The Ectoplasmic Man (8 page)

Mycroft sighed and lowered himself, with great effort, onto a settee. Though all physical resemblance to his brother was distorted by his massive bulk, his features retained some of the same sharpness of expression, and his eyes seemed always to hold that introspective look which I had observed in Sherlock’s when he was exerting his powers to their fullest. It was that cast which spread over Mycroft’s face now, replacing the laboured joviality of his greeting, as he lapsed into the peculiar telegraphic dialogue which the two brothers favoured when addressing each other.

“You are looking into the matter?”

Sherlock nodded. “And you?”

“Enormous complications.”

“So I gather.”

“Do not insist.”

“My client—”

“A bad business.”

“Houdini is innocent.”

“Perhaps.”

“Most likely.”

“Even so.”

“Must he be detained?”

“Diplomatic appeasement.”

“How so?”

“The German business.”

“And Houdini?”

“Footprint.”

“Tut!”

“Is German.”

“Hungarian.”

“Allied.”

“Come.” As always, the full import of their exchange lay in what was left unsaid, but it was obvious even to me that Mycroft was withholding information crucial to us.

“His father was a murderer,” said Mycroft.

“Indeed?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That is the sort of shabby reasoning I expect from Lestrade. One may never judge the son by the father’s example, as we have good cause to know.”

Mycroft gave a start and opened his mouth as if to reply, but he remembered my presence and decided against it. Here in the Stranger’s
Room I would catch, on occasion, an unexpected glimpse into the boyhood of Sherlock Holmes; but these images were so slight and so fragmented, like a reflection upon water, that I have never been able to piece them together into any manner of sense.

“I hardly think that... we are dealing in an entirely different matter here,” said Mycroft, fitting a cigar into his meerschaum holder.

“And what sort of matter is it, then? What are these stolen documents which are of such interest to the prince, Secretary O’Neill and Mycroft Holmes?”

“Documents, Sherlock. Very important documents. I see now that I cannot dissuade you from pursuing the affair, and you will no doubt discern most of the germane information within a few days, but you may not know the nature of the documents at its core.”

“Then how may I gauge Houdini’s possible motivation and involvement in the matter?”

Mycroft gave a short laugh. “That is the very least of my concerns.”

“Then it becomes the greatest of mine,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Come along, Watson. We shall have a busy day tomorrow.”

Mycroft Holmes did not rise to see us out.

^*
A word that had a wider use and broader meaning in Watson’s day.

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
I
NVESTIGATES

I
n the wooded upper reaches of Stoke Newington, four miles from any other structure, sits the government office known as Gairstowe House. In all respects it appears to be an ordinary country estate, but for the two-storey row of offices jutting from its left wing. This oddly shaped building is surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence, at the entrance of which stands a uniformed guard. On the morning following our episode at the Diogenes, the guard on duty was named Ian Turks. Upon our arrival at Gairstowe, I found myself making this young man’s acquaintance while Holmes immediately threw himself down on all fours and began crawling about the grounds of the estate.

I have no doubt that Turks had never before seen a well turned-out, middle-aged gentleman behave in such a manner. Holmes sniffed about like a bloodhound, examining patches of grass with his convex lens and occasionally lying prostrate for several moments at a time, evidently absorbed in the deepest concentration. Though Turks, like the Palace Guards, was obviously trained to remain impassive in unusual situations, at length the young man was unable to contain his curiosity.

“Pardon me asking, mate,” said he, “but what is that fellow doing on the ground there?”

“Looking for footprints, no doubt,” I answered.

“Footprints! But all the footprints are inside! The bobbies found ’em.”

“He is aware of that, but he tends to carry his examinations a step or two beyond those of the official detectives.”

“Who is he, then?”

“Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

Turks gave a low whistle and stared again at my companion, who had now rolled over on his back to survey the soles of his own shoes. “That’s who he is? Cor! He’s better looking in the drawings, isn’t he!”
*

Before I could formulate a reply, Holmes leapt to his feet and shouted across the grass to me. “Come along, Watson! There is nothing more to be learned here!”

Together we climbed the marble steps which led into the large entrance hall. There our cards were taken by a butler — rather too formally dressed for the early hour — who returned in a moment to conduct us into the presence of Lord O’Neill, the Secretary for European Affairs.

We were shown through a narrow corridor hung with oriental tapestries and into a large study lined with oak bookcases. Behind a scrivener’s desk sat the man whom I took to be Lord O’Neill, and across from him sat a very large gentleman of stiff bearing, whom I did not recognise.

“Sherlock Holmes!” cried Lord O’Neill, rising so hastily that he swept a small stack of papers onto the floor. “I was delighted to receive your wire this morning! I had wanted to send for you myself, but your brother, Mycroft, he, well—” He trailed off nervously. “And you must be Dr Watson! You are welcome here, sir. Ah! Forgive me! I have been remiss!
Allow me to present the honourable Herr Nichlaus Osey of Germany.”

The German rose and bowed formally in our direction. “I am pleased to meet the famous crime specialist,” he said in well-practised English, “though I did not expect that you would look quite this way,” he added, looking askance at Holmes’s dishevelled, grass-stained clothing.

“Mr Holmes’s methods are a bit unorthodox,” Lord O’Neill said quickly, “but his results speak for themselves I assure you, I assure you. I was telling Herr Osey of your invaluable assistance during that ugly business back in 1900.”

“Ah, yes,” said Holmes carelessly, “a simple case, but not without some features of interest. I have recorded it in my notes as ’The Adventure of the Discursive Italian’.”

“Holmes,” I asked, though I saw that Lord O’Neill was anxious to proceed, “do you mean to say that you keep your own records of your cases?”

