The Veiled Detective (21 page)

Sherlock Holmes read my expression and his eyes twinkled. “What? You don’t think sex is part of love?”

“It’s not that... but you use the word as though it were a commodity to be added to the list.”

“Well, to a person like me, it is. I tried sex once, as an experiment. I needed to know what it was like. The scientist in me overcame my reticence.” He shrugged his shoulders and extracted his pipe from his dressing-gown pocket. “It wasn’t for me. It encourages you to expose more of your inner feelings than is appropriate, to give too much of your own self away. I am too private a person to feel comfortable with that.”

“But sexual congress must be arrived at through a loving relationship.”

“I’m sorry to say, Watson, old chap, that I find that sentiment a nonsense. Ask the prostitutes down in the East End if they agree. It is a bodily function that is quite separate from the feelings of the heart. Man and woman can perform and enjoy this human activity, if it is to their taste, without any reparation to love.”

“That sentiment is crude and despicable.”

“Possibly, but true. As soon as I had experienced the full horrors of sexual intercourse, I determined to channel all my energies, subvert the sexual ones, into my work. How much more satisfying it is to realise that my mind is capable of governing my body and deterring any unwanted appetites.”

I stamped my drink down on the table by my chair, appalled at my companion’s assertions. “You spurn all the finer feelings of the human heart in this so-called aesthetic rejection of human love.”

“The words of a writer and a romanticist. There are thousands of poor wretches in this city of ours who do not have the luxury to indulge in these ‘finer feelings’, as you call them. They react to the animal instinct of
procreation and satisfaction. Love is abstract and ethereal. A heady potion, no doubt, but give me cocaine every time.”

I rose, lost for words and more angry than I could express. I made my way to the door, but was halted by Holmes’ cry.

“Oh, Watson,” he said, rising from his chair, “do not take what I say to heart. My words are no reflection on the nobility of your feelings or the genuine nature of your affection. They are the thoughts of a very odd and repressed individual who is so entrenched in his views of the world that he often forgets the hurt he may administer by expressing them. You are the normal, hearty and well-adjusted fellow in this partnership; I am the cold, calculating... and damaged other half. Forgive me if I have upset you.”

I glared at that pale, cadaverous face with contempt.

“Goodnight” I said, closing the door with some force.

I slept little that night. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts. At first I was angry with Holmes for the contemptuous way he had dismissed the importance and quality of love; and I was also angry with myself for being goaded by his icy observations. I should have acknowledged that such was the nature of this man that his ideas and beliefs were ingrained and had nothing to do with my particular circumstances, and I cursed myself for not realising this at the time. Of course, I was also plagued by worry regarding Moriarty’s hold on me. After surviving the hurdle of the Agra Treasure and its threat to keep Mary from me, I was aware that that problem was a mere bagatelle compared to the danger that he posed to our relationship. With a snap of his fingers he could, if he so wished, have Mary eliminated. And it was all my fault.

I tossed and turned for most of the night as my brain sought a solution to my dilemmas. The grey light of dawn was creeping into the room before exhaustion allowed a shallow sleep to overtake me, my problems still intact and apparently insurmountable.

T
he same evening that John Watson had discussed his romance with Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty was entertaining a guest to dinner in his sanctum. The occasion was a business one, concerning forged documents and Bank of England plates. The matter was dealt with successfully. After the meal, the two men retired to the library to smoke, take port and relax.

“How is the business with Sherlock progressing?” asked the portly guest casually, as he prepared to take a pinch of snuff, delicately balanced on the back of his hand.

“I am rather bored with it now. It is true that your brother has developed into a crime-fighter without pareil, as we both suspected, and that with a little nudging from our man Watson he now follows the paths of crime which lie in a different direction from my endeavours. Paradoxically, that is part of my dilemma: the plan has been successful, and so there is no excitement in the case.”

Mycroft Holmes brushed away the errant grains of snuff from his waistcoat and peered over his pince-nez.

“Ah, well, the lion may only be sleeping. There may come a time when Sherlock will pose a serious threat to you,” he said.

“I would almost welcome the challenge. However, I suspect that now Holmes has a successful detective practice, the broad strokes of my crimes will no longer interest him. He is a connoisseur, and prefers rather bizarre miniatures to the simple, clean masterpieces that I create.”

“He always had a love of the unusual and the recherché.”

“There you are, then,” said Moriarty, leaning forward and pouring more port into Mycroft’s empty glass. “And now Watson is wanting to leave.”

“What on earth for?”

Moriarty curled his lip. “He has fallen in love.”

“Ah, he has, has he? Man of the world, this Watson, eh? No doubt it is with that young woman involved in the Agra Treasure investigation.”

“The same. He wants to marry her and most likely carry her off to suburban bliss away from Baker Street.”

“And you will allow him to go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is time to let the fellow slip his leash. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he moved in with your brother, and now perhaps he is not needed any more. I would welcome your thoughts on the matter.”

Mycroft beamed and relaxed, his body slipping down comfortably into the depths of the chair, while his legs stretched forward until they almost touched the hearth.

“Well, it would leave you a little exposed again, although you have Mrs Hudson on hand. It might spice up the game.”

“It might,” agreed the Professor.

“I’ve never met this Watson, but from his reports to you and what you have told me about him, I gain the impression that he is a reliable fellow and that if he left he would remain true to you, or rather to his unwritten contract with you, especially if some threat were placed over his head to ensure his loyalty.”

