An Ensuing Evil and Others

THE AFFRAY AT THE KILDARE STREET CLUB

My narratives of the adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting detective, have always attempted a modicum of discreetness. There is so much of both a personal and professional nature that Holmes confided in me which I have not passed on to posterity-much, I confess, at Holmes’s personal request. Indeed, among Holmes’s personal papers, I had noticed several aide-memoirs that would have expanded my sketches of his cases several times over. It is not often appreciated that while I indulged in my literary diversions, Holmes himself was possessed of a writing talent as demonstrated by over a score of works ranging from his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture to The Book of Life: the science of observation and deduction. But Holmes, to my knowledge, had made it a rule never to write about any of his specific cases.

It was therefore with some surprise that, one day during the spring of 1894, after the adventure I narrated as “The Empty House,” I received from Holmes a small sheaf of handwritten papers with the exhortation that I read them in order that I might understand more fully Holmes’s involvement with the man responsible for the death of the son of Lord Maynooth. Holmes, of course, did not want these details to be revealed to the public. I did acquire permission from him at a later date to the effect that they could be published after his death. In the meantime, I have appended this brief foreword to be placed with the papers and handed both to my bankers and executors with the instruction that they may be released only one hundred years from this date.

It may, then, also be revealed a matter that I have always been sensitive about, in view of the prejudices of our age. Sherlock Holmes was one of the Holmes family of Galway, Ireland, and, like his brother, Mycroft, was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, where his closest companion had been the poet Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, who even now, as I write, languishes in Reading Gaol. This is the principal reason why I have been reticent about acknowledging Holmes’s background, for it would serve no useful purpose if one fell foul of the bigotry and intolerance that arises out of such a revelation. Many good men and true, but with such backgrounds, have found themselves being shunned by their professions or found their businesses have been destroyed overnight.

This revelation will probably come as no surprise to those discerning readers who have followed Holmes’s adventures. There have been clues enough of Holmes’s origins. Holmes’s greatest adversary, James Moriarty, was of a similar background. Most people will know that the Moriarty family are from Kerry, the very name being an Anglicization of the Irish name O Muircheartaigh, meaning, interestingly enough, “expert navigator.” Moriarty once held a chair of mathematics in Queen’s University in Belfast. It was in Ireland that the enmity between Holmes and Moriarty first started. But that is a story which does not concern us.

If there were not clues enough, there was also Holmes’s fascination with the Celtic languages, of which he was something of an expert. In my narrative “The Devil’s Foot,” I mentioned Holmes’s study on Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language. I did not mention that this work won high praise from such experts as the British Museum’s Henry Jenner, the greatest living expert on the Cornish language. Holmes was able to demonstrate the close connection between the Cornish verb and the Irish verb systems.

The Holmes family were well known in Galway. Indeed, it was Holmes’s uncle, Robert Holmes, the famous Galway barrister and Queen’s Counsel, whom the Irish have to thank for the organization of the Irish National School system for the poorer classes, for he was a member of the Duke of Leinster’s seven-man education commission in the 1830s and 1840s, responsible for many innovative ideas. These few brief words will demonstrate, therefore, the significance of this aide-memoire, which Holmes passed to me in the spring of 1894.

My initial encounter with my second most dangerous adversary happened when I was lunching with my brother, Mycroft, in the Kildare Street Club, in Dublin, during September of 1873. I was barely twenty years old at the time, and thoughts of a possible career as a consulting detective had not yet formulated in my mind. In fact, my mind was fully occupied by the fact that I would momentarily be embarking for England, where I had won a demyship at one of the Oxford Colleges with the grand sum of 95 pounds per annum.

I had won the scholarship having spent my time at Trinity College, Dublin, in the study of chemistry and botany. My knowledge of chemistry owed much to a great Trinity scholar, Maxwell Simpson, whose lectures at the Park Street Medical School advanced my knowledge of organic chemistry considerably. Simpson was the first man to synthesize succinic acid, a dibasic acid obtained by the dry distillation of amber. It was thanks to this great countryman of mine that I had produced a dissertation thought laudable enough to win me the scholarship to Oxford.

