The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  The telegram read:

  MR. HOLMES.—I beg that you will meet with me today upon the quaint bench in Regent’s Park which lies at the charming fork in the pathway opposite the weeping elm, nearly parallel to your own lodgings STOP The matter is most urgent STOP You will know me by the rather droll antique Masonic lapel pin I shall wear STOP From three o’clock until four, I shall eagerly await you STOP

  Of course this was curious, but there was nothing to be deduced from it save for the obvious facts that the gentleman was unused to intrigue, decidedly not a Freemason (they do not find their own sacred emblems “droll”), and born into the stratospheric upper classes, as he thought so little of presuming upon my time without an appointment and employing adjectives in telegrams. I rather balk at being summoned in such a peremptory manner. But I had nothing better to occupy my attention save for outlining the beginnings of a monograph upon spent bullet casings, so I silently agreed, not without a certain degree of pique.

  That degree was nothing compared with the ire which visited my spirits this afternoon, however.

  I know every inch of Regent’s Park as well as I know the rest of London—better, because Watson will insist upon my taking comradely constitutionals. So I could picture precisely the locale my would-be client had indicated. The weather was nicely temperate, and a brisk breeze whipped about my coattails. After passing a duck pond, a copse of elms, a spinster (three months in mourning for a sibling, cat fancier, works as a legal typist), and a small fountain at 3:37 p.m. (it doesn’t do to give too much leeway when a supplicant is both anonymous and presumptuous), I approached the bench in question and discovered that the identity of my client was not so much intriguing as alarming.

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, for so you must be, thank heaven you’ve come!” the delicately built man exclaimed under his breath as I sat beside him. “Dashed if I could have taken another instant of suspense, what, but then you consulting types march to the tick of your own clocks, don’t you?”

  Crossing my legs, I lit a cigarette to cover my annoyance. Lord Chesley Templeton was ludicrously attired in coarse tweeds which had obviously been ordered from an outrageously costly Jermyn Street tailor with specific instructions to use inferior cloth. The suit fit like a second skin and must have chafed like the devil. He did indeed sport an antique Masonic lapel pin, a five-pointed gold star with colorful enamel and the arcane emblems of the society, ringed with seed pearls and capped with a small brilliant no workingman could afford. (Whether it was droll I could not say—I could state for a certainty it failed to amuse me.) His thin mouth was quirked in a saucy smile, and he had clearly arrived long before I did, because his ears were pink from the wind. He had hidden his unmistakable high-browed and highborn features beneath a low cloth cap, rose-tinted glasses, and a beard which had been affixed with an overabundance of spirit gum, the smell of which was unmistakable. I could have told him he would have a wretched time getting the thing off without the proper solvent, but refrained.

  “I am Mr. Jack Smith,” said he, thrusting out a lily-white hand.

  “Lord Chesley Templeton,” I replied, taking it. “While I am no stranger to noble clients, I confess I find duplicitous ones tedious.”

  The gentleman goggled at me. Emitting a high yip of a laugh like the barking of a terrier, he swept his cap off and scratched his pale blond curls in astonishment. “By Jove! And there’s me discovered already! Dashed if that wasn’t middling clever, Mr. Holmes—do say how you did it, eh?”

  “It was not even middling clever, I fear. I may not enjoy the society pages, but as any connoisseur of newspapers must, I do read them, and your face is printed next to every fashionable soiree from New York to Paris.”

  He grinned. “I suppose I am somewhat celebrated, eh?”

  “Call it what you will.”

  “What a corker!” he crowed in that affected manner some men with twenty-four-karat accents have of employing popular slang. “Mr. Holmes, I knew you’d be perfect for this little lark I have in mind. The absolute toppingest of tops. You’ll indulge me in keeping the matter absolutely secret, won’t you, old chap, considering?”

  My hackles were already rising, and we had not even spent a full minute in one another’s company. “All my clients expect the same level of discretion from me.”

