The Veiled Detective (22 page)

“And for what reason does he frequent the club? Shyness, or misanthropy?”

“We talked last night of my wariness regarding emotions and forming any kind of attachments. Apart from yourself, I have no other friends. Mycroft shares this belief to a much greater degree than I. He was born to be solitary. He alone satisfies his own needs for company and stimulation.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but he sounds most odd.”

Holmes laughed. “Not at all. He is not really odd. You will find him the most amiable fellow when you meet him.”

“I am to meet him?”

“This morning at eleven. He has a case for us, and he specifically asked me to bring you along.”

“Really?”

“See for yourself.” He threw the note to my side of the table, where it narrowly missed landing on my fried egg and bacon.

The notepaper was headed:
The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall
. The note, written in neat copperplate, read simply:

Sherlock,

Call around at eleven today. I will see you in the Strangers’ Room. Bring your associate Watson with you. There is a matter which may interest you.

Mycroft.

It was just striking the hour of eleven when Holmes and I entered the Diogenes Club. Holmes cautioned me not to utter a word as he led me into the hall. Through the glass panelling I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room in which a considerable number of men were sitting about in cavernous chairs, reading newspapers. Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out on to Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for a while, returned with a companion whom I surmised must be his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. In fact, his body was absolutely corpulent, and he moved with the elegant slowness that fat people are forced to adopt because of their weight. However, there was something about his concentrated expression that was remarkably similar to that of his brother. Mycroft’s
eyes, bright behind a pair of pince-nez, seemed to retain that faraway, introspective look which I had only observed in my companion when he was exerting his full powers.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, extending a broad flat hand, like the flipper of a seal. “I gather you accompany my brother on his investigations.”

I nodded. “It is a pleasure to meet you also.”

“Now that the pleasantries are over, let us get down to business. You have a case for me, Mycroft,” remarked Holmes, in a cold brusque manner.

Mycroft glanced across at me and smiled. He took snuff from a tortoiseshell snuffbox and inhaled it noisily. “Not a man to stand on ceremony, my brother, Doctor Watson. A case, Sherlock? Well, I suppose we might call it a case. Certainly, it is a singular matter.”

It was entertaining to me to see how this giant of a man treated his brother with a kind of light-hearted tolerance, as though he were a hungry schoolboy anxious for his tea. I saw that in Mycroft I had another colourful character to add to my Baker Street world, which was forming very nicely, ready to be fictionalised.

“Well?” said Holmes, slapping down his gloves impatiently on the table. “Let me hear the facts.”

In reply, Mycroft scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocketbook and, ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

“I have asked Mr Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which led him to come to me in his perplexity.”

In the end, the affair was a slight one and required little detective work on behalf of my friend. Indeed, it was rather a clumsy matter, which I may very well delete from any collection of Holmes cases that I create. As it turned out, the main culprits escaped the grasp of both Holmes and the law.

Returning from our abortive expedition to apprehend them, my friend was in a foul temper.

“A very unsatisfactory matter,” grumbled Holmes in the cab on our way back to Baker Street. “It had all the elements of a fine case. If only I had been called in earlier.”

I could only nod in agreement. Indeed, the case had promised much and contained suitably dramatic elements for a fine story, but it lacked a satisfying denouement.

When we arrived back at our rooms, we found Mycroft waiting for us there with a bottle of champagne on ice. One look at his brother’s face informed him of the disappointing outcome of the evening.

“Never mind, Sherlock,” he grinned, uncorking the champagne with a discreet pop. “You tried your best. You cannot always be assured of success in your detective endeavours.”

“It appears not,” replied Holmes sullenly, and flinging his coat upon the rack, he retired to his room.

“He was always a petulant boy,” observed Mycroft, handing me a glass of champagne, unabashed by Holmes’ rudeness. “It looks like we’ll have to share the bottle between us.”

I thanked him and we took seats either side of the fire, Mycroft automatically taking the chair that his brother usually occupied.

“In the absence of Sherlock, allow me to raise a toast on his behalf. To crime — bigger and better crime.” He chuckled and I joined him.

“You seem very comfortable here, Watson.” Mycroft eyed his surroundings.

“I am,” I replied.

“And yet, Sherlock tells me that you have plans to leave. Romance is in the air.”

“He told you that?” I was most surprised. I had assumed that Holmes would treat my private life with the utmost discretion.

“We are brothers, after all.” Mycroft filled my empty glass. “I am not the man on the omnibus, or a chap in a music hall bar. I am sure he meant no harm by it. I gather from his tone and demeanour that he was concerned about losing your company.”

“Well, that is not certain at present.”

“Ah.”

“There are... It is still very much in the early stages.”

“Forgive me, Watson, if I trespass too much into your personal territory, but are you sure of your feelings towards the young lady?”

“I am.”

“And hers towards you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, the rest is trivial. I wish you well. But promise me one thing, old boy. When you do take the bridal path, as it were, you won’t desert Sherlock altogether, will you?”

I shook my head. How could I? I thought. Little did Mycroft know of the chains that bound me to his brother. But at the same time, my natural instinct was to remain faithful to my friend. He was the only man I could call by such a name.

“Good man. More champagne, Watson?” He filled my glass again. “Now I must be off. I have another appointment in the city.”

With some effort he lifted himself out of the chair and placed his glass on the table. It was then that I noticed he had hardly touched the champagne, and that it was still his first glass.

