The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-One

The same evening that John Watson had discussed his romance with Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty was entertaining a guest to dinner in his sanctum. The occasion was a business one, concerning forged documents and Bank of England plates. The matter was dealt with successfully. After the meal, the two men retired to the library to smoke, take port and relax.

“How is the business with Sherlock progressing?” asked the portly guest casually, as he prepared to take a pinch of snuff, delicately balanced on the back of his hand.

“I am rather bored with it now. It is true that your brother has developed into a crime-fighter without pareil, as we both suspected, and that with a little nudging from our man Watson he now follows the paths of crime which lie in a different direction from my endeavours. Paradoxically, that is part of my dilemma: the plan has been successful, and so there is no excitement in the case.”

Mycroft Holmes brushed away the errant grains of snuff from his waistcoat and peered over his pince-nez.

“Ah, well, the lion may only be sleeping. There may come a time when Sherlock will pose a serious threat to you,” he said.

“I would almost welcome the challenge. However, I suspect that now Holmes has a successful detective practice, the broad strokes of my crimes will no longer interest him. He is a connoisseur, and prefers rather bizarre miniatures to the simple, clean masterpieces that I create.”

“He always had a love of the unusual and the recherché.”

“There you are, then,” said Moriarty, leaning forward and pouring more port into Mycroft’s empty glass. “And now Watson is wanting to leave.”

“What on earth for?”

Moriarty curled his lip. “He has fallen in love.”

“Ah, he has, has he? Man of the world, this Watson, eh? No doubt it is with that young woman involved in the Agra Treasure investigation.”

“The same. He wants to marry her and most likely carry her off to suburban bliss away from Baker Street.”

“And you will allow him to go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is time to let the fellow slip his leash. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he moved in with your brother, and now perhaps he is not needed any more. I would welcome your thoughts on the matter.”

Mycroft beamed and relaxed, his body slipping down comfortably into the depths of the chair, while his legs stretched forward until they almost touched the hearth.

“Well, it would leave you a little exposed again, although you have Mrs Hudson on hand. It might spice up the game.”

“It might,” agreed the Professor.

“I’ve never met this Watson, but from his reports to you and what you have told me about him, I gain the impression that he is a reliable fellow and that if he left he would remain true to you, or rather to his unwritten contract with you, especially if some threat were placed over his head to ensure his loyalty.”

“The girl...”

Mycroft beamed again. “Indeed. Love makes a man very malleable. Moreover, is it not likely that once having tasted the exciting fruits of detective work, Watson will never be able to keep away from the tree? After a few months enduring the monotony of domestic life, he’ll be banging on the door of Baker Street, begging for Sherlock to allow him to accompany him on some case or another.”

“I like the scenario. To facilitate this arrangement, it would mean moving pieces on the board in a radical fashion, but they have been static too long.” Moriarty drained his glass. “I appreciate your counsel, Mycroft. Wise words.”

“Informed words to some extent, at least. The man is my brother, after all.”

Moriarty chuckled. ‘That has always fascinated me. Two men from the same stable as it were, but both so different.’

“Not as different as all that. Oh, I know physically I would make two of Sherlock — that is my love of good food, good wine, good living.” He raised his glass and took a drink to illustrate his point before continuing. “But our brains are of a similar intellectual quality. It is just that we use them for different purposes. We both enjoy the thrill of intrigue, legerdemain on a grand scale... It’s just that we have taken diverse paths.”

Moriarty looked at the large man opposite him. His face was massive, but there was a keenness about the features that clearly denoted the man’s intellectual brilliance. His eyes, partly shielded by the golden rims of his pince-nez, were as sharp as knives. Despite the smooth words of explanation, Moriarty did not understand Mycroft Holmes, and this worried him. Of all the individuals who worked closely with him in his organisation, Mycroft remained the only dark horse. The Professor knew that in the world of crime one could not afford the luxury of close attachments — he himself had none — and yet Sherlock Holmes was this man’s brother, a dissoluble blood-tie. Mycroft had a shining intellect and therefore would be acutely aware that if his brother became a real threat to the organisation, Moriarty would have no compunction in sweeping him away, crushing him like a fly; and yet Mycroft revealed no concern or real interest in this possibility.

“The old adage is wrong. Chemically, blood is thicker than water, but in the metaphorical sense the idea is nonsense. I do not hate my brother, but on the other hand I have no special affection for him, either. We are two individuals making our own way in a cruel world. We each must face our own destiny.” Mycroft’s face creased into a smile. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve been reading your mind again.”

