by Barry Day
“Oh, I think a little Macaulay should pass the time adequately,” said Holmes, picking up the sturdy volume and weighing it in his hand. “I seem to remember some of those Ancient Roman doings made rather racy reading.”
For the next few days Mycroft—admittedly, with rather ill grace—confined himself to his quarters. Then being a creature of habit whose life ran on pre-determined rails, he adapted to his new circumstances and even declared that he was grateful for the chance to catch up on his reading. He waxed lyrical—for him—one evening on the merits of Suetonius and Pliny the Younger as bedtime reading but I had the distinct impression that my lower limb was being pulled.
Holmes and I would visit him after dark, entering by the rear of the building, after carefully scouting the area in advance. I think it amused Mycroft to see us having to share his isolation but after the first visit, I detected something else. These two brothers had lived parallel lives. Never had they had an opportunity like this to really get to know one another—and they were enjoying it in their own strange way!
The fact that their intimacy essentially excluded me did not bother me in the least. I enjoyed being the sole spectator at their mental and verbal tennis match, as a thought would wing its way over the net, only to be spun back like lightning. It was a rare and privileged spectacle.
On the fourth day Holmes judged that it was now time to create the make-up of advancing illness.
He applied a little vaseline to the ‘patient’s’ forehead, some rouge on the cheek bones to create a cadaverous look, a crust of beeswax round the lips to make them dry and finally, a few drops of belladonna in the eyes. In a short space of time the normally robust Mycroft seemed, to all intents and purposes, to be at death’s door.
During the daytime Mycroft was ‘looked after’ by a male nurse—in reality a bodyguard—an ex-boxer Holmes had used for what I believe is called ‘muscle’ on other cases that required it. As night fell he would make his visible departure.
It was Holmes’s supposition that Staunton would probably make his move in darkness and so we took to spending ours in Mycroft’s spare room, taking it in turn to keep watch with the door ajar.
After two fruitless nights of this, however, Holmes began to be restless.
“We are running out of time, gentlemen,” he said to the two of us. “Three days from now Challenger will be arriving in this country and it is only a matter of when the Press pick up that story. Once they do, Staunton’s attention will be divided and that we cannot afford. We must bait our trap afresh. One thing our friend will not want is for Sloth to die of natural causes.”
In the next morning’s Telegraph the following item duly appeared—
WHITEHALL GURU SINKING
Telegraph Exclusive
“Informed Whitehall sources (who wish to remain anonymous) confirm to our reporter that Mycroft Holmes, older and only brother of the famous consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, lies in a serious and deteriorating condition in his bachelor rooms.
Mr. Holmes contracted a mysterious and debilitating disease just over a week ago, which has stubbornly refused to respond to the most advanced medical treatment.
Mr. Holmes’s long and distinguished service to Her Majesty’s Government … etc … etc.”
It made disturbing reading and a look at Mycroft’s convincing make-up made it seem all too likely.
From now on Holmes insisted that we keep our vigil round the clock and he had taken to coming and going quite openly through the front door.
“After all, what would be more natural than an only and grieving brother attending on his ailing sibling?”
To which Mycroft replied—only half-jokingly, I felt—
“Sherlock, I want your solemn word that, when this affair is safely behind us, you will not visit me for the next year. Unless, of course, I really am on my death bed.”
On the morning of August 28th it was my turn to be on guard duty, for we were now on round the clock alert. Holmes had finally been persuaded to stretch his legs and go for a stroll in nearby St. James’s Park.
Mycroft in full ghastly make-up was lying in bed, a book on ecclesiastical architecture on his knee. Thorogood, the nurse/bodyguard and I were studying that morning’s Sporting Life and debating our predictions for the day’s race meetings, for we were both men of the turf.
At which point there was a sharp rap on the door, which drew all our attention. Holmes had no need to knock and we were not expecting anyone. Besides, Mycroft’s rooms were on an upper floor, so that a visitor would normally have to ring the front door bell to gain admittance.
Putting my finger to my lips, I tiptoed into the adjacent room, leaving the door open the merest crack. Before doing so, I silently motioned to Thorogood to see who was there.
From my point of vantage I could not see the door that led to the landing, but only hear the conversation, as the bodyguard carefully opened it.
“Oh, good afternoon, my good man. I am Dr. Silverstone. I believe you were expecting me?”
“Doctor?” Thorogood sounded puzzled. “No, we weren’t expecting no doctor.”
“How very annoying. I received a request—an instruction, really—from the Prime Minister’s office to attend Mr. Mycroft Holmes as a matter of considerable urgency and now you tell me you are not expecting me. And here have I left a Harley Street waiting room full of patients. It really is most irritating.”
As he spoke, he moved further into the room and now I could see him. Of middle height with sleekly-brushed silver hair and a neat moustache and small goatee beard to match. He also wore immaculate morning dress—every inch the Harley Street consultant.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes, I presume. My card …”
He made as if to reach into an inside pocket and then two things happened simultaneously.
I found myself looking at his ears. And there they were—the imperforate lobes. Staunton!
