'A Catholic family?' For O Morain, to give the name its correct Irish form, which meant 'great', were a well- known Jacobite clan in Connacht.
'Hardly so,' rebuked Mycroft. 'His branch converted to the Anglican faith after the Williamite conquest. Sebastian Moran's father was Sir Augustus Moran cb, once British Minister to Persia.Young Moran went through Eton and Oxford.The family estate was near Derrynacleigh but I believe, after the colonel inherited, he lost it in a card game. He was a rather impecunious young man. Still, he was able to buy a commission in the Indian Army and served in the 1st Bengalore Pioneers. He has spent most of his career in India. I understand that he has quite a reputation as a big game hunter. The Bengal tiger mounted in the hall, as we came in, was one of his kills. The story is that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes an iron nerve.'
I frowned.
'Nerve, vanity and a fondness for drink and cards is sometimes an unenviable combination. They make a curious pair.'
'I don't follow you?'
'I mean, a professor of mathematics and a dissolute army officer lunching together. What can they have in common?'
I allowed my attention to occupy the problem but a moment more. Even at this young age I had come to the conclusion that until one has facts it is worthless wasting time trying to hazard guesses.
My eye turned to the others in the dining room. Some I knew by sight and, one or two I had previously been introduced to in Mycroft's company. Among these diners was Lord Rosse, who had erected the largest reflecting telescope in the world at his home in Birr Castle. There was also the hard-drinking Viscount Massereene and Ferrard and the equally indulgent Lord Clonmell. There was great hilarity from another table where four young men were seated, voices raised in good-natured argument. I had little difficulty recognizing the Beresford brothers of Curraghmore, the elder of them being the Marquess of Waterford.
My eye eventually came to rest on a corner table where an elderly man with silver hair and round chubby red features was seated. He was well dressed and the waiters constantly hovered at his elbow to attend to his bidding like moths to a fly. He was obviously someone of importance.
I asked Mycroft to identify him.
'The Duke of Cloncury and Straffan,' he said, naming one of the premier peers of Ireland.
I turned back to examine His Grace, whose ancestors had once controlled Ireland, with some curiosity. It was said that a word from Cloncury's grandfather could sway the vote in any debate in the old Irish Parliament, that was before the Union with England. As I was unashamedly scrutinizing him, His Grace was helped from his chair. He was, I judged, about seventy-something years of age, a short, stocky man but one who was fastidious in his toilet for his moustache was well cut and his hair neatly brushed so that not a silver strand of it was out of place.
He retrieved a small polished leather case, the size of a despatch-box, not more than twelve inches by six by four. It bore a crest in silver on it, and I presumed it to be Cloncury's own crest.
His Grace, clutching his case, made towards the door. At the same time, I saw Professor Moriarty push back his chair. Some sharp words were being exchanged between the professor and his lunching companion, Colonel Moran. The professor swung
round and marched swiftly to the door almost colliding with the elderly duke at their portals. At the last moment, when collision seemed inevitable, the professor halted and allowed his Grace to move thorough the doors before him.
'Some argument has taken place between the professor and his companion,' I observed aloud. 'I wonder what the meaning of it is?'
Mycroft looked at me in disgust.
'Really, Sherlock, you always seem to be prying into other people's affairs. I would have thought you had enough on your plate preparing for your studies at Oxford.'
Even at this time, I had become a close observer of people's behaviour and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheon room occupants.
I returned my attention to the colonel who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wine glass. A waiter hovered near and made some suggestion but Moran swung with an angry retort, indicating the empty wine bottle on the table, and the waiter backed away. The colonel stood up, went through the motions of brushing the sleeves of his coat, and strode out of the dining room. I noticed that he would be returning for he had left his glass of wine unfinished. Sure enough, the waiter returned to the table with a half bottle of wine uncorked and placed it ready. The colonel, presumably having gone to make some ablutions, returned after some fifteen minutes and reseated himself. He seemed in a better mood for he was smiling to himself.
I was distracted to find that my brother was continuing to lecture me.
'I know you, Sherlock. You are an extremely lazy and undisciplined fellow. If a subject doesn't interest you, you just ignore it. It is a wonder that you have achieved this demyship, for I did not expect you to gain a degree at all.'
I turned to my elder brother with a chuckle.
'Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns.Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days.'
I spoke with some conceit for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.
'But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia…'
'But minutia is important in life…' I began.
At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.
The pale-faced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table and then, I have never witnessed such a thing before, the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.
There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.
As the waiter, who had conducted the search, was passing our table, I hailed the fellow much to Mycroft's astonished disapproval.
'Has His Grace mislaid something?' I queried.
The waiter, the same individual who had conducted us to our table when we entered, turned mournful eyes upon me. There was a glint of suspicion in them.
'Indeed, he has, sir. How did you know?'
'I observed that you were searching on and around the table where he had recently been seated. From that one deduces that he had lost something that he thought he had with him at that table.'
The man's gaze fell in disappointment at the logic of my reply.
'What has he lost?' I pressed.
'His toilet case, sir.'
Mycroft gave an ill-concealed guffaw.
'A toilet case? What is a man doing bringing a toilet case into a dining room?'
The waiter turned to Mycroft.
'His Grace is a very fastidious and eccentric person, Mister Holmes.'The man evidently knew Mycroft by sight. 'He carries the case with him always.'
'A valuable item?' I hazarded.
'Not really, sir. At least, not financially so.'
'Ah, you mean it has great sentimental value for the Duke?' I suggested.
'It was a gift which King William gave to one of His Grace's ancestors as a personal memento when the man saved his life during the battle at the Boyne. And now, gentlemen, if you have not seen the item…'
He went on his way.
