An Ensuing Evil and Others (29 page)

“Why would anyone want to kidnap him?” I queried. “Is kidnapping usual in Ireland?”

Holmes replied with a shake of his head. “Not at all. But it does not escape my notice that there is some political unrest in the country at this time. Have you been following Irish political events in the newspapers?”

I confessed that I had not and was surprised that Holmes had been, as he had always confessed his knowledge of political matters to be feeble. After this exchange, Holmes became moody and refused to speculate further.

The journey from Kingstown into Westland Row, via the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, was made in morose silence. Holmes now and then would take out the two telegraphs he had received and examine them with a deep furrow of concentration on his broad brow.

Alighting from the train at Westland Row Railway Station, Holmes ignored the cabbies and conducted me, with unerring step, to a magnificent square of Georgian houses a short walk from the station. He went directly to one of the terraced buildings and paused before the door. I saw that it was ajar. Holmes pushed at it tentatively. It swung open, revealing a shadowy, cavernous hallway.

“Mycroft s rooms are on the second floor,” he explained as I followed him inside and up the stairs.

He halted before a door with a glimmering gaslight beside it, which illuminated a small brass frame affixed to one of the wooden panels. A card inserted in the frame read
MYCROFT HOLMES, ARTIUM BACCALAUREUS

. Holmes tapped on the door. It swung open immediately, and a large, floridfaced uniformed constable stood scowling at us.

“Is Mallon here?” asked Holmes before the constable could speak. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“Superintendent Mallon is…,” began the constable ponderously, but another man, seeming to be in his early forties, quickly appeared at his shoulder.

“I am John Mallon,” he said. There was no disguising his Ulster accent. “I have heard of you from my colleague Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You are the younger brother of Mr. Mycroft Holmes? I suppose by your presence here that you must have heard the news? Well, there is nothing that I can tell you at this stage. You should not have made the journey—”

Holmes cut him short by handing him one of the telegraphs. I perceived that it was the one summoning Holmes to Dublin, which had seemed to be sent by Mallon.

The detective glanced at it, and a frown gathered on his brow. “I did not send this,” he said.

“So I have gathered. The questions are—who did and why?”

Mallon glanced at the paper again. “This was sent from the GPO in Sackville Street. Anyone could have sent it.”

“Curious that you are here to meet me in accordance with the summons.”

“Coincidental. No one knew I was coming here until midnight last night. That was when the local police notified me that your brother was missing.”

At this stage, Mallon stood aside and gestured for Holmes to enter his brothers rooms. I followed and was met with a look of disapproving query.

“This is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson,” explained Holmes, at which Mallon reluctantly acknowledged my existence before calling out, “MacVitty!”

At the summons, a tall cadaverouslooking man came from an inner room. He was dressed so that no one would doubt that he was exactly what he appeared to be—a gentleman’s gentleman. Mallon inquired whether MacVitty had sent the telegraph to London. The man shook his head. Then he turned his keen eyes on Holmes and greeted him as one known of old. “It’s good to see you again, Master Sherlock, but I’d rather it were under better conditions.”

“I gather that you summoned the police, MacVitty,” Holmes replied kindly. “Let’s hear the details.”

“Not much to tell. Master Mycroft was expected home on Thursday night. He was going to dine in and not at his club. He gave me specific orders to have a sea trout and a chilled bottle of PouillyFume ready. When he did not turn up, I thought he had changed his mind. But then Mr. O’Keeffe came down. He said that he had been invited to brandy and cigars. Mr. O’Keeffe works with Master Mycroft at the Castle, sir.”

“You said ‘came down,’” Holmes said quickly.

“Mr. O’Keeffe has rooms on the top floor of this building. He waited awhile before returning to his own apartment. When Master Mycroft did not show up for breakfast, I sent for the police.”

“And that was Friday morning?” queried Holmes sharply.

“The local police did not think it necessary to act until late last night,” said Mallon defensively. “There are many reasons why an unattached gentleman might not return home at night….”

“It is strange that you turn up now, Mallon,” mused Holmes, “at the precise time the telegraph asked me to meet you here.”

