Mycroft drew on his cigar and examined the ash. “I don’t know if you could fit His Royal Highness into the category of idiot in a medical sense,” he said dryly, “but he comes damn close. Certainly in many respects he is indeed feeble-minded. That you happened upon him at this particular house in Chelsea last night comes as no surprise to me, of course. He is often to be found in the company of that crowd. Indeed, I think you will also find that he frequents the house of male prostitution in Cleveland Street that you took under surveillance, Sherlock. Oh, yes, Doctor, our Prince Eddy enjoys sex in all of its available forms.”
He pursed his lips, a mannerism so much like his brother’s. “They have tried to keep it from Her Majesty, of course — the worst of it anyway. But sooner or later she finds out everything, has an uncanny ability to do so. Damned if I know how she does it.”75 Mycroft turned to his brother. “You realize, naturally, what will happen if any of this gets out?”
Holmes nodded. “Of course there is no definite proof that it is one of the prince’s friends who is the killer,” he said quietly. “The evidence is wholly circumstantial.”
Mycroft favored him with a look of pained forbearance. “Can there be any doubt? How much proof do you need?”
“What there is would never hold up in the courts.”
“Don’t be naive, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to, as you well know,” Mycroft snapped irritably. “The scandal will be intolerable in any case.” He sniffed. “The courts indeed! Should any of this get out, the prince’s character and sexual proclivities will be revealed for what they are, as will his gross stupidity and unfitness. It will rock the throne, make no mistake. It will call into question the institution of the monarchy itself, and the wisdom of perpetuating it. At the very least, the Salisbury government will never survive. Given today’s political climate, this whole filthy business could result in a political and social crisis of cataclysmic proportions, causing a violent and permanent change in our society. It will be the beginning of the end to Britain’s ruling class, make no mistake.”
Holmes cocked an eyebrow, but Mycroft, anticipating him, raised a hand to forestall his comment.
“I need not be reminded that our ruling class is hardly above reproach, but the fact remains there is nothing to replace it. The alternative is chaos. The lower classes are not trained for the job. They have neither the education nor the background. For countless generations they have been taught to submit, and that is all they know: Absolute obedience to God, the Queen, and their betters, whoever they may be. There are those who would welcome an end to our system, those who feel that the monarchy has become an anachronism, an expensive bit of frippery. I don’t happen to agree. I believe the monarchy is indispensable to the preservation of the Empire, and that its survival and well-being is the only guarantee we have to national tranquility.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “I do not mind admitting to you that I fear the mob. They are ignorant, they are uneducated, they are not fit to govern themselves, let alone a great empire. I would no more willingly turn over the country to the masses than I would to the Thugees of India or the Fuzzy-Wuzzies in darkest Africa. It is the monarchy that keeps this great beast at bay, that brings equilibrium and order to our society. And that is why the monarchy must be preserved, why the system must be protected.”
Holmes was as loyal to the Crown and as patriotic an Englishman as any, but he had few illusions about what Mycroft called “the system.” Whatever else it might be, it was a hardly a system that favored everyone equally. The House of Commons, it had often been pointed out, was made up of a handful of rich men elected by a handful of other rich men, while those who sat in the House of Lords were elected by nobody.
He considered his brother with a thin smile. “I heard it said just the other day, Mycroft, that the only truly democratic house in England was the public house, where everyone has an equal voice and you can at least get a drink, which is better than anything provided by either of the other two.”
Mycroft scowled. “It was doubtlessly an American who said it,” he snapped. “And in the process complained about there being no ice in the drink, I shouldn’t wonder.” He waved an accusatory finger. “It is all very well and good to be critical of the system, Sherlock, but it has worked for us these many years and has worked quite nicely, thank you. It has made us into the most powerful nation in history, might I remind you.”
“I cannot help but wonder why, sometimes,” Holmes replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “when you stop to consider that the members of our ruling class pass most of their time passing the port.”76
Mycroft raised his hand again and frowned. “Enough, I beg of you. We are not here to mend the imperfections of our social fabric. Let us return to the subject at hand. We must agree on a course of action.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Holmes.
“What can I? I have to go to the Prime Minister with it, of course. And in all probability to the Prince of Wales — that’s not something I look forward to, I can tell you. Bertie invariably gets his wind up anytime the subject of his firstborn is mentioned. He can’t stand the boy.”
“You don’t intend taking it to the Home Secretary, Sir Henry Matthews?”
Mycroft waved the idea away. “Henry is not the right man for this. He is a good enough fellow in his way, but his ideas tend to enter the room with a polite cough. Besides, I think it best to go directly to the P.M. The fewer involved, the better it will be. Not a hint of this must get out. We must avoid public disclosure at all costs. And if necessary we will have to derail the official police investigation — lest by accident, despite all of their bumbling, they get onto the right track.”
Holmes cocked his head to one side and looked at Mycroft through narrowed eyes. Watson recognized the danger signal.
Mycroft, not intimidated in the least, returned his brother’s look. “We are playing for very large stakes here, Sherlock. Need I remind you of that? This is no time to take a petit bourgeois moral stand.”
