the other letter
26 May 1911 Leave a Comment
Doyle’s power cell is truly a marvel and has proven to be much more than I had supposed. Far from being a mere electrochemical cell, as I had first assumed, it is in fact a micro-generator of such sophistication and complexity that I am at a loss to immediately explain its operation. And all housed in a casing no bigger than my raincoat button.
I had arrogantly assumed that my quantum capacitor was the marvel of the age, but having examined Doyle’s device I am ashamed at my conceit and now wish even more that I might have one more opportunity to see my old friend if only to heap on him the praise I feel he deserves for his work.
Having previously concluded that I must somehow adapt his device to fit the needs of my capacitor – for I felt sure that the fault lay there – I now know that it is my capacitor that must submit to change. A small, but significant, electro-magnetic field produced by the micro-generator is impeding the function of the capacitor. My original power cell generated no such field and I was therefore not required to shield any of the other components against it. The introduction of such a shield is no great chore however and my priority is now to work on adapting some of the housing elements of the capacitor to accommodate this extra function. The work will take a few weeks but should greatly improve the efficiency of the capacitor.
I begin to regret that I did not work in conjunction with Doyle from the very beginning of my research into the capacitor. I already see many ways in which future models of the component can be improved using his micro-generator and my mind has begun to race with the possibilities for future development. As always I am immediately keen to pursue these new ideas; an urge that I find devilish hard to ignore. But I must deal with my impatience and concentrate on the task in hand. I have to finish adapting the rebuilt prototype before I begin work on enhanced versions. It transpires that Trowbridge worked closely with Doyle and will no doubt be able to help me better understand the working of Doyle’s micro-generator when the time comes.
Perhaps my hubris has tripped me for the last time. In future I will be more amenable to the benefits of assistance.
A strange letter arrived today; a letter which has caused me some unease. It bore no post mark and I must assume therefore that it was delivered by hand to my house whilst I was away at the Ministry. It is by all accounts from a young lady who introduces herself as Simone and begs a meeting with me to discuss matters relating to her late father. Matters which she claims will be of great interest to me. This is a puzzling request but it is the identity of her father that is the most shocking revelation. Simone, if she is to be believed, is the daughter of Professor Peter Doyle.
I hardly know what to make of this. I have known Doyle for nearly fifteen years and am unaware that he had a daughter. I did not even know that the man was ever married.
Miss Doyle has asked that I send my reply to an address which I recognise as being in a most unfashionable part of London and has asked that I keep her identity, and her request, a secret from anyone at the Ministry.
I am reticent to engage in any more ‘cloak and dagger’ activities following my recent experiences and am uncertain whether or not I am still being watched by agents of the Ministry. I own that I do not know what to do but must admit to having my curiosity peaked by her request. Enclosed with her letter is a simple sketch which I cannot doubt is a rough representation of my quantum capacitor. But how could she have ever seen it? Doyle would not have been allowed to remove it from the Ministry and I doubt that Miss Doyle would have been given clearance to visit his laboratory.
I have written my response but have yet to post it. What should I do?
setbacks
24 May 1911 Leave a Comment
It transpires that rebuilding the quantum capacitor is not as straightforward as I had imagined. Though I have everything I need in the form of the machinery, materials and tools – that is to say the items from my laboratory at home – and despite my eidetic memory, the work is going more slowly than anticipated with some unexpected setbacks.
My only consolation is that I made no promise to the Council regarding how long the work would take and despite their obvious impatience, they seem begrudgingly tolerant of my slow progress. This is probably in no small way due to my undeniable industry in this regard. I work tirelessly from the moment I arrive in the Ministry laboratory to the moment I leave and following the installation of a number of tele-imaging devices; which I must assume monitor me constantly, they can be in no doubt that I am hard at work.
