The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (11 page)

The Buttery was a medieval
building stuck on the end of Temple Library, opposite Temple
Church. It started life as a dairy for the Knights Templar in the
Middle Ages and had sat empty for the last few decades because of
its prohibitive dimensions and lack of modern comforts. It was
tall, narrow, dark, fusty, and a perfect bolt hole in London.

The Countess had taken a leaf
out of Sherlock’s book and decided to maintain a separate residence
should the need ever arise. She was meeting Dr Watson and Sherlock
inside The Buttery now that it had been furnished with Tudor pieces
and gimcracks. All she needed was a housekeeper to live-in.

“May I suggest Mr Steve Dixie,”
said Sherlock after they had been given a tour of the different
levels. “He is an amiable villain who has just finished enjoying a
holiday at the pleasure of Her Majesty. He can put his hand to
anything and is not averse to a dangerous undertaking. If left to
his own devices he will soon fall in with artful dodgers. If you
have nothing against American Negroes, he might be your man.”

“Nothing at all,” she said.

Dr Watson frowned. “He won’t
run off with the pewterware?”

“I can impress upon him that it
would not be in his long-term interests,” said Sherlock.

“What would stop him betraying
the Countess?” persisted the doctor.

“The same goes for anyone
else,” replied Sherlock with an unconcerned inflection.

“How soon can you arrange a
meeting with Mr Dixie?” she said.

“Why don’t we adjourn to Ye Old
Cock Tavern on the Strand where we can discuss the details and I’m
sure Mr Dixie will arrive within the hour?”

Sherlock soon found one of his
errand boys and the message was quickly relayed. The speed at which
Mr Dixie appeared at the tavern would have put the telephone to
shame.

“Hello, Masser Holmes,” he
delivered in his distinctive Southern drawl, eyeing the consulting
detective and sensing something different. “I hear you is keen to
reacquaint yourself with Mr Steve Dixie, late of Wormwood
Scrubs.”

“I am, Mr Dixie. Please take a
seat. My friend, Watson will buy you a drink. A cup of hot cocoa
fine for you?”

Mr Dixie pulled a wobbly face
and Holmes laughed uproariously.

“Only joshing, Mr Dixie. A pint
of porter for Mr Dixie, if you will, Watson.” Holmes waited for
Watson to repair to the bar. “I would like to introduce you to a
dear friend of mine. Yes, I have one or two. Her name is the
Countess. She is in need of a fixer.”

Mr Dixie studied the lady using
the wary coal-black eye of an ex-slave that knew how not to betray
itself while summing up the rich and powerful. He had met plenty of
tarted-up dollymops but he could tell she was the genuine thing. A
high-class whore for dukes and lords; may be even the Prince of
Wales. “I don’t have to kill no one, Masser Holmes. I swore off
murder after Perkins.”

“No, no, nothing like that,
rest assured, Mr Dixie. You will act as caretaker at an abode not
far from here. You will come and go and make sure everything is
neat and dandy. And when it transpires that the Countess arrives on
the doorstep to stay for a day or two you will act as lookout. That
is all.”

Mr Dixie appeared skeptical. “I
don’t need to bruise no one?”

“No, no bruising. Ah! Here is
your porter. Drink up. The Countess will set up an account here at
the tavern for you to take your meals. She will also put money into
a bank account quarterly in your name and you can access the money
when you see fit. You will not need to pay for lodgings because you
will be living for free in the establishment you will be
caretaking. Do you follow?”

Mr Dixie stared into the
unpatched eye; he nodded and swallowed at the same time. “How much
is we talking, Masser Holmes?”

“Enough to keep you on the
straight and narrow, Mr Dixie. Enough to keep you out of The
Scrubs. Of course, if you should get light-fingered or lapse into
the old ways or start inviting all your old friends around for
parlour games you will find me very unforgiving. I will be forced
to have a long chat to Inspector Lestrade. Wormwood will seem like
a picnic. I may even have to mention the name Perkins. A hangman’s
rope is a possibility. Finish up your porter and we will take a
stroll around the corner to visit your new home. It is not grand
but you will have your own room and the run of the place until such
time, as I mentioned earlier, the Countess arrives to stay for a
few days.”

