count in Hyde Park. That way the professor will be arrested and—’
‘And Kyriloff will learn that Gregorieff was the strangely dressed person who has followed him about and that Mrs Fordeland has a long-standing connection with the professor, dating back to the time of Katya Gregorieff’s death and so on. Do I need to go any further, Watson?’
‘No, no,’ I admitted. ‘It was an ill-thought-out idea and wouldn’t work. But what are you going to do, Holmes?’
‘I wish I knew, old friend. I wish I knew. What is more, there is the question of Miss Wortley-Swan.’
‘I confess that I do not understand her connection with the matter at all, Holmes. Are you sure that she is really connected with it?’
‘Oh, she is really connected with it, Watson. She covers for Gregorieff, she provides him with employment and a place from which he can carry out his activities around our client. After the Hyde Park episode she stated that she believed he had returned to Russia, yet Gregorieff told us that he
“works” for her - not “worked”, Watson, but “works”. The professor’s English is academically correct.
He is not likely to have misused a word. He works for her still and she deflects enquiries about him.’
‘And you can make nothing of the connection?’ I asked.
‘I can make many things of the connection, Watson, but they are blind surmises without data to support them. At least one of them fills me with greater foreboding.’
He poured himself another brandy, a sign that he was more than usually puzzled. Since his return from abroad he had not only eschewed his cocaine solution, but had become notably sparing with spirits.
My friend filled his Meerschaum and set about constructing a pile of cushions upon the couch. I recognized the signs and realized that he might sit all night, puffing his pipe continuously, while his great brain turned over and over the pieces of the problem, ordering and reordering them until an answer emerged. There would be no conversation out of him that night, so I took a book, bade Holmes goodnight and retired early.
I lay late the next morning. I could too easily recall the sitting room after one of my friend’s night-long sittings, and had no wish to venture down until Mrs Hudson had disturbed him, persuaded or driven him away from his throne of cushions, and opened the windows to release the thick, grey cloud of tobacco smoke that would have filled the room.
When eventually I did rise, it was to find Holmes at the breakfast table, fully dressed, though his pallor and his lack of interest in food confirmed that he had been pondering all night.
I served myself with a hearty breakfast and kept conversation to a polite minimum. Holmes toyed with a slice of toast and stared at the window during much of our meal.
I had finished eating and was taking a cup of tea and a glance at the newspapers when Holmes spoke suddenly.
‘I have,’ he said, ‘but it will not do.’
‘Have what?’ I asked, completely startled.
‘I have reached a reasonable solution to Miss Wortley-Swan’s involvement with Professor Gregorieff.
Was that not the question you were not asking?’
‘Holmes!’ I protested. ‘No matter how long I have known you it still unnerves me when you appear to read my mind.’
‘And no matter how many times I explain it,’ he replied, ‘you persist in treating it as mind-reading, when it is, in fact, precisely the opposite. I merely deduce the content of the mind from the actions of my subject. It is good practice.’
I cannot say that being thought of as a subject for practice cheered me, but I let that pass in my desire to hear his conclusions.
‘Since finishing your meal, to which, incidentally, you failed to add your usual dash of Worcestershire Sauce, you have sugared your tea twice and then left it in the cup, and your perusal of the newspapers has been so desultory that you have ignored the sporting pages. That is, I think, fair evidence that you are distracted by some overriding thought, is it not?’
I laid down the paper and raised both hands.
‘I submit,’ I said, ‘on the condition that you will tell me what conclusions you have reached.’
‘I would not call it a conclusion, Watson. I have considered all the possible and reasonable explanations for the lady behaving as she has and for her connection with Gregorieff. One of them, though
frightening, makes a certain amount of sense, but I do not have the data to confirm or reject it.’
‘Why do you say “frightening”?’ I asked.
‘Because, Watson, if I am correct, Miss Wortley-Swan is contemplating something which will result in a threat to our client.’
Before I could reply, Mrs Hudson entered.
‘I’m sorry if you have not finished your tea, Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman downstairs asking for you. He says that his business is most urgent, and he brought this.’ She handed Holmes a card.
‘This is Mycroft’s card!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Dated this morning!’
He pulled out his watch and compared it with our notoriously unreliable mantelpiece clock.
‘I thought that we must have sat late, Watson, but it seems we are no later than usual. On the other hand, brother Mycroft seems to have stirred his stumps much earlier than is his wont. This must be important. You’d best show the gentleman up, Mrs Hudson, and let us have some more tea.’
As the door closed, Holmes looked at me. ‘What do you think has disturbed Mycroft at this hour?’ he asked. I admitted that I had no idea.
Minutes later Mrs Hudson returned with a fresh pot of tea, an extra cup and saucer and our mysterious visitor.
The new arrival was a tall gentleman of military appearance and carriage, though dressed in civilian clothing. He was of middle years and evidently used to command.
‘Mr Holmes?’ he enquired. ‘I am sorry to disturb a man’s breakfast, but I have just come from your brother and he felt that I should communicate with you at once. I am Colonel Henry Wilmshaw.’
‘Henry Wilmshaw,’ repeated Holmes as he shook the man’s hand. ‘Of course! Henry Wilmshaw! I
cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you. Do take the basket chair. You will find it the more comfortable. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. Can I offer you some tea?’
I was completely bewildered.
Twenty-One
A Parisian Occurrence
Sherlock Holmes had evidently sprung from the deepest dismay about the possible outcome of the case to a sudden cheerfulness that usually betokened the recognition of some new data. He settled our visitor in the basket chair and offered him tea, then flung himself back into his own seat.
‘I had thought that you were in Egypt,’ said Holmes, and then the light dawned on me.
‘So I was,’ replied the colonel. ‘So I was, and expecting to stay there a while, but it appears that Her Majesty is dispensing medals at the Jubilee and my name came up. So I’m ordered back to England to collect the medal and await new orders.’
Holmes nodded. ‘And what brought you here, Colonel?’
‘Well, I came into town yesterday, parked my baggage and trotted along to the War Office this morning to see what was what. It appeared that another department had been asking about me urgently, and I was sent along to see Mr Mycroft Holmes.’
‘And what has he told you, Colonel?’
‘Very little, Mr Holmes. Very little. I know he’s your brother, but I have to say he made a great mystery of it all, didn’t really explain anything, but said I should see you as fast as possible and that the matter was of the gravest importance. So, here I am, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes nodded again. ‘You should not blame my brother entirely, Colonel. It is a complicated story and he knows less of it than I do, in addition to which he has the ingrained habit of keeping his cards close to his chest. There is no reason at all why I should not tell you all that I know, but it is a complicated story. At present what