Trowbridge’s visits, though more frequent today than previously, seem now to be motivated more by his own curiosity than any directive from his superiors. His questions about my work have changed significantly too, and his enquiries over the last forty-eight hours indicate a growing comprehension of the work involved and a promising grasp of the underlying principals. I find myself increasingly eager to discuss my work with him, hoping still, as I have previously mentioned, to groom him as an assistant and if he continues to be as insightful about the science at the heart of the project as his initial queries would indicate, I have no doubt that he will prove most able in this regard.
My concern at the moment is why I cannot get the capacitor to work. It is, in respect of its individual components, complete. However, for reasons which I cannot adequately explain it fails to draw a current from the power cell when activated. I did not have a similar problem with the original prototype but must confess that I built my own power cell from scratch for that version. In this instance I am using a power cell that Doyle had constructed for the proposed mass produced units. It is clearly based on my design but has been modified slightly. Doyle was an acknowledged genius in the field of micro-generators, and my initial tests on his adapted power cell showed it to be much better than my own. It is smaller too which would reduce the overall size and weight of the mass produced units. In every important respect, however, the unit is identical to my own, with voltage, impedance and power values to the exact same settings as my original specifications.
It even looks prettier than mine – though I generally make no concession for aesthetics in my work.
I will take it apart tomorrow to see if there is some difference that my tests to date have failed to identify. I am sure it is nothing important. I’m probably just tired.
answers and questions
22 May 1911 Leave a Comment
Some people have an uncanny ability to unnerve you by their mere presence. After a Sunday spent ruminating on the many possible ways I might approach Mycroft about the inconsistencies that have so puzzled me about events at the Ministry, I was momentarily startled to find him languishing in the back seat of my car this morning; a broad smile creasing his pale features.
My expression must have revealed my surprise. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said as I climbed onto the seat beside him; mumbling a self-conscious greeting and trying to avoid his eyes without being too obvious. Faced with the unexpected opportunity to ask the many questions which had so plagued me yesterday, I found myself suddenly nervous and despite my resolution to get to the bottom of these inconsistencies I was worried that I would be unable to articulate my concerns in a way that did not incur his immediate displeasure.
I shuffled uneasily on the seat, painfully aware of his eyes on me the whole time. My behaviour served only to peak his curiosity. ‘Is there anything wrong old man?’ he said, ‘Only you seem very nervous. Has something happened?’ Has something happened? Clearly Mycroft was unfazed by recent events and unable to empathise with those incapable of such detachment.
‘No,’ I said quietly, shocked at the timidity in my own voice, ‘No, nothing. I’m fine Sir Charles. Just … surprised to find you here.’ I looked up into his face, hoping to meet his eyes with something approaching composure. But my feeble smile did little to substantiate my assurances.
‘Come now man,’ he said, his own smile fading, ‘Out with it. Something’s wrong and I will have it from you before we arrive at the Ministry.’ He looked at me expectantly and I realised that it was useless to continue hiding my discomposure. I would simply have to ask him. To hell with the consequences.
I blurted out my concerns without allowing him time to respond, anxious lest I should find myself unable to continue were he given the opportunity to address each point individually. All in all he was extremely patient of me and indulged my somewhat animated outburst with what I can only assume was a great deal of restraint. When I finally slumped back into the seat, just as the car was pulling onto theLondon Road, I felt utterly spent.
There was an agonising pause during which I realised I was holding my breath. ‘My dear man,’ he began before explaining away my concerns with what seemed to me to be a far too polished response.
At the Ministry I left the car to the sound of his repeated reassurances, unsure whether I was more or less puzzled by his answers. It seems, if he is to be believed, that I was purposely misled during my interrogation in the hopes that by concealing their suspicions about my involvement in Doyle’s murder and the theft at the lab I would, upon my release, lead them to the missing items. This seems wholly incongruous however with their actions in placing me under house arrest and stationing armed guards at my house.
I am happy to have spoken to Mycroft about my concerns if for no other reason than to have it over and done with, but am doubtful of his reassurances. Furthermore I am wary of seeking further advice from him. He is hiding something. I know it now.
