“I have an appointment,” I explained, simply enough, as the watchdog tipped over and treated himself to a closer look at the fine tiled floor. Without waiting for further objection, I took the stairs three at a time. A single floor up, I found a great hall full of books and the sort of stodgy old buggers what might be interested in reading them. It was as good a place as any to start.
“Mr. Mycroft Holmes!” I shouted, holding the pressing note high. “Message for Mr. Mycroft Holmes!”
The looks I got as I paraded through those hallowed halls were fierce. All sorts of scorn and anger were directed my way, but no one said “Boo!” about my intrusion. Probably following their own rule, I expect. The unspoken one about not speaking.
One set of greying mutton chops looked the same as the next white moustache or full beard to me. Which one was Mycroft Holmes was anybody’s guess, if he was there at all. I kept at it, down the length of the long room, my eye on the opposite door, anticipating the next set of cross faces I’d have to brave beyond it. That’s when one of the dusty old statues spoke up from the permanent dent he’d made in a deep leather chair. He set aside the day’s Times and spoke the first words I’d heard in the place since the gent in the main hall had grunted something foul at me from his position on the floor.
“You must be one of Sherlock’s creatures,” said the man, like there was a bad taste in his mouth. It could only be Mycroft Holmes. There was a passing resemblance to his brother, but Mycroft was easily twice the man - at least in girth.
“Right you are!” I said, pleased to know deductions ran in the family. “And how did you figure that?”
“Because whenever there is some dirt swept into my life, I invariably find my brother holding the broom handle.”
“I have an urgent message,” I said.
“Aren’t they all?” he sighed, as much from the effort of getting to his feet as from the imposition.
I tried to hand him the letter, but he refused to take it.
“Come, boy,” he said, waving a couple of fingers at me. “There is a room for visitors where we may speak more freely.”
One of Mycroft Holmes’s fellow statues had taken to giving him a look just as dirty as they one he’d been giving me, holding a finger to his lips and softly shushing him. Mr. Mycroft stopped a moment and stared him down. The man dropped his finger and his eyes right quick, and stuck his nose back in his paper like he’d just discovered a headline that mentioned him by name. A shameful one.
Without any more words to foul up the silence, Mycroft Holmes led me through three more rooms and a barren hallway to a smaller chamber far from all the other club members. He had brought a big stack of documents with him, and seemed relieved when there was a table he could set them down on again.
He turned and held out his hand. At first I thought he wanted to shake mine and make proper introductions, but the gesture was nothing of the sort. He expected me to make delivery, not acquaintance, so I presented him with the first letter. Mr. Mycroft unfolded it, glanced at it for a single instance, and snorted once. He set the page down on the table next to his stack and flattened it with both hands. Once he was satisfied with how the folds were pressed out, he picked up the stack and set it down again on his brother’s letter, filing it dead last in the pile.
“Is that all?” I was asked.
“I think the other Mr. Holmes was expecting you two might have a word about the problem he’s working on.”
That held less than no sway at all.
“Problems, problems, and more problems, ever brewing and threatening to boil over! And who is left minding the stove, I ask you?”
Mycroft Holmes tapped on his chest, as though he were pointing at his own heart. He then rifled through the stack of papers collected before him - official documents and clippings from the news mostly - and began an itemized list purely for his own benefit. I hardly understood a word.
“A double suicide in Austria involving a Crown Prince and his young mistress. Mundane on its surface, but a suspicious eye has been cast upon the Freemasons, and I fear if we keep letting these secret societies assassinate their way through the Austrian-Hungarian royal family, we may see very serious consequences within a generation. Then there’s the constitution under Meiji that has come into effect. What are we to make of what was once a safely backwards feudal nation, now rapidly modernizing and establishing itself as an empire? I do not care for new players taking to the field so late in the game. Likewise, the Americans continue to collect states to unite under their republic. Four more now, including not one but two Dakotas, whatever a Dakota is. I shall have to investigate further. We’ve already been to war with them twice in the last century, and they may be amassing for a third go as far as we know! And, of course, there’s the French. Always the French! They’ve gone and completed that metal monstrosity in Paris. The highest man-made structure in the world and, perhaps, its greatest eyesore. Now I am left explaining to certain imbecilic cabinet members that no, they haven’t built it to spy upon us from across the Channel, curvature of the earth being what it is. One would think they should sleep more soundly at night with so little brain activity, but they are a terrible lot of worriers.”
“You sound worried about the state of things yourself, Mr. Holmes,” I commented.
“No, boy, not the state of things as they stand, but what is yet to come. We have elected officials to deal with the here and now. What England needs is men of vision to anticipate the threats that loom, plots that have yet to be conceived, let alone hatched.”
“Like a fortune teller?” I asked.
“Not at all like a fortune teller. I seek predictions based in facts and evidence, not feelings and fanciful intuition.”
“You sound busy enough, but your brother is going to want an answer. What should I tell him?”
