The Mycroft Holmes Omnibus

by David Dickinson

  “Of course,” said Mycroft. “We have a fraction under four thousand pounds to hand at present. More can be produced later, of course. But I am anxious not to be left in possession of all this cash for too long, Mr Jones. When do you intend to return?”

  “Between eight and nine tomorrow morning, sir, if that would be in order?”

  “Capital,” said Holmes. “I look forward to seeing you then.” Jones and Tobias exchanged notes. Jones bowed slightly as he left the room.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Once more Mycroft sidled over to the window. Two men seemed to appear as if from nowhere and slipped into the rush hour crowd bearing Jones out towards Lower Regent Street and the Haymarket.

  “Well, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade, exploding out the spare bedroom like a bullet from a gun, “what did you make of our friends?”

  “You couldn’t see very much, of course, Inspector, but I would suggest you endeavour to make less noise when you kneel down to look through a keyhole in future. I could hear your every move quite distinctly.”

  “Sorry about that, Mr Holmes,” said the man from Scotland Yard. “But what did you make of them?”

  “The shoes were interesting, very interesting,” said Mycroft, rising once more to peer out into Pall Mall. “We have had rain today. The first and the second man just had damp marks on the bottom of their shoes. But the third man had traces of country mud on those great boots of his, mud that you would not find within five miles of Hyde Park Corner unless you were stomping about in one of the parks. Jones, the third man, has come in from the country. We will have to wait for the reports from your officers a little later before we know their addresses. I suggest you go and wait for that information,

  “Lestrade. And Tobias, you must take yourself to the Bank of England with the money our friends handed over. Their expert with the machine that can detect the forgeries will be waiting. I suggest we meet again at my club at nine thirty. There should be news by then.”

  Lestrade hurried off. Tobias put the three envelopes in an inside pocket. “Do you think any of the money those people handed over will be fake, sir?”

  “Do you want my honest opinion, Tobias? I think at least one will be a forgery. One, if not two.”

  *

  At nine thirty that evening Mycroft was still waiting for the return of Lestrade and Tobias. He was sipping a large glass of Armagnac and trying to put himself in the position of the forgers. Would they have made England or some Continental country the base for their operations? A city? A town? A grand house in the middle of nowhere? He was weighing up the possibilities of a remote corner of Spain when Lestrade rushed in, panting and looking distraught.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes,” he gasped, “we’ve lost one of them. Lost him completely.”

  “Which one?”

  “The third one, Jones he called himself, the man with the scar. He walked into the central section of Paddington Station and seemed to disappear. If he got on a train then my men didn’t spot him, or where the train was going to. I’ve sent word to the main stations out of Paddington but I’m not hopeful.”

  “What happened to the other two?”

  “The first man, the one who called himself Smith, lives in Hammersmith. Nice house, apparently. One of my men will go back tomorrow to get the details of his employment and so on. Your greengrocer lives on one floor of a small house in Hackney. A man presumed to be a doctor was seen leaving the place by a neighbour shortly before our officer arrived.”

  Tobias, grinning happily, slipped into the room and helped himself to a small glass of Armagnac.

  “It’s exactly like you said, sir,” he said, addressing himself to Mycroft, “two of the notes were forgeries. Your greengrocer’s note was so battered the expert wasn’t sure – he didn’t think his machine would work properly on it – but he gave it a clean bill of health in the end.”

  “Think of it,” said Lestrade, “two out of three of them forgeries! Who would have thought it?”

  “Well,” said Mycroft, “the advertisement was something like a trap. It shows we have to redouble our efforts. I have been trying to put myself in the position of the Count and his forgers. I will give you the results of my thinking in the morning. Tobias, could you summon the heads of the three leading estate agents in London and the Home County to my office tomorrow morning? Shall we say eleven o’clock? And Lestrade, can you warn your superiors that we may require a large body of men at any time in the next week. Not your cleverest, or your most efficient, but fit men who can run fast and look after themselves.”