Indeed, I was not the only Trinity man to be awarded a demyship to Oxford that year. My friend, Wilde, a brilliant Classicist, a field for which I had no aptitude at all, was also to pursue his education there. Wilde continually berated me for my fascination with sensational literature and one day promised that he would write a horror story about a portrait that would chill even me.

My brother, Mycroft, who, like most of the Holmes family of Galway, was also a product of Trinity, had invited me to lunch at the Kildare Street Club. Mycroft, being seven years older than I, had already established his career in the Civil Service and was working in the fiscal department of the Chief Secretary for Ireland in Dublin Castle. He could, therefore, afford the 10 pounds per annum, which gave him access to the opulence of the red brick Gothicstyle headquarters of the Kildare Street Club.

The club was the center of masculine Ascendancy life in Ireland. Perhaps I should explain that these were the Anglo-Irish elite, descendants of those families that England had dispatched to Ireland to rule the unruly natives. The club was exclusive to members of the most important families in Ireland. No “Home Rulers,” Catholics nor Dissenters were allowed in membership. The rule against Catholics was, however, “bent” in the case of the O’Conor Don, a direct descendant of the last High King of Ireland, and a few religious recalcitrants, such as the earls of Westmeath, Granard, and Kenmare, whose loyalty to England had been proved to be impeccable. No army officer below the rank of major, nor below a naval lieutenant-commander was allowed within its portals. And the only people allowed free use of its facilities were visiting members of the Royal Family, their equerries and the viceroy himself.

My brother, Mycroft, basked and prospered in this colonial splendor, but I confess, it was not to my taste. I had been accepted within this elite sanctuary as guest of Mycroft only, who was known as a confidant of the Chief Secretary and therefore regarded as having the ear of the viceroy himself. I had been persuaded to go only because Mycroft wished to celebrate my demyship and see me off to Oxford in fraternal fashion. I did not want to disappoint him.

The dining room of the club was truly luxuriant. The club had the reputation of providing the best table in Dublin.

A solemn-faced waiter, more like an undertaker, led us through the splendidly furnished dining room to a table in a bay window overlooking St. Stephen’s Green, for the club stood on the corner of Kildare Street and the green itself.

“An aperitif, gentlemen?” intoned the waiter in a sepulchral voice.

Mycroft took the opportunity to inform me that the cellar was of excellent quality, particularly the stock of champagne. I replied that I believed that I would commence with a glass of sherry and chose a Palo Cortaldo while Mycroft, extravagantly, insisted on a half bottle of Diamant Bleu.

He also insisted on a dozen oysters, which I observed cost an entire shilling a dozen, and were apparently sent daily from the club’s own oyster bed near Galway. I settled for pate de foie gras and we both agreed to indulge in a steak with a bottle of Bordeaux, a rich red St. Estephe from the Chateau MacCarthy.

In truth, Mycroft was more of a gourmand than a gourmet. He was physically lazy and already there was a corpulent aspect to his large frame. But he also had the Holmes’s brow, the alert, steel-gray, deepset eyes, and firmness of lips. He had an astute mind and was a formidable chess player.

After we had made our choice, we settled down, and I was able to observe our fellow diners.

Among those who caught my immediate eye was a dark-haired man who, doubtless, had been handsome in his youth. He was now in his mid-thirties, and his features were fleshy and gave him an air of dissoluteness and degeneracy. He carried himself with the air of a military man, even as he slouched at his table imbibing his wine, a little too freely, I fear. His discerning brow was offset by the sensual jaw. I was aware of cruel blue eyes; drooping, cynical lids; and an aggressive manner even while seated in repose. He was immaculately dressed in a smart dark coat and cravat with a diamond pin that announced expensive tastes.

