Holmes Entangled

by Gordon McAlpine

  I shook my head. “You can’t deal with God.”

  “What?” He broke into laughter. “God? And this coming from you, Sherlock? That’s rich!”

  “Your millions of subjugated Hindus would explain it like this.” I quoted from memory the Bhagavata Purana. “Even though over a period of time I might count all the atoms of the universe, I could not count all my opulence, which I manifest within innumerable universes.”

  He leaned back in the cushions. “Ah, the fruit of your ‘missing years’ spent east of Suez. Your cross-legged meditating in monasteries. And now you consider yourself expert in all things Eastern. Hah!”

  I ignored his deprecation. “And in the Apannaka Jataka, the Buddha refers to the ‘lowest of hells below and the highest heaven above and all the infinite worlds that stretch right and left.’”

  He picked up his drink and finished it. Then he returned the glass to the end table. “Well, there’s a passing grade for the second form student of theology.”

  “Not much has changed since the first incarnation of the Eureka Society,” I observed. “That covert corps of fanatics Rome organized to assassinate Poe, a mere literary unfortunate.”

  “What, that shadowy papal conspiracy from the last century?” he objected. “Rome was frightened by mere philosophizing. They were disorganized and emotional. Not British at all.”

  “It is not merely the name that you’ve adopted,” I said.

  “No, what else have we taken from the papists?”

  “It is still about God.”

  “That’s absurd, Sherlock. The King’s government is not a tool of the Church.”

  “No, the Church is a tool of yours,” I replied. “A tool that has proven useful to all the Western Powers. But what would happen if millions of brown-skinned people were to learn that their religions more neatly align than do ours with the boldest and most current incarnation of the very cudgel we now wield against them, science? What if we are the primitives?”

  “What would happen?” Mycroft snapped. “Probably nothing.”

  “Probably nothing,” I answered. “We both know that ‘probably’ is not a word that you and yours have ever been willing to tempt.”

  His manner softened and he leaned back. “I suppose I could argue with your assertions, little brother. But why should I bother, as you so neatly, if inadvertently, have just made the case for my government’s unrestrained involvement in this matter. If I stipulate that what you say is true, what need I further do?”

  I hadn’t an answer for him.

  “So what does that leave?” he pressed.

  “Your modern incarnation of the Eureka Society,” I said.

  He stared at me long enough to communicate an affirmative answer. Then he said without conviction, “I’ve never heard of such an organization.”

  “Just as you never heard of a blond assassin recently shot through the right lung outside the offices of the Society for Psychic Research?”

  Now, he could not hide his surprise. After a moment, comprehension spread across his wide face. “Ah, you were the East Indian psychic and the tippler with the gun!” He shook his head in seeming delight. “I should have guessed it.”

  I did not answer but allowed my silence to affirm his statement.

  “You’ve been quite busy, Sherlock,” he observed.

  “As have you, Mycroft.”

  “Oh, I don’t condone killing,” he said, shifting as if suddenly uncomfortable in the sofa cushions in which he now half reclined. I wondered if he’d be able to stand up out of the soft fabric divot without help. “But then, dear Sherlock, it’s not my place to condone or condemn. I am a mere servant of the Crown.”

  “And what of Conan Doyle, a good man and also a loyal servant of the Crown?”

  “He is a frightfully loose cannon who is also a professional writer. A dangerous combination.”

  “A writer of mere historical romances and dinosaur fantasies,” I objected.

  Mycroft pursed his heavy lips. “I agree that his oeuvre should disqualify him from serious cultural consideration or influence. To say nothing of some of his previous civic causes, each more embarrassing to him than the last. However, the public does not necessarily concur with our assessment, dear brother.” He grew more animated. “Unfortunately, Conan Doyle was knighted for his history of the Boer War. This is not insignificant. It lends him weight with the public. Yet it does nothing, in our view, to make him more trustworthy. Do you understand our dilemma?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Conan Doyle is evangelical in his beliefs and will continue to publicly assert his fleeting encounter with an ‘alternate’ Stanley Baldwin. He may not tie the appearance to any quantum theory, being unaware of the new science. But if others put things together?”

