A Study in Terror

Chapter V The Diogenes Club

The following morning I awoke to find Holmes up and pacing. Making no reference whatever to the previous night’s misadventure, he said, “Watson, I wonder if you would inscribe a few notes for me.”

“I should be happy to.”

“I apologise for demeaning you to the role of amanuensis, but I have a special reason for wishing the details of this case to be put down in orderly fashion.”

“A special reason?”

“Very. If your time is free, we shall call this afternoon upon my brother My croft, at his club. A consultation may bear us fruit. In certain ways, you know, Mycroft’s analytical talents are superior to mine.”

“I am aware of the high respect in which you hold him.”

“Of course, his is what you might call a sedentary ability, in that he detests moving about. If a street-chair were ever invented to transport one from office to home and back again, Mycroft would be its first purchaser.”

“I do recall that he is a man of rigid routine.”

“Thus, he tends to reduce all riddles, human or otherwise, to chess-board dimensions. This is far too restrictive for my taste, but his methods are often quite stimulating, in the broader analysis.”

Holmes rubbed his hands together. “And now, let us list our actors. Not necessarily in the order of their importance, we have, first, the Duke of Shires…”

Holmes re-capitulated for an hour, whilst I took notes. Then he prowled the rooms whilst I re-arranged my notes into some semblance of order. When I had finished, I handed him the following resume. It contained information of which I had no previous knowledge, data that Holmes had gathered over-night:

Holmes ran through the resume with a dissatisfied frown. “If this accomplishes nothing else,” said he, “it shows us what a little way we have come, and how far we have still to go. It does not list the victims, who under-score our need for haste. There have been five known butcheries, and any delay on our part will no doubt add to the list. So if you will clothe yourself, Watson, we shall flag a hansom and be off to the Diogenes Club.”

Holmes sat deep in thought as we rattled over the cobble-stones, but I risked disturbing him for something that came suddenly to mind.

“Holmes,” said I, “as we were leaving the Duke of Shires’s estate, you mentioned that Lord Carfax had failed on two counts. I think I have become aware of one of them.”

“Indeed?”

“It occurs to me that he made no inquiry as to how you had come by the surgical-case. It therefore seems logical that he already knew.”

“Excellent, Watson.”

“In the light of the omission, are we justified in assuming that it was he who sent it to you?”

“We have at least a right to suspect that he knows who did.”

“Then perhaps Lord Carfax is our key to the identity of the scar-faced woman.”

“Entirely possible, Watson. However, recognising a key as such, and turning it, can be two different matters entirely.”

“I must confess that his Lordship’s second lapse has escaped me.”

“You will recall that, in Lord Carfax’s presence, I dropped the case and spilled its contents onto the floor? And that he courteously picked up the instruments?”

“Yes?”

“But perhaps you failed to note the practised skill with which he replaced them, each to its proper niche, with no hesitation whatever.”

“Why, of course!”

“And, now that you recall this, what additional information does it give you concerning his Lordship?”

“That, even though he professes no surgical knowledge or experience, he is quite familiar with the tools of surgery.”

“Precisely. A fact that we must place in our mental file for future reference. But here we are, Watson, and Mycroft awaits us.”

The Diogenes Club! I remembered it well, even though I had entered its hushed precincts but once. That had been upon the occasion when Mycroft had shifted to his more active brother’s shoulders the curious affair of the Greek Interpreter, which case I had the honour and satisfaction of recording for the pleasure of Holmes’s not inconsiderable body of admirers.

The Diogenes Club was formed by, and for the benefit of, men who chose to seek solitude in the heart of the clamourous city. It is a luxurious place, with easy-chairs, excellent food, and all the other appurtenances of creature-comfort. The rules are geared to the Club’s basic purpose, and are strictly enforced; rules devised to discourage, nay, to forbid, all sociability. Talking, save in the Stranger’s Room―into which we were soundlessly ushered―is forbidden. In fact, it is forbidden any member to take the slightest notice of any other. A tale is told―apocryphal, I am sure―of a member succumbing to a heart-attack in his chair and being found to have expired only when a fellow-member noticed that the Times propped before the poor man was three days old.

