Paul Gilbert - The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘Despite the absence of Moriarty’s malevolent hand?’ I asked tentatively as we pulled up outside 221b.

‘Do not presume too much at this early stage, friend Watson,’ Holmes rejoined enigmatically as we alighted from our cab.

As we began climbing the stairs we were brought to an abrupt halt by the lyrical tones of our landlady, Mrs Hudson.

‘A moment if you please, gentlemen. This message was delivered by an official courier, shortly after your departure.’ She handed us a small white envelope, with the crest of the Foreign Office emblazoned upon it. The note within, which Holmes promptly asked me to read out aloud to him, was as brief as it was forthright.

Sherlock, come to the F.O. at once. National security at stake.

Mycroft.

Holmes’s face lit up at once. ‘Ah, so brother Mycroft appears to have a problem at the office. As you might recall, Watson, a summons from my brother is not to be taken lightly and usually leads to a most stimulating problem. Of course, the conclusion of the affair of the Greek Interpreter was hardly as satisfactory as the recovery of the Bruce Partington plans, although it did present me with its own unique set of perplexities.’

‘I recall both well,’ I replied, ‘and despite your initial reluctance, both found their way into my chronicles of your work. Your brother’s unusual position within the Government must surely indicate that this new matter is grave indeed. Yet what of the matter of Baron Maupertuis? Surely Lady Beasant’s predicament also warrants our best attention?’

‘Of course, dear fellow,’ Holmes answered, resting a placating hand upon my shoulder. ‘However, at this juncture, apart from dispatching wires to my friends in the Austrian and French police forces, there is little more to be done.

‘These I shall draft immediately whilst the ever co-operative Mrs Hudson summons a cab for us.’ As he spoke Holmes bundled the hapless woman out into the street, before tearing up the stairs to draft the wires. Within moments he was down again, thrusting the papers into Mrs Hudson’s reluctant hands, before joining me in the waiting cab. Once more we found ourselves roaring along Baker Street towards the centre of our great metropolis.

It might be recalled by my more attentive readers that the position of Mycroft Holmes within the hierarchy of Whitehall, was somewhat unusual in that he was not employed by any specific department. His office acted as an exchange house for interdepartmental information, which Mycroft first digested, then collated and lastly acted upon. Indeed, there were very few ministerial decisions made that were not first sanctioned and approved by Mycroft Holmes.

However, we were soon to discover, upon being shown to his large, austere office, deep within the bowels of Whitehall that the not inconsiderable burden of so weighty a responsibility had at last taken its toll on Holmes’s brother. It was with some considerable difficulty that, upon our being announced, Mycroft raised himself from a deep leather fireside chair, and as he shuffled away from the flickering of the fire’s flames it became apparent that the years since our last meeting, had not been kind to him.

Mycroft’s once genial facial chubbiness was now degenerating into ungainly folds of ageing flesh and bore a decidedly unhealthy grey pallor. His hair had thinned considerably and he had acquired a stoop to his back that reduced his height by two or three inches. It was sad to see that the seven-year age gap between my friend and his brother now seemed considerably wider. Admirably, Holmes betrayed no traces of the dismay he must have felt at seeing his brother’s sorry transformation.

‘Ah, Sherlock and, of course, Doctor Watson!’ was his affable greeting, although there was a hoarseness to his voice that I had, hitherto, been unaware of. ‘Good of you both to have attended so promptly.’ Then, lowering his voice somewhat, ‘I understand you have agreed to look into Lady Beasant’s little problem, but between the three of us, I think you will find this matter a little weightier and of far greater priority. Do not look so surprised, Doctor, as my brother will confirm, there is very little that escapes me, especially in so far as the affairs of a former member of the Diogenes Club are concerned.’

‘The tone of your note was somewhat urgent,’ Holmes mentioned.

‘Indeed it was. The simple fact of the matter is that the idiot Lestrade has been put in charge of the investigation and I would prefer it if you could learn all you can from the scene of the crime, before he blunders in.’

‘So it is murder then?’ Holmes asked casually, almost with an air of nonchalance. By now an evening mist had begun to fall and Holmes’s sharp, hawklike profile was set off in silhouette against the uncovered glass of Mycroft’s window.

‘Murder it undoubtedly is and I am afraid the tragic victim is my invaluable right-hand man, George Naismith,’ Mycroft replied sombrely.

‘Right-hand man, you say?’ Holmes asked a little anxiously, moving away from the window. ‘I do not understand. You have always been a law unto yourself within the Civil Service and the nature of your work has always precluded any assistance.’

‘That was the case until recently, but alas, I have not really been myself of late and it was felt by certain Government officials that some help would prove to be of benefit. I must admit that, despite my early misgivings, Naismith had become almost indispensable to me. As you are already aware, I work for no individual department and Naismith’s previous experience had helped to lubricate liaison between the various ministries.’

‘Where exactly did the murder take place?’ Holmes asked.

‘In my office, next door, and that is the most singular aspect of the whole confounded business!’ Mycroft replied. He moved over to a set of large mahogany doors.

‘I am sorry, sir, but I understood this room to be your office,’ I mentioned whilst still writing in my notebook.

‘Oh no, dear boy,’ Mycroft boomed. ‘This is merely my waiting room. Do not be too easily impressed by size and grandeur. In my exalted position it is more important to impress people before they actually meet you.’ Mycroft finished his remarks with a touch of amused irony. Then he flung open the large doors and showed us into his inner sanctum.

The room we now entered was indeed considerably smaller than the outer one, though no less impressive for that. A magnificent crystal chandelier cascaded down from the central ceiling rose, and an ornate marble fireplace all but filled the left-hand wall. However, the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly the splendid Louis XIV desk that sat impressively in the centre of the room and even that was dwarfed by its companion chair, or rather, throne. The three armless chairs set before it were low enough to create a grand effect for any visitor. The remainder of the room’s furnishings comprised book-lined walls and a small plain desk and chair positioned at the far end and clearly belonging to Naismith, Mycroft’s assistant.

Therefore, it was all the more surprising to find Naismith’s body slumped over the larger of the two desks and not his own.

I raised this point with Mycroft before commencing my initial examination of the body.

‘A good point, Doctor, for that is precisely what I meant before, when stating that the body’s location was its most singular aspect. The small desk at the end of the room is Naismith’s more usual station; however, yesterday evening he was required to work late in order to read through and précis some particularly large and bulky files. For the sake of expediency I allowed him the use of my desk,’ Mycroft explained.

‘I take it that was the only occasion on which that had occurred?’ Holmes asked and then, following Mycroft’s nodded affirmation: ‘Was there a particular reason for this late-night work?’