I, Vampire

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Part II

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Chapter One

In which things are brought more or less up to date.

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He sat, deep in thought, running the long spool of his life past his eyes. It was an exhausting process, enough to weary any normal person into sleep long ago, but he rarely slept anymore and when he did, it was a listless shadow of sleep barely worth the name. Fortunately, slumber, like many other things in his existence was something he no longer required in the conventional sense. And so he sat in this early night, still, silent and unsleeping as he did almost every night, though it might as well have been the middle of the day for all it mattered. With his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his vision was focused on the murky haze of infinity and while his eyes saw only the immediate darkness, his mind perceived the vast trail of years, of the decades and centuries that had brought him to this year, this month, this hour.

It was precisely two thousand years ago to this day that he had died.

Mycroft eased his posture and stretched a little in his chair. Though dead, he still felt discomfort when sitting too long in the same position, albeit more a psychological ache than one of poor circulation. On this day of all days, it had become impossible to keep his mind from casting itself back to his death and dwelling, self-indulgent though it was, on the events which killed him.

He was alone of course, all but the most critical work farmed out and his entire current team of brilliant technical experts, razor-sharp analysts and eagle-eyed support staff deliberately out of the way for once, and none of them due back before the following morning. This left him quiet in the eternal semi-shade of his subterranean office with a bottle of pricy scotch and hours of uninterrupted memories. And while the long train of his history had crossed some unpredictable terrain, the memories were mostly good, especially the most recent ones; good people, good results. Mostly. Of course, there were things that hadn't gone at all according to plan, but then, he was almost only human, wasn't he? He'd had solid people beside him for the last few years; worthy, dependable types who not only knew their jobs inside-out, but who had, over the years, demonstrated a rather touching loyalty. All those specialists he recalled working with were long gone now, of course, including Jude Roberts whom he'd kept as his deputy for far longer than was wise. Come the end, not even Jude was able to explain the un-aging, unchanging existence of his director; and, as with all the others before him, Kit's nephew was eventually and reluctantly moved on to higher things in a city far to the North of London. There would be no reason to ever see him again, a sad but unavoidable development. Mycroft sighed softly. Perhaps he'd been here too long himself. Perhaps it was time for him to think of moving on as well; undergoing one of the great upheavals his life had seemed to need every fifty or so years.

Yet despite the changing of the guard, the last few years had been good to him, he had to admit. He now had an immensely expansive base of power at the very heart of the British Government, dug in so very deep and so very unobtrusively that almost nobody other than himself had any real clue as to the actual extent of his influence and authority. It had taken decades, but Mycroft had insinuated delicate tendrils of control throughout the entire establishment; there was virtually no part of the British institution of governance that he was unable to command or at least affect in some way. Knowing that oversight of so many classified and critical projects would eventually fall under his personal observation would have been more than enough to terrify a normal man. But then, Mycroft acknowledged, a little dryly, he no longer really qualified.

Pouring himself a second helping of the endlessly smooth Glenlivet, he sipped as if tasting its history; thoughtfully, carefully. Deliberately.

It was ironic, really, that in some respects today might be considered his birthday ... deathday ... of sorts, for tomorrow was anniversary of a not altogether dissimilar nature. January the sixth. Sherlock's birthday, his thirty-fourth, to be precise. It would be nice to think the boy might find it in himself to make it home for the evening, if only for Kit's sake; she did miss him so and was always hopeful to see him. But Mycroft doubted Sherlock would be sufficiently sober to make it anywhere after the pharmacopic bender he'd no doubt been on. The combination of uppers and downers he took simply to try and tame the ferocity of his mind's relentless demands was a tragedy in the greatest sense.

Sighing, Mycroft swirled the amber liquid around the glass. The nightmares Sherlock had had as a child, that Kit had always said would be best treated with cuddles rather than prescriptions. But nothing other than the sedatives had seemed to work and Mycroft hadn't been able to bear the child's distress. Well, they were all paying for it now. Sherlock's insatiable desire for knowledge and experimentation, along with a childhood familiarisation of effective medications, had led the growing teen and finally the young man down ever darker avenues, trying anything and everything, because he could and because he had decided the consequences of his actions were less important than the knowledge of them. Mycroft had had several of his staff checking CCTV feed since before Christmas Eve trying to catalogue any recent sightings of the young Holmes, but so far, their efforts had gone unrewarded. And now it was a little too late to do anything. He might as well go home, share a cup of tea with Kit and do some work.

