The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We can cross most of the guests straight off the list. The Marchioness of Minterne-Magna is hardly likely to hire a bomb man to take out Mycroft Holmes because he turned down her invitation to afternoon tea. He never socializes anyway. It has to be one of the male guests, someone high up, someone who has a lot to lose regarding the amendment to the constitution of the Diogenes Club, the Irish regiment question, or the death of the princess.”

  Moriarty was nodding. “I’m in agreement with you so far but how can we question people who don’t want to be questioned? They aren’t likely to take kindly to you and me nosing into their private affairs. Prince Sergei isn’t going to give me two minutes of his time.”

  “I agree my plan needs some thought. Let’s sleep on it. We can meet up tomorrow night. Let’s say ten o’clock in the Copper Beech wood. That gives us plenty of time to mull it over.”

  “You realize we’ll have stiff competition nailing the mysterious guest. Sherlock, Dr Watson and the Countess will be after him too.”

  “Speaking of the Countess,” said Nash, “if it turns out she isn’t married to Dr Watson or Mycroft Holmes may the best man win.”

  “I just had a terrible thought,” confessed Moriarty, suppressing a shudder, “what if she’s secretly married to Sherlock Holmes.”

  Countess Volodymyrovna had arranged to meet with Miss de Merville at midday at their favourite restaurant in Covent Garden to discuss ramping up the suffragette campaign now that a new era had dawned, never dreaming the conversation would be hijacked by the bomb incident.

  Rules was the oldest restaurant in London and the two women adored it because it was the closest they would ever get to a private gentlemen’s club. It was always full of aromatic cigar smoke, the menu featured things like venison, rabbit and oysters, and the décor was masculine, dark and clubby. Miss de Merville always reserved the same table.

  “Oh, thank goodness you are uninjured!” she sighed dramatically as the Countess slipped into the banquette with an elegance that defied gravity. “Lady Northbridger was on the stairs when the third bomb went off. She died instantly. And Miss Lucinda Faversham was cut to pieces by flying glass. She has lost the sight in her right eye. It is ghastly. One feels guilty to come away unscathed.”

  Two black velvets – champagne and Guinness - were brought to the table at once.

  “Quite. Nazdorovya! Where were you when the first bomb went off?”

  “I was in the ballroom having one last dance with Pugsy Setterfield. What about you?”

  “I was collecting my Snow Queen cloak. Did your papa suffer any injuries?” The Countess knew very well the General was fine, but it was time to fish for information. It was often the smallest detail that led to something substantive.

  “No, he was tremendously lucky! He had gone up to the dome room to smoke a hookah with Prince Sergei, Sir James Damery and Mr Bruce Blague when they bumped into Colonel Moriarty and Major Nash. I have never met the latter. I believe he is a baronet who is as poor as a church mouse,” she digressed before pausing expectantly.

  “Yes, his family seat is in Kent. He was dressed as Horatio Hornblower. Shall we order?”

  Miss de Merville blushed becomingly. “Oh, yes, blond and broad-shouldered. Frightfully handsome. You order this time. He will need a rich wife. You would suit.”

  The Countess scanned the menu. “It would suit me better to remain unwed. You were saying…”

  “Oh, where was I?”

  “Your father had just gone up to the dome room when he bumped into…”

  “Colonel Moriarty and Major Nash, yes, that’s right.” Her voice rose in feminine pitch as if excited by something. “They were at loggerheads over a woman and it was decided to have a duel. Can you believe it! Who do you think it was? The woman, I mean. I have been wracking my brains all morning.”

  The waiter came across to take their order.

  “Celeriac and apple soup to start. Venison curry. And to finish a Bombe Alaska.”

  Miss de Merville groaned. “Three courses – do you think we should?”

  “I hardly ate a thing last night and I skipped breakfast this morning.”

  “Me too, but I’m wearing a new corset and there’s no give.”

  “We’ll ease up on the Black Velvets. Miss Mona Blague would be my guess.”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course! I forgot her because she wasn’t at the ball. She’s in the market for a husband with title. Major Nash would be perfect. What regiment is he with?”

