The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  ‘Within weeks papers were drawn up by which Edwin and Maupertuis were to be co-investors in a complex of supposedly profitable textile mills in Cumberland. Nicholas Collins, coincidentally a fellow member of the Diogenes Club, examined these papers at great length—’

  ‘I apologize, Madam,’ Holmes interrupted in a state of great excitement, raising himself from the windowsill. ‘You did say the Diogenes Club?’

  ‘Really Mr Holmes!’ Lady Beasant protested. ‘Such brusqueness is most unseemly. But yes, I did say the Diogenes Club. Do you have knowledge of this establishment?’

  Holmes half-smiled to himself, for, as many of my readers might recall, his brother Mycroft was one of the club’s most exalted and long-standing members. ‘Yes, madam, a close acquaintance of mine has been a member for some little time and I am, therefore, aware of its most restrictive and exclusive membership policy. This Baron Maupertuis must be very well-connected.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Holmes, my husband was hardly likely to play billiards with someone who was not!’

  Holmes bowed apologetically for even making that interruption, and resumed his position on the windowsill, where he lit another cigarette. By now he clearly felt the need to bring this interview to an end with all speed, and he continued Lady Beasant’s story, on her behalf, despite her obvious chagrin.

  ‘By now the conclusion of your tragic tale is most clear to me. Despite your husband’s own financial commitment to the Cumberland project, the baron’s investment was not to be so readily forthcoming. The mills proved to be run down, even derelict and soon your funds were disappearing into a seemingly bottomless well. No doubt the baron subsequently proved to be one of the original owners of the mills and has since disappeared to an unknown location, suitably enriched by the best part of your inheritance. I am equally certain that Nicholas Collins, the elder, is now able to enjoy a most handsome yet premature retirement. If there is any aspect of this affair that has escaped me no doubt you will now enlighten me.’ Holmes concluded hurriedly.

  Clearly annoyed and somewhat, bemused by this outpouring of Holmes, Lady Beasant collected her composure before replying. ‘Mr Holmes, you are clearly a most ingenious if somewhat impudent fellow. Yet these cold facts, which you have so methodically reeled off do no justice to the very human tragedy that proved to be my husband’s last weeks in this life. The threat of financial ruin, together with the ignominious effect this would have on our social standing, was more than his weak heart could bear. His strong sense of honour made my own subsequent fate his priority and he passed away full of guilty remorse. Mr Holmes, I beseech you not to let his passing be in vain. Bring this master swindler to justice for his sake as much as for my own. Even if you cannot bring him to make restitution of my estate and I am forced to leave my home, I will accept my fate gladly knowing that this viper will be prevented from sinking his poisonous fangs into another hapless victim.’

  There was something about her ladyship’s last few words that clearly ignited a spark within Holmes’s cold scientific heart.

  ‘Madam,’ he solemnly announced, ‘I will use whatever limited powers and influence I might possess to bring Baron Maupertuis down. Dark rumours have been circulating throughout Europe, though nothing, thus far, has been proved. However the time for reading reports and speculating is now over.’ By now Holmes had moved over to Lady Beasant’s chair and he leant gently over her. ‘Be assured, madam, I shall not rest until the threat of Baron Maupertuis has been removed.’ With a slight bow Holmes strode purposefully from the room, leaving me to clumsily bundle up my notebook and pencil and follow in his wake.

  During the course of our return journey to Baker Street Holmes was unusually forthcoming with his views upon the case so far.

  ‘Watson, as you are aware, my position in society as a criminologist has given me a unique advantage over, say a banker, in being able to observe the various, inherent flaws and weaknesses in the make-up of human kind. My own profession would barely exist were it not for these and, it is equally dependent on those scurrilous individuals who prey upon these weaknesses. Of all living beings we are almost unique in our desire for riches and the accumulation of property. We are the only creatures in our world, who kill when they are not hungry. We are the only ones who experience greed.

  ‘Had the Beasants not possessed these traits then, I am certain, the temptations held out to them by Baron Maupertuis would have been rendered impotent.’ I was shocked by this assertion of Holmes.

