‘How’s that?’ Mycroft asked in reply; but he quickly caught his brother’s reference. ‘Ah – a statement from one of the men who attacked the train?’ Holmes nodded, and Mycroft declared: ‘So they were nationalists.’
‘Or,’ remarked Holmes, ‘better than average impostors.’
Mycroft glanced at his brother. ‘Would there be any reason that you can think of for such a performance, Sherlock?’
I could see from Holmes’s face that he was not without ideas; but he merely shook his head and said, ‘Mere speculations, brother – and we have enough of those as it is.’
‘We do indeed. Now, then, gentlemen – I trust you begin to see the true scope of what you have entered into – and why I felt the need to contact you in the manner I did.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said I. ‘This looks less and less like a murder investigation and more and more like – well, one hardly knows what to call it!’
‘One knows,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘But one does not like to say. Mycroft – I must put this delicately, but – I should not like to think that we, Dr Watson and I, are to become pawns in some elaborate intrigue – that our talents may be exploited in the cause of ensuring that the public never learns the larger truth of all this?’
The question surprised me: not because it had not crossed my own mind, but only because of the implication that Holmes’s own brother would use him in such a way. And yet Mycroft seemed not at all put out – quite the contrary, in fact. ‘I understand your sentiment, Sherlock,’ he said simply. ‘And, were I in your position, I should likely share it. You are on your way into what may be the most recent – to say nothing of the most elaborate – of many plots against our monarch, which is unfolding in a land that has known little other than such plots, throughout its history. Intrigue it may well be, but this I promise you – I shall not knowingly allow either of you to become a part of matters that would compromise your integrity.’ The elder brother offered the younger a fleeting smile. ‘Your very unique sense of integrity …’
Holmes gave his brother a searching look, not yet returning the expression of fraternal friendship. ‘And your capacity as intimate adviser to Her Majesty …?’
Sinking deeper into his seat, Mycroft suddenly appeared rather discouraged. ‘There are those in this country today – some of the lesser among them are on this train with us – who believe that, in order to guard our Queen and our country, we must adopt the methods of our rivals and enemies, just as we once did throughout the Empire; that we must be ready to lie, not only to antagonistic tribal leaders in Africa or Asia, nor simply to mendacious Continental agents and powers, but also to our own comrades, if they are not ruthless or zealous enough in pursuing our joint interests. But our reigning monarch has risked her life to demonstrate that this need not be so; to show that the British Empire can behave in a manner that breaks with the vicious traditions of spy rings, secret services, plots, and murders that were established and maintained by royal houses from the Plantagenets to the Stuarts. It may be folly for the Queen to think such change possible – but, as I have said, I happen to agree with her. It is for this reason that I have spent my life in the service that I have; and while I may sometimes find it necessary to work in temporary concert with such nameless characters as you have already met, I should greatly prefer it’ – again he drew close, unreasonably (it seemed to me) afraid that we might somehow be overheard – ‘if we three could resolve this matter, to Her Majesty’s great satisfaction and the frustration of these agents. Let us, in short, think of them as a sort of “insurance” – for if we cannot frustrate this threat to the Crown, it must nevertheless be frustrated. But if we were to manage it first – the Queen herself should regard it with no little satisfaction, as indeed she does your many past services.’
But still Holmes kept the same sceptical gaze trained on his brother. ‘What of your careful exclusion of the police?’
‘This is neither a matter for the local authorities nor one for Scotland Yard,’ replied Mycroft. ‘You yourself know how unsafe truly sensitive information can be, in their hands. They will pursue their own parochial murder investigations – it is for us to take any other steps that may prove necessary.’
A seemingly interminable pause followed; and then, at last, Holmes said, ‘You have made your case, brother. And I think I can speak for Watson, as well as myself, when I say that you have made it persuasively.’
‘Indeed you have, sir,’ said I. ‘Most honourably.’