  “And from your doctor friend too, I trust, what’s his name, Weston? Wilson? By gad yes, we’ll want him for this. Your chum can keep his peace too, I fancy?”

  “John Watson.” Further nettled, I filled my lungs with smoke. “The good doctor probably knows more state secrets than most individuals in the state department.”

  “Capital fellow!”

  “He is.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt, not a doubt in the world. It’s worth a small fortune to the pair of you if you’ll do as I wish.”

  “My fees are fixed, and I do as I wish whether a client has hired me or not. I beg of you to tell me why I am on this bench.”

  Lord Templeton’s eyes, as blue and as empty as the April sky above, gleamed at me. “That’s the ticket—straight to business, I like that in a man. It indicates a strong spine, and we don’t want any of the flabby variety for this venture. Why, only yesterday I was saying to Sir Harry Eastmore, Harry, I says, when once you find a chap with some backbone, clasp him to your bosom, and never let go.”

  I made no reply to this. It seemed the best course.

  “You probably wonder why I am incognito?”

  “No, not especially.”

  “Come, sir, come! How could you not, a man of action like yourself, what? It would be deucedly unnatural if you didn’t. Positively perverse. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am here to invite you to a secret meeting of the Diadem Club.”

  My jaw tightened, I hope imperceptibly. “And what is the Diadem Club?”

  Absurdly pleased at the question, Lord Templeton clapped his hands in a manner my youngest Irregular would have found juvenile. “The Diadem Club is simply the most exclusive meeting of great minds this marvelous city boasts, Mr. Holmes, curse me if I exaggerate. Strike me down if I do, sir.”

  “Great minds,” I reflected, not without a hint of tragedy in my tone. “And you are a member, you say?”

  “Fair play, Mr. Holmes, fair play!” the terrible creature chortled. “You’ve the right end of the stick. I knew you’d catch on devilish fast. Half of the Diadem Club are members of the peerage—ministers and barons and how-d’ye-call-its, not the absolute cream when it comes to innate talents but frightfully rich you know, and dreadfully influential, which is why we must keep our meetings buttoned up to the neck, if you follow me. Deathly secret. Had things gone as I planned, you’d have learnt my true identity only when you attended our next meeting, but it’s dashed difficult to pull the wool over Sherlock Holmes’s eyes, eh? You’ll make a ripping addition! The jewels in our diadem are our honored invitees, all the clever and famous folk we bring into our fold—hence the Diadem Club.”

  “You want me,” I said slowly, “to attend a society meeting specifically because I am an internationally renowned criminologist?”

  “Got it in one! Come, come, don’t bother to thank me for thinking of you. The only Londoner more famous than Sherlock Holmes is Jack the Ripper, what?”

  He tittered. I am not by nature a man disposed to violence, but capability is another thing to inclination. Watson takes prudent pains not to emphasize this fact lest the many malefactors who have cause to harm us grow emboldened, and I thank him for it, for I should generally rather outwit a man than be forced to knock him down.

  And yet, I mused upon the park bench, idly flexing my fingers.

  “Yes,” the fop continued eagerly, “while half the Diadem Club are composed of bluebloods, the other half are our prized guests—better than collecting thoroughbreds or hounds or any of the usual creatures, eh? We meet under cover of darkness for fear of assassins, but don’t think that stop
s us having a cracking good time. The founding members went in upon a private boat six years ago—perfectly innocent-looking little wreck, just sitting there, bobbing upon the waves as boats do and so forth . . . but inside! Curse me if the Claire Wyndham doesn’t match the toniest club on earth, as they’d put the matter on Fifth Avenue. May lightning strike me!”

  The thought of lightning striking Lord Templeton was not an unwelcome one.