I have a long day ahead of me rebuilding the prototype from memory. It should not be too hard, just time consuming. I suspect Trowbridge will be putting in the odd appearance as the day progresses; asking his questions and hovering about uncomfortably before he reports back to his masters. I must confess that of all the people I have met at the Ministry, he is the one from whom I sense the least duplicity. Perhaps I will ask for him to be assigned as my assistant when I can no longer refuse the Council’s inevitable demands. Perhaps this is what they already have in mind. We shall have to see.
leisure
21 May 1911 Leave a Comment
My car did not arrive this morning. In all the confusion of the past week I have lost track of the days and though my working hours were never formally discussed, I am left to conclude that Sunday is not a day I am expected to attend the Ministry.
I awoke this morning therefore to find myself a man of leisure; pleased to discover that neither Dobson, nor any of his colleagues, remain at my house.
As the contents of my own laboratory now furnish the Ministry facility, I am unable to do any work from home and for the first time that I can remember I truly have a day to myself. I ought to make the most of this opportunity but must confess that years of dedication to my work have left me with a meagre social life and those few friends whose company I might wish to enjoy in this unexpected moment of leisure are all intimately tied up in the recent affairs at the Ministry and would, I fear, offer me no distraction from the matters which plague my mind.
My friends and my colleagues, it would seem, are indistinguishable from each other and quite unexpectedly I find myself regretting many of the sacrifices I have made for my work. I wonder what I might do with my spare time had I a wife and children with whom to share it? Consequently I find myself pottering around an empty house, desperately trying to discover some useful amusement with which to while away the day; dismayed to realise that I have allowed my work to so dominate my life that I am unable to effectively occupy my time otherwise.
After a frustrating morning spent in fruitless and unfulfilling indolence, I have settled into my study to try and make sense of recent events. Already my reflections have led me to uncover some glaring inconsistencies which continue to puzzle me and defy explanation late into the afternoon. I thought to ring Mycroft about these matters, but must confess to a certain reluctance. Despite his encouraging behaviour on Friday I remain wary of provoking him with too many questions.
Primary amongst my concerns are the events immediately following my detention during the previous weekend. It had not occurred to me at first, after hearing the sad news of Doyle’s murder and the accompanying theft, but at no time was I actually accused of or questioned about these crimes. Surely if I were the main suspect, as Mycroft assured me I was, it would have been their primary concern? And yet at no time during that weekend was any accusation of my involvement in the theft and murder ever mentioned.
The more I dwell on this intrigue the more absurd it seems. I cannot fathom why, given the opportunity to question their prime suspect, Ministry officials would instead dwell almost exclusively on the trifling damage rendered to a security door and my reasons for being found in the vicinity of Mycroft’s office.
Perhaps tomorrow I will have an opportunity to question Mycroft about this.
ghosts
20 May 1911 Leave a Comment
I do not like working at the Ministry. In comparison to the comfortable familiarity of my laboratory at home; with its dusty benches, cracked window panes and the smoky old stove which stands in the corner by my faithful steam generator, I find the sterile conditions of Doyle’s laboratory harsh and blindingly bright. And there is one corner that I cannot bear to look into.
When I was there on Thursday with Mycroft, witnessing with my own eyes the devastation wrought by those who broke in, I was told that this corner was where Doyle’s body had been discovered. Though his corpse had been removed before my visit, I noticed with horror the bright splashes of blood splattering the walls. They glistened sickeningly in the artificial light and it had taken all of my self control my hold down the contents of my stomach. The walls are spotless now, washed clean by Ministry staff. If only my memories could be so easily erased.
The laboratory feels haunted and despite my horror I cannot stop myself from occasionally glancing into that awful corner, fearful that Doyle’s mutilated corpse might at any moment reappear to accuse me. I have no doubt that he was killed for my capacitor. Whether I acknowledge it or not, I am in some small way the unwitting architect of his murder. To add to my mounting unease the laboratory is filled with sudden and unfamiliar noises, both near and distant, and I start at each one, terrified that Doyle’s killer may have returned.
