hours of Saturday morning May 6, 1882. I make mention of the date for the sake of the more historically minded reader, as this was an historic time for Ireland and its relations with Britain. During the journey-a wild, dark trip across the stormblown Irish sea spent mainly in the first class lounge nursing whiskeys to keep down the mal de mer-Holmes told me something of his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft was seven years older than Holmes, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, who had decided to make his career in Dublin Castle, the seat of the imperial administration in Ireland. He worked in the fiscal department of the Under Secretary, a permanent official who was head of the Civil Service. According to Holmes, his brother was possessed of a brilliant mind but was indolent and not given to sports or physical exercise and so was heavy in build.
“Why would anyone want to kidnap him?” I queried. “Is kidnapping usual in Ireland?”
Holmes replied with a shake of his head. “Not at all. But it does not escape my notice that there is some political unrest in the country at this time. Have you been following Irish political events in the newspapers?”
I confessed that I had not and was surprised that Holmes had been, as he had always confessed his knowledge of political matters to be feeble. After this exchange, Holmes became moody and refused to speculate further.
The journey from Kingstown into Westland Row, via the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, was made in morose silence. Holmes now and then would take out the two telegraphs he had received and examine them with a deep furrow of concentration on his broad brow.
Alighting from the train at Westland Row Railway Station, Holmes ignored the cabbies and conducted me, with unerring step, to a magnificent square of Georgian houses a short walk from the station. He went directly to one of the terraced buildings and paused before the door. I saw that it was ajar. Holmes pushed at it tentatively. It swung open, revealing a shadowy, cavernous hallway.
“Mycroft’s rooms are on the second floor,” he explained as I followed him inside and up the stairs.
He halted before a door with a glimmering gaslight beside it, which illuminated a small brass frame affixed to one of the wooden panels. A card inserted in the frame read MYCROFT HOLMES, ARTIUM BACCALAUREUS. Holmes tapped on the door. It swung open immediately, and a large, floridfaced uniformed constable stood scowling at us.
“Is Mallon here?” asked Holmes before the constable could speak. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“Superintendent Mallon is…,” began the constable ponderously, but another man, seeming to be in his early forties, quickly appeared at his shoulder.
“I am John Mallon,” he said. There was no disguising his Ulster accent. “I have heard of you from my colleague Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You are the younger brother of Mr. Mycroft Holmes? I suppose by your presence here that you must have heard the news? Well, there is nothing that I can tell you at this stage. You should not have made the journey-”
Holmes cut him short by handing him one of the telegraphs. I perceived that it was the one summoning Holmes to Dublin, which had seemed to be sent by Mallon.
The detective glanced at it, and a frown gathered on his brow. “I did not send this,” he said.
“So I have gathered. The questions are-who did and why?”
Mallon glanced at the paper again. “This was sent from the GPO in Sackville Street. Anyone could have sent it.”
“Curious that you are here to meet me in accordance with the summons.”
“Coincidental. No one knew I was coming here until midnight last night. That was when the local police notified me that your brother was missing.”
At this stage, Mallon stood aside and gestured for Holmes to enter his brothers rooms. I followed and was met with a look of disapproving query.
“This is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson,” explained Holmes, at which Mallon reluctantly acknowledged my existence before calling out, “MacVitty!”
At the summons, a tall cadaverouslooking man came from an inner room. He was dressed so that no one would doubt that he was exactly what he appeared to be-a gentleman’s gentleman. Mallon inquired whether MacVitty had sent the telegraph to London. The man shook his head. Then he turned his keen eyes on Holmