by Rob Nunn
“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I do.”
Watson was stunned by this news. Another Holmes? And one that was smarter than his friend? Over their years of friendship, Watson had come to regard Holmes as an orphan with no relatives living, due to Holmes’ lack of reference to his own people.
“If there is another man like you in England, how is it that neither the police nor public has heard of him? And surely he cannot possess powers greater than yours!”
“My dear Watson,” said Holmes, “how many of the public know my name? My name is known in certain circles only because I have allowed it to be for certain business reasons. And I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate oneself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers. When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.”
“Is he your junior?”
“Seven years my senior.”
“How is it that he is unknown?”
“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle, the Diogenes Club, for example. It is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men. He’s always there from a quarter to five till twenty to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful evening, I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities.”
Five minutes later, Holmes and Watson were walking towards Regent Circus.
“You wonder,” said Holmes, “why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for public work. He is incapable of it.”
“But I thought you said...”
“I said that he was superior in observation and deduction. If the art of deduction began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest public agent that ever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He would not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have taken a problem to him and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one. And yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be executed.”
“Deduction is not his profession, then?”
“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and audits the books in some of the government departments.”
“The government! But Holmes, surely he knows of your profession!”
“He does. He does not approve, but tolerates it. We have an understanding that as long as my exploits do not infringe upon national issues and they stay away from more barbaric crimes, then he will allow me to have my reign. When I say that he will explain a problem to me, it is only in cases where the welfare of a client is involved. He is in no way interested in helping me defraud others for my own personal gain.”
“But why would he tolerate behavior such as ours?”
“I have, from time to time, been able to do the leg work in matters for the government, which he is incapable of having the energy of doing himself.”
Suddenly, it dawned on Watson. “The Secretary of State! Was he sent to you by your brother?”
“Yes, Mycroft knew that I could be trusted with such an issue as the potentate’s letter. And because I do such favors for him, he is willing to look the other way when it comes to my chosen profession. I have no doubt that Mycroft could have found the missing letter, but he takes no exercise and is seen nowhere except his lodgings in Pall Mall, Whitehall, and the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms.”
“I cannot recall the name of such a club.”
“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to the comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. Being a club man yourself, Watson, you understand. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’s Room, no talking is permitted. My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”
“But I still fail to see how your brother could allow you to operate as you do.”
“Mycroft intercedes from time to time. I understand that my position is a precarious one, and do not wish to upset those who could put a stop to it.”
“What a mysterious man.”
“It is a mistake to confuse strangeness with mystery.”
The two men stopped at a door some little distance from the Carlton, and Holmes led the way in after cautioning Watson not to speak. Through the glass paneling, one could catch a glimpse of a large and luxurious room in which a considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed Watson into a small chamber which looked out on to Pall Mall, and then left for a minute, to return with a companion who could only be his brother.
Mycroft Holmes was a large and stout man, much more so than his brother. His body was absolutely corpulent, though his massive face preserved the same sharpness of expression as his brother. His watery grey eyes had a far-away introspective look when they met Watson’s.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” Mycroft said, putting out a broad, flat hand, like the flipper of a seal. “You are a medical man, I see. A retired army surgeon.
“By the way, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, “I expected to see you round last week to consult me over that Manor House problem.”
“No, I solved it,” said the younger Holmes, smiling.
“Adams was the key, of course?”
“Yes, Adams held the answers.”
“Very good. I was sure of it from the first. Your deductions are coming along nicely.”
“Yes, detective work has always been an alternative profession had I cared to adopt it.”
Mycroft grunted something close to a chuckle and the two brothers sat down in the bow-window of the club. “To anyone who wishes to study mankind this is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificent types! Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for example.”
“The billiard-marker and the other?”
“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”
“An old soldier, I perceive,” said Sherlock.
“And very recently discharged.”
“Served in India, I see.”
“As a non-commissioned officer,” Mycroft replied.
“Royal Artillery, I fancy.”
“And a widower.”
“But with a child,” said Sherlock.
“Children, my dear boy, children.”
Watson had seen Holmes perform such feats many times, but to see two such men at work, and one able to do better than his friend was astonishing. Mycroft saw the look on his face and smiled. He took snuff from a tortoiseshell box and brushed away the grains from his coat with a large silk handkerchief.
