An Ensuing Evil and Others

THE KIDNAPPING OF MYCROFT HOLMES

Iwas watching the face of my estimable friend, Sherlock Holmes, who sat opposite me at the breakfast table. He was examining the telegraph that Mrs. Hudson had brought up with the tea tray, his features mirroring his perplexity. The tea was left untouched.

“Some bad news, Holmes?” I ventured, no longer able to contain my curiosity.

He glanced up and blinked. Then he held out the flimsy sheet of paper toward me. “A most singular communication from my brother, Mycroft.”

I took the telegraph and read: Should anything happen to me, do not trust the man who is Gentle. If I disappear, look for me near the Lump of Goats in the land of the Race of Ciar.-Mycroft.

I started to chuckle. “Is he fond of a tipple, this brother of yours?” I said. “It sounds as though he were the worse for a glass or two when he wrote it.”

But Holmes’s face was serious, and he seemed concerned. “You do not know Mycroft. It is some cipher that I must solve. He must be in trouble if he cannot telegraph me in plain language.”

Holmes retired to his armchair, and soon I became aware of the wreath of smoke rising slowly from his pipe. It reminded me that I was short on tobacco and so, finishing my breakfast, I went out to the local tobacconist. I also bought a newspaper. When I returned, barely fifteen minutes later, I found Holmes in a high state of agitation.

“Watson,” he cried as I entered, “thank God you have returned. I need you to accompany me on a short trip.”

“Whatever is the matter, dear fellow?” I demanded, never having seen him moved to such emotion before.

“You’ll need an overnight case,” he went on, not heeding my question, “and pack your service revolver. I fear that there may be difficult times ahead.”

“Where are we off to?” I inquired.

“Dublin,” he said shortly.

“To Ireland?” I was astonished. “Whatever for?”

He turned to me with a haunted look in his eyes. “I received another telegraph but ten minutes ago. It is my brother, Mycroft. He has been kidnapped.”

It seems that I should pause in my narrative to make some explanation of those matters that Holmes was always reticent about my sharing with the English public in the accounts I made of his adventures. Of course, to the discerning eye, many clues as to the nature of Holmess background have been plainly visible in my chronicles, although it was at his insistence that I never clearly spelled them out. I refer to the fact that Sherlock Holmes is Irish or, to be more precise, AngloIrish. Holmes had, however, a fear of prejudice, and this was not without cause. Therefore, I have promised him (and stipulated to my executors) that my accounts of those cases directly concerned with his background, such as the one I am about to relate, will not be released until one hundred years after his death.

Sherlock Holmes was of the Holmes family of Galway, which settled in Ireland in the seventeenth century. His uncle, Robert Holmes, was the famous Galway barrister whom the Irish have to thank for the organization of their National Schools. The Sherlock family on his mothers side, after which he was named, arrived in Meath at the time of Henry IFs invasion of Ireland. He achieved distinction at Trinity College, Dublin, before winning a scholarship to Oxford-emulating his equally brilliant friend from Dublin, Oscar Wilde. His Irish background led to his interest in the Celtic languages and his subsequent authorship of such monographs as Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language.

It was shortly after we met that I realized the acuteness of his ear in linguistic manners.

“Watson,” he had said reflectively. “A name very common in northeast Ulster. I detect a County Down diction. You are probably descended from the old Scottish family of Mac Bhaididh, for that is usually Anglicized as Watson or MacWhatty or MacQuatt.”

“Astounding, Holmes!” I gasped. “How did you know? I began my education in England at the age of seven!”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.” He smiled mischievously. “You still retain the rising inflection at the ends of sentences. The musical rhythm of an accent is harder to displace than pronunciation.”

It may also be remembered that Holmess two greatest antagonists-Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran-shared his Irish background. Indeed, like seems to have attracted like. Had I a gold sovereign for every time someone with an Irish name and background crossed our path, I would be a rich man. Take our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Many visitors who lacked a fine ear mistook her as Scottish, and Holmes (who was possessed of a perverse sense of humor) was not loath to play up this charade. She was, in actuality, an Irish lady who had been married to one of the numerous Hudsons of Kilbaha in County Kerry.

I make this brief digression merely so that the background to this extraordinary story may be more fully appreciated.

Holmes had been summoned to Dublin that day-a little over a year since we’d first met-by a laconic telegraph that read: Mycroft kidnapped. Meet me at Merrion Square. Superintendent Mallon, DMP. He explained that his brother, Mycroft, had his rooms in Merrion Square. DMP stood for the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

Having caught the nightboat train at Paddington, we arrived at Kingstown, the port near Dublin, in the early hours of Saturday morning May 6, 1882. I make mention of the date for the sake of the more historically minded reader, as this was an historic time for Ireland and its relations with Britain. During the journey-a wild, dark trip across the stormblown Irish sea spent mainly in the first class lounge nursing whiskeys to keep down the mal de mer-Holmes told me something of his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft was seven years older than Holmes, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, who had decided to make his career in Dublin Castle, the seat of the imperial administration in Ireland. He worked in the fiscal department of the Under Secretary, a permanent official who was head of the Civil Service. According to Holmes, his brother was possessed of a brilliant mind but was indolent and not given to sports or physical exercise and so was heavy in build.

