The Brothers of Baker Street (2 page)

But at the moment, he didn’t want to talk. And the papers she held in her hand didn’t look like something he wanted to see.

“A new brief?” he said, doubtfully, without breaking stride.

“No,” she chirped. “Letters to—”

“Put them where I said earlier,” said Reggie.

Reggie entered the sanctuary of his chambers office. He closed the door behind him and spread the
Daily Sun
out on his desk. He followed the page-two headline teaser deeper, past a large Tesco advert and a smaller, cleverly self-deprecating one for Marmite, until he got to the back pages. And there it was:

“‘On with it or off with it?’” read the caption. And there was Laura Rankin, caught on a beach in Phuket with some man’s hands—“an unnamed but well-known media mogul” said the text—either fastening or unfastening her bikini top, and doing so with more points of contact than should have been mechanically necessary.

The gall was astonishing. Lord Buxton had actually published a pic in Lord Buxton’s own paper of Lord Buxton’s hand trying to fondle Laura’s lightly freckled left—

Bloody hell. This would not do.

Reggie read to the end of the short piece, and saw that the unnamed but well-known media mogul was said to be flying in his well-known private jet right back to his well-known media headquarters in London later on that same day the photo was taken—his apparent mission of adjusting Laura’s bikini top having been accomplished. The
Daily Sun
wondered in print, “Will the lady soon follow?”

The lady will return to London, thought Reggie, but not following after the bloody well-known media mogul.

Reggie grabbed his raincoat and headed for the door. If the
Daily Sun
had the itinerary right, Buxton should be back at work in the Docklands at that very moment. Reggie could be there in twenty minutes and help jolt him out of his jet lag.

Then the phone rang, from the secretary’s internal line, and Reggie felt obliged to pick up.

“What the hell is it?” he said, into the phone.

There was an anxious pause at the other end, as the new secretary regrouped.

“Sorry,” said Reggie. “What is it, Lois?”

“A Mr. Rafferty wants to see you,” said Lois. “From Dorset House Leasing Division.”

This could not be good.

“I’m very sorry,” continued Lois. “He called earlier, but you seemed so preoccupied when you came in—”

“Quite all right,” said Reggie. “My mistake.”

And now he had to choose.

Deal with the emissary from the leasing committee …

Or go to the Docklands to confront Buxton.

Discuss annoying details with a man in wire-rim glasses …

Or thrash the man who was stealing Laura, and with justification that every court in the land would understand.

Easy decision.

Reggie exited his office and went to the lift. Rafferty and the lease could wait. Lord Buxton’s unsolicited and unnecessarily public contact with Laura’s breasts could not.

The lift arrived from the ground floor, and the door opened.

“Heath! There you are!”

It was Alan Rafferty—a smallish man with a tendency toward very expensive gray suits and what Reggie suspected was a bit of a Napoleonic complex, deriving in part, no doubt, from his position of power on the leasing board. He had some documents in one hand and a prepackaged sandwich in the other.

“I thought you might have forgotten,” said Rafferty, cheerily. “You all right, Heath? You look a little pink.”

“Perhaps this can wait until the afternoon?” said Reggie.

“Oh, no,” said Rafferty. He said it calmly, with a confident smile. “I have your lease right here. Started to look at it, then thought I should pop down for a bite first. Egg and cucumber salad. Quite good, I think they’ve changed the recipe. But now that I’ve got the lease out, you may as well ride back up with me, don’t you think?”

That was ominous. Rafferty did indeed have the lease right there in his hand, and his thumb was pressing so hard against one particular section that it was probably going to leave a permanent mark.

“I trust it won’t take long,” said Reggie, remaining in the lift. They rode up to the top floor.

There really wasn’t much to the top level. It was mostly just shining hardwood floor and windows. But Dorset House wasn’t the first financial institution to occupy the premises; perhaps they just hadn’t gotten around to making full use of it yet.

Rafferty’s office was at the far end, tucked away, with just a small desk and two chairs.

“Interesting story in there,” said Rafferty as Reggie sat down. Rafferty seemed to be indicating the copy of the
Daily Sun
that Reggie still had under his arm.

“Hardly relevant to my lease, is it?” said Reggie. He assumed Rafferty was referring to the thing about Laura in Phuket, and he made no effort to disguise his annoyance. He folded the paper again to half its current size and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

“Not today’s paper,” replied Rafferty. “Three days ago. But perhaps you hadn’t seen it? Have a look.”

Rafferty took a three-day-old copy of the
Daily Sun
out of his desk drawer, opened to the intended section, and handed it to Reggie.

Reggie looked.

The headline was “Balmy Barrister of Baker Street.”

He had seen it before. The story was a sensationalized account, mostly inaccurate but not quite libelous, of Reggie’s unfortunate trip to Los Angeles three weeks earlier, and the letters to Sherlock Holmes—which continued to arrive at Reggie’s Baker Street Chambers—that had initiated it.

“This is old news,” said Reggie. “I’m not happy about it; but there you are.” The
Daily Sun
had in fact run more than one of these stories. He had considered calling the reporter to complain, but his better sense told him that complaining to a tabloid writer would be like teasing a chimpanzee.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not being caught up on my reading,” said Rafferty. “I only just saw the story yesterday.”

Rafferty looked expectantly across at Reggie.

Reggie looked expectantly back.

“And?”

“Well, of course,” said Rafferty, “it does have some small relevance to your lease, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I think you’ll have to spell it out for me.”

