The Unexpected Coincidence (11 page)

Daniels pulled
into a small alleyway so Mycroft could get out where no one would
see him and turned the car off to wait for his boss to come back.
In only a few seconds Mycroft adjusted his posture and manner of
walking to look more like a poor and slightly grumpy cleaner, but a
bit of a stoop, an odd mutter and a ruffle of his wig hair helped
finish the transformation.

It only took him a
minute to work his way up to the shop and spot Amelia. She was
paying at the self-checkout near the window and focused solely on
her task. He picked up a few cigarette ends as he kept an eye on
her, trying not to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the smell.

Before stepping
out of the shop she buttoned up her coat and took a good look at
the street outside. The buttonholes were stiff and fought back
against her deft fingers, another sign that it was new. The old one
hadn't survived its encounter with the window glass.

He tried not to
appear too obvious when her eyes came in his direction. It made him
feel a little better that she was trying to be careful and see any
potential threats, but it made her more likely to spot him. He
wondered if he should have put more effort into the disguise, but
hiding in plain sight was more Sherlock's sort of thing and he'd
wanted to be quick.

Letting her walk
ahead, Mycroft followed Amelia along the street towards Sherlock's
flat. Every few hundred metres she took a good look around her,
flicking her hair or pretending to look for a shop to cover her
actions. When a guy almost bumped into her, coming out of a clothes
shop, she bit back a scream and he saw the wild haze of panic in
her eyes before she managed to contain it and move on.

As she turned the
corner at the end of the road, he hurried to catch up. Mycroft
didn't want her out of his sight for longer than necessary, even if
no one else seemed to be following her.

It didn't take him
long to get to the end of the road, but a few people gave him odd
looks as he loped down the pavement. He knew they expected him to
pick up litter, but it didn't matter if they were confused.

He paused at the
end of the road to pick out his quarry from the crowds of people,
but when he looked left to see where Amelia was, he realised she
was gone.

A cough came from
the doorway just behind him. Amelia stood, half in the shadows, a
slight grin on her face. They stared at each other for a moment. He
took in all the damage to her body. She'd removed the gauze patches
and had an assortment of cuts and several stitches on her eyebrows.
The shopping was also hanging from her left hand, despite her being
right-handed.

“Hello, Myron,”
she said, a hint of pleasure in her voice. “Not your
usual
attire.”

He gave her a fake
smile as she eyed him up and down, and then came up closer so they
could talk without being overheard. He was impressed. Not many
people would have noticed him, even considering his lack of
practice.

Once he was beside
her, he turned to face the road so they were side by side, but not
looking at each other. He then took her right hand and gently
inspected the wound.

“Very neat
stitches,” he said to break the silence.

“Yes, but it will
probably scar and in the meantime I can't write – not by hand,
anyway.”

Mycroft let go of
her and looked away. He wouldn't say sorry, even if he was glad she
wasn't more hurt.

“My brother sent
me a message to tell me that you were fine, but staying at Baker
Street with him.”

“I suppose it
depends on your definition of fine. I'll heal. But yes, I'm staying
with Sebastian. He offered when he heard I'd had another letter and
the police recommended I wasn't alone. They released Guy as well.
He's gone missing since. No one knows where he is.”

“I'm aware.”

“Of course you
are.” She shook her head and he picked up on her annoyance. It only
served to flare up his.

“Given our
arrangement, I'm surprised you didn't ask
me
to find you
somewhere safe to go.”

“I did, don't you
remember? About five hours before Guy shoved me through a
window.”

Mycroft coughed as
a woman walking by stared at them. It was evident she'd heard
Amelia's outburst.

“I assumed our
arrangement was over anyway,” Amelia managed to say in a calmer
tone. He knew it was a question despite how it was phrased, and he
knew she was providing him with a way to apologise. It was an easy
way out of a situation he didn't feel comfortable in, and he found
himself impressed with her skills for the second time in only a few
minutes. He was starting to understand why Sherlock liked her.
Somehow, she had a way of getting what she wanted.

