by Andy Lane
'I'm following someone. Or perhaps I should say something.'
'Pray explain yourself, Doctor.'
'Oh, I'm not sure I could do that.'
He smiled.
'However, perhaps Doctor Watson here has told you that he has been followed ever since we left Mrs Prendersly's house.'
Holmes shot a disappointed look at me.
'I have not been followed!' I protested. 'Holmes, you have taught me enough about detective work that I would be able to tell if any man were dogging my footsteps.'
Holmes smiled slightly.
'I myself have followed you during a number of our cases,' he said, 'in situations where I have anticipated some attack being made upon your person.'
'But I have seen nothing,' I exclaimed.
'That is what you may expect to see when I am following you,' he replied smugly.
'What makes you think that it is a man?' the Doctor interrupted.
'Because should any lady within a three mile radius show the slightest interest in Watson,' Holmes said, smirking, 'then he would know about it.'
The Doctor drew back the curtain of the trotting cab and indicated an alleyway ahead with his umbrella.
'Do you see?'
I peered towards the alley. It was mostly in shadow. I could make out no human form within it, just a pile of sticks set to form a rough stand, reminiscent in form of the iron 'cat' set in front of the fire at Baker Street upon which Holmes and I were wont to toast muffins on winter evenings. I had seen its like elsewhere, recently, but where?'
It vanished.
'Great Scott!' I exclaimed.
The Doctor pointed ahead to where a tree stood by a corner. A bundle of twigs was leaning up against it.
'A fast mover,' the Doctor said. 'Faster than the human eye can follow, at any rate. That probably indicates a race who are preyed upon by hunters of some sort.'
I tried to focus upon the . . . the animal, if the Doctor was to be believed . . .
but it moved again.
'I've seen similar behaviour in Raston Robots,' the Doctor murmured, 'but never before in a living creature. The energy it requires is phenomenal.'
He leaned out of the window.
'Around the corner!' he yelled.
'Right, guv,' came the resigned voice of the cabbie.
The growler veered sharply to the left, and Holmes peered out of the window.
'I see nothing,' he said.
The Doctor pointed to a pile of refuse, beside which I again saw the twigs.
'But what is it?' I cried.
'I don't know. I pursued it here from the Diogenes Club. I think it had followed you there, and lost you.'
'You cannot possibly be serious.'
He gazed at me with eyes that seemed to contain the weight of the world within them.
'Can't I?'
I leaned back in my seat and tried to make sense of what I was being told.
Try as I might, I could not fit this particular piece into the rational world-view which I held. It came from a different puzzle entirely.
The cab trotted on whilst I wrestled with my thoughts. The Doctor kept on yelling instructions out of the window, and Holmes tried and failed to see what we were following. Eventually we began to slow down, and I roused myself from my thoughts.
'Where are we?' I asked.
'Holborn,' Holmes and the Doctor said as one. I joined in as the growler halted: 'And the Library of St John the Beheaded.'
Of course. Where else?
Holmes stepped out into the street. I joined him. We were in more or less the same location in which Holmes and I had been dropped the day before.
I took the Doctor's umbrella as he scrambled out of the carriage and, on a whim, examined it closely for signs of oil or a channel through which oil might emerge. The entire ferrule had been cast as a solid lump of brass: despite Holmes's claims, whatever the Doctor had used to calm the waters of the Serpentine, it was not this. I handed it back, and he smiled.
The Doctor paid the cabbie, who snorted, flicked his whip at his horses and drove off with some speed. He must have thought we were mad. I must admit I was beginning to suspect the same thing myself.
The sun was already heading for its rest and the deep chasms of the alleyways in front of us were shadowed and seething with an infestation of humanity. The stench was appalling.
'Well,' the Doctor said, 'there's no sign of the creature, but it seems clear where it went.'
'And you intend following?' Holmes snapped, stared down at the little man.
'Well,' the Doctor said softly, never quite looking up at Holmes, 'we could pussyfoot around, check all approaches, scout the area, reconnoitre the target and all of those good things, and never get any closer to the heart of the mystery, or we could walk right in and ask some pointed questions. In the end, one way or another, we'll end up in there.'
'I'm going with you,' I said.
'Good man: The Doctor picked his way carefully along the valley that led through the St Giles Rookery to the hidden Library of St John the Beheaded. I followed, of course. Holmes, after a moment's hesitation, overtook both the Doctor and I and led the way.
It took us twenty minutes to press our way through the throng of unwashed and unkempt humanity to the doorway that marked the only entrance and exit to the Library. As before, some form of immunity had been conferred upon us. Nobody would meet our eye: despite the crush of people, nobody touched us or spoke to us. Even the dogs seemed to ignore us.
At the door to the Library, I looked around. Two separate groups of lounging men were eyeing us. Jitter and Yeovil were still keeping watch upon the Library, and upon each other.
