‘Good so far,’ Crowe rumbled.
‘His wife is older than him,’ Sherlock ventured.
‘How can you tell?’
‘He’s in his thirties, but his collars are of an old-fashioned design. They’re like my uncle’s. They aren’t worn, so it’s not as if he’s been wearing them for years. It must be that whoever is responsible for his clothes prefers the older style of collar, so if it’s his wife then she must be older than him.’
‘You forget the possibility that he may have a younger wife who hails from an old-fashioned family, but yours is the most likely explanation,’ Crowe conceded.
‘And he is slightly blind in his right eye,’ Sherlock finished triumphantly.
Crowe nodded. ‘Indeed. What gave it away?’
‘He has shaved the left side of his face and neck carefully, but the right side still has stubble visible. I deduce that he has difficulty in seeing out of his right eye.’
‘Excellent. You are picking up the skill of observation very nicely.’
‘Did I miss anything?’ Sherlock asked, smiling.
Crowe shrugged. ‘Several points, in fact. The man has been married before, but his wife died. His current marriage is childless, which causes his wife some distress. Oh, and I believe he is pilfering money from the railway company, but that is a stretch.’
Sherlock couldn’t help laughing. ‘How can you tell all that?’
‘Practice,’ Crowe said, smiling. ‘That and natural talent. One day you’ll be able to do it too.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I really doubt it.’
CHAPTER THREE
The journey to Waterloo seemed shorter than Sherlock remembered. Crowe was on good form all the way, making deductions about the various people who came and went in their carriage and on the stations they passed. Sometimes, just to tease Sherlock, he engaged the people in conversation and got them to talk about the things he’d already told Sherlock. The earlier discomfort between them over the subject of Rufus Stone seemed to have vanished.
When the train had heaved its way into Waterloo and slowed to a halt at the platform, the two of them descended and walked through the station to find a hansom cab.
Sherlock had experienced the bustle of Waterloo Station before, but as he and Amyus Crowe made their way through a particularly dense crowd of men in top hats he found himself imagining that he was moving through a grim landscape of industrial chimneys rising up from dark factories. The steam from the trains that drifted around the station just made the comparison worse. Irritated, he tried to put the image to one side. He didn’t often get flashes of imagination like that, and he didn’t like it when he did. There was no logical way to get from top hats to smoky industrial landscapes. That was a poetic comparison, not an analytical one. Amyus Crowe would not approve.
Although Rufus Stone probably would. The thought made him pause uncomfortably.
Crowe hailed a hansom cab outside the station. They had no luggage, as they were just up for the day, so they climbed inside and set off.
The cab was little more than a box on two wheels, with the driver sitting on top and the horse attached to the front with a leather harness and reins. It jerked and rattled terribly on London’s bumpy roads.
‘The Diogenes Club,’ Crowe called up to the driver.
‘Where’s that, guv?’ the man called back.
‘Head for the Admiralty,’ Crowe shouted. ‘Ah’ll direct you from there.’ Settling back down in his seat as the cab started off, he said conversationally: ‘The club’s only been in existence for a year or so. Seems your brother was one of the founders, or so he tells me. Named after the Greek philosopher Diogenes of Sinope. Diogenes was one of the founders of the Cynic philosophy, or Cynicism, as it has become known.’
‘I’ve heard the word “cynics”,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’m not exactly sure what it means.’
‘Cynics suggested that the purpose of life was to live a life of virtue in agreement with nature, which meant in practice rejecting all conventional desires for wealth, power, health and fame, and living a simple life free from all possessions. Can’t fault them for that, although it does more or less rule out any industrial progress in a society. The Cynics also believed that the world belonged equally to everyone, and that suffering was caused by false judgements of what was valuable and by the worthless customs and conventions which surrounded society.’ He paused. ‘Not sure how that applies to your brother, or the club, but you ought to know that the Diogenes Club has one very strict rule. Nobody is allowed to talk on the premises. Not one word. The only exception is the Strangers Room, which is where ah assume your brother will be meetin’ us. If not, we’re in for an uncomfortable day.’
The cab clattered across Westminister Bridge, and Sherlock’s attention was caught by the various boats being rowed along or across the dirty brown mass of the water. ‘Were Diogenes and Plato alive at the same time?’ he asked, remembering the book that his brother had given him as a gift when he sailed to America – Plato’s The Republic.
‘They were,’ Crowe answered, ‘and they didn’t get on. Ah’ll tell you the story sometime.’
At the north side of the river the cab turned left, then right on to a broad, tree-lined avenue. At the top of the avenue, Sherlock recognized Trafalgar Square, with its memorial to Lord Nelson. He’d seen that the last time he’d come to London.
A few seconds later, the carriage stopped. The two of them descended to the pavement, and Crowe paid the driver the few pence fare.
They were still on the broad, tree-lined avenue, but at the top, where it curved round to form another road. A small door was set into a wall ahead of them. A brass plaque by the side of the door read The Diogenes Club in copperplate script.
Crowe rapped on the door with the head of his cane. A few moments later, it swung open. He led the way in, ducking his head to miss the low lintel. Sherlock followed.
They were standing in a narrow hall with oak-panelled walls and a marble floor. A stairway led up to the first floor, and an open door to one side gave access to what looked like a large room full of green leather armchairs. The silence was so oppressive that Sherlock could almost feel it pressing on his ears. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the shadows echoed around the hall.
The man who had opened the door was small and weaselly. He was dressed immaculately in a blue footman’s uniform and had the look of a former soldier. Sherlock was no expert, but the man held himself rigidly upright, and his boots were shined to a degree where Sherlock could probably have seen his face in them. Crowe handed him a card. He glanced at it, nodded, and then gestured to Crowe and Sherlock to follow him through the room that led off the hall, the room full of green armchairs. The armchairs were occupied by men reading newspapers, and the footman led a winding course to a door on the far side of the room. He knocked on the door.
A few people lifted their heads from their newspapers and glared at the source of the noise.
Sherlock listened, but heard no response. He mentally kicked himself: if nobody was allowed to speak in the club then he could hardly expect anyone to call ‘Enter!’ The footman was obviously waiting for the door to be opened.
Nothing happened. The footman knocked again.
This time there was a scuffle from inside the room. Something thudded against the door. A bolt was thrown, and the door opened.
Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, blocking the room beyond with his large body. He looked confused.
He brought his hand up, as if to touch his forehead, and he seemed just as surprised as Sherlock, Crowe and the footman to find that he was holding a knife.
Mycroft stared at the knife as if he had never seen it before. He turned his head to look back into the room. As he did so, he stepped sideways, and Sherlock could see past him.
The room was lined with wood panelling, like the rest of the club, but it had no windows. In the centre of the