Mr Dixie liked The Buttery and
he moved in that same night. It had a smell like a posh knocking
shop - camphor and beeswax and wood polish and perfumed candles.
But it was like no brothel he had ever seen. There was only one
bedroom right at the top of the stairs. And though it was decked
out beautiful, it weren’t done in red velvet with lots of mirrors
and paintings of ladies with no clothes on. His bedroom was off the
kitchen which had a new coal range that would banish the cold. The
bedroom had a proper big bed for a man his size, with crisp clean
sheets and two pillows without any stains, and some sturdy
furniture that was not likely to fall to pieces the moment he
touched it. Best of all was the tavern on the Strand. For the first
time since being granted freedom he would not have to worry about
where his next meal was coming from. It seemed too good to be
true.

“What do you mean: it isn’t the
first time?” demanded Sherlock, eye-balling his big brother with
one daunting unpatched eye.

“Don’t be so melodramatic,
Sherlock,” rebuked Mycroft, frowning at his golden-smudged
reflection in the verre
églomisé
walls which in the hands of
a lesser master could have been a decorating disaster. Gold-leafed
glass could be garish if not handled correctly, but here the artist
had demonstrated restraint. Burnished clouds of gold reflected the
candlelight in a way that was quite magical. The Countess had been
sensible not to electrify the chandelier.

“What happened?” pursued Dr
Watson, recalling his own lucky escape on the stairs of the
pavilion the night before. He was glad there was just the four of
them for dinner at number 6 Mayfair Mews; he had been expecting
Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty.

“I was nearly killed by a
barrel,” said Mycroft blandly, refreshing his glass and passing on
the decanter of port. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time
but last night when my head hit the pillow I recalled that it was a
near miss.”

“When was this?” asked
Sherlock.

“Just prior to Christmas. I had
been to the barber in Jermyn Street and was taking a short cut back
to Pall Mall. I was walking along Bury Street where a horse and
cart was parked at the corner of Ryder Street. It appeared to be
securing its load of barrels. I had just gone past the cart when
one of the barrels must have broken loose. It rolled off the cart
and came hurtling down the street. It would have bowled me over and
killed me instantly had not a stranger grabbed my arm and jerked me
into a recessed doorway.”

“Was it usual for you to walk
to and fro the barber?” probed Sherlock.

“Yes, the distance is quite
short and to circumvent further pointless conjecture, yes, I always
take the same short cut. Anyone who knows my routine would know
that.”

“Anyone who knows you would
know you are a stickler for routine,” disparaged the younger
Holmes. “May I suggest you vary your routine for the time
being.”

“A stickler does not vary,”
responded the elder with disdain.

“Then take precaution,” advised
Sherlock. “If someone has twice failed to eliminate you they are
hardly likely to give up. They will try even harder next time.”

“You think there will be a next
time?” pressed Dr Watson.

“Without a doubt, my friend,
without a doubt,” he assured, frowning. “I would go undercover at
that monastic establishment in Pall Mall but an eye-patch rather
gives the game away and a mechanical arm is a darned nuisance when
it comes to balancing a tray of brandy balloons.”

“I could do it,” offered Dr
Watson. “I could go undercover as a waiter.”

“Butler,” corrected Mycroft
with asperity. “And it is out of the question. Apart from the fact
you would be spotted in ten seconds flat as an interloper by a
proper butler, the uproar from the members would see me hanged for
treason. And quite rightly!”

Dr Watson conceded he would
probably make a rum job of it. A genuine butler would spot a fake
at once. Sherlock could have pulled it off but a mechanical arm was
not something you could disguise while butlering.

The Countess, having dismissed
her own butler once dinner was over so that they could talk in
private, personally proffered a box of cigars to her three male
guests. “If this matter pertains to the amendment to the club’s
constitution then it is more than likely the person out to kill you
is someone within your own club and doing nothing is not an option.
We cannot just wait for the next near miss. The rolling barrel was
a long shot staged to look accidental, but three bombs upped the
ante dramatically. If the third attempt follows from the second it
will be something more serious than three bombs.”