  “The bullet lodged near his spine put a caution in him.”

  “Did it? Just a few days ago he attempted to post an essay regarding the subject.”

  “He did not associate the two events, having missed the ‘message’ implied by his shooting.”

  Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, we could clarify our demands. This would frighten him temporarily. But we know his type. His pride will not allow him ever to stand down. He may seem to concede. For years even. Yet he also may make a secret provision in his will for an exposé to run in newspapers at the time of his death. That sort of nonsense. So, for that reason, threatening him is a poor strategy, which I say as something of a compliment to him, whatever his fate.”

  In that moment, I thought it would have been better to have thrown my own brother rather than Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls. “I shall not tell you where to find Conan Doyle,” I said.

  “You’d be withholding evidence from the Crown.”

  “He hired me to save his life . . . from you.”

  “Not I, Sherlock. The government.”

  “But you are the government.”

  He chuckled. “You overestimate me. Those days have passed. I’m now only the third or fourth most powerful man in England.”

  I finished my scotch and soda.

  “We’ve located your latest safe house,” Mycroft announced. “The one near your old Baker Street rooms.”

  Suddenly, I could have used a second drink. “What, how?”

  “Mrs. Watson was spotted by one of our agents as she was buying eggs at a grocery this morning. Good fortune for us. Our man followed her back to the residence. Now, it’s time for the grown-ups of this world, however many other worlds there may or may not be, to put an end to the problem.”

  “The two are still safe?”

  He nodded. “As I suspected you’d seek me out, I waited to talk with you before ordering any action.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it answer enough that you’re my brother?”

  “No.”

  He leaned forward on the sofa until he managed to pull himself half out of the valley of fabric. “I wanted to consult with you because Conan Doyle is no longer the only influential person in possession of this radical and politically, culturally, and spiritually threatening theory.”

  I pretended slow-wittedness. “You’re talking about Madam Du Lac?”

  He brushed the suggestion away with his hand. “She’s a psychic medium, for God’s sake. She can say whatever she wants. Her word carries no weight.”

  “But Conan Doyle is a proponent of Spiritualism. Why not allow him the same charitable insignificance?”

  “Because being a proponent and being a medium are two different things,” he answered. “There are many influential personages who take an interest in the ridiculous confidence games played out in séance rooms. Even some in the royal family, I’m sorry to say. So, you see, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is not dismissed so easily.”

  I said nothing, waiting.

  “And your Mrs. Watson could pose something of a threat should she begin talking,” he continued.

  I shook my head dismissively. “She was a mere landlady until she married Watson.” I hoped to defend her
by defaming the genuinely formidable woman I’d come to know. “I don’t see the slightest distinction in anything she’s ever done. Nor would the general public. She’s no threat to you.”

  “But she is a respectable woman,” Mycroft countered. “And, as you say, she was married to a literary man.”

  “She has no intention of taking any of this information to the public.”

  He shrugged. “Of course, there’s a chance that what you say is true. Indeed, a likelihood. But with the stakes so high . . .”

  “You’ll not harm her,” I said, firmly.

  He laughed. “Oh, I’ll harm no one, Sherlock. Just look at me. I am not a model of modern British physical fitness.”

  “If harm comes to her I’ll kill you myself, Mycroft.”

  “Ah yes, that brings us to you, doesn’t it.” Despite the syntax, his words did not constitute a question.

  I extended my arms and held my fists out toward him, as if for handcuffs. “Call your men and take me right away to Reading Gaol, or wherever it is you put men of public acclaim these days. Or call your retired military specialists to take me to a private place in the woods and do their worst.”