His companion appeared less governed by the grape than he, preferring coffee to round off his luncheon. This second man was tall and thin, his forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes deeply sunken in his head. I would have placed him about the same age as his associate. He was cleanshaven, pale, and ascetic looking. A greater contrast between two men, I could not imagine.

The scholarly man was talking earnestly, and his military companion nodded from time to time, as if displeased at being disturbed in his contemplation of his wineglass. The other man, I saw, had rounded shoulders, and his face protruded forward. I observed that his head oscillated from side to side in a curious reptilian fashion.

“Mycroft,” I asked after a while, “who is that curious pair?”

Mycroft glanced in the direction I had indicated. “Oh, I would have thought you knew one of them-you being interested in science and such like.”

I hid my impatience from my brother. “I do not know; otherwise, I would not have put forward the question.”

“The elder is Professor Moriarty.”

At once I was interested. “Moriarty of Queen’s University, in Belfast?” I demanded.

“The same Professor Moriarty,” confirmed Mycroft smugly.

I had at least heard of Moriarty, for he had the chair of mathematics at Queens and written The Dynamics of an Asteroid, which ascended to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no man in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.

“And the man who loves his alcohol so much?” I pressed. “Who is he?”

Mycroft was disapproving of my observation. “Dash it, Sherlock, where else may a man make free with his vices but in the shelter of his club?”

“There is one vice that he cannot well hide,” I replied slyly. “That is his colossal male vanity. That black hair of his is no natural color. The man dyes his hair. But, Mycroft, you have not answered my question. His name?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“He is one of the Morans of Connacht.”

“A Catholic family?” For O Morain, to give the name its correct Irish form, which meant “great,” were a wellknown Jacobite clan in Connacht.

“Hardly so,” rebuked Mycroft. “His branch converted to the Anglican faith after the Williamite conquest. Sebastian Morans father was Sir Augustus Moran CB, once British Minister to Persia. Young Moran went through Eton and Oxford. The family estate was near Derrynacleigh but I believe, after the colonel inherited, he lost it in a card game. He was a rather impecunious young man. Still, he was able to buy a commission in the Indian Army and served in the First Bengalore Pioneers. He has spent most of his career in India. I understand that he has quite a reputation as a biggame hunter. The Bengal tiger mounted in the hall, as we came in, was one of his kills. The story is that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes an iron nerve.”

I frowned. “Nerve, vanity, and a fondness for drink and cards is sometimes an unenviable combination. They make a curious pair.”

“I don’t follow you?”

“I mean, a professor of mathematics and a dissolute army officer lunching together. What can they have in common?”

I allowed my attention to occupy the problem but a moment more. Even at this young age I had come to the conclusion that until one has facts, it is worthless wasting time trying to hazard guesses.

My eye turned to the others in the dining room. Some I knew by sight, and one or two I had previously been introduced to in Mycroft’s company. Among these diners was Lord Rosse, who had erected the largest reflecting telescope in the world at his home in Birr Castle. There was also the harddrinking Viscount Massereene and Ferrard and the equally indulgent Lord Clonmell. There was great hilarity from another table where four young men were seated, voices raised in goodnatured argument. I had little difficulty recognizing the Beresford brothers of Curraghmore, the elder of them being the Marquess of Waterford.

My eye eventually came to rest on a corner table where an elderly man with silver hair and round chubby red features was seated. He was well dressed, and the waiters constantly hovered at his elbow to attend to his bidding like moths to a fly. He was obviously someone of importance.

I asked Mycroft to identify him.

“The Duke of Cloncury and Straffan,” he said, naming one of the premier peers of Ireland.

I turned back to examine His Grace, whose ancestors had once controlled Ireland, with some curiosity. It was said that a word from Cloncurys grandfather could sway the vote in any debate in the old Irish Parliament; that was before the Union with England. As I was unashamedly scrutinizing him, His Grace was helped from his chair. He was, I judged, about seventysomething years of age, a short, stocky man but one who was fastidious in his toilet, for his mustache was well cut and his hair neatly brushed so that not a silver strand of it was out of place.

