I frowned. “Why stupid, Holmes?”
“Because the most successful criminal is one who does not draw attention to himself or his crime. A naked siren dancing on a rock-why, that is enough to bring all manner of interested persons rushing to this isolated part of Cornwall. The supernatural always entices people like moths are enticed to a candle. Sooner or later, he would have been discovered.”
“But you discovered him the sooner, Holmes,” I pointed out.
“It required no great mental effort on my part, dear fellow. I fear that people will think the less of my powers of deduction if they perceive this as a case of which I am proud. Therefore, I entreat you not to publish any account of it until after I have shuffled off this mortal coil.”
He gave a deep sigh.
“Now, I hope, we can return to our cottage and suffer no more interruptions. After all, I am down here to rest from such activities. Once again, my dear Watson, I think we may dismiss the matter from our mind, and go back with a clear conscience to the study of those Chaldean roots that are surely to be traced in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech.”
THE KIDNAPPING OF MYCROFT HOLMES
Iwas watching the face of my estimable friend, Sherlock Holmes, who sat opposite me at the breakfast table. He was examining the telegraph that Mrs. Hudson had brought up with the tea tray, his features mirroring his perplexity. The tea was left untouched.
“Some bad news, Holmes?” I ventured, no longer able to contain my curiosity.
He glanced up and blinked. Then he held out the flimsy sheet of paper toward me. “A most singular communication from my brother, Mycroft.”
I took the telegraph and read: Should anything happen to me, do not trust the man who is Gentle. If I disappear, look for me near the Lump of Goats in the land of the Race of Ciar.-Mycroft.
I started to chuckle. “Is he fond of a tipple, this brother of yours?” I said. “It sounds as though he were the worse for a glass or two when he wrote it.”
But Holmes’s face was serious, and he seemed concerned. “You do not know Mycroft. It is some cipher that I must solve. He must be in trouble if he cannot telegraph me in plain language.”
Holmes retired to his armchair, and soon I became aware of the wreath of smoke rising slowly from his pipe. It reminded me that I was short on tobacco and so, finishing my breakfast, I went out to the local tobacconist. I also bought a newspaper. When I returned, barely fifteen minutes later, I found Holmes in a high state of agitation.
“Watson,” he cried as I entered, “thank God you have returned. I need you to accompany me on a short trip.”
“Whatever is the matter, dear fellow?” I demanded, never having seen him moved to such emotion before.
“You’ll need an overnight case,” he went on, not heeding my question, “and pack your service revolver. I fear that there may be difficult times ahead.”
“Where are we off to?” I inquired.
“Dublin,” he said shortly.
“To Ireland?” I was astonished. “Whatever for?”
He turned to me with a haunted look in his eyes. “I received another telegraph but ten minutes ago. It is my brother, Mycroft. He has been kidnapped.”
It seems that I should pause in my narrative to make some explanation of those matters that Holmes was always reticent about my sharing with the English public in the accounts I made of his adventures. Of course, to the discerning eye, many clues as to the nature of Holmess background have been plainly visible in my chronicles, although it was at his insistence that I never clearly spelled them out. I refer to the fact that Sherlock Holmes is Irish or, to be more precise, AngloIrish. Holmes had, however, a fear of prejudice, and this was not without cause. Therefore, I have promised him (and stipulated to my executors) that my accounts of those cases directly concerned with his background, such as the one I am about to relate, will not be released until one hundred years after his death.
Sherlock Holmes was of the Holmes family of Galway, which settled in Ireland in the seventeenth century. His uncle, Robert Holmes, was the famous Galway barrister whom the Irish have to thank for the organization of their National Schools. The Sherlock family on his mothers side, after which he was named, arrived in Meath at the time of Henry IFs invasion of Ireland. He achieved distinction at Trinity College, Dublin, before winning a scholarship to Oxford-emulating his equally brilliant friend from Dublin, Oscar Wilde. His Irish background led to his interest in the Celtic languages and his subsequent authorship of such monographs as Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language.