Mallon’s eyes narrowed. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“Information is a twoway street. I know that you are no ordinary policeman, Mallon. You are the director of the detective branch of G Division, which is devoted to political matters such as investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Land League, and other such extremist movements. I know that you were the very man who arrested Charles Parnell of the Irish Party at Morrison’s Hotel last October. This doubtless implies that your superiors believe a political motive is behind my brother’s disappearance.”

Mallon smiled sourly. He seemed to be irritated by the reference to his superiors. “It is the job of G Division to make itself acquainted with everything that happens to highly placed political personages—especially in this day and age.”

“Yet you have formed no opinion of what has occurred?”

“Not as yet, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes sighed and then, with a quick beckoning gesture to me, he headed for the door. “We shall doubtless be in touch again, Mallon,” he said. “We will take rooms in the Kildare Street Club.”

Outside the door, he addressed me in a low tone. “Come, Watson. We will speak with Mr. O’Keeffe. He should not have departed for work as yet,” he added, with a glance at his fob watch.

We started up the stairs only to be met by a young man coming down them. He was well dressed and carried himself in a lackadaisical manner.

“Mr. O’Keeffe?” queried Holmes, acting on impulse.

The young man halted, then frowned as he examined us. “That’s me,” he said. “Who might you be?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, the brother of Mycroft. This is my friend Doctor Watson.”

O’Keeffes expression was one of friendly concern. “Has old Mycroft turned up?”

Holmes shook his head. “I understand that you were to have had brandy and cigars in his room on the evening that he went missing?”

“I thought there was something odd going on that evening,” the young man confessed, apparently crestfallen at our negative news.

Holmes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Odd? In what way?”

“We left the Castle together and walked down towards Nassau Street. We’d made arrangements to meet later, so I left him on the corner of Nassau and Dawson, as I had an appointment. I had gone but a few yards when something made me glance back. I saw Mycroft speaking to a couple of singular covers. Not out of place, you understand, but clearly rough diamonds. Thickset fellows. One seemed to be jabbing him in the ribs with his finger. I turned back, but as I did so, a carriage pulled up, a fairsized one. It was covered in a caleche, I think it is called. You know the sort. There was an emblem on the door, as I recall—a scallop shell depicted in white. It appeared to me that Mycroft was pushed into the carriage by the two men, who then followed him in. It was rolling away down Nassau Street before I got anywhere near it.”

Holmes stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Perhaps just as well,” he muttered.

The young man was puzzled. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I believe that Mycroft was propelled into the carriage at the point of a revolver, and had you interfered, you would have been shot.”

“Do you really think so?” O’Keeffe seemed astounded.

“I would be prepared to wager on it,” Holmes assured him. “This was the last you saw of Mycroft, I presume?”

“Indeed, it was. I did not feel alarmed enough to mention this to anyone then. Later I turned up at his rooms as we had arranged, hoping he would give me an explanation of his carriage ride. But MacVitty told me that Mycroft had not returned, even though he had ordered his supper to be ready. I waited awhile, but he did not turn up.” He looked directly at Holmes. “I suppose it would not be difficult to trace a carriage with such an emblem?”

“Did you send a telegraph to me?” Holmes said, ignoring his question.

“Never thought of it, old boy—couldn’t even if I had. Mycroft said he had a younger brother in London somewhere, but I had no way of knowing your address.” He suddenly glanced at his pocket watch. “Sorry, have to dash. Lots to do today. The new Lord Lieutenant and Chief Secretary are arriving to take over the administration. Must be at the Castle and spruced up. Have to act as the Viceroy’s ADC at the Viceregal Lodge tonight. Don’t worry, old boy. G Division will sort things out. I saw Mallon of the DMP arrive a short while ago. You’re in safe hands.”

With a flourish of his hat, the young man passed on his way.

I saw that Holmes’s face was glum. “Perhaps we’d better have a wash and brush up,” I ventured. “It wasn’t an easy overnight journey on the train and boat. We will do no good if we are in a state of fatigue.”

Holmes agreed. We were about to leave the house when Superintendent Mallon came out of Mycroft’s rooms. He seemed surprised to find us still in the house. “I’ll walk with you to Kildare Street, gentlemen,” he offered as he opened the door.

I was sure Holmes was going to refuse and was surprised when he accepted. “That is good of you, Superintendent.”