“Mycroft, the murders must be stopped! Without a scandal if possible, but one way or another, they must be stopped!”
“Of course they must! Don’t I know that? But at the same time, steps must be taken to insure that none of this is connected to the royal family. That is paramount.”
Holmes snapped, “That may not be possible.”
Mycroft glared at him. “It is paramount!” he repeated with emphasis. “The throne must be disassociated from all of this!”
Holmes leaned forward, his lean jaw firm, his eyes hard. “Paramount it may be, but it still may not be possible!”
Watson looked from Holmes to Mycroft. In an instant the atmosphere of the room had become highly charged. The two brothers had locked eyes and were glaring furiously at each other, and Watson found himself anxiously gripping the arms of his chair. Holmes looked like a cat about to spring, and Mycroft’s face had reddened alarmingly, his eyes, like his brother’s, narrowed into dangerous slits.
It was Watson who inadvertently eased the tension. He cleared his throat, nervously and quite unintentionally, but to good effect. It was as if a switch had been thrown.
Mycroft threw an embarrassed quick glance in Watson’s direction and, looking chastened, forced himself to regain his composure. Holmes promptly followed his brother’s example.
A brief interval of awkward silence was broken finally by Mycroft.
“You must leave this to me, Sherlock,” he said in a very low voice but in a tone that left no doubt that it was a command, not a request. “This is a government matter now, an affair of state. You have no voice in it.”
Holmes dropped his eyes and sat back. He considered the point. After a moment or two he looked up into his brother’s face and studied it carefully, as if seeking a clue. “Just what is it that you have in mind?” he asked at last.
Mycroft shot a glance in Watson’s direction. “Doctor, I must ask your forgiveness, but would you be good enough to leave us for just a little whil
e?”
Watson, already on the edge of his seat, leapt to his feet almost gratefully. The turn the conversation had taken had made him extremely uncomfortable, and he was glad for the opportunity to be excused from it, busying himself at a table on the other side of the room, where several large, leather-bound volumes lay scattered about, doing his best to pay no attention to the continuing discussion behind him. After a while, though, his curiosity got the better of him; sheepishly, he found himself actually straining to hear.
“I don’t like it!” he heard Holmes say at one point, with Mycroft replying in some heat: “That is of little consequence!”
The low murmur of voices continued for several minutes more, during which time it was impossible to make out any words distinctly. Then another sharp exclamation from Holmes: “I won’t have anything to do with this, Mycroft!”
Several more minutes went by. Clearly, Mycroft was using all of his not-inconsiderable persuasive powers to win his younger brother over to his point of view, but was having no easy time of it. Sherlock Holmes could be a very stubborn man, as Watson well knew, especially when he believed himself to be right, which was almost always.
At long last the discussion came to an end and Mycroft summoned him back.
“You must forgive me,” he said when Watson had taken his chair once again. “But I think you understand the gravity of the situation and what is at stake here. Given the identity of the personage involved, every precaution must be taken, and the less shared with the fewest number, the better it will be.”
Watson nodded.
“We are no longer dealing with the simple matter of the murder of a few unfortunates. You do see that, don’t you? As preposterous as it may seem, we are now confronting an affair that could have repercussions of a catastrophic nature. I believe Sherlock understands this now, and it is important that you understand it as well. Whether you like it or not, by accident or design, you are in the thick of it. It is vital that you appreciate what is at stake. I am sure that I do not have to spell it out for you, but the wrong move now — a misjudgment, a simple miscalculation, a misplaced confidence, or a word dropped within the hearing of the wrong ear — could prove to be disastrous. If we are to avoid utter calamity, we must put petty moral scruples aside and act with total resolve. We must consider the totality. I put it to you that nothing as pedestrian as a few gruesome back-alley murders must be permitted to change the course of history. It is just too preposterous to contemplate.”
He leaned forward in his chair and looked directly into Watson’s eyes. “I count on you, Doctor, to keep whatever you know, and whatever you think you know, to yourself.”
“Of course,” Watson mumbled.
“I am aware that Sherlock has absolute faith in your discretion, and I shall depend upon it. I am sure I shall not be disappointed.”
His gray eyes were cold and piercing, and Watson had difficulty in meeting them. There was no question that a threat was implied in Mycroft’s tone. While it made Watson angry, most of all it made him uncomfortable, for it suddenly dawned on him that Mycroft Holmes was not a man to make idle threats.
Mycroft unlocked his gaze and leaned back in his chair. “This is a most difficult situation, fearfully difficult. It is far and away the most delicate matter that has ever come to my attention in all my years in public service. It must be handled with great care and finesse. I do not look forward to laying it before the P.M. Lord Salisbury’s health is not as robust as it should be. This is bound to affect him badly.” He lumbered to his feet, grunting with the effort.
“Belcher!” he called to the waiter. “Have a four-wheeler summoned at once!”
Holmes and Watson trailed behind him in the general direction of the door.
“The next few hours will be most trying, I fear. Most trying indeed.” He glanced back at them. “Well, c’mon, you two! Don’t hang back. You’re coming with me!”