“Why would anyone want to kidnap him?” I queried. “Is kidnapping usual in Ireland?”

Holmes replied with a shake of his head. “Not at all. But it does not escape my notice that there is some political unrest in the country at this time. Have you been following Irish political events in the newspapers?”

I confessed that I had not and was surprised that Holmes had been, as he had always confessed his knowledge of political matters to be feeble. After this exchange, Holmes became moody and refused to speculate further.

The journey from Kingstown into Westland Row, via the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, was made in morose silence. Holmes now and then would take out the two telegraphs he had received and examine them with a deep furrow of concentration on his broad brow.

Alighting from the train at Westland Row Railway Station, Holmes ignored the cabbies and conducted me, with unerring step, to a magnificent square of Georgian houses a short walk from the station. He went directly to one of the terraced buildings and paused before the door. I saw that it was ajar. Holmes pushed at it tentatively. It swung open, revealing a shadowy, cavernous hallway.

“Mycroft’s rooms are on the second floor,” he explained as I followed him inside and up the stairs.

He halted before a door with a glimmering gaslight beside it, which illuminated a small brass frame affixed to one of the wooden panels. A card inserted in the frame read MYCROFT HOLMES, ARTIUM BACCALAUREUS. Holmes tapped on the door. It swung open immediately, and a large, floridfaced uniformed constable stood scowling at us.

“Is Mallon here?” asked Holmes before the constable could speak. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“Superintendent Mallon is…,” began the constable ponderously, but another man, seeming to be in his early forties, quickly appeared at his shoulder.

“I am John Mallon,” he said. There was no disguising his Ulster accent. “I have heard of you from my colleague Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You are the younger brother of Mr. Mycroft Holmes? I suppose by your presence here that you must have heard the news? Well, there is nothing that I can tell you at this stage. You should not have made the journey-”

Holmes cut him short by handing him one of the telegraphs. I perceived that it was the one summoning Holmes to Dublin, which had seemed to be sent by Mallon.

The detective glanced at it, and a frown gathered on his brow. “I did not send this,” he said.

“So I have gathered. The questions are-who did and why?”

Mallon glanced at the paper again. “This was sent from the GPO in Sackville Street. Anyone could have sent it.”

“Curious that you are here to meet me in accordance with the summons.”

“Coincidental. No one knew I was coming here until midnight last night. That was when the local police notified me that your brother was missing.”

At this stage, Mallon stood aside and gestured for Holmes to enter his brothers rooms. I followed and was met with a look of disapproving query.

“This is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson,” explained Holmes, at which Mallon reluctantly acknowledged my existence before calling out, “MacVitty!”

At the summons, a tall cadaverouslooking man came from an inner room. He was dressed so that no one would doubt that he was exactly what he appeared to be-a gentleman’s gentleman. Mallon inquired whether MacVitty had sent the telegraph to London. The man shook his head. Then he turned his keen eyes on Holmes and greeted him as one known of old. “It’s good to see you again, Master Sherlock, but I’d rather it were under better conditions.”

“I gather that you summoned the police, MacVitty,” Holmes replied kindly. “Let’s hear the details.”

“Not much to tell. Master Mycroft was expected home on Thursday night. He was going to dine in and not at his club. He gave me specific orders to have a sea trout and a chilled bottle of PouillyFume ready. When he did not turn up, I thought he had changed his mind. But then Mr. O’Keeffe came down. He said that he had been invited to brandy and cigars. Mr. O’Keeffe works with Master Mycroft at the Castle, sir.”

“You said ‘came down,’” Holmes said quickly.

“Mr. O’Keeffe has rooms on the top floor of this building. He waited awhile before returning to his own apartment. When Master Mycroft did not show up for breakfast, I sent for the police.”

“And that was Friday morning?” queried Holmes sharply.

“The local police did not think it necessary to act until late last night,” said Mallon defensively. “There are many reasons why an unattached gentleman might not return home at night….”

“It is strange that you turn up now, Mallon,” mused Holmes, “at the precise time the telegraph asked me to meet you here.”

