The Autobiography of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

26

There is a bench at the north side of Russell Square, facing south, where the sun warms one in the morning, penetrating the broad leaves of the ancient plane trees shading the park. A coffee seller, close by in a small building bordering the pathway, offers the finest coffee of my experience: hot, strong, rich and velvet with Devon cream. This is one of my favourite places in the whole of London.

From my seat on the bench, I observe the world through the years. I have been perfecting my powers of observation for so long that every person strolling through the park is known fully to me with a glance. Since Mycroft’s passing from life, I have had to be content with observational contests with myself. Mycroft was always the better of the two of us; his powers were far greater than mine, but he seldom employed them. He would look from my window in Montague Street and describe each person walking past as to age, occupation, physical health, marriage state, degree of wealth or poverty, and even an accurate appraisal of their sins and vices. Mycroft possessed what can only be described as ‘the mind’s eye.’

We once were engaged in our game of observation while having coffee in the Officers’ Room of the Foreign Office where we observed a man sitting reading a newspaper. Only his lower body and his fingers extended from the pages of the newspaper, all else being hidden behind. My attention focused on his trouser cuffs and his shoes. I asked Mycroft, ‘What do you make of him?’ and he immediately replied, ‘Visiting classical guitarist from Spain.’ I had already deduced Spain from the cut of the last of his shoes, but Mycroft had added ‘visiting’ from the Spanish newspaper he was reading and ‘classical guitarist’ from the slanted filing of the elongated fingernails of the first three fingers of his right hand.

I had a great regard for my brother. Our brains bound us together in a way that was different from our other siblings. We seldom saw each other, yet we sensed each other constantly, as if we drew on each other’s brain power for interpretation or monitoring. I believe Mycroft was aware at moments when I was faced with danger, and I knew—or more accurately, felt—whenever he was charged with great responsibility for the security of Britain. Together, we were far more effective than we were individually. Had we both gone into government service, we would have been able to alter, at will, the history of Great Britain or Europe; had we both gone into the detection of crime, we would have been more successful than Scotland Yard or any other police force; and if we had both gone into crime itself, we would have dominated the underworld.

Our latent potential, however, was held in check by our essential laziness. Mycroft could barely be induced to stir outside his rooms, his offices or his club and if the problem did not involve the government, it did not involve Mycroft’s mind. I picked and chose only the problems that interested me. We were both pre-eminent in what we did, and we both did do great work, but we did only that which was within our spheres of interest.

Mycroft had his own commonplace books which, in his precise and spare writing, recorded over two-hundred governmental crises in which he was instrumental averting or solving over his long, if sedentary, public service career, ending just a year before his death. These cases chronicle modern British history; indeed, Mycroft
is
modern British history.

Of course, his casebooks can never be revealed to the public; I am the only person who has ever read what Mycroft wrote in the long hours spanning the long years alone in his rooms. Each of the two-hundred-seventeen critical interventions that rested upon the integrity and intelligence of Mycroft equally shaped Britain’s place in the world as we know it between 1865 and 1925 and, indeed, beyond. Mycroft made and broke Prime Ministers, cabinet members, admirals and generals, ministers, diplomats, high justices, and even royals; but, he served his queen and kings with the steadfast and unblemished fealty of a First Knight. Mycroft was the link between the monarchs and the people of Britain; he possessed a mind of such purity that only he could eliminate the domestic and foreign political influences and steer destiny to the ultimate truth and good for Britain. And, no one knows who he truly was, few even his name. His great legacy to the country is the fact that he appears to have never existed, a form of selflessness that only a very few are ever able to achieve.

I have devised and constructed an elaborate and labyrinthine perpetual storage and archiving of Mycroft’s chronicles that will assure that they never appear until the year 2027, one hundred years after his death and long after the historic events he shaped. In that year, they will emerge from the past and be assigned to the Library of the British Museum where Mycroft will, at long last, receive proper recognition for his service to crown and country.

27

Mycroft’s commonplace books call to mind the disposition of my own nearly three yards of half-inch thick notebooks containing my written case notations from the whole of my career which has extended to this day upon which I write this chapter, as I am presently engaged on a most interesting little problem for a great lady of Teck involving a smoked salmon and the five furlong marker at Epsom Downs.

My detailed written notes contained in the two-hundred and six commonplace notebooks are in addition to those of Watson’s and it is my intention to soon combine them and place them with the Keeper of the Archives at Exeter College Library with instructions as to future access to their contents. It is also my intent to endow the college with the means to professionally index both my case notes and Watson’s and to establish an historical criminology research collection at Exeter College.