“Don’t look so hurt, old fellow! At the time you had deserted me for Mrs Watson. I could not allow your lapse to disrupt the flow of crime history.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “May I—?”

“Gentlemen, please!” Lord O’Neill cried. “The affair before us is a most pressing one! We must attend to it. Shall I ring for tea? Yes, we must have tea.” He darted to the bell-rope and pulled it urgently.

“Tea!” exclaimed Herr Osey. “At such a time! And all of this talk about records and discursive Italians. It is a wonder you British ever accomplish anything!”

“Herr Osey, please,” said Lord O’Neill anxiously. “I’m sure—”

“Who is this remarkable woman with whom the prince has been so indiscreet?”

Many times in my years with Holmes have I seen him produce a startling revelation from the midst of seemingly unexceptional circumstances, but
never has one of these abrupt observations had such tremendous impact. It was as if the two diplomats had been struck by lightning.

“Mr Holmes!” cried Lord O’Neill, leaping to his feet.

“
Mein Gott!”
shouted Herr Osey. “Can this be? How could you—”

“Your tea, sir,” announced the butler, rolling in a large tea-trolley.

Herr Osey thrust his fists into his pockets and turned to the wall. Lord O’Neill fell heavily into his chair, the colour draining from his face, but he managed to collect himself sufficiently to acknowledge the arrival of the tea. The butler then withdrew, and both men turned to stare at Sherlock Holmes.

“Gentlemen! It is perfectly obvious! Allow me to explain. Lestrade has been good enough to leave the room in order, so it is not difficult to see that a conference of some sort took place here on the night of the crime. The brandy snifters on the sideboard point to a late evening, very likely while the larger gathering was taking place downstairs. The desk calendar has not been advanced since the day before yesterday. As Lord O’Neill is rather fastidious in such details, we may assume that the room has not been in use since then.”

“Perfectly sound,” admitted Lord O’Neill. “But how—”

“That the conference was an important one is rather strongly suggested by the presence of the Prince of Wales. Here is a cigar stub bearing the mark of his private stock. Even more revealing are the contents of this ashtray beside the armchair. In it there are two cigarette ends stained red. Unless one of you two gentlemen has taken to painting his lips, we may infer the presence of a woman.

“What sort of woman is it who smokes in such company? A rather strong-willed woman, certainly. Also, it would seem, a familiar of the prince. Yet, rather than make use of the cigarette case we see here upon the desk, this woman’s cigarettes were provided for her by Herr Osey, whose own stubs we see here in the same ashtray. This fact is not without implication.”

Herr Osey took the cigarette from his lips and stamped it out peevishly.

“The woman is a German, involved in some sort of diplomatic unpleasantness. This much is obvious by the involvement of you two gentlemen. So, what is the scene we have evolved? A large gathering at Gairstowe House after the theatre. While they are being entertained downstairs, a smaller party assembles in this room to discuss business. This business must concern the documents which have since vanished. The prince and this mysterious woman” — Holmes paused and looked to Herr Osey.

“The Countess Valenka,” the German provided.

Holmes nodded. “—would not customarily be present at such an interview. Therefore they are the principals and you gentlemen are their representatives.

“What can be the unpleasantness which would induce two former intimates to employ diplomatic representation? Well, now. The prince has certain... compromising tendencies which are well known. Perhaps he has placed himself in the awkward—”

“Mr Holmes, please!” cried Lord O’Neill wildly. “We have followed your reasoning quite closely. Pray do not continue!” While Herr Osey had listened to Holmes’s discourse with a fascinated detachment, Lord O’Neill had become increasingly anxious, and he was now unable to control himself. “You have perceived the nature of our difficulty, and can now appreciate that it is sensitive beyond my ability to speculate.”

“Letters, then?”

“Letters,” confirmed Herr Osey. “Confound it! There is no milk for this tea!”

“No matter, my friend,” said Herr Osey. “We shall take it dark.”

“Yes, quite right,” said Lord O’Neill with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s a silly thing, I know, but my nerves—”

“Indeed. We are all on edge.” Herr Osey took a cup of tea. “It is as you
say, Mr Holmes. We had met to discuss a number of indiscreet letters of which the countess was threatening to make use.”

“And it is these letters which are now missing?”

“Yes,” Lord O’Neill resumed. “She had turned them over to us, after much discussion and a promise of rather substantial remuneration. But when I returned the following morning, the letters were missing.”

“Did you examine the room thoroughly? Was it disturbed in any way?”

“Nothing was disturbed or missing save the letters. And the only evidence of an intruder was these footprints behind the desk.”

“The footprints! Of course, let us have a look at the footprints,” said Holmes, crawling behind the desk. “Hmm. Most remarkable. Watson, would you step over here?” he asked, brandishing his convex lens. “Have a look, will you?”

Behind the desk was a muddy cluster of footprints which seemed to have been made by someone shuffling in place for a time. “We are told that these are the footprints of Mr Houdini,” Lord O’Neill said.

“Quite right!” Holmes agreed. “In fact, I’ve had occasion to examine his shoes recently and I recognise the tread. And yet, I must say that in all my years of practice I have never seen such unusual impressions.”

“What is so extraordinary about them, Holmes?” I asked.

“What? My good fellow, what about them is ordinary? Observe: In an ordinary footprint the greatest pressure is exerted by the heel and ball of the foot. In these impressions, the greatest weight has been placed on the direct centre of the foot, the arch. What does this suggest to you?”

“Wooden legs?”

Holmes turned to me with a look of surprise. “You never cease to amaze, Watson,” he murmured. “Indeed, one wooden appendage is possible, but two? I think it more likely that these prints were made by a hand bearing down on the centre of a shoe.”

“In order to implicate Houdini?”