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They’d been at the house five days.
The house felt different than Musgrave Hall. It was smaller. Far from what they’d always known. And, it felt…forced.
Mummy had spent the first three days away from the house. She shopped. Nothing that she’d purchased looked like the antiques that had filled Musgrave Hall by the generations that had come before.
Her purchases were all new items. Fine items that felt comfortable. Excellent quality. Their mother had always possessed excellent taste. But… they were all new items.
Nothing she purchased was antique in nature as if she wanted to erase the idea of Musgrave Hall from her mind.
She worked from the time she awoke till she went to bed exhausted. She cleaned rooms that didn’t need cleaning. She cooked meals making sure that everything looked normal.
But nothing was normal.
Father stayed in his new office all the time. He came out for any significant period only to eat.
The only other reason that he left his office was because his office didn’t have a bathroom.
Since the fire, his father no longer had a library. The long-held collection of priceless books which had been handed down through the centuries on the hefty shelves of Musgrave Hall’s library were all gone. The additions that his father had added over his lifetime were ash. Even the borrowed materials from the university had been tinder.
His father simply retreated to his ‘office.’ A space that was mostly empty.
It had a desk and a chair for him to sit in.
His father had a few papers on his desk. Mostly paperwork that he’d recreated from memory. A legal sized pad that he wrote in constantly, and nothing else.
After it had happened, his father had taken a sabbatical from the university so that he could ‘spend time with this family.’ His work as a literary professor had been put on hold.
But he seemed to only want to be alone.
The only other thing he’s see his father do was to sadly stare out of the window in his office.
Mycroft had spent the last five days watching after Sherlock. Mostly that involved following his little brother around.
Sherlock mostly wanted to play outside. Their yard was now an area surrounded by endless fields, a small forest, and a lake. The fields were uninteresting to Mycroft but seemed a source of constant enjoyment for his sibling. The forest was off putting to Mycroft, a place of dirt and thorns; but it held adventure to his young brother. And the lake, a stagnant pond that he wanted to avoid at all costs, but Sherlock could throw rocks at it all day long.
Sherlock was interested in exploring and conducting experiments. He was interested in hunting down animal scat, so he could identify what creature had made it. He was interested in finding the remains of dead animals, so he could harvest bones and glue them back together. He even enjoyed finding animal tracks and following them too nowhere.
He tried talking to Sherlock, but he didn’t seem interested in anything that Mycroft had to say. And when he did talk, he didn’t seem interested in saying anything kind either. Sherlock seemed to be angry at Mycroft. He’d even started to ridicule Mycroft for being overweight.
It had hurt to hear his little brother call him Fatcroft. It made him highly aware that his pants rode low on his hips because his belly had gotten so big that he couldn’t secure them at his natural waist. His sweater hid most of it, but even that was starting to fit a bit stretched out.
That morning, Sherlock walked out with a shovel in hand.
Mycroft followed him. In his mind, someone needed to ensure his little brother’s safety.
They walked into a fallow field north of the house. It was the large field near the tangled forest of Beech, Ash, and English Oak trees. The area had few paths and thousands of tangled vines. Sharp thorny vines that easily pulled and snagged at their clothing. And, rustling that announced the presence of unknown creatures lurking in the thick underbrush.
It was walking through that field that Sherlock found the remains of a dead fox.
Mycroft found the bones, wasted flesh, and lingering smell of revolting rot.
But Sherlock was pleased. He scooped up what was left of the animals remains.
It was as Mycroft watched the operation that an uneasy sensation swept over him. He turned and quickly began looking around.
To his surprise he saw a man in the bushes standing amongst the trees in the nearby forested area.
The man seemed to be staring right at them.
Mycroft looked down at his brother who was happily using a stick to sweep up a few small bones from the fox’s tail section.
“That is a spectacular specimen,” Mycroft gushed.
Sherlock smiled brilliantly showing his gap-toothed smile. “Vulpes vulpes Crucigera commonly known as the European Red Fox.”
“Kingdom?” Mycroft asked.
“Animalia,” Sherlock replied easily.
“Phylum?”
“Chordata, possess a backbone.”
“Class?”
“Mammalia.”
“It’s order?”
“Carnivora of course, because of its teeth.” That was when his brother’s face twisted up. “Honestly Mycroft, your questions have become insulting.”
“I suppose now I should help you with the correct procedure for cleaning and preparing this animals bones for ’proper’ mounting and display.”
Sherlock instantly turned away holding the shovel with the little corpse away from Mycroft as he said, “I know how to do it myself!”
“Are you sure that you don’t require my help. De-fleshing bones can be tricky. I don’t want you to harm-
Sherlock walked away without another word.
Mycroft watched for a few minutes. The boy’s steps were quick and sure. He knew where he was going, and he didn’t want company.
Mycroft looked around on the ground. He found a rock. A good sized one.
It looked dirty.
It had rained during the night and then there had been the usual fog off the lake.
Still.
He picked it up and began walking towards the trees where he’d seen the man spying on them.
Carefully, he moved forwards until he was twenty or so meters away. Then he started side stepping towards his left.
In two steps he saw a foot on the ground. A may laying on the ground. His shoes were terribly muddy as if he’d traveled by foot for at least some distance. Red mud. A high probability that he’d picked it up walking into town along the west road where Mycroft had seen the same red colored mud outside of a construction site.
Another step. The hem of suit pants. Commercially made, cotton/polyester blend. There was a discoloration. Blood. Dried.
Another step. Higher up on the leg. The pants had a wet area. A seeping wound.
Another step. The man’s legs were splayed out listlessly. Injury, exhaustion, or pretense.
Another step. His hands were in clear view. Resting on the wet ground.
Another step. Blood stains on a white dress shirt. Also dried. The bulk of a firearm on his hip. There something else, something hidden. A larger something that the man was hiding under his jacket. Two magazine pouches, empty and unsnapped. Mycroft could see from the rise and fall of his chest area that his breathing was unusually fast.
Another step. He finally saw the face. Sweaty with fever. He occasionally shivered. He was pale.
“Why are you spying on us? Are you a pedophile?”
The man suddenly laughed. A moment later he launched himself up and to the right side so he could gag and spit. After a few heaves the man slumped down.
He spat again.
Then he lay back against the tree saying, “Haven’t eaten or drank much in two days. You’d think the nausea would just go away.”
Mycroft held the rock up and demanded, “Who are you?”
The man turned to him and smiled, “I’m your best mate, Mycroft Holmes. I’ve come a long way to find you, boy. My name is Greg Lestrade.”