Sherlock Holmes (22 page)

He sighed, as if he were finally getting something off his chest that he had held onto, silently, for years. “It has been a great burden, a stewardship that has dominated all of our lives, and every fortnight we have met clandestinely in Whitehall to discuss our progress and concerns.”

“You old dog,” said Newbury, clearly impressed. “I knew you were up to something, but I’d imagined it to be advisory work back at the Service, never something like this.”

Angelchrist laughed, but it was a sad, uncomfortable laugh. “I do not suspect that you, Mr. Holmes, are quite as surprised as my old friend. Although I am aware that your brother has kept this from you, I also know that he has a long history of such endeavours, of which I am sure you are more than aware.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, without opening his eyes.

“So these men, these traitors, they’re aware of all of this, and they’ve been using you and Grange to extract information,” I said, “regarding the activities of this secret cabal?”

“I’m afraid it seems so,” replied Angelchrist, hanging his head in shame. “If those secrets were to get out, they could cause untold damage. Some of them are quite incendiary. The methods required to engineer our ends have not always been… democratic.”

“And the spirit box,” said Holmes. He opened his eyes and sat forward, observing Angelchrist. “I take it, then, that this is a repository of all such secrets; records, documents, minutes of your meetings and such like?”

“Precisely so,” confirmed Angelchrist.

I looked at Holmes, astounded. “The ‘spirit of the nation’, Watson,” he said. “How terribly like Mycroft.”

“So all this time, we’ve been assuming the spirit box was something related to Underwood’s occult practices, when in fact, it’s a repository of state secrets,” I said. I could barely believe it.

“This, of course, will be what they’re after,” said Newbury.

Angelchrist nodded. “The contents of that box could alter the outcome of the war,” he said. “It would incite political uproar, not to mention seriously undermine the situation in France. The government could collapse, and take any coherent leadership with it. That must be why Grange threw himself in the river. If he thought they could see into his head, uncover its location, then he must have believed it was his only course of action.”

“The poor man,” I said. “What a waste.”

“Particularly as it was clearly too late,” said Holmes. “I’d wager they’ve already ascertained its location, and now, by sending you the paperweight, they’re tying up loose ends.”

“That’s what the German said, Holmes!” I exclaimed, suddenly recalling our earlier encounter beneath the bank. “He said it was too late, that they would soon have the spirit box!”

I heard the door open as Foulkes returned from the hall, having finished his telephone call.

“Where is it, Professor?” said Holmes, with some urgency. “Where is the spirit box?”

“Your brother has it, Mr. Holmes,” said Angelchrist. “He keeps it at the Diogenes Club. We have our meetings in the Stranger’s Room, and there is a hidden cavity in the wall, which holds the safe, which in turn contains a large, plain box. I have seen him put papers in it at the conclusion of our gatherings.” Angelchrist looked suddenly frantic. “I fear Mycroft might be in grave danger.”

I looked to Foulkes, whose face was ashen. “What news, Inspector? Have your men successfully apprehended Baxter and Underwood?”

“I fear not,” replied Foulkes, his voice level. “Lord Foxton has not seen Underwood since yesterday afternoon, and his whereabouts are currently unknown. Worse, when my men arrived at Baxter’s house, they found the place had been cleaned out. It was utterly abandoned, and all of Baxter’s belongings had gone.”

“Then the German was right. We’re already too late,” I said, bitterly.

“Not necessarily,” said Holmes, jumping to his feet. “We’d have heard from Mycroft if they’d already made their move. We must make haste to the Diogenes Club, and hope that there is still time.”

“I hope, for all our sakes, there is,” said Angelchrist.

I got to my feet.

“We’ll take my motorcar,” said Foulkes.

Newbury remained seated. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I feel I should stay here with Archibald. He is not yet fully recovered from his ordeal.”

“Most wise,” I said. Holmes and Foulkes were already at the door. “Until later,” I said.

“Good luck,” replied Newbury.

As I hurried after the others, I couldn’t help thinking that we’d need it.

“I have no idea where this ‘Diogenes Club’ of yours is, Holmes,” shouted Foulkes over the sound of the engine, as we barrelled through the streets in his motorcar. “In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of the place.” He was hunkered down over the steering wheel, peering out through the windscreen at the dark road ahead. The beam of his headlamp trembled as we bounced over the bumpy road.

