The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (12 page)

“The foreign accent is a nice touch,” commented Holmes dryly.
“Who would believe that anyone but a foreigner would commit such a crime?”

During the week that followed, Holmes in his spare moments continued to peruse the newspapers for the latest “developments” in the case, but merely out of curiosity. In any event, his spare moments proved to be spare indeed. Much of his time that week was taken up with the bizarre affair involving Melas, the linguist, and it was during this case that Watson was first introduced to a man he didn’t even know existed, the second most fascinating man he was ever to meet: Holmes’s older brother, Mycroft.
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Little did he know then that within a fortnight he was to meet with him again.

W
EDNESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
26, 1888

“He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.”

—
The Greek Interpreter

“Y
ou look tired, Sherlock. Have you been keeping well?” said

Mycroft Holmes phlegmatically. He was seated, ensconced, rather, in an overstuffed leather armchair, one of a cluster of three by a window in the Strangers’ Room of the Diogenes Club, his heavily lidded eyes studying his brother’s features in much the same way a fat lizard might study an insect it was about to pounce upon, dispassionately but not without interest.

Mycroft Holmes, seven years Sherlock’s senior, was an extremely large, heavy man, as corpulent as Sherlock was thin, as ponderous in his manner and sluggish in his movements as Sherlock was graceful and quick.

The Diogenes Club was Mycroft Holmes’s special domain, he being
one of its founders and principal members. It was one of the certainties of life that if he could not be found in his lodgings in Pall Mall or in his offices in Whitehall, then the Diogenes Club was the place to look, especially if the hour was between a quarter to five and twenty to eight. “It is his cycle,” Sherlock Holmes once remarked, one from which he rarely deviated.

“And you, dear Doctor. How d’ye do? You seem fit enough. How’s that gammy leg of yours, or is it your shoulder? How silly of me not to remember which.”
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Languidly he held out a fat paw to be taken.

“Good of the two of you to come on such short notice, ‘pon my word. Do take pews, won’t you. Forgive me for not getting up, Doctor, but a man of my configuration finds descending into a chair so much more agreeable than ascending from it.”

He turned a long, leisurely gaze upon Watson. “You must be feeling fairly well, Doctor, otherwise you wouldn’t have convinced my brother to stroll the entire length of Regent Street prior to coming here. But at least you stopped for refreshment at the Savoy, so I trust neither one of you is overly fatigued.”

Watson looked at him in surprise. “However did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Tut, tut, Doctor Watson, you told me yourself.”

“I did?”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged knowing smiles. “A mere parlor game, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “Surely, you have been around Sherlock long enough to be familiar with it. Don’t compel me to explain; it’s such a bore, y’know.” He cast a languid glance in Sherlock’s direction as he spoke, knowing full well he would not appreciate having his powers of observation referred to in such disparaging terms. Sherlock favored him with a wintery, reedy smile.

“But I insist! How could you possibly know we walked all the way?
And down Regent Street in particular? And took tea at the Savoy? Of course you saw us through the window as we arrived, so you knew we did not come by cab, but how could you possibly divine the route we took?”

“I had my nose buried in
The Gazette
, actually, and didn’t see you come up,” he replied, his tone suggesting boredom with the subject, “but your stick is in part the culprit, Doctor. Sticks can be quite revealing, you know. But it’s of little consequence.”

Watson looked at him. “My stick? My walking stick?”

Mycroft Holmes chortled, plainly enjoying Watson’s bewilderment. “It really is so deucedly simple. There’s a touch of red clay adhered to the tip, you see. That could have come only from Oxford Circus at the upper terminus of Regent Street, where the pavement is dug up and that particular hue of clay is common. But your boots are quite clean, newly blackened, I perceive. I must conclude you stopped somewhere en route and had them attended to. That it was the Hotel Savoy is a reasonable enough conclusion, though a slight deviation from your course is required to end up there. In addition to its new Edison lights and all the most modern conveniences, the hotel has a most accommodating staff, including a young lad who does nothing but perambulate through the lobby with a shiny little brass box, cleaning gentlemen’s boots. That it was indeed that establishment is further supported by the rose in your lapel, obtainable from precious few places this time of year, the Savoy’s flower stall being one of them. And surely no sensible individual would find himself in the vicinity of the Savoy at teatime without partaking of the excellent repast they offer there. There’s a small residue of their lovely strawberry preserves on your cravat, by the by; a damp cloth should suffice.”
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Watson started, craning his neck awkwardly to examine his necktie.

“Must I go on, Doctor? You insist? Very well. That you were in
Regent Street is indisputable. That you arrived there afoot from Baker Street is a reasonable conclusion, the distance being too near to justify the hire of a horse-drawn conveyance, except the weather being mean. And it being uncommonly fine for this time of year, I can conclude only that you undertook to walk the entire length of Regent Street and peruse the shops, stopping midway at Pope and Plantes for your new gloves (terribly attractive!), and popping into Alexander Jones & Company for that parcel of stationery I saw you deposit with the cloakroom attendant as you came in — their wrappings are most distinctive. And knowing that Sherlock’s dislike of physical exercise is surpassed only by my own, this long, tiring trek had to have been your idea, Doctor, in the well-meaning though mistaken belief that it would have some therapeutic value. Must I indeed go on?”