The journey to the Pall Mall house took no more time than usual; his current Jaguar melting the minutes away between his Whitehall headquarters and his private sanctuary giving him little enough space to put his thoughts to rights before he was at his front door and once more within the comforting familiarity of the home he'd kept for more than three hundred years. Walking directly into the kitchen, Mycroft expected to see Kitta Penderic seated at the kitchen table waiting for him, still as hale and hearty in her early eighties as she had been in her late fifties. Their evening meetings now as entrenched in each of their routines as was the sun in the midday sky. After twenty-five years, she still had him wondering what exotic combination of temptations she'd have ready for him in his evening libation; Mycroft paused, stopping short in the doorway to the kitchen. Kit was not alone.

"Happy New Year, Brother," Sherlock, black-suited and excessively cheery, lounged back in his usual chair, the same one he'd used all the years he'd lived here as a child. "Belated good wishes I admit, though the thought, apparently, is what counts." Leaning forward as if he were still in the habit of sitting at the table every night, he stretched out a hand towards the steaming cup of tea that had clearly just been poured for him.

Mycroft permitted a civil smile to curve the outer corners of his mouth. To maintain the façade of Mycroft's humanity, Sherlock had long ago agreed to assume the public role of younger sibling rather than ward, though of late, there seemed to be an undercurrent of derision whenever he used the term. That Sherlock's natural parents were long dead and the remnants of his few relatives were scattered across Europe made the small deception virtually impenetrable. Nobody would ever be likely to discover the truth ... unless Sherlock told them, of course.

Kit was seated across from the young Holmes as she always had from the very first day she'd decided to throw in her lot with the both of them. She smiled, pleased. "I've managed to persuade him to stay for some dinner," she grinned at her success. "Makes a nice change to be able to cook for someone other than myself, it does," she added. "But sit down now and have your usual and catch your breath," she said, standing slowly upright, her body not as limber as it once was.

Assessing the thin, dark-haired younger man, Mycroft saw that, while he looked entirely too pale, wan, almost, Sherlock did not evidence the deathly washed-out pallor of those stricken by an excess of illegal stimulants. Nor, it appeared, judging by the clarity of his eyes and the absence of shadows beneath them, as well as Sherlock's general demeanour, had he indulged in Class A drugs for several weeks. This was probably the longest time Mycroft had seen his erstwhile ward free of his ravening narcotic compulsion for a very long time. "You're looking well," he said quietly, slipping into the kitchen chair that, over the last quarter-century, had become entirely his. "Almost normal."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, smiling faintly and lifting his cup in salute. "I might say the same about you," he sipped the tea. "I am unexpectedly in splendid health, so much so that I felt the urge to offer my felicitations of the season while I was in the vicinity."

"Sherlock, my dear child," Kit sighed heavily as she shook her head. "You never could lie worth sixpence, as far as I was ever concerned, why on earth would you imagine you can do it any better now? What is it you need?" she said, meeting his gaze reprovingly at the same moment she lifted up her arm for Mycroft to see the heavy gold bracelet newly clasped around her wrist. Of thickly plaited bands of gold, the adornment was essentially a thick strip of metal but of such luxurious quality that its very simplicity was a statement unto itself. "A belated Christmas present, he says," she commented, fixing her dark eyes on a much lighter pair and raising her eyebrows in a faintly chiding manner. "As if he should be wasting his money on something like this," she sniffed, pouring Mycroft's usual glass of crystal-clear spirit, pushing the silver tray closer towards him. Tonight's extravaganza consisted of shaved mint and frozen pineapple spears, well-sprinkled with Tabasco. Mycroft smiled down at the glass of vodka. In all the years Kit had been with him, she'd never failed to surprise, either with her imagination, her determination to look after him, or her handling of Sherlock.

"Indeed," he watched as Kitta loaded his tall glass with a selection of garnish, allowing her to pour icy alcohol over it all, right to the brim. It wasn't so much a glass of vodka as it was an experience in postmodern art. "I can't recall the last time you took it upon yourself to visit us at the New Year, so obviously ..." Mycroft allowed his eyes to look the younger man up and down, "abstemious," he added, narrowing his eyes and allowing an expression of overt suspicion to take up residence on his face. "Despite the fact that it is extremely gratifying to see you so ... invigorated, I still wonder what other rationale might lie beneath this well-timed call. Is this visit professional or social?"