And then the man—instead of producing a visiting card—spun round in one of those moves Holmes has demonstrated to me from the martial art of baritsu and with the edge of his hand delivered a vicious blow to the side of Thorogood’s neck. The large man fell as if pole-axed.
Then Staunton, rubbing his hand with the other, moved slowly over to the side of Mycroft’s bed. For a moment I could see the ‘patient’ and his performance was every bit as convincing as Holmes’s had been those years ago.
He lay back on his plumped up pillows, his eyes scarcely open. The pallor on his face was deathly and his breathing laboured.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he wheezed.
“Oh, you know me well enough, my slothful friend, if you think back to the days of your golden youth … your privileged youth …”
And he peeled off the beard and moustache.
Mycroft managed to convey a dawning recognition before Staunton moved closer and obscured my view of the bed.
Staunton sounded pleased that he had been recognised.
“Yes, that’s right—Evan Staunton, lackey to the great and good. ‘Staunton, bring the drinks!’ ‘Staunton, take the photograph. These mechanical things are beyond me. You’re the sort of chap who’d understand them.’ And did you think I wasn’t aware of all that?
“That’s been the story of my life—until now. But once you wipe out sin, you can make a clean start. Did you know that, Lord Sloth? My, but that’s a good one. I must remember that. If you’d ever taken a title, it should have been Lord Sloth of Sleep. But now I’m afraid you never will, dear boy. Isn’t that what you always used to call me—‘Dear boy’?”
While he was talking I pulled my service revolver carefully from my pocket. I have learned never to embark on one of Holmes’s escapades without it, for an Eley’s No. 2 is a very persuasive fellow in a tight spot. As quietly as possible, I thumbed back the safety catch.
Now I could see that Staunton was picking up a spare pillow from the bottom of the bed and taking his time about it. He was intending to smother Mycroft and send him to an e
ternal sleep.
Mycroft was now in a genuine dilemma and his response was sheer genius. He began to hallucinate, as I had told him victims of cataplexy frequently did.
“Who are you? Oh, you must be the man from the library. You’ve come for the book. Surely the libraries are full of books. Why do you need mine? I’ll drown my book. But no, a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit. Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned? Rest, rest perturbed spirit. But the book, the book! A book of wine, a flask of verse and thou. No, no—a jug of gin, a gin of jug …”
His ramblings clearly disconcerted Staunton for a moment. Then he snarled.
“Even at the last you use the words of other men. Well then—‘Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown’. The Book is nothing to me now—only to those peasants. And you of all of them would never have kept it. But if you will have it so—then the Curse of Kor be on you!”
As he raised the pillow in both hands, I threw open the bedroom door.
“You can put that down, Staunton. The game is over!”
At that precise moment Holmes burst through the flat’s front door.
Staunton whirled around, first in this direction, then that, like a cornered rat. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in the travesty of a smile and he made a sound that was more like a serpent’s hiss.
“There’s no way out, Staunton,” Holmes said quietly.
But for once my friend was wrong. Staunton’s eyes went to the window to the street a floor below. Three rapid steps and he threw himself bodily through it with a tremendous crash of breaking glass and splintering wood.
Despite my surprise, I managed to loose off a single shot and I was pretty sure I managed to hit him.
There was a moment of frozen silence in the room and then Holmes and I were at what was left of the window looking down. The rooms were at the back of the house overlooking a communal garden. Below us were fragments of wood and glass and I thought I saw traces of blood. But the garden was empty.
Behind us we heard Mycroft say—
“I can only hope that Her Majesty’s Government will see its way to replacing my window or I really shall die—of pneumonia. And now, may I please remove this ridiculous make-up?”
Chapter Eleven
“Not, perhaps, our finest hour, old fellow.”
It was the following day and we were sitting in our familiar chairs on either side of the empty fireplace, having dined on a meal of which Mrs. Hudson had been especially proud.
As she served us the roast grouse with all the trimmings, she mentioned something that hd obviously been long on her mind.
“Mr. Holmes, you were once heard to say that with regard to breakfast I had as good an idea as any Scotchwoman. Well, I think I can beat any of them at their own game. Any fool can shoot one of these wee birds but it takes a Sassenach to cook it properly.”
And with those words she left us to enjoy her efforts, which were, indeed, excellent, though I thought Holmes made too much of a point of picking out the occasional shot and depositing it ostentatiously on the side of his plate.
Once Mrs. Hudson had cleared the table, appearing satisfied that we had done justice to her ‘experiment’, Holmes and I sought our chairs and our pipes and there we sat, like bookends, I suppose, staring into the empty fireplace.
I cannot vouch for what thoughts were going through his head but I know I was reliving those moments in Mycroft’s room and wondering what I might have done differently and whether it was my fault that the whole sorry business had not ended there and then.
“Do not reproach yourself, old fellow. No one could have done more and many would have done a lot less.”
“But how …?”
I should have known better than to ask.
“Gazing into that fireplace is like going into a trance, as I know so well myself. Without realising it, your hand steals to the pocket where you keep your service revolver. The you steal a glance towards my bedroom door and you see yourself once again on guard peering in to Mycroft’s room. Now your eyes move to the window as Staunton leaps through it. My dear old fellow, it is not hard to piece the story together.