“You may inform Sherlock that I will give his concern in this matter all due attention. He may expect a response no later than the second week of August, 1898.”
I didn’t fancy Sherlock Holmes would be keen to wait the better part of a decade for his brother’s first impressions. He tended to not be the most patient man when it came to gathering particulars for whatever case he was working on,
“He thought you might say that,” I replied. “Which is why he gave me another note to show you.”
I dug into my second pocket and came up with the other slip of paper. The elder Holmes brother took it from me without a word, unfolded it for a look, and turned up his lip at what he saw. He stared in silence for a few long moments and then held the note so I could read it for myself. There was only a single word written on the page.
“Is he serious?” Mr. Mycroft asked me.
The single word, the whole of the message, was “Kitty”.
* * *
Mr. Mycroft and I were in a hansom cab in a matter of minutes. The doorman, nicely recovering, was eager to flag one down for us if it meant serving a founding member and being rid of me.
“You know where the other Mr. Holmes is, then? He said you would.”
“I know where my brother is, where he’ll be next, what case he’s working on, what his interest in it is, what he will discover, and how it will play out. Most pressingly, I know what he wants from me.”
“You know all that from a single word on a piece of paper?”
“All that and more.”
“Pardon me being blunt and all, but ‘Kitty’ ain’t no cat is she? And it’s not much of a proper name, neither. Sometimes it’s a nickname, and oftentimes it’s a rude one.”
“You are quite correct.”
I didn’t dare say for what in front of so fine a gentleman, but I was sure he knew as well as me.
“Mr. Holmes weren’t directing that insult at you, was he?”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“So it’s
about something else then?”
“He didn’t tell you,” he said, not a question.
“All he said is he needed your help.”
“He needs nothing of the sort! What he wants is my blessing. He knows this line of inquiry crosses boundaries with my own current interests. And he’s afraid.”
“Sherlock Holmes scared?” It sounded unlikely to me, the idea of the great detective being scared of anything.
“Petrified,” confirmed Mr. Mycroft. “Of me. He’s afraid he’ll step on my toes as he bumbles after his clues and boot prints and cigar ashes. And if he makes things difficult for me, I’ll see to it that I make things impossible for him.”
“To look at you, I wouldn’t have thought you two was brothers. Hearing you, though, you sure do sound like brothers. Quarrelling ones.”
“Sibling rivalry is beneath me, boy. To be rivals, we would have to operate on the same level. We do not.”
“Maybe if you applied yourself more, you could be in his league one day.”
Mycroft Holmes looked at me for a moment, and I thought he might be angry. And then, for the first of a scarce few times, I saw him laugh.
* * *
“Why are we stopping here?” I asked, outside the building that was only ever paid any heed by visitors to the city intent on gawking. Them and, obviously, the tosh pillocks who worked there.
“Because this is our destination.”
We had pulled up to the curb outside the Houses of Parliament. The gothic yellow stones stretched high above us. A palace of over a thousand rooms, Mycroft Holmes led me into those corridors of power like he knew exactly where he was going. Like he owned the place. I understood there were all sorts of rules and protocols about who was supposed to use which entrance or what door, but none of them seemed to apply to Mr. Mycroft. He went straight to the precise man behind the exact desk in the correct room, and was formally acknowledged.
“Name and purpose of visit?” asked the clerk, pen poised over his ledger book.
“I have scarce time for formalities,” said Mr. Mycroft impatiently. “You know who I am and why I am here.”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, and the clerk set down his pen and closed the ledger.
“Is the House still in session?”
“They’re wrapping up question period now, sir. They should be out in a matter of minutes.”
Mr. Mycroft looked towards the nearby stairs.
“Is he waiting?”
“Yes, sir, he’s...”
Mycroft Holmes was on his way up before the clerk could finish.
“I know the way,” he said.
“Children aren’t permitted...” the clerk began when he saw me at his heel.
“He’s an official envoy and he is with me,” said Mr. Mycroft without so much as turning back to address the man properly. I shrugged at the clerk and ran to keep up. There was no need for a bollocks-boxing here. Apparently, whatever Mycroft Holmes said was golden.
“I’m a what now?” I asked him as we reached the first steps.
“Do you know what a go-between is?”
“Yes.”
“Same thing,” he puffed. Five stairs up and Mr. Mycroft was already winded. He explained anyway as he took the flight like he was climbing a mountain. “Communication between my brother and I can be strained. Having a third party present allows us to speak to each other through an intermediary. Sherlock’s pet physician has served the purpose quite handily but, as he’s honeymooning on the Continent, you will have to do.”
“How do I envoy this go-between, then?”
We stopped at the first landing so he could catch his breath.
“Ask foolish questions, say little else, pay obsequious compliments when presented with astounding feats of intellect. The latter is not for my benefit, of course, but Sherlock seems to enjoy it and it puts him on a less defensive footing.”
With that, he braved another flight. The waiting room was on the second level. I had every confidence he could make it.