He retrieved a small polished leather case, the size of a dispatchbox, not more than twelve inches by six by four. It bore a crest in silver on it, and I presumed it to be Cloncury’s own crest.

His Grace, clutching his case, made toward the door. At the same time, I saw Professor Moriarty push back his chair. Some sharp words were being exchanged between the professor and his lunching companion, Colonel Moran. The professor swung round and marched swiftly to the door, almost colliding with the elderly duke at their portals. At the last moment, when collision seemed inevitable, the professor halted and allowed His Grace to move through the doors before him.

“Some argument has taken place between the professor and his companion,” I observed aloud. “I wonder what the meaning of it is?”

Mycroft looked at me in disgust. “Really, Sherlock, you always seem to be prying into other people’s affairs. I would have thought you had enough on your plate preparing for your studies at Oxford.”

Even at this time, I had become a close observer of peoples behavior, and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheonroom occupants.

I returned my attention to the colonel, who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wineglass. A waiter hovered near and made some suggestion, but Moran swung with an angry retort, indicating the empty wine bottle on the table, and the waiter backed away. The colonel stood up, went through the motions of brushing the sleeves of his coat, and strode out of the dining room. I noticed that he would be returning, for he had left his glass of wine unfinished. Sure enough, the waiter returned to the table with a halfbottle of wine uncorked and placed it ready. The colonel, presumably having gone to make some ablutions, returned after some fifteen minutes and reseated himself. He seemed in a better mood, for he was smiling to himself.

I was distracted to find that my brother was continuing to lecture me. “I know you, Sherlock. You are an extremely lazy and undisciplined fellow. If a subject doesn’t interest you, you just ignore it. It is a wonder that you have achieved this demyship, for I did not expect you to gain a degree at all.”

I turned to my elder brother with a chuckle. “Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns. Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days.” I spoke with some conceit, for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing, and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.

“But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law, or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia.”

“But minutia is important in life…,” I began.

At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.

The palefaced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table, and then-I have never witnessed such a thing before-the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door, where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.

There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.

As the waiter who had conducted the search was passing our table, I hailed the fellow, much to Mycroft’s astonished disapproval.

“Has His Grace mislaid something?” I queried.

The waiter, the same individual who had conducted us to our table when we entered, turned mournful eyes upon me. There was a glint of suspicion in them. “Indeed, he has, sir. How did you know?”

“I observed that you were searching on and around the table where he had recently been seated. From that, one deduces that he had lost something that he thought he had with him at that table.”

The man’s gaze fell in disappointment at the logic of my reply.

“What has he lost?” I pressed.

“His toilet case, sir.”

Mycroft gave an illconcealed guffaw. “A toilet case? What is a man doing bringing a toilet case into a dining room?”

The waiter turned to Mycroft. “His Grace is a very fastidious and eccentric person, Mr. Holmes.” The man evidently knew Mycroft by sight “He carries the case with him always.”

“A valuable item?” I hazarded.

“Not really, sir. At least, not financially so.”

“Ah, you mean it has great sentimental value for the Duke?” I suggested.

“It was a gift which King William gave to one of His Grace’s ancestors as a personal memento when the man saved his life during the battle at the Boyne. And now, gentlemen, if you have not seen the item…”

He went on his way.

Mycroft was passing his napkin over his mouth, “Now how about a port or brandy in the hall?”

The lofty hall of the club, with its biggame trophies and blazing fire and staircase of elaborately carved stonework, was where members gathered for their afterluncheon drinks and cigars.

We rose and made our way out of the dining room. Our path led us by the table of Colonel Moran, and as we passed by I noticed that the colonels dark suit was ill chosen, for it showed up his dandruff. I grant you it is such small observations that sometimes irritate my fellows. But if one is prone to dandruff, at least one should have the good sense to wear a light color in which the telltale white powder and silver hairs would be less noticeable.