“But I say again, we must not reproach ourselves for the day’s events. We prepared it and our quarry took the bait. What he then did was improbable but not impossible. And he bears our mark—which will enrage that tormented ego even more, for in his own esteem—which is all that matters to him—he is once again teetering on the brink of failure. And we have caused it. Or, rather, in his mind I have caused it with my meddling ways.”
“So what do we do now?”
At that moment the front door bell rang.
“As to that, I believe we are about to receive some indication,” Holmes replied. “According to the vocabulary of the bell, that is the ring of a woman in severe need of advice but one who does not know whether she. will be welcome. Tense but hesitant.
“And now, Watson, perhaps I may prevail upon you to let me have some of your Arcadia mixture. Unless, of course, you would prefer me to use the detritus of yesterday’s pipe—or is the day before’s? I seem to have lost track of time in all the recent excitement …”
Since anything was preferable to the noxious fumes of his stale shag tobacco, I quickly passed him my pouch and, as I was in the act of doing so, there was a light tap on the door, which opened to reveal the Emerald Lady.
Except that this time she was swathed from head to foot in a black evening cloak complete with hood, which she had pulled tight about her face, so that only her large, liquid eyes were visible. And what tormented eyes they were!
Although she had never been introduced to Holmes, it was to him that she addressed herself and I felt an inexplicable twinge of jealousy.
“Mr. Holmes, this madness must cease! My people may be locked into their medieval superstitious beliefs but I have been in your world long enough to know that this is not the way things should be. This man—Smith or whatever his name is—is using us for his own devilish reasons—I see that now. He holds Khali and the others at the Consulate in thrall and plays on their fears of the wrath of Kor.”
Holmes leaned forward and fixed her with his calm, penetrating gaze. It worked as I have seen it do so often.
“The beast is wounded, is he not? Therefore, he is mortal and can be dispatched. Tell us what has transpired today.”
Uma relaxed visibly. She threw back her hood and her raven hair—which hitherto I had only seen tightly coiled about her head—cascaded around her face, giving her the appearance of a beautiful innocent child.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. I am behaving like a foolish woman and it is the thing I hate most in others.”
She drew her cloak more tightly around her and sat back in her chair. I swear that no one—except perhaps the woman—has ever made our old basket chair look more like a queen’s throne. Once again I thought how she was just as I had always envisioned She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.
“I have come to ask for your help, Mr. Holmes. And yours, too, John …”
Holmes’s eyes flickered in my direction for the briefest of glances but he might as well have said—“John?”
“Even though the beliefs of my poor people are foolish and childlike, they have their dignity and this man—this vile, unspeakable man—is bringing dishonour down upon them. What must I do to stop him? I will do anything, Mr. Holmes, even if my own life is forfeit as a result. It is as nothing to me, after what he has done by involving us in his wickedness.”
Holmes leaned forward in his chair and tapped his pipe out in the empty grate. He made a point of not looking at her, as he said—
“You say you would do anything. Even if it meant the end of Kor?”
Now it was Uma’s turn to lean forward. Her body was tense and her face mere inches from Holmes’s. He had no alternative but to meet her gaze and I knew that what he saw there convinced him.
“We all know that Kor is but a figure of myth,” she said quietly. “People need to believ
e in something or somebody greater than themselves and the legend of Kor answered that need for a backward people, as similar figures have done for other cultures in other times and no doubt will again. But those other races were open to the wider world and the myths vanished. It is time for us to join that world. I see that now so clearly. But how—how?”
And she slumped back, exhausted. Gone was the regal figure. In her place was a little girl close to tears.
At such moments Holmes was at his best. His manner immediately became brisk and businesslike. His very tone of voice caused Uma to straighten up in her chair.
“If you will follow what I say in every detail, I promise you this curse will be lifted from you and your people—or my name is not Sherlock Holmes …”
“And mine John Watson!”
“Staunton believes he has the whip hand because you are aware of his misdeeds and, by saying nothing, seem to condone them. In this he is playing on what he assumes to be your ignorance of British law.
“In fact, as diplomats of a foreign power you are under no obligation to report what is mere supposition—something which a skilled lawyer would demolish in court as heresay in two seconds. You yourself have committed no crime—merely the folly of believing that the word of an apparent English gentleman was implicitly to be believed.
“Staunton, by his cynical manipulation of what he takes to be your innocence and ignorance, has kept you on the end of his string. But, my dear lady …”
And she did indeed look like a dear lady as her eyes brightened at his words.
“… a piece of string has two ends. And if my stratagem works, he will be as tied to you as you are presently tied to him. And we can reel him in.”
“Then what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”
“Precisely what you are doing at the moment. Waiting and watching and playing the part of the frightened young woman. And I use the word ‘part’ advisedly, for I have rarely seen such genuine courage in someone so young.”
“Amen to that!” I added fervently.
“Meanwhile,” my friend continued, “the greatest service you can perform for all of us is to continue to let Staunton believe that nothing has changed, that his home base, at least, is secure. I assume he is staying at the Consulate?”