Rubbing the end of his nose, Sherlock made a slight face. "Bit of both, really," he said. "As you know, I've been doing a fair bit of work with the Met these last few months."

"On and off," Mycroft nodded. "Yes, of course I know, and I find the situation wholly admirable, as long as you are able to maintain your current ... temperance."

"Oh, the drugs, you mean?" Sherlock sipped his tea again. "You know I only toy with those in an attempt to alleviate the crushing boredom of cerebral inactivity," he sighed softly, sitting back and linking his fingers across his chest. "But since I've been able to tackle a few cold-cases I managed to persuade one of their inspectors to let me try, I've found my mind is much more controllable," he shrugged a shoulder. "Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast," his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "Apparently, my mind finds murder most soothing."

"You've been working with ..." Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily, seeing in his memory a name on a file. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Serious Crimes division," he nodded, tasting the extravaganza Kit had laid out for his delectation. It was ... intriguing. "I hear your endeavours have been rather successful."

"Are you still keeping tabs on me, Mycroft?" Sherlock replaced his cup with a loud clink as Kitta got up to give them the impression of privacy.

"I'll just leave you two have a nice peaceful chat then, while I get dinner, shall I?" she murmured, smiling to herself as she continued to admire the gleaming gold at her wrist. Despite their entirely different world-views, both Holmes the Elder and Younger were far too much alike for there ever to be perfect peace between them. She'd learned long ago that they relished the ability to rail at one another in their own way, no matter how vitriolic it might sound to an outsider. It was a mad sort of understanding, even a pleasurable one and Kit had no doubt that if push came to shove, each of them would gladly sacrifice their all for the other.

"About how long do we have before you'll be ready to serve dinner, Kit?" Mycroft swivelled in his seat, his eyes remaining on Sherlock's face, alert for the slightest intent that might be written there.

"At least half-an-hour, if you want to go off and have a quick game of soldiers," Kitta chortled as she stood at the sink peeling a couple of large potatoes. "Come back when you're ready."

The eyes of both men met as Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly. "I have something for you," he said, standing and leaving the kitchen, taking his drink with him.

Abandoning his tea, Sherlock made to follow, detouring at the last second to walk across to the sink, where he ducked his head and gave Kit a swift kiss on the cheek. "We never played soldiers," he corrected her. "It was always a serious battle strategy analysis, run through in real time," he added. "Though I still remember that first momentous occasion when Mycroft crawled around on the floor with me," a faint smile curved his mouth. "What does he want now?"

"Best you go and see for yourself, I 'spect," Kitta ushered him away. "I'll give you a gong when dinner's ready, same as always."

Giving her shoulder a squeeze, Sherlock smiled again before striding out through the door on Mycroft's heels. It was easy to work out which way the older man had gone; apart from the echo of his footsteps on the carpeted floor, Sherlock knew they would automatically be heading for the Library. Whenever Mycroft had anything to show anyone at all, it was inevitably in the Library.

Yet though the big double-doors were opened, there was no sign of him among his precious books and objet. Until Sherlock realised that the secret door beneath the large painting was also open, a darker shadow on a dark wall. Interesting. So the something that Mycroft had for him was sufficiently special to be kept hidden. With an intrigued twist to his mouth, Sherlock ducked his head and stepped through the beckoning doorway and down into the carefully-guarded secret that lay beneath the house. Since the very first time he'd accidently found his way in here nearly three decades earlier, Sherlock could count the number of times he'd been in here on the fingers of both hands. Not that he'd ever been forbidden, per se, but that it had always felt like an intimate form of trespass and something that even his usual curiosity fell shy of.

Mycroft had turned all the lights on as he entered his age-old sanctum; he wanted no shadows down here for this. This event called for a certain amount of visual appreciation. He turned as Sherlock caught up with him.

"Keeping secrets again. Mycroft?" Sherlock looked around the place. He'd not been down here for several years, but the mystery of the clandestine retreat never failed to entrance him, though there seemed to be distinctly less clutter than he remembered. Not only were quite a few of the shelves and cabinets empty, but several of the racks of timeworn uniforms and coats had gone as well. "A little early to be spring cleaning?"

"Merely a removal of items too far gone to be salvaged," Mycroft lifted one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Age may not weary me, nor the years condemn," he smiled fleetingly. "But unfortunately, such cannot be said of my collection," he looked around at several empty shelves; a slight melancholy to his words though his expression was wholly pragmatic. "Even with all the care I take to preserve my history, not even I can entirely hold back time." He made a rueful face. "But that's not what I had to show you," he said, turning and lifting a package from atop a nearby chest of drawers. "This is," he added, handing it over. "A little late, but as you've said yourself; it's the thought that counts. Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," he paused. "Or perhaps I should say, Happy Birthday, Brother Mine."