“In certain circumstances, that could be a dangerous occupation.”

“Then, sir, I shall have to ensure that those circumstances do not arise.”

There was a moment’s silence, when the air crackled with intensity between the two men, and then they exchanged knowing smiles.

“This Watson business intrigues me,” said Mycroft Holmes some moments later, when they had lit their cigars. “I have until now kept out of your dealings with Sherlock, but I do think it is time I introduced myself to his friend Watson. I’m sure you’d welcome my views on him and this marriage business.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm,” observed Moriarty, non-committally. “I know that I can rely on your discretion.”

“Implicitly. Now, as it happens I have a little business I can put Sherlock’s way. A fellow called Melas, a Greek interpreter, who lodges on the floor above me, has become involved in some intrigue and came to me for help. I think I see the matter clearly, but playing detectives is not a game in which I’m interested. I could throw this morsel Sherlock’s way and thus create an opportunity to meet Watson.”

Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, my dear Mycroft, you had it all worked out before you arrived this evening: a fait accompli.”

Mycroft returned the chuckle. “Touché, Professor. Now you are reading my mind.”

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

After a virtually sleepless night, I came down to breakfast the following morning somewhat bleary-eyed. There was no sign from the friendly demeanour of Sherlock Holmes that we had exchanged heated words the night before. He had an enviable facility for isolating moods and arguments, invoking a kind of emotional amnesia that forbade him the need to dwell on past upsets and allowed him to get on with his life.

“I heard you stirring, so I’ve sent down to Mrs Hudson for your breakfast. It should be here in a trice.”

“Thank you,” I said, and sat opposite Holmes at the breakfast table, most of which was covered with the pages of various newspapers. From this mess, he extracted a note and waved it aloft. “We have a case, unless I’m very much mistaken,” he declared.

“Oh?”

“This is a note from my brother, asking—”

“Your brother?” I cried, shaking my tired head. “Did you say your brother?”

“I did.”

“You never told me that you had a brother.”

“The occasion never arose. His name is Mycroft, and he is my senior by seven years. We rarely see each other, except when business brings us together. He helped me with funds when I first came to London.”

“But what does he do?”

“Ah, well, all that is a bit vague. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and officially he audits the books in various government departments, but I believe his responsibilities go somewhat further than that. I well believe he has the ear of the Prime Minister when certain situations arise.”

“Why have I never heard of him?”

“The powers behind the Government are never well known, Watson. Don’t be naïve. However, he is well known in his own circle. At the Diogenes Club, for example.”

At this point, our conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock at our door and the entrance of our landlady, bearing my breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee.

“There you are, Doctor,” she said, placing the dish before me, “and make sure you eat it all up. You’re looking decidedly peaky this morning,”

“The Diogenes Club?” I remarked, after Mrs Hudson had left us. “What on earth’s that?”

Holmes laughed. “It is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men. When he’s not working in some government building somewhere, he can be found in the club.”

“But what sort of club is it?”

“There are many men in London who, some through shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellow man. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these individuals that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other. Save in the Strangers’ Room, no talking is allowed under any circumstances. My brother was one of the founding members.”

“And for what reason does he frequent the club? Shyness, or misanthropy?”

“We talked last night of my wariness regarding emotions and forming any kind of attachments. Apart from yourself, I have no other friends. Mycroft shares this belief to a much greater degree than I. He was born to be solitary. He alone satisfies his own needs for company and stimulation.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but he sounds most odd.”

Holmes laughed. “Not at all. He is not really odd. You will find him the most amiable fellow when you meet him.”

“I am to meet him?”

“This morning at eleven. He has a case for us, and he specifically asked me to bring you along.”

“Really?”

“See for yourself.” He threw the note to my side of the table, where it narrowly missed landing on my fried egg and bacon.

The notepaper was headed: The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall. The note, written in neat copperplate, read simply:

Sherlock,

Call around at eleven today. I will see you in the Strangers’ Room. Bring your associate Watson with you. There is a matter which may interest you.

Mycroft.

