Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire Part 9

'One of them could be a secret bibliophile. The list is not exclusive, surely?

Or they could be working on behalf of another person.'

'Remember the type of doc.u.ments that went missing. Alternative zoology and phantasmagorical anthropology. Now we know from what the librarian, Mr Ambrose, told us that there are items in the library worth many times more to a serious collector. The unexpurgated Malleus Maleficarum for instance - the infamous Witches Hammer of the Catholic Church - or Aristophanes's lost first play The Banqueters. I myself saw a folio that appeared to be Shakespeare's reputedly lost play Love's Labours Wonne. I know men who would sell entire countries to get their hands on that one item alone. No, I think we can rule out collectors.'

'Then perhaps they were stolen for the information they contained,' I said.

'Perhaps, but why steal them? Why not copy the information down?'

Ah.

'Indeed!'

Holmes suddenly slapped his palms down onto the table, rattling the crockery and knocking the jam spoon out of its saucer so that it splattered the tablecloth and my shirt.

'I would venture,' he continued, oblivious to my scowl, 'that the books were removed not for the information they contained, but to prevent anybody else from reading them.'

'Really Holmes!' I was remonstrating with him over the jam, but he took it to mean I disagreed with his theory, and pursed his lips together in annoyance.

'It is perfectly plain. We know that the Doctor was recently consulting books on Indian legends. Suddenly, the doc.u.ments are stolen. The perpetrator of the crime was obviously attempting to prevent the Doctor reading them.'

I wiped at my shirt with a napkin.

'It's a bit shaky, Holmes,' I said.

'Not at all. It is the only theory which fits the facts.'

I was not convinced.

'Does that mean that we can remove the Doctor from our list of suspects?' I asked.

'Yes...' Holmes was uncertain. 'He is obviously mixed up in it somehow, and yet . . .'His expression was troubled. 'I am loath to believe that he is the villain.'

The napkin was merely helping to spread the jam across my shirt front, and I had just decided to return to my chamber and change when the door opened and Billy, our page, walked in.

'Telegram for you, Mr 'Olmes,' he shouted.

Holmes took the proffered slip. The lad scarpered off without a backward glance. Holmes smiled.

'A bright spark, that one. He'll bear watching.'

He slipped the envelope open and read the contents intently.

'A summons, Watson!'

He handed the slip over.

'Come at once', I read.

'Who on Earth can it be?' I asked.

'No mystery there,' Holmes replied. 'The ident.i.ty of the sender is unquestionable.'

This time Holmes was going too far.

'How can you possibly know who it is?' I yelped. 'There is no name, no address, and the communication is neither handwritten nor torn letter by letter from a newspaper, so you are unable to deduce anything from the construction. Furthermore, the message is too short to contain any hidden message or code. You are bluffing, Holmes. I've caught you out!'

I sat back triumphantly.

'Who do you know that could send such a terse message and expect it to be obeyed?' Holmes asked me, reaching for his frock coat.

'Oh: I was crestfallen.

'Exactly,' Holmes replied. 'My brother Mycroft. Come along, Watson. Best bib and tucker.'

'But . . .!' I glanced down ruefully at my stained shirtfront.

'No time! Come on!'

I followed.

As the hansom headed towards Pall Mall, and the Diogenes Club, I recalled everything that I knew about Holmes's mysterious brother. I had first met the man upon the occasion that Holmes aided one of Mycroft's fellow lodgers - the plucky Greek interpreter Melas. Mycroft's mental powers exceeded Holmes's, but his gross obesity and his extreme laziness precluded any movement except that between bedchamber, office and dinner table. Holmes had originally told me that his brother audited the books in some Government department. He had unb.u.t.toned enough since then to confide that Mycroft's position was more shadowy and far more influential than he had previously led me to believe. Certainly in my brief conversation with the man I had been amazed by his breadth of knowledge concerning world affairs and his profound insights into the secret pivots upon which they turned. How often had I read in the newspapers of some revolution in a distant country, or a war between two foreign states, only to remember that Mycroft had mentioned them casually in pa.s.sing months before they happened?

