The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (8 page)

“Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns. Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days.”

I spoke with some conceit for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.

“But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia …”

“But minutia is important in life …” I began.

At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.

The pale-faced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table and then, I have never witnessed such a thing before, the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.

There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.

As the waiter, who had conducted the search, was passing our table, I hailed the fellow much to Mycroft’s astonished disapproval.

“Has His Grace mislaid something?” I queried.

The waiter, the same individual who had conducted us to our table when we entered, turned mournful eyes upon me. There was a glint of suspicion in them.

“Indeed, he has, sir. How did you know?”

“I observed that you were searching on and around the table where he had recently been seated. From that one deduces that he had lost something that he thought he had with him at that table.”

The man’s gaze fell in disappointment at the logic of my reply.

“What has he lost?” I pressed.

“His toilet case, sir.”

Mycroft gave an ill-concealed guffaw.

“A toilet case? What is a man doing bringing a toilet case into a dining room?”

The waiter turned to Mycroft.

“His Grace is a very fastidious and eccentric person, Mister Holmes.” The man evidently knew Mycroft by sight. “He carries the case with him always.”

“A valuable item?” I hazarded.

“Not really, sir. At least, not financially so.”

“Ah, you mean it has great sentimental value for the Duke?” I suggested.

“It was a gift which King William gave to one of His Grace’s ancestors as a personal memento when the man saved his life during the battle at the Boyne. And now, gentlemen, if you have not seen the item …”

He went on his way.

Mycroft was passing his napkin over his mouth,

“Now how about a port or brandy in the hall?”

The lofty hall of the club, with its big game trophies and blazing fire and staircase of elaborately carved stonework, was where members gathered for their after luncheon drinks and cigars.

We rose and made our way out of the dining room. Our path led us by the table of Colonel Moran and as we passed by I noticed that the colonel’s dark suit was ill-chosen for it showed up his dandruff. I grant you it is such small observations that sometimes irritate my fellows. But if one is prone to dandruff at least one should have the good sense to wear a light colour in which the tell-tale white powder and silver hairs would be less noticeable.

As we made our way into the hall we saw the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan standing with the head waiter and a gentleman whom Mycroft informed me was the chairman of the directors of the club. His Grace was clearly distressed.

“It is priceless! A value beyond measure!” He was almost wailing.

“I cannot understand it, Your Grace. Are you sure that you had it with you in the dining room?”

“Young man,” snapped the elderly duke, “do you accuse me of senility?”

The “young man”, who was about fifty years of age, blanched, and took a step backward before the old man’s baleful gaze.

“Not at all, Your Grace, not at all. Just tell me the facts again.”

“After finishing my luncheon, I went into the wash room. I washed my hands and then brushed my hair. It is my custom to do so after luncheon. I took my silver hairbrush from my leather case, which I always carry with me. I remember clearly that I returned it to the case. I left the case on the wash stand and went into the toilet. I came out, washed my hands and then realized that the case was no longer there.”

The head waiter was looking glum.

“I have already suggested to His Grace that the case might have been left in the dining room and sent one of the waiters to check. It was not there.”

The old man bristled.

“Knew it would be a damned waste of time. Said so. I know where it went missing. I’d start interrogating your employees, sir. At once!”

The club chairman looked unhappy.

“Your Grace, please allow us time to search the premises before we start anything so drastic. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid … ?”

“Mislaid!” The word was an explosion. “Dammit! Mislaid! Do you take me for a fool, sir? I demand that an interrogation of your employees begin at once. I suggest that you now send for the DMP!”

The mention of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had made the chairman slightly pale.

“Your Grace, the reflection on our reputation …”

“Damn your reputation, sir! What about my hair brush!” quivered the old man.

It was then I felt I should intervene.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” I began.

Rheumy blue eyes turned on me and assessed my youthful years.

“And who the devil are you, Sir?”

“My name is Holmes. I might be able to help you.”

“You, you young jackanapes? What do you mean?”

I heard my brother “tut-tutting” anxiously in the background at my effrontery.

“With your permission, I think I might be in a position to recover the lost item.”

Cloncury’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Do you have it, you impudent whippersnapper?” he demanded. “By God, if you are responsible …”

Mycroft came to my help.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, this is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

Cloncury glanced up and recognized Mycroft, knowing him to have the ear of the Viceroy. He looked slightly mollified.

“Why didn’t he introduce himself properly then, hey? Very well, young Holmes, what do you mean by it?”

“With your permission, sir,” I went on, unperturbed, “I would like to put a few questions to the chairman of the club.”

The chairman began to flush in annoyance.

“Go ahead, then, Mister Holmes,” instructed Cloncury. “I am sure that the chairman will be in favour of anything that stops the incursion of the police into this establishment.”

It seemed that the chairman, albeit reluctantly, was in favour.

“Well, sir, if I remember correctly, the wash room is next to the cloak room, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Is the wash room attended?”

“It is not.”

“And the cloak room? Is it attended at all times?”

“Of course it is.”

“Your Grace, will you be so good as to show me where it was that you left your toilet box?”

We turned in a body, headed by the duke, and passed into the wash room. He pointed to one of the ornate marble wash basins at the far end of the room. It was one of a dozen such wash basins lining the entire left handside wall of the chamber which was fronted by a series of mirrors for the use of the members. The right handside wall was fitted with toilet cubicles in dark mahogany and brass fittings, except for a small area behind the main door. The marble tiled wall here was unimpeded by anything except for a small opening. It was about two feet square, framed in mahogany and with a hatch door.

