The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (13 page)

Watson listened to this exchange between the two brothers with growing fascination and just a little discomfort — discomfort because he felt he was intruding, not only in a conversation of a private nature between brothers, but in a conversation of a privileged, highly sensitive nature as well. But that was his secondary reaction, far outweighed by his first: his fascination with the two men themselves. Without doubt they were two of the most intriguing men he had ever met. In the seven or eight years he had known Sherlock (strange after all this time he still called him Holmes), he never ceased to be intrigued by his habits and eccentricities, his moods, his personality traits and thought processes. He was a maze of contradictions, the most complex individual he ever knew — and the most changeable. He could be cold and calculating one moment, demanding and insufferably arrogant, yet kind and uncommonly thoughtful the next. But always — always without fail — he was the most interesting, the most captivating of men.

And now, sitting across from him, was another from the same mold, different in so many ways, at least outwardly: Mycroft was so much larger and heavier than Sherlock, his body positively gross, his whole bearing suggesting that of a fat, self-indulgent individual whose only concern was creature comfort, whose only interest was in satiating an insatiable appetite. But the image was a false one, in part nurtured by Mycroft himself, as if he had chosen a specific role in life and was playing it, as they say, to the hilt.

On closer examination, Watson saw some marked similarities between the two men that were startling. He remembered his impressions
of Mycroft when he met him for the first time only a few weeks earlier when Holmes and he became involved in the affair of the Greek interpreter. He had jotted down those impressions in his journal shortly after that meeting and, word for word, they came back to him now:

Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.
⁴⁰

His eyes were the most compelling feature about him and, aside from his high, intelligent brow, the one facial characteristic he shared with Sherlock. A light, watery gray, those eyes seemed capable of penetrating granite at times, yet they always retained a certain faraway look, a look as unfathomable as the deepest waters. And behind them lurked an intelligence, an innate wisdom, that was deeper still.

As if sensing Watson’s gaze was upon him, Mycroft now turned those gray eyes in his direction and fixed him with a stare that made him decidedly uncomfortable.

“Surely you, Doctor, must realize the importance of this matter. Sherlock must be made to see reason. You probably have as much influence upon him as any man — more so than I, I dare say. Can you not make him see how vital it is to become involved in this matter once again? How absolutely essential it is? Can I not enlist your aid? I tell you without exaggeration or fear of contradiction that the country is on the edge of a crisis over this, this series of ridiculously trifling acts of violence in the East End.”

He leaned forward in his chair and raised a finger. “Can you
imagine? I mean, there is no precedent for it! The whole country in an absolute uproar over the dispatch of a few common prostitutes!” He shook his head in disbelief, his steely eyes never leaving Watson’s, making Watson feel as if he himself were to blame.

“I tell you, Doctor,” he continued, “the perpetrator of these deeds must be apprehended, and apprehended soon. The government is already embarrassed, and patience is wearing thin. Lord Salisbury is most desirous of an early resolution of this matter, most desirous. You see, the opposition would love to see him embarrassed further. It is causing grave difficulties in Parliament and is deflecting attention from the government’s legislative programs. I need not tell you how serious this could turn out to be.” Again he shook his massive head from side to side. “How very serious indeed.” He pointed a finger at Watson, as if daring him to contradict. “I do not exaggerate, I assure you.”

Watson threw a glance at Holmes, who was now deeply burrowed in his chair, his long fingers tented in front of his face in the familiar manner. Watson raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I believe you exaggerate one thing, Mr. Holmes, and that is my influence over your brother. It is in no way as you describe; of that I can assure
you
.”

The gray eyes did not waver.

“Really!” Watson protested. “I mean, I didn’t even know that the Home Office contacted Holmes — your brother, I mean,” he stammered foolishly under that gaze. “I was unaware Sir Henry Matthews had requested his assistance. I mean, he didn’t see fit to share that information with me — your brother, that is. And it is not my place to interfere in his affairs, surely. I mean...” His voice trailed off and he suddenly realized he was being put upon, made to feel guilty over something that was totally beyond his control and over which he had no say. “Really!” he said again, this time with indignation.

