‘And what will we be looking for?’
‘We won’t know that till we find it. But Hyde’s autograph is unmistakable.’ His eyes turned inwards and he smiled grimly. ‘So this is your game, is it, Mr. Hyde? To lie low, and wait for the minions of the law to slacken their grip? Well, it is a game which more than one may play. A game, if you will, of Hyde-and-go-seek.’ And with these words he trailed off into a fit of mirthless laughter which chilled the very marrow of my bones.
Eight
A CHARMING CLIENT
I have heard better violin solos at a third-form recital,’ remarked Sherlock Holmes bitterly as we climbed the seventeen steps to our lodgings one evening early in 1885.
I had known that some comment of the sort was approaching, as my companion, to whom few things afforded such genuine pleasure as a bow being expertly drawn across four strings of catgut, had sat stony-faced throughout the musical performance which we had gone to hear earlier, and had remained silent all during the journey back by hansom. An excellent musician himself, Holmes was not ashamed to enter into raptures over a truly superb recital, but when a performer fell beneath his expectations no critical declamation was more damning than lack of comment upon his part. This saddened me — not because of the performance, which had indeed been dreadful — but because I had hoped that an evening of entertainment would help to take his mind off the subject which had been consuming his every waking moment for nearly three months, that of the murderer, Edward Hyde. Nothing had been heard of the blackguard in all that time; it was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth, creating a stagnant situation which had not made Holmes an easy man to live with of late. Now he would be more irritable than ever, and it was in these moods that the accursed needle took on a special glitter for him.
My mind was racing with designs whereby I might yet divert his thoughts into less dangerous channels when he opened the door to our rooms and, once the gas jet had been ignited, spotted the stick leaning against the fireplace.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, striding forward and seizing the item. ‘We have a visitor. Mrs. Hudson has retired early, or she would have told us of him.’
‘Who do you suppose it was?’ I asked, removing my outer garments and draping them upon their hook. Inwardly I was elated, for the problem of finding out to whom the stick belonged seemed just the thing to occupy his active mind in lieu of cocaine.
‘A tall man, to be sure,’ said he, standing with the stick held upright at his side. ‘You see that I can lean upon it without stooping. It is quite hefty, yet well balanced; it has not, therefore been loaded, but rather is constructed to support a substantial amount of weight if need be. This leads us to the conclusion that the owner is heavy of build.’ He reversed the ends and, holding it thus, fished his lens out of his pocket and studied the brass ferrule in the light of the jet. ‘Interesting. The metal is like new, whilst the grip is shiny from much handling.’
‘Perhaps the ferrule has been replaced,’ I suggested.
‘I suspect not. A man who prizes a stick that highly would also have taken pains to touch up this spot near the end, where the enamel has been chipped off in a collision with some low object, possibly the rung of a chair. I would venture to say that he is in the habit of gripping the item without doing much walking with it. A sedentary fellow, this. He is, of course, given to deep thought for long periods of time.’
‘How did you arrive at that?’
‘The fact is self-evident. A man accustomed to remaining stationary, his only action being to twist his hands about the grip of his stick, has little recourse but to ponder some problem or other. Do my deductions amuse you?’
I had started to smile, but in the face of his displeasure I composed myself. ‘I am sorry,’ said I. ‘Except for the heavy build and the constant state of lethargy, you seem to have described yourself quite accurately.’
He made no response to that but stared at the stick for another fraction of a second, something startling dawning over his countenance. Suddenly he slashed the object downwards and struck the floor with a report that must have driven Mrs. Hudson, sleeping elsewhere upon the premises, bolt upright in bed.
‘Come out of there, Mycroft,’ he cried triumphantly in the direction of his bedroom door. ‘I know that it is you.’
Before I had time to assimilate the new knowledge which his words carried, the door opened and in stepped Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’s elder brother.