“Mycroft,” I heard a familiar voice say in greeting a few minutes later, before we were even at the threshold.
“Quite right,” said Mycroft Holmes, as he stepped inside and into the line of sight of his brother. “Doubtless you heard the distinct squeak of the Italian leather stitched together by the cobbler who custom makes my shoes. Or was it the ring of the sterling-silver tip of my cane against marble floors that gave me away?”
“Your wheezing,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “It is as unmistakable as your voice.”
Mr. Mycroft sat down heavily in a chair opposite the one where his brother waited patiently for an audience - either with a sitting member of parliament or the relation who had come to see him. Maybe both.
“Kitty?” said Mr. Mycroft, disdain for the term in his voice.
“Kitty,” agreed the detective.
Mycroft Holmes grumbled and stewed in his seat.
“Shall I list for you the better things I have to occupy my days?”
“Doubtless poor Wiggins has already received an earful. I shall ask him for a summary at a later date.”
“To that list you may add events in East Africa that have only just come to my attention. Even as we speak, Yohannes the Fourth is having his head paraded through the streets of Omdurman on a pike, as though it were the Middle Ages all over again!”
“Your doing?”
“I may have had a hand in negotiating the retreat of the Egyptian army through his lands, but the Mahdist overreaction is unbecoming. It gives one pause when considering further entangling ourselves in that corner of the globe.”
“My current line of inquiry does not involve quite so imposing a pile of bodies, nor the accompanying sea of blood. Nevertheless, it remains a very serious matter of murder.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Mycroft, waving a dismissive hand.
“You do not share my impression of the sequence of events?”
“I do not. Though I expect that will not dissuade you from meddling.”
I thought it might be a good time for one of those foolish questions Mr. Mycroft suggested I throw in to keep the exchange from getting too awkward.
“Who are we talking about?”
Wrong question. Both brothers fell silent, with neither of them willing to say names out loud. I tried again.
“Is this one of them delicate and personal state secrets Dr. Watson is always talking about not including in those stories he’s working on?”
“Some of my cases require a certain degree of discretion, Wiggins,” the younger Holmes explained to me patiently.
“Mum’s the word then,” I promised. “So which one is the delicate bit, and which one’s the personal part?”
“The delicate element involves the volatile nature of Irish nationalism, which is precisely the debate our two members of the House of Commons have immersed themselves in below. The personal element comes from the fact that one of these men has been - involved-with the other man’s wife for a decade now. It has been an open secret between the two for many years. Illegitimate children have resulted, and a challenge to fight a duel issued on at least one occasion. All water under the bridge now. But something has changed, and the status quo has been upset.”
The elder Holmes continued where his brother left off.
“Captain O’Shea suffered the indignity for as long as he did because there was money in it for him. An inheritance was due to his wife, and from her to him by prior agreement. And so he waited, impatiently, for Katharine’s wealthy aunt to die. Only, now that she has, the terms of succession have changed, and the money is being held in trust for Katharine’s cousins instead.”
The names meant nothing to me, but then I don’t follow politics none too close, do I? I wasn’t really the one they wer
e talking to anyway. The conversation was between brothers, with me acting as the wire between two telegraph posts set many miles apart.
“O’Shea, as you can imagine, is rather put out,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Disappointed?” I prompted.
“Apoplectic,” was the summary from Mycroft Holmes. “Despite the best efforts behind the scenes to talk him out of it, he’s filing for divorce at last. Aside from being an affront to Irish Catholicism, the scandal, once it goes public, will be enormous. Careers will be ruined, and the House will be thrown into a state of turmoil when it can least afford to be. Worse, I will have to involve myself in putting out fires in Westminster, when my efforts are better spent elsewhere, containing far greater and longer-term threats than the ramifications of some foolish love triangle.”
“Your current hornet’s nest in Ethiopia, for one?” the younger brother said, like a poke in the ribs.
“For one of many.”
The penny dropped once I’d had a few moments to think it through. Just one penny, but at least I made the connection.
“This man’s wife, Katharine... She’s the Kitty in question.”
“A name she has never used, but one whispered frequently behind her back, as a slight to her - shall we say - private conduct,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“The principals involved in this scandal-in-the-making are not to be approached, spoken to, or communicated with in any fashion,” insisted Mr. Mycroft. “I absolutely forbid it! This includes all family, close or extended. Do I make myself clear, Sherlock?”
Mycroft Holmes made a point of being excessively firm with his brother. There would be no misinterpretation.
“What about the cousins? One of them may very well be guilty of murder.”
“Consider them equally off limits,” said Mr. Mycroft, closing off all avenues of inquiry and making the detective’s job impossible.
“How am I to conduct a proper investigation of a potential crime if I am prohibited from interviewing suspects?”
Mr. Mycroft was already rising to his feet and preparing to leave. He’d made himself clear and he wasn’t about to stick around long enough to suggest there was room for debate.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 26