As Mycroft lowered his head in appreciation of these remarks, Holmes pressed him: ‘But I fear that there are some few questions that, in my own capacity as the detective you have summoned to consult in these deaths, I must yet ask. To begin with – was Sir Alistair Sinclair also something other than what he seemed?’
‘Not that I have been able to determine,’ answered Mycroft certainly. ‘An architect employed by the Scottish branch of the Office of Royal Works, and a man who specialised in the restoration of historically important structures – particularly late medieval structures. An excellent personal reputation, as well – Sir Alistair’s only questionable mark seems to have been his association with McKay, for it creates, among other things, a conduit by way of which he could have known of Alec Morton. But all such ideas are sheer speculation; the truth is, it was perfectly appropriate for a man of Sir Alistair’s expertise to have been hired for the work at Holyroodhouse. The Scottish Queen’s private chambers are all that survive of the pre-baroque palace, yet they have scarcely been touched since that doomed woman made her final trip to – come now, Sherlock, why do you and Dr Watson suddently exchange such meaningful glances?’
Holmes and I – who had, it is true, been exchanging quick looks of recognition – snapped our two heads round. ‘Ah!’ declared Mycroft. ‘I perceive that indeed you were talking of legends and folklore before my arrival!’
‘Mycroft, you grow unreasonably suspicious with age and your occupation,’ Holmes declared, innocently as well as defiantly, his teeth again clenching the stem of his pipe. Then he pulled the thing from his mouth and pointed it at Mycroft. ‘I stare and I smile only because I can at last see how your own unprecedented position within the government has evolved! Rather than send numerous and often unreliable agents abroad to perform arcane tasks, Her Majesty determined to collect her intelligence from one reliable channel, from a man who, like her Scots ghillies, she has long known that she can trust absolutely. Your singular talent for making the arcane comprehensible, so amply displayed during this ride with us, has provided her with the regular reports she requires, on this as on so many other occasions – hence the extraordinary informality of your relationship with that august personage!’
It was an example of what theatrical illusionists call ‘misdirection’ and it succeeded admirably: Despite the ruddiness of Mycroft’s skin, I could detect a sudden blush coursing through his features. ‘You must not assume that the relationship is too informal, Sherlock,’ said he, his voice helplessly proud, ‘on the basis of a lone meeting that you witnessed only because you entered Her Majesty’s receiving-room at Windsor unannounced. But on the whole, yes, in matters of intelligence, I have been privileged enough to provide the Queen with what she has both desired and required: a practical counter to the calls that are issued from time to time by various ministries for the return of the old secret service.’
‘But, Mr Holmes,’ I said to Mycroft, ‘in order for Her Majesty and yourself to actually do away with the old order of intelligence, it seems to me that you should have to systematise your approach. What if, God forbid, you yourself should meet with some misfortune? The engine of state would be grieviously, perhaps irreparably, crippled.’
‘All the more reason for him never to leave his little corner of London, Watson!’ Holmes laughed. ‘And for us to protect him, here in this wild country he speaks of. His arrangements are, you see, perfect – Mycroft’s prejudices of habit are reborn as pillars of state security! Do forgive me if I jest, brother.
It is only the shock of it – as well as the perfection, as I have said! And why not? It is personal inclination and habit that determines how each of us serves, after all, or fails to do so. Look at Watson – the quintessential man of bravery and compassion. These qualities marked him for the frontiers of the Empire, and although a Jezail bullet may have sent him home from those faraway posts, he never fails to venture out with us, revolver in hand, to provide both the force and the succour of which neither you nor I, Mycroft, is capable.’
‘Thank you, Holmes,’ I said, trying to contain a feeling of perhaps inordinate self-satisfaction – and having quite forgotten all thoughts of misdirection. ‘That was rather decent of you.’
‘Not at all, Watson – the simple truth. I, on the other hand, lacking those martial instincts that would make me of use on the outermost lines of imperial defence, perform what tasks I can for the sake of society amid that cesspool we call a capital city, and against the diseases that afflict the organs, rather than the skin, of the state. Why, then, Mycroft, should not the very sedentary habits that nurture your refined mental processes, that permit your mind to function with the delicacy by which it is characterised, not be acknowledged for their value to the realm?’