It was shortly after we met that I realized the acuteness of his ear in linguistic manners.
“Watson,” he had said reflectively. “A name very common in northeast Ulster. I detect a County Down diction. You are probably descended from the old Scottish family of Mac Bhaididh, for that is usually Anglicized as Watson or MacWhatty or MacQuatt.”
“Astounding, Holmes!” I gasped. “How did you know? I began my education in England at the age of seven!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.” He smiled mischievously. “You still retain the rising inflection at the ends of sentences. The musical rhythm of an accent is harder to displace than pronunciation.”
It may also be remembered that Holmess two greatest antagonists-Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran-shared his Irish background. Indeed, like seems to have attracted like. Had I a gold sovereign for every time someone with an Irish name and background crossed our path, I would be a rich man. Take our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Many visitors who lacked a fine ear mistook her as Scottish, and Holmes (who was possessed of a perverse sense of humor) was not loath to play up this charade. She was, in actuality, an Irish lady who had been married to one of the numerous Hudsons of Kilbaha in County Kerry.
I make this brief digression merely so that the background to this extraordinary story may be more fully appreciated.
Holmes had been summoned to Dublin that day-a little over a year since we’d first met-by a laconic telegraph that read: Mycroft kidnapped. Meet me at Merrion Square. Superintendent Mallon, DMP. He explained that his brother, Mycroft, had his rooms in Merrion Square. DMP stood for the Dublin Metropolitan Police.
Having caught the nightboat train at Paddington, we arrived at Kingstown, the port near Dublin, in the early hours of Saturday morning May 6, 1882. I make mention of the date for the sake of the more historically minded reader, as this was an historic time for Ireland and its relations with Britain. During the journey-a wild, dark trip across the stormblown Irish sea spent mainly in the first class lounge nursing whiskeys to keep down the mal de mer-Holmes told me something of his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft was seven years older than Holmes, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, who had decided to make his career in Dublin Castle, the seat of the imperial administration in Ireland. He worked in the fiscal department of the Under Secretary, a permanent official who was head of the Civil Service. According to Holmes, his brother was possessed of a brilliant mind but was indolent and not given to sports or physical exercise and so was heavy in build.
“Why would anyone want to kidnap him?” I queried. “Is kidnapping usual in Ireland?”
Holmes replied with a shake of his head. “Not at all. But it does not escape my notice that there is some political unrest in the country at this time. Have you been following Irish political events in the newspapers?”
I confessed that I had not and was surprised that Holmes had been, as he had always confessed his knowledge of political matters to be feeble. After this exchange, Holmes became moody and refused to speculate further.
The journey from Kingstown into Westland Row, via the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, was made in morose silence. Holmes now and then would take out the two telegraphs he had received and examine them with a deep furrow of concentration on his broad brow.
Alighting from the train at Westland Row Railway Station, Holmes ignored the cabbies and conducted me, with unerring step, to a magnificent square of Georgian
houses a short walk from the station. He went directly to one of the terraced buildings and paused before the door. I saw that it was ajar. Holmes pushed at it tentatively. It swung open, revealing a shadowy, cavernous hallway.
“Mycroft’s rooms are on the second floor,” he explained as I followed him inside and up the stairs.
He halted before a door with a glimmering gaslight beside it, which illuminated a small brass frame affixed to one of the wooden panels. A card inserted in the frame read MYCROFT HOLMES, ARTIUM BACCALAUREUS. Holmes tapped on the door. It swung open immediately, and a large, floridfaced uniformed constable stood scowling at us.
“Is Mallon here?” asked Holmes before the constable could speak. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“Superintendent Mallon is…,” began the constable ponderously, but another man, seeming to be in his early forties, quickly appeared at his shoulder.