We alighted from the hansom in front of the imposing facade of the Diogenes Club - the last refuge of the most unclubbable men in England. In a moment of refreshing candour, Holmes had once told me that he would not belong to any club that would have him as a member. The Diogenes was his exception. Not a word was to be spoken inside its walls, save in the distant, sound-proof, Visitors' Room. No social interaction of any kind was permitted. Even to glance for longer than a few seconds at a fellow member was a black-ball offence. There were men - members of the aristocracy, indeed - who maintained rooms at the Diogenes, ate in its restaurant, and had not pa.s.sed out of its portals or spoken to another living soul for a decade or more. The Diogenes was so private that I had heard of men who had died whilst slumped in its ma.s.sive leather chairs, and their deaths not noticed until they began to decay.

Holmes led the way inside. I was immediately struck by the vast silence, so profound that it seemed like a physical presence. The entrance hall, from which a marble staircase swept up into the club proper, smelled of beeswax polish and age. A bewigged footman led us up and along a corridor that was so deeply carpeted I could only just make out the tops of my shoes. I could hear nothing, save the swish of our clothes and a deep, regular thump that I eventually realized was my heartbeat.

We came to a doorway fully twice my height and flanked by twin statues of cherubs. They were armed with little stone bows. A strange choice for the Diogenes, I reflected, believing them to be representations of Eros, until I saw the malevolent scowls upon their faces and the eagerness with which they held their weapons.

The footman indicated to us that we should enter. Years of non-verbal communication had honed his skills to the point where he could mime, with superb economy of gesture, quite complicated messages. I read in his movements that we were expected, that our host was already waiting for us, and that refreshment would be provided. I also read that our presence was only tolerated on our host's personal recommendation, and that we would be expected to behave with complete adherence to the baroque rules of the Diogenes Club.

I almost thanked him, but bit my tongue just in time.

Mycroft Holmes was standing by the window when we entered. He almost completely blocked the light from it. I had remembered him as fat, fatter than anybody I had ever met, but I had not remembered the poise with which he carried himself. He moved as if the weight meant nothing to him.

'Doctor Watson,' he said in his surprisingly deep voice as he walked towards us, 'I hope that your landlady's sprained ankle has not prevented you from breakfasting well?'

'No, thank you,' I answered automatically, then paused. 'But how . . .?'

He waved a ma.s.sive spade-like hand.

'A mere bagatelle. I would not bother you with the details.'

I gazed at Holmes, who smiled slightly, and shrugged.

'Holmes has told you of her injury?' I ventured.

Mycroft sighed theatrically, as if bored by the necessity to explain his thoughts.

'Oh, very well. You have a jam stain upon your shirt, but my brother has abhorred jam since childhood and will not have it in the house. The estimable Mrs Hudson would not, I am sure, have purchased it herself.

Ergo, she is temporarily unable or unwilling to shop daily for food: a ch.o.r.e which, I presume, is being undertaken by a scullery maid or page-boy less familiar with Sherlock's tastes. An illness would almost certainly have resulted in her taking to her bed, but your clothes are otherwise cleaned and brushed to a high standard, suggesting that she is still taking an active part in household ch.o.r.es. I therefore diagnose a minor injury. The ankle was a stab in the dark, I admit, but...' and he shuddered slightly, like a trifle on a plate, '. . . given the seventeen precipitous steps one has to ascend in order to reach your front door, not an unreasonable one, I warrant.' He frowned over at his brother. 'Perhaps you would care to save your landlady the trouble of washing Watson's shirt by doing it yourself, since you so obviously caused the stain in the first place.'

Now it was Holmes's turn to look puzzled. The frown suddenly cleared, and he turned to me.