I have begged leave to work alone initially, unfamiliar with the demands of having colleagues and unsure how to divide my work accordingly. I work better alone. To my surprise they have agreed, albeit reluctantly, but I know it is only a matter of time before they insist otherwise. I am sure that they wish to put someone in there to keep and eye on me and on several occasions today a young researcher called Trowbridge called by to make sure that I had everything I needed.
He seems a pleasant young man and I am at all times polite; cordially refusing his offers of assistance and assuring him that I have everything I need. I can tell by the uncomfortable way in which he hangs around at the end of each visit, however, that he has been instructed to report back concerning what he finds. I feel sorry for the man but I cannot help him at the moment. He must do his job without my assistance for the time being, as I must do mine without his.
The same car which brought me to the Ministry with Mycroft yesterday has been assigned to me for the foreseeable future. It is, I am aware, yet another way for them to keep tabs on me but for the time being I do not feel the need to complain. It is a comfortable, stress free way of travelling to and from London and the solitude it affords over public transport allows me a few extra moments with my own thoughts at the start and end of the day. Dobson and his associates still stand guard at my house but I am assured that they will be gone by tomorrow. He touched the brim his hat this evening as I passed him and I thought I detected the slightest of smiles curling the corner of his lip. It is strange, but that hint of a smile somehow made him seem even more dangerous.
I have made little progress today but I must confess that I was stalling whilst I considered what to do next. After weighing all that Mycroft told me yesterday against my own desires I have now made my decision. Tomorrow I must rebuild the prototype capacitor. It should not take too long; I have everything I need, save for the enthusiasm.
the ministry
19 May 1911 Leave a Comment
A car arrived from the Ministry at eight ‘o’ clock this morning. I answered my door to find Dobson standing grim faced on the stoop. He said nothing but turned to one side and, with a sweep of his arm, indicated that I should precede him along the drive. I must have looked a sight; shambling along my own driveway with the imposing figure of Dobson following behind in close attendance. I had slept little and eaten less the previous night and my nerves were strained to their limit. I glanced about nervously as I went, concerned by what my neighbours might think should they see me in this state.
I had noticed earlier, with some anxiety, that my reflection in the mirror was that of a man haunted; a pale complexion and dark circles framing weary eyes. My hair was terribly dishevelled and no amount of grooming seemed able to fix it in such a way that improved my appearance any. I felt as though I were still asleep, and all of this: the break in, my detention, house arrest, Doyle’s death, were but a bad dream.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to find Mycroft already settled comfortably in the back seat when the driver opened the door for me: surprised or possibly concerned as I seem to be having tremendous difficulty differentiating the two at present. He looked up from the morning edition of The Times, flashed me a brief, humourless smile and indicated the seat next to him. ‘Quickly man,’ he barked as I hesitated, one foot on the running board. ‘We have a lot to do today and no time to waste. You look a mess,’ he added as an afterthought.
The car pulled away almost the moment I sat down and I noticed that it had one of the new internal combustion engines. This was my first ride in such a car, it should have been enjoyable, exciting even … it was not. As it rumbled along the cobbled streets of Byfleet and turned toward London, my thoughts were of our final destination and what awaited me upon our arrival. After a few minutes Mycroft folded the newspaper and cleared his throat. What he was about to say would change the course of my life forever.
Mycroft talked almost nonstop during the next half hour and though I arrived at the Ministry in a lighter mood, it was not without having made a good many concessions which, a week ago, I would have refused utterly. To my great surprise and relief, Mycroft was not altogether dismissive of my concerns and in many ways actually seemed sympathetic. He made it clear however that no amount of protest on my part would excuse me from the duty I was to be charged with, and whatever my objections were concerning the use to which my quantum capacitor may be put, the Ministry expected me to rebuild the prototype and to continue Doyle’s research into mechanical intelligence for military applications.