They entered the small, unpretentious Georgian building without being stopped or delayed for a moment by the constable on duty in front of the entrance. He merely took a sidelong glance in Mycroft’s direction and saluted, allowing the three of them to pass through the door without question. Mycroft Holmes, it would seem, was not an infrequent visitor to number 10 Downing Street.
Watson did his best to acquit himself in a manner that suggested that he, too, was no stranger to the bastions of power, but he feared he carried it off with something less than total aplomb, for he badly fumbled his hat and stick in the process of handing them over to the porter inside the vestibule.
The anteroom on the second floor, to which they were ushered without delay, had several chairs in it, but even Mycroft Holmes, who never stood when he could sit, declined to take one. Instead, the three of them remained standing by the tall window overlooking the Horse Guards Parade, waiting to be summoned by the principal private secretary, who informed Mycroft (not without some display of pique) that he would endeavor to fit him in between two appointments.
Watson stole a glance at his two companions as they waited. Though they both wore brooding expressions, only natural considering the circumstances, neither appeared particularly ill at ease, which to Watson was quite unnatural, considering their surroundings. He, on the other hand, was highly nervous, never having dreamed when he awoke that morning that he would be standing where he was before day’s end. Indeed, in his wildest dreams he had never imagined he would ever be standing where he was.
The wait was a brief one. The great Lord Salisbury was, for a peer of the realm, and a wealthy and powerful one at that, a very simple man who cared nothing for pomp, so the summons when it came was made without ceremony: A door merely opened, a young man in frockcoat appeared, and with a simple gesture they were directed into the Prime Minister’s presence. Watson straightened his cravat and threw a nervous glance at Holmes, who seemed totally unaffected by the importance of the moment, for his face was as composed as that of a Red Indian.
Lord Salisbury was an impressive figure, someone who would quietly dominate any room: A large, stout, balding man with a thick, unruly gray beard that all but covered his chest — a tired old man, he looked to be (though he was only in his late fifties), whose rounded shoulders no longer carried the weight of Empire without difficulty, for there were heavy dark shadows under his eyes and a weariness upon his face that made it evident that the burden had become all but unbearable. He did not rise as they entered, but he did glance up from the sheaf of papers in his hand. It was impossible not to be immediately taken with him, no matter what one’s political persuasions. He had a face that bred confidence and trust, a massive brow, and wise, intelligent eyes; the face of a man without vanity, without guile who, given a choice, would far prefer to be among his books, studying the classics, than caught up in the hurly-burly of party politics and the intrigues of international affairs. But he had no choice; he was born to the role. It was his duty to serve the Queen, just as two of his ancestors had served previous monarchs as first ministers three hundred years before, as it was the Queen’s duty to reign over the Empire. It was a duty that came with his name and titles. Lord Salisbury, it had been said, was one of those few who had inherited all of the privileges of being an aristocrat without losing any of the responsibilities.77
“Well, Mycroft, and what delights do you bring me today?” he said in a gruff, not unkindly voice. “I had not expected to see you until our usual Monday meeting.”
“Good day, m’lord. You must forgive my unannounced call.”
“I must assume it is a matter of some importance for it to intrude upon your normal routine.”
The prime minister’s gaze moved wordlessly from Mycroft Holmes to Watson and then to Sherlock Holmes, his bushy eyebrows lifting noticeably upon recognizing the latter, which said much for Holmes’s rising celebrity, for Lord Salisbury was notorious for his inability to remember names or faces.
Mycroft made the introductions, and the three of them were gestured into the chairs arranged in front of
the prime minister’s table.
It took only five minutes for Mycroft to explain the purpose of the visit and to lay the matter out entirely. Accustomed to briefing men of power on the most complicated of issues, his presentation of the facts was short and to the point, admirably concise yet complete. Clearly he was endowed with a vivid memory: His recitation was flawless. That his delivery was dispassionate, devoid of any form of emotion, served only to make what he was saying all the more incredible. And all the more horrifying. To Watson’s ear, listening to someone else relate the facts of the matter for the first time, the whole business sounded so very fantastic that he would not have been surprised had the prime minister summoned his secretary to have the three of them ejected into the street.
But the prime minister listened without interrupting, motionless in his chair, only his eyes betraying that he was listening at all, for they widened dramatically as the import of Mycroft’s news was revealed, and his breathing became alarmingly heavy. By the time Mycroft had finished, the old man seemed to have shrunken in size; his jaw hung slack and his hands trembled noticeably. He looked at the three of them with horror upon his face, unable even to speak. For a second or two Watson feared that his professional services might be required, for the man appeared to be in a state of shock.
But when he did finally speak, his voice was surprisingly firm: “I have grave difficulty in believing any of this, gentlemen, as I am sure you will understand. Indeed, if it hadn’t come from you, Mycroft, I wouldn’t have believed a word of it. You will forgive me, but I require a moment or two to absorb all of this. Are you saying to me that one of Prince Albert Victor’s close associates may in some way or another be involved in the Whitechapel murders? That is what you are saying, is it not?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 27