“You finish off the bottle, Watson,” Mycroft beamed, pulling on his coat. “A nice little nightcap. I hope we meet again. Give my regards to my brother. I’m sure he’ll be over his sulk in the morning.”

With that he swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

F
or the next week or so, Ilived in a kind of limbo. Not knowing what my future held — or that of my beloved Mary. She brought me the only glimmer of sunshine in those dark days. We met regularly, for lunch or for a walk in the park, and on one occasion to visit the theatre, and our relationship deepened and strengthened. Iwas in no doubt that she was the woman with whom Iwanted to spend the rest of my life, and Iwas certain that Mary felt the same about me. Although Iwas always happy and relaxed in her company, occasionally in unguarded moments my expression must have told her that there was a shadow hanging over our happiness.

“There is something troubling you, isn’t there, John?” she asked me one evening as we were travelling back to Mrs Forrester’s in a cab.

I smiled and shook my head. “Of course not,” Ianswered lamely.

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Ithink Iknow my John by now. Ilook at you from time to time when you’re not aware, and Isee such... such sadness in your eyes. There is something, Iknow. If you are unsure of your feelings—”

“My God, Mary, no! Please never think such a thing. I love you so very, very much.”

She smiled. “I’m so glad... because I love you so very, very much also.”

We embraced. The closeness and the fragrance of her sent my senses spinning.

“So, what is the matter then?” she asked softly, as we drew apart.

In my intoxicated state — intoxicated by the nearness of her — I felt, for a moment, as though I would like to tell her the truth. Thankfully, my saner nature intruded. Oh, how wonderful it would be to tell Mary everything — everything from my discharge from the army, to my meeting with Moriarty and my career as his spy. To unburden myself to someone who loved me would be the most wonderful release; however, not only would that be incredibly selfish, but also it would be very dangerous. In possession of such knowledge, Mary would be perceived as a threat to Moriarty, and her life would not be worth a pin’s fee. And on learning of the
real
Watson, of John Walker, Mary might well reject me for my subterfuge and my failings. No, I had to continue my career of dissembling.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Holmes?” Mary’s pretty brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Despite his cool assured behaviour, he has rather come to rely on me in many ways — as a companion, a sounding-board and a friend. He has no other.” I could have added that neither had I.

“I see, or rather, I
think
I see,” said Mary.

“He has taken the notion of my leaving Baker Street rather badly. He does not relish the idea of being left alone and there being no one to accompany him when he is investigating a case. He uses me to test out theories.”

“Uses you... indeed,” said Mary, her features hardening.

I gave a wry grin. “Well, yes, he does use me. That is his way. However, I am sure that he respects me and cares about me in his own way.”

“And this is what is troubling you, John? Leaving Mr Holmes to his own devices?”

“Well... yes.”

Suddenly her gentle, serious face broke into a broad smile and she laughed. “Oh, John, only you could be so caring, so sensitive to such a matter. Sherlock Holmes is a grown man, and I am sure he is perfectly capable of looking after himself and working his theories alone. And anyway, you are not leaving the country. Vacating your Baker Street rooms does not mean that you’ll never see him again or never accompany him on one of his investigations; it only means that in the evening you will come home to your loving wife.” She laughed again.

“Do you mean that you wouldn’t mind me keeping in touch with Holmes, and helping him out now and then?”

“Of course not, silly. I am not one of those women who want to mould their husbands into something they’re not. I fell in love with you as you are; it would be wrong and foolish to attempt to change you.”

Without further words we embraced and kissed again, thus closing the matter for the time being.

It was only a few days later that I received a note from Moriarty instructing me to rendezvous with Colonel Moran. With a fluttering heart I set out that morning for my appointment. Holmes had not risen when I left. He was in a malaise because there was no investigation on hand. I was too preoccupied with my own worries and concerns to attempt to stay his hand from reaching for the cocaine bottle. I was conscious that he was overdosing himself, but I believed that any words from me would have little effect on his determination to stimulate his mind artificially. One could only hope that some criminal puzzle would turn up soon to bring him back to sanity.

Moran’s cab appeared at the appointed time and I climbed aboard.

“Good day, Watson. You are well, I trust?” came the familiar voice from the shadows of the cab. It was Moran’s usual greeting.

“I am well.”

“Good. To business. You wish to break your contract with the Professor, leave your duties in Baker Street and marry.”

“I do not wish to break my contract, I wish to be released from it — or at least have the terms altered.”

“Nicely put, Watson, nicely put. And what do you intend to do, once you have married?”

“Set up home, of course, and, I hope, start in medical practice again.”

“And Mr Holmes? Within this new context, how do you see your relationship with him continuing?”

“I thought
you
would tell me that,” I said curtly. I was quickly growing tired of these games.

There was a sudden burst of light in the cab as Moran struck a match and lit a cheroot. I saw his chiselled features and the shaggy grey eyebrows briefly before they faded into the gloom once more as the match was extinguished.

“Very well, Doctor Watson. Your request has been granted.”

I gave a gasp of surprise.

“But,” snapped Moran, before I could say a word, “there are conditions.”

I nodded. I knew there would be.

“First, you will keep in regular contact with Sherlock Holmes and at any time that he calls upon you for help, you will rush to his side immediately. Secondly, in a similar fashion, if you receive a message from the Professor instructing you to involve yourself with Holmes’ current investigation, you will do so immediately. Understood, so far?”