Feeling suddenly nervy, Dr
Watson lit up his calabash pipe in preference to a cigar. “How many
people died last night?”

“Five,” said Mycroft.

“And how many were injured?”
pressed Sherlock.

“Thirty-two,” replied the elder
sibling. “Six of them with life-threatening injuries that may yet
add to the body count.”

“Can your ADC go undercover as
a butler?” pursued Sherlock.

Mycroft shook his head firmly.
“Nash could probably pull it off but his role as my aide de camp is
non-negotiable and quite frankly if anyone is going to prevent
another near miss it will be my ADC going about his normal
duty.”

The others all agreed Nash was
better suited to personal body-guard than butler and the idea was
shelved. The Countess moved on quickly.

“I was lunching with Miss de
Merville today and she mentioned the amendment to the constitution
had something to do with relaxing club membership – is that
correct?”

Mycroft scowled. “She must have
got that from her father. De Merville isn’t supposed to discuss
club matters with outsiders. He probably discussed it with Damery
too. The two of them are as thick as thieves. I wouldn’t be
discussing it with you now if lives other than mine weren’t at
stake. Yes, the amendment, if passed, will allow for Americans and
Irishmen to join the club. It is currently restricted to English,
Scottish and Welsh nationals.”

“Is that really worth killing
for?” quizzed Dr Watson dubiously. “I mean Americans and Irishmen
are not exactly the enemy at the gates.”

“Quite so,” agreed Mycroft.
“I’m in favour of the amendment but a lot of our members feel
threatened. Some Irishmen are Fenian sympathisers and though they
can infiltrate labour organisations and working men’s clubs it is
currently difficult for them to infiltrate the sorts of clubs where
political matters or national secrets are privately aired in the
Stranger’s Room. As for Americans, it is possible they will sway
trade arguments in favour of our Atlantic cousins rather than our
own people – money talks and they have a lot of voice at their
disposal.”

“Miss de Merville also
mentioned about the recent vote for primus baro. You won by a
single vote, Uncle Mycroft. As the position is held for life there
can be no new vote unless something fatal befalls you.”

Mycroft appeared unconcerned.
“Yes, de Merville missed out by a whisker. But he is hardly likely
to bump me off simply because he wants to be primus baro.”

“I understand the other
candidate, Admiral Quantock, has since died?”

“Yes; drowned in the Solent. If
you are suggesting de Merville bumped him off to eliminate future
competition I would find that hard to swallow. I have known de
Merville for more than twenty years. He is a brave soldier and an
excellent leader of men.”

“Where does he stand on the
Irish Guards question?” she asked.

“I refuse to discuss his views
on the subject.”

“What about your views on the
subject?” she persisted.

Mycroft hesitated before
deciding he was amongst family – or the closest to family he would
ever have - and that the three individuals around the table had his
best interests at heart. “I am in favour of forming a regiment of
Irish Guards. It is long overdue. The Irish have always conducted
themselves honourably in battle. We already have a regiment of
Highlanders. Keeping men who are affiliated in the same regiment
makes sense. Moreover, a single Irish regiment limits the
opportunity for an uprising from within our own ranks. If they are
all contained to one regiment they have less chance to spread
chaos.”

Dr Watson withdrew his calabash
and rested it on the edge of an ashtray while he refilled his port
glass. “What are the objections?”

Mycroft declined another glass
of port; he’d had three already, and that was on top of the
Moselle, Cabernet, and Madeira. “The Irish Guards question comes at
the end of an acrimonious shake-up of the army: administration,
dress, tactics, weaponry – the whole kit and caboodle. Board of
Ordnance versus Commissariat versus War Office. Camp Roberts versus
Camp Wolseley. Africa versus India. Many men prefer the status quo.
Change can be unnerving. If it were left up to certain high-ranking
officers we would still be charging the enemy with cold steel in
Swaziland. It worked at Waterloo in 1815 they would say!”

“Lord Roberts is in favour?”
checked Dr Watson.

Mycroft nodded.

“Sir James Damery would be in
Camp Roberts,” noted the Countess, “since he is Irish.”

“It would appear so,” replied
Mycroft without committing himself.