The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (35 page)

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
2, 1888

“‘It is both or none,’ said Holmes. ‘You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.’”

—
A Scandal in Bohemia

M
r. Mycroft Holmes, without conscious thought, tapped the ash from his cigar into the silver dish beside his right hand, not having to move his arm or even open his eyes to do so, the ashtray having been positioned that precisely by the club waiter, who now stood quiet vigil in the background, his choice of position being equally precise, just out of hearing but well within sight so as not to miss that slight crook of an upraised finger that meant his services were once again required. As the waiter had learned from long experience, position was everything.

Obviously Mr. Holmes was not napping in his chair as any casual observer might assume; he was engaged in deep thought. Mr. Holmes always closed his eyes when he had a difficult matter to consider. It enabled him to better focus his powers of concentration, which were formidable under any circumstances.

Across from him, Watson and Sherlock Holmes sat waiting patiently.

The hushed precincts of the Diogenes Club seemed even quieter to Watson’s ear on this occasion, the sanctity of the place undisturbed by the slightest sound — not a footfall, the ticking of a clock, the whisper of a drapery, or (God forbid!) the murmur of a human voice. He found the atmosphere of the private room in which they were seated to be positively intimidating. As a result, he sat stiffly in his chair, hardly daring to breathe, feeling like nothing so much as a little boy in church, afraid that the smallest movement on his part or the merest sound would be an unpardonable transgression.

The room, located on one of the upper floors of the Diogenes well away from those most heavily frequented by the club’s members, was only occasionally used, having ostensibly been set aside as a boardroom for the club’s officers. Since they rarely met, having few matters of business to attend to and little else they ever wished to discuss, it was reserved almost exclusively for the use of Mycroft Holmes on those occasions when he required a quiet, out-of-the-way place for an engagement of a confidential nature.

As Watson had noted, it was a room hardly designed for comfort — mental or physical. Its furnishings and decor were foreign and of another era: Velvets, brocades, and heavy tapestries, an ornate ceiling and varied-colored marbles — different, by accident or design, from that of all the other rooms in the club, the sort of chamber one might expect to find in a Florentine palace, the sanctum sanctorum of some Medici prince or renaissance cardinal (a
gray
eminence without question).

It was a setting in which it was possible to conduct oneself only with great dignity and to speak only in hushed tones (if at all), and then only of weighty matters, affairs of consequence, subjects of great seriousness, certainly nothing that smacked of frivolity or the mundane. And it was a room without question that required obeisance
from the visitor toward the host.

Several minutes had passed since Sherlock Holmes had completed his report, and now he sat silently opposite his brother, observing with wry amusement his every facial expression, his every twitch and fidget, as if by doing so he were able to read his every thought — a distinct possibility, thought Watson, who was quietly observing Holmes as Holmes was observing Mycroft.

Mycroft looked up finally, his cold gray eyes meeting those of his brother’s. “This business concerning Lord Randolph, while most intriguing, is hardly pertinent. There is a reasonable explanation for all of it, I am sure, but I would not waste one iota of time in seeking it out were I you. It would serve only to distract from the matter at hand. Now, as to this bit of offal you received in the post — a kidney, I believe you said it was” — he allowed himself a look of mild distaste — “you are certain it is not from some prankster?”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, Openshaw at London Hospital has virtually confirmed it. But Watson and I never had any real doubt about it being the genuine article. Everything about it points to its authenticity, and everything about the accompanying note, as well.”

Mycroft chewed on his upper lip. “Quite a macabre sense of humor, this chap, what? But then, I would expect nothing less from him. Most of all, I am impressed by his resourcefulness. He would indeed seem to have a friend in high places who keeps him well informed, as you have suggested. And that in itself tells us something, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” replied Holmes, “it confirms my belief that the ‘bloke’ is a ‘toff,’ as they say — if ever there was any doubt.” He flashed a quick smile.

Mycroft sniffed, but nodded his agreement. “Beyond that, it tells us that he is probably not an absolute raving maniac, as some would have us believe. Not one who drools or goes without washing, in any event,” he added.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

Watson’s brows knitted together. “How do you arrive at that?”