Those who have read the two accounts in which the senior Holmes played a principal role — those which I have published under the titles ‘The Greek Interpreter’ and ‘The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans’ — will recall that Mycroft was a much larger man than his brother (in truth, he was obese), but that his face was not unlike the hawkish countenance of his more famous junior in spite of its fleshiness. At no time, however, were the physical similarities more pronounced than in that moment, when our visitor came into the circle of gas light and confronted his brother, extending to him a huge, fat hand; in profile, the two resembled a pair of predatory birds squaring off over a fresh kill. Then Mycroft spoke, and the genuine affection which permeated his soft rumbling voice dispelled any illusion of serious rivalry.
‘It’s high time, Sherlock,’ said he as the other’s bony hand disappeared inside his own paw. ‘When I left that stick there for you to find I imagined that you would have the answer upon sight alone. It did not occur to me that you would be forced to rely upon Dr. Watson’s natural intuition. I nearly froze to death waiting in that unheated shambles you undoubtedly refer to as a bedroom.’ Releasing his brother’s hand, he turned and enveloped mine in the same fashion. We exchanged greetings.
Sherlock smiled thinly at his brother’s good-humoured jibes. ‘It is true, perhaps, that I sometimes lean overmuch upon the doctor’s born catalytic qualities,’ he confessed. ‘I fear that your own lack of energy is an hereditary trait.’
‘Touché!’ roared Mycroft, laughing and throwing up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I trust that you will forgive my little self-indulgence; when I called and learnt that you were out, I couldn’t resist asking your landlady to admit me and not breathe a word of my presence to you. A game lady, she. The rates which you pay her are not enough for the things she is forced to put up with. Bullet pocks in the wall, mind you, and a mantelpiece scarred all over by the point of a jack-knife! Why not spike your correspondence like everyone else? But again I beg your pardon. When one deserts his environment I suppose that it is only natural to find fault with whatever surroundings in which he finds himself. I am sorry to note that you did not enjoy your concert tonight.’
‘That is an understatement,’ Holmes assured him. ‘I warrant that your dinner with the Prime Minister was a more pleasant experience.’
‘It was strictly business. But you were fortunate to obtain a cab so soon after leaving the concert-hall.’
‘It is a shame that you did not share the same fortune.’
‘Here, now,’ I broke in, amazed and somewhat irked by this display. ‘I am quite accustomed to being awed by one man, but when I am in the minority I begin to feel like an imbecile.’
The Brothers Holmes chuckled, as alike in mirth as they were in intellect.
‘My apologies, Doctor,’ said Mycroft sincerely. ‘I quite forgot about you, and I suspect that Sherlock is guilty of the same indiscretion. Mrs. Hudson informed me that you were attending a concert, and yet when you returned there was no sign either in your companion’s manner nor upon his countenance of that special inner peace which I long ago learnt was the direct result of an evening of fine music. Its absence was indication enough that tonight’s performance was not up to his standards.’
‘That Mycroft had dined with the Prime Minister was equally obvious by his dress,’ his brother explained. ‘You must remember that we grew up together and that he is essentially the same lazy lad — forgive me, Mycroft, but you know perfectly well that I speak the truth — who detested the idea of dressing up
and going out. Knowing this, and aware of his responsible position with the government, I had little difficulty in placing the blame for his evening dress upon a dinner invitation from a personage who could not be refused. In Mycroft’s case, the Prime Minister is the only one who fits the bill.’
‘And surely it is no feat to deduce that a cab was handy when two well-dressed gentlemen strike out across a snow-besieged city and return home with no more than a light dusting upon their hats and coats, to say nothing of dry boots.’
‘As for the less fortunate,’ concluded Holmes the younger, ‘you may roll down your trouser-legs, Mycroft, for they are quite dry by now.’
I sat down, shaking my head. ‘I am hopelessly out of my depth.’
They laughed, and, once my fellow-lodger had remanded his own coat and top hat to the hook beside mine and we were all seated before a freshly-kindled fire with glasses of brandy at our elbows, Holmes fixed our guest with an attentive stare.