Watson shook his head in wonder, and put his hands up in mock surrender. The two brothers laughed. Holmes had told him that Mycroft’s powers of observation and deduction surpassed even his own, but Watson had found this assertion difficult to believe, attributing the statement to either uncommon modesty on Holmes’s part (unthinkable!) or familial pride. What was it that Holmes had said?
If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived...
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Watson studied Mycroft with new interest, his stare an obvious one. Mycroft, aware of it, smiled slightly and rendered Watson a little bow, then clapped his hands together. “Good of the two of you to come on such short notice, ‘pon my word. As you can see, nothing has changed here since your last visit. Change is anathema to the Diogenes. It bears my stamp, I fear, for I find change — even the most trivial — so very discomfiting. One of the charms of the Diogenes is that everything about it, down to the size of the leaves on the palms and the wart on the doorkeeper’s nose, is precisely the way it was ten years ago and,
God willing, will be precisely the same ten years from now. I sometimes think the Empire would collapse should the day ever come when one of the periodicals was out of place in the rack or, far worse, one of the pictures was moved on the wall, heaven forbid.”

Watson looked around him.

The Diogenes Club, tastefully contrived in almost equal parts of mahogany and marble, etched glass, brocade, and Persian carpets, was reputed to be the most unsociable, most “unclubable” club in London. Eccentric even by English standards, its members were forbidden by the club’s bylaws from communicating with any other member anywhere on the club’s premises, except for the Strangers’ Room, where subdued conversation was tolerated though hardly encouraged. Indeed, there had been a story going about some years previously that one new member, a peer of the realm no less, made the mistake or had the effrontery of wishing “good day” to another gentleman on his way into the library. He was ejected on the spot and was forever more forbidden reentry. Another story, regarding a small fire started by a dozing member’s cigar, was vehemently denied by the club’s manager in a letter to
The Times
. The member was indeed awakened prior to the arrival of the fire brigade, contrary to a slander in
Punch
, but he was awakened verbally, wrote the indignant manager, not with the contents of a wine cooler as had been alleged.
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“And what is your club, Doctor? Sherlock, I know, is far too misanthropic to belong to one, even this one — not that any respectable club would have him — but you I perceive as being a more sociable creature.”

Watson mumbled the name of his club almost apologetically, it being surely among the least exclusive in London. Mycroft nodded politely.

“Have you ever been to the Beefsteak? It’s a pleasant little club, I am told, though I have never been there. The food is supposed to be
somewhat better than the norm, and I understand their qualifications for membership are not unreasonable. You’ve either got to be a peer who has learned to read and write, I am informed, or a journalist who has learned his table manners.”

Watson laughed appreciatively. Holmes merely smiled — he had heard it before.

Mycroft examined the ash of his cigar. “I find that you can generally judge a man by his club — his tastes, his politics, his interests and preferences, and so forth. And to a large extent even his character as well. Would you not agree, Sherlock?”

“I place more faith in boots,” replied Holmes. “Whether a man is well shod or not tells me more of what I want to know about him than the club he belongs to, especially since so many of our gentry belong to one club or another simply because their fathers did.”

Mycroft looked at him cunningly. “That latter point supports my argument nicely, I should think.”

Holmes, after a moment’s pause, had the grace to concede the issue with a small bow. “And it is a point well taken, dear brother. I should have known better than to contradict you.”

Mycroft smiled beatifically. “You are growing wiser with age, I am happy to see.”

He turned to Watson. “Will you take sherry?” he asked hospitably. “There’s a very nice
palo cortado
in the cellars that I can recommend to you, a step above the usual muck you’ll find nowadays. Our wine and spirits committee was fortunate in, ah, shall we say,
acquiring
a quantity a fortnight ago. Bertie would just love to get his hands on a cask for his place — and all but told me so, the hint was that broad — but I’ll let him stew a bit before I send some around. He suffers from an overabundance of instant gratification as ‘tis, what?
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May I tempt you, Doctor? Sherlock, the same? Excellent! Bledsoe, three sherries, if
you please, and some of those lovely sweet biscuits. That should tide me over nicely till supper, I should think. No, don’t bother bringing the decanter, my guests won’t be staying that long.”

Holmes eyed his older brother with sardonic amusement. “As gracious as ever, I see, Mycroft.”

“And you, my dear Sherlock, are as stubborn as ever!” he replied tartly. “What’s this about refusing poor Matthews over this Whitechapel business?
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Surely your quaint little practice does not keep you so occupied that you cannot render your Queen some meager service now and again. Have you joined up with the Liberals against the Tories, is that it? Want to see the Salisbury government fall?” Mycroft Holmes chuckled, the sympathetic movement of his body causing cigar ash to fall down the front of his ample waistcoat. He lethargically brushed at himself with pudgy, well-manicured fingers.

“Of course I know you better than that,” he continued. “You care or even know as much about politics as poor Lansdowne over there knows what day of the week it is.” He gestured toward a very elderly gentleman asleep in an armchair at the other end of the room. “Thinks Louis Napoleon is still emperor of the French and old Dizzy still the P.M. A bit dotty, you know, though a good enough chap in his day.”

Mycroft Holmes waved his hand dismissively, as if to put poor Lansdowne out of mind and mark the end to civilities and small talk. He leaned forward in his chair and peered into his brother’s eyes.

“Why have you turned Matthews down? It just won’t do, you know.”

Sherlock Holmes casually crossed one leg over the other and examined his fingernails.

“Tell me, Mycroft, are you acting in an official capacity or are you merely asking out of curiosity?”

“My dear Sherlock,” replied Mycroft loftily, “as you well know, I
never act in an official capacity. My official duties preclude me from acting officially. Indeed, my only value to the government, and I flatter myself that I am of some small value on occasion, is that officially I do not act at all. Officially, I have no official status. Officially, I do not even exist.”
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