  “He works as aide de camp to Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Really? ADC to the primus baro of the Diogenes? How fascinating!”

  “Fascinating?”

  Either the new corset was causing hot flushes or she blushed some more. “Oh, the Diogenes recently had their elections for the new primus baro, when I say recently, I mean about three months ago. Papa was in the running. He was quite confident of his chances and was terribly put out when Mr Holmes pipped him at the post. I remember him whining because Mr Holmes’s ADC, who is also a member of the club, cast the deciding vote. Until then it was a tie. I wondered at the time who the ADC was and pictured a dull milksop.”

  “Who was the previous primus baro?”

  “The Earl of Winchester, but the poor dear is past it. The stroke has left him incapacitated. The position of primus baro is held for life but three doctors certified him medically unfit, hence the elections.”

  “Do you recall the names of the other candidates?”

  Miss de Merville’s pretty brow creased. “There was just one other. A good friend of papa’s. Oh, what was his name?”

  “Sir James Damery?”

  “No, he’s Irish. He’s a member of the Carlton Club. There’s some silly rule that Irishmen cannot be members of the Diogenes. Papa says it’s ridiculous because Damery has done more for Britain than any other member of the club. There’s going to be a vote on changing the constitution shortly - something about allowing Irish and Americans in, but not Jews, Blacks, Orientals, Arabs or Russians. Oh, now I remember, the third candidate was Admiral Quantock. He died in a boating accident last month. His yacht capsized in the Solent.”

  The remainder of the meal was spent discussing the enfranchisement of women. As they were saying goodbye in Maiden Lane it was Miss de Merville who returned to the topic of Major Nash.

  “Was it Major Nash who came to pick you up yesterday at Brown’s?”

  “Yes, it was. The Princess of Wales wanted to ask me something about protocol for the Russian royal family,” she lied. “And he acted as courier since he was passing through that part of London.”

  Miss de Merville appeared satisfied. “Have you heard the rumour about Princess Paraskovia? They are saying she has moved into Clarges Hotel.”

  The Countess who had stiffened, immediately relaxed. “Yes, I heard the same rumour. Scandalous!”

  “Absolutely scandalous! I have to get home and release this corset. It is strangling me. I can feel the Bombe Alaska sitting here.” She pressed her fingers between her breasts. “Speaking of bombs. Papa told me the duellists were about to fire the first shot when the first bomb went off. If not for that bomb Colonel Moriarty or Major Nash might now be dead.”

  The Countess had already thought the same thing. She also thought it extremely fortuitous that the men in the dome did not get blown up by the first bomb. Did one man deliberately lead the others up there? Did he plan to make some sort of excuse – a call of nature perhaps – and rush off just prior to midnight leaving the others to their fate? Who suggested the duel? Who opposed it? Who procured the weapons? Who wanted Mycroft dead?

  The Buttery was a medieval building stuck on the end of Temple Library, opposite Temple Church. It started life as a dairy for the Knights Templar in the Middle Ages and had sat empty for the last few decades because of its prohibitive dimensions and lack of modern comforts. It was tall, narrow, dark, fusty, and a perfect bolt hole in London.

 
The Countess had taken a leaf out of Sherlock’s book and decided to maintain a separate residence should the need ever arise. She was meeting Dr Watson and Sherlock inside The Buttery now that it had been furnished with Tudor pieces and gimcracks. All she needed was a housekeeper to live-in.

  “May I suggest Mr Steve Dixie,” said Sherlock after they had been given a tour of the different levels. “He is an amiable villain who has just finished enjoying a holiday at the pleasure of Her Majesty. He can put his hand to anything and is not averse to a dangerous undertaking. If left to his own devices he will soon fall in with artful dodgers. If you have nothing against American Negroes, he might be your man.”

  “Nothing at all,” she said.

  Dr Watson frowned. “He won’t run off with the pewterware?”

  “I can impress upon him that it would not be in his long-term interests,” said Sherlock.

  “What would stop him betraying the Countess?” persisted the doctor.