“The girl...”

Mycroft beamed again. “Indeed. Love makes a man very malleable. Moreover, is it not likely that once having tasted the exciting fruits of detective work, Watson will never be able to keep away from the tree? After a few months enduring the monotony of domestic life, he’ll be banging on the door of Baker Street, begging for Sherlock to allow him to accompany him on some case or another.”

“I like the scenario. To facilitate this arrangement, it would mean moving pieces on the board in a radical fashion, but they have been static too long.” Moriarty drained his glass. “I appreciate your counsel, Mycroft. Wise words.”

“Informed words to some extent, at least. The man is my brother, after all.”

Moriarty chuckled. ‘That has always fascinated me. Two men from the same stable as it were, but both so different.’

“Not as different as all that. Oh, I know physically I would make two of Sherlock — that is my love of good food, good wine, good living.” He raised his glass and took a drink to illustrate his point before continuing. “But our brains are of a similar intellectual quality. It is just that we use them for different purposes. We both enjoy the thrill of intrigue, legerdemain on a grand scale... It’s just that we have taken diverse paths.”

Moriarty looked at the large man opposite him. His face was massive, but there was a keenness about the features that clearly denoted the man’s intellectual brilliance. His eyes, partly shielded by the golden rims of his pince-nez, were as sharp as knives. Despite the smooth words of explanation, Moriarty did not understand Mycroft Holmes, and this worried him. Of all the individuals who worked closely with him in his organisation, Mycroft remained the only dark horse. The Professor knew that in the world of crime one could not afford the luxury of close attachments — he himself had none — and yet Sherlock Holmes was this
man’s brother, a dissoluble blood-tie. Mycroft had a shining intellect and therefore would be acutely aware that if his brother became a real threat to the organisation, Moriarty would have no compunction in sweeping him away, crushing him like a fly; and yet Mycroft revealed no concern or real interest in this possibility.

“The old adage is wrong. Chemically, blood is thicker than water, but in the metaphorical sense the idea is nonsense. I do not hate my brother, but on the other hand I have no special affection for him, either. We are two individuals making our own way in a cruel world. We each must face our own destiny.” Mycroft’s face creased into a smile. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve been reading your mind again.”

“In certain circumstances, that could be a dangerous occupation.”

“Then, sir, I shall have to ensure that those circumstances do not arise.”

There was a moment’s silence, when the air crackled with intensity between the two men, and then they exchanged knowing smiles.

“This Watson business intrigues me,” said Mycroft Holmes some moments later, when they had lit their cigars. “I have until now kept out of your dealings with Sherlock, but I do think it is time I introduced myself to his friend Watson. I’m sure you’d welcome my views on him and this marriage business.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm,” observed Moriarty, non-committally. “I know that I can rely on your
discretion
.”

“Implicitly. Now, as it happens I have a little business I can put Sherlock’s way. A fellow called Melas, a Greek interpreter, who lodges on the floor above me, has become involved in some intrigue and came to me for help. I think I see the matter clearly, but playing detectives is not a game in which I’m interested. I could throw this morsel Sherlock’s way and thus create an opportunity to meet Watson.”

Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, my dear Mycroft, you had it all worked out before you arrived this evening: a
fait accompli
.”

Mycroft returned the chuckle.
“Touché
, Professor. Now you are reading
my
mind.”

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

After a virtually sleepless night, I came down to breakfast the following morning somewhat bleary-eyed. There was no sign from the friendly demeanour of Sherlock Holmes that we had exchanged heated words the night before. He had an enviable facility for isolating moods and arguments, invoking a kind of emotional amnesia that forbade him the need to dwell on past upsets and allowed him to get on with his life.

“I heard you stirring, so I’ve sent down to Mrs Hudson for your breakfast. It should be here in a trice.”

“Thank you,” I said, and sat opposite Holmes at the breakfast table, most of which was covered with the pages of various newspapers. From this mess, he extracted a note and waved it aloft. “We have a case, unless I’m very much mistaken,” he declared.

“Oh?”

“This is a note from my brother, asking—”

“Your brother?” I cried, shaking my tired head. “Did you say your
brother
?”

“I did.”

“You never told me that you had a brother.”

“The occasion never arose. His name is Mycroft, and he is my senior by seven years. We rarely see each other, except when business brings us together. He helped me with funds when I first came to London.”

“But what does he do?”

“Ah, well, all that is a bit vague. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and officially he audits the books in various government departments, but I believe his responsibilities go somewhat further than that. I well believe he has the ear of the Prime Minister when
certain situations arise.”

“Why have I never heard of him?”

“The powers behind the Government are never well known, Watson. Don’t be naïve. However, he is well known in his own circle. At the Diogenes Club, for example.”

At this point, our conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock at our door and the entrance of our landlady, bearing my breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee.

“There you are, Doctor,” she said, placing the dish before me, “and make sure you eat it all up. You’re looking decidedly peaky this morning,”

“The Diogenes Club?” I remarked, after Mrs Hudson had left us. “What on earth’s that?”

Holmes laughed. “It is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men. When he’s not working in some government building somewhere, he can be found in the club.”

“But what sort of club is it?”

“There are many men in London who, some through shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellow man. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these individuals 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. Save in the Strangers’ Room, no talking is allowed under any circumstances. My brother was one of the founding members.”