From out of the depths of his chair Sherlock Holmes laughed, a deep,
rumbling sound that caused his shoulders to shake. He leaned over and placed a comforting hand on Watson’s arm. “Never mind, old fellow. It is just one of Mycroft’s ways, one of his lesser talents: Convincing unwary individuals to take on unpleasant tasks by first instilling within them the guilt of Judas Iscariot. He could make the Queen feel contrite over the jewels in her crown!”

Mycroft’s cheeks colored slightly, and he frowned, leaning back in his chair with a perturbed expression. And then, seeing the humor in it, gave way to a chortle.

“Her Majesty, God bless her, would not be amused,” he said dryly.

The three of them laughed together, enjoying not only the banter but the moment — Watson in particular, because he was made to feel one with them, allowed to share the company of these two extraordinary men and participate in their conversation. He relaxed in his chair and took an appreciative sip of sherry.

“The fact of the matter is,” said Sherlock Holmes, getting back to the business at hand, “I only yesterday heard from Sir Henry, in the late afternoon post, and a very complimentary letter it was too: Very complimentary, very flattering, and quite consoling. He invited me to come around to see him in Whitehall to discuss my theories in the case. I wired him directly and told him what I tell you now: I have taken on another investigation, just yesterday morning, and — Watson will bear me out on this — it is one that promises to be most difficult and will require my presence in Devonshire for an indeterminate period of time. I am committed, you see.”

“Sherlock, the matter — whatever it is — could hardly compare in importance to this one. Surely, you must see that!”

Holmes shrugged. “As I say, I am committed to it. And I will not go back on my word, Mycroft.”

Mycroft Holmes took on an expression of exasperation. “With that
kind of an attitude you wouldn’t last long in government, I can tell you! What is this case of yours that is so important? Something I’d be familiar with?”

“It involves the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You may have read of it at the time.”

“Baskerville? The Liberal candidate for mid-Devon? Why, his death was months ago!”

“Nevertheless, dead he remains!” snapped Holmes. “And under very peculiar circumstances. Watson and I lunched with his heir this very afternoon at the Northumberland: Sir Henry Baskerville. And I have every reason to believe that his life, too, is in great jeopardy. So I am afraid, Mycroft, that I cannot toss over the matter as easily as all that. It is all settled, you see: Watson and I are to go down to Dartmoor on Saturday in company with Sir Henry and his friend Dr. Mortimer. And that’s where the matter rests!”
⁴¹

Mycroft threw up his hands in disgust.

At that point the waiter appeared silently at Mycroft’s side with silver salver in hand, a small square of pasteboard placed precisely in the center.

Mycroft took the card from the tray with a look of annoyance and glanced at it perfunctorily, his expression changing at once. “Ah, it’s Randolph, good! Show him in, Bledsoe, won’t you? And bring another chair.”

The man who entered was at first glance an aging, even enfeebled individual, well below medium height, with sad, protuberant eyes and a heavy, drooping mustache. But as he came closer it was obvious that he was not old, except before his time; in reality, he was not yet forty. And despite his appearance of age, his step was brisk and businesslike and his whole being seemed to be possessed with an unusual nervous energy, his manner pugnacious. His eyes swept the room as he walked
toward them, as if he were looking for someone, anyone, of importance, but, spotting no one more important than the individuals he was about to join, lost interest in the place and its occupants and gave it and them no further consideration. He seemed a cold man, severe — a man of proud bearing, excessively so. Impeccably groomed and well tailored, he had the obvious look of a patrician: Of a man to the manner born, of someone who was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed instantly, and he carried it off with great assurance.

Mycroft greeted him warmly and with deference. “Randolph! How very good to see you!” he said, his tone leaving no doubt that he meant it. But as before, he made no attempt to rise from his chair, once again merely holding out his hand to be taken, leaving Watson to wonder if he would rise for the Queen should she ever be so bold as to invade the sacred precincts of the Diogenes.