  He indicated with a motion of his hands for me to put my arms down. “I’m your brother, Sherlock,” he said, as if offended by my callous suggestions. “I would never sign off on your arrest or assassination. Unless, that is . . .” He stopped, saving the breath it would have taken him to complete the sentence, leaving it to me.

  “Unless I give you no choice,” I said.

  “Exactly. However, before we go any further, I want to make something perfectly clear. I didn’t know you were the East Indian mystic in Kensington, so I hope you don’t hold that one against me. I’m truly glad you got the best of our man.”

  I shrugged. “A mere bygone.”

  “I’m going to offer you a deal, Sherlock. It’s . . .”

  “I’ve come with a proposal of my own,” I interrupted. I’d learned as a boy never to let Mycroft set the initial parameters of a negotiation. Nothing in all the years since had dissuaded me from the discipline.

  “All right, Sherlock. What do you want?”

  “I need access to the finest photography lab in the country, tonight. With a technician whose discretion is beyond reproach. Additionally, I’ll need materials that are currently housed at the British Museum delivered to the lab by an equally trustworthy courier. Finally, I’ll need government stationery, a typewriter, and seals that would pass inspection. And then a week to put my plan into full effect. You can continue to surveil us, so there’ll be no mischief. If, after that date, you are dissatisfied, then you can take whatever actions you deem to be in the government’s interest. Sans guilt.”

  “And this will discharge my problem?”

  “Yes, Mycroft.”

  “And you’ll hand over your copy of Dirac’s paper, there in your pocket?”

  I nodded.

  “Photography lab,” he mused. “Seven days. That doesn’t seem to be asking so much. Not for my only brother. But let’s make it six days. Considering the Lord created the universe, or perhaps a multitude of them, in such time, it ought to be enough time for you, dear Sherlock. For whatever you have in mind.”

  “Fine.”

  “Of course, I have a few minor stipulations of my own.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Perhaps in some univers parallèles Mrs. Watson, Conan Doyle, and I made a furtive escape that night, shortly after my return from the Diogenes Club. This escape may have been preceded by our calmly toasting the bold endeavor with bubbling flutes of Dom Pérignon, 1921, and my announcement, with more than a little of Douglas Fairbanks’s aplomb, to my two fugitive companions: “Of course we have a way out of our predicament!” Whereupon, climbing once more down into the labyrinthine sewers of London, an exciting chase would ensue, with agents of the Crown hot on our trail, firing their weapons, bullets coming near enough to rain shattered pieces of wood and concrete from the sewer construction near to our shadowed, fleeing figures. As Victor Hugo put it when he sent his characters into the Paris sewers for their miraculous escape, “Adorable ambuscades of providence!” Ultimately, we rise and emerge from the sewer within the walls of Buckingham Palace, my mental map of the underground web of passageways being perfect, and we make our way, stealthily, past the King’s Guard to the private chambers of the royal family, where, slipping into the very bedroom of our monarch, we wake him and explain the situation, of which he knows nothing. Outraged, he calls for an immediate, midnight gathering of his counsel and, the next morning, announces that some of those whose charge is to work on His Royal behalf, including Mycroft, have failed to do the King’s true bidding, as the monarch is a proponent of truth in whatever form it takes, disavowing the antiscientific, socially manipulative intelligence forces who’ve pursued us. The rest, then, would become global history, as, freed from political pressures, Dirac’s surviving colleagues would publicly assert alternative theories to the Copenhagen Interpretation, eventually finding scientific proof of the startling reality of multiple worlds, revolutionizing human thought. Allow me to add an exclamation point to that last phrase: revolutionizing human thought!

  Of course, this is not what happened.

  At least not in this universe. Nor, according to the theory, in all but an almost infinitesimally small minority of universes.