‘You must be clear on this one point Babbage,’ he said just before we parted company on the steps of the Ministry, ‘If you have a notion to refuse them anything today I beg you … do not act upon it. I will be unable to protect you further if you continue to provoke their displeasure. It is not without some sacrifices on my part that I have persuaded them to agree to this interview. Many members of the Scientific Council still doubt your allegiance. It is up to you now to make sure that their concerns are assuaged. Take a good look around you. Take a long, deep breath of fresh air as a free man. Depending on the outcome of today’s meeting it could be your last.’ He smiled at me, and for the first time in our acquaintance I sensed genuine warmth in it. ‘Chin up old man. You may yet live through this day.’
I have. And though I cannot deny my relief, it has come at a terrible price. I start at the Ministry tomorrow, in the remains of Doyle’s laboratory which has been hastily refurbished with the equipment taken from my own laboratory at home. I have little doubt that I shall not be reimbursed for the expense of these items, but I do not feel courageous enough to complain just yet. I shall undoubtedly sleep better tonight knowing that my house arrest is to cease and telecommunications will be restored at my home by morning. Life, it seems, will return to normal … albeit a new life.
revelations
18 May 1911 Leave a Comment
How often the case that with the benefit of hindsight, we regret what we have done and lament our inability to change the outcome of our actions. Had I known last winter what I do today I would have left the quantum capacitor unfinished, burned my notes and made sure that the Ministry never learned of my research into this field.
If the events of the weekend; my capture, incarceration and interrogation, may be considered disturbing, then the events of the last two days are nothing short of terrifying. I am not a man easily frightened, but Mycroft’s visit and its repercussions have introduced me to a facet of Ministry activity that I was hitherto unaware and I cannot pretend to be altogether comfortable with the knowledge this revelation brings.
There are some things it is best to remain in ignorance of. But I cannot give back that knowledge; cannot erase the comprehension of it.
It is with great sadness I also discovered that Doyle is dead; killed during a break in at his laboratory, a break in that coincided with my own. Mycroft took me there, to the laboratory, to show me the devastation. It had been methodically and systematically destroyed. The prototype quantum capacitor and all of the schematics are missing, assumed stolen and Mycroft is convinced that the totality of the destruction is an attempt on the part of those responsible to conceal the theft by making it almost impossible to indentify what is there and what is missing.
He has also revealed that it was I whom the Ministry initially suspected of the crime, hence my detention. He has assured me however that I am, for the most part exonerated, though I am warned that some Ministry officials still have their reservations about me and I am to remain under house arrest for the foreseeable future.
During another round of intense questioning from members of the Scientific Council it became apparent to me how close I had come to simply disappearing. I did not know that they had such power, that they were capable of such things, but it was undoubtedly my naivety which nurtured such a presumption. It would seem that, like many government departments, their outward geniality is no more than a façade, scratch the surface and you may not like what you find beneath.
It is two days since Mycroft’s impromptu visit; two days during which I have not been allowed to leave Ministry premises. As I write this, sitting at the little table in my bedroom, the sun setting slowly behind the hedge in my garden, I am worried what tomorrow will bring. I must report to the Ministry again.
the letter
16 May 1911 Leave a Comment
Image courtesy of Enkidi, via Deviant Art
I wondered if this was another of Mycroft’s rhetorical questions, but after a few moments of silence, during which Mycroft himself merely looked at me expectantly, I realised that by some miracle he was offering me a lifeline; a way to explain myself, a way perhaps to repair the damage I had caused.
‘I need to you to read this letter,’ I said, ‘It should explain everything.’ I cast around to find the letter, locating it finally on the floor in between my armchair and the adjacent table. In my earlier haste to answer the door it must have fallen from my lap as I stood, but I have no idea how I subsequently managed to kick it under the table.