Mallon’s eyes narrowed. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“Information is a twoway street. I know that you are no ordinary policeman, Mallon. You are the director of the detective branch of G Division, which is devoted to political matters such as investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Land League, and other such extremist movements. I know that you were the very man who arrested Charles Parnell of the Irish Party at Morrison’s Hotel last October. This doubtless implies that your superiors believe a political motive is behind my brother’s disappearance.”

Mallon smiled sourly. He seemed to be irritated by the reference to his superiors. “It is the job of G Division to make itself acquainted with everything that happens to highly placed political personages-especially in this day and age.”

“Yet you have formed no opinion of what has occurred?”

“Not as yet, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes sighed and then, with a quick beckoning gesture to me, he headed for the door. “We shall doubtless be in touch again, Mallon,” he said. “We will take rooms in the Kildare Street Club.”

Outside the door, he addressed me in a low tone. “Come, Watson. We will speak with Mr. O’Keeffe. He should not have departed for work as yet,” he added, with a glance at his fob watch.

We started up the stairs only to be met by a young man coming down them. He was well dressed and carried himself in a lackadaisical manner.

“Mr. O’Keeffe?” queried Holmes, acting on impulse.

The young man halted, then frowned as he examined us. “That’s me,” he said. “Who might you be?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, the brother of Mycroft. This is my friend Doctor Watson.”

O’Keeffes expression was one of friendly concern. “Has old Mycroft turned up?”

Holmes shook his head. “I understand that you were to have had brandy and cigars in his room on the evening that he went missing?”

“I thought there was something odd going on that evening,” the young man confessed, apparently crestfallen at our negative news.

Holmes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Odd? In what way?”

“We left the Castle together and walked down towards Nassau Street. We’d made arrangements to meet later, so I left him on the corner of Nassau and Dawson, as I had an appointment. I had gone but a few yards when something made me glance back. I saw Mycroft speaking to a couple of singular covers. Not out of place, you understand, but clearly rough diamonds. Thickset fellows. One seemed to be jabbing him in the ribs with his finger. I turned back, but as I did so, a carriage pulled up, a fairsized one. It was covered in a caleche, I think it is called. You know the sort. There was an emblem on the door, as I recall-a scallop shell depicted in white. It appeared to me that Mycroft was pushed into the carriage by the two men, who then followed him in. It was rolling away down Nassau Street before I got anywhere near it.”

Holmes stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Perhaps just as well,” he muttered.

The young man was puzzled. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I believe that Mycroft was propelled into the carriage at the point of a revolver, and had you interfered, you would have been shot.”

“Do you really think so?” O’Keeffe seemed astounded.

“I would be prepared to wager on it,” Holmes assured him. “This was the last you saw of Mycroft, I presume?”

“Indeed, it was. I did not feel alarmed enough to mention this to anyone then. Later I turned up at his rooms as we had arranged, hoping he would give me an explanation of his carriage ride. But MacVitty told me that Mycroft had not returned, even though he had ordered his supper to be ready. I waited awhile, but he did not turn up.” He looked directly at Holmes. “I suppose it would not be difficult to trace a carriage with such an emblem?”

“Did you send a telegraph to me?” Holmes said, ignoring his question.

“Never thought of it, old boy-couldn’t even if I had. Mycroft said he had a younger brother in London somewhere, but I had no way of knowing your address.” He suddenly glanced at his pocket watch. “Sorry, have to dash. Lots to do today. The new Lord Lieutenant and Chief Secretary are arriving to take over the administration. Must be at the Castle and spruced up. Have to act as the Viceroy’s ADC at the Viceregal Lodge tonight. Don’t worry, old boy. G Division will sort things out. I saw Mallon of the DMP arrive a short while ago. You’re in safe hands.”

With a flourish of his hat, the young man passed on his way.

I saw that Holmes’s face was glum. “Perhaps we’d better have a wash and brush up,” I ventured. “It wasn’t an easy overnight journey on the train and boat. We will do no good if we are in a state of fatigue.”

Holmes agreed. We were about to leave the house when Superintendent Mallon came out of Mycroft’s rooms. He seemed surprised to find us still in the house. “I’ll walk with you to Kildare Street, gentlemen,” he offered as he opened the door.

I was sure Holmes was going to refuse and was surprised when he accepted. “That is good of you, Superintendent.”

“The old city is in a fine state with the arrival of the new Lord Lieutenant,” said Mallon obliviously as we left the house. “They say that Gladstone has taken leave of his senses and done a deal with the Republicans. He’s let the leaders out of jail. Given them their cherished land reforms. The next thing we’ll see is a parliament back here in Dublin. Give these Fenians an inch, and they’ll take a mile. They say that’s the purpose for which Lord Cavendish has just replaced Lord Cowper as Viceroy.”