As we made our way into the hall, we saw the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan standing with the head waiter and a gentleman who Mycroft informed me was the chairman of the directors of the club.

His Grace was clearly distressed. “It is priceless! A value beyond measure!” He was almost wailing.

“I cannot understand it, Your Grace. Are you sure that you had it with you in the dining room?”

“Young man,” snapped the elderly duke, “do you accuse me of senility?”

The “young man,” who was about fifty years of age, blanched and took a step backward before the old man’s baleful gaze. “Not at all, Your Grace, not at all. Just tell me the facts again.”

“After finishing my luncheon, I went into the washroom. I washed my hands and then brushed my hair. It is my custom to do so after luncheon. I took my silver hairbrush from my leather case, which I always carry with me. I remember clearly that I returned it to the case. I left the case on the washstand and went into the toilet. I came out, washed my hand, and then realized that the case was no longer there.”

The head waiter was looking glum. “I have already suggested to His Grace that the case might have been left in the dining room and sent one of the waiters to check. It was not there.”

The old man bristled. “Knew it would be a damned waste of time. Said so. I know where it went missing. I’d start interrogating your employees, sir. At once!”

The club chairman looked unhappy. “Your Grace, please allow us time to search the premises before we start anything so drastic. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid?…”

“Mislaid!” The word was an explosion. “Dammit! Mislaid! Do you take me for a fool, sir? I demand that an interrogation of your employees begin at once. I suggest that you now send for the DMP!”

The mention of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had made the chairman slightly pale. “Your Grace, the reflection on our reputation-”

“Damn your reputation, sir! What about my hairbrush!” quivered the old man.

It was then I felt I should intervene. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” I began.

Rheumy blue eyes turned on me and assessed my youthful years. And who the devil are you, sir?”

“My name is Holmes. I might be able to help you.”

“You, you young jackanapes? What do you mean?”

I heard my brother tuttutting anxiously in the background at my effrontery.

“With your permission, I think I might be in a position to recover the lost item.”

Cloncurys eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you have it, you impudent whippersnapper?” he demanded. “By God, if you are responsible…”

Mycroft came to my help. “Excuse me, Your Grace, this is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

Cloncury glanced up and recognized Mycroft, knowing him to have the ear of the viceroy. He looked slightly mollified. “Why didn’t he introduce himself properly then, hey? Very well, young Holmes, what do you mean by it?”

“With your permission, sir,” I went on, unperturbed, “I would like to put a few questions to the chairman of the club.”

The chairman began to flush in annoyance.

“Go ahead, then, Mr. Holmes,” instructed Cloncury. “I am sure that the chairman will be in favor of anything that stops the incursion of the police into this establishment.”

It seemed that the chairman, albeit reluctantly, was in favor.

“Well, sir, if I remember correctly, the washroom is next to the cloakroom, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Is the washroom attended?”

“It is not.”

“And the cloakroom? Is it attended at all times?”

“Of course it is.”

“Your Grace, will you be so good as to show me where it was that you left your toilet box?”

We turned in a body, headed by the duke, and passed into the washroom. He pointed to one of the ornate marble washbasins at the far end of the room. It was one of a dozen such washbasins lining the entire lefthandside wall of the chamber, which was fronted by a series of mirrors for the use of the members. The righthandside wall was fitted with toilet cubicles in dark mahogany and brass fittings, except for a small area behind the main door. The marbletiled wall here was unimpeded by anything except for a small opening. It was about two feet square, framed in mahogany and with a hatch door.

I pointed to it. “I presume that this hatch connects the washroom with the cloakroom?”

“Naturally,” barked the chairman. “Now what is all this about?”

I turned and led them out of the washroom and into the cloakroom, where a uniformed attendant leaped from his chair, dropping a halfsmoked cigarette into an ashtray and looking penitently from one to another of us.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he stuttered.