  “Russian china, Chinese silk, Austrian crystal, and a French chef, by gad,” he prattled on. “I’m their newest member and so must make an impression, you see. These other bucks are always flaunting their latest painter or scientist or inventor, but if I bring them Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watkins on a silver platter? Well, that would be a proper coup d’état, by Jove. The meeting is at midnight tomorrow. I only just hatched the notion of bringing you two hours ago and jotted off the wire posthaste. You’ll say yes, of course?”

  As I—seemingly ever more swiftly—approach my fiftieth year, I’ve had occasion to reflect that my manners are unlikely to undergo significant improvements at this late date. The horrid dandy was thrusting a sealed card under my nose. This I slid into my coat pocket while I pushed smoothly to my feet.

  “Good day to you, Lord Templeton,” I said as I strode back to Baker Street, swinging my cane as I went.

  Saturday, April 12th, 1902 (continued).

  I will have such revenges on Lord Templeton. I will do such things. What they are, yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth.

  King Lear never much appealed to me, my own upbringing considered, but on occasion its language is enormously satisfying.

  After leaving the ineptly disguised idiot in the park, I puttered about, smoked my pipe, sent dinner back fully a quarter consumed, and settled into my oldest dressing gown to review my preliminary notes regarding marks left on discharged shells. The sun sank low and the wind picked up. I shut all the windows and steeped myself in hearty shag fumes until my eyelids were abuzz and my mind was clear regarding the structure of my latest article. Greatly comforted at having passed the planning phase, I poured myself a brandy and read a recent treatise by the rising Inspector Jean-Pierre Beauchemin of the Sûreté upon similar lines. It was topical, and elegantly written, but hardly very informative. Further cheered, I refilled my glass. Mrs. Hudson knocked.

  “There’s been a boy, Mr. Holmes,” she said with that air of long-suffering which indicates I have not been sufficiently fattening myself.

  Raising an eyebrow, I murmured, “Young Rowan isn’t due to deliver the Irregulars’ weekly report until Monday.”

  “No, he was not one of your lads, but he left you this note. Reply unnecessary, he said.”

  “Ah. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Holmes, is there anything particular you’d like for breakfast?”

  “My dear Mrs. Hudson, I should particularly like not to ruminate over the question at all.” Recalling the date, I reconsidered. “On second thought, Watson returns tomorrow—just turn breakfast into an early lunch around eleven thirty and send up those tea sandwiches he likes.”

  “Oh, that’ll be just the thing,” she agreed, pleased. I seemed to have passed an obscure test of some kind. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  I stretched my slippers toward the fire I had just started and opened the envelope after a cursory examination born of habit. The address and brief letter were in an intimately familiar hand:

  Sherlock,

  Do me the favor of falling in with your latest client’s plans. Matters of some delicacy which recently arose at Whitehall require his indulgence. I have RSVP’ed on your behalf already. And do convey my regards to Sir Alderford Blythe when at the Diadem Club, whose work with me you are already familiar with.

  As ever,

  Mycroft

  Incredible. The British government in the form of my elder brother has just charged me with the task of playing prizewinning poodle to an anemic sap who makes the lowest commoner seem a towering force of mental energy.

  But how, in light of king, country, and kin, can I possibly refuse?

  There is one sole comfort in this debacle— since Watson is returning, the timing proves felicitous, as I hadn’t any fresh case with which to occupy his thirst for action. These sudden medical urges must be nipped in the bud periodically and in the swiftest manner to hand. Thus shall I present this task to the doctor as a matter of interest and possibly even danger.

  Something about the case—for a case I must now call it—truly does nag at me. Revenge apparently must be foregone and given place to starched collars and silk waistcoats.

  Sunday, April 13th, 1902.

  John Watson is a man greatly susceptible to expert staging. Granted, I have been known to plant important papers in curry dishes and leave duplicitous paint upon racehorses, and greatly enjoyed myself. A touch of the dramatic never fails to lend zest to any investigation. And yet . . . from time to time I find myself questioning how often I would perform such parlor tricks were my friend not so nakedly pleased by them. The answer eludes me.