  “The same goes for anyone else,” replied Sherlock with an unconcerned inflection.

  “How soon can you arrange a meeting with Mr Dixie?” she said.

  “Why don’t we adjourn to Ye Old Cock Tavern on the Strand where we can discuss the details and I’m sure Mr Dixie will arrive within the hour?”

  Sherlock soon found one of his errand boys and the message was quickly relayed. The speed at which Mr Dixie appeared at the tavern would have put the telephone to shame.

  “Hello, Masser Holmes,” he delivered in his distinctive Southern drawl, eyeing the consulting detective and sensing something different. “I hear you is keen to reacquaint yourself with Mr Steve Dixie, late of Wormwood Scrubs.”

  “I am, Mr Dixie. Please take a seat. My friend, Watson will buy you a drink. A cup of hot cocoa fine for you?”

  Mr Dixie pulled a wobbly face and Holmes laughed uproariously.

  “Only joshing, Mr Dixie. A pint of porter for Mr Dixie, if you will, Watson.” Holmes waited for Watson to repair to the bar. “I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine. Yes, I have one or two. Her name is the Countess. She is in need of a fixer.”

  Mr Dixie studied the lady using the wary coal-black eye of an ex-slave that knew how not to betray itself while summing up the rich and powerful. He had met plenty of tarted-up dollymops but he could tell she was the genuine thing. A high-class whore for dukes and lords; may be even the Prince of Wales. “I don’t have to kill no one, Masser Holmes. I swore off murder after Perkins.”

  “No, no, nothing like that, rest assured, Mr Dixie. You will act as caretaker at an abode not far from here. You will come and go and make sure everything is neat and dandy. And when it transpires that the Countess arrives on the doorstep to stay for a day or two you will act as lookout. That is all.”

  Mr Dixie appeared skeptical. “I don’t need to bruise no one?”

  “No, no bruising. Ah! Here is your porter. Drink up. The Countess will set up an account here at the tavern for you to take your meals. She will also put money into a bank account quarterly in your name and you can access the money when you see fit. You will not need to pay for lodgings because you will be living for free in the establishment you will be caretaking. Do you follow?”

  Mr Dixie stared into the unpatched eye; he nodded and swallowed at the same time. “How much is we talking, Masser Holmes?”

  “Enough to keep you on the straight and narrow, Mr Dixie. Enough to keep you out of The Scrubs. Of course, if you should get light-fingered or lapse into the old ways or start inviting all your old friends around for parlour games you will find me very unforgiving. I will be forced to have a long chat to Inspector Lestrade. Wormwood will seem like a picnic. I may even have to mention the name Perkins. A hangman’s rope is a possibility. Finish up your porter and we will take a stroll around the corner to visit your new home. It is not grand but you will have your own room and the run of the place until such time, as I mentioned earlier, the Countess arrives to stay for a few days.”

  Mr Dixie liked The Buttery and he moved in that same night. It had a smell like a posh knocking shop - camphor and beeswax and wood polish and perfumed candles. But it was like no brothel he had ever seen. There was only one bedroom right at the top of the stairs. And though it was decked out beautiful, it weren’t done in red velvet with lots of mirrors and paintings of ladies with no clothes on. His bedroom was off the kitchen which had a new coal range that would banish the cold. The bedroom had a proper big bed for a man his size, with crisp clean sheets and two pillows without any stains, and some sturdy furniture that was not likely to fall to pieces the moment he touched it. Best of all was the tavern on the Strand. For the first time since being granted freedom he would not have to worry about where his next meal was coming from. It seemed too good to be true.

  7

  Mayfair Mews

  “What do you mean: it isn’t the first time?” demanded Sherlock, eye-balling his big brother with one daunting unpatched eye.

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sherlock,” rebuked Mycroft, frowning at his golden-smudged reflection in the verre églomisé walls which in the hands of a lesser master could have been a decorating disaster. Gold-leafed glass could be garish if not handled correctly, but here the artist had demonstrated restraint. Burnished clouds of gold reflected the candlelight in a way that was quite magical. The Countess had been sensible not to electrify the chandelier.