Glancing between the expensively-wrapped package and Mycroft's face, Sherlock's brow furrowed. The size, weight and relative dimensions suggested it was a briefcase of some description, though perhaps a shade more in length than convention dictated. Tapping his knuckles on a hard exterior that lay immediately beneath the wrapping seemed to confirm this. But why would Mycroft give him a briefcase, or something in a briefcase, and why save it for Christmas, a supposedly special event in itself? An unusual gift, of sorts, in that case.

"Perhaps if you deduced rather less and unwrapped rather more, you might answer all your questions," Mycroft folded his arms in moderately good humour.

"And where's the fun in that?" Sherlock shook the case gently, but whatever it held was either most securely fixed, or there was additional padding within. Yet the weight was minimal, thus whatever was inside, could not be terribly large or terribly heavy. What would someone like Mycroft give him for a Christmas present that was so special it needed to be hidden away down here? Other than a sword, it wouldn't be a weapon, and the package was entirely the wrong shape for a sword, or even an ancient gun, come to that. Nor a book, either, for such a thing would surely not be presented in such a manner, and Mycroft was the great collector of books, not he. Nor would it be clothing or jewellery or fine art, for the same reason. Narrowing his eyes in thought, Sherlock stood, holding the case between his outstretched hands.

"If you insist on waiting until next Christmas to open the damn thing, then I'll have time to get you a second gift," Mycroft spoke archly as he reached for his neglected vodka.

"Oh, very well," Sherlock growled, his curiosity finally getting the better of him, holding the packaged securely in one arm and ripping the expensive wrapping off with the other. As he has assumed, a longish, attaché case of black aluminium, with a single, six-dial combination lock, all the dials currently set to zero. The case was locked, of course. Sherlock smiled. Though Mycroft clearly wanted the gift to be opened immediately, he wasn't going to take all the fun out of the situation. "Might be 25-12-10," he mused, "but as I cannot imagine even you being that prosaic, and given your previous comment, then you'd most likely expect me to go with my birthdate," he said, lifting his fingers, only to pause, thoughtfully. "But you'd know exactly what I'd be thinking, and because you fancy yourself quite the evil mastermind, you'd find it impossible to resist at least a small detour into the irritating," he paused again. "Which means a reversal at the very minimum," he added, rapidly thumbing the six dials to 76-01-06. The very solid-sounding lock gave a substantial click before springing open beneath his fingers. What lay within, carefully embraced by a custom-shaped, dark foam interior and gleaming in the subtly overhead lighting, was a very old violin.

Golden yellow wood streaked with the darkness of age and use around the neck and the fret holes. The faintest scent of violin-polish reached his nose as Sherlock, hardly daring to breathe, lifted the instrument delicately from its black nest.

"This is a genuine Bergonzi," he murmured, turning the thing over and over in his fingertips, stroking down the back of the delicately formed instrument with a lover's touch. "A number of highly considered experts rate him above Stradivarius and Amati and ..." his voice faded into silence. "It's exquisite," he whispered, his eyes flitting from one point of observation to the next. "Sublime." He looked across to a pair of dark blue eyes housed in a frame now only fractionally taller than his own. "Why?" he asked. "This must have cost a literal fortune; what's to stop me whipping around to Christies and snagging what must be the best part of a million quid, if not more?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose, his gaze unmoving.

"And do you think that's a likely prediction of your actions, Sherlock?" Mycroft's smile was benign and unaffected. "If it's only money you want, you know you but have to say."

"This isn't one of the named Bergonzis," Sherlock muttered, ignoring the comment, his eyes strafing the glowing instrument in his hands. "I know them all, and none have been on the open market since the Pennington violin sold last year in New York for almost five million dollars," he paused again, a sharply breathless quality to his words. "And while this is not perhaps one of his top echelon, it's not far off," he added, almost feverishly. "It's a stupendous piece of art ..." he looked up again, his eyes wide. "Why?"

"Because I knew you would be the one to appreciate it most," Mycroft's smile grew softer. "Because I wanted to give you something you'd never forget for the rest of your life, no matter what," he added, raising his hand slowly, awkwardly, allowing it to rest briefly on Sherlock's shoulder for a second, no more. "Because," he blinked and looked away.

