do the same with you; only that your garbage bin will most likely be the grave, if the fate of his latest wife is any indication.”

“You like to twist things out of context, don’t you?” Violet scowled. “No wonder that nobody wanted to believe you in the Moriarty case. But you’re wasting your time, cousin. I happen to know of several passages in Adelbert’s life in which he became entangled with scheming women who tried to damage his reputation, just like you’re trying to do now. He came out of those cases unharmed, and the lying bitches are still paying damages to him.”

“You mean he’s blackmailing them and they have no other choice than pay for his silence, or else their reputation would be ruined beyond repair, don’t you?” Mycroft, who’d been informed about Miss Winter’s revelations, asked dryly. “You should watch your tongue, dear. Mummy would be shocked to hear such crude words coming from that pretty mouth of yours.”

Violet shrugged again. “Unlike you, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss whether Lady Holmes is happy with me or not. She’s not my mother, and frankly, her intrusiveness has gone beyond what could simply be ignored as an old woman’s folly. This is my life, and I shall do with it as I please; and I won’t allow anyone to tell me what I ought to do with it. Not my father, not Sir James and most certainly not you… nor that insufferable, overbearing mother of yours.”

She, too, put down her teacup and rose with that special grace only daughters of good families – those who’d been taught from early childhood how to move properly – could display.

“Thank you for the excellent tea, Cousin Mycroft; as always, only the best of the best. At least one of you still has style. I’d be grateful, though, if you could keep out of my life in the future. Both of you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Well,” Mycroft turned back from the window, through which he’d watched Violet Merville get into a cab and be driven away. “That was educational, don’t you think?”

Sherlock nodded, finally shedding his coat and throwing it carelessly over the back of Violet’s abandoned armchair.

“In more ways than one, I’d say,” he replied. “So, what do you think? Is she really so blind to the Baron’s true intentions as she appears?”

After a moment of consideration, Mycroft shook his head thoughtfully.

“No, I don’t think so. I think she knows a lot more than she’s willing to admit. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if we found out that she’s actually part of some of Gruner’s schemes.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s possible. She’s always been a calculating bitch; certainly not the innocent little girl Sir James still appears to see her as; although how could he ever miss what she was truly like is beyond me. Usually, he’s a crafty man and a good judge of character.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft answered disdainfully. “Elderly men tend to see their friends’ children as innocent little angels, unconsciously ignoring the fact that most children are little monsters.”

Sherlock grinned briefly; that was one of the few things about which he and Mycroft were in complete agreement.

“But if she is part of the scheme, it won’t be easy to prove,” he then pointed out.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s clear that we must plan some fresh opening move, for Sir James’s gambit obviously won’t work. I’ll keep in touch with you while I follow the money trail; perhaps finding out if she and the Baron have known each other longer than Sir James might know, wouldn’t be amiss. Have you asked Miss Winter about Violet specifically? She lived with Gruner long enough; she should know.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No; but I will. Though it’s possible that the next move may lie with them rather than with us.”

“In which case you should be very careful,” Mycroft warned. “Gruner won’t play with you like Moriarty did. He’s not interested in playing. He’s interested in winning, and for that he’d do anything. The example of Le Brun should make you realise that, Sherlock.”

“It’s in the interest of us all, then, that he’ll be revealed and put in prison, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. “A pity we can’t ship him over to Belarus somehow. They still have the death penalty.”

Mycroft just shook his head in genuine concern.

“I wish you’d take things more seriously, Sherlock,” he said. “After three years in the underground, fighting on your own – well, mostly on your own – you ought to have realised that not even you are invincible.”

Sherlock waved aside his concern impatiently.

“Yeah, but it’s more fun this way. Now, have your minions learned anything conclusive about Gruner’s finances? They had two days, for God’s sake, there ought to be results by now, or you should fire the lot of them.”

~TBC~