“I say, old chap,” the lord said as I snapped my fingers at his ears. “Steady on, there. You could do me a mischief.”
There was no sign that only seconds before this man had been unconscious and unresponsive. I did not know what to make of it, and the lord himself was of no help. He became agitated at being the focus of so much attention.
“I say, lads, play the game. Tell me what’s going on here.”
“We were rather hoping you could tell us.” Mycroft said.
“Fell asleep in the bally armchair is what happened. Too much kedgeree for breakfast, I should think.”
Holmes had still not spoken up, but I could see he was less agitated now and clearly interested in the proceedings. My admiration for Mycroft went up a notch. He knew exactly how to ensnare Holmes’ interest; not by telling him what was going on, but by letting him see for himself.
At that moment Lord Menzies stood without a hint of unsteadiness and bade us a good day.
“You should take it easy for the rest of the day, my Lord,” I said. “You have had a bit of a turn.”
He looked at me as if he suspected I was making fun of him. “A turn? I don’t know what they teach doctors these days, but I have never felt better.”
And with that, he left us for the comforts of the bar. Holmes and I allowed Mycroft to take us to a quiet corner of the room. Over a smoke and a drink he finally explained to us why we had been brought here.
“It will be obvious to you by now that I did not ask you here on a whim. This is the fifth such occurrence in the past month,” he said. “And all have ended the same way, with the lord in question having no knowledge of anything untoward having happened.”
He went on to give us more details of each case, but really there was little more to tell. We had a genuine mystery on our hands, and Holmes had a new case.
Holmes did not speak to me until we were in a carriage.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
I mentally reviewed what Mycroft had told us before answering. “It does seem that there is too much of a pattern to it for it to be coincidence,” I replied. “Five prominent politicians, all struck with the same malady in such close succession, and all recovered with no memory of anything untoward. It is dashed peculiar, and I can see why Mycroft would be worried. Such a thing could easily become a matter of national security in short order.”
Holmes nodded in agreement. “Dashed peculiar indeed. But I fear there is someone at work here with a deeper purpose in mind. Mark my words, Watson, this case will have depths as yet unplumbed. Mycroft smells a rat; that is why he has asked for my involvement. He may well be the laziest man in the Empire, but his instincts in matters such as this are sound.”
This second carriage trip proved much more congenial than the first, and Holmes even managed a smile at several points. The mere fact of having work for his mind seemed somehow to energize him, bringing forward the part of him that was most vibrant, the part of him that actually enjoyed life. I called him my friend in whatever mood he chose to show the world, but this was the way I preferred to see him.
We started work on the case immediately. Before we left Parliament Mycroft had arranged for us to have access to the London residence of Lord Menzies. The carriage dropped us off in Belgravia outside a tall, terraced block of the most handsome dwellings and we were shown inside by a butler who insisted on following us around as if fearful we might abscond with the family silver.
He need not have worried. Lord Menzies obviously preferred a Spartan life-style and there was little in his lodgings to show his presence beyond an obvious pride in his homeland; there were large portraits of his ancestors in full regalia, and a family crest on a large hanging tapestry done in the finest needlework.
“Tell me,” Holmes asked the butler as we stood over a desk in what was clearly a study. “Was there anything strange in his Lordship’s manner in recent days?”
The butler, clearly staunchly loyal to his charge, was slow to reply. I thought Holmes might offer a bribe, then realized that would be the wrong move with this man. All that an offer of money would get us would be hurt pride and outrage. Holmes as usual was ahead of me, using honey instead of vinegar.
“Anything you tell us will of course be kept in the strictest of confidence,” he said. “My friend here is a doctor, and he is most concerned about his Lordship’s welfare.”
The butler visibly softened at that, and took me into his confidence in the way that people often will with a medical man when they will talk to no one else.
“It was last Saturday,” he began. “A cold night if you remember? I was downstairs stoking the fire when I heard a thud, as if a body had fallen to the floor upstairs. I immediately went to investigate for, as you know, his Lordship is not a young man. But just as I got to the door a voice called out, saying that everything was all right. It sounded a bit odd, like his Lordship but then again not really like him at all. But he called out my name and bid me enter. I stood, by this desk here, while he wrote two letters. After that, despite the lateness of the hour, he had me deliver them, saying they were most urgent matters of state.
“He still sounded strange to me, more English than Scottish. I know I am not explaining this very well, for it was obviously his Lordship sitting in the chair at the desk. But it did not feel like him.
“I did as I was asked and delivered the letters. But the funny thing is, in the morning he did not mention them again and did not ask whether they had been successfully dispatched. That again was most unlike the man, although by then he was at least back to speaking in his normal accent.”
The butler suddenly seemed to realize that he was giving away perhaps too many of his Lordship’s confidences and went quiet. He would only answer one last question from Holmes.
“Did you perchance see to whom these letters were addressed?”
“Only the top one of the two,” the butler said. “And I remember it because it obviously was a matter of some import, for it was addressed to no less than the Home Secretary.”
