The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (16 page)

“Excellent! Excellent!”
Sherlock pocketed the six business cards which had been deposited
on the dressing table. “Watson and I will follow these up after
we’ve had a bite to eat at Simpson’s on the Strand.”

Card number one – the rival
photographer proved a waste of time. The man turned out to be a
woman who took photographs of ladies in burlesque poses which were
later made into post cards and sold in tobacco shops. The studio
was on the Fulham Broadway in Fulham, and several plump beauties in
various stages of undress were on hand to have their flesh
immortalised.

The second card led them to a
shop on the Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush. The supplier was in
fact a camera repairer and an elderly gentleman, half deaf and
almost blind. He worked with his widowed daughter who did most of
the technical work while caring for her three young children.

The third, who called himself a
photographic specialist, sold new and used cameras. His shop was on
Churton Street in Pimlico. The shop was closed and the milliner
next door said the young man had not been seen for several days. He
thought the young man might have gone on holiday because he had
recently bought himself a fine new beaver top hat – the most
lustrous in the shop - a fine new coat, a pair of new leather boots
and a large suitcase.

“That sounds promising,” said
Sherlock as they proceeded to number four. “I think he might be our
man but we are obliged to follow up all leads.”

Number four, on Theobolds Road
in Clerkenwell, was another supplier of photographic equipment,
plus he had a dark room where camera enthusiasts could develop
their own negatives or for a fee have him do it for them. He was
middle-aged and worked with three apprentices, none of whom
remotely resembled the roaming photographer. The shop was
prosperous and business was brisk. Sherlock and Watson thanked the
man kindly and left to track down number five though they both felt
certain number three was the man they were after.

Number five worked from home.
He sold magic lanterns or, as they were also known, camera obscuras
from the attic of his house on Stepney Green in Stepney. He was a
portly man with a ruddy complexion and several chins. His wife
conducted séances every Saturday evening at eight o’clock in the
front parlour of their home.

Number six on Broxash Road near
Clapham Common was a fashionable camera shop which featured the
latest in folding Kodak cameras as favoured by the roaming
photographer. The owner was happy to demonstrate how weightless the
new cameras were and how easy they were to operate; he readily
showed them his book of sales which listed a certain Mr Myles
Trotter who owned a camera shop in Churton Street, Pimlico. Mr
Trotter had purchased two folding Kodak cameras only last week and
had paid in full. He was dressed very smartly and he did not
attempt to haggle about the price. He appeared to be flush with
funds and he knew his way around a camera.

“Mr Myles Trotter of Pimlico is
our man,” concluded Sherlock as they hailed a hansom and returned
to number 221B Baker Street ahead of the depressing fog which
dropped its sooty mantle over the city every afternoon at about
four o’clock. “First thing tomorrow the Countess can put her gang
to watching the shop in Churton Street, alas, I fear the bird has
flown the coop.”

So much for
not
being
caught in the same room as Major Nash! It was the major who vetted
all the new faces who stepped through the door of the Diogenes
Club. He cornered her in the butler’s pantry, a long and narrow
room like a corridor with cupboards running either side. It had
connecting doors to the kitchen, scullery, bar, wine cellar, tea
and coffee making room, china room and silver vault.

“I see you’ve already got your
uniform. Good, that saves time. You can start in the dining room.
They’ll be serving lunch in fifteen minutes. Pettigrew, the maître
d’ will be in charge. He manages all the butlers. Has he spoken to
you about what is expected?”

She kept her eyes glued to the
floor and shook her head.

“Members help themselves to the
starters and the soup from a sideboard. The principle course is
always a choice of three roast meats and seasonal vegetables. It
comes on a trolley. The diner will point to what he wants and you
will serve. It is the same for the dessert trolley. The cheeseboard
is on a separate sideboard with a selection of breads. A sommelier
takes care of the wine. You are aware there is a no talking rule
observed at all times?”