‘What brings you here then?’ he enquired. ‘Can both your quarters and the Diogenes Club have burnt down on the same night, driving you to seek shelter elsewhere, or have the Russians landed at Cornwall?’
Holmes spoke only half in jest, for it was well known that Mycroft seldom varied his day-today routine beyond his lodgings in Pall Mall, the bizarre and misanthropic Diogenes Club, and his offices in Whitehall, where he was supposed to be little more than an auditor of the books in some government departments but was in reality so much more. Aside from these, he knew no other haunts, and it was a matter of little debate that, had he his way, he would not have even that many. When he chose to further complicate his existence by trudging over to 221B, something important was in the wind.
Mycroft’s expression turned grave and he leant forward as far as his bulk allowed. He appeared hesitant. ‘I do not wish to appear rude in your own home,’ said he, addressing himself to me, ‘but I have been instructed to speak only with Sherlock.’
‘I understand,’ said I, placing my hands upon the arms of my chair.
‘Retain your seat, Watson.’ The detective waved an impatient hand in my direction. His eyes remained upon his brother. ‘Dr. Watson is a man of discretion. You may speak freely in his presence.’
‘I have my instructions. There is a rumour that an account is being written for publication, a murder —’
‘The Drebber case is a matter of public record.’ Holmes’s tone was sharp. ‘He has my permission to record the details and to do with them what he wishes. If you swear him to secrecy upon any other matter he will not repeat it though the very fires of Hell threatened. What is unfit for his ears is unfit for mine as well.’
Mycroft nodded, a sudden decision having been made. ‘Very well. Word has reached me that you were interested in the Carew murder case when it opened some three months ago.’
Holmes started forward in his chair, eyes bright, face taut with anticipation. ‘What of it?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing. That is the problem. What began as a simple matter of police procedure has ended in stalemate. In three months nothing has developed which may lead us to the offender’s hiding-place. You knew, of course, that Sir Danvers was a favourite at Buckingham Palace.’
‘I had heard something of the sort.’
‘His death and the subsequent inability of Scotland Yard to locate his murderer have brought threats of drastic action from high places if something does not come to light soon. Many important positions are at stake.’
‘Including your own?’ Holmes pressed.
His brother smiled indulgently. ‘Hardly. I do not flatter myself that I am indispensable, but the chaos that would ensue in the event of my sudden departure would be prohibitive in this case. Nevertheless the problem has fallen into my lap. Your name is not unknown at Whitehall, particularly after that Kominsky business which took place last year in the Premier’s office. I have been instructed to engage you to track down Edward Hyde. That is the business which the Prime Minister and I discussed over dinner tonight. These orders come from the highest source.’ He reached inside his coat and passed over a long envelope sealed ornately in red wax. I had not the opportunity to examine the coat-of-arms, as Holmes immediately broke the seal and unfolded the missive. He read it over swiftly, and looked up at his brother.
‘That is your authorisation,’ said the latter. ‘If any official should challenge you, you have but to show that paper and all obstacles will disappear.’
Holmes re-folded the paper, took out his wallet, and inserted it among the other documents which he carried. When it was safely in his breast pocket: ‘Has Inspector Newcomen been advised of this development?’
‘I think not. I was told that the decision was reached only this afternoon.’
The detective smiled — a trifle maliciously, I thought.
‘Good.’
‘You will accept the case?’
‘My client is a charming one. As a gentleman I can hardly refuse.’
Mycroft rose. He was visibly relieved. ‘Then I shall tell the Prime Minister that the matter is in expert hands.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It is a most interesting problem. Were I not so busy...’ He spread his hands, leaving the statement unfinished.
‘You mean, were you not so lethargic,’ countered the younger Holmes, standing and shaking his brother by the hand. ‘Do not put on airs with me, Mycroft. We know each other too well for that.’
Our visitor shrugged his bear-like shoulders in amiable concurrence and stepped into the adjacent room, to emerge a moment later carrying his hat and greatcoat. ‘If you should find yourself in over your head,’ said he, shrugging into the coat, ‘I am available at the club every day from quarter to five to twenty to eight. But do not expect me to accompany you anywhere.’