“If you can
refrain from turning up at my club unannounced in future, I think I
can be magnanimous enough to allow our arrangement to
continue.”

“Thank you for
your most gracious leniency.” Every word she said oozed sarcasm and
he found himself raising his eyebrows at her. A smirk flitted
across her face. She was mocking him. He wasn't sure anyone had
ever mocked him, except Sherlock.

“I'm still not
happy you're staying at Baker Street,” Mycroft said, changing the
subject.

“Why ever
not?”

“My younger
brother is more easily charmed, especially by someone of such
intelligence. I would hate for him to think you have more of an
interest in him than you do.” His words were met with laughter. He
frowned at her lack of seriousness. As soon as she saw his face she
stopped.

“Myron, your
brother is in no danger from me. He knows where my interests lie
and has even encouraged me in them. It's quite amusing, really.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure he wanted to know what
she found entertaining. “This conversation is the first time you've
expressed a sort of jealousy over my intentions. I didn't expect
you to be worried I might prefer another to you.”

He hmmphd his
distaste at the idea, but she didn't stop talking.

“There really is
no need to worry, Myron. Sebastian is well aware of my feelings. I
consider myself to be yours. Claiming me is entirely up to you.”
She smiled up at him, but he avoided her gaze.

“Now. I should get
this shopping back before the milk gets too warm and the ice-cream
melts. Thank you for your concern, Myron. Have a good evening.”

Without so much as
a backwards glance, Amelia wandered off, leaving him standing in a
stranger's doorway. Despite the brush-off, he kept his under-cover
act and followed her at a distance back to Baker Street. The whole
way, she continued her obsessive checking, even though their eyes
met a couple of times. He wasn't sure if he felt pleased she was
being so careful and trying to observe the people around her, or
annoyed that she wasn't leaving it to him.

It was evident
that she knew he was there. When he stopped on the corner of Baker
Street, she walked up to the flat door, smiled and mouthed a thank
you in his direction, but she'd been checking for her stalker
anyway.

He was just as
wary as he headed back to his car, on the slight chance her stalker
was clever enough to notice Mycroft and hang back, but he saw no
one suspicious. The streets were filled with people as normal as
London usually was.

Daniels knew
better than to ask how the trip had gone when Mycroft got back into
the car. A frown was fixed on his face until he sat down behind his
desk and found his housekeeper had pre-empted his desire for tea.
She'd even placed two of his favourite biscuits on a plate beside
it.

While he munched,
he put his awkward conversation with Amelia aside. It wouldn't take
much longer to figure out who her stalker was, even though he
hadn't shown up that afternoon. His analysis of the letters,
combined with the research he had the police doing, would pinpoint
the man in a couple of days.

In the meantime,
he had a watch out on the Russian ruble coins. Apparently a whole
cache of them had gone missing two years before. The Russians had
hushed it up. Mycroft had noticed it at the time, but they'd
resurfaced in a container in a US dock about six months later.

He'd forgotten
about it and assumed they had been returned to Russia, but it had
recently been brought to his attention that the crate had been put
on a very interesting ship. The Lyubov Orlova was misplaced in
February on its way from Newfoundland in Canada.

At the time, the
Canadians had assured him it was deliberate. They wanted to monitor
Ireland after some interesting remarks they'd made at a previous
diplomatic meeting. A storm conveniently helped cover the
Canadians' tracks, and the newspapers focused on the rats aboard
rather than any possible cargo.

Knowing he had to
find out what had happened to the ship, Mycroft put his best
research agent onto the task. Wherever that ship had travelled
after, it wasn't Ireland. He suspected it was deliberately sunk and
then divers smuggled the contents out over the next few months.
This operation had been in planning a long time and he'd
interfered.

