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brother and I will conclude our business,” Sherrinford said, “and we will see you in the dining room.”
    It was a clear dismissal, and Sherlock pulled the door closed. He could feel a smile stretching across his face. Mycroft was here! The day was suddenly even sunnier than it had been a few moments before.
    â€œDid I hear your brother’s voice?” Amyus Crowe rumbled from the other side of the hall.
    â€œThat’s his carriage outside. He said he wanted to talk to you.”
    Crowe nodded soberly. “I wonder why,” he said quietly.
    â€œUncle Sherrinford said you can stay for lunch. He said they’d meet us in the dining room.”
    â€œThat seems like a plan to me,” Crowe said in a louder voice, but there was a frown on his face that belied the lightness of his words.
    Sherlock led the way into the dining room. Mrs. Eglantine was already there, standing by the wall in the shadow between two large windows. Sherlock hadn’t seen her pass him in the hall. For a moment he wondered if she might be a ghost, able to pass through walls, but he quickly decided that was a stupid idea. Ghosts didn’t exist.
    Ignoring Mrs. Eglantine, he headed for the sideboard, grabbed a plate, and began to load it up with slices of meat and chunks of salmon. Crowe followed and began at the other end of the sideboard.
    Sherlock’s head was still spinning after the sudden reappearance of his elder brother. Mycroft lived and worked in London, capital city of the Empire. He was a civil servant, working for the government, and although he often made light of his position, saying that he was just a humble file clerk, Sherlock had believed for a while that Mycroft was a lot more important than he made out. When Sherlock had been at home with his mother and father before being sent away to live with his aunt and uncle, Mycroft had sometimes come down from London to stay for a few days, and Sherlock had noticed that every day a man would turn up in a carriage with a red box. He would give it only to Mycroft in person, and in return Mycroft would hand across an envelope containing, Sherlock presumed, letters and memoranda that he had written based on the contents of the previous day’s box. Whatever he was, the government still needed to keep in touch with him every day.
    Mouth full of food, he heard the door to the library open. Moments later, the tall, stooping figure of Sherrinford Holmes entered the dining room.
    â€œAh, br ō ma the ō n ,” he proclaimed in Greek, gazing at the sideboard. Glancing in Sherlock’s direction, he said: “You may use my library, my psykh ē s iatreion , for your reunion with your brother.” Turning to Crowe, he added: “And he specifically requested that you join the two of them.”
    Sherlock put down his plate and moved quickly towards the library. Crowe followed, his long legs covering the ground quickly despite his apparent slowness of gait.
    Mycroft was standing in the same position over by the French windows. He smiled at Sherlock, then walked over and ruffled the boy’s hair. The smile slipped from his face as he glanced at Crowe, but he shook hands with the American.
    â€œFirst things first,” he said. “After quite an exhaustive investigation by the police, we have found no trace of Baron Maupertuis. We believe he has fled the country for France. The good news is that we have not found any deaths of British soldiers, or anybody else, due to bee stings.”
    â€œIt’s debatable whether Maupertuis’s plan would have worked,” Crowe said soberly. “I suspect he was mentally unstable. But it was best we didn’t take the chance.”
    â€œAnd the government is suitably grateful,” Mycroft replied.
    â€œMycroft—what about Father?” Sherlock blurted.
    Mycroft nodded. “His ship will be approaching India by now. I would expect him to disembark with his regiment within the