The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 40

Sherlock had anticipated the question, but had been too busy thinking about the case to devote himself to formulating a proper answer.  He also hadn't expected a visit to the Professor to introduce the name into John's mind, though perhaps he should have.  They walked past several buildings in silence before Sherlock could decide how to explain Victor Trevor.

Victor Trevor was a mistake.  No, definitely the wrong statement, no matter how true it was.

Victor Trevor was a friend.  Hardly something Sherlock would care to admit.  He didn't pretend to truly understand friendship, but what he and Victor were to each other was not friendly.

Victor Trevor found Sherlock amusing, diverting, interesting.  Promising.  Mostly true.

"We met during a university lecture.  Or, rather, just after I'd harangued a guest lecturer about his conclusions regarding the coagulation times of blood and stormed out of the theater.  Victor popped out of the door a minute later and let loose a burst of laughter.

"'Oh, that was the most infamous thing I've ever seen!' he said.  'It was glorious to see you put that imbecile in his place.  However he was invited to lecture here, I do not know.'

"I was almost tempted to laugh with the young man, but my mood was too ruined by the false promise of a useful lecture."

"'Come, let us find a drink and while away the afternoon.  I think I will quite like you, Mr. Holmes.'"

Sherlock walked a few paces with a silent John before speaking again.

"No one had ever thought they might like me before.  My tutors despised me for I mostly proved to them they had little to teach me.  I had no playmates as a child except Mycroft, and he was much older than I.  I was fascinated with Victor, if perhaps in the most selfish way possible."

"Your cousin Petrina seemed fond of you," John offered.

"She grew up in Italy.  We met perhaps only three times until our late teens."

"That's too bad.  I can only imagine the mischief the two of you would have caused."

"We did manage to dye a cow orange once when I was eight."

John's laughter rang out.

"You'll have to elaborate on the intention of that experiment sometime, Sherlock."

"Hmm, yes, well, it did have quite unexpected results."

"Victor," John reminded gently when Sherlock's thoughts drifted into experimental directions.

"Mycroft disapproved of Victor.  He was an illegitimate son, though his studies were financed by his father, a German baron.  Mycroft thought he was seeking a soft life, money.  I argued that his father clearly supported his son and he wasn't a fortune hunter.  Mycroft didn't threaten to cut me off, not at first, but he made it quite clear that he didn’t trust Victor.

"We spent a lot of time together in the next few months.  We shared many of the same intellectual interests, science, medicine, philosophy.  We could speak for hours on these subjects.  We visited the Professor together, helped with his experiments.

"Victor invited me to spend a summer holiday at his father's home.  We traveled up the Rhine to get there and were to spend nearly two months in company.  Though Victor was illegitimate, his father socialized with him quite openly.  The man had no children by his marriage to a quite eligible young heiress and had been considering naming Victor Trevor his heir. 

"During the holiday, a letter arrived for the Baron, one which upset him grievously, though he wouldn't say a word to anyone about its contents.  That seemed to be an end to the matter, except for a few days later, the Baron fell ill.

"Victor sat by his father's bedside, reading to him, comforting him, until one morning he very quietly passed away.  I took my leave from the house of mourning, but not before being regaled with the tale of a spectacular turn of events.

"The Baron had confessed all on his deathbed.  He had been the father of Victor Trevor; that was no lie.  The secret was that young Victor's mother had indeed been his wife, not the woman who so long claimed the position with face and fortune.  Theirs had been a secret marriage between young lovers without thought to consequence.  When the Baron was told by his father that he would have to marry a particular heiress or risk being disowned entirely, he held his tongue and obliged.  The secret wife kept silent as well, but eventually died of heartbreak. 

"The letter the Baron had so recently received listed these details and more.  In return for a hearty and regular sum, these events would remain secret until the Baron's demise.  If the money faltered or the blackmailer was sought after, the shame of his bigamy would be spread far and wide.  His lady wife would not visit him in prison, nor would the magistrates be inclined towards empathy by his defense. 

"Victor was named heir and returned to London a month after I did.  He'd changed.  I mean, he was always supercilious but now he was entitled to deference."

The idea of finding a hackney to take them the rest of the way home had been lost and the pair of them set foot on Westminster Bridge.  There were plenty of people crossing the Thames even at this time of night.  Most hurried on their way; a few tipped their hats to the gentlemen passing arm-in-arm.  A few people, mostly young couples, had even paused on the bridge to look upon the dark water, moonlight reflecting on the inky surface on this unusually clear night.

One of the moon-gazers, though, was neither part of young romance, nor interested in celestial objects.  Sherlock's gaze drew sharper focus around this man:  tall, spare despite the width of the shoulders of his greatcoat; pale, the moonlight lighting up the edge of his jaw under the shadow of his hat-brim; coat, long, hiding something in its shadow as well, something tucked between the man's legs and a baluster at the edge of the bridge.

"John, that man," Sherlock said lightly as they approached.  From the way he was turned, Sherlock deduced he'd come from the Westminster side of the bridge.

"Which man?"  John began scouting the closest people to them methodically, a habit surely developed at war when any common man might be an enemy or a spy.  His hand slipped into the deep pocket of his greatcoat to reassure himself that his gun was still there.

"Top hat, greatcoat, shadow, stopped at the railing to our left.  Suspicious and matches the description given me by…"

Sherlock cut off as the man lifted a sack from the shadows near his feet and tossed it over the rail.

"John!  Stay here and fetch that sack!"

Sherlock took off running the hundred feet left between him and the man.  The man caught his advance from the corner of his eye and turned, shoving a blustering middle-aged banker out of the way before running back to the Westminster side of the bridge.

"Sherlock!" John called, but if Sherlock heard him, his fleet step did not falter as he grew ever distant.