Bending, I picked the letter up, together with my reading glasses, which lay nearby and turning back to face Mycroft I offered it to him. His expression was grim but unfathomable and as he took the letter his eyes never left mine. I wondered if he already knew its contents.
Without a word he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his own pair of reading glasses. Opening the arms with a deft flick of his wrist, he swung the glasses on to his face with a much practiced sweep and looking down through them at the sheet of parchment in his hand he began to read.
Prof. P.B.F Doyle
Mechanical Intelligence Laboratory
The Ministry of Scientific Advancement
Marylebone
London
Prof. A.A. Babbage
Mill Cottage
Byfleet
Surrey
11 May 1911
Dear Arthur,
As you are no doubt aware the schematics for your Quantum Capacitor, together with your beta prototype, have now been assigned to my team for practical evaluation and further development. The Minister has designated the capacitor as category Defence One Alpha and accordingly has approved its use in the development of the Simulacrum project. Based on your initial report, the capacitor has been identified as a replacement for the failed positron element in the anima unit. Assuming your initial results can be replicated in a mass produced unit, I am hopeful that the mechanical intelligence we have long pursued will soon be a reality.
I am writing to enquire if you would be able to visit my laboratory on Monday. I confess that I am having a slight problem with some of your equations and must own that I do not fully understand one or two of your theories. Quantum manipulation never was my strong point as you well know and I have always deferred to those with more talent in this area – such as yourself.
Apologies for writing to you with this request but we are currently experiencing a few telecommunication problems in the laboratory due to a recent EMP event.
Yours sincerely,
Peter
He seemed to take a long time over the letter and I began to wonder if he was actually reading or merely stalling whilst he thought of some plausible response. When he finally looked up he suddenly seemed angry, his brow knitted together, a menacing scowl on his face. I had to resist the temptation to back away again.
‘Do not leave this house,’ he said abruptly. ‘Speak to no one else. I will return later this afternoon.’ And with that he thrust the letter into my hand, picked up his cane and strode purposefully out of my home, slamming the door behind him as he went.
As the sound of his footsteps on my drive receded into the distance I realised with slight amusement that leaving the house and communicating with anybody else were both impossible given my situation, a fact that cannot have escaped him, and I wondered what could have flustered him so to make him say those things.
coffee
16 May 1911 Leave a Comment
Image courtesy of phantoms-siren, via Deviant Art
Needless to say I did not run but returned a few minutes later with fresh coffee to find Mycroft staring out of the window into my front garden. Hands clasped behind his back he was rocking gently, heel to toe, as he whistled tunelessly into the silence of my drawing room.
‘Damn fine morning,’ he began matter-of-factly, as though he had just popped round to inquire about my health. It was not the opening I had been expecting. He stopped rocking. ‘What the hell were you playing at on Saturday, eh Babbidge?’ he said, a flat tone in his voice making his mood suddenly unfathomable. He turned to face me, his eyes flashing dangerously. ‘Have you any idea how much cleaning up I’ve had to do?’
He took a few steps toward me, pausing to collect his cane from where he had set it aside on the dresser by the window. Involuntarily my eyes were drawn to its polished silver head and I realised with horror that it would make an excellent club and may even conceal a hidden blade. I took a nervous step backwards, my heel colliding noisily with the leg of my armchair as I did.
He stopped, following my line of sight down to his cane and as he looked back up he smiled that humourless smile of which I spoke. Slowly and with exaggerated care, he replaced his cane on the dresser. ‘Is that my coffee?’ he simpered, reaching out with a now empty hand.
‘Err … Yes,’ I stammered, suddenly embarrassed and rushing forward, I handed him the cup noticing as I did that my hands trembled uncontrollably.
He took the cup with a little nod of acknowledgement and lifting it from its saucer sipped it experimentally. ‘Ahh, that hits the spot.’ There was a brief pause during which he eyed me quizzically. ‘Well?’ he said as the moment stretched on, ‘Saturday?’