"Then you will have no excuse to avoid accepting this, will you?" Still cradling the violin in one hand, Sherlock reached inside his jacket pocket with the other to withdraw a small, oblong-ish packet. Holding it lightly between a finger and thumb, he held it out for Mycroft to take. "I knew it had to be yours as soon as I saw it," he said. "While not in the same league as a Bergonzi, I think it might do."

Frowning, Mycroft accepted the package almost reluctantly, holding it in the palm of one hand. Measuring no more than three inches by four, it felt unusually solid against his skin. Wrapped and tied in the finest kid suede, Mycroft weighed it carefully. An ounce or two, no more, thus unlikely to be metallic and it lacked the heft of stone. Other than cufflinks and a tie-pin, he wore no jewellery as a rule, therefore it was unlikely to be a jeweller's box; besides, it felt more solid than that. Wood, perhaps? But why would Sherlock give him such a thing, so meticulously wrapped? Therefore, not wood, but something else. Something solid, with a slight weight, but weighty enough. Something neither of metal nor stone nor of jewels or gold, yet still wrapped with the very greatest of care ... he felt his eyebrows rise of their own accord. There were other things that satisfied these metrics.

"If you insist on waiting until next Christmas to open the damn thing, then I'll have time to get you a second gift," Sherlock stole Mycroft's words just as he stole his half-empty glass, taking a swig and screwing up his face as the high-proofed liquor burned through him. "Good grief ... how can you continually drink this stuff?" he manfully refrained from choking.

Ignoring Sherlock's pathetic protestations, and with his frown edging into the mildly suspicious, Mycroft nevertheless turned his attention to the small suede bow, tugging at it carefully until it gave way, allowing him to unfold the remaining leather to reveal ...

"Dear god," he exhaled slowly. "The book of Jardin d'Eve, created by order of French monarch Carl IV by Parisian masters in 1325," he hissed, fingertips caressing the tiny silver snaps that kept the miniature volume closed. Unclipping them with the touch of a fingernail, the triple gold edged pages and the consummately beautiful illustrations shone in the overhead lights. "It's magnificent," he bit his lip as the diminutive art work opened at his touch. "How on earth did you find this?" he demanded, his eyes searching the younger man's face before immediately returning to feast on the jewel before them. "And how did you secure it? These things are pursued by some of the most determined and wealthy collectors in the world ..." Mycroft hesitated. "And Kit's bracelet," he said, unwilling to ask but needing to know. "How?"

Taking another sip of Mycroft's vodka before handing it back, Sherlock gave a one-shouldered, nonchalant shrug as he refocused on the Bergonzi. "I have friends in low places," he said. "Plus, a couple of the old cases I managed to solve had substantial rewards attached to them," he made a face. "Not the reason I solved them, of course, but they refused to give the money to charity, so I thought I would, yet then I remembered the date, so ..." a second shrug. "It seems I might actually be able to make a reasonable living at it," a noncommittal moue shaped his mouth as a third small shrug rolled his shoulders.

Three shrugs? Mycroft tore his fascinated attention away from the book and paid proper consideration to the boy's face, for in his heart, Sherlock would always be the child he could never father. Usually the most articulate of vocal peers, suddenly the young Holmes seemed reduced to the language of mute physicality. "Make a reasonable living at what?" Mycroft's gaze wandered back and fore, his observational skills directed impartially and for once with clinical intensity upon that most cherished of humans. Was the boy ... self-conscious?

"I have become a Detective," Sherlock squared his shoulders and stood tall, almost as tall as his surrogate sire. "A Consulting Detective, in fact," he added. "I invented the job; there is none other."

"The work you've been doing with the police has become that important to you?" Mycroft received an answer to his own question from the look on Sherlock's face.

"It has, Mycroft," the first signs of a smile reshaped the narrow, pale features. "When I'm working on a case, a real case that utterly baffles all others, I feel my mind expanding, I could almost swear I feel my blood surging through my veins," his expression said it all. Mycroft recognised the signs of immutable fascination; he knew the sensation only too well. How easy it was to become so entranced by seemingly insurmountable challenges as to feast on their very possibility. He sighed knowingly, nodding again.

"And how do they treat you, these police?" he asked, wondering. "Don't they find you a little ... threatening?"