“Yes, you can,” I assured him. “You can bring me the garment that you are holding for Colonel Sebastian Moran. I think you will find that it is a heavy riding cloak or one of those newstyle long, loose coats which, I believe, is called an Ulster.”

The attendant returned my gaze in bewildered fashion.

The chairman pushed forward. “Good God, sir, what do you mean by it? Colonel Moran is a respected member of this club. Why are you presuming to ask for his coat?”

The Duke of Cloncury was looking at me with a frown of disapproval. “You’d better have a good explanation, young Holmes,” he muttered.

“I believe that you want the return of your toilet case?” I asked blandly.

“Gad, you know I do.”

I turned to the attendant. “Have you been on duty for the last half an hour?”

“That I have, sir.”

“A short while ago, Colonel Moran knocked on the hatch from the washroom side and asked if you could pass him his coat for a moment. Is that correct?”

The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “It is, sir. He said he wanted to comb his hair and had left the toilet items in his coat. And the coat was, indeed, one of those newstyle Ulsters, sir.”

“I believe the colonel then came around from the washroom, into the cloakroom, in order to hand you back the coat?”

“That is exactly what he did, sir.”

I turned and smiled at the astonished company, perhaps a little too superior in my attitude.

“How the hell did you know that?” growled the chairman.

“Now, my man,” I said, ignoring him but speaking again to the attendant. “Would you fetch Colonel Moran’s Ulster?”

The attendant turned, picked down the garment, and handed it to me in silence.

I took it and weighed it carefully with one hand before reaching into the inside lining. There were several large pockets there as was the fashion with such garments. The leather box was tucked neatly into one of them.

“How did you know?” gasped Cloncury, seizing his precious box eagerly.

“Know? I merely deduce from facts, sir. If you will open the box and check the brush? I think you may find that in the brush are some strands of dark black hair. The color of Colonel Moran’s hair, which is easy to spot, as it is dyed.”

It took the duke but a moment to confirm that I was right.

“I think the colonel is someone given to seizing opportunity. A chance taker,” I told them. “He followed His Grace into the washroom when His Grace had already entered the toilet. He saw the leather case there. He knew it had great sentimental value for His Grace. Perhaps he thought he might be able to blackmail Cloncury for its return, probably through an intermediary, of course. He seized the opportunity, asking for his Ulster to be passed through the hatch in order to conceal the box in order to get it out of the club. He chanced that members would not be searched….”

“It would be unthinkable that a member of this club would be searched,” muttered the chairman. “We are all gentlemen here!”

I chose not to comment. “He could not carry the box out of the washroom into the cloakroom without observation. When I saw the hatch, I knew that he had only to ask for his coat to be passed through, place the box in his pocket unobserved, and the theft was complete.”

“How did you know it was an Ulster or a riding cloak?” demanded His Grace.

“He would have to be possessed of a heavy coat such as an Ulster or riding cloak with large enough interior pockets to conceal the box in.”

“Why not pass the coat back through the hatch once he had hidden the box in the coat?” demanded Mycroft. “Why do you think that he came out of the washroom door, into the hall, and then into the cloakroom to return the cloak to the attendant?”

“Moran was cautious. Passing it back through the hatch might cause the attendant to feel the box and become suspicious, especially after Cloncury raised the alarm. So he carried it round and handed it to the attendant holding it upright by the collar. The extra weight would not be noticed. Is that correct?”

The attendant nodded confirmation.

“What made you think there would be hairs on the brush and that they would be his?” queried His Grace, staring dubiously at the black dyed hairs that were entangled on his silverbacked brush.

“Because Moran is a vain man and could not resist cocking a snoot at you, Your Grace, by brushing his own hair while you were within feet of him. It fits in with Moran’s character, a demonstration of his nerve, for any moment you might have opened the door and discovered him. Chance is his adrenaline.”

