The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case

by Gaschnitz, K. Michael

  He greeted me warmly and then shook hands briefly with his brother. I knew the two of them to be close. However their nature forbade any outward showing of emotion.

  He motioned us to two large overstuffed chairs and then like a battleship maneuvering it’s way into its berth he lowered himself into the chair by the window. As if on cue Jarvis brought us three large brandy and sodas.

  “I am glad that you received my telegram, Mycroft and could absent yourself from your offices for a time.”

  “I have no pressing business at the moment, Sherlock.”

  “Lord Ecclestone has had a reversal of fortune I see,” said Holmes.

  “Yes he has recently come into some money I believe,” replied his brother.

  “No doubts the proceeds of a life insurance settlement. Someone close to him has passed away,” said Sherlock.

  “His wife, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered.

  “Yes, of course,” Sherlock said laughing.

  “He is using the proceeds to invest in the market,” Mycroft shot back.

  I looked from one to the other at this exchange. Holmes and his brother enjoyed these little contests but I was always hard pressed to follow their reasoning. They must have noticed the bewildered look as I made a subtle clucking sound.

  “You doubt our conclusions, Doctor,” said Mycroft, in a condescending yet not unkind voice.

  “It is not so much that I doubt your conclusions, Mycroft, it is only that it is a mystery to me as to how you reached them.”

  “Shall I enlighten the Doctor, Sherlock, or would you prefer to do the honours.”

  My friend demurred to his brother.

  “As you may have surmised Doctor the old white haired gentleman who was leaving when you arrived was Lord Steven Ecclestone. Due to some bad investments and a spendthrift son he had lost much of his fortune and has had to resort to selling some of the family plate and paintings to make ends meet. That much is public record, Doctor. As a founder and treasurer of this club I know that he had fallen behind in his dues and was about to be expelled. However in the last month he has made good on his obligations. I have also noticed that he now partakes of the most excellent brandy and the finest cigars, the price of which are not part of the monthly dues.”

  “Also,” piped in Sherlock, “his hat is brand new and of a most expensive style. I noticed it as he was walking out. This also points to a reversal of his fortunes. The fact that he retained his hat instead of entrusting it to this institution’s most peerless servant would seem to indicate that the hat is a new one and Lord Ecclestone is quite attached to it, perhaps because he has not been able to purchase a new one for some time.”

  “And I suppose you deduced the death of his wife by the absence of a wedding ring and the pale band around his finger where it for so long resided?” I added.

  They both stared at me in wonder. “Bravo, Watson,” said Sherlock. “We were actually referring to the news in the society column of some weeks ago which mentioned the fact. I did not have the opportunity to observe his left hand and so did not notice the feature you mention.”

  Neither had I; however I had assumed that the brothers had relied on some clever bit of detective work, rather than on such a commonplace thing as reading of it in the papers.

  “And the investments?” I asked.

  “The paper sticking from his pocket was covered in stock symbols, many of which were circled. Lord Ecclestone it seems is attempting to increase his income with some risky investments,” said Mycroft.

  “Enough of this game, Mycroft,” said my friend suddenly banging his hand on the table. The sound echoed like a shot in the customary silence of the visitor’s room. Jarvis opened the door. One look at the two brothers caused him to back out silently.

  “Forgive me Mycroft, however our business is urgent and time is of the utmost importance.”

  “No doubt the matter concerns the continued absence of Mrs. Watson,” said Mycroft taking little notice of his brother’s outburst.

  “It is true, Mycroft,” I said. “Your brother has already filled you in on the matter then?”

  “My brother has not yet spoken to me on the subject. I have only learned of the unfortunate facts through my contacts with the Metropolitan Police. I have also become aware that for the last few days you have not returned to your own house, instead, adopting the Bohemian lifestyle of my brother. That and the fact that the death of your neighbour has been widely reported in the paper are the only knowledge that I have of the situation.”

  “Ah, that has been your people I have seen then,” my friend said under his breath.

  “Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, his own hearing as keen as that of his brother. “Ever since you returned from the Continent we have kept an eye on yourself and Dr. Watson. We were, as you know, unable to snare Colonel Moran in the same trap in which we caught the rest of the Moriarty gang and we thought we might prevent him from doing either of you a mischief.”

  “Mycroft, I can’t believe......,” began my friend.

  I interjected. “So, Mr. Holmes if you or your organization have been keeping this unwelcome vigil on my home you must know what transpired the night my wife was kidnapped.”

  “No, Doctor. Even though my men had specific orders to keep your household under surveillance, they managed to bungle the affair.”

  “It was most certainly bungled Mycroft. My wife was not even at home that night as she spent most of the evening at my neighbour’s.” I explained to him the precautions which I had taken to ensure Mary’s safety; precautions which in hindsight proved useless.

  “Hmmmm, that would explain much. They would have paid little attention to your servant.” Maids and all other domestics were by their very nature invisible to the general public.

  “I know that you have your fingers into many different pies, Mycroft. Do you know anything about a man with a missing finger found dead in King William Street?” asked the younger Holmes.