I did not follow Irish politics, although I knew something about the recent land war against the big landowners-a reaction to the worsening conditions experienced by Irish tenant farmers. There had been the famous case of Captain Boycott, Lord Erne’s estate manager, who had been ostracized by his workers and the local community. The campaign had been led by members of the Land League and Irish Party, who also wanted selfgovernment for Ireland.

“There’ll be trouble, mark my words, if Cavendish does start to give the Fenians more concessions,” went on Mallon. “And you don’t have to stretch the imagination to see the connections between them. I hear Cavendish is even related to ParnelPs wife. Parnell, Davitt, Sexton, and Dillon-the Fenian leaders-are already on their way to London to discuss matters with Gladstone, while Cavendish and his new Chief Secretary Burke arrive here.”

I subsequently learned that Mallon used the term Fenian to describe anyone who supported any form of devolved government and not merely Irish Republicans. His voice droned a bit. I was sure that poor Holmes, distracted as he was about his brothers disappearance and the mysterious faked telegraph he had received, was totally uninterested in the superintendents political musings.

When Mallon left us, I asked why Holmes had been so enthusiastic for him to accompany us to Kildare Street.

“Didn’t you see the caleche drawn up across the street, Watson?” he asked in surprise. “A black carriage with a white scallop shell emblem on its doors?”

The Kildare Street Club was housed in an opulent red brick Gothicstyle building at the end of the street that bore its name. The club, as Holmes informed me, was exclusive to the most important families in Ireland. No Catholics were allowed in membership, nor anyone who was known to support Irish efforts to secure “home rule.” In fact, no army officer below the rank of major, nor naval officer below a lieutenantcommander, was even allowed within its portals. It turned out that Mycroft Holmes was an honored member. Sherlock Holmes was welcomed in his brother’s name.

We spent the morning at the great General Post Office in Sackville Street, opposite an edifice called Nelson’s Pillar, which seemed a pale imitation of the monument in London’s Trafalgar Square. I kept a wary eye on all carriages, but there was no sign of the black one with a white scallop shell emblem. We also made inquiries about the emblem and were told that it was the emblem of no less a person than Lord Maynooth, a leading spokesman of the Liberal Government. I pointed out that such a man could not possibly be involved in kidnapping and that O’Keeffe must have mistaken the emblem.

Holmes, however, felt that we should pay a call on the noble lord later in the day. Our inquiries about the mysterious telegraph proved fruitless, and eventually we returned to the Kildare Street Club for a late luncheon, greatly despondent at our lack of success.

After lunch, a drowsiness overtook me. It was Thursday night since I had slept, and here we were on Saturday afternoon. Holmes noticed my eyelids drooping and advised me to take an hours nap.

“Nonsense, old fellow,” I protested. “If you are off to see our titled friend, then I shall come with you.”

He shook his head. “I am going to rest for an hour or so, as well, Watson. Well go to see Lord Maynooth this evening.”

I went to my room but not before I had made Holmes swear that he would make no move without me. I then collapsed onto my bed. It seemed that only moments had passed before I was being shaken awake. Holmes was bending over me.

“Come on, Watson,” he hissed. “The game’s afoot!”

I blinked and struggled up. “So soon? What?…”

“It’s early evening, old fellow. You’ve been asleep for nearly four hours,” he admonished.

I leaped from the bed with a curse. “Why didn’t you awaken me earlier?”

Holmes shrugged. “No cause. It was only a short while ago that our mystery friend made contact again. Here…”

He shoved a plain piece of paper into my hand. It was addressed simply to Mr. S. Holmes. It read: Sorry I missed you at Merrion Square this morning. Be at the corner of Dawson Street and the north side of St. Stephen’s Green at 7 P.M. You may bring your friend with you.

I looked at Holmes, aghast. “But it is a quarter to,” I cried, catching sight of the clock on the mantelshelf.

“Have no concern. The place is but a minute from here. Come on. And don’t forget that revolver of yours.”

We arrived punctually at 7 P.M. at the allotted place. Almost at once a black covered carriage, drawn by two black nags, pulled away from the curb on the opposite side of the road by the fenced park and turned a semicircle across the thoroughfare to come to a rest where we stood. Holmes grabbed my sleeve and indicated the door. There was a white scallop shell emblem on it. There were very few people about, most having already dispersed for their evening meals. I placed my hand on the butt of my pistol inside my coat pocket.

The door of the carriage opened, and a soft Irish voice called, “Would you be so good as to step inside the carriage, Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson, as well.”

“Who are you?” demanded Holmes. “Are you holding my brother for ransom?”

“Your questions will be answered if you step inside,” went on the voice in good humor. “And advise your friend not to do anything rash with the revolver he is handling in his pocket. He is covered at this moment and would be illadvised to attempt any indiscretion, as it would certainly prove fatal.”

Holmes glanced at me in resignation. “Best do as he says, Watson.”