“Holmes, this is amazing!” gasped Cloncury.

“It was another Trinity man who alerted me to the importance of careful observation,” I informed him. “Jonathan Swift. He wrote that a standerby may sometimes see more of the game than he who plays it.” I could not resist turning to Mycroft and adding, sotto voce, “And Trinity almost refused to give Swift a degree because they thought he was too lazy and undisciplined!”

The chairman of the club signaled the uniformed club doorman and his assistant. They looked exmilitary men.

“You will find Colonel Moran in the dining room,” he instructed. “Ask him to join us immediately. If he will not comply, you have my permission to escort him here with as much force as you have cause to use.”

The two men went off briskly about their task.

A moment later, the colonel, whose appearance suggested that he had polished off the rest of the wine, was firmly propelled into our presence.

His redrimmed eyes fell on his Ulster and on Cloncury holding his precious leather case. The mans face went white in spite of the alcoholic infused cheeks.

“By Gad, sir, you should be horsewhipped!” growled the Duke of Cloncury and Straffan menacingly.

“This is a fabrication!” bluffed Moran feebly. “Someone put the box in my inside coat pocket.”

I could not forbear a grin of triumph. “How did you know that it was the box which had been stolen? And how did you know it was found in your inside coat pocket, Colonel?”

Moran knew the game was up.

“Moran,” the chairman said heavily, “I shall try to persuade His Grace not to bring charges against you for the sake of the reputation of this club. If he agrees, it will be on the condition that you leave Ireland within the next twelve hours and never return. I will circulate your name in society so that no house will open its doors to you again. I will have you blackballed in every club in the land.”

The Duke of Cloncury and Straffan gave the matter a moments thought and then agreed to the conditions. “I’d horsewhip the beggar, if it were me. Anyway. I think we all owe young Mr. Sherlock Holmes our thanks in resolving this matter.”

Moran glowered at me. “So you tipped them off, you young interfering-” He made a sudden aggressive lunge at me.

Mycroft inserted his large frame between me and Moran. His fist impacted on the colonels nose, and Moran went sprawling back, only to be neatly caught by the doorman and his assistant.

“Kindly escort Colonel Moran off the premises, gentlemen,” ordered the chairman, “and you do not have to be gentle.”

Moran twisted in their grasp to look back at me with little option but to control his foul temper.

“I have your measure, Sherlock Holmes,” he glowered, seething with an inner rage as they began to propel him toward the door. “You have not heard the last of me.”

It was as Mycroft was sharing a cab in the direction of my rooms in Lower Baggott Street that he frowned and posed the question: “But I cannot see how you could have identified Moran as the culprit in the first place.”

“It was elementary, Mycroft.” I smiled. “When we left the luncheon room and passed behind Moran’s chair, I saw that the colonel had dandruff on his shoulders. Now he had jetblack hair. But with the dandruff lay a number of silver strands. It meant nothing to me at the time, for I was not aware of the facts. When I discovered that the missing case contained a hairbrush and comb, everything fell into place. The duke not only had silver hair, but, I noticed, he also had dandruff to boot. By brushing his hair in such a foolhardy gesture, Moran had transferred the dandruff and silver hair to his own shoulders. It was easy to witness that Moran was a vain man. He would not have allowed dandruff and hair, if it had been his, to lie on his shoulders when he entered a public dining room. Indeed, I saw him rise from his table and go out, brushing himself as he did so. The sign of a fastidious man. He had, therefore, unknowingly picked it up during his short absence. Everything else was a matter of simple deduction.”

As Moran had been thrown out of the Kildare Street Club, he had called out to me that I had not heard the last of him. Indeed, I had not. But I could not have conceived of how our paths would meet at that time, nor of the sinister role Moran’s friend, Professor Moriarty, would play in my life. While Moriarty became my most implacable foe, Colonel Sebastian Moran was certainly the second most dangerous man that I ever had to deal with.