  In the only world I know, it happened like this:

  The morning after my negotiation with Mycroft, I arrived back at my final safe house. I carried a new leather valise under my arm. Mrs. Watson and Conan Doyle sat at table for breakfast. Eggs. I didn’t tell Mrs. Watson how costly her going to the market to buy those eggs had proven. But perhaps having undercover government men stationed outside the residence made no difference anymore. We hadn’t planned to conceal ourselves forever. Some resolution was always required. Of course, I could explain none of the details to my companions, particularly to the ever-enthusiastic raconteur Conan Doyle, whose soon-to-be ruined reputation was key to saving his life.

  “Good morning, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson said as I entered, as if I were her night-watchman husband returning home from an ordinary shift.

  Conan Doyle sat at the table, sipping tea. He looked up at me with wide eyes. “What news, my good man?”

  I set the leather valise on the table.

  “You’ve been out all night,” Mrs. Watson observed.

  “Yes.”

  “Good Heavens,” she said. “Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea.”

  I sat down. And I’d take the tea.

  “Eggs?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  Though I’d developed affection for both of my companions, Conan Doyle for his brave heart and Mrs. Watson for her devotion and outstanding mind, the domesticity of the scene nonetheless went against my nature, practically making my skin crawl; I’m not proud of this reaction, but I cannot recall a time, even in childhood, when family-like matters inspired in me any other response. Perhaps having introduced you, dear reader, to my brother, Mycroft, goes some way toward an explanation. And there was more. Consider yourself fortunate to be spared description of my father’s violently demanding conduct in the family house. Suffice to say that at age seven I was greatly relieved to be sent away to boarding school. And the past was not the only source of my discomfort that morning among my covert flatmates. I also found the casual trappings of the overly familiar kitchen scene to be in ill-keeping with the actual seriousness of the situation. But I could display none of my discomfort, as this was to be a scene in a drama, which, if produced properly, would result in the survival of its unknowing dramatis personae.

  “Well, man, what have you learned?” Conan Doyle asked, leaning across the wooden table toward me.

  “The government is involved,” I answered.

  He nodded. “As we suspected.”

  Mrs. Watson turned away from the stove, setting a steaming cup of tea before me and pulling a chair to join us at the tab
le.

  “So the manifestation was real?” Conan Doyle pressed.

  I shook my head. “It was a trick,” I said. “The actual prime minister took part. An experiment. The three-dimensional, semi-transparent effect was achieved with a new technology consisting of film projectors and carefully placed mirrors. That our PM appeared to be crippled was the work of make-up and special effects experts, including the American film star Lon Chaney.”

  Conan Doyle’s face dropped. “Your brother in the government told you this?”

  “Indeed,” I said, though of course he’d said no such thing.

  Mrs. Watson looked unconvinced.

  “But the manifestation spoke to me!” Conan Doyle insisted. “Not only that, but he knew where to find you. How?” His tone of voice changed.

  “The government has ways of keeping track of a man, even when he’s well enough disguised that all others lose his trail.”

  Conan Doyle considered. “So . . . why would this illusory manifestation direct me to call on you?”

  “For the experiment,” I said, realizing only as I spoke how thin my story was becoming. John would have created a more convincing narrative, even from whole cloth. Of course, he’d never written fiction, claiming that he’d had no need thanks to our professional engagements.

  “But I was shot!” Conan Doyle said, standing from the table.

  Mrs. Watson also stood and put her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

  I shrugged. “The government had nothing to do with your shooting,” I said. “It must have been an ordinary criminal. Who knows?”

  “You expect me to believe that?” he demanded.

  “And the attack on you in the garden of the Society for Psychic Research?” Mrs. Watson objected, quite reasonably.

  “London is a dangerous city,” I offered. “Open spaces after dark . . .”

  “And the men lingering outside the Bloomsbury house?” Mrs. Watson continued.

  “Perhaps mere vagrants.”

  “And the deaths of Dirac and his editor?” Conan Doyle inquired.

  “Accidents, both.”

  “You expect us to believe coincidences like that?” Conan Doyle demanded, nervously tightening and loosening his fists.