  ‘Holmes,’ I protested. ‘Surely you are not condoning the actions of Maupertuis on the grounds of the Beasants’ own weaknesses?!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Watson.’ Holmes smiled. ‘In observing mankind’s frailties, I am not giving leave to the strong to take advantage over the weak. Lord Beasant’s folly should not cause his widow to be made homeless and penniless, nor should it allow this avaricious baron to line his pockets at her expense. You and I will help to put this injustice to rights.’

  ‘Despite the absence of Moriarty’s malevolent hand?’ I asked tentatively as we pulled up outside 221b.

  ‘Do not presume too much at this early stage, friend Watson,’ Holmes rejoined enigmatically as we alighted from our cab.

  As we began climbing the stairs we were brought to an abrupt halt by the lyrical tones of our landlady, Mrs Hudson.

  ‘A moment if you please, gentlemen. This message was delivered by an official courier, shortly after your departure.’ She handed us a small white envelope, with the crest of the Foreign Office emblazoned upon it. The note within, which Holmes promptly asked me to read out aloud to him, was as brief as it was forthright.

  Sherlock, come to the F.O. at once. National security at stake.

  Mycroft.

  Holmes’s face lit up at once. ‘Ah, so brother Mycroft appears to have a problem at the office. As you might recall, Watson, a summons from my brother is not to be taken lightly and usually leads to a most stimulating problem. Of course, the conclusion of the affair of the Greek Interpreter was hardly as satisfactory as the recovery of the Bruce Partington plans, although it did present me with its own unique set of perplexities.’

  ‘I recall both well,’ I replied, ‘and despite your initial reluctance, both found their way into my chronicles of your work. Your brother’s unusual position within the Government must surely indicate that this new matter is grave indeed. Yet what of the matter of Baron Maupertuis? Surely Lady Beasant’s predicament also warrants our best attention?’

  ‘Of course, dear fellow,’ Holmes answered, resting a placating hand upon my shoulder. ‘However, at this juncture, apart from dispatching wires to my friends in the Austrian and French police forces, there is little more to be done.

  ‘These I shall draft immediately whilst the ever co-operative Mrs Hudson summons a cab for us.’ As he spoke Holmes bundled the hapless woman out into the street, before tearing up the stairs to draft the wires. Within moments he was down again, thrusting the papers into Mrs Hudson’s reluctant hands, before joining me in the waiting cab. Once more we found ourselves roaring along Baker Street towards the centre of our great metropolis.

  It might be recalled by my more attentive readers that the position of Mycroft Holmes within the hierarchy of Whitehall, was somewhat unusual in that he was not employed by any specific department. His office acted as an exchange house for interdepartmental information, which Mycroft first digested, then collated and lastly acted upon. Indeed, there were very few ministerial decisions made that were not first sanctioned and approved by Mycroft Holmes.

  However, we were soon to discover, upon being shown to his large, austere office, deep within the bowels of Whitehall that the not inconsiderable burden of so weighty a responsibility had at last taken its toll on Holmes’s brother. It was with some considerable difficulty that, upon our being announced, Mycroft raised himself from a deep leather fireside chair, and as he shuffled away from the flickering of the fire’s flames it became apparent that the years since our last meeting,
had not been kind to him.

  Mycroft’s once genial facial chubbiness was now degenerating into ungainly folds of ageing flesh and bore a decidedly unhealthy grey pallor. His hair had thinned considerably and he had acquired a stoop to his back that reduced his height by two or three inches. It was sad to see that the seven-year age gap between my friend and his brother now seemed considerably wider. Admirably, Holmes betrayed no traces of the dismay he must have felt at seeing his brother’s sorry transformation.

  ‘Ah, Sherlock and, of course, Doctor Watson!’ was his affable greeting, although there was a hoarseness to his voice that I had, hitherto, been unaware of. ‘Good of you both to have attended so promptly.’ Then, lowering his voice somewhat, ‘I understand you have agreed to look into Lady Beasant’s little problem, but between the three of us, I think you will find this matter a little weightier and of far greater priority. Do not look so surprised, Doctor, as my brother will confirm, there is very little that escapes me, especially in so far as the affairs of a former member of the Diogenes Club are concerned.’