“By the way, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, “I have had something quite after your own heart - a most singular problem - submitted to my judgment. I really had not the energy to follow it up, save in a very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some very pleasing speculations. If you would care to hear the facts...”
“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.”
Mycroft scribbled a note and rang the bell, handing it to the waiter when he appeared.
“I have asked Mr. Melas to step across,” Mycroft said. “He lodges on the floor above me. He has come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is Greek by extraction, and he is
a remarkable linguist. He earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts, partly by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit. I think I will leave him to tell his own very remarkable experience in his own fashion.”
As they waited, Mycroft congratulated Holmes on his latest writing on the influence of a trade upon the form of hands, and critiqued some minor points. Sherlock accepted the praise and criticism graciously. Watson was unsure if it were due to respect of his brother’s intellect or to his position in the government. A few minutes later, a short, stout, olive-faced man came in and shook hands with the men, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure when he understood that Sherlock was anxious to hear his story.
“I do not believe that the police credit me - on my word I do not,” said Melas in a wailing voice. “Just because they have never heard of it before, they think that such a thing cannot be. But I know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face.”
“I am all attention,” said the younger Holmes.
Melas told the men an extraordinary tale. Two nights ago, he was hired by a man named Harold Latimer to translate at an estate in Kensington. Melas was put into a carriage with its windows covered, and Latimer sat across from him. When Melas commented that they seemed to be taking a long route to Kensington, Latimer pulled out a bludgeon, and told Melas that he was to ask no more questions. Latimer promised to pay him for his inconvenience, but promised that if word ever got out about the night’s business, Melas would be visited with violence. The two men sat in silence for the remainder of the two hour ride.
The carriage eventually arrived and Melas was hurried into a large and poorly lit house. Another man, nervous and giggling, was waiting in the room for them, and finally a deadly pale and terribly emaciated man was brought into the room, his face grotesquely crisscrossed with sticking-plaster. Melas was ordered to interrogate this poor man, and once he realized that the kidnappers did not know any Greek, Melas began to add his own questions to find out what he was involved in.
Through this process, Melas was able to find out that the man’s name was Kratides, he was from Athens, he had only been in London for three weeks, the men were starving him, and he did not know where he was. From the questions he was being forced to ask, Melas could also figure out that then men were trying to force Kratides to sign over property, and that a woman was somehow involved.
Before Melas could find out any more information, a tall and graceful woman stepped into the room and was surprised to see Kratides there, calling out, “Oh my God, it is Paul! Brother!”
Kratides called out to his sister, Sophy, and rushed into her arms, only to have Latimer force her out of the room. Melas was paid five sovereigns and ushered back out into the carriage, but not before the giggling man could issue another warning to him not to speak of this to another human soul.
After Melas finished, the room sat silent for some time before Holmes asked his brother, “Any steps?”
Mycroft picked up the Daily News and read an advertisement. “’Anybody supplying any information as to the whereabouts of a Greek gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak English, will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to anyone giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy. X2473.’ That was in all the dailies. No answer. They also know nothing at the Greek Legation.”
“A wire to the head of the Athens police, then.”
“Sherlock has all the energy of the family,” Mycroft said to Watson. “Well, you take up the problem by all means, and let me know if you do any good.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, rising from his chair. “I’ll let you know, and Mr. Melas also. In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should certainly be on my guard if I were you. For, of course, they must know through these advertisements that you have betrayed them.”
Walking home, Watson asked Holmes, “There is no financial gain in this matter. Why are you taking an interest in it?”
“Mycroft does me a service by allowing my enterprises to continue by not raising an alarm, and when he presents a problem to me, it is my way of doing a service in return. And, as we have nothing else pressing at the moment, this problem allows me a modest protest against the monotony of existence when opportunities are scarce.”
When the two men reached Baker Street, Holmes entered their rooms first and gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoulder, Watson was also astonished to see Mycroft Holmes sitting and smoking in the armchair, absorbed in a collection of pictures of the modern Belgian masters.
Setting down the book, Mycroft said blandly, “Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir. You don’t expect such energy from me, do you, Sherlock? But somehow this problem attracts me.”