  “Why should I know anything of a body found in King William Street,” replied Mycroft blandly.

  “This man was one of your people I believe,” said my friend.

  “That is the second time during this conversation in which you have referred to my people,” Mycroft stated.

  “Come now, dear brother, although its very existence has not been made public I know that you are in virtual if not actual control of our government’s nascent security organization.”

  “I would not attempt to deceive you even if I could, Sherlock,” replied Mycroft. This answer seemed to satisfy my friend.

  “What makes you think that this man worked for me?” continued Mycroft.

  “The deceased was obviously a military man his boots and the cut of his moustaches told me as much. No doubt he received his wound and in all probability lost his finger in one of those senseless conflicts in which Her Majesty’s government seems to take great pleasure in waging.

  “Need I continue, Mycroft?”

  Mycroft remained silent.

  “This man also had several one-pound notes in his pocketbook. It seems to me that if this person was what he appeared to be, namely an itinerant fruit peddler, he would not be in possession of such a sum of money.”

  “Perhaps this unfortunate creature was an agent of Colonel Moran?” I said. “I am given to understand that contrary to popular belief, crime does indeed pay, and pay handsomely.”

  “As to that you are certainly correct, Watson, however I do not believe that this particular gentleman was employed by the Colonel,” my friend said. He did not elaborate.

  “Also in his possession,” continued Holmes “was one of this estimable club’s calling cards. Although the Diogenes Club does not put it’s name or for that matter it’s address on it’s stationery, it’s distinctive stamp as well as the member’s name or assumed name is printed upon each card, which are of course solely for the use of members. The card found in this man’s pocket bears your alias.”

  “You know a great numb
er of things concerning this institution Sherlock,” said Mycroft quietly.

  “It is my business to know what others do not.”

  “......and just because this man was in possession of my card and a large sum of money you assume that he worked for me as an intelligence agent. Come Sherlock there must be dozens of professions which make use of such men.”

  “Yes, you are no doubt correct dear brother, but what other profession would appeal to such a man; a man who is used to the action, the rigors and the discipline of army life. And what other profession pays such a man so well as evidenced by the money in his pockets.”

  I sat transfixed by this conversation.

  “My question to you Mycroft is why did you hire this man to spy on Dr. and Mrs. Watson and what connection does he have if any to the death of a Chinese man at Charing Cross station and the disappearance and subsequent death of Dr. Anstruther; and most damning of all Mycroft why did you engineer the abduction of Mrs. Watson?”

  CHAPTER 11

  I started out of my chair in shock.

  “What is the meaning of this Holmes? Do you mean to tell me that your brother is responsible for what has happened to my wife?”

  “All evidence points to it, Watson. That he did it personally I do not believe, but you were the driving force were you not Mycroft?” remarked Sherlock.

  The elder Holmes remained silent, his emotions remaining hidden behind a mask of imperturbability.

  “Why would you do such a monstrous thing?” I asked my voice filled with rage.

  “I assure you Doctor; the act was one of the utmost necessity.”

  “For what possible reason would an employee,” I emphasized this last word, “of our government kidnap one of it’s citizens from her own home?”

  Mycroft brushed microscopic specks of dust from his immaculate waistcoat. He, like his brother was fastidious in his wardrobe. He ignored my question as Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair and strode over to the row of books which ran along one side of the room. He ran his finger across their spines.

  “Well, Mycroft are you going to answer me?”

  “I think, Watson, that you should hear the whole story,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  I turned in my chair to face him. He idly flipped through the pages of a book. His eyes did not meet mine.

  “You know of this business? This is monstrous, Holmes,” I said venomously.

  “Yes, I knew of it Watson, although I had no hand in the matter,” he said, his voice was even and steady.

  “Damn it, Holmes do you mean to say that you know where Mary is? If you have caused her to suffer some harm, I swear.....,” I began, my voice rising.

  “That is enough, Doctor,” broke in Mycroft Holmes. His voice like his brother’s was calm yet there was an underlying hint of menace. It was a voice that was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed.

  “I am sorry Mycroft. I did not mean to threaten your brother,” I said by way of apology.

  “My brother can take care of himself,” he said, “but I will not have you disrupt the sanctity of this club. We do however owe you an explanation.”

  “Not now though, Mycroft; come to Baker Street tonight and we will discuss the matter,” said Sherlock regaining control of the situation.

  “Why not now, Holmes?” I asked.

  “This is not the place to discuss such things. Even here, the walls have ears,” he said. He pointed to the door, beneath which could be seen a passing shadow.

  “Besides which Mycroft must return to his duties, I am sure.”

  Mycroft Holmes, saying nothing, suddenly raised his massive bulk from the chair, which groaned under the strain. “I will see you at seven,” he said and left the room. Our audience with him was over.

  Holmes and I gathered our hats and coats and left this strangest of all clubs. We hailed a cab and Holmes directed the driver to take us back to Baker Street. The ride was long and uncomfortable and we exchanged neither words nor glances during the return trip.

  My friend went directly to his bedroom after our arrival in Baker Street. In a few moments he returned dressed in his tweeds and without explanation disappeared down the seventeen steps and out of the front door.