“I am John Mallon,” he said. There was no disguising his Ulster accent. “I have heard of you from my colleague Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You are the younger brother of Mr. Mycroft Holmes? I suppose by your presence here that you must have heard the news? Well, there is nothing that I can tell you at this stage. You should not have made the journey-”
Holmes cut him short by handing him one of the telegraphs. I perceived that it was the one summoning Holmes to Dublin, which had seemed to be sent by Mallon.
The detective glanced at it, and a frown gathered on his brow. “I did not send this,” he said.
“So I have gathered. The questions are-who did and why?”
Mallon glanced at the paper again. “This was sent from the GPO in Sackville Street. Anyone could have sent it.”
“Curious that you are here to meet me in accordance with the summons.”
“Coincidental. No one knew I was coming here until midnight last night. That was when the local police notified me that your brother was missing.”
At this stage, Mallon stood aside and gestured for Holmes to enter his brothers rooms. I followed and was met with a look of disapproving query.
“This is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson,” explained Holmes, at which Mallon reluctantly acknowledged my existence before calling out, “MacVitty!”
At the summons, a tall cadaverouslooking man came from an inner room. He was dressed so that no one would doubt that he was exactly what he appeared to be-a gentleman’s gentleman. Mallon inquired whether MacVitty had sent the telegraph to London. The man shook his head. Then he turned his keen eyes on Holmes and greeted him as one known of old. “It’s good to see you again, Master Sherlock, but I’d rather it were under better conditions.”
“I gather that you summoned the police, MacVitty,” Holmes replied kindly. “Let’s hear the details.”
“Not much to tell. Master Mycroft was expected home on Thursday night. He was going to dine in and not at his club. He gave me specific orders to have a sea trout and a chilled bottle of PouillyFume ready. When he did not turn up, I thought he had changed his mind. But then Mr. O’Keeffe came down. He said that he had been invited to brandy and cigars. Mr. O’Keeffe works with Master Mycroft at the Castle, sir.”
“You said ‘came down,’” Holmes said quickly.
“Mr. O’Keeffe has rooms on the top floor of this building. He waited awhile before returning to his own apartment. When Master Mycroft did not show up for breakfast, I sent for the police.”
“And that was Friday morning?” queried Holmes sharply.
“The local police did not think it necessary to act until late last night,” said Mallon defensively. “There are many reasons why an unattached gentleman might not return home at night….”
“It is strange that you turn up now, Mallon,” mused Holmes, “at the precise time the telegraph asked me to meet you here.”
Mallon’s eyes narrowed. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“Information is a twoway street. I know that you are no ordinary policeman, Mallon. You are the director of the detective branch of G Division, which is devoted to political matters such as investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Land League, and other such extremist movements. I know that you were the very man who arrested Charles Parnell of the Irish Party at Morrison’s Hotel last October. This doubtless implies that your superiors believe a political motive is behind my brother’s disappearance.”
Mallon smiled sourly. He seemed to be irritated by the reference to his superiors. “It is the job of G Division to make itself acquainted with everything that happens to highly placed political personages-especially in this day and age.”
“Yet you have formed no opinion of what has occurred?”
“Not as yet, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes sighed and then, with a quick beckoning gesture to me, he headed for the door. “We shall doubtless be in touch again, Mallon,” he said. “We will take rooms in the Kildare Street Club.”
Outside the door, he addressed me in a low tone. “Come, Watson. We will speak with Mr. O’Keeffe. He should not have departed for work as yet,” he added, with a glance at his fob watch.
We started up the stairs only to be met by a young man coming down them. He was well dressed and carried himself in a lackadaisical manner.
“Mr. O’Keeffe?” queried Holmes, acting on impulse.
The young man halted, then frowned as he examined us. “That’s me,” he said. “Who might you be?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes, the brother of Mycroft. This is my friend Doctor Watson.”
O’Keeffes expression was one of friendly concern. “Has old Mycroft turned up?”
Holmes shook his head. “I understand that you were to have had brandy and cigars in his room on the evening that he went missing?”
“I thought there was something odd going on that evening,” the young man confessed, apparently crestfallen at our negative news.