Mycroft placed one hand upon his thigh, then inclined his enormous bulk forward, his grey eyes narrowing slightly as he did: Had Holmes overplayed his role of flatterer? ‘Forgive me, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, ‘and you, too, Doctor – but I became so accustomed, in our youths, to that streak of sarcasm which my brother often tried to pass off as wit, that I sometimes fail to appreciate his meaning, in adulthood. Certainly those were fine sentiments, and finely expressed.’ Leaning ever further forward, into a position that was at once confidential and, given his size, slightly menacing, he lifted one finger and narrowed his eyes still further: Obviously he had divined Holmes’s game, but did not consider the matter worthy of argument, having more important points to make. ‘And whether those words were spoken truly or in an attempt to cajole me,’ he went on, ‘let me assure you that we shall need to call on every quality, every strength that you have listed, in this matter – upon my soul, I believe it probable. German imperialists may well be behind Morton, and in league with the Scots nationalists, all in an elaborate effort to upset the balance that has kept the central components of our realm together for so very long, and which has also kept the European powers at peace for most of our Queen’s reign – for the Kaiser would gladly welcome war, if it meant the ascendancy of his realm and Britain’s Götterdämmerung.’
‘Certainly, nothing could achieve such disastrous ends with greater economy of effort and speed than, God forbid, the harming or actual murder of Her Majesty,’ I declared, my mood deeply blackened by the turn the conversation had taken.
Holmes, for his part, said nothing to all this (a fact that rather surprised me), while Mycroft nodded, drank one last time from his flask, and then placed it back into the pocket of his cloak. ‘Indeed,’ he declared. ‘And if such characters would not hesitate to threaten Her Majesty, only imagine how quickly our three lives would be snuffed out, should we be perceived as in the way. Which brings us to the final piece of information that you will wish to take into account in any theory you may formulate concerning the matter, gentlemen:
‘On the days on which both Sinclair’s and McKay’s deaths took place, Her Majesty was scheduled to pass the night in Edinburgh – at Holyroodhouse itself. And, after attending to a personal matter that is unconnected to our work, she was to review Sinclair’s initial plans for the Scottish Queen’s old rooms – as well as his choices for a foreman and staff.’
Holmes’s face had become considerably more excited by this news, but he maintained an air of silent and extreme self-control as Mycroft continued.
‘Well, Sherlock? This is the crossing point of all these disparate paths and elements, is it not? A seeming set of coincidences – coincidences, those phenomena which, like you, I despise and disclaim, particularly in matters of murder. What says the consulting detective to that?’
I am forced to concede that I did not at all discern how this seemingly small matter of royal scheduling could connect to such momentous matters as we had been discussing; but when I looked at Holmes, he was nodding as if he had expected nothing else. He smoked in a measured manner, then rose and took a few steps up and down the compartment. ‘Just this, brother,’ he finally announced. ‘Which tooth, precisely, did Her Majesty have extracted yesterday?’
Chapter VI
HOLYROODHOUSE
Our train did not, thankfully, deposit us on the rainswept outskirts of Edinburgh (a distinct possibility, I had thought, given the apparently overwhelming need for secrecy), but neither did it take us into the convenient (but very public) sheds of Waverley Station at the city’s centre. Rather, we ultimately came to a stop within the quieter Prince’s Street Station, close by the massive rock formation atop which sat the ancient and ominous silhouette of Edinburgh Castle. Outside the station, we were quickly hurried into a waiting brougham by several of those same nameless, ‘keen’ young men who had been on the train, while the two young fellows from naval and military intelligence, who by now seemed old acquaintances, if not friends, leapt onto the rear of the carriage and perched there as we sped off and away, down side streets in the early dawn mist of the hushed Scottish capital.