  Holmes had for well over ten years been my best friend and intimate companion, and I his loyal friend and confidante and this was the first time that I had felt a barrier come between us.

  I was at a loss as to what to do with my own time, and attempted to interest myself in a back copy of the Lancet but my powers of concentration were not equal to the task. It was then that my thoughts turned to my own long neglected patients.

  So it was that, I found myself at the Baker Street Post Office, sending a telegram to my old friend and former neighbour, Dr. Jackson.

  In the days when my practice had been located in Paddington, Dr. Jackson had always been gracious enough to look in on my patients when I was otherwise occupied and even though he had recently retired from active practice our friendship had been such that I was sure he would still accommodate me.

  Having done with my task I wandered the streets purposelessly, staring into shop windows before finally stopping at a small cafe for refreshments. The woman behind the counter looked as if she might have been behind that same counter since the time of the Roman invasion. Surprisingly the food was excellent and most welcome. However, two cups of tea and a thick meat sandwich later, time was still hanging heavy on my hands and I slowly made my way back to Baker Street.

  I attempted to engage Mrs. Hudson in conversation, however that good lady was just beginning to prepare the evening meal and she could spare me little time. Although sympathetic to my cause, my wife and she had become fast friends, it was clear that I was underfoot. Wearily I climbed the stairs to Holmes’ apartment and rummaged through my old bedroom for a book with which to pass the time. Holmes, although he had many sterling qualities, was greatly adverse to change and I knew that most of my old books remained where I had left them following my marriage.

  I found my signed copy of “Poems” by Robert Bridges, which I remembered with fondness and settled down in my old chair. Mrs. Hudson brought up some coffee, set the tray upon the table and backed out silently.

  The book held no interest for me however, and time passed slowly. It seemed an eternity before I heard Holmes’ familiar footsteps upon the stairs.

  “Mycroft is not here yet?” he asked as he entered the room and removed his hat and coat.

  “Your powers of deduction are unsurpassed,” I replied with as much sarcasm as I could muster. My temper had cooled somewhat, however I could still not forgive him for whatever part he may have played in Mary’s disappearance.

  Holmes ignored my comments and went into his bedroom. In a few moments he returned dressed in his favorite mouse colored dressing gown.

  “Where have you been, Holmes?” I asked him bluntly. “Have you been to see my wife?”

  “No, Watson. I have spent my afternoon in the Reading Room of the British Museum.”

  “Towards what end?”

  “All in good time, Watson,” he replied walking over to the bow window.

  “Ah, Mycroft is alighting from a carriage even as we speak.”

  In a moment the Falstaffian figure of Mycroft Holmes was standing inside of our doorway.

  “I trust that no one was seriously injured in the traffic accident which caused you to be late?” said Sherlock.

  For once I did not rise to the bait and how Holmes deduced that there was such an accident forever remained a mystery.

  “No, Sherlock just another overturned delivery waggon,” remarked the elder Holmes, removing his outer garments. He deposited his umbrella in the stand by the door for the fine weather had turned wet and blustery.

  “Take a seat here by the fire, Mycroft. I shall pour you a whisky.”

  Mycroft Holmes sat himself in what his brother liked to call “the visitor’s chair” which was barely large enough to accommodate his massive girth. He quickl
y downed the whisky and soda which was offered him and without preamble began his narrative.

  “As you may know Doctor, with the death of the late unlamented Professor Moriarty but a scant nine days ago Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s lieutenant, took over as leader of what remained of the Professor’s vast criminal empire. Moran was the most dangerous member of that organization to escape the trap which Sherlock had baited and the police rather clumsily managed to spring.

  “When Sherlock wired from Switzerland to inform me that he was still alive I took it upon myself to see that he remained so, even if the effort was unwelcome.”

  Here he stopped to take a breath, and looked across at his brother. He took another sip of from the tumbler of whisky which Holmes had refilled.

  “Get to the point, Mycroft,” I said.

  Mycroft Holmes mopped his brow.

  “As Sherlock imprudently mentioned this afternoon,” again he shot a glance at his brother, “among my numerous other duties, I also oversee this country’s small and unofficial security service. Made up mainly of retired policemen, former military men, and gentlemen adventurers of good standing and others of not such good standing, they are charged with protecting Her Majesty’s interests here and abroad. When you and Sherlock returned from Switzerland I knew that the threat of danger had not yet passed and so I used my position to utilize one of these men in watching your household.”

  “Why not use Scotland Yard, they’re good at spying on people as I recall?” I asked coldly.

  “I should much rather rely upon my own resources, Doctor. While it is true that I do have some contacts at the Yard I would have only limited access to their information and little input and although Sherlock has been of inestimable service to them on numerous occasions they, I am sure, would not see fit to keep me apprised as to the state of their inquiries.

  “So thanks to Sherlock’s urgings we had put a man inside of Moriarty’s organization some time ago. He was of course one of the members of that gang who the police neglected to pick up.”

  “The man with the missing finger,” I stated.

  “Yes Watson, the man with the missing finger,” replied Holmes.