  *

  Mycroft Holmes did not go to bed that night. Like his brother he had the capacity for long periods of strenuous mental activity on very little sleep. He did, however require regular helpings of food. Mrs Hudson left him two plates of sandwiches and an entire chocolate cake to fuel his thoughts through the hours of darkness. He smoked a lot that night and failed to open any windows so that his room resembled one of London’s thicker fogs by the morning. He would stare out of his window for periods of half an hour or more at a stretch, his brain not taking in the stray dogs and stray people on patrol in Pall Mall in the night hours. Shortly after three o’clock he was looking out of his window at the gas lamp opposite. Something moved. The profile was one he knew well. It could not be! His brother Sherlock was surely asleep in his bed in Sussex, not prowling the night streets of London! There it was again, that familiar profile, slipping away! Had it been looking up at his windows? When he rubbed the windowpane to get a better view, the phantasm had vanished. Pall Mall, as far as Mycroft could see, was totally deserted.

  Mrs Hudson threw open the windows when she brought him his breakfast at precisely seven thirty. Just after eight o’clock she was back.

  “This gentleman demands to see you at once, sir. He would not be put off even though it is so early. He has not given me a name.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson,” said Mycroft, waving his guest to a chair. The visitor was over six feet tall with a small grey moustache. His hair was swept back and heavily oiled. The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes. They glittered. Looking at them Mycroft thought the man had the eyes of a fanatic. He carried a stout walking stick in his right hand.

  “Please let me introduce myself. Graf von Stoltenburg at your service, Mr Holmes.”

  “Good morning to you, Graf,” said Mycroft, shovelling a large amount of lime marmalade on to the last piece of toast. He had a carried a violent dislike of orange marmalade since he had to endure the stuff they served up at his boarding school.

  “Please do not interrupt me further while I am speaking to you, Mr Holmes. I shall not detain you long. I have come here this morning to warn you. Your activities are beginning to displease me. I know all about your meetings with bankers and your queries about my presence in my native country. Your activities will cease immediately. If they do not, your life will become very different and rather painful. In my business, minor foes, Mr Holmes, are shot at once. More serious enemies take longer to die in my custody.”

  He flicked a switch at the top of his walking stick and drew out a long thin sword. He prodded Mycroft in the stomach.

  “Perhaps it will be time to lose a little weight, no? Perhaps we will flay the skin off your bones like Marsyas in the fable. Maybe we will have you dance to the electric current. Maybe all three at the same time. People have often praised me for the originality of my schemes for making money and damaging society. I am equally original in devising the means and methods of death. You have been warned, Mr Holmes. Cease your activities and live. Continue and you will die. A very good morning to you.”

  Mycroft looked into those fanatic eyes. “Good morning to you too, Graf. Please remember to close the door on your way out.”

  So very German, he said to himself as the Prussian boots echoed down the stairs. There were exceptions, of course, Bach, Beethoven, Goethe and a few more. But on the whole he thought the Graf was like the majority of his fe
llow countrymen, unspeakably vulgar.

  Mrs Hudson had been listening at the door. When the Count had gone she sent word to Lestrade that Mr Holmes’s life was in great danger. The graph, she wrote, remembering her mathematics lessons at school, was threatening to kill him.

  At eight thirty precisely the man with the scar was back. Tobias was already in position with the money. The man handed over two hundred pounds in ten pound notes. He received the entire suitcase and departed, merely observing that he would be in touch presently to commission some more notes.

  When Mycroft set off for his office at eight forty five, he was followed by four plain-clothes detectives, and Inspector Lestrade was waiting for him in his office.

  “Pshaw, man, pshaw!” said Mycroft when informed of the plain-clothes men watching out for his life. “Let the Count try what he will. Quite soon, I hope, the affair will be over.”

  “I am astonished you should say that, Mr Holmes.” Inspector Lestrade looked confused. “Why, you haven’t gone anywhere or even been to see the quarters of the men who bought the forged money.”