'The angle of the stain,' he said, as if explaining to me rather than to himself. 'Had a drop of jam fallen from your toast, it would have resulted in a tear-drop shaped blotch. In fact it is almost circular, indicating that the jam arrived horizontally.'

'I should have changed,' I said, embarra.s.sed at the constant reference to my state of dress, 'but. . .'

'My brother rushed you out of the house,' Mycroft continued. 'When we were children he used to do the same with me: always wanting me to accompany him as he rushed around the garden, examining worms, looking at leaves and turning over stones. I said to him, "Sherlock, if I want to examine a worm, I can do it just as well from the comfort of an armchair, if you will do me the courtesy of bringing it here. Better still, I can reach out my arm and pull down a book which will tell me everything I could ever wish to know about worms".'

He looked over at his brother, and smiled. Beneath the fat which adorned his face and fell in folds to his collar, I could see the outlines of the same bone structure that showed so well in Holmes's features.

Holmes smiled back, rather fondly, I thought.

'I remember telling you, "It's the context that's important, Mycroft",' Holmes said, good-humouredly, "'not the worm": Mycroft swung round on his brother like battleship preparing a broadside.

'And I said, "A worm is a worm is a worm, Sherlock, no matter where you find it." Unlike a Pope, who is quite different in Austria to the Vatican.'

A heavy pause fell across the room, broken by the arrival of the footman with a tray containing a teapot and several fine china cups.

'You cannot possibly have deduced that we have met the Pope,' I said, when the footman had left. The brothers were locked in an eye-to-eye battle of wills. Knowing the natural truculence of the Holmes family, I could see that it could go on all day, if I did not interrupt.

'Quite right,' Holmes said. 'Somebody has brought Mycroft a juicy fat worm.'

'You are meddling in affairs of state,' Mycroft said.

'You have no right to interfere,' Holmes snapped. 'I have been retained in a private capacity.'

'That is equivalent to saying that the amorous predilections of Prince Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avondale are his own concern!' Mycroft crossed to the window again, so that the light was behind him, throwing his vast shadow across the room. 'The monarchy and the state are the same.

They cannot be separated. The same holds true for the Pope and the Vatican. Did you not wonder why the Supreme Pontiff travelled half-way across Europe in secret to consult you? Did it not occur to you that the commission, simple though it may have seemed, might have implications which could rock Europe? Help yourself to tea, by the way.'

I did so, wondering what the amorous predilections of Prince Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avondale actually were.

'Balderdash!' Holmes threw himself into an armchair. 'The Foreign Office is merely annoyed because the Pope came to me rather than to it.'

'The Foreign Office be d.a.m.ned!' Mycroft exploded. 'They couldn't find a cow in a field. The Queen is annoyed because his Eminence Pope Leo XIII didn't come to her!'

'So,' Holmes whispered, 'as I suspected.'

Mycroft shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. 'Yes,' he said, 'as you suspected.'

'The Diogenes?'

'Of course.'

'Please,' I interrupted, 'if it is not too much trouble, can somebody explain to me what you are talking about?'

Mycroft glanced at Holmes, who nodded slightly. I felt as if I had been given some sort of endors.e.m.e.nt.

'Please do not discuss what you are about to hear outside these walls,'

Mycroft began. 'I am telling you this only to ensure that my brother is aware of the truth of my position, rather than his own deductions, and because I am aware, following your commissions for the Royal Families of Scandinavia, Russia and Holland, of your honesty and integrity.'

I nodded, feeling rather proud of the faith he put in me.

'As you may know, there are certain people attached to the Foreign Office who make it their business to find out other peoples' business. One might call them a kind of secret service.'

I thought back to the Orient Express, and the Reverend Hawkins. How mysterious are the wheels of power.

'Many countries have them, Doctor Watson. Germany has agents in England even as we speak, as does Russia. We have had our own agents abroad for nigh on four hundred years, now. We operate under a rather severe handicap, however. We are a decent race.' He snorted. 'The average Englishman thinks that there is something rather sordid and dishonourable about spying, and that pretty much ties our hands as to how effective we can be.'

