Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

My brother, Mycroft, who, like most of the Holmes family of Galway, was also a product of Trinity, had invited me to lunch at the Kildare Street Club. Mycroft, being seven years older than I, had already established his career in the Civil Service and was working in the fiscal department of the Chief Secretary for Ireland in Dublin Castle. He could, therefore, afford the 10 pounds per annum, which gave him access to the opulence of the red brick Gothicstyle headquarters of the Kildare Street Club.

The club was the center of masculine Ascendancy life in Ireland. Perhaps I should explain that these were the Anglo-Irish elite, descendants of those families that England had dispatched to Ireland to rule the unruly natives. The club was exclusive to members of the most important families in Ireland. No “Home Rulers,” Catholics nor Dissenters were allowed in membership. The rule against Catholics was, however, “bent” in the case of the O’Conor Don, a direct descendant of the last High King of Ireland, and a few religious recalcitrants, such as the earls of Westmeath, Granard, and Kenmare, whose loyalty to England had been proved to be impeccable. No army officer below the rank of major, nor below a naval lieutenant-commander was allowed within its portals. And the only people allowed free use of its facilities were visiting members of the Royal Family, their equerries and the viceroy himself.

My brother, Mycroft, basked and prospered in this colonial splendor, but I confess, it was not to my taste. I had been accepted within this elite sanctuary as guest of Mycroft only, who was known as a confidant of the Chief Secretary and therefore regarded as having the ear of the viceroy himself. I had been persuaded to go only because Mycroft wished to celebrate my demyship and see me off to Oxford in fraternal fashion. I did not want to disappoint him.

The dining room of the club was truly luxuriant. The club had the reputation of providing the best table in Dublin.

A solemn-faced waiter, more like an undertaker, led us through the splendidly furnished dining room to a table in a bay window overlooking St. Stephen’s Green, for the club stood on the corner of Kildare Street and the green itself.

“An aperitif, gentlemen?” intoned the waiter in a sepulchral voice.

Mycroft took the opportunity to inform me that the cellar was of excellent quality, particularly the stock of champagne. I replied that I believed that I would commence with a glass of sherry and chose a Palo Cortaldo while Mycroft, extravagantly, insisted on a half bottle of Diamant Bleu.

He also insisted on a dozen oysters, which I observed cost an entire shilling a dozen, and were apparently sent daily from the club’s own oyster bed near Galway. I settled for pate de foie gras and we both agreed to indulge in a steak with a bottle of Bordeaux, a rich red St. Estephe from the Chateau MacCarthy.

In truth, Mycroft was more of a gourmand than a gourmet. He was physically lazy and already there was a corpulent aspect to his large frame. But he also had the Holmes’s brow, the alert, steel-gray, deepset eyes, and firmness of lips. He had an astute mind and was a formidable chess player.

After we had made our choice, we settled down, and I was able to observe our fellow diners.

Among those who caught my immediate eye was a dark-haired man who, doubtless, had been handsome in his youth. He was now in his mid-thirties, and his features were fleshy and gave him an air of dissoluteness and degeneracy. He carried himself with the air of a military man, even as he slouched at his table imbibing his wine, a little too freely, I fear. His discerning brow was offset by the sensual jaw. I was aware of cruel blue eyes; drooping, cynical lids; and an aggressive manner even while seated in repose. He was immaculately dressed in a smart dark coat and cravat with a diamond pin that announced expensive tastes.

His companion appeared less governed by the grape than he, preferring coffee to round off his luncheon. This second man was tall and thin, his forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes deeply sunken in his head. I would have placed him about the same age as his associate. He was cleanshaven, pale, and ascetic looking. A greater contrast between two men, I could not imagine.

The scholarly man was talking earnestly, and his military companion nodded from time to time, as if displeased at being disturbed in his contemplation of his wineglass. The other man, I saw, had rounded shoulders, and his face protruded forward. I observed that his head oscillated from side to side in a curious reptilian fashion.

“Mycroft,” I asked after a while, “who is that curious pair?”

Mycroft glanced in the direction I had indicated. “Oh, I would have thought you knew one of them-you being interested in science and such like.”

I hid my impatience from my brother. “I do not know; otherwise, I would not have put forward the question.”

“The elder is Professor Moriarty.”

At once I was interested. “Moriarty of Queen’s University, in Belfast?” I demanded.

“The same Professor Moriarty,” confirmed Mycroft smugly.

I had at least heard of Moriarty, for he had the chair of mathematics at Queens and written The Dynamics of an Asteroid , which ascended to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no man in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.

“And the man who loves his alcohol so much?” I pressed. “Who is he?”

Mycroft was disapproving of my observation. “Dash it, Sherlock, where else may a man make free with his vices but in the shelter of his club?”

“There is one vice that he cannot well hide,” I replied slyly. “That is his colossal male vanity. That black hair of his is no natural color. The man dyes his hair. But, Mycroft, you have not answered my question. His name?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“He is one of the Morans of Connacht.”

“A Catholic family?” For O Morain, to give the name its correct Irish form, which meant “great,” were a wellknown Jacobite clan in Connacht.

“Hardly so,” rebuked Mycroft. “His branch converted to the Anglican faith after the Williamite conquest. Sebastian Morans father was Sir Augustus Moran CB, once British Minister to Persia. Young Moran went through Eton and Oxford. The family estate was near Derrynacleigh but I believe, after the colonel inherited, he lost it in a card game. He was a rather impecunious young man. Still, he was able to buy a commission in the Indian Army and served in the First Bengalore Pioneers. He has spent most of his career in India. I understand that he has quite a reputation as a biggame hunter. The Bengal tiger mounted in the hall, as we came in, was one of his kills. The story is that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes an iron nerve.”

I frowned. “Nerve, vanity, and a fondness for drink and cards is sometimes an unenviable combination. They make a curious pair.”

“I don’t follow you?”

“I mean, a professor of mathematics and a dissolute army officer lunching together. What can they have in common?”

I allowed my attention to occupy the problem but a moment more. Even at this young age I had come to the conclusion that until one has facts, it is worthless wasting time trying to hazard guesses.

My eye turned to the others in the dining room. Some I knew by sight, and one or two I had previously been introduced to in Mycroft’s company. Among these diners was Lord Rosse, who had erected the largest reflecting telescope in the world at his home in Birr Castle. There was also the harddrinking Viscount Massereene and Ferrard and the equally indulgent Lord Clonmell. There was great hilarity from another table where four young men were seated, voices raised in goodnatured argument. I had little difficulty recognizing the Beresford brothers of Curraghmore, the elder of them being the Marquess of Waterford.