We entered into the darkness. Instantly we were engulfed in peace and warmth. instead of the stench of the Rookery, the musty, dusty smell of old books filled our nostrils. A black-robed man signed us in and led us along corridors lined with tottering piles of books, up stairways, down ramps and spiral staircases, through linked sets of rooms whose walls were invisible behind loaded shelves and finally up a ladder to a landing which bowed noticeably beneath the weight of the literature stacked upon it. He tapped discreetly upon a door, and withdrew.
'Come,' said a familiar voice. Holmes opened the door, and we entered.
The room was mercifully free of books. Panelled walls were interrupted only by a fireplace in which logs crackled comfortingly, and a table containing a selection of bottles and a gasogene. A desk stood at one end, in front of a massive tapestry which depicted some marbled palace. A high-backed, high-winged leather armchair had been placed between them, and turned so that its back was facing us.
Mycroft Holmes stood by the fireside. His hands were clasped behind him, and the flickering light cast his bloated shadow over us all.
'Holmes, Watson,' he nodded, 'and, I presume, the Doctor.'
'What is the meaning of this, Mycroft?' Holmes snapped, advancing across the carpet towards his brother. 'What are you doing here?'
'I followed a hunch: Mycroft gestured towards the bottles. 'Please help yourselves to drinks, by the way. The Chateau Lafite is a century old, and looks fit to become one of the world's great vintages if we don't drink it all first.'
'Yes,' the Doctor murmured. 'We followed something too.'
Holmes remained glaring at his brother. The Doctor seemed engrossed in the tapestry behind the desk, and so I busied myself with a stiff whisky.
'Don't play the fool, Mycroft.' Holmes's face was contorted with rage. 'Save that for your political lords and masters. I demand an explanation!'
'What an enchanting tapestry' the Doctor said, unheard by all except me.
As the accusations and recriminations flowed, I refreshed my drink with a spurt of aerated water from the gasogene and turned to look at the tapestry. If the Doctor thought fit to draw our attention to it, I presumed it must be important. Unlike Holmes, the Doctor seemed to prompt from behind rather than lead from the front.
From my position by the drinks table I
was seeing the tapestry at an angle.
The architecture of the place represented there was Indian, the style somewhat ponderous, and I could not see what kept the Doctor so raptly attentive. I confess that I lost interest. My gaze wandered across the panelled wall, the carpet, the desk, the chair and a handkerchief which had been carelessly left upon its arm. I sipped at the whisky: it had been a long day, and I had rarely needed a drink as much as I needed that one.
My gaze kept coming back to the handkerchief. I found myself idly wondering whose it was and why it had not been tidied away. I must have stared at it for a full minute or so before I realized that it wasn't a handkerchief at all. It was a gloved hand, perched motionless upon the arm of the chair. The owner was hidden from me by the high wings and, bereft of context, the hand was just an abstract white shape upon the maroon leather.
'Your spleen is misplaced, Sherlock,' Mycroft boomed. 'I know little more than you do. I merely tried to contact the last name upon the list of visitors to this Library, and found that he was still here in London. He has agreed to see us.'
There was something about his ironic tone of voice that made me suspect he found something amusing about the situation. Whilst he spoke, I surreptitiously shifted my position so that I could see the occupant of the chair.
'And where is he now, pray?' Holmes's voice was icy.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the Doctor was moving too, paralleling my course but on the other side of the chair. I glanced up at him.
He nodded slightly towards the hand. His expression was calm. His habitually fatuous smile had vanished.
As I moved, a face came into view around the wing of the chair: such a familiar face that I had to glance back into the body of the room to check that Holmes was still there, eyeball to eyeball with Mycroft. I looked again at the occupant of the chair. The hawk-like profile, the supercilious expression, the deep lines around the closed eyes . . . it was as if the very essence of Sherlock Holmes sat before me, a distillation of my friend down to the basics that made up his character.
The Doctor appeared around the other side of the chair. He too looked back into the room, then across at me.
For a moment I entertained the thought that the face was just a model, a wax bust perhaps, but then the eyes opened and shifted first to examine me and then the Doctor with an impassive gaze. A slight smile played around the corners of the mouth as, behind us, Mycroft Holmes called out,
'Ah, gentlemen, I see that you have discovered our host. May I present our elder brother, Sherringford Holmes!'
I was stunned, but perhaps I should not have been. It had taken Holmes long enough to reveal the existence of one brother. For him to avow another would have been asking too much.
Sherringford Holmes swung the chair around to face the room. In the light, I could see that he was twenty or so years older than Sherlock, and therefore thirteen years older than Mycroft. He had the build and demeanour of the one offset by the surprisingly mild brown eyes of the other. His hair was grey and close-cropped. Taller and thinner than either of his brothers, he dominated the room even whilst seated. His white gloves, unnecessary with his dark and rather severe suit and the travelling rug which hid his legs, added a touch of menace.