She nodded; eyes still glued to
the floor.

“Good,” he said, glancing down
at the list of names in his hand. “Well, good luck, Grimsby, and
try to keep your back straight and your head up. Looking confident
is half the trick to conquering shyness.”

He reached the door that led to
the bar and paused. She had just breathed a huge sigh of relief and
dropped her guard when his voice propelled her to swivel round and
meet his gaze.

“By the way, I’m Major Nash. I
have an office at the top of the stairs, first door to the right.
You can bring me a gin and tonic before you report to Pettigrew. No
ice.”

Her heart was beating fast. Did
he notice? Did he guess? Was the directive to bring him a gin and
tonic genuine or did he want to scrutinize her at close quarters?
This would be the first test of her grand deception. If she could
pull it off in front of him, she could fool anyone.

A brisk rap of knuckles five
minutes later had her in his office balancing a tray with a gin and
tonic she had measured herself – first time ever. She erred on the
side of too strong rather than too weak and hoped there would be no
complaints as she placed it on a corner of the desk.

Two large Georgian windows gave
onto Pall Mall. A built-in bookcase lined with law books was set
with a jib door, slightly ajar. It probably led to his private
apartments. She had not considered the question of his place of
habitation in London but it would have made sense that if Mycroft
resided in the dome room at the top of the Diogenes Club then his
ADC also resided on the premises.

Major Nash was seated at a
large writing desk in the style of William IV with four turned legs
and a tooled leather surface. Twin desk lamps had been electrified
and a brass inkwell with two glass pots added to the symmetry. He
finished perusing an official looking document and used a dip pen
to put his signature to it. His voice caught her at the door.

“Always use a coaster, Grimsby.
You don’t want to stain the antique leather surface of the desk.
Same goes for the furniture downstairs in the members’ rooms.
Nerves are no excuse for sloppiness.”

Whew! She had pulled it off! At
the base of the stairs she paused to draw breath and noticed
Mycroft going into the dining room with a newspaper tucked under
his arm. Tables were set for one and all faced a lacquered Chinese
screen, Corinthian column or oak-panelled wall. None were placed
near the window. Privacy was paramount at most gentlemen’s clubs
but at the Diogenes it was taken to extreme.

Pettigrew proved a real
martinet but any faux pas during the serving of the meals went
unobserved simply because most of the diners had their noses in a
book or newspaper. If she slopped some gravy on the lip of the
gilt-edged plate or carved the roast beef a little too thickly no
one seemed to notice. She did not have the honour of serving the
primus baro - that honour was reserved for Pettigrew - but she
understood Mycroft would have come downstairs for his midday meal
to make sure she managed to pull off the charade.

He had been vehemently opposed
to her going undercover at the club – A woman of all things! Are
you mad! Have you lost your senses completely! – but Sherlock
whispered some sort of threat into his brother’s ear and Mycroft
relented. What the secret threat was no one knew but it seemed to
put the wind up Mycroft and he turned white for a brief moment.

Throughout lunch, which lasted
from midday until two o’clock, she had been dreading the arrival of
Major Nash. But he did not make an appearance in the dining room
and she presumed he had decided to take lunch elsewhere.

From two o’clock onwards there
were the inevitable whiskies and brandies to be served and she was
kept busy, running backwards and forwards from the bar to the
reading room, library and billiards room where one of the members
appeared to be playing a game of snooker with himself. The Diogenes
Club, she concluded, was a luxurious lunatic asylum where the
inmates had the keys to their own cells.

After lunch, a majority of the
members retired to their rooms to avail themselves of a nap. It was
the job of the longest-serving butler to remain in the butler’s
pantry where a set of small electric lights flashed for each
bedroom. Since he knew everyone’s tipple, once the light flashed he
wrote down the room number and the respective tipple required. No
words were exchanged and whichever butler was available took the
drink upstairs to the appropriate sleepyhead. It was during her
fourth trip up the stairs that she bumped into Major Nash as he was
coming out of his private office.