Mycroft waved his hand, dismissing the question impatiently. Holmes responded: “The man must appear to his informant, whoever it may be, to be outwardly sane, or at least reasonably so, otherwise the informant — presumably a responsible individual who is unaware of his friend’s activities — would not be sharing privileged and confidential information with him. That stands to reason. So we must conclude that aside from a predilection for carving up prostitutes and sending portions of their anatomy through the Royal Mails, he is otherwise quite normal — in appearance and outward demeanor, that is.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” murmured Watson. “Obvious, quite obvious.”

“So he is a man who is able to function in society,” Mycroft added. “He probably lives a perfectly ordinary life.”

“Two lives, I should think,” said Holmes.

“Like a Jekyll and Hyde character, you mean?” Watson asked.

Holmes made a face. “Depend on you to dramatize, Watson. Let’s not get carried away with ourselves. I don’t think for one moment that our friend is bedeviled by perverted science or the phases of the moon. The facts of the case are remarkable enough without requiring any embroidery.”

Mycroft shifted his bulk in the chair. “As to the rest of it, Sherlock — your conclusions concerning Prince Eddy and friends — you are quite correct. I can find no flaw whatsoever in your reasoning.”

“How gratifying,” replied Holmes dryly.

Mycroft saw fit to ignore the hint of sarcasm in his voice; younger siblings must on occasion be humored. “I cannot say that I am totally surprised by your disclosure. The young man has long been a source of concern not only to his royal father and mother, but to Her Majesty as well. He simply has no character. If the truth be known, he has no
brains. He can hardly read, d’ya know. He was the despair of his tutors. The palace put him into the Royal Navy and shipped him off to sea, but that was no good: They quickly determined he’d never pass the lieutenant’s examinations — couldn’t even learn to tie a knot, let alone learn the ropes, literally as well as figuratively. So then they stuck him in the army, in a cavalry regiment where they figured he’d do the least harm. He can sit on a horse at least, and wears the uniform well — he’s a regular tailor’s dummy, he is. Has his father’s charm, I’ll say that for him. I’ve met him on more than a few occasions, and when he wants to, he can charm the coin right out of your pocket. But empty-headed! All he ever cares about is every possible form of amusement and dissipation. Fortunately he was born of royal blood; he’d never be able to support himself otherwise.” Mycroft shook his head. “And this is the man who would be king, God save us.”

Watson was shocked by both Mycroft’s disclosure and his blunt-spoken speech, and his face transparently showed it.

Mycroft tossed a sardonic glance in his direction. “Don’t be upset, Doctor. He won’t be the first wastrel to reign over England, nor, for that matter, the first imbecile. We have had our share of both through history, as has every royal house on the Continent.”

Watson said nothing.

“The damnedest thing is, he’s a wizard at cards, a first-class whist player. I can’t understand that.” He shook his huge head. “I’m a student of the game and pride myself in knowing a thing or two about it, and can tell you it requires intense concentration and no small degree of intelligence. He’s got the attention span of a seven-year-old and the intelligence of a gnat.”

Holmes picked his head up at this. “Interesting,” he mused.

“Yes, isn’t it? It never ceases to amaze me.”

“I take it you are not exaggerating — about either his prowess with
cards or his lack of intelligence.”

Mycroft shook his head. “The boy is a total simpleton, I tell you. Yet he seems to have an amazing facility for memorizing the deck and keeping track of the play. I have never seen anything like it!”

Holmes wracked his brain. “I have heard of this sort of phenomenon before.”

“Perhaps you are thinking,” suggested Watson, “of that case I called to your attention some time ago from one of my medical journals? The severely retarded individual who displayed a genius for numbers?”

“Yes, that’s it! An idiot, brain-damaged from birth, wasn’t he? He could recite complicated series of numbers backward and forward, having heard them just once?”