After that encounter Holmes took little more than a perfunctory stroll round the rest of the house, then led me back out onto the pavement.
“We will find nothing more here, Watson,” he said. “The key to this case lies in the positions of the men themselves. That, and their shared background.”
“Shared?”
“Why, yes,” Holmes said. “Mycroft did not explicitly mention it, but I know enough of the peerage to say with some certainty that the afflicted men can all claim Scots heritage. I am sure we will find when we check that all five of them have a family history in that land going back for many centuries.”
Holmes hailed a carriage to take us back to Baker Street. When one pulled up and we entered, I reached for my cheroot case, and my fingers touched the piece of paper the vagrant had forced on me. I had completely forgotten my earlier encounter.
“Speaking of Scotsmen,” I said, taking out the page and handing it to Holmes. “What do you make of this?”
I told Holmes the details of my meeting in the street earlier that morning. He listened attentively, not unfolding the page until after I was finished.
“My dear Watson,” he said. “I do not believe in coincidences. You must endeavor to pay more attention in future. You never know when something might have a bearing on a case.”
He spent some time studying the page. He rubbed the sheet between his fingers.
“Late Elizabethan text,” he said. “Possibly in itself Scottish. The ink has that peculiar red tint often seen in manuscripts of this age from north of the border. The paper seems authentic for the same period; late sixteenth or early seventeenth century at a guess, and probably from Spielman’s mill in Dartford, judging by the texture and flocking.”
He paused, as if in thought, then started to quote:
“In open show, the sundry secret toys,
“Make rotten rags, to yield a thickened froth:
“There it is stampe
d and washed as white as snow,
“Then flung on frame and hanged to dry, I trow.
“Thus paper straight it is to write upon
“As it were rubbed and smoothed with slicking stone”
Holmes smiled. “A piece of doggerel from the time … by Thomas Churchyard, I believe.”
To me it was just another astonishing example of Holmes’ capacity to memorize even the most obscure things, laying them away against a later time when they might prove useful.
“And, of course, the symbol in the drawing is alchemical in nature,” he continued.
“What do you mean, alchemical?”
“If you ask a lay person, they will tell you it means the search for the method of turning lead into gold but, as anyone who has delved into the mysteries knows, that is just a metaphor. No, the Great Quest is the search for illumination through the perfection of body and spirit.”
He traced a finger round the drawing of the serpent. “Strictly speaking,” he said, “this drawing does not represent part of the process at all; rather, this is a symbolic representation of the whole. Malagma is Latin, meaning Amalgamation. The whole process, the Great Quest, if you like, is to amalgamate the soul, the microcosm, with the universe, the macrocosm.”
“Sorry,” I said, trying a smile. “You’ve lost me, old man.”
Holmes laughed.
“I thought I might. Alchemical symbolism was obscure even back when it was a relatively common practice among scientists and mystics alike. Let us just say that the serpent represents the totality of existence, and the circle inside it bounds our mortal life. The goal of alchemy is to break the boundary—to gain access to the greater circle beyond. For some that is thought to mean eternal life, for others it is a quest for enlightenment and a chance of a glimpse at the inner workings of the universe. In either case,” he said, waving the paper at me. “This is a clue. I told you this case had hidden depths. We are headed into murky waters, Watson. Very murky indeed.”
He handed the page back to me.
“Hold onto this, old man. And if you receive any others like it, be sure to tell me in a more timely manner.” He smiled to let me know it was not a rebuke, and we lit up smokes. On the way back to Baker Street he pondered aloud about the mystery at hand.
“There is most definitely a pattern of sorts here, Watson,” he said. “One that we must discern if we are to pierce the veils that hide it from us. We must ask ourselves several questions.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Firstly, why have these men in particular been targeted? Secondly, why now? And lastly … what is the overall purpose behind these attacks? For—be sure of that one thing if nothing else—there is most definitely a purpose. I will stake my reputation on it.”
Once back in the apartment in Baker Street, Holmes wasted no time.
“Have Mrs. Hudson fetch some lunch,” he said. “I have a book here on the genealogy of the peers of Scotland that I must track down. I have not seen it for some time.”
I believe I have mentioned in my notes on previous cases that Holmes’ filing methods left something to be desired, being a system peculiar to Holmes himself and one that only he knew the secret of unlocking. To the rest of us it looked less like a system and more like a haphazard jumble of papers, books, and journals, all piled in stacks of various heights in corners and against the walls of the apartment.
But as usual, Holmes was able to find what he was looking for when anyone else would have thrown their hands up in defeat. By the time I returned from making my request to Mrs. Hudson, he had a book in his hand.
“My guess has proved right,” he said. “All five men did indeed have Scots heritage going back several centuries at least, with numerous shared ancestors; it is not surprising, given the closed nature of the aristocracy in that small country over the centuries. We must find out how long ago any connection might be. The solution to our mystery may indeed lie far back in history.”
