‘Mr Crowe,’ Sherlock asked, ‘what’s happened to my brother. What’s happened to Mycroft?’
It was the morning after their adventure at the museum, and they were sitting at a breakfast table at the Sarbonnier Hotel, where Sherlock had stayed the last time he had visited London. Crowe had got up and left before Sherlock woke up, but as Sherlock came down for breakfast he was just re-entering the hotel.
‘The good news is that he’s been released on bail,’ Crowe replied.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that someone – in this case, the Diogenes Club – has stumped up some cash which has been deposited with the court. The court decides on the amount that needs to be deposited, an’ they make that decision based on how big a sum would dissuade a suspect from abscondin’. If your brother disappears before the trial – if there is a trial – then that money is forfeit.’ He laughed. ‘After all, if it only took five shillings to get out on bail, every criminal with a bit of cash would be out within half an hour, and most of them would go straight on the run.’
‘How much did it cost to get Mycroft out on bail?’
‘Ah believe the sum mentioned was five thousand pounds.’
Sherlock winced. ‘So where is Mycroft now?’
‘He’s in discussions with his solicitor, over a large breakfast at the Diogenes Club. Ah sent him a telegram telling him that you were safe, and that we would be here at the Sarbonnier. He may join us later.’
‘How did the Diogenes Club come up with the cash?’ Sherlock asked.
‘They apparently have a fund which members pay into which enables them to get legal advice and assistance.’ Crowe’s expression turned broody. ‘Strangely, ah don’t see his employers helpin’ out much. They’re maintainin’ a strict silence over the whole affair. Ah suppose they don’t want to be seen to be interferin’, bein’ part of the Government an’ therefore linked to the police force.’
Sherlock considered for a moment. ‘But that man we found – the one who attacked me under Waterloo Station. He admitted that Mycroft was set up. Someone else committed the murder.’
‘That’s a fact, but it’ll take the police a while to collect the evidence which clears your brother. The important thing is that the Diogenes Club’s solicitor can point them in the right direction.’ Crowe frowned. ‘What concerns me now is that the people who framed Mr Holmes are still out there, an’ we don’t know what their motives are or what they might try next.’
‘You think they might try to frame him for another murder?’
Crowe shrugged. ‘Can’t rule it out, but having been cleared of one – assumin’ he is – it’s unlikely that another one will stick. There’s a saying we used to have, back durin’ the War Between the States: once is happenstance; twice is enemy action. Even the police will recognize that. No, ah think we need to be prepared for somethin’ else to occur. Some other plot.’
‘So what do we do? How do we protect Mycroft?’
Crowe gazed at Sherlock for a while. His blue eyes were deceptively mild, but Sherlock knew they saw through everything. ‘You’re very loyal to your brother, ain’t you? Some kids your age would just let their elders get on with their lives, but not you. You want to protect him.’
Sherlock turned away so that Crowe couldn’t see the gleam of tears. ‘Father is in India,’ he said eventually, ‘and mother is ill. And our sister… well, she’s not in a position to help anyone. Mycroft is all I have, and I’m all he has. We have to look out for each other.’ He smiled, despite himself. ‘And you’ve probably noticed that he’s not the most active or agile of people. He needs help just to get from one side of the city to the other.’ He laughed. ‘I heard once that he’d been invited to a meal at somebody’s house, out in the countryside. Normally he wouldn’t accept social invitations, but the owner of the house had an exceptional wine cellar and their cook was renowned for the quality of her desserts, so he made a special effort. He got a hansom cab to the station, then got a train for an hour, then managed to find a cart at the other end to take him the five miles to the house. The final bit of the journey was a walk up a short hill to the front door, but he took one look at the climb and then just turned around and asked the cart driver to take him back to the station. He’s that kind of person. He’s phenomenally intelligent, but not practical at all.’
‘And you love him.’
‘He’s my brother. Of course I love him.’ Uncomfortable at the discussion of close personal feelings, Sherlock glanced at Crowe and asked: ‘Do you have a brother?’
Crowe’s face seemed to set into a hard mask. ‘Let’s not go there,’ he said, his voice sounding like two stones grating together.
There was silence for a while, as they ate their breakfast. Eventually Crowe looked around, and indicated a young waiter who was serving breakfast to a family nearby. ‘Let’s see how much you’ve remembered of what ah’ve taught you recently. What can you tell me about him?’
Sherlock considered. ‘I remember him from last time we were here.’ He looked the man up and down. ‘His uniform is slightly too short for him, and the trousers have been repaired several times. He has obviously been wearing it for a while without replacing it. Either his salary is low or he is spending it on other things. Although his shoes are new, and well polished, which contradicts the evidence of his uniform.’ Sherlock looked more closely at the man’s face and hair. ‘He is wearing Macassar hair oil.’ He sniffed. ‘Yes, I can smell traces of jasmine, orange and coconut. Macassar oil is not cheap: I presume, therefore, that he spends the majority of his salary on things that make him look attractive to women – hair oil, shoes and, I would guess, the clothes that he wears when he is not at work. That suggests he isn’t married.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’
‘What if ah told you that he has three convictions for pickpocketin’,’ Crowe said, ‘and has spent time in prison. Ah was told this by the doorman. The manager of the hotel took him on, as the lad is the son of his sister.’
Sherlock glanced more carefully at the waiter. ‘He is spending a lot of time near the father,’ he pointed out. ‘Perhaps he is looking for an opportunity to steal something from his pocket.’
As Sherlock watched, the waiter dropped a knife. With a murmured apology to the family, he bent to pick it up.
‘Watch!’ Sherlock said urgently. ‘I think he did that deliberately. He’s going to slip a hand inside the father’s jacket pocket as everyone is distracted by the knife!’
‘Actually,’ Crowe admitted, ‘he has no convictions for pickpocketin’ at all. Ah made that up. He sings in a choir in Westminister Abbey, although he is the manager’s nephew.’
Confused, Sherlock glanced back at the tableau at the table. What had moments ago looked like suspicious activity now looked perfectly innocent, as the waiter straightened up holding the knife.
‘Is that true?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Crowe said. ‘Ah made that up as well. Actually he stabbed a man in a fight in a public house last year, but the case was dropped due to a distinct lack of witnesses willing to testify against him.’
The same tableau – table, family sitting down, waiter standing over them, now took on a distinctly different look to Sherlock. The waiter now seemed to be holding the knife in a threatening way, over the father’s neck.
‘That’s not true either, is it?’ he asked in irritation.
‘No,’ Crowe conceded. ‘Ah actually don’t know anythin’ about the waiter apart from what little can be observed from his clothes, his hair and his hands. Ah know nothing about his history. My point was that we all see something different depending on the labels we place on things, and those labels are based on what we know – or what we think we know. The trained mind will reject convenient labels and proceed using actual and deduced facts. The trained mind will also take advantage of the way other people make assumptions in order to guide them in particular directions, and to make them do particular things.’
Sherlock was about to question Crowe further on this interesting revelation that one person could manipulate another’s thinking just by the words they chose to use, when a familiar voice hailed them from across the restaurant.
‘Sherlock, Mr Crowe – might I join you?’
‘Mycroft!’ Sherlock cried.
His brother ambled across the restaurant to the table where they sat. He was looking as immaculately groomed as ever – perfectly pressed suit and waistcoat, hat brushed to within an inch of its life – but his skin was sallow and his eyes were the eyes of a man who had recently seen things that he wished to forget.
‘Mr Holmes,’ Crowe said, rising, ‘please, take a seat. Can ah get you a pot of coffee, or perhaps some tea?’
