A CASE OF DOUBLE VISION

Chapter Ten--Ghosts And Crumbs

The good old days of London were back already, their summer respite marred by the evils of men and their consequences. Murder was their latest guest. The afternoon was stubbornly cheerful and as hot as an iron griddle glowing red. Mycroft dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief, the tiny beads of sweat on that ever widening expanse near soaking the cotton. He shook it dry before stuffing it back into the pocket of his thin wool jacket. "If it's any consolation I have no idea what's gotten into Jack either. It's not like he has an emotional connection to Miss Vanislov at all, and certainly Ingrid's care for the woman is nothing more than perfunctory. Perhaps we should have utilized Dr. Watson's motor car rather than take this carriage into the village, I find I'm not as used to horses' backsides as I once was."

Lestrade chuckled. "So I suppose you love the stench of burned petrol and the lovely, melodic sounds of that crunching, exploding engine as it sputters and curses its way out of Holmes Manor and onto the main road where it startles horses and causes all kinds of bloody mayhem."

Mycroft did not like having his latest coveted hobby made fun of. "It's called progress, Gregory."

"No, evolution is progress. It's what gave us two feet and the ability to walk." He waved his hand in front of his face and gave an exasperated look at the carriage driver, a wrinkled elderly man who clearly had no olfactory senses left. "Auto cars aren't the only vehicles running on gas, apparently."

Despite the the stinky old mare and man beside them, it was still a beautiful day, the sun beating down on them in a relentless joy that couldn't be found in the perpetual murk of London. Purple lavender assailed the sides of the road in thick bushes, their gentle fragrance cooked into the air in a heady perfume. Usually the strong scents of flowers and herbs pulled his lungs into twisted contortions and he'd be fighting to breathe, but not this day with a gentle breeze sneaking underneath the heat, scrubbing and disinfecting the air, making it healing instead of irritating. There was nowhere else in the world that made his body feel better, he realized. It was a shame the place wreaked havoc on his mental state instead. He thought about Ingrid and her talk of the close minded villagers and their pitchforks and an image, unbidden, of that winking cad of a baker came to mind causing him to shudder.

"Who was murdered?"

"I told them to keep it a surprise." The old horse flicked its tail and Lestrade visibly gagged. He held his sleeve to his nose and mouth. "Jack should have come with us. We need to talk sense into him."

Mycroft shrugged at this. "He's on the verge of adulthood, what can we do other than guide him? I agree, he may look a strapping young man, but he's only seventeen and in the spirit of his age he'll be impulsive and undecided, every whim in his head a certainty. I am more concerned about his friendship with Ingrid, which is blossoming into a very real mutual exchange of feelings. I haven't caught them in any intimacy as of yet, perhaps they aren't at that stage, but the looks in their eyes in unmistakable...I'm not sure about her influence on Jack. She has her moments of clarity, but she is also hot tempered and headstrong, a true leader as she has demonstrated, and as such I fear he may be easily led."

Lestrade's voice was muffled through his sleeve. "Led into what? She's the same age as him and hardly a slouch when it comes to intelligence. She won't destroy herself in a moment of emotional weakness, Mycroft, of all the people on this earth Ingrid is not one to be led by her heart." He risked taking his arm down and from the expression on his face, it was clear to Mycroft that Lestrade regretted it. He winced through the stink as he spoke. "As for Jack, I have not yet had a reply from Mrs. Hudson so I can't be sure of my suspicions. Though you could say her silence is telling enough." He shook his head, "It's all your doing, anyway."

"He's shown no interest whatsoever in law," Mycroft reminded him. "The law books I have given him to read still sit in his room at 221B covered in dust and in the same corner where he stacked them beside his dresser. Thus, he has shown he has no interest in becoming an officer of the law nor a creator and upholder of it. He's become wayward, leaning towards botany by the looks of things, and wouldn't that be a kick in my teeth if that was the influence he managed to gain from both of us!"