“The old city is in a fine state with the arrival of the new Lord Lieutenant,” said Mallon obliviously as we left the house. “They say that Gladstone has taken leave of his senses and done a deal with the Republicans. He’s let the leaders out of jail. Given them their cherished land reforms. The next thing we’ll see is a parliament back here in Dublin. Give these Fenians an inch, and they’ll take a mile. They say that’s the purpose for which Lord Cavendish has just replaced Lord Cowper as Viceroy.”

I did not follow Irish politics, although I knew something about the recent land war against the big landowners—a reaction to the worsening conditions experienced by Irish tenant farmers. There had been the famous case of Captain Boycott, Lord Erne’s estate manager, who had been ostracized by his workers and the local community. The campaign had been led by members of the Land League and Irish Party, who also wanted selfgovernment for Ireland.

“There’ll be trouble, mark my words, if Cavendish does start to give the Fenians more concessions,” went on Mallon. “And you don’t have to stretch the imagination to see the connections between them. I hear Cavendish is even related to ParnelPs wife. Parnell, Davitt, Sexton, and Dillon—the Fenian leaders—are already on their way to London to discuss matters with Gladstone, while Cavendish and his new Chief Secretary Burke arrive here.”

I subsequently learned that Mallon used the term
Fenian
to describe anyone who supported any form of devolved government and not merely Irish Republicans. His voice droned a bit. I was sure that poor Holmes, distracted as he was about his brothers disappearance and the mysterious faked telegraph he had received, was totally uninterested in the superintendents political musings.

When Mallon left us, I asked why Holmes had been so enthusiastic for him to accompany us to Kildare Street.

“Didn’t you see the caleche drawn up across the street, Watson?” he asked in surprise. “A black carriage with a white scallop shell emblem on its doors?”

The Kildare Street Club was housed in an opulent red brick Gothicstyle building at the end of the street that bore its name. The club, as Holmes informed me, was exclusive to the most important families in Ireland. No Catholics were allowed in membership, nor anyone who was known to support Irish efforts to secure “home rule.” In fact, no army officer below the rank of major, nor naval officer below a lieutenantcommander, was even allowed within its portals. It turned out that Mycroft Holmes was an honored member. Sherlock Holmes was welcomed in his brother’s name.

We spent the morning at the great General Post Office in Sackville Street, opposite an edifice called Nelson’s Pillar, which seemed a pale imitation of the monument in London’s Trafalgar Square. I kept a wary eye on all carriages, but there was no sign of the black one with a white scallop shell emblem. We also made inquiries about the emblem and were told that it was the emblem of no less a person than Lord Maynooth, a leading spokesman of the Liberal Government. I pointed out that such a man could not possibly be involved in kidnapping and that O’Keeffe must have mistaken the emblem.

Holmes, however, felt that we should pay a call on the noble lord later in the day. Our inquiries about the mysterious telegraph proved fruitless, and eventually we returned to the Kildare Street Club for a late luncheon, greatly despondent at our lack of success.

After lunch, a drowsiness overtook me. It was Thursday night since I had slept, and here we were on Saturday afternoon. Holmes noticed my eyelids drooping and advised me to take an hours nap.

“Nonsense, old fellow,” I protested. “If you are off to see our titled friend, then I shall come with you.”

He shook his head. “I am going to rest for an hour or so, as well, Watson. Well go to see Lord Maynooth this evening.”

I went to my room but not before I had made Holmes swear that he would make no move without me. I then collapsed onto my bed. It seemed that only moments had passed before I was being shaken awake. Holmes was bending over me.

“Come on, Watson,” he hissed. “The game’s afoot!”

I blinked and struggled up. “So soon? What?…”

“It’s early evening, old fellow. You’ve been asleep for nearly four hours,” he admonished.

I leaped from the bed with a curse. “Why didn’t you awaken me earlier?”

Holmes shrugged. “No cause. It was only a short while ago that our mystery friend made contact again. Here…”

He shoved a plain piece of paper into my hand. It was addressed simply to Mr. S. Holmes. It read:
Sorry I missed you at Merrion Square this morning. Be at the comer of Dawson Street and the north side of St. Stephen’s Green at
7
P.M. You may bring your friend with you
.