Holmes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Odd? In what way?”
“We left the Castle together and walked down towards Nassau Street. We’d made arrangements to meet later, so I left him on the corner of Nassau and Dawson, as I had an appointment. I had gone but a few yards when something made me glance back. I saw Mycroft speaking to a couple of singular covers. Not out of place, you understand, but clearly rough diamonds. Thickset fellows. One seemed to be jabbing him in the ribs with his finger. I turned back, but as I did so, a carriage pulled up, a fairsized one. It was covered in a caleche, I think it is called. You know the sort. There was an emblem on the door, as I recall-a scallop shell depicted in white. It appeared to me that Mycroft was pushed into the carriage by the two men, who then followed him in. It was rolling away down Nassau Street before I got anywhere near it.”
Holmes stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Perhaps just as well,” he muttered.
The young man was puzzled. “Why, what do you mean?”
“I believe that Mycroft was propelled into the carriage at the point of a revolver, and had you interfered, you would have been shot.”
“Do you really think so?” O’Keeffe seemed astounded.
“I would be prepared to wager on it,” Holmes assured him. “This was the last you saw of Mycroft, I presume?”
“Indeed, it was. I did not feel alarmed enough to mention this to anyone then. Later I turned up at his rooms as we had arranged, hoping he would give me an explanation of his carriage ride. But MacVitty told me that Mycroft had not returned, even though he had ordered his supper to be ready. I waited awhile, but he did not turn up.” He looked directly at Holmes. “I suppose it would not be difficult to trace a carriage with such an emblem?”
“Did you send a telegraph to me?” Holmes said, ignoring his question.
“Never thought of it, old boy-couldn’t even if I had. Mycroft said he had a younger brother in London somewhere, but I had no way of knowing your address.” He suddenly glanced at his pocket watch. “Sorry, have to dash. Lots to do today. The new Lord Lieutenant and Chief Secretary are arriving to take over the administration. Must be at the Castle
and spruced up. Have to act as the Viceroy’s ADC at the Viceregal Lodge tonight. Don’t worry, old boy. G Division will sort things out. I saw Mallon of the DMP arrive a short while ago. You’re in safe hands.”
With a flourish of his hat, the young man passed on his way.
I saw that Holmes’s face was glum. “Perhaps we’d better have a wash and brush up,” I ventured. “It wasn’t an easy overnight journey on the train and boat. We will do no good if we are in a state of fatigue.”
Holmes agreed. We were about to leave the house when Superintendent Mallon came out of Mycroft’s rooms. He seemed surprised to find us still in the house. “I’ll walk with you to Kildare Street, gentlemen,” he offered as he opened the door.
I was sure Holmes was going to refuse and was surprised when he accepted. “That is good of you, Superintendent.”
“The old city is in a fine state with the arrival of the new Lord Lieutenant,” said Mallon obliviously as we left the house. “They say that Gladstone has taken leave of his senses and done a deal with the Republicans. He’s let the leaders out of jail. Given them their cherished land reforms. The next thing we’ll see is a parliament back here in Dublin. Give these Fenians an inch, and they’ll take a mile. They say that’s the purpose for which Lord Cavendish has just replaced Lord Cowper as Viceroy.”
I did not follow Irish politics, although I knew something about the recent land war against the big landowners-a reaction to the worsening conditions experienced by Irish tenant farmers. There had been the famous case of Captain Boycott, Lord Erne’s estate manager, who had been ostracized by his workers and the local community. The campaign had been led by members of the Land League and Irish Party, who also wanted selfgovernment for Ireland.
“There’ll be trouble, mark my words, if Cavendish does start to give the Fenians more concessions,” went on Mallon. “And you don’t have to stretch the imagination to see the connections between them. I hear Cavendish is even related to ParnelPs wife. Parnell, Davitt, Sexton, and Dillon-the Fenian leaders-are already on their way to London to discuss matters with Gladstone, while Cavendish and his new Chief Secretary Burke arrive here.”
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