He climbed into the carriage, and I followed. We sat with our backs to the driver. Two shadowy figures were seated before us. The vehicle started with a jerk, throwing both of us forward. Before I had time to recover, one of the men had leaned forward and expertly searched me, removing my revolver. A moment later, Holmes also suffered a similar scrutiny.

“Both clean, Cap’n,” muttered a voice.

Then the modulated, wry tones of the first speaker came out of the darkness. “There now, that is more civilized. We don’t want any nasty accidents, do we? Remember, my companion has you both covered.”

“Who are you?” I demanded, feeling much put out at being disarmed by these ruffians. “I presume you are not the noble lord who is the owner of the crest on this carriage?”

“Shall we say that I have a loan of it, Doctor,” chuckled the man.

“I suppose you are the person who masqueraded as Superintendent Mallon?” asked Holmes.

“A good bit of sport, I thought. Mallon is no friend to us, but I thought you might respond to a telegraph from the DMP.”

“I presume that you are Fenians?” Holmes observed.

“Na Fianna, the mythical warriors who protected the High Kings of Ireland,” the man affirmed playfully. “It is a name to be proud of. Though we generally call ourselves the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

I felt a coldness in my being as I realized we were in the hands of the notorious Irish revolutionary movement.

“Can I ask why you are holding my brother?”

“You are leaping to conclusions, Mr. Holmes, which does your reputation no credit. We are going on a short journey, and when we arrive all will be explained.”

With that a silence fell among us while the carriage rocked and clattered over the cobbles of the streets. The blinds were drawn, and I was painfully aware of the man with the revolver covering us, so there was no way I could observe where we were going.

The journey ended abruptly as the carriage came to a halt and the door was flung open by another shadowy figure who ordered us out. He also held a pistol. We were in a small enclosed yard. The man who had been addressed as Cap’n led the way into a house. It looked bare and uninhabited. He lit a lantern and led us along a gloomy corridor to a door at the far end. He tapped on it in a curious, measured manner. A voice answered, and he ushered us through into the room beyond. Inside were three men seated behind a table. There were two chairs placed before it, in which we were motioned to be seated.

“Let me apologize for the unorthodox manner in which you have been brought here, Mr. Holmes. You, too, Doctor Watson.” The speaker, an elderly silverhaired man with a clear English accent, was seated in the center of the trio.

I was about to reply angrily when Holmes sat down. “I am surprised to see you here, my lord,” he said to the speaker respectfully, “even though it was your carriage which brought us.” Clearly this was none other than Lord Maynooth.

“I don’t doubt it,” replied the man. “But it is, perhaps, better that no names are mentioned, as Her Majesty’s Government will deny this meeting has taken place. My colleagues”-he gestured to the men on either side of him-”represent the interests of the Irish Parliamentary Party and of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

I think Holmes was just as astounded as I was at this further revelation.

Lord Maynooth continued. “May I inquire what your politics are, Mr. Holmes?”

“Perhaps you would be more specific?” Holmes was diffident.

I had to confess that I had been surprised during the time that I had known Holmes by his apparent singular lack of current political knowledge. I had once mentioned the death, during the previous year, of that great Scotsman, Thomas Carlyle, and he had naively asked me who he was. I subsequently discovered that Holmes often pretended a lack of knowledge as a means of avoiding political discussion. He did have some profound views, as I later learned.

“I refer to the current state in Ireland,” Lord Maynooth replied.

“I support the Prime Minister’s actions in the Land Act reforms,” replied Holmes easily. “I believe the Coercion Acts of last year were a mistake and a tragedy. The arrest of elected politicians such as Pamell and Davitt was an unwise course in the extreme. I am old enough to remember the 1867 uprising in this country. Such heavyhanded methods will only ensure another one, therefore I would also support the reinstatement of a domestic parliament in Ireland.”

“You are a Home Ruler, then, Mr. Holmes?” The question came from a welldressed man with a dark beard on the left of the three men.

“I believe that is precisely what I have indicated,” Holmes replied shortly.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, we are in dire straits,” Lord Maynooth continued, “and it was necessary to confirm your sympathies. Yes, direstraits. The kidnapping of your brother is, you’ll forgive me, but a sideshow in this grave matter.”

Holmes looked grim. I saw his lips compress momentarily into a thin line. “We each have our priorities,” he acknowledged curtly.

It seemed that it had been agreed that Lord Maynooth was to do most of the talking. “Our main task is to prevent anarchy from brewing in Ireland and spreading to the Imperial Government itself in London. Your reputation is known, Mr. Holmes, and when your brother was kidnapped, we could think of no one better than you to solve this difficulty. Your brother was working for us.”