'There is something sordid about it,' I exclaimed. 'The whole idea is . . .

well, just not cricket!'

'The Germans don't play cricket,' he said, scowling. 'And neither do the Russians. Unfortunately, the Foreign Office do. They run the whole thing like an Eton game. You've never seen such a group of ineffective stuffed shirts. When Thomas Beach, one of their best agents, infiltrated the Irish Republican Brotherhood and reported that the Fenians had entered into diplomatic relations with the Czar of all the Russias, and that they had actually built a submersible boat with which to attack Royal Navy vessels, what did they do? Nothing! Her Majesty was furious when she found out!'

'Her Majesty?'

'Our Sovereign is a shrewd woman, Doctor Watson, and should not be underestimated. She is not blind to the domineering ambitions of Czar Nickolas I and Kaiser Wilhelm II, and she is also perfectly well aware that the Fenians pose a greater threat to the stability of the monarchy than the Anarchists.' He hesitated briefly, wondering, perhaps, how much to say.

'Her Majesty has for some time been distrustful of what her prime ministers have been telling her. She never had much respect for poor Gladstone. "He speaks to me as if I were a public meeting," she once told me, and has publicly questioned whether he is fit to lead her country. I must say,'

Mycroft added parenthetically, 'that I share her views. Not five years ago the Prime Minister proposed to the Cabinet that a Flotilla of the Royal Navy be sent to look for Atlantis!' He frowned. 'Where was I? Yes, some years ago Her Majesty decided to set up what, for want of a better word, might be called her own "intelligence organization". She, or rather, her advisors,' and Mycroft modestly cast his gaze downwards at this point, 'knew that it could not be funded from public money, lest the public protest at a secret organization in their midst. Approaches were made to the oldest and wealthiest families in the land. A cover was sought: an establishment above reproach through which this tiny band of patriots could operate.'

'And the Diogenes . . .?' I was aghast.

'...Is that establishment. Like an iceberg, Doctor Watson, nine-tenths of what goes on here is beneath the surface.'

'I had already deduced most of your story' Holmes said from the far side of the room. He had poured himself a cup of tea and was sprawled in his armchair. 'Indeed, I have been following your successes with some interest. It would seem that, wherever trouble exists in the world, a member of the Diogenes Club is not far away. I notice, in fact, that the ill-fated last voyage of the Fenians' submarine vessel coincided with the honeymoon in New Jersey of one Charles Beauregard, whom I have seen dining here on numerous occasions.'

'Very perceptive, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, clapping his hands together gently. 'Very perceptive. Now, I have been frank with you. Perhaps you could return the compliment.'

Holmes stared at his brother for a long moment.

'Perhaps we can trade information,' he said finally. 'Certain pieces of the puzzle still elude me.'

He steepled his hands together, lay back in his chair until his gaze was directed at the ceiling and sketched the bare bones of the matter for his brother. When he had finished and Mycroft had asked a few incisive questions, Holmes reached into his jacket and extracted the list of Library patrons which Mr Jehosephat Ambrose had provided us with.

Mycroft's eyes scanned the list, stopping at one particular name. He glanced up and locked gazes with Holmes. They shared a long moment of unspoken communion.

'An instructive list,' Mycroft said finally, returning it to Holmes. Even I could spot the ironic understatement in his voice - a tone directed, I was sure, at his brother. 'You have questioned both the Doctor and Mrs Prendersly, but only Mrs Prendersly is dead. If we take as our a.s.sumption that she was indeed murdered, it would follow that she possessed information that the Doctor did not, and was killed in case she might pa.s.s the information on. It would also follow that Professor Challenger is not our man.'

'How so?' Holmes challenged.

'Because he set sail for South America last week on one of his scientific expeditions.'