“Grimsby,” he said in a lowered
tone “I had some paperwork to finish and completely forgot about
lunch. Bring a tray up to my room. No starters, no soup, a slice of
roast beef with duchesse potatoes and buttered parsnips, and if
there is any apple pie left I will have a serve of that with
clotted cream. No need to heat any of it up. I will eat it
cold.”

He remained at the top of the
landing and she could feel his eyes watch her traipse manfully down
the stairs.

She went straight to the
kitchen and asked the cook for the requisite meal, mentioning that
it did not need to be heated up.

The matronly cook, wearing a
mob cap, looked put out. “Bollocks! Are you new?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong with your throat?
Sounds like you swallowed a hornet’s nest.”

“Laryngitis,” she rasped.

“Gargle with warm water and
salt, morning and night. Lunch is finished. This isn’t an all-day
restaurant. Who requested this meal?”

She made an exaggerated swallow
and added a painful wince. “Major Nash.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I
wouldn’t do this for any other man. This place is a loony bin and
he is the only one here who isn’t a loon. When you deliver this up
to his room come back down and I will have a nice cup of hot tea
and a thick slice of my special ginger cake fresh from the oven
ready to go. What’s your name?”

“Grimsby.”

“Grimsby, ma’am,” corrected the
cook with asperity.

“Do you know where the Major’s
rooms are, Grimsby?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she returned
snappily as she snatched up the tray.

So far, so good, but several
hours had disappeared and she had learned nothing new except that
butlers were grossly underpaid. She really needed to get to the
Stranger’s Room since it was the only room that permitted speaking.
She had spotted General de Merville in the dining room but had lost
sight of him after he mounted the stairs. She wondered if it was
worth searching his room. She wondered how likely it might be that
a man would store something in the private bedroom of his club that
he might not want to store at home.

Hmm, worth following up.

The door to Major Nash’s office
was closed but she could hear his voice clearly. Strangely, there
didn’t appear to be a second voice. It was as if he was talking to
himself. The words were muffled, barely audible, but she got the
impression they were throbbing with understated anger. When she
gave a knock – no easy feat whilst balancing a food tray – his
voice immediately ceased and when he opened the door there was only
one person in the room, and that person was him. The jib door which
had previously been ajar was now closed.

With an abstract wave of his
hand, he indicated for her to place the tray on a drum table. As
she was closing the door she could have sworn she spotted a
Matryoshka doll on his desk poking out from under a sheaf of papers
that had been haphazardly placed over the top in a clumsy attempt
to conceal it.

At the top of the landing she
saw General de Merville hurrying down the stairs and yet the
landing had been vacant when she came up and there were no other
doors opening off from the landing apart from the two doors leading
to Major Nash’s suite of rooms. There had been no time for anyone
to emerge from their bedrooms, cross the landing and descend the
stairs. Had the general been in the room with the major and then
fled through the jib door when she knocked? Or had he been
listening from behind the jib door? But then who was Major Nash
talking to? And where did they go?

She reached the base of the
stairs in time to see General de Merville slip into the Stranger’s
Room. She pretended to be adjusting the limp tapers on the
Christmas tree that centred the entrance hall and a few moments
later her malingering paid off. Sir James Damery and Mr Blague
arrived and were ushered by the hall porter into the same room, the
room for visitors, the only room where talking was tolerated.

Completely forgetting about the
major’s cup of tea and ginger cake she raced to the bar, located
the most expensive bottle of Scotch whiskey she could find, grabbed
six glasses, not three, and put them on a tray. Not many men would
look a double-matured single-malt gift horse in the mouth.
Hopefully they would put the ambrosia down to a mistake by the new
butler and have a laugh about it afterwards. Three glasses would
have appeared suspicious but six would hint at the six founding
members of the club who probably held board meetings somewhere
sometime.

She didn’t bother to knock.