‘Oh … err …’ I was unsure how to respond.
‘Indeed,’ he cut in, as though his question had been rhetorical. His eyebrows arched upwards to impart an almost ridiculous expression of mock surprise to his face. He began to pace back and forth in front of the window, turning with every few steps. Occasionally he would look in my direction, but I was too ashamed to meet his eyes. ‘You have placed me in an almost impossible position my dear boy. I have spent most of the weekend pleading your case. You should know that the word ‘treason’ has been used on several occasions. I remain uncertain about what your ultimate fate may be.
‘My colleagues think I should wash my hands of you completely lest I am perceived as being somehow complicit in your actions.’ He threw up his hands in an expression of despair. ‘I am at great pains to preserve both yours and my reputation in this matter. What on Earth possessed you to break into the Ministry of Scientific Advancement? Are you mad? Are you suffering under some mental illness?’ He shook his head like a disappointed schoolmaster.
A pause. He stopped pacing.
‘What am I going to do with you Babbage?’ he said before taking another sip of his coffee. The question bristled with uncertain portents.
mycroft
16 May 1911 Leave a Comment
Image courtest of huovv, via Deviant Art
A persistent hammering on my front door.
At some point during the early hours of the morning my body must have succumbed to sleep, a deep, dreamless sleep I am pleased to say. As I jumped up, startled into wakefulness by the dreadful reports from the hallway, a sharp pain in my neck caused me to cry out and I was surprised to find myself slumped in my favourite armchair, fully clothed and dreadfully uncomfortable. Doyle’s letter lay crumpled on my lap together with my reading glasses and I noticed wine from a spilled glass staining a newspaper on the nearby table. I reached up to rub at the throbbing pain in my neck, cursing silently as the knocking continued even louder than before.
Struggling wearily to me feet I stretched my aching limbs and neck before turning toward the source of the noise and, whilst I hastily straightened my dishevelled clothes with one hand, I staggered to the hallway, rubbing sleep from my eyes with the other.
Brilliant white light flooded the hallway as I opened the door, causing me to blink and turn away. Shielding my eyes, I looked again to see, framed in a bright halo, the imposing figure of Sir Charles Mycroft. Shocked at this unexpected visit I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off.
‘Coffee would be much appreciated,’ he said in a tone that was more command than request, entering without invitation and pushing past me toward the drawing room. ‘And be quicker about it than you were answering the door.’ He paused to look at me over his shoulder and added in a menacing tone, ‘I didn’t have to knock you know?’
This was not the Mycroft with whom I shared drinks at the Marylebone Club; this Mycroft was all business and I felt no doubt what-so-ever that his veiled threat about knocking was only the start of a very unpleasant morning. I had always enjoyed the good graces of Mycroft, but I was never under any illusion about what he might be capable of. From my very first introduction to him all those years ago I knew that it would be inadvisable to get on the wrong side of Sir Charles Mycroft.
Whilst steadfast Dobson can be considered a dangerous man, given his profession, he is also undoubtedly fair, bound as he is by rules, regulations, orders and the like. Mycroft on the other hand knows no such stricture. He is, as far as I can fathom, totally unbound by any chains of conscience. I have already referred to Dobson as a man capable of anything, and whilst this may indeed prove true it is perhaps a little unfair of me. Mycroft, on the other hand, is a man I am quite happy to believe capable of absolutely anything. I have always sensed darkness in him and even when he smiles, however genuine that smile may be, it never quite reaches his eyes. They always remain humourless … lifeless even. The eyes, they say, are a window on the soul.
So it was not without a due sense of dread and foreboding that I hurried silently to the kitchen to make coffee, marvelling at my arrogance on Friday when I had assured myself that Mycroft would make himself accountable to me! My mind raced with possibilities; one of which was to slip quietly out the back door and make a run for it.
