Andrew Lane - Red Leech

The French windows to the library were ahead of him. The open French windows.

He could hear voices from inside the library.

A part of his mind was telling him that this was a private conversation from which he had been specifically excluded, but another part, a more seductive part, was saying that Mycroft and Amyus Crowe were discussing him.

He moved closer, along the stone balcony that ran along the side of the house.

And they’re sure?” Crowe was saying.

“You’ve worked for Pinkertons before,” Mycroft replied. “Their intelligence sources are usually very accurate; even this far from the United States of America.”

“But for him to have travelled here

“I presume America was too dangerous for him.”

“It’s a big country,” Crowe pointed out.

And much of it uncivilized,” Mycroft countered.

Crowe wasn’t convinced. “I would have expected him to head across the border to Mexico.”

“But apparently he didn’t.” Mycroft’s voice was firm. “Look at it this way — you were sent to England to hunt down Southern sympathizers from the Civil War who had a price on their heads. What better reason for him to travel here than because they are here?”

“Logical,” Crowe admitted. “Do you suspect a conspiracy?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. ““Conspiracy” is probably too strong a term as yet. I suspect they have all gravitated to this country because it is civilized, because people speak the same language and because it is safe. But give it time, and a conspiracy could grow. So many dangerous men with nothing to do but talk to each other... we need to nip this in the bud.”

Sherlock’s head was spinning. What on earth were they talking about? He’d come in to the conversation just too late to make sense of it.

“Oh, Sherlock,” his brother called from inside the room, “you may as well join us, given that you’re listening in.”

Sherlock entered the library through the French windows with his head hung low. He felt hot and embarrassed and, strangely, angry; although he wasn’t sure whether he was angry with Mycroft for catching him eavesdropping or with himself for being caught.

“How did you know I was there?” he asked.

“Firstly,” Mycroft said without any trace of emotion, “I expected you to be there. You’re a young man with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, and recent events have shown that you have little regard for playing by the proper rules of society. Secondly, there is a slight breeze that blows in through the gap in the French windows. When you were standing outside, although you could not be seen, and your shadow wasn’t cast in front of the windows, your body occluded the breeze. When it ceased for more than a few seconds I surmised that something was blocking it. The obvious candidate was you.”

“Are you angry?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied.

“What would have made your brother angry,” Amyus Crowe said genially, “is if you had been careless enough to let the sun cast your shadow across the balcony in front of the windows.”

“That,” Mycroft agreed, “would have demonstrated a regrettable lack of knowledge of simple geometry, and also an inability to predict the unintended results of your own actions.”

“You’re teasing me,” Sherlock accused.

“Only slightly,” Mycroft conceded, “and with only the best of intentions.” He paused. “How much did you hear of our conversation?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Something about a man who has come across from America to England, and you think he’s a threat. Oh, and something about a family called the Pinkertons.”

Mycroft glanced across the room at Crowe, and raised an eyebrow. Crowe smiled slightly.

“They’re not a family,” he said, “although sometimes it feels like they are. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency is a company of detectives and bodyguards. It was formed by Allan Pinkerton in Chicago ’bout twelve years ago, when he realized that the number of railroad companies in the States was growin’, but they had no way of protectin’ themselves against robbery, sabotage an’ union activity. Allan hires out his people like a kind of super police force.”

“Entirely independent of Government rules and regulations,” Mycroft murmured. “You know, for a country that prides itself on its democratic founding principles, you do have a habit of creating unaccountable independent agencies.”

“You called him 'Alan',” Sherlock realized. “You know him?”

“Al Pinkerton an’ I go back a long way,” Crowe admitted. “I was with him seven years ago when he an’ I snuck Abraham Lincoln through Baltimore on his way to his Presidential inauguration. There was a plot by the Southern states to kill Lincoln in the town, but the Pinkertons had been hired to protect him an’ we got him through alive. Since then I’ve been consulting for Al, on an’ off. Never actually taken a salary, but he pays me a consultancy fee on odd occasions.”

“President Lincoln?” Sherlock said, his brain racing. “But wasn’t he—"

“Oh, they caught up with him eventually,” Crowe’s face was as still and as heavy as a carved chunk of granite. “Three years after the Baltimore plot, someone took a shot at him in Washington. His horse bolted and his hat blew off. When they recovered his hat later, they found a bullet hole in it. Missed him by inches.” He sighed. An’ then a year later, just three years ago, he was at the theatre in Washington, watchin’ a play called Our American Cousin, when a man named John Wilkes Booth shot him in the back of the head, jumped on to the stage an’ escaped.”

“You weren’t there,” Mycroft said softly. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“I should have been there,” Crowe said, just as softly. “So should Al Pinkerton. In point of fact, the only bodyguard lookin’ after the President that night was a drunken policeman named John Frederick Parker. He weren’t even there when the President was shot. He was in the Star Tavern next door, drownin’ himself in ale.”

“I remember reading about it in Father’s newspaper,” Sherlock said, breaking the heavy silence that had descended in the room. “And I remember Father talking about it, but I never really understood why President Lincoln was killed.”

“That’s the trouble with schools these days,” Mycroft muttered. “As far as they are concerned, English history stops about a hundred years ago and there’s no such thing as world history.” He glanced at Crowe, but the American seemed reluctant to continue. “You are aware of the War Between the States, I presume?” he asked Sherlock.

“Only from the reports in The Times’

“Simply put, eleven states in the Southern half of the United States of America declared their independence and formed the Confederate States of America.” He snorted. “It’s as if Dorset, Devon and Hampshire suddenly decided that they wanted to form a different country, and declared independence from Great Britain.”

“Or as if Ireland decided that it wanted to be independent of British rule,” Crowe murmured.

“That’s a different situation entirely,” Mycroft snapped. Turning his attention back to Sherlock, he continued: “For a while, there were two American Presidents — Abraham Lincoln in the North and Jefferson Davis in the South.”

“Why did they want independence?” Sherlock asked.

“Why does anybody want independence?” Mycroft rejoined. “Because they don’t like taking orders. And in this case there was a difference in political views. The Southern states supported the concept of slavery whereas Lincoln had run his election campaign based on the freeing of slaves.”