  ‘The tone of your note was somewhat urgent,’ Holmes mentioned.

  ‘Indeed it was. The simple fact of the matter is that the idiot Lestrade has been put in charge of the investigation and I would prefer it if you could learn all you can from the scene of the crime, before he blunders in.’

  ‘So it is murder then?’ Holmes asked casually, almost with an air of nonchalance. By now an evening mist had begun to fall and Holmes’s sharp, hawklike profile was set off in silhouette against the uncovered glass of Mycroft’s window.

  ‘Murder it undoubtedly is and I am afraid the tragic victim is my invaluable right-hand man, George Naismith,’ Mycroft replied sombrely.

  ‘Right-hand man, you say?’ Holmes asked a little anxiously, moving away from the window. ‘I do not understand. You have always been a law unto yourself within the Civil Service and the nature of your work has always precluded any assistance.’

  ‘That was the case until recently, but alas, I have not really been myself of late and it was felt by certain Government officials that some help would prove to be of benefit. I must admit that, despite my early misgivings, Naismith had become almost indispensable to me. As you are already aware, I work for no individual department and Naismith’s previous experience had helped to lubricate liaison between the various ministries.’

  ‘Where exactly did the murder take place?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘In my office, next door, and that is the most singular aspect of the whole confounded business!’ Mycroft replied. He moved over to a set of large mahogany doors.

  ‘I am sorry, sir, but I understood this room to be your office,’ I mentioned whilst still writing in my notebook.

  ‘Oh no, dear boy,’ Mycroft boomed. ‘This is merely my waiting room. Do not be too easily impressed by size and grandeur. In my exalted position it is more important to impress people before they actually meet you.’ Mycroft finished his remarks with a touch of amused irony. Then he flung open the large doors and showed us into his inner sanctum.

  The room we now entered was indeed considerably smaller than the outer one, though no less impressive for that. A magnificent crystal chandelier cascaded down from the central ceiling rose, and an ornate marble fireplace all but filled the left-hand wall. However, the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly the splendid Louis XIV desk that sat impressively in the centre of the room and even that was dwarfed by its companion chair, or rather, throne. The three armless chairs set before it were low enough to create a grand effect for any visitor. The remainder of the room’s furnishings comprised book-lined walls and a small plain desk and chair positioned at the far end and clearly belonging to Naismith, Mycroft’s assistant.

  Therefore, it was all the more surprising to find Naismith’s body slumped over the larger of the two desks and not his own.

  I raised this point with Mycroft before commencing my initial examination of the body.

  ‘A good point, Doctor, for that is precisely what I meant before, when stating that the body’s location was its most singular aspect. The small desk at the end of the room is Naismith’s more usual station; however, yesterday evening he was required to work late in order to read through and précis some particularly large and bulky files. For the sake of expediency I allowed him the use of my desk,’ Mycroft explained.

  ‘I take it that was the only occasion on which that had occurred?’ Holmes asked and then, following Mycroft’s nodded affirmation: ‘Was there a particular reason for this late-night work?’

  ‘For the past three weeks Naismith and I have been engaged in a series of very delicate international negotiations. At extremely short notice the Prime Minister convened a Cabinet meeting for this afternoon and this required a summary of our most recent work. It was imperative, therefore, that this work was completed before Naismith went home yesterday evening, to allow the clerks time to make copies before the Cabinet met!’ Mycroft replied, clearly irritated at the memory of the inconvenience the Prime Minister had caused.

  ‘How many people were aware of the fact that Naismith was working after hours?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Not as many as you might think, Sherlock. The Cabinet knew the work would be ready before their meeting, but the manner of its completion was not their concern. The nature of our work precludes discussing it with other occupants of the building. Therefore, unless Naismith got word to a friend or a relation, during the course of the day, the only people who were aware of his occupation of my desk would have been myself, the doorman and Naismith himself.’ Forestalling Holmes’s next question, Mycroft quickly added: ‘The doorman has held his position for ten years or more, and is trustworthy beyond question. It was only necessary to inform him in order to avoid Naismith being locked in the office and so that he could keep Naismith well-fuelled with sandwiches and black coffee.’