The public will little remember my career, but I believe the professional detectives of Britain and Europe may find my case notes instructive and, through their study, may improve the art and science of observation, deduction and factual reasoning within their investigative forces. A new era is approaching in crime detection when forensic evidence will move to the fore and science will play an increasingly important role in bringing about proper justice. Fingerprinting will become much more significant in assembling evidence against criminals. Fingerprints offer evidence that every human has completely unique patterns on the skin of the fingers. In the same manner, I believe every human being has a unique signature in their cellular structure and one day this will be used as irrefutable evidence when skin, hair or body fluids are found, analysed and linked to the criminal who committed the crime.

It will be impossible to find men with brains the equal of mine, but it will be possible to train good men to use my methods and to augment them with the advances in forensic sciences and, in so doing, to stem the tide of criminal activity and improve the accuracy of conclusive detection and prosecution.

I have thought often of the great benefit that could be had through the establishment of a university dedicated solely to the study of criminology. We have such universities for the preparation of the military. We have great universities of medicine. We have dedicated studies in the law. But our forces fighting the criminals are schooled in the streets, taught only to apply brute force and repetitive routine, and given little reward for innovation or intellect. If every detective were to have the kind of training that we require for a doctor, engineer, lawyer, or army major, the quality of police work would improve greatly and benefit the British people immeasurably.

My experience is that university trained men are better police inspectors. They possess, to a greater degree, the ability to think which, in turn, gives them a greater capacity to reason and form more accurate conclusions. And, more often, they are able to separate their ego from their investigative processes. The most detrimental characteristics of the bog-standard Scotland Yard inspector brought up through the ranks are stubbornness and arrogance. The best of them may only get forty percent of the essential elements of their cases correct and accurate. I have endeavoured to assist wherever I have been asked to offer my insights, and it has made a difference, but there is much to be improved upon.

Until such time in future as the casebooks are opened to study, those who care to do their Upper First in the art and science of detection will soon have my
magnum opus
for instruction:
The Science of Deduction and Detection.
I have made discrete mention of it to the Prime Minister with the quiet intimation that it may be best employed as required study by all Inspector level detectives or even all those new to the detective grade within Scotland Yard. He has indicated encouragement for its imminent adoption.

28

There is one aspect of my life I should like to set down here. It has never been mentioned and would not be mentioned except for my appreciation for an individual’s loyalty and friendship towards me expressed from time to time by that steadfast individual.

My life has not encouraged what others call friends. I have been far too occupied with my work to devote the time required by relationships with friends. Watson is as close as I have come to a friend; even he, however, has always been more of a colleague. I perceive that friends reach into the private portions of one’s life, whereas colleagues are content to remain within the latitudes of the work and the shared interests.

Friends can demand time from one when time is not available, and that can create tensions that distract one from the concentration on the problem at hand. Imprecise reasoning in one’s profession can never be excused by the outside demands of mental effort and time by friends. One chooses: intellectual excellence or emotion-based relationships. My path was ever clear and direct.

A time comes, however, in one’s life when momentary diversion, such as that a friend may offer, can be of some benefit. Even the precision machine benefits from a drop or two of oil to reduce wear from friction. An hour of quiet reflection and sharing of the simple shadings of the day can be refreshing and, like the drop of oil, reduce tension and offer respite from intense concentration. Even a light meal, taken together, can be a pleasant interlude in an otherwise pressing schedule of work and mental stimulation.

In 1922, nearly seven years ago come August, I made the acquaintance of one whom I have come to call my friend. An older gentleman, he called upon me one day unannounced and returned several times before I was able to gather the threads of his mystery. It took several visits and my personal assurances before Mrs Hunter would answer his request to call upon me without a look of foreboding and displeasure, but that was the nature of my independent caller. He was a bit unkempt and had a slight limp; his eyes were what is called rheumy, as if illness or overindulgence were behind their watery appearance. After taking a chair, he would—from time to time—drop off into a light sleep, seemingly tired from exertions that were unknown. My observation of his scarred ears and oversized thumbs told me that he had battled others in his hard life, perhaps at sea or among those who prowled the docks. At first, he had a somewhat objectionable odour from a lack of bathing. Later, with some small encouragement from Ms Hunter, his toilet was measurably improved and his general health gained vigour.

At first, our discussions were perfunctory, relegated to my questions and his few grunts. As we progressed, a clarity of expression developed and we had great long and wide-ranging discussions that delved into each of our inner interests.

My friend has spent seven years now visiting me for a portion of each day in Montague Street, generally for a late breakfast. He delights in Mrs Hunter’s fried eggs and streaky bacon. I have never called upon him at his home and, indeed, have no idea where it is to be found. I am told he has been seen strolling evenings in Montague Place, just a block or two away.

He asks little of me but offers a reserved enjoyment and companionship to one who is now seventy-seven years old. His name is Albert. While of mixed descent, one would describe him as a yellow tabby with three white feet.