“Certainly,” said Rafferty. “I have it right here, let me see … yes, right here. Article 3d, paragraph 2a, of addendum G. Would you like to read it?”

Reggie already knew what paragraph 2a said. He was painfully aware of it, and he had been avoiding this conversation with Rafferty ever since returning to London.

The best he could do now was to feign ignorance. He picked up the document.

“‘Additional Duties of the Lessee,’” Reggie read aloud.

“That would be you,” said Rafferty, helpfully.

Reggie gave Rafferty the look that handy tip deserved, and Rafferty settled back in his seat a bit. Reggie read the clause, though he did not give Rafferty the satisfaction of hearing it aloud:

The undersigned lessee is aware and acknowledges that Dorset House occupies the portion of the 200 block of Baker Street that has historically been regarded as containing the residence of the Fictional Character known as Sherlock Holmes, that correspondence addressed to said Fictional Character is known to be delivered to the second above-ground floor at Dorset House, and that as the primary occupant of that floor, lessee shall have the duty of replying daily to said correspondence with the form letter attached to this codicil as Exhibit A. Under no circumstances shall lessee reply to said correspondence in any other manner other than sending said form letter.

Should the undersigned lessee violate the above provisions, or fail to execute the duties described therein in any way, the leasehold shall be terminated, payment for the entire amount of the unfulfilled tenancy shall become immediately due and payable, and the lessee shall vacate the premises forthwith.

“The remedy seems a little extreme,” said Reggie, after he had finished reading.

“Which?” said Rafferty, innocently. “The termination of the leasehold, or the immediate payment of—”

“Bloody all of it,” said Reggie.

“Well, but then of course you did sign it, did you not?” said Rafferty. “But there’s another matter. And that is the current letters.”

“I promise you I am not about to jet off to America or anywhere else again in response to any of these damned letters. In fact—”

“In fact, you have not responded to any of them at all since your return. Is that what you were going to say, Mr. Heath?”

“Well … yes.”

“We find that unacceptable.”

“We?”

Rafferty cleared his throat, and hesitated for the first time since the conversation had begun. “The committee,” he said.

“I thought it was just you in charge of internal leasing. There’s an entire leasing committee?”

“Well, yes, there is a committee,” said Rafferty, quickly. “But the point is, I’m sure this single violation of the rules for handling the letters can be overlooked, assuming that no others occur, mind you, if only—”

“If only—what?”

“If only you will resume responding to the letters again. I mean, in the manner that you are supposed to. In the manner that it states in the codicil.”

“You’re saying that your big complaint is not my trip to America that was instigated by one of these bloody things, but that I have allowed a few of them to go unanswered since my return?”

Reggie said that with some heat. It was difficult to remain calm about the letters. If it had not been for the earlier ones, his younger brother, Nigel, would not have run off to Los Angeles, Reggie would not have followed, none of the Los Angeles events would have transpired, and Reggie would never have felt obliged on principle to blow the whistle on a company that he himself had invested in through Lloyd’s of London. His own finances would not now be teetering as a result, and solicitors would not be avoiding his chambers out of fear it could not survive.

Granted, no good deed goes unpunished. But he had not been intending a good deed. Only what had to be done. So the outcome should have been better.

But that was history, and Rafferty was continuing. “Not just a few letters, Mr. Heath. By the cleaning lady’s estimate, there must be fifty or more unanswered letters accumulated now. And our complaint is both—that you responded to one in person, and that you have not been responding to the others at all since your return.”

“And you’re saying you can overlook the former, if I resume the latter.”

“We can overlook that one occurrence, yes. But it must not happen again. And you must resume responding to the current incoming letters—in the appropriate manner—immediately.”

“Well, it may take me a bit. My brother is still in the States, and there’s no one else to—”

“Immediately, Mr. Heath. Even if it means licking the envelopes yourself.”

Reggie looked Rafferty in his watery eyes. Rafferty blanched—but did not back down.

“Immediately,” he said again. “You are at least two weeks behind already.”

Reggie smiled patiently. Sometimes one could get around the specifics of a lease, and sometimes one could not.

“Very well,” said Reggie, standing. He towered over Rafferty. “I’ll see to it.”

Reggie exited the leasing office. On his way down in the lift, he took out his mobile phone to ring Nigel in Los Angeles.

There was a time zone difference, of course. But Reggie didn’t much give a damn at the moment.

The phone rang just twice before someone picked up.

“What time is it?” said Nigel. He sounded groggy.

“Almost noon,” said Reggie.

“For you, maybe,” said Nigel, speaking in a low voice. “Here it’s … it’s … I don’t know what bloody time it is, but it’s pitch-black out. Even Mara is still asleep.”

“I need a favor. I’m going to overnight you a package. I need you to respond to the bloody things.”

“What bloody things?”

“Letters.”

There was a silence at Nigel’s end. Then—

“You mean
the
letters?”

“Yes.”

“You told me to never touch the things again.”

“Better you than me.”

Reggie heard Nigel first laugh and then pause briefly, apparently considering it.

“Will do,” said Nigel. “You pay the postage.”

“Gladly,” said Reggie.

Reggie shut off the phone, got out of the lift, and went to Nigel’s former office to get the letters.

The in-basket that Nigel had used for them was still there. That was intentional. Reggie didn’t want the letters to Sherlock Holmes cluttering up his own office. And he didn’t want them getting in the way of new briefs, the instructions from solicitors with new cases, that Lois would be placing in his office—if they ever began to roll in again.