Mycroft Holmes awaited us in the Stranger’s room, having taken time off, I was later informed, from his government post, around the corner in Whitehall. This, I might add, was an unheard-of interruption of his fixed habits.

Still, neither of the brothers, upon meeting, seemed in any haste to get to the business at hand. Mycroft, a large, comfortable man with thick grey hair and heavy features, bore little resemblance to his younger brother. He extended his hand, and exclaimed, “Sherlock! You’re looking fit. Bouncing all over England and the Continent appears to agree with you.” Shifting the meaty hand to me, Mycroft said, “Dr. Watson. I had heard that you escaped from Sherlock’s clutch into matrimony. Surely Sherlock has not re-captured you?”

“I am most happily married,” I assured him. “My wife is visiting an aunt at the moment.”

“And Sherlock’s long arm reaches out instantly!”

Mycroft’s smile was warm. For an unsocial man, he had a curious talent for making one feel at ease. He had met us at the door, and now he moved towards the bow-window looking out upon one of London’s busiest streets. We followed, and the brothers stood side by side, surveying the passing scene.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “I have not been in this room since your last visit, but the faces outside never change. From the look of that street, it could have been yesterday.”

“Yet,” murmured Sherlock, “it has changed.

Old intrigues have died, new ones have been born.”

Mycroft pointed. “Those two fellows at the kerb. Are they involved in some dire plot?”

“Do you mean the lamp-lighter and the book-keeper?”

“The very men.”

“I’d say not. The lamp-lighter is consoling the book-keeper for being recently sacked.”

“I agree. The book-keeper will no doubt find a berth, but he will lose it speedily and find himself again on the street.”

I was compelled to interrupt. “Come, come,” said I, and heard myself repeating my old objections. “This is too much!”

“Watson, Watson,” chided Mycroft, “after all those years with Sherlock, I should not expect such myopia from you. Even from this distance, surely you observe the smears of ink, both black and red, upon the first man’s fingers? Just as surely, the occupational mark of the bookkeeper?”

“Observe also,” added Holmes the younger, “the ink-blot upon his collar, where he touched pen to linen, and the unpressed condition of his otherwise quite respectable suit.”

“From which is it too difficult, my dear Watson,” interposed Mycroft, with a kindliness that irritated me, “to project the man’s slovenliness to his work, and thus conjure up an irate employer?”

“An employer not only irate but unforgiving,” said Sherlock, “as evidenced by the newspaper in the book-keeper’s jacket-pocket, opened to the Situations column. Hence, he is unemployed.”

“But you said he would find a berth!” said I, testily, to Mycroft. “If the fellow is so inefficient, why should a new employer consider him?”

“Most would not, but many of the entries in the newspaper are marked, clearly for investigation. Such energy in seeking a new situation must eventually be rewarded.”

I threw up my hands. “I concede, as usual! But the other man’s being a lamp-lighter―surely that is sheer surmise on your part?”

“A little more technical,” my friend Holmes admitted. “But observe the spot that is worn shiny on his inner right sleeve, extending upwards above the cuff.”

“An unfailing mark of the lamp-lighter,” said Mycroft.

“In extending his pole to reach the gas-globe with his flame,” explained Sherlock, “he rubs the lower end of the pole against that portion of his sleeve again and again. Really elementary, Watson.”

Before I could retort, Holmes’s mood changed, and he turned from the window with a frown. “I wish our present problem were as easily solved. That is why we are here, Mycroft.”

“Give me the details,” replied his brother, with a smile. “My afternoon must not be entirely lost.”

Twenty minutes later, ensconced in easy-chairs in the Stranger’s Room, we sat in silence. It was broken by Mycroft. “Your picture is well-delineated, Sherlock, so far as it goes. But surely you are capable of solving the riddle yourself.”

