The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (14 page)

I started out of my chair in shock.

“What is the meaning of this Holmes? Do you mean to tell me that your brother is responsible for what has happened to my wife?”

“All evidence points to it, Watson. That he did it personally I do not believe, but you were the driving force were you not Mycroft?” remarked Sherlock.

The elder Holmes remained silent, his emotions remaining hidden behind a mask of imperturbability.

“Why would you do such a monstrous thing?” I asked my voice filled with rage.

“I assure you
Doctor; the act was one of the utmost necessity.”

“For what possible reason would an
employee
,” I emphasized this last word, “of our government kidnap one of it’s citizens from her own home?”

Mycroft brushed microscopic specks of dust from his immaculate waistcoat. He, like his brother was fastidious in his wardrobe. He ignored my question as Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair and strode over to the row of books which ran along one side of the room. He ran his finger across their spines.

“Well, Mycroft are you going to answer me?”

“I think, Watson, that you should hear the whole story,” Sherlock Holmes said.

I turned in my chair to face him. He idly flipped through the pages of a book. His eyes did not meet mine.

“You know of this business? This is monstrous
, Holmes,” I said venomously.

“Yes, I knew of it Watson, although I had no hand in the matter,” he said, his voice was even and steady.

“Damn it, Holmes do you mean to say that you know where Mary is? If you have caused her to suffer some harm, I swear.....,” I began, my voice rising.

“That is enough, Doctor,” broke in Mycroft Holmes. His voice like his brother’s was calm yet there was an underlying hint of menace. It was a voice that was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed.

“I am sorry Mycroft. I did not mean to threaten your brother,” I said by way of apology.

“My brother can take care of himself,” he said, “but I will not have you disrupt the sanctity of this club. We do however owe you an explanation.”

“Not now though, Mycroft; come to Baker Street tonight and we will discuss the matter,” said Sherlock regaining control of the situation.

“Why not now, Holmes?” I asked.

“This is not the place to discuss such things. Even here, the walls have ears,” he said. He pointed to the door, beneath which could be seen a passing shadow.

“Besides which Mycroft must return to his duties, I am sure.”

Mycroft Holmes, saying nothing, suddenly raised his massive bulk from the chair, which groaned under the strain. “I will see you at seven,” he said and left the room. Our audience with him was over.

Holmes and I gathered our hats and coats and left this strangest of all clubs. We hailed a cab and Holmes directed the driver to take us back to Baker Street. The ride was long and uncomfortable and we exchanged neither words nor glances during the return trip.

My friend went directly to his bedroom after our arrival in Baker Street. In a few moments he returned dressed in his tweeds and without explanation disappeared down the seventeen steps and out of the front door.

Holmes had for well over ten years been my best friend and intimate companion, and I his loyal friend and confidante and this was the first time that I had felt a barrier come between us.

I was at a loss as to what to do with my own time, and attempted to interest myself in a back copy of the
Lancet
but my powers of concentration were not equal to the task. It was then that my thoughts turned to my own long neglected patients.

So it was that, I found myself at the Baker
Street Post Office, sending a telegram to my old friend and former neighbour, Dr. Jackson.

In the days when my practice had been located in Paddington
, Dr. Jackson had always been gracious enough to look in on my patients when I was otherwise occupied and even though he had recently retired from active practice our friendship had been such that I was sure he would still accommodate me.

Having done with my task I wandered the streets purposelessly, staring into shop windows before finally stopping at a small cafe for refreshments. The woman behind the counter looked as if she might have been behind that same counter since the time of the Roman invasion. Surprisingly the food was excellent and most welcome. However, two cups of tea and a thick meat sandwich later, time was still hanging heavy on my hands and I slowly made my way back to Baker Street.

I attempted to engage Mrs. Hudson in conversation, however that good lady was just beginning to prepare the evening meal and she could spare me little time. Although sympathetic to my cause, my wife and she had become fast friends, it was clear that I was underfoot. Wearily I climbed the stairs to Holmes’ apartment and rummaged through my old bedroom for a book with which to pass the time. Holmes, although he had many sterling qualities, was greatly adverse to change and I knew that most of my old books remained where I had left them following my marriage.

I found my signed cop
y of “Poems” by Robert Bridges, which I remembered with fondness and settled down in my old chair. Mrs. Hudson brought up some coffee, set the tray upon the table and backed out silently.

The book held no interest for me however, and time passed slowly. It seemed an eternity before I heard Holmes’ familiar footsteps upon the stairs.

“Mycroft is not here yet?” he asked as he entered the room and removed his hat and coat.

“Your powers of deduction are unsurpassed,” I replied with as much sarcasm as I could muster. My temper had cooled somewhat, however I could still not forgive him for whatever part he may have played in Mary’s disappearance.

Holmes ignored my comments and went into his bedroom. In a few moments he returned dressed in his favorite mouse colored dressing gown.

“Where have you been
, Holmes?” I asked him bluntly. “Have you been to see my wife?”

“No, Watson. I have spent my afternoon in the Reading Room of the British Museum.”

“Towards what end?”

“All in good time, Watson,” he replied walking over to the bow window.

“Ah, Mycroft is alighting from a carriage even as we speak.”

In a moment the Falstaffian figure of Mycroft Holmes was standing inside of our doorway.

“I trust that no one was seriously injured in the traffic accident which caused you to be late?” said Sherlock.

For once I did not rise to the bait and how Holmes deduced that there was such an accident forever remained a mystery.

“No, Sherlock just another overturned delivery waggon,” remarked the elder Holmes, removing his outer garments. He deposited his umbrella in the stand by the door for the fine weather had turned wet and blustery.