“That’s right. He couldn’t learn to tie his bootlaces even, but he had a phenomenal memory when it came to dates and numbers — even complex mathematical formulae. There have been other cases of a similar nature, like the chap who could play intricate scores on the piano having heard them just once — Chopin and Liszt and that sort of thing — and without ever having a lesson or learning to read a note. He, too, was feebleminded. Idiot savants, they’re called, I believe.”

Mycroft drew on his cigar and examined the ash. “I don’t know if you could fit His Royal Highness into the category of idiot in a medical sense,” he said dryly, “but he comes damn close. Certainly in many respects he is indeed feeble-minded. That you happened upon him at this particular house in Chelsea last night comes as no surprise to me, of course. He is often to be found in the company of that crowd. Indeed, I think you will also find that he frequents the house of male prostitution in Cleveland Street that you took under surveillance, Sherlock. Oh, yes, Doctor, our Prince Eddy enjoys sex in all of its available forms.”

He pursed his lips, a mannerism so much like his brother’s. “They have tried to keep it from Her Majesty, of course — the worst of it
anyway. But sooner or later she finds out everything, has an uncanny ability to do so. Damned if I know how she does it.”
⁷⁵
Mycroft turned to his brother. “You realize, naturally, what will happen if any of this gets out?”

Holmes nodded. “Of course there is no definite proof that it is one of the prince’s friends who is the killer,” he said quietly. “The evidence is wholly circumstantial.”

Mycroft favored him with a look of pained forbearance. “Can there be any doubt? How much proof do you need?”

“What there is would never hold up in the courts.”

“Don’t be naive, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to, as you well know,” Mycroft snapped irritably. “The scandal will be intolerable in any case.” He sniffed. “The courts indeed! Should any of this get out, the prince’s character and sexual proclivities will be revealed for what they are, as will his gross stupidity and unfitness. It will rock the throne, make no mistake. It will call into question the institution of the monarchy itself, and the wisdom of perpetuating it. At the very least, the Salisbury government will never survive. Given today’s political climate, this whole filthy business could result in a political and social crisis of cataclysmic proportions, causing a violent and permanent change in our society. It will be the beginning of the end to Britain’s ruling class, make no mistake.”

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, but Mycroft, anticipating him, raised a hand to forestall his comment.

“I need not be reminded that our ruling class is hardly above reproach, but the fact remains there is nothing to replace it. The alternative is chaos. The lower classes are not trained for the job. They have neither the education nor the background. For countless generations they have been taught to submit, and that is all they know: Absolute obedience to God, the Queen, and their betters, whoever they may be. There are
those who would welcome an end to our system, those who feel that the monarchy has become an anachronism, an expensive bit of frippery. I don’t happen to agree. I believe the monarchy is indispensable to the preservation of the Empire, and that its survival and well-being is the only guarantee we have to national tranquility.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “I do not mind admitting to you that I fear the mob. They are ignorant, they are uneducated, they are not fit to govern themselves, let alone a great empire. I would no more willingly turn over the country to the masses than I would to the Thugees of India or the Fuzzy-Wuzzies in darkest Africa. It is the monarchy that keeps this great beast at bay, that brings equilibrium and order to our society. And that is why the monarchy must be preserved, why the system must be protected.”

Holmes was as loyal to the Crown and as patriotic an Englishman as any, but he had few illusions about what Mycroft called “the system.” Whatever else it might be, it was a hardly a system that favored everyone equally. The House of Commons, it had often been pointed out, was made up of a handful of rich men elected by a handful of other rich men, while those who sat in the House of Lords were elected by nobody.

He considered his brother with a thin smile. “I heard it said just the other day, Mycroft, that the only truly democratic house in England was the public house, where everyone has an equal voice and you can at least get a drink, which is better than anything provided by either of the other two.”

Mycroft scowled. “It was doubtlessly an American who said it,” he snapped. “And in the process complained about there being no ice in the drink, I shouldn’t wonder.” He waved an accusatory finger. “It is all very well and good to be critical of the system, Sherlock, but it has worked for us these many years and has worked quite nicely, thank you. It has made us into the most powerful nation in history, might I remind you.”