  “What happened?” pursued Dr Watson, recalling his own lucky escape on the stairs of the pavilion the night before. He was glad there was just the four of them for dinner at number 6 Mayfair Mews; he had been expecting Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty.

  “I was nearly killed by a barrel,” said Mycroft blandly, refreshing his glass and passing on the decanter of port. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time but last night when my head hit the pillow I recalled that it was a near miss.”

  “When was this?” asked Sherlock.

  “Just prior to Christmas. I had been to the barber in Jermyn Street and was taking a short cut back to Pall Mall. I was walking along Bury Street where a horse and cart was parked at the corner of Ryder Street. It appeared to be securing its load of barrels. I had just gone past the cart when one of the barrels must have broken loose. It rolled off the cart and came hurtling down the street. It would have bowled me over and killed me instantly had not a stranger grabbed my arm and jerked me into a recessed doorway.”

  “Was it usual for you to walk to and fro the barber?” probed Sherlock.

  “Yes, the distance is quite short and to circumvent further pointless conjecture, yes, I always take the same short cut. Anyone who knows my routine would know that.”

  “Anyone who knows you would know you are a stickler for routine,” disparaged the younger Holmes. “May I suggest you vary your routine for the time being.”

  “A stickler does not vary,” responded the elder with disdain.

  “Then take precaution,” advised Sherlock. “If someone has twice failed to eliminate you they are hardly likely to give up. They will try even harder next time.”

  “You think there will be a next time?” pressed Dr Watson.

  “Without a doubt, my friend, without a doubt,” he assured, frowning. “I would go undercover at that monastic establishment in Pall Mall but an eye-patch rather gives the game away and a mechanical arm is a darned nuisance when it comes to balancing a tray of brandy balloons.”

  “I could do it,” offered Dr Watson. “I could go undercover as a waiter.”

  “Butler,” corrected Mycroft with asperity. “And it is out of the question. Apart from the fact you would be spotted in ten seconds flat as an interloper by a proper butler, the uproar from the members would see me hanged for treason. And quite rightly!”

  Dr Watson conceded he would probably make a rum job of it. A genuine butler would spot a fake at once. Sherlock could have pulled it off but a mechanical arm was not something you could disguise while butlering.

  The Countess, having dismissed her ow
n butler once dinner was over so that they could talk in private, personally proffered a box of cigars to her three male guests. “If this matter pertains to the amendment to the club’s constitution then it is more than likely the person out to kill you is someone within your own club and doing nothing is not an option. We cannot just wait for the next near miss. The rolling barrel was a long shot staged to look accidental, but three bombs upped the ante dramatically. If the third attempt follows from the second it will be something more serious than three bombs.”

  Feeling suddenly nervy, Dr Watson lit up his calabash pipe in preference to a cigar. “How many people died last night?”

  “Five,” said Mycroft.

  “And how many were injured?” pressed Sherlock.

  “Thirty-two,” replied the elder sibling. “Six of them with life-threatening injuries that may yet add to the body count.”

  “Can your ADC go undercover as a butler?” pursued Sherlock.

  Mycroft shook his head firmly. “Nash could probably pull it off but his role as my aide de camp is non-negotiable and quite frankly if anyone is going to prevent another near miss it will be my ADC going about his normal duty.”

  The others all agreed Nash was better suited to personal body-guard than butler and the idea was shelved. The Countess moved on quickly.

  “I was lunching with Miss de Merville today and she mentioned the amendment to the constitution had something to do with relaxing club membership – is that correct?”

  Mycroft scowled. “She must have got that from her father. De Merville isn’t supposed to discuss club matters with outsiders. He probably discussed it with Damery too. The two of them are as thick as thieves. I wouldn’t be discussing it with you now if lives other than mine weren’t at stake. Yes, the amendment, if passed, will allow for Americans and Irishmen to join the club. It is currently restricted to English, Scottish and Welsh nationals.”

  “Is that really worth killing for?” quizzed Dr Watson dubiously. “I mean Americans and Irishmen are not exactly the enemy at the gates.”