“Us?” Holmes’s voice was sharp. “Again I must ask you to be specific. You have indicated what interests you represent-Government, Irish Party, and Republicans-but for what purpose have such disparate interests come together?”

“Simply for the sake of peace in these islands. We are all pledged to support the Kilmainham Treaty agreed upon between Prime Minister Gladstone and Mr. Parnell, the leader of the Irish Party. But there are some who wish no dilution of the Union who would see it destroyed-certain landowning families with vested interests, as well as those on the extreme edge of the Republican movement who have no patience for moderate political advance. Both sides object to the Kilmainham agreement and the release of the Irish prisoners. Among the fiercest critics are Viceroy Lord Cowper and Chief Secretary Forster. That is why Gladstone made them resign yesterday and replaced them.”

“Where does Mycroft come into this?” interposed Holmes.

“Mycroft Holmes had alerted us to a plot, emanating from certain highly placed people, the purpose of which is to plunge this country into a catastrophic situation. He communicated that he knew the organizer of the plot. He was on his way to meet with our agent at Trinity College when he was kidnapped.”

Holmes was leaning forward with a frown. “Who kidnapped him?”

“Have you heard of the Invincibles?”

Holmes reflected for a moment. “They were formed last year-a breakaway group from the IRB. They are extremists who believe in violence as a way to secure their aims.”

“They are but a handful and have been publicly denounced by both the IRB and the Irish Party,” said the sandyhaired man on the right, a little defensively I thought.

“We believe that there is a Unionist faction manipulating the Invincibles,” went on Lord Maynooth. “Oh, unbeknownst to them, of course. They mean to create unrest, destroy the Kilmainham agreement, overturn the reforms, and discredit Parnell-preventing any hope of achieving Home Rule for Ireland. Doing so would also discredit Mr. Gladstone’s Liberal Government, and its collapse would be inevitable. The effects on the whole empire might be chaotic.”

“And the IRB are supportive of Parnell and Gladstone’s joint policies?”

The sandyhaired man stirred a little and shrugged. “We are a pragmatic body, Mr. Holmes. Our uprising was crushed fifteen years ago. The Invincibles are as much of a threat to us as they are to anyone else. The way forward in practical terms, at this time, is to ensure that land reforms are achieved, as a first step toward eventual Home Rule-the day when the Irish nation will be able to decide its own future without London. We believe that some sinister plot is being concocted to discredit us, one which would set Ireland back a hundred years and bring back the Penal Laws. We know the plot must be put into action soon.”

“Why soon?”

“Because today the new Viceroy, Lord Frederick Cavendish, and his Chief Secretary, Burke, arrived in Dublin to take over from the more conservative hands of Lord Cowper and Forster,” explained Lord Maynooth.

The darkbearded man summed up. “We ask you, Mr. Holmes, to help us find your brother and identify the leader of this plot, so that we may save the country from chaos.”

Holmes answered without hesitation. “You may rely on my full assistance and that of my colleague, Doctor Watson here. But, gentlemen, I need clues. I need-”

There was a disturbance from outside the door. The mysterious “cap’n” made an apologetic gesture and withdrew. We could hear raised voices outside.

When the door opened again and the man returned, his face was deadly pale. “Too late!” he announced quietly.

“Too late?” cried Holmes, starting forward. “You mean Mycroft-”

The man stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. “Far worse, I fear. Gentlemen-” He turned to the three men sitting tensely behind the table. “-this evening, as they were walking outside the Viceregal Lodge on the grounds of Phoenix Park, Lord Cavendish and Chief Secretary Burke were stabbed to death. They have been assassinated. The Irish National Invincibles have admitted responsibility.”

There was a silence that seemed to last a long time.

Lord Maynooth rose, his face cold and grim. “Reaction in England will be inevitable. Even though the Irish Party and the IRB have disassociated themselves from the Invincibles, they will be painted with the same brush. Arrests will follow, new Coercion Acts will be enforced, and the cause for land reform and Home Rule will be set back for generations.”

The darkbearded man on the left stood up also. “There is nothing to be done,” he said simply.

Holmes rose in outrage. “And what of Mycroft?” he demanded.

“The plot is revealed. He is as good as dead,” said Maynooth quietly.

“I refuse to accept that,” Holmes said stubbornly.

“The country will be in a panic now,” the darkhaired man said. “You brother is, sadly, expendable.”

Only the man on the right, the IRB representative who had remained seated, looked compassionately at Holmes. “You have my support,” he said quietly. “I suggest that we all reseat ourselves and see if we can save something out of this debacle.”

The other two appeared reluctant but finally reseated themselves. Holmes had taken out one of the two telegraphs he had received in London and was examining it hastily. “Mycroft provided me with the clues, but I need a key. The answer is probably staring me in the face.”