“You know my brother, I think. And this is his friend and amanuensis, Dr. John Watson, whose acquaintance I don’t believe you have made. (Now, how would he know that? thought Watson.) Doctor: Lord Randolph Churchill.”

Tense, highly strung, the description given of Randolph Churchill as a greyhound about to spring was an apt one. He greeted Holmes with guarded formality and Watson in a manner that was perfunctory to the point of being rude. His grip was strong, as Watson knew it would be when he took the proffered hand. But his eyes never moved in Watson’s direction during the ritual. They looked elsewhere, as if the man whose hand he took were far too unimportant to take notice of, let alone acknowledge. Watson disliked him immediately, for however well bred or high his station, he lacked good breeding, and that was obvious.

Of course Watson knew who he was at once. There were few in the country who did not. For up until a very few years ago Lord Randolph Henry Spencer Churchill was a rising star in the Conservative Party.
Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons at the age of thirty-seven, he was a brilliant politician whom everyone
knew
would be prime minister someday, and sooner rather than later. Lord Salisbury was forced to name him to the post (despite the fact that he did not like him), believing, as he said, “that he would be more dangerous outside the government than in it.”
⁴²

A rising star? He was a shooting star! His light burned brightly but for an instant. Just a few months after taking up his minister’s boxes he surprised the nation and the party by flinging them down. Stubborn and temperamental, he quarreled with the prime minister over budgetary questions and in short order resigned from the cabinet, and his star faded. And though still a member of Parliament, and a prominent one at that, he was no longer Leader of the House or a leader of the party. What influence he still possessed, and it was not inconsiderable, was largely due to his forceful personality. He was a natural-born leader of men in every sense of the word, including the truest, having been born the younger son of a duke. And not just any duke, but the Duke of Marlborough.

That fact alone would have been enough to grant him access to the salons of power, to a prime minister who didn’t like him, to a prince with whom he once quarreled but who later again befriended him, to a queen whom he angered on more than one occasion but who still called on him for advice.

In the overall scheme of things, much of what went on in government was prompted by a handful of well-placed individuals who were outside of government. Lord Randolph Henry Spencer Churchill was one of those individuals.

Watson couldn’t help but notice that there was a faint nervous tremor in Lord Randolph’s hands as he removed a cigarette from its case and held it to his mouth for the waiter to light, coughing as he did
so. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, and a slight nervous tic.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, we meet again,” he said. He waved aside the offer of sherry. “Whisky, I think,” he said to the waiter. “Laphroaig if you stock it, or Bruichladdich. Any of the Islay malts will do, I’m not particular.

“— And under no less agreeable circumstances,” he continued addressing Holmes. “But this time it is not merely a foolish scandal involving a future sovereign and the son of a peer, but a far more serious matter: A matter affecting our English system of governance.”
⁴³

Sherlock Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes,” responded Lord Randolph to the unspoken query, “that is precisely how serious I view the matter. There are violent changes in the wind. We have already seen signs of it in France and Italy and Germany and Russia: Revolutionary changes, inspired by those creatures Engels and Marx, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Lord Randolph stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray beside him and then stretched out his legs and gazed down at his shoes, as if addressing the mirror image reflected in the highly polished leather. “As we all know, those very same forces are at work here in Britain. The trade unionists and all of that. These people would rend asunder the very fabric of our society, and they will not be content to rest on their laurels should they succeed in their aim of organizing workers in the coal mines and woolen mills and iron works. They will not be content until
Mademoiselle Guillotine
replaces Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, until the cry,
aux armes, aux barricades!
is heard in the streets of London. Yes, it could mean
révolution!
right here — not merely the fall of the government, or even a change in parties, but revolution! Terror in the streets, citizens’ committees, anarchy, economic chaos: The Paris of 1789, or at least 1870, all over again. But this time right here.
Right here!
” He tapped his leg with two fingers for emphasis.