It was just striking the hour of eleven when Holmes and I entered the Diogenes Club. Holmes cautioned me not to utter a word as he led me into the hall. Through the glass panelling I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room in which a considerable number of men were sitting about in cavernous chairs, reading newspapers. Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out on to Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for a while, returned with a companion whom I surmised must be his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. In fact, his body was absolutely corpulent, and he moved with the elegant slowness that fat people are forced to adopt because of their weight. However, there was something about his concentrated expression that was remarkably similar to that of his brother. Mycroft’s eyes, bright behind a pair of pince-nez, seemed to retain that faraway, introspective look which I had only observed in my companion when he was exerting his full powers.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, extending a broad flat hand, like the flipper of a seal. “I gather you accompany my brother on his investigations.”

I nodded. “It is a pleasure to meet you also.”

“Now that the pleasantries are over, let us get down to business. You have a case for me, Mycroft,” remarked Holmes, in a cold brusque manner.

Mycroft glanced across at me and smiled. He took snuff from a tortoiseshell snuffbox and inhaled it noisily. “Not a man to stand on ceremony, my brother, Doctor Watson. A case, Sherlock? Well, I suppose we might call it a case. Certainly, it is a singular matter.”

It was entertaining to me to see how this giant of a man treated his brother with a kind of light-hearted tolerance, as though he were a hungry schoolboy anxious for his tea. I saw that in Mycroft I had another colourful character to add to my Baker Street world, which was forming very nicely, ready to be fictionalised.

“Well?” said Holmes, slapping down his gloves impatiently on the table. “Let me hear the facts.”

In reply, Mycroft scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocketbook and, ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

“I have asked Mr Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which led him to come to me in his perplexity.”

In the end, the affair was a slight one and required little detective work on behalf of my friend. Indeed, it was rather a clumsy matter, which I may very well delete from any collection of Holmes cases that I create. As it turned out, the main culprits escaped the grasp of both Holmes and the law.

Returning from our abortive expedition to apprehend them, my friend was in a foul temper.

“A very unsatisfactory matter,” grumbled Holmes in the cab on our way back to Baker Street. “It had all the elements of a fine case. If only I had been called in earlier.”

I could only nod in agreement. Indeed, the case had promised much and contained suitably dramatic elements for a fine story, but it lacked a satisfying denouement.

When we arrived back at our rooms, we found Mycroft waiting for us there with a bottle of champagne on ice. One look at his brother’s face informed him of the disappointing outcome of the evening.

“Never mind, Sherlock,” he grinned, uncorking the champagne with a discreet pop. “You tried your best. You cannot always be assured of success in your detective endeavours.”

“It appears not,” replied Holmes sullenly, and flinging his coat upon the rack, he retired to his room.

“He was always a petulant boy,” observed Mycroft, handing me a glass of champagne, unabashed by Holmes’ rudeness. “It looks like we’ll have to share the bottle between us.”

I thanked him and we took seats either side of the fire, Mycroft automatically taking the chair that his brother usually occupied.

“In the absence of Sherlock, allow me to raise a toast on his behalf. To crime — bigger and better crime.” He chuckled and I joined him.

“You seem very comfortable here, Watson.” Mycroft eyed his surroundings.

“I am,” I replied.

“And yet, Sherlock tells me that you have plans to leave. Romance is in the air.”

“He told you that?” I was most surprised. I had assumed that Holmes would treat my private life with the utmost discretion.

“We are brothers, after all.” Mycroft filled my empty glass. “I am not the man on the omnibus, or a chap in a music hall bar. I am sure he meant no harm by it. I gather from his tone and demeanour that he was concerned about losing your company.”

“Well, that is not certain at present.”

“Ah.”

“There are... It is still very much in the early stages.”

“Forgive me, Watson, if I trespass too much into your personal territory, but are you sure of your feelings towards the young lady?”

“I am.”

“And hers towards you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, the rest is trivial. I wish you well. But promise me one thing, old boy. When you do take the bridal path, as it were, you won’t desert Sherlock altogether, will you?”

I shook my head. How could I? I thought. Little did Mycroft know of the chains that bound me to his brother. But at the same time, my natural instinct was to remain faithful to my friend. He was the only man I could call by such a name.

“Good man. More champagne, Watson?” He filled my glass again. “Now I must be off. I have another appointment in the city.”

With some effort he lifted himself out of the chair and placed his glass on the table. It was then that I noticed he had hardly touched the champagne, and that it was still his first glass.

“You finish off the bottle, Watson,” Mycroft beamed, pulling on his coat. “A nice little nightcap. I hope we meet again. Give my regards to my brother. I’m sure he’ll be over his sulk in the morning.”

With that he swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.