I pointed to it.

“I presume that this hatch connects the wash room with the cloak room?”

“Naturally,” barked the chairman. “Now what is all this about?”

I turned and led them out of the wash room into the cloakroom, where a uniformed attendant leapt from his chair, dropping a half-smoked cigarette into an ash tray and looking penitently from one to another of us.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he stuttered.

“Yes, you can,” I assured him. “You can bring me the garment that you are holding for Colonel Sebastian Moran. I think you will find that it is a heavy riding cloak or one of those new style long, loose coats which, I believe, is called an Ulster.”

The attendant returned my gaze in bewildered fashion.

The chairman pushed forward.

“Good God, sir, what do you mean by it? Colonel Moran is a respected member of this club. Why are you presuming to ask for his coat?”

The Duke of Cloncury was looking at me with a frown of disapproval.

“You’d better have a good explanation, young Holmes,” he muttered.

“I believe that you want the return of your toilet case?” I asked blandly.

“Gad, you know I do.”

I turned to the attendant.

“Have you been on duty for the last half an hour?”

“That I have, sir.”

“A short while ago Colonel Moran knocked on the hatch from the wash room side and asked if you could pass him his coat for a moment. Is that correct?”

The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

“It is, sir. He said he wanted to comb his hair and had left the toilet items in his coat. And the coat was, indeed, one of those new style Ulsters, sir.”

“I believe the colonel then came around from the wash room, into the cloak room, in order to hand you back the coat?”

“That is exactly what he did, sir.”

I turned and smiled at the astonished company, perhaps a little too superior in my attitude.

“How the hell did you know that?” growled the chairman.

“Now, my man,” I said, ignoring him, but speaking again to the attendant. “Would you fetch Colonel Moran’s Ulster?”

The attendant turned, picked down the garment and handed it to me in silence.

I took it and weighed it carefully with one hand before reaching into the inside lining. There were several large pockets there as was the fashion with such garments. The leather box was tucked neatly into one of them.

“How did you know?” gasped Cloncury seizing his precious box eagerly.

“Know? I merely deduce from facts, sir. If you will open the box and check the brush? I think you may find that in the brush are some strands of dark black hair. The colour of Colonel Moran’s hair, which is easy to spot as it is dyed.”

It took the duke but a moment to confirm that I was right.

“I think the colonel is someone given to seizing opportunity. A chance taker,” I told them. “He followed His Grace into the wash room when His Grace had already entered the toilet. He saw the leather case there. He knew it had great sentimental value for His Grace. Perhaps he thought he might be able to blackmail Cloncury for its return, probably through an intermediary of course. He seized the opportunity, asking for his Ulster to be passed through the hatch in order to conceal the box in order to get it out of the club. He chanced that members would not be searched …”

“It would be unthinkable that a member of this club would be searched,” muttered the chairman. “We are all gentlemen here!”

I chose not to comment.

“He could not carry the box out of the wash room into the cloak room without observation. When I saw the hatch I knew that he had only to ask for his coat to be passed through, place the box in his pocket unobserved, and the theft was complete.”

“How did you know it was an Ulster or a riding cloak?” demanded his grace.

“He would have to be possessed of a heavy coat such as an Ulster or riding cloak with large enough interior pockets to conceal the box in.”

“Why not pass the coat back through the hatch once he had hidden the box in the coat?” demanded Mycroft. “Why do you think that he came out of the wash room door, into the hall and then into the cloak room to return the cloak to the attendant?”

“Moran was cautious. Passing it back through the hatch might cause the attendant to feel the box and become suspicious, especially after Cloncury raised the alarm. So he carried it round and handed it to the attendant holding it upright by the collar. The extra weight would not be noticed. Is that correct?”

The attendant nodded confirmation.

“What made you think there would be hairs on the brush and that they would be his?” queried His Grace, staring dubiously at the black dyed hairs which were entangled on his silver-backed brush.

“Because Moran is a vain man and could not resist cocking a snoot at you, Your Grace, by brushing his own hair while you were within feet of him. It fits in with Moran’s character, a demonstration of his nerve for any moment you might have opened the door and discovered him. Chance is his adrenaline.”

“Holmes, this is amazing!” gasped Cloncury.

“It was another Trinity man who alerted me to the importance of careful observation,” I informed him. “Jonathan Swift. He wrote that a stander-by may sometimes see more of the game than he who plays it.” I could not resist turning to Mycroft and adding,
sotto voce,
“And Trinity almost refused to give Swift a degree because they thought he was too lazy and undisciplined!”

The chairman of the club signalled the uniformed club doorman and his assistant. They looked ex-military men.

“You will find Colonel Moran in the dining room,” he instructed. “Ask him to join us immediately. If he will not comply, you have my permission to escort him here with as much force as you have cause to use.”

The two men went off briskly about their task.

A moment later the colonel, whose appearance suggested that he had polished off the rest of the wine, was firmly propelled into our presence.

His red-rimmed eyes fell on his Ulster and on Cloncury holding his precious leather case. The man’s face went white in spite of the alcoholic infused cheeks.

“By Gad, sir, you should be horsewhipped!” growled the Duke of Cloncury and Straffan menacingly.