  “You must not expect me to behave like my brother, Inspector,” said Mycroft, popping a Turkish Delight into his mouth. “Sherlock was forever running about, crawling along the ground if he felt the need to look for footprints in the snow or scraps of a lady’s dress that had been torn in some domestic conflict. That is not my way.”

  He paused to make a note in his black notebook. “You could say that my brother built up his cases based on the facts. He was always keen on what he referred to as the facts. The visitors to his consulting rooms in Baker Street were seldom asked to do anything other than relate the facts of the case. Out of all this information and what he discovered in his researches at locations like the stables with the missing Silver Blaze he assembled his evidence to reveal the truth. My own method is rather different. I try to deduce the circumstances of the case to fit whatever we know. Once we know that the disagreeable Graf von Stoltenburg is at the centre of the case, we know we have a worthy opponent and a mighty crime to hand in all these forgeries. During yesterday and last night I formed a working hypothesis about this business. Quite soon I hope that we can try it out.”

  Mycroft ambled over to his window and looked out at Horse Guards Parade. Both Lestrade and Tobias expected him to flesh out his theory, to tell them what his hypothesis was. But he did not speak another word and returned to continue writing notes at his desk.

  The representatives of London’s three leading estate agents arrived promptly at eleven o’clock. They looked rather similar, all clean-shaven, all wearing dark blue suits with white shirts and gold cuff links. One was bald. One had a slight limp from a hunting accident. One was fiddling with a silver fountain pen in his left hand.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Mycroft. “Thank you for coming so promptly. We are in need of your expertise and we need it very quickly.”

  “How can we help, Mr Holmes,” said the bald estate agent who appeared to be the spokesman.

  “We are looking for a country house within a thirty to forty mile radius of London. I fancy it is most likely to be to the West, within easy reach of London and the main line to Bristol and Exeter. It will have extensive grounds, well set back from the public view and the public road. I imagine there will be a gatehouse or two round the edge.”

  The estate agents were all writing furiously. Lestrade was staring at Mycroft as if he had just dropped down from a distant planet.

  “One of the key things about this house should be its basement. This will be large with very strong floors. It may have been extended recently. The house will be furnished with electric light and the telephone equipment. I fancy there will be an instrument in the main gatehouse as well. The house will have been bought by its current owner sometime in the last eighteen months, probably less than that. It might have found its way onto the pages of Country Life. It is, I fear, rather a Country Life sort of house.”

  The three estate agents stared at Mycroft. Then the bald one spoke once more. “Very good, Mr Holmes. We shall set to work right away.” Mycroft shook each man by the hand as they left. Lestrade was still looking astounded.

  “How on earth, Mr Holmes,” he began.

  “Let us not waste time on trifles, my dear Inspector. Just consider the evidence. You lost the man at Paddington station, the gateway to the West of England. He had mud on his boots. Printing presses are very heavy. Men attempting to debase the currency are not likely to go about their work on the main road where anybody might see them. And the fact that Graf von Stoltenburg is in London leads me to think that the centre of operation must be here in England rather than on the Continent.”

  Mycroft walked slowly to his window. “One of your men is coming in a great hurry, Inspector, and from the look on his face I should say he is the bearer of bad news.”

  Seconds later there was a loud thump of boots and a knock on the door. A rather flustered plain-clothes man rushed in.

  “He’s done it again, sir, he’s done it again!”

  “Who has done what, Johnston, stop speaking in riddles.”

  “Sorry, sir, it’s the man with the scar, sir. We had two men waiting to follow him. He was wearing a beige raincoat and a trilby hat, sir. By the end of Pall Mall there were two men in beige raincoats with trilby hats. By Lower Regent Street there were four. Then one turned off into Piccadilly, one went up Regent Street and the other two headed off in the direction of the Haymarket and Leicester Square, sir. Our men were so confused they lost all confidence in their abilities and retired to have a cup of tea, I’m afraid to say. They were quite shaken up by the one man turning into four.”