“Take
a seat here by the fire, Mycroft. I shall pour you a whisky.”

Mycroft Holmes sat himself in what his brother liked to call “the visitor’s chair” which was barely large enough to accommodate his massive girth. He quickly downed the whisky and soda which was offered him and without preamble began his narrative.

“As you may know Doctor, with the death of the late unlamented Professor Moriarty but a scant nine days ago Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s lieutenant, took over as leader of what remained of the Professor’s vast criminal empire. Moran was the most dangerous member of that organization to escape the trap which Sherlock had baited and the police rather clumsily managed to spring.

“When Sherlock wired from Switzerland to inform me that he was still alive I took it upon myself to see that he remained so, even if the effort was unwelcome.”

Here he stopped to take a breath, and looked across at his brother. He took another sip of from the tumbler of whisky which Holmes had refilled.

“Get to the point, Mycroft,” I said.

Mycroft Holmes mopped his brow.

“As Sherlock
imprudently mentioned this afternoon,” again he shot a glance at his brother, “among my numerous other duties, I also oversee this country’s small and unofficial security service. Made up mainly of retired policemen, former military men, and gentlemen adventurers of good standing and others of not such good standing, they are charged with protecting Her Majesty’s interests here and abroad. When you and Sherlock returned from Switzerland I knew that the threat of danger had not yet passed and so I used my position to utilize one of these men in watching your household.”

“Why not use Scotland Yard, they’re good at spying on people as I recall?” I asked coldly.

“I should much rather rely upon my own resources, Doctor. While it is true that I do have some contacts at the Yard I would have only limited access to their information and little input and although Sherlock has been of inestimable service to them on numerous occasions they, I am sure, would not see fit to keep me apprised as to the state of their inquiries.

“So thanks to Sherlock’s urgings we had put a man inside of Moriarty’s organization some time ago. He was of course one of the members of that gang who the police neglected to pick up.”

“The man with the missing finger,” I stated.

“Yes Watson, the man with the missing finger,” replied Holmes.

“Fortunately,” continued Mycroft, “following the destruction of Moriarty’s gang, Colonel Moran had to avail himself of his few remaining resources and assigned our man as one of two who were to watch for an opportunity to whisk away your wife.”

“So with all of these precautions something obviously went wrong,” I said bitterly. I wanted nothing more than to know what all this had to do with the assault upon my wife and neighbour but I knew Mycroft Holmes would not be rushed.

“Ah, the best laid plans, Doctor, the best laid plans.....,” his voice drifted off. The room became silent and remained so for several seconds before he began speaking again.

“As you know Doctor, Sherlock in a precipitate and perhaps unwise move took your wife off to a hotel in a bid to ensure her safety.”

Holmes snorted.

“Unfortunately,” continued Mycroft taking no notice of his younger brother’s interruption “due to unforeseen circumstances it was not possible for my brother to give his full attentio
n to Mrs. Watson’s protection. What you could not know is that the individual whom he chose to act as her guardian in his stead was our cousin Dr. Hugh Verner. Hugh is the one person, aside from the two of us whom Sherlock trusts. Obviously he could not enlist your aid for reasons I believe he has already made clear to you. Hugh posed as her brother during their short stay in the hotel.

“It was only by coincidence that the very night that Hugh was in attendance he was called out upon a medical emergency.”

“What was the nature of this emergency?” I asked.

“It seems that the captain of a tea clipper had become seriously ill and medical attention was needed.”

“Why not simply take him to the hospital which if I recall correctly, stands outside of the entrance to the Docks?” I asked.

“Hugh is well known down at the docks and is familiar with, and trusted by the sailors. Hugh was contacted at Claridge’s Hotel apparently through the
indiscretions of his wife and made aware of the captain’s condition. Mrs. Watson being the kind-hearted soul that she is offered her services in whatever nursing capacity was needed.”

“Mary never mentioned anything to me about such a thing,” I remarked.

“At the time it probably seemed a trivial affair and I am sure that you had other, more interesting matters to discuss,” replied Sherlock.

“They took a cab down to the docks,” continued Mycroft, again undeterred by the interruption, “which even at that time of day was teeming with people, and spent several hours trying to do what they could for the unfortunate captain with what they had. They worked feverishly and it appeared at times that they were winning but in the middle of the night the man died. The crew thanked them for their efforts and soon they were in a hansom on their way back to the hotel exhausted by their efforts. All this we later learned from Dr. Verner and from your wife.”

“Within two to three hours of returning to the hotel,” he continued, “your wife began exhibiting many of the same symptoms as had the ship’s captain.”

“What were these symptoms, Mycroft?” I asked.

“Primarily headaches, nausea, vomiting and aching joints,” Mycroft replied.

“Symptoms which are all characteristic of influenza Mycroft, and while serious enough it is hardly the type of affliction to warrant such mysterious goings on.”

“I am sure that most of the practitioners in Harley Street would agree with you Doctor. However coupled with the symptoms shown by the captain, the implications were much more ominous.”

An unnamed fear came over me. “And how did these symptoms manifest themselves Mycroft?” I asked quietly.

He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket and began reciting from it. “According to the ship’s cook, who attended the man until Doctor Verner and Mrs. Watson arrived, early during his illness the captain showed many of the same symptoms as had your wife. Then after about seventy two hours the lymph nodes in his groin area began to swell, following which he began to experience tremendous pain. Near the end, his skin turned a dark purple.” Abruptly he closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket. He poured himself another drink of whisky, he didn’t wait for soda.