‘One favour,’ said Holmes.
The other paused with his hand upon the doorknob and looked back, eyebrows raised.
Holmes had picked up his cherrywood pipe and was busy charging it with tobacco. ‘I would appreciate it if you would leave the task of informing Inspector Newcomen to me. It will give us something to talk about.’
When Mycroft had departed, agreeing to the request, I asked my friend who it was who had asked for his services.
‘A most charming client, Watson,’ said he, lighting the pipe. ‘I dare say that we can consider her a fair credit risk.’
As he spoke, he inclined his head towards the north wall of our digs, which he had decorated some years previously with bullet pocks forming the initials of our gracious Queen.
Nine
THE LAWYER ENTERS A PLEA
‘Well, if it isn’t my old friends, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! Come, no doubt, to offer your services in the Fleet Street dynamiting case. Well, you’ve wasted a trip this time, for it’s all cleared up, and less than four-and-twenty hours after the fact! Shows what good, solid detective work can accomplish over sitting back and spinning fine theories.’
Standing amidst the hustle-bustle of Scotland Yard’s labyrinthine corridors the morning after our conversation with Mycroft, Holmes waited until our old friend Inspector Lestrade had finished crowing before he spoke.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said he indulgently. ‘So you’ve solved it. Congratulations.’
The little rat-faced man rocked back and forth upon his heels in an attitude of supreme self-satisfaction, his fists planted deep in the pockets of his trousers. ‘The culprit is behind bars this very minute, and if what he’s given the stenographer checks out, it’s the morning drop for him and all of his cronies. Admit it, now: your method of looking at tobacco-ash and such and putting it all together to suit some theory has its values in some cases, but there are times when fancy falls short of the mark and industry prevails.’
‘It was O’Brien, wasn’t it?’
An inflatable gas-bag with a burst seam could not have collapsed more rapidly than did the official detective’s self-assurance at Holmes’s simple query. He ceased rocking and stared at my companion as if the latte
r had just waved a wand and changed the dreary building in which we were standing into a pumpkin shell. Which, in a sense, he had.
‘Who told you?’ he fumed, at length. ‘Was it Gregson? He’d stop at nothing to —’ His brow grew dark.
Holmes laughed gently. ‘I see that you two have not patched things up since that Lauriston Gardens business. Fear not, Inspector; I have not seen Gregson in some weeks. But I formed my opinion of the dynamiting yesterday, when I read of it in the Times. O’Brien was the only one connected, who had the means, motive, and opportunity to destroy the building which shelters one of our city’s most influential newspapers. His relations with the Irish rebels are well known in the London Underworld. But that is not what brings us here today.’
‘What, then?’ sulked Lestrade. It was plain that the unofficial detective had ruined his day.
‘My business is with Inspector Newcomen. If you would be so kind as to direct us to his office —’
‘Round the corner, second door on the right,’ interrupted the other, brightening somewhat. ‘He’ll be glad enough to see you, I expect, after all of this time with no action on that Westminster killing. I’m happy enough not to be in his boots right now.’
‘I doubt that my welcome will be effusive,’ Holmes responded and, nodding to the little inspector, took his leave. I followed.
The door to Newcomen’s office stood open, so we went right in, narrowlyaverting a collision with a uniformed constable who was hurrying out. His pale countenance and stammered apology as he brushed past left me with the distinct impression that he had just undergone a severe dressing-down at the hands of his superior.
My first glimpse of the burly Inspector confirmed that impression. Facing the door, leaning forward over his paper-cluttered desk with his beefy hands braced against the edge, he was seething; his close-set eyes glittered like steel beads beneath the drawn thatch of his brows and his rust-coloured moustached bristled. His reddish hair stuck out all over as if he had been tearing at it. His collar was awry, his face beet-red. Our entrance did little to alleviate his sour mood.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes Page 9