“Fear not, Inspector,” replied Holmes. “I shall direct you. For now, simply head toward Westminster with all due haste.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” muttered Foulkes.

He followed Holmes’s instructions to the letter, and a short time later the motorcar pulled to a halt on a quiet Pall Mall. Hurriedly, we bundled out of the vehicle onto the street. At this time the place was deserted, with most people already retired for the night, or else still ensconced in their pubs and clubs to while away the remaining hours until bed. Immediately, however, I saw that we were not entirely alone – another, familiar motorcar was parked just a little further along the street. It was green with white trim around the windows – the same vehicle we had seen during our evening vigil outside Henry Baxter’s house.

“Hold on,” said Holmes. He walked the thirty yards toward the parked motorcar. The hood was up over the passenger compartment, so I was unable to see whether there was anyone inside. Holmes approached the vehicle cautiously, bending low by the driver’s window. He cupped his hands to the glass and peered inside.

He straightened up a moment later and shook his head. Evidently there was no driver awaiting Baxter’s return. Holmes hurried back to us.

Foulkes looked impatient. “Where to now?” he said.

“Just behind you,” replied Holmes.

Foulkes turned on the spot and regarded the row of tall, white buildings. There was nothing but an unmarked door and a bay window anywhere in the vicinity. The curtains in the window were drawn. “In
there
? It’s like no gentleman’s club I’ve ever seen,” he said sceptically.

“It’s like no gentleman’s club you will ever see again,” I remarked. “In my experience, the Diogenes is quite unique.”

“Be on your guard,” said Holmes, approaching the door. “If Baxter’s inside, we may already be too late.”

He rapped five times in quick succession, tapping out a short rhythm. There was a momentary pause, and then the door opened just a sliver, and the face of an elderly man peered out through the crack. “Yes?” he said.

“Open up,” said Foulkes, from behind Holmes. “Police. We’re from Scotland Yard.”

The door opened a fraction wider, allowing us a small glimpse of the hallway beyond. “Indeed, sir?” said the doorman. “How may we be of assistance?”

Holmes stepped forward and, in a rather heavy-handed fashion, pushed the door open, causing the doorman to take a step back in surprise. “Out of the way, man!” he snapped. “We must see Mycroft immediately.”

“Mr. Holmes!” exclaimed the doorman in sudden, startled recognition. “Is it really you, sir?”

“Of course it’s me!” said Holmes. “Now tell me, where’s Mycroft? It might well be a matter of life and death.”

“He’s… he’s…” the man stammered. “He’s in the Stranger’s Room. But he has visitors, sir.”

Holmes glanced over his shoulder at us. “Do you have your service revolver, Watson?”

“Revolver!” said the doorman.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I gave up carrying it a long time ago.”

Foulkes slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a small handgun, which he clasped in his fist.

“Really,” said the doorman. “I
cannot
allow such a weapon into the Diogenes.”

“Stand aside,” said Foulkes. “This is a police matter.”

Holmes was already over the threshold in the hallway. Foulkes pushed past the doorman to follow him. With an apologetic shrug, I did the same.

Inside, it was just as I remembered it. A long, narrow corridor was flanked on one side by a wall comprised of a mahogany frame inset with panels of thick plate glass, behind which the member’s area was visible. The décor was austere and old-fashioned, and didn’t appear to have altered since my last visit, around a decade earlier. Three men sat inside in solitude, studying the latest periodicals. They did not look up at the sound of our entrance.

The members of the Diogenes Club came here in search of peace and respite from the pressures of the external world. They each professed their desire for isolation and silence, and the opportunity to spend their time at the club uninterrupted by others. The rules of the club were such that speech was permitted only in the Stranger’s Room, and that once in the member’s area, even the slightest utterance would earn a warning. Three strikes, and the offending patron would be ejected from the club. I had my suspicions that, many years ago, this was a fate that had befallen Holmes himself.

We followed the corridor to its full extent, the doorman trailing a few yards behind us, clearly unsure how to react to this sudden, overbearing invasion.