“I have no doubt of that, but there is little time. Preventing further outrages is urgent. Two minds are better than one. You might well discern a point that would save me a precious day or two of searching.”

“Then let us see precisely what you have. Or, rather, precisely what you do not have. Your pieces are far from complete.”

“Of course.”

“Yet you have touched a sensitive spot somewhere, as witness the swift and murderous attack upon you and Watson. Unless you wish to ascribe it to coincidence?”

“I do not!”

“Nor I.” Mycroft tugged at an ear. “Of course, it is no cerebral feat to identify the mysterious Pierre by his true name.”

“Certainly not,” replied Holmes. “He is the Duke of Shires’s second son, Michael.”

“As to Michael’s grievous injuries, the father may be unaware of them. But Lord Carfax certainly knows of Michael’s presence at the hostel, and beyond doubt recognised his younger brother.”

“I am quite aware,” said Holmes, “that Lord Carfax has not been entirely candid.”

“He interests me. The philanthropic cloak is an admirable disguise for devilry. Lord Carfax could well have been responsible for Michael’s delivery into Dr. Murray’s care.”

“Also,” said Holmes, grimly, “for his inju-nes.

“Possibly. But you must find the other pieces, Sherlock.”

“Time, Mycroft, time! That is my problem. I must identify, quickly, the right thread in this skein, and seize upon it.”

“I think you must somehow force Carfax’s hand.”

I broke in. “May I ask a question?”

“By all means, Watson. We had no intention of excluding you.”

“I can be of little help, but certainly identifying Jack the Ripper is our first concern. Therefore I ask, do you believe we have met the murderer? Is the Rippef one of the people with whom we have come in contact?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Do you have a candidate for that dubious honour, Watson?”

“If I were compelled to make a selection, I should name the imbecile. But I must confess that I missed badly in not postulating him as Michael Osbourne.”

“On which grounds do you condemn him?”

“Nothing tangible, I fear. But I cannot forget the tableau I witnessed as we were leaving the Montague Street morgue. Dr. Murray, you will recall, commanded ‘Pierre’ to cover the unfortunate’s corpse. There was nothing conclusive in his action, but his manner made my flesh fairly crawl. He seemed entranced by the mutilated cadaver. In smoothing out the sheet, his hands ran lovingly over the cold flesh. He appeared to be enamoured of the butchery.”

There was a pause during which the brothers evaluated my contribution. Then Mycroft said, gravely, “You have made a most pertinent point, Watson. I would only say that it is difficult, as you are aware, to interpret the actions generated by a damaged mentality. However, your instinctive revulsion may be worth more than all the logic we can muster.”

“The observation is certainly to be considered,” remarked Sherlock.

I gathered the impression, however, that neither put any great stock in my statement; that they were merely being kind.

Mycroft came ponderously to his feet. “You must gather more facts, Sherlock.”

His brother clenched his hands.

It had occurred to me that this entire episode with Mycroft was not at all like the sure-footed, self-confident Sherlock Holmes I had known. I was puzzling the matter when Mycroft, speaking quietly, said, “I believe I know the source of your confusion, Sherlock. You must banish it. You have become subjective in regard to this case.”

“I fail to comprehend,” Holmes said, a trifle coldly.

“Five of the most heinous murders of the century, and perhaps more to come. If you had entered the case sooner, you might have prevented some of these. That is what gnaws at you. The acid of guilt can dull the keenest intellect.”

Holmes had no rebuttal. He shook his head impatiently, and said, “Come, Watson, the game is afoot. We stalk a savage beast.”

“And a cunning one,” said Mycroft, in clear warning. Then he said, “Sherlock, you seek a scar-faced woman. Also, one of the key-pieces that is missing, the ill-reputed wife of Michael Osbourne. What does that suggest?”

Holmes fixed his brother with an angry eye. “You must indeed feel that I have lost my faculties, Mycroft! It of course suggests that they are one and the same.”

On that note, we left the Diogenes Club.