  Watson trudged up the stairs with restrained vigor near to lunchtime, as befits a hearty man of his age still in good training. He found me occupying the bearskin rug at my full and not inconsiderable length, with a few pillows arranged to make all comfortable, in shirtsleeves and a dressing gown, sampling my black clay pipe contemplatively.

  This piece of theatre conveyed the impression that I was (1) possessed of an intriguing conundrum; (2) not excessively attuned to his return, at least not enough to worry him; and (3) exercising that not inconsiderable wit which he so admires and which prevents the necessity of his practicing medicine at present. Flicking my eyes over him from muddied shoe soles (which meant he had departed the campus on foot and not by trap) to sooty hat (which meant his train was not an express), I smiled briefly. The doctor looked well—revived by travel but happy to return. An answering smile tugged at his neat moustache and he set down his bag, clapping his hands to his knees as he perched on the settee next to my head.

  “Something is afoot, or I’m no judge,” he announced warmly.

  It had worked, which meant it was best to delay further gratification. Shrugging, I slit my eyes at the ceiling. “There may be something in it, and then again it may be a shocking waste of my time. But you must be fatigued after a walk to the station and the myriad agonies of the local line. The tea and sandwiches are fresh—Mrs. Hudson left them ten minutes ago.”

  Watson shook his head with a rueful grin and went to hang his hat and coat upon the rack. “I would ask how you knew my mode of travel, but odds are near certain you’ll reply with some detail involving dirt or dust.”

  “Then how do I know that they’re tearing up the tennis courts and you were disappointed you couldn’t borrow a racket and make use of them?”

  This time he raised his expressive eyebrows. “I haven’t the faintest.”

  “Have you cured phthisis worldwide yet?” I asked more nastily than I had meant to.

  “Your medical knowledge is marvelously eccentric, old man. No, afflictions of the lungs plague us still. How did you know about their improving the tennis courts?”

  As it happened, I knew from a combination of the quarterly university alumni newsletter and the fact he had packed his tennis shoes, but this elementary deduction did not merit public airing. En route to the dining table, Watson awaited a reply. When none was forthcoming, he adopted that strained look he cannot conceal when trying to ascertain whether I have been making too free with my constitution in his absence.

  As this was not a tolerable expression, I raised myself onto one elbow with a mischievous twinkle. Watson, who is as receptive to arresting movements as he is to planned panoramas, relaxed visibly.

  “I fear I must presume upon your time this evening, Watson. Will you allow it?”

  “With g
reat pleasure.”

  “Is your evening dress suitable for an outing at present?”

  “We went to the opera a fortnight ago. I could have it aired within a few hours.” Watson shook a napkin out and placed it on his lap. “Whatever for?”

  Explaining to Watson about my abhorrent meeting and the still more abhorrent Diadem Club took five minutes. When this was through, I hinted that Brother Mycroft knew of strange storm clouds gathering—murky shadows which threatened the peerage, Whitehall, and possibly England. By the time I had finished, Watson had eradicated three cucumber sandwiches and two cups of tea and appeared equal parts annoyed (at our client), mystified (at his request), and intrigued (thanks to the combined persuasive powers of the Holmes brothers). His strong jaw tilted in contemplation as he passed his napkin over his mouth.

  “What a distasteful prospect,” he commented.

  “Yes, it’s ghastly.”

  “I should prefer running down a killer in some low den of iniquity, in all seriousness.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “That you should be treated like a trophy in such a manner . . . I don’t know how to stomach it, frankly.”

  “It’s your own fault, spreading me so liberally across the pages of The Strand like some swaggering penny dreadful hero,” I accused him, following the script of an argument almost as old as our friendship. “I loathe the notion, but ought I defy the Crown?”

  “Of course not, forgive me. Our duty is clear.” Drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, my friend sat back, emitting a weary breath tinged with anticipation. “I’ll have my tails brushed. And my revolver cleaned,” he added, winking.