I turned back to examine His Grace, whose ancestors had once controlled Ireland, with some curiosity. It was said that a word from Cloncurys 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 seventysomething years of age, a short, stocky man but one who was fastidious in his toilet, for his mustache 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 dispatchbox, 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 toward 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 through 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 peoples behavior, and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheonroom occupants.
I returned my attention to the colonel, who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wineglass. 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 halfbottle 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 palefaced 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 illconcealed 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, Mr. 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.
Mycroft was passing his napkin over his mouth, “Now how about a port or brandy in the hall?”
The lofty hall of the club, with its biggame trophies and blazing fire and staircase of elaborately carved stonework, was where members gathered for their afterluncheon drinks and cigars.
We rose and made our way out of the dining room. Our path led us by the table of Colonel Moran, and as we passed by I noticed that the colonels dark suit was ill chosen, for it showed up his dandruff. I grant you it is such small observations that sometimes irritate my fellows. But if one is prone to dandruff, at least one should have the good sense to wear a light color in which the telltale white powder and silver hairs would be less noticeable.
As we made our way into the hall, we saw the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan standing with the head waiter and a gentleman who Mycroft informed me was the chairman of the directors of the club.
His Grace was clearly distressed. “It is priceless! A value beyond measure!” He was almost wailing.
“I cannot understand it, Your Grace. Are you sure that you had it with you in the dining room?”
“Young man,” snapped the elderly duke, “do you accuse me of senility?”
The “young man,” who was about fifty years of age, blanched and took a step backward before the old man’s baleful gaze. “Not at all, Your Grace, not at all. Just tell me the facts again.”
“After finishing my luncheon, I went into the washroom. I washed my hands and then brushed my hair. It is my custom to do so after luncheon. I took my silver hairbrush from my leather case, which I always carry with me. I remember clearly that I returned it to the case. I left the case on the washstand and went into the toilet. I came out, washed my hand, and then realized that the case was no longer there.”
The head waiter was looking glum. “I have already suggested to His Grace that the case might have been left in the dining room and sent one of the waiters to check. It was not there.”
The old man bristled. “Knew it would be a damned waste of time. Said so. I know where it went missing. I’d start interrogating your employees, sir. At once!”
The club chairman looked unhappy. “Your Grace, please allow us time to search the premises before we start anything so drastic. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid?…”
“Mislaid!” The word was an explosion. “Dammit! Mislaid! Do you take me for a fool, sir? I demand that an interrogation of your employees begin at once. I suggest that you now send for the DMP!”
The mention of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had made the chairman slightly pale. “Your Grace, the reflection on our reputation-”
“Damn your reputation, sir! What about my hairbrush!” quivered the old man.
It was then I felt I should intervene. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” I began.
Rheumy blue eyes turned on me and assessed my youthful years. And who the devil are you, sir?”
“My name is Holmes. I might be able to help you.”
“You, you young jackanapes? What do you mean?”