Holmes started pulling more books from shelves in his small library, and I knew from experience that he now had the bit firmly between his teeth. It looked like the search would take him some time, so I sat at the desk in the corner and made some notes while the events of the day were still fresh in my mind.
Not long afterward Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray of pies and cold meat sandwiches which she bullied Holmes into eating, but, as ever when a case took hold, food ceased to be a pleasure for him and became little more than fuel to keep him awake and thinking. He shoveled some bread down quickly then went straight back to his hunt. I treated myself to a more leisurely lunch and can report that the pork pies Mrs. Hudson provided were among the best I had ever tasted.
During the next hour, Holmes asked me two questions, both regarding the dates on which Mycroft had indicated the attacks had occurred. Apart from that he seemed lost in study of a series of old, leather-bound books. After a while he took himself off to the fireside chair and lit his favorite pipe while scribbling a series of notes on a pad.
It was late afternoon before he spoke again.
“I think I have something, Watson, but it may well involve an all-night vigil. Are you up for it?”
“You know me, old chap: always willing to help.”
“Good man. But first I had better explain my thinking. You will remember the five attacks on their Lordships? Plotting the time frame was most illuminating. There is a definite pattern, and one I am sure Mycroft has already ascertained. There were sixteen days between the first and second attacks, eight between the second and third, four until the fourth and just two before the very scenes we witnessed today in the House of Lords. If I am right, and I am sure that I am, the next attack will be sometime in the following twenty hours. And I believe I have narrowed down the possible victims to two men only.”
At that, he left me alone in the room for a spell, and I heard him dictate a telegram to Mrs. Hudson. I did not catch the full gist of it, but it appeared to be instructions for Mycroft to arrange that the intended victims be brought together and put under protection until Holmes and I could get there.
“Best get your ablutions done now, old chap,” he said on his return. “As I have already intimated, we may have a long night ahead of us.”
I felt the old excitement rise as I made my toilet. I had realized long ago that one of the reasons I chose to help Holmes in his cases was an urge to feel that same excitement I had felt in my military service, the quickening of the senses that told me I was fully alive. Holmes was not the only one who needed a case.
After a quick wash and shave, I found Holmes already dressed and waiting by the apartment door, eager for our departure and the chance of some action.
“Hurry, man,” he said. “It would not do for a doctor to be late twice in one day. People might think it to be a habit.”
It was only once we were in a carriage heading for Parliament that he allowed me fully into his thinking.
“You may have noticed my perusal of the genealogy books earlier,” he said. “I thought there might be an answer in there, a connection as yet unnoticed. And indeed my reading threw up one most pertinent fact. The five victims so far all share a common ancestor: a minor sixteenth-century Scottish earl. After that initial finding, it did not take me too much longer to ascertain that there are only two other members of the House with the same characteristic: Lord Crawford of Cunninghame and Lord Douglas of Dunottar. And, as luck would have it, both are currently in town. By the time we arrive at our destination, Mycroft will have ensured that they will be in Parliament to meet us.”
“And then what?” I asked. “I don’t know that there is any medical solution, should one or the other of them be afflicted like the rest, and I cannot for the life of me think of any course of action we might take to prevent it happening.”
Holmes pursed his lips.
“We shall see what we shall see. I doubt that we are near the end of the matter, but we may be near the end of the beginning. If I am there when the attack happens, I may spot something
that has as yet remained hidden. Vigilance, Watson. That is what is required now.”
On arrival back at Parliament we were immediately shown up a steep flight of steps beside the chamber of the House of Lords; an area of the great building I had never before visited. It was all marble flooring and oak paneling with impressive landscape paintings at regular intervals. Our footsteps echoed sharply as we walked down a long, empty corridor. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, but a young policeman showed us to the rooms where the two lords were waiting for the night’s vigil.
“I had them put in separate rooms,” Holmes said. “I thought it best to keep them apart. We shall take one lord each, watch them closely, and see what we shall see. You take Crawford, and I’ll take Douglas. I’ll be just down the hall, so call out if you need assistance. Keep an eye open for anything that seems untoward, and record all that happens. It may be that there will only be another bout of unconsciousness to deal with, but we must be prepared for any eventuality.”
At that, Holmes went off along the corridor, leaving me beside a young constable who looked nervous as he opened the door and showed me inside. I was immediately faced with a slightly irate Scottish lord. He was red in the cheeks and around the nose, and at the time I was unsure whether that was due to his temper or his drinking habits.
“This won’t do, you know!” Crawford said as I entered the room. “It won’t do at all. What is so damned important that it will keep me from my bed tonight?”
He turned toward me and looked me up and down. “Doctor Watson?”
I nodded, walked over to him and shook his hand.
“I don’t suppose you have anything you can tell me about this dashed nuisance?” he asked.
“Apart from the fact that there seems to be no immediate danger to you other than falling asleep in the chair, no.”
That only irritated him further. “On top of missing my bed later, I am supposed to be in the chamber this evening, speaking in a debate on reforming the House.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories Page 18