'Still an impetuous youth, eh, Sherlock?' he said in a dry, sardonic voice.
'And you, Mycroft, as smug and as well-fed as ever, I see.'
Holmes was incredulous: Mycroft amused. The Doctor glanced across at me, and murmured, 'I thought two of them was bad enough.'
'I am . . . surprised . . . to see you outside the North Riding,' Holmes said eventually. He seemed cowed. Turning to me apologetically, he remarked,
'There are some details of my family life to which I have not made you privy, Watson. My family derive from old Yorkshire stock. Sherringford chooses to live on as squire in the old family farmstead, whereas both Mycroft and I prefer the attractions of London.'
'Sherlock has always tried to disown his family,' Sherringford said to me.
Ibis eyes twinkled warmly, but his face appeared carved from an old, weathered, tree-trunk. 'It bothers the logical side of his nature to think that he might have irrational family loyalties above and beyond the clarion call of justice. Mycroft, of course.. ' and he gazed at his corpulent brother, '. . : is rather ashamed of us in the exalted circles in which he now moves. That probably explains why they kept from you the fact that my name was upon the list of Library users provided by Mr Ambrose.'
Both Sherlock and Mycroft shifted slightly where they stood.
'You've a sharper brain than both of us put together, Sherringford, if only you would turn it outward upon the world rather than reserving it for crop rotation and sheep breeding,' Mycroft said grudgingly, 'but you still have not explained why you are here. What connection do you have with this Library?'
Sherringford sighed.
'Is this necessary, dear boy?' he asked.
'Very necessary. You may hold a vital clue as the identity of the thief and murderer, assuming them to be one and the same.'
'Very well. As you know, it has long been my ambition to write the history of our family: Indeed, I have had some success in tracing our roots back to Norman times. More recently, I discovered that one of our distant relatives married the Commander in Chief of the Naval Forces of His Holiness the Pope during the last century. .'
'Holmes mentioned it to me,' I blurted. 'When we were on the Pope's train a few days ago.'
Sherringford appeared surprised.
'I had always assumed that you never read the letters I sent you, Sherlock.'
he said. 'Perhaps I have done you an injustice. No matter. Mention of His Holiness brings me to this Library, where I have been researching the time that our father spent in the service of the East India Company. His own journal is fragmentary, and three volumes are missing from the family archives. Eventually I tracked them down to here. I do not pretend to understand how they came to be in this Library, and Mr Ambrose will not enlighten me. I took rooms in London and started to examine them. Mr Ambrose kindly put this room at my disposal.'
'But I thought that this Library contained only those documents which the Catholic Church claim could destabilize the world,' I said.
'Perhaps so.' Sherringford glanced up at me. Suffice it to say that our father's journals were amongst those stolen soon after I arrived, along with other documents relating to the Indian subcontinent, with special reference to myths and legends.'
'I have been investigating the theft of our father's diaries?' Holmes snapped.
'Amongst other documents, indeed. I suspect that it was my own interest in them that prompted the theft, and the interest of the Doctor here in some of the other documents.'
He glanced at the Doctor, who looked bashfully at the floor, clasped his hands before him and swung one leg to and fro.
'Mr Ambrose made me aware of his intention to notify the hierarchy of the Catholic Church of the thefts. I tried to dissuade him - the documents were not, after all, that important, but he would not be swayed. I must admit that I had not anticipated that the Pope himself would seek you out, Sherlock, and engage you to investigate the theft. This Library must be more important to them than I had thought.'
'Or, perhaps, the stolen books are,' the Doctor murmured. Sherringford cast him a sharp glance.
'Be that as it may,' he continued, 'you have quickly ascertained, more through luck than judgement, that the culprit is Baron Maupertuis. His motive is unclear, but no doubt it can be established by the constabulary in short order. Even better, you have regained two of the books. Well done, Sherlock!
Mycroft, the Doctor and I all turned to stare at Holmes. He looked inclined to dissemble for a moment, then delved into a pocket and retrieved two small volumes, about the size of the palm of my hand. Sherringford waved an imperious hand, and Holmes passed them to him with obvious reluctance.
'I grabbed them from Maupertuis during the scuffle on top of the stairs,' he said. 'I had in
tended to produce them at an opportune moment, after I had examined them. I had no idea...'
'Yes,' Sherringford confirmed with an expression of relief upon his face, 'I recognize Father's handwriting. Thank you, dear boy.'
'How did you...' Mycroft began, but realizing that he would get no answer from Sherringford, he trailed into silence, shook his huge head, and continued, 'I wouldn't bank on prosecuting Maupertuis, or even regaining the rest of the books. My information is that the Baron is heading for India this very evening. The tickets have been booked for some time. I have men out looking for him, but since his run-in with Sherlock this afternoon, he seems to have gone to ground. I would not be surprised if he managed to slip through the web I have spun.'