That the rain had finally ended was an encouraging fact which I scarcely noticed; for Edinburgh, more than any other city of my acquaintance, is a metropolis of stone – stone buildings built atop stony ground – and even in bright sunshine, it never quite escapes a somewhat solemn and even dour feeling. Given what we had been through on our ride north, however, it did not seem that we could have concluded our journey in any other sort of place or, indeed, in any other mood; and I tried to appreciate, as we sped along in the brougham, that my melancholy feeling was largely a result of recent experience, rather than locale. But mental concentration of this variety requires a certain level of quietude – something that, when in the company of the two Holmes brothers, was rarely in the offing.
Conversation within the vehicle – like that within our train compartment during the last part of our journey – no longer centred on great events and developments in the world, but on how it had been possible for Holmes to determine that the Queen Empress had lately been so troubled by a tooth-ache that she had undergone an extraction just a day before we had heard from Mycroft, as well as on the question of whether or not these facts were of any importance to our work. For his part, Mycroft declared that his brother must have had some prior knowledge of the matter; to which Holmes replied that, while it would likely not have been difficult for him to gain such knowledge, being as the entire staff of Balmoral Castle must have been aware of the trip, he had never so much as tried. To Mycroft’s continued demands that he explain his correct reading of the situation (the word ‘guess’ was of course never hazarded), Holmes at length explained that the Queen was famous for never leaving the grounds of Balmoral during her yearly holiday, unless affairs of state or some personal emergency demanded that she do so. No official state journeys had been reported publicly; whereas, if there had been a medical issue of some kind, any specialist in the world would have (and occasionally had) been brought to her. But the one physical complaint that no one, not even the most powerful among us, can properly attend to without journeying into the dreaded chair of the practitioner is a persistent and painful tooth-ache. That there had been two visits separated by a comparatively brief time indicated that the dentist in question had prescribed extracting the troublesome tooth. The first occasion on which he had declared as much, the Queen had likely refused, preferring to trust to time’s curative powers; but the choice had not been a sound one, and the second visit, caused by sharply increased discomfort, had been for the purpose of having the wretched offender out.
That Mycroft had been so careful not to name the specific reason for Her Majesty’s presence at Holyroodhouse on the nights of the murde
rs had only made Holmes more certain that the matter was a personal one. There were likely few details that so meticulous a mind as Mycroft’s would have deemed unimportant to our work, the true and complete nature of which was, after all, as yet unknown; and, while intimate aspects of Her Majesty’s health might be included in that small category, they would have to have been of a trivial nature – yet what trivial problem could have brought her on so annoying a pilgrimage, in the middle of her favourite holiday? In addition, the loss of teeth, for someone of the Queen’s advanced years and high station, might rightly be considered a potential source of mockery, were it to become known to the press and public. For all these reasons, Mycroft had concealed it – and in so doing, he had unwittingly helped his brother to discover it.
But Holmes did more than simply note the fact of the tooth extraction: He went on to declare, as we wound around the slowly waking heart of Edinburgh and entered one particularly narrow street which would eventually lead to the western edge of the great royal park that surrounded Holyroodhouse, that the fact that the Queen had visited a dentist was of great importance.
‘The entire domestic staff at Balmoral,’ Holmes declared, his concern very evident, ‘must have quickly discovered not only that the trip was being made, but for what reason – there are few systems of intelligence so effective as the serving staff of an important house. I therefore put it to you, brother, that any analysis of a plot to take her life which either includes or explains the murders of Sinclair and McKay as well—’
‘But Holmes,’ I interrupted, ‘can we so quickly assume that those two murders are even related to each other, much less to a threat against the Queen?’
‘Such deadly lightning rarely, if ever, strikes twice in such quick succession, and in precisely the same manner and location, Watson,’ Holmes replied. ‘I admire the thoroughness of your scepticism, but this is one basic fact that we may treat as given. And such being the case, Mycroft, we cannot proceed to connect those murders to a plot against the Queen without viewing the entire domestic staff of Balmoral, as well as the dentist himself, as quite possibly involved in the matter.’