This time, he
wouldn't miss any of the information. He read through everything he
had, and then once more to make sure. Someone by the name of Delra,
no gender specified, but given the nature of the operation,
probably male, had hired a yacht. Rumours abounded that he wanted
to look for sunken treasure, but after three weeks had turned up
empty-handed. At least that was the rumour. He didn't believe one
word of it.

Less than ten
minutes later Mycroft had sent out enquiries for more information
on the yacht, which ports it had docked at on its voyage and the
description of Mr Delra.

He sat back,
satisfied with the day's work. Amelia was a small hiccup, and he
finally had enough information that he would get to the bottom of
this strange alliance between the Russians and the Koreans.

To stretch his
legs, Mycroft got up and wandered over to the bay window
overlooking his garden. Darkness had set in and the sky was dark
overhead but clear enough to see the North Star and a crescent moon
on its way to becoming full.

The sound of an
email arriving disturbed him from the rewarding view and brought
him back to his desk. Hoping it was information from one of the
many sources he was waiting on, he eagerly clicked on it. One
sentence in, he frowned.

Mycroft,

It has come to
my attention that you are looking into certain events involving the
missing ship Lyubov Orlova. If you value your position within my
government, you will desist immediately.

There was no email
address in the sender field, but he knew who it was from. She'd
emailed him before, and he didn't need the little, but perfectly
drawn, crown in the signature to know it was an order he shouldn't
disobey.

Frustration filled
Amelia as Sebastian lolloped over his armchair. He'd been playing
the violin, badly, for over an hour. He needed a case and she
needed to have at least ten minutes to herself.

The most exciting
thing that had happened that day was a police conversation to let
her know they'd found Guy. His brother had been hiding him to give
the neurotic geek some time out of the limelight. One of the people
in the police had leaked his name to a local paper, and he'd been
hounded ever since attacking her. Something not even she
wanted.

After everything
that had happened, she felt sorry for him. He'd been caught up in
events of a bigger nature than he was used to handling. If she'd
not been receiving strange letters, she suspected their last
encounter would have ended differently. Now the poor guy had no
job, no mother and a police record.

On the more
positive side, there had been no more letters, and Myron had sent
her a message to let her know no one else had followed her back to
Baker Street the last time she'd left. But three days had passed
since then and Sebastian Holmes appeared incapable of stocking his
own fridge.

With a sigh she
grabbed her coat and handbag.

“I'm going to the
shop,” she said. Sebastian didn't stop his odd droning with the
instrument. It definitely couldn't be called music. Although she
didn't think he'd heard, she walked out of the flat anyway and
hurried down the stairs. Mrs Wintern was out, so she took the front
door key off the little hook on her way past.

The outside chill
nipped at her fingers, making her shove them into the large
pockets. She sighed and stepped down onto the pavement.

“Amelia!” an
unfamiliar voice called from behind her. She turned and paused, not
placing the guy's face at first. A moment later she twigged, but
couldn't remember his name.

“Hi,” she said,
“How are you?”

“You don't
remember me, do you?” He took a step closer and she frowned.

“You were at my
signing a few days ago.”

“Yes, but you
don't remember my name, and I thought you and I had connected.”

Amelia's eyes went
wide and a chill ran through her torso, numbing her insides,
stopping her breathing and rooting her feet to the spot.

This was her
letter sender.

“I think you and I
should have a talk, don't you?” he strode towards her and grabbed
her arm. A second later she felt something hard pressing into her
side.

“Why don't we chat
over coffee,” she replied, her mind finally kicking in. “There's a
great place just up the road.”

Pretending she
hadn't noticed the weapon he held against her, she tried to walk
towards the café she'd thought of, but his grip on the top of her
arm tightened until it was painful.

“No, I think we
should go somewhere more private, don't you? This way.” He jabbed
the weapon into her ribs and steered her towards a waiting car. As
he opened the door and pushed her inside, she tried to think of his
name, but she couldn't. At most, she thought it might begin with a
J or a K, but that was the closest she could get to it.