At the end of the passage was the door to the Stranger’s Room, and dismissing all formality or etiquette, Holmes turned the handle, threw the door open and barged in with a dramatic flourish. “Mycroft?” he called.

Inside the sparsely furnished room were three men. Mycroft Holmes was standing by the far wall. His hair was now thinning, but he remained as corpulent and red-faced as I remembered. Behind him one of the wall’s wooden panels stood open to reveal a hidden alcove holding a safe. Within it I could just see the shape of a large wooden box. My breath caught in my throat. We were only just in time.

Across the room from Mycroft stood Seaton Underwood, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Beside him was Henry Baxter, brandishing a pistol and wearing a furious expression.

“Sherlock!” exclaimed Mycroft, with a frown. “You’re late.”

“Stand down, Baxter,” said Foulkes, raising his own gun. “The game’s up.”

Baxter grimaced. “I haven’t come this far to fail now,” he said. There was a sudden percussive bang as he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The muzzle flashed, and Foulkes stumbled backwards, dropping his weapon on the floor. Blood sprayed from a wound in his right shoulder. He grabbed at it, clearly in terrible pain, clamping his left hand over the entry wound, blood seeping between his fingers. He fell to his knees, groaning.

I gripped my cane, preparing to charge at Baxter before he recovered enough to take a second shot, but before I had the chance, Underwood was upon me, pummelling me with his fists. He was a thin and wiry fellow, and a third of my age, and I barely had time to bring my arms up in defence before he struck me hard across the side of the head, and then again in the gut. I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

I heard Baxter laughing triumphantly. “Now, Mr. Holmes. The spirit box.”

Mycroft smiled. “There is no spirit box,” he said.

“Enough of your lies!” bellowed Baxter, waving his gun. I was still attempting to regain my breath as I watched the scene unfolding before me. He pointed at the box, which we could all clearly see in the safe. “Take it out!”

Mycroft went to the alcove and withdrew the wooden box from its hiding place. The ease with which he lifted it immediately sent my mind racing. My suspicions were confirmed when he turned the key in the lock on its side, and with almost casual ease, flipped the box open and turned it upside down. Nothing fell to the floor, not a single sheet of paper. The box was empty.

My eyes were fixed on Mycroft, but I could hear Baxter’s sharp intake of breath. “No lies,” said Mycroft. “Only the truth.” He stood with hands clasped behind his back, the box at his feet, for all the world like a schoolmaster giving Latin dictation. “You’ve been duped, Baxter. There never was a spirit box, just this,” he prodded the empty box at his feet. “A mere prop. A method of drawing out traitors. Did you really think I’d document state secrets and keep them conveniently in a single box?”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. I had no idea if there was any truth to what Mycroft was saying, or whether it was simply an elaborate attempt at misdirection to throw Baxter’s confidence. I glanced at Holmes, who remained silent, listening, watching.

“No!” said Baxter, but I could hear the doubt creeping into his voice. “Where is the real box?”

“Check for yourself,” said Mycroft. “The safe is empty. There is no other box.”

“You’ve moved it,” said Baxter, with a hint of desperation.

Mycroft shook his head. “My associates saw me placing papers in a box during our meetings, this is true. But had they seen their subject matter, I imagine they would have been most confused. Memos concerning reforms in infant-school education are of very little interest to spies, though I’ll admit they make for surprisingly diverting reading. And even those papers I would remove from the box when my associates left. It was simply play-acting. Not unlike your own endeavours really, Mr. Underwood, but a touch less melodramatic, and without the need for such elaborate stagecraft.”

Baxter roared in anger.

“The game is, as the Inspector here so ably put it, well and truly up,” continued Mycroft, his tone somewhat patronising. “You’ve played, and you’ve lost. Time to be a good sport now. There’s nothing to be done.”

I glanced at Foulkes. He was clutching his shoulder and gritting his teeth. I could see that the bullet had gone clean through, shredding the back of his jacket, and whilst he was clearly in terrible pain, he’d live if he received medical attention in good time.

“Put the gun down, Baxter,” said Holmes. “It’s over.”

“No,” bellowed Baxter, grabbing suddenly for Underwood, pulling him close like a shield. He wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat and put the gun to his head.