The Mycroft Protocol - an excerpt...

Eddy Newbolt was woken by the sound of rattling.

It started off quite softly – a faint clatter reverberating through the walls of the old Victorian townhouse. Eddy lay on his back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, half wondering if he’d even heard anything to begin with.

But then it got louder.

He sat up in the big, sturdy bed and listened intently.

Definitely rattling.

It was coming from downstairs. Rattle, rattle, rattle, followed by a few seconds respite. Then another chorus of rattling.

And it was getting louder. More desperate.

Throwing back the heavy duvet, Eddy rolled out of bed. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet.

Downstairs, the rattling continued.

He paused, peering around the bedroom for a weapon.

Eddy was staying in his brother’s house – he had been ever since his older sibling had disappeared off the radar a few months ago.

Elliott, Eddy’s older brother, might not have kept axes, swords and baseball bats around, but he was something of an amateur golfer, so there was a leather bag containing titanium clubs leaning against the wardrobe.

Tip-toeing across the room, Eddy reached into the bag and selected a driver.

Suitably armed – and clad only in his Union Jack boxers – the redheaded young man pushed open the bedroom door and crept onto the landing.

There was another sudden flurry of rattling from downstairs.

It continued for a full thirty seconds – rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle. Whatever was going on downstairs, it was angry and it didn’t mind being overheard.

Raising the golf club like a baseball bat, Eddy crept down the creaking stairs.

In the living room, it was dark. Heavy velvet curtains doused the early morning light and only a few, bright beams shone across the floorboards.

The rattle rattled.

Eddy froze, cocking his head to identify the source of the noise.

Rattle, rattle.

It was coming from the downstairs loo – located beneath the stairs.

The door was shut, but a bright border of light encircled the frame. Somebody was in the toilet – and by the rattling, they couldn’t get out.

The door shook violently. The lock rattled so hard, the painting of a Siamese cat on the wall rattled with it.

Eddy gripped the golf club tightly.

He crept across the floorboards, his breath rattling in his lungs. Reluctantly releasing one hand from the club, he reached forward and closed his trembling fingers around the battered brass doorknob.

He turned it.

The door burst open.

Eddy Newbolt screamed in fright.