They looked at him in bewilderment. Holmes thrust the telegraph forward. They peered curiously at it. The quiet man, to the right, shook his head in bewilderment. “There isn’t anything there, Mr. Holmes. It’s all gibberish. It does not make sense in anyone’s language.”

Holmes stared at the man as if he had been struck. “Language!” he suddenly cried, causing us all to think that he had taken leave of his senses. “Language! Do you have an EnglishIrish Dictionary?”

We fretted impatiently for a quarter of an hour before a messenger sent for the purpose returned with a volume.

“Most dictionaries are IrishEnglish, but I found this old one from 1732, published in Paris…,” he started to explain. Holmes snatched it out of his hand, sat down by the lantern, and began busily turning pages. When he finally looked up, his face was flushed with triumph.

“Gentlemen, you must arrest O’Keeffe of Dublin “Castle. He is your link with the Invincibles.”

The cap’n let out a derisory whistle. “O’Keeffe? I know him. He’s an Orangeman and would have no truck with the Invincibles.”

“Nevertheless, he is the man whose name Mycroft was going to reveal. He had even invited O’Keeffe to come to his rooms on the night of his disappearance… I believe that was in order for your agents to arrest him.”

Lord Maynooth examined Holmes with narrowed eyes. “You will have to tell us how you did this conjuring trick, sir,” he demanded.

“Plenty of time afterward,” Holmes snapped. “In the meantime, we must also find out if there is any building of note near Maulnagower in County Kerry. Perhaps a country house owned by someone in the world of politics, It is my belief that Mycroft is being held there.”

A sudden stillness had descended over the room. The eyes of our companions had turned to the darkbearded man who had been seated to the left and seemed to represent the Irish Party.

“But isn’t that where your country house is…,” began Lord Maynooth. Before he could finish, the darkbearded man had uttered a curse and tried to leap for the door. He was expertly grappled by the cap’n and held in an arm lock.

“Holmes, this is amazing!” I cried. “How can you possibly have deduced that? Where did you get your information from?”

Holmes shot me a pitying glance. “We have been in possession of the main clues the whole time. All we lacked was the key to interpreting them. It was only when our Republican friend referred to ‘language’ that I realized that chat key was.”

“Then let us in on the secret before we proceed, Mr. Holmes, for we are curious,” pressed the silverhaired man. “Our colleague’s action has proclaimed his guilt but how-?”

“My brother knew that he was in some danger. He had to warn me. He knew that he was facing a combination of two elements-the extreme Unionist faction and the extreme Republican faction. Between the two, little moves in Ireland that is not known about. Any telegraph sent from the GPO would be reported on by their agents, spies, and informers. Mycroft had to send the information to me in London in case the worst happened. So he encrypted a message to me, hoping that I would understand.” He gestured to the telegraph.

“How could you interpret this through the Irish language?” demanded the silver-haired man.

“They key was the Irish language itself. Mycroft knew that I have made a study of the ancient Celtic languages and had worked, now and then, on preparing a monograph on the Chaldean roots that I perceived therein.”

“How does that help?”

“Simply enough. I realized that Mycroft was identifying someone. The very man whom he was going to warn you against. What does he say?”

“He warns you not to trust a gentleman but does not say who,” I said, peering at the telegraph.

“No!” Holmes almost exploded in irritation. “Observe more carefully! He says do not trust a man who is Gentle. Look, he uses a capital G in the word Gentle.

“A mistranscription by the clerk at the telegraph office?” I hazarded.

“It is deliberate, That was when I suddenly realized that an Irish word for gentle is caomh.” He pronounced the word ceeve. “That is the root of the name O Caoimh, which we commonly Anglicize as O’Keeffe.” They were looking at him with wonder on their faces.

“Certain things O’Keeffe claimed now endorse this view. He said he was a witness to Mycroft’s kidnapping and described Lord Maynooth’s carriage. I suppose he knew your carriage?”

“Of course,” agreed Maynooth. “But why describe it as the kidnapper’s vehicle?”

“A clever fellow is O’Keeffe. He wanted to confuse me, put me on a wrong scent. All he needed was twelve hours to bring his plot to fruition. He also mentioned that he was acting as ADC to the Viceroy tonight. What would possess the Viceroy and his Chief Secretary to be walking outside the Viceregal Lodge in the darkness of the evening alone? Where was O’Keeffe? Did he suggest that exercise and lure them into that fatal ambush?”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. We will bring O’Keeffe in. But how did you learn of the house in Kerry?”

“Once I understood the code Mycroft was using, the rest was obvious. The land of the race of Ciar was simple. The race of Ciar were called the Ciarraighe-Anglicized as Kerry-who gave their name to their territory. So now we must look for the place called lump of goats.’ The word lump is meall in Irish, but mall in a place name is usually interpreted as a knoll. The knoll of goats-Meall na nGabher. Mycroft and I spent a vacation, when we were children, near a place Anglicized as Maulnagower in Kerry. He presumed that I would recognize it.”