Wrinkling his nose and reminding Mycroft of the nine-year old he once was, Sherlock waggled a hand back and forth, the universal sign for uncertain. "They're all pretty incompetent, of course," he said, dismissively, "though DI Lestrade is probably the least incapable of the lot; he's able to ask some fairly probing questions even if he can't see the answers right in front of him. Most of the others are quite beyond the pale. Utterly useless."

"Then let us return upstairs so that I may better examine the wondrous new addition to my collection, while Kit explores a new reality of cooking while wearing that great golden handcuff you've bought her, and you might possibly consider playing us a piece or two to test the mettle of your own recent acquisition, hmm?" Mycroft paused, smiling quietly. "I think I have a bottle of the Krug Private Cuvée hidden away, and this does appear to be a time for a celebration of sorts, and you can enthral us with your lurid adventures in the company of the Metropolitan constabulary."

There was the distant sound of an ancient brass gong being struck; Kit's age-old call to dinner. Returning the precious Bergonzi to its case, the two Holmes men filed their way through the still densely-packed basement and back up into the golden-lit library.

Sherlock found he was smiling; it had been a long time since he'd felt this comfortable in his own skin. Perhaps, after all, he'd finally discovered something that might occupy his whole mind. It would be a first, if nothing else. Stepping into the warm fug of the old kitchen, Kit was just about to serve them up a pair of steaks that would supply his iron needs for a month.

"Still trying to fatten me up?" Sherlock sat in his usual spot, smiling up at the indefatigable old woman.

"Well, you always did get a mite wan-like this time of the year," she observed, taking her own seat and smiling up at Mycroft who'd just popped the cork of a very expensive bottle of bubbly. "And I need to keep my own strength up if I have to start carting this thing around," she grinned, flouncing her golden bangle. "What are we celebrating?" she asked, surprised but entirely happy to take the flute of champagne Mycroft handed her.

"Murder," Sherlock clinked their glasses together and grinned.

###

Though it was getting late, Ellis B. Wilde sat on the edge of an opened packing crate in the main loading dock at the back of the Museum of London in Aldersgate on the London Wall. In one hand, she held a steaming mug of tea; in the other, an eighteenth-century military cocked hat, complete with faded red rosette. It had been well worn and could not possibly join any of the collections without at least a basic restoration, but it was a unique and fabulous-looking thing. Putting it back down on the case next to hers, she picked up a boxed pair of golden epaulets, frayed and tarnished though they might be, they were undoubtedly spectacular. "How many boxes, did you say?" she asked, turning her head slightly to meet the eyes of Ron Oliver, Senior Curator of the museum's Military Dress Collection.

"About twenty of the big boxes with the uniforms, and then at least another dozen or so with a whole range of kit accessories; field gear, ceremonial dress... even a small collection of battle honours and pennants," he added, sounding entirely dazed by the unexpected windfall. "They were all stacked up against the rear delivery entrance as neat as you like when we opened up early this morning," he blinked several times and shook his head. "I know we've just had Christmas, but even I can't work out how anyone could have gotten around the back with what must have been a fairly decent-sized van to cart all these boxes," he shook his head again. "Not an alarm, not a sign of breaking in, nothing," Ron Oliver shrugged mightily.

"Don't you have to have CCTV these days to keep the insurers happy? All the other museums do," Ellis picked up the dark felt hat again, smoothing out the stiffer silk of the coiled rosette beneath a gentle index finger.

"Yeah, and that's another thing that's so strange about the whole situation," Ron's voice took on a more worried tone. "We've got six of the ruddy cameras out the back yet every single one of them went offline between midnight and two o'clock last night," he sighed heavily. "Something bloody odd's going on around here, I can tell you."

Ellis nodded thoughtfully. Breaking and entering into a museum these days for the purpose of theft was an unfortunate occasional reality. Breaking and entering for the purpose of gifting was a distinctly different thing. "Has anything like this happened before?" she asked, sipping her tea and lifting the lid on another box a couple of feet away. The rather bedraggled sleeve of a gold-frogged coat-cuff caught her eye. "And is it all British?"

"We get small bequests all the time," Ron still sounded a little stunned. "But never anything on this scale and yes," he exhaled gustily. "Everything I've looked at is British military; some of it as far back as the sixteen-hundreds. Sodding amazing, is what it is, though I doubt if we'll ever know where it all came from."

Nibbling at the edge of her mug, Doctor Ellis Wilde, Research Historian and now impossibly intrigued citizen of London, decided that particular piece of knowledge would be a rather nice thing to have.