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 Lo
rd 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.
Lord Randolph’s words, though quietly spoken, had a profound chilling effect, the more so because they were delivered in so subdued a manner. Despite his outward restraint, it was obvious that he passionately believed every word that he spoke. And the result was spellbinding. Here was a man whose vocation was to move men with words, and that he did it well was clearly evident. Watson found himself gripping the arms of his chair, and the expression on Holmes’s face was one of rapt attention.
Lord Randolph lifted his eyes and focused on Holmes. “Your brother has discussed these matters with you, I have no doubt.”
“More or less,” replied Holmes quietly.
Lord Randolph reached for another cigarette, lighting it himself this time. “Then you know how potentially serious these Whitechapel crimes are. The revolutionists and anarchists will use them — are already using them — to ferment unrest. We are not sitting on the powder keg as yet, but it is being rolled into the cellars.”
Holmes nodded.
“And the fuse will not be a long one, I fear,” Mycroft added.
“That’s quite true,” Lord Randolph responded. “As you know, there is a growing republican movement in Parliament. A most vocal movement. They begrudge every farthing spent on the upkeep of the monarchy; the debate over the Queen’s allowances gets longer and more vociferous every year. While this movement is essentially middle class in nature, the unrest in the East End serves to add fuel to their fire. The poorer classes have no representation, of course — they have only their gin bottles to turn to. But they’re attracting attention to themselves, and they’re starting to gain the sympathy of some well-placed individuals — in the House and even in the Church, God help us.” He pursed his lips. “Dangerous times, dangerous times.”
Lord Randolph paused and took a sip of whiskey. “These murders in the East End constitute the most volatile fuel of all, I shouldn’t wonder.” He looked directly at Holmes. “Surely you must see that. Surely you must appreciate the potential dangers.” Suddenly his eyes became fierce. “These crimes must be brought to an end, and swiftly.”
Holmes’s face remained impassive.
Lord Randolph studied him for a moment and then continued. “The police are out of their depth in this matter, that much is apparent to all.” He spoke the words in a monotone, as if he were speaking them to himself. “They are ill equipped to conduct the kind of investigation that is required. Their detective branch is totally demoralized and has no effective head since Anderson’s departure. Their training is insufficient in any case, their methods outmoded. They are just not up to it.”
“No one knows that better than Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I tire of hearing him tell me so.”
Lord Randolph turned to Mycroft. “Did you tell him of Lord Salisbury’s decision?”
Mycroft frowned and shook his head. “I told him of the prime minister’s concern. I did not see fit to disclose a decision made in cabinet that is of a privileged nature.”
Churchill nodded and looked down at his shoes again. “I have just come from Windsor,” he said quietly, like another man might say he has just come from the barber’s, or his wife’s favorite greengrocer. “Her Majesty has expressed a deep personal interest in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes once again and looked directly at Holmes. Leaning over in his chair, he tapped Holmes gently on the arm. “A deep personal interest,” he repeated. “And she mentioned you by name.”
Holmes lowered his eyelids and nodded.
“Well then, that’s settled,” said Lord Randolph, rising. “I must be off.” Holmes and Watson rose with him.
“You will have the full cooperation of the Home Office and Scotland Yard, I have no doubt,” Lord Randolph said to Holmes. “The Queen has been onto Salisbury, and Salisbury has been onto Matthews, and Matthews will see to it, never fear. And while your brother is quite correct in not sharing confidential government decisions with you, I believe that I, as someone who is no longer in the government, can tell you that you need not concern yourself too much with our friend Sir Charles Warren. I shouldn’t be very much surprised if he were to receive a new appointment sometime soon. Sometime very soon and very far away.”
He shook his head and smiled engagingly, the first time he had done so since joining their company. “Ah, Sir Charles, Sir Charles,” he said with mock gravity. “His solution to every problem is a cavalry charge. My thirteen-year-old son at Harrow would approve; but then, he doesn’t have much sense either. Good day, gentlemen. Don’t bother, Mycroft, I’ll see myself out.”44
Mycroft Holmes, of course, had not stirred from his chair or had he given any indication he intended doing so. And even after Holmes and Watson resumed their chairs to join him, upon Churchill’s departure, there was no conversation among them for several minutes, each being lost in his own thoughts. It was Mycroft finally who broke the silence.
“Interesting man, Randolph,” he mused aloud. “One of the most remarkable men of our times. Could have done great things.” He thought for a moment and then said, apropos of nothing: “Married to an American, you know — a great beauty, but unfortunately not terrible clever. I believe it was Lady Asquith who said, ‘Had Lady Randolph been like her face, she could have governed the world.’ Ha-ha.”
Then a frown quickly overcame his face and he shook his head. “But poor Randolph. I fear for his health.” He turned to Watson. “You took note of it too, I couldn’t help but notice, Doctor.”
“It was that obvious? Oh, dear.”
“An occupational trait, nothing more — to the physician, everyone is a potential patient. I ascertained from the intensity of your facial expression that you were attempting to render a diagnosis — unconscious on your part, I’m sure.”
Watson was no longer surprised at anything Mycroft ascertained. He merely nodded. “He’s quite unwell. Impossible to know the cause without a complete examination, of course.”
“Oh, no mystery there, I fear,” Mycroft replied, placing a fat, well-manicured fore
finger beside his nose. But he hurriedly changed the subject, not wanting to betray a confidence or dwell on something unpleasant. “Your glasses are empty. Oh, very well, Bledsoe, bring the decanter. My guests will not be departing so quickly after all.”
The discussion that followed dealt mostly with details about the Whitechapel murders, the latest one in particular, and possible lines of inquiry to pursue. Unfortunately, those were pitifully few. Mycroft agreed with Holmes that in all probability not much could be done unless or until the murderer struck again. “This time perhaps we will be better prepared for him,” said Holmes.
He and Watson departed a short while later, the Diogenes Club the poorer by two more sherries.
It was dark outside when they emerged on the street. The lamplighter had already been by and the reflection of the streetlights flickered against the white marble of the building’s facade.
“You will have to go down to Dartmoor without me on Saturday,” Holmes said to Watson as they descended the steps. “I’ll follow as soon as I can.”45
“You plan to take up the Whitechapel matter again at once, then?”
“Oh, I never put it down.”
“What!” Watson stopped short and stared at him.
“Of course not. Did you think I’d let that insufferable tin soldier Warren intimidate me? Chase me off like one of his Boers in South Africa? You must not think very highly of me.”
“But... but what was that all about in there, then? Why did you make such a point at first of telling your brother you wouldn’t work on the case?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 10