  ‘I am sure, however, that it is not unusual for you to work extended hours from time to time?’

  ‘Quite so, in fact in recent weeks it has proved to be the norm rather than the exception.’

  ‘Would all three doors to the room have remained unlocked during Naismith’s labours?’ The tone of this last question from Holmes indicated to me, at any rate, that he was already constructing one of his theories.

  This was clearly not lost on his brother either, for he replied: ‘Ah, I see the direction your mind is moving in even now and, I must say, it is a thought that crossed my mind also. Surely, then, you already know that the only door to my office left unlocked after normal hours is the one immediately behind my desk, because it leads out on to the building’s central corridor. It is also certainly true that, from the back at any rate, Naismith does possess a more than passing resemblance to myself.’

  ‘Most suggestive, would you not say, eh, Watson?’

  I realized, at this juncture that I was clearly out of my depth here, but I nodded my assent none the less, not wishing to appear so. However, my friend was not the world’s premier amateur detective for nothing and he immediately observed my bluff.

  ‘Oh, Watson, is it not now obvious that it was my brother who was the assassin’s intended victim?’

  ‘Of course! ‘I snapped, stung that he should have seen through me. ‘Assuming there was nobody else aware of Naismith’s late night vigil, what other reason could there have been for so risky an intrusion? Perhaps it is now best, however, that we ascertain the cause of death, and also the motive behind Mycroft’s intended demise, before we have to suffer Lestrade’s imminent and unhelpful intervention,’ I suggested, before moving over to the body.

  ‘Well said, sir!’ Mycroft boomed his approval. ‘Although blundering would be a more apt description of his efforts. I must point out that my own brief, amateurish examination of the body has revealed no obvious signs of physical violence.’

  ‘You think him dead of natural causes, then?’ I asked.

  ‘That, Doctor, is for you to decide.’ Mycroft offered, gesturing me towards the bo
dy.

  As I rested my bag upon Mycroft’s monumental desk, I noticed Holmes return to his reverie at the window, where he stood staring into the dark swirling mists outside, as if the answers he was seeking lay within their mysterious silence.

  The answers I now sought were not so easily found for, like that of Mycroft, my own examination of the corpse revealed no obvious sign of violence upon it. The discovery that I eventually made, however, sent a shudder throughout my nervous system. At the top of the spinal cord I detected a small bruising in the shape of a fine tight knot. Then, under the folds of the fleshy neck, I discovered a thin red line, probably made by a fine silk cord.

  ‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed, despite myself. Then, regaining my composure and in answer to the brothers’ questioning glances, I calmly announced: ‘Gentlemen, they have used a form of garrotting.’

  The significance of this type of murder was obviously not lost on my friend, for he knew only too well that one of only two surviving members of Moriarty’s former gang had been Parker, a renowned exponent of the Jew’s Harp, but more relevantly, the most skilled practitioner of garrotting ever recorded in the annals of crime. Clearly showing admirable restraint, Holmes evidently did not wish his brother to share our knowledge and nodded for me to be equally reticent.

  ‘Confounded Continentals! I knew from the outset that certain governments would attempt to prevent me from completing my work. Only they would employ so despicable a form of murder. You did well to identify it, Doctor,’ Mycroft said, with the red hue of rage temporarily colouring his cheeks. His brother, on the other hand, appeared to be vexed by an altogether different matter.

  ‘Your life might yet be in grave danger,’ Holmes observed to his brother, while thoughtfully lighting a cigarette.

  ‘How so? We have already deduced that I was the object of the garrotter’s murderous intent, and surely he has gone away believing his mission accomplished. My life is probably more secure now than it has been for weeks, although that security has been bought at too high a price for poor Naismith.’ Mycroft spoke these last words quietly.