It did not take us long to discover that the Irish Party representative had been playing a double game and had plotted Parnell’s re-arrest so that he would emerge as leader of a new extreme party. A short while later we were embarking at Kingsbridge Station, in the west of the city, on a train to Kerry with a score or so of armed men from the Royal Irish Constabulary. The train clattered through the darkness to a place called Killarney, where we switched to a slower local train heading toward a town called Cahirciveen. In the dawn light, the house at Maulnagower was surrounded. There were only four armed men guarding it.

Called upon to surrender, they put up a fight. One was killed, another wounded, before we burst in. In an upstairs room, bound hand and foot on a bed, was the person of Mycroft Holmes. He was badly bruised, and there was a cut over one eye. When he was sitting up on the bed and rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, he finally smiled dourly at his younger brother. “It took you a while to fathom my cryptogram,” he admonished. “I expected you to be here yesterday.”

Holmes regarded him with sibling disapproval. “I expected you to be dead. Why did they keep you alive?”

“Oh, they certainly had planned a Kerry bog for me. But firstly they wanted to know exactly what I knew and who I had passed it on to before they rid themselves of my company. O’Keeffe was due to come down later today or tomorrow and then…” He shrugged. “Where is O’Keeffe, by the way?”

“Hopefully, he has been arrested by the good Superintendent Mallon,” Holmes assured him.

“Capital! A strange fanatic, is O’Keeffe. The worst kind. But I believe that there were more important people manipulating him-powerful politicians’ and military men who do not want to see any devolution of power to the Irish people.”

“So O’Keeffe was only a minor cog in the wheels of this conspiracy?”

“An important cog,” corrected Mycroft. “He was acting as an intermediary between the powerful factions involved and those who were set to do the dirty work.”

Holmes sighed. “I suppose that we’d best return to Dublin and see what O’Keeffe has to confess.”

O’Keeffe had nothing to say. Superintendent Mallon had led the raid on O’Keeffe’s rooms in Merrion Square and had not been too subtle about it. He had charged up the stairs with a dozen men of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. As they had begun to break in the door there had been the crack of a revolver. When they had finally broken in, O’Keeffe was no longer in this world. He had shot himself in the head.

Mallon, considered the hero of the day, was not admonished for this. Between May 14 and June 9 of the following year, five of the Invincibles were duly executed for the Phoenix Park murders; eight others were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. The informer who had turned state’s evidence to secure the convictions was eventually shot dead on the SS Melrose Castle off Cape Town some months later. The Invincibles, as an organization, disappeared as quickly as it had materialized.

However, Holmes regarded the case as one of his worst failures, for he had not solved it in time to prevent the Phoenix Park murders and public outrage over the killings forced the Government to disregard the Kilmainham agreement. Parnell and other Irish leaders, having been released from prison only four days before the murders, were subjected to harassment and arrest, Gladstone was compelled to abandon his movement toward Home Rule, block further land reforms, and introduce more coercion acts in Ireland as troop reinforcements were poured into the country. Ireland, which had stood on the brink of a peaceful settlement, was plunged once again into chaos. Whoever had pulled O’Keeffe’s strings to induce him to manipulate the extremist Invincibles took those secrets to the grave. No one ever determined who it had been.

Mycroft Holmes, for his own personal safety, left service in Dublin Castle and, with the personal patronage of Gladstone, removed to London as an interdepartment Government adviser. Tragedy stalked Lord Maynooth, who was sent to be governor of one of the Australian colonies. His second son was shot dead in his locked bedroom at his Park Lane residence, a crime Holmes was able to lay at the door of Colonel Moran. Holmes, for public consumption, proposed that the motive had been a disagreement over cards. Privately, he thought it had been a more sinister political assassination designed to keep Maynooth in line.

The upheaval in his native land brought about by the murders had a profound effect on Sherlock Holmes. It was shortly after the closing of the case that his long periods of lethargy and indolence began, along with his use of narcotics when he had no puzzle to concentrate his gifted mind upon-to ease what he described as the “unutterable boredom” of his life.

I know that the case of his brother’s kidnapping had changed his character into more cynical extremes by a realization of just how far those close to the center of power would go to protect their selfinterest. In the year before he finally retired to the Sussex coasts, Sherlock Holmes caused a furor by refusing an offered knighthood from Edward VII. Why did he refuse that accolade? Holmes told me that he had done so because he believed that Ireland had been shabbily treated by the Imperial Establishment. Nevertheless, he had made me agree that I would not allow any of the cases involving his Irish background to be released to the public until long after his death.