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“Wha—”
The word cut off almost before it began, utter surprise ruthlessly strangled beneath the club rules. Mycroft looked up as the retired guard nearly left a face print on the window, then darted out of the room. Now what could that entail?
He had no idea, nor did he particularly care. Anything occurring outside would fall under the club guards’ purview, anyway, and he refocused on the fire, glad to be left to his thoughts.
Except for the scraping sound that came next. Low grumbles carried from…somewhere, too muffled to form words. Rhythmic grinding that suggested construction work followed. Growing steadily louder, metal scraped on brick to pull his attention to the physical once more. A moment isolated the noise to the window, and curiosity finally won out. One smooth movement gained his feet and peered through the glass.
Normal pedestrians. Normal hawkers. Normal cabbies rushing on their way. All seemed fine at first glance, but the noise continued. He left his concealed position beside the window to look down.
Where he found a dark-haired man steadily climbing the bricks like some rugged explorer transplanted to the center of London. Sudden understanding silently finished the “What in the blazes” that the other man had started even as a hand signal brought the matter to his guard’s attention. Riston took one look and hurried away, and Mycroft faced a choice. Return to his chair? Or watch?
Watch, he decided, and with security handling the blatant attempt at intrusion—the man had chosen the front of the building, after all, and many pedestrians already lingered to gawk—he cracked the window for sound and leaned against the wall to maintain a modicum of cover while watching the show.
Riston communicated the problem to Harris, who had taken post at the front door. Harris in turn involved the club’s guards before joining several others outside on the walk below Mycroft. Several minutes tried and failed to talk him down—Mycroft barely caught something about the man “practicing to become a spy,” but distance and angle muffled most of the conversation—before Harris’ reliable Colt took careful aim.
“Cor blimey!”
The single gunshot shattered both the brick above the man’s hand and Sergeant Farley’s composure. A novel thumped carpet as the man quickly descended back to solid ground, but Mycroft turned to find the sergeant looking wildly around the room, eyes slightly too wide. Scuffing his shoe against the rug caught Farley’s attention, where a wave referenced the clicking handcuffs outside. Battle reflexes eased once Farley tied the noise to its cause, and Mycroft watched just long enough to see the arriving Yarders load the stranger into a growler before he returned to his chair. He would speak with the others later about neglecting Farley’s warning. He had seen the doctor startle enough times to know a reflexive alert when he heard one.
That could wait, though. For now, with the would-be intruder removed, he could enjoy the last hours of his evening.
Perhaps the kitchens still had a piece of that Christmas cake?