  “Damn, damn and damn again!” said Lestrade, walking rapidly round the room. “We’ve been humbugged again. You said this Graf whatever his name is, must be a clever villain, Mr Holmes. That was certainly pretty sharp work this morning.”

  *

  Salvation came in the afternoon. It came in the form of a letter, typed at great speed and with a number of errors, addressed to Mycroft.

  ‘The house we want,’ it said, ‘is called The Silver Birches, near Reading. It sits one mile to the left on the road from Pangbourne to Tidmarsh, on the left hand side with a pair of gate lodges and a couple of dirty white pillars. Recent sign talks of guard dogs on patrol. House six hundred yards up the drive. Lestrade.’

  “Well, Tobias,” said Mycroft, handing him the note, “there we are. A house near the Thames.” He wondered if he should go in person. He reminded himself that only the other day he had promised himself that if duty and his country called, he would leave his office, his club and his rooms, whatever the cost. He was still considering the matter when the telephone rang. Tobias answered it. Mycroft Holmes was not in the habit of answering the telephone.

  “It’s for you, sir,”

  Mycroft picked up the telephone and examined it carefully.

  “Yes, sir,” he said a number of times. Mycroft knew the voice well. How many times had he sat in on Cabinet meetings as auditor of all Government Departments and heard that voice sum up the arguments and pronounce on policy. The voice was always measured but carried the authority of years in the most important office in Great Britain.

  “Of course, sir,” said Mycroft as he put the phone down. “Tobias, that was the Prime Minister. He wants me, as he put it, to be in on the kill in this business. There may be some eventualities the police would not be capable of solving. The train for Pangbourne leaves from Paddington, if I am not mistaken, and takes forty-two minutes to reach its destination.”

  *

  Inspector Lestrade was waiting by the gate lodge, a stout stick in his right hand. “Glad you could make it, Mr Holmes. We’ve only just got here ourselves. Most of my men are waiting round the next bend. A small party has gone to reconnoitre the main house. I’ve got forty officers in total. That should be enough. I’m going to put a couple of rings of men round the house. When they’re in place, the rest of us will storm in.
There’s an old lady in there,” he nodded to the gate lodge on the right, “who’s got the keys. She’s got a bundle of about twenty-five on one ring.”

  Fifteen minutes later Lestrade departed for a conference with his advance guard. Mycroft Holmes was shivering slightly. He was feeling unwell already. The sickness had started in the train. He wondered how much worse it was going to get. Tobias was looking at him anxiously.

  “Right then, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade was back, rejoicing in the prospect of action and, possibly, a fight. “I’ve got my orders, Mr Holmes, from the Commissioner himself, no less. You’re to stay behind here in the lodge. The Government cannot have their finest auditor run the risk of a stray bullet from a Prussian pistol. You’re much too valuable to be involved in any action, that’s what my Commissioner says.”

  Lestrade looked closely at Tobias, the thin frame, the thick glasses, the faint air Tobias always carried with him of being the classroom swot. He decided that Tobias wouldn’t be much use either if it turned rough, “You’d better stay with Mr Holmes, young Tobias. We may need you to run messages later on.”

  Inspector Lestrade knocked on the door and summoned the crone. She looked well over seventy years old. She was wearing a long woollen dress that might once have been grey and a vast collection of scarves in different colours. She was bent over like a human question mark, and held her bundle of keys firmly in her left hand. Mycroft stared at the crone’s hands. There was something about them with their long thin fingers that seemed to remind him of something, something to do with his childhood long ago. He shook himself suddenly. The illness must be worse than he thought. It was playing tricks with his mind. He would have to go directly to bed when he reached home. Mrs Hudson could bring him some of her excellent beef tea.

  “Could you take us to the house now, please,” said the Inspector. The crone nodded and shuffled slowly up the drive. Lestrade followed, his men falling in behind. The old lady was muttering to herself, pointing at the police officers.