“How did you get here?”
“I passed you in a hansom.”
“There has been some new development?”
“I had an answer to my advertisement. It came within a few minutes of your leaving.”
“And to what effect?”
Mycroft produced a sheet of paper. “Here it is. Written with a J pen on royal cream paper by a middle-aged man with a weak constitution. ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘in answer to you advertisement of today’s date, I beg to inform you that I know the young lady in question very well. If you should care to call upon me, I could give you some particulars as to her painful history. She is living at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham. Yours faithfully, J. Davenport.’ He writes from Lower Brixton. Do you not think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars?”
“My dear Mycroft, the brother’s life is more valuable than the sister’s story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson and go straight out to Kensington.”
“Better pick up Mr. Melas upon our way. We may need an interpreter,” Watson suggested.
“Excellent, Watson!” said Holmes.
“A splendid idea. I can see his importance to your organization,” smiled Mycroft.
“Watson, send the boy for a four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once.” Holmes opened the table drawer and slipped his revolver into his pocket. Noticing Watson’s glance, he said, “Yes, I should say from what we have heard that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang.”
“Can I be of assistance?” Watson asked.
“Your presence might be invaluable,” Holmes smiled.
When the men reached Pall Mall, Melas was gone. The landlady told them that a nervous, laughing gentleman had called for him and that they drove away in a carriage. Watson and the Holmes brothers rushed to Scotland Yard, only to be delayed by more than an hour for Gregson to comply with formalities that would allow them to legally enter the house. Holmes’ decision to work outside of the law was only reinforced by such a delay.
When they finally reached the house described by Melas, it was empty, and wheel tracks showed Holmes that a heavily loaded carriage had left an hour prior. Gregson hammered loudly at the door and pulled the bell, without any success while Holmes slipped away. Returning after a few minutes, Holmes stated, “I have a window open.”
The inspector, noting the clever way in which Holmes had forced back the catch of the window, noted, “Well, I think that, under the circumstances, we may enter. It is a mercy that you are a law-abiding citizen, Mr. Holmes.”
One after the other, the men made their way into the house and heard a low moaning above their heads. They dashed up the stairs, Holmes and the inspector leading with Watson at their heels, while Mycroft followed as quickly as his bulk would permit.
Holmes burst through the door from which the moans emanated, only to burst back out with his hand at his throat. “It’s charcoal! Give it time. It will clear.”
Peering in, they could see that two men were crouched against the wall. Rushing in, they got to the poisoned men and dragged th
em out onto the landing. Both men were blue lipped and swollen. Mr. Melas survived the ordeal, but Watson could quickly see that they had arrived too late to help the emaciated man.
Once he was able to talk, Melas told the rescue party his story. He was threatened at his own apartment by the giggling man and brought back here for another interview. Kratides was being threatened even harder this time, but did not give in. Finally, the captors hurled him into the poisonous room and turned on Melas, shaking the newspaper advertisement in his face. He was struck from behind and remembered nothing else until he was pulled out of the room by Gregson and Watson.
Melas had also learned during the interview that Sophy was from a wealthy Grecian family, and while on a visit to England met Harold Latimer. He had convinced her to fly away, and her friends alerted her brother, Paul, who came to England after her. When he found Latimer and his foul associate, they realized that Paul was ignorant of their language and made him prisoner in the house, without the girl’s knowledge until he would sign away their property.
That was the end of the adventure of the Greek interpreter until months later, when a curious newspaper cutting was forwarded to Baker Street. It told how two Englishmen had met with a tragic end in Budapest. They had each been stabbed and the Hungarian police were of the opinion that they had quarreled and had inflicted moral injuries upon each other.
After reading this, Holmes looked to Watson, “If one could find the Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged.”
“Was the newspaper story sent from your brother?” Watson asked.
“No. If Mycroft had sent it, it would have been marked from Pall Mall. This is clear of any identifying marks.”
“There were did the cutting come from?”
“I propose that Professor Moriarty has been keeping an eye on our activities, just as we have been observing his.”
Chapter 9: Possession of a Considerable Treasure
“Which is it today,” asked Watson, “morphine or cocaine?”