Holmes was silent on the way back to Baker Street, drumming his fingers impatiently on the handle of his stick and staring fixedly ahead of him. At our door he sprang from the cab and raced upstairs. By the time I had paid the cabby and followed him, he was sunk in an armchair leafing rapidly through one of the large scrapbooks into which he entered items which he deemed might be of use in the future.
‘Parkes, was it, Watson? Was he not murdered in Paris?’
‘It’s a long time, Holmes. I believe that he was murdered abroad, but I would not swear that it was Paris.’
He continued flicking rapidly through the pages, then gave a cry of triumph. ‘I have it, Watson! Listen to this!’ and he read me the entry.
‘From our correspondent in Paris. The large English community in this city has been stunned by the discovery of the fate of the missing Captain Parkes. Readers of our earlier notices of the matter will recall that Captain Parkes has been missing for some five days. The French authorities now inform us that a body taken from the River Seine has been identified by a brother officer as that of Captain Parkes. It appears that Captain Parkes, who went missing after attending a diplomatic reception with his fiancee, the noted beauty Miss Agatha Wortley-Swan, escorted the lady to her hotel and, on his way home, had the misfortune to fall in with some of the boulevard thieves who so plague this city. Perhaps the gallant officer attempted to defend himself too fiercely, because a source in the City’s police informs us that he had been severely beaten by a number of persons before being stabbed. This information is confirmed by Captain Wilmshaw, a brother officer, whose unhappy task it was to identify his friend’s remains.’
He closed the book with a snap and rose to replace it on the shelf.
‘But what happened?’ I asked. ‘Did they never find the killers?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied Holmes. ‘That is why I have Captain Parkes’ death indexed under U, for
“unsolved”. The Paris police, it appears, were content to lay the matter to the charge of some unidentified boulevard robber and take no further steps.’
‘But what has all this to do with Mrs Fordeland?’ I protested.
‘Now there, Watson, you put your finger on exactly the right point. What, indeed, is the connection?’
Four
The Bear’s Whisper
On the next morning I rose to find that the atmosphere in our sitting room at Baker Street was thick with the stale smoke of Holmes’ pipe. He himself was sitting immobile, perched on top of a pile of cushions upon the sofa. His face was set in an expression of grim concentration and his eyes half-closed. As I pulled back the curtains and slid up the windows he barely acknowledged my ‘Good morning.’
It was only when I had been seated for some minutes that he took his pipe from his mouth, opened his eyes and looked at me.
‘It does not make any manner of sense, Watson,’ he said, and I realized that it was the case of Mrs Fordeland to which he referred. ‘I have spent the night examining the facts from every angle, and it does not make sense!’
He uncoiled himself from the sofa, knocked out his pipe in the fireplace and sat at the table, just as Mrs Hudson arrived to serve breakfast. He was silent over our meal, eating only a little toast and drinking several cups of coffee.
When the meal had been cleared away he remained at the table, gazing out of the window and
drumming his long fingers on the tablecloth.
‘We have insufficient data, Watson,’ he declared at last. ‘All that we have learned appears to be true, yet none of it is capable of being connected in any meaningful fashion. Ergo, there must be a missing piece or pieces.’
‘How do you propose to obtain new data?’ I asked. ‘Mrs Fordeland appears to have told us all that she knows of the matter. Where else can you enquire?’
‘There is my brother,’ he said. ‘The unresolved death of Captain Parkes in Paris will have given rise to representations between the two governments. Mycroft’s department will have been involved.
Somewhere in their voluminous files there may well be some small piece of information which will put us on the right track.’
‘Shall you go to his club?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Oh no. The matter may be urgent. As we do not know the purposes of the Russians in following our client, we cannot be sure that she is not in any danger.’
‘But I thought you assured her that there was no danger,’ I said.
‘I pointed out to Mrs Fordeland that, if her followers wished her immediate harm, they would have done it before now. I still believe that to be true, but I do not discount the possibility that some factor in this situation which we do not understand may change and place her or her granddaughter in danger.
We will act speedily. Be so kind as to ring for our boots, Watson.’
Within minutes we were in a cab, bound for the great building which housed the department of
government for which Mycroft Holmes worked.
I had known Sherlock Holmes for several years before he so much as mentioned to me that he had a brother. I recall that it was in connection with the ‘Greek Interpreter’ case that he finally introduced me to Mycroft. Before the introduction Holmes explained that his older brother was cleverer than he but physically lazy. He lived a curious existence, rotating between his bachelor chambers, his office and the strange club called the Diogenes Club (of which he was not only a member, but a founder). It was the absolute rule of the Diogenes Club that no member might speak to another on its premises.
Holmes also explained that his brother was so important a functionary of the government that there were occasions when he was, virtually, the British government. At the time I was inclined to regard this as an exaggeration, but in my observation of Mycroft Holmes over the ensuing decade I came to realize that he really was at least as intelligent as his younger brother and that the power he wielded in government circles seemed to have no bounds.
We were soon at the great Italianate building that housed Mycroft’s department, and were quickly led up a magnificent staircase to his office. When we were shown into his room, Mycroft sat behind a large and ornate desk, in front of tall windows that looked down upon the treetops of the park.
He rose at our entry and showed us to chairs. ‘Sherlock, Doctor,’ he said, ‘this is a surprise. I was thinking that I must drop you a note.’
‘Really?’ said Holmes. ‘Is there some little matter in which I can assist your office?’
Mycroft shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘but it seems that you have been upsetting our Russian allies.’
‘If that is news to you, Mycroft, it is also to me. In what way have I caused upset and how does the matter come to your ears?’
‘You know me, Sherlock,’ said his brother. ‘Usually I am bored to distraction by the diplomatic social round, but there are occasions when one must suffer for one’s country. There were, I am afraid, sufficient reasons of policy for me to make an appearance last evening at a reception at the Russian Embassy.’
‘You mean you wished to listen to indiscreet conversations once the vodka was flowing,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Pray continue.’
‘Something along those lines,’ said Mycroft. ‘It was supposed to be an event to introduce the Russians who are here for Her Majesty’s Jubilee, so every other person was a cousin of the Tzar. Your old sparring partner Major Kyriloff was there, hanging about an offensive fellow called Count Stepan Skovinski-Rimkoff. Kyriloff introduced us, making a great point that Rimkoff is yet another cousin of the Tzar and the fellow looks at me with a fishy eye and says, “Are you not the brother of Sherlock Holmes, the criminal agent?”’