“Has His Grace mislaid something?” I queried.
The waiter, the same individual who had conducted us to our table when we entered, turned mournful eyes upon me. There was a glint of suspicion in them. “Indeed, he has, sir. How did you know?”
“I observed that you were searching on and around the table where he had recently been seated. From that, one deduces that he had lost something that he thought he had with him at that table.”
The man’s gaze fell in disappointment at the logic of my reply.
“What has he lost?” I pressed.
“His toilet case, sir.”
Mycroft gave an illconcealed guffaw. “A toilet case? What is a man doing bringing a toilet case into a dining room?”
The waiter turned to Mycroft. “His Grace is a very fastidious and eccentric person, Mr. Holmes.” The man evidently knew Mycroft by sight “He carries the case with him always.”
“A valuable item?” I hazarded.
“Not really, sir. At least, not financially so.”
“Ah, you mean it has great sentimental value for the Duke?” I suggested.
“It was a gift which King William gave to one of His Grace’s ancestors as a personal memento when the man saved his life during the battle at the Boyne. And now, gentlemen, if you have not seen the item…”
He went on his way.
Mycroft was passing his napkin over his mouth, “Now how about a port or brandy in the hall?”
The lofty hall of the club, with its biggame trophies and blazing fire and staircase of elaborately carved stonework, was where members gathered for their afterluncheon drinks and cigars.
We rose and made our way out of the dining room. Our path led us by the table of Colonel Moran, and as we passed by I noticed that the colonels dark suit was ill chosen, for it showed up his dandruff. I grant you it is such small observations that sometimes irritate my fellows. But if one is prone to dandruff, at least one should have the good sense to wear a light color in which the telltale white powder and silver hairs would be less noticeable.
As we made our way into the hall, we saw the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan standing with the head waiter and a gentleman who Mycroft informed me was the chairman of the directors of the club.
His Grace was clearly distressed. “It is priceless! A value beyond measure!” He was almost wailing.
“I cannot understand it, Your Grace. Are you sure that you had it with you in the dining room?”
“Young man,” snapped the elderly duke, “do you accuse me of senility?”
The “young man,” who was about fifty years of age, blanched and took a step backward before the old man’s baleful gaze. “Not at all, Your Grace, not at all. Just tell me the facts again.”
“After finishing my luncheon, I went into the washroom. I washed my hands and then brushed my hair. It is my custom to do so after luncheon. I took my silver hairbrush from my leather case, which I always carry with me. I remember clearly that I returned it to the case. I left the case on the washstand and went into the toilet. I came out, washed my hand, and then realized that the case was no longer there.”
The head waiter was looking glum. “I have already suggested to His Grace that the case might have been left in the dining room and sent one of the waiters to check. It was not there.”
The old man bristled. “Knew it would be a damned waste of time. Said so. I know where it went missing. I’d start interrogating your employees, sir. At once!”
The club chairman looked unhappy. “Your Grace, please allow us time to search the premises before we start anything so drastic. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid?…”
“Mislaid!” The word was an explosion. “Dammit! Mislaid! Do you take me for a fool, sir? I demand that an interrogation of your employees begin at once. I suggest that you now send for the DMP!”
The mention of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had made the chairman slightly pale. “Your Grace, the reflection on our reputation-”
“Damn your reputation, sir! What about my hairbrush!” quivered the old man.
It was then I felt I should intervene. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” I began.
Rheumy blue eyes turned on me and assessed my youthful years. And who the devil are you, sir?”
“My name is Holmes. I might be able to help you.”
“You, you young jackanapes? What do you mean?”
I heard my brother tuttutting anxiously in the background at my effrontery.
“With your permission, I think I might be in a position to recover the lost item.”
Cloncurys eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you have it, you impudent whippersnapper?” he demanded. “By God, if you are responsible…”
Mycroft came to my help. “Excuse me, Your Grace, this is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes.”
Cloncury glanced up and recognized Mycroft, knowing him to have the ear of the viceroy. He looked slightly mollified. “Why didn’t he introduce himself properly then, hey? Very well, young Holmes, what do you mean by it?”
“With your permission, sir,” I went on, unperturbed, “I would like to put a few questions to the chairman of the club.”
The chairman began to flush in annoyance.
“Go ahead, then, Mr. Holmes,” instructed Cloncury. “I am sure that the chairman will be in favor of anything that stops the incursion of the police into this establishment.”
It seemed that the chairman, albeit reluctantly, was in favor.
“Well, sir, if I remember correctly, the washroom is next to the cloakroom, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Is the washroom attended?”
“It is not.”
“And the cloakroom? Is it attended at all times?”
“Of course it is.”
“Your Grace, will you be so good as to show me where it was that you left your toilet box?”
We turned in a body, headed by the duke, and passed into the washroom. He pointed to one of the ornate marble washbasins at the far end of the room. It was one of a dozen such washbasins lining the entire lefthandside wall of the chamber, which was fronted by a series of mirrors for the use of the members. The righthandside wall was fitted with toilet cubicles in dark mahogany and brass fittings, except for a small area behind the main door. The marbletiled wall here was unimpeded by anything except for a small opening. It was about two feet square, framed in mahogany and with a hatch door.
I pointed to it. “I presume that this hatch connects the washroom with the cloakroom?”
“Naturally,” barked the chairman. “Now what is all this about?”
I turned and led them out of the washroom and into the cloakroom, where a uniformed attendant leaped from his chair, dropping a halfsmoked cigarette into an ashtray and looking penitently from one to another of us.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he stuttered.
“Yes, you can,” I assured him. “You can bring me the garment that you are holding for Colonel Sebastian Moran. I think you will find that it is a heavy riding cloak or one of those newstyle long, loose coats which, I believe, is called an Ulster.”
The attendant returned my gaze in bewildered fashion.
The chairman pushed forward. “Good God, sir, what do you mean by it? Colonel Moran is a respected member of this club. Why are you presuming to ask for his coat?”
The Duke of Cloncury was looking at me with a frown of disapproval. “You’d better have a good explanation, young Holmes,” he muttered.
“I believe that you want the return of your toilet case?” I asked blandly.
“Gad, you know I do.”
I turned to the attendant. “Have you been on duty for the last half an hour?”
“That I have, sir.”
“A short while ago, Colonel Moran knocked on the hatch from the washroom side and asked if you could pass him his coat for a moment. Is that correct?”
The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “It is, sir. He said he wanted to comb his hair and had left the toilet items in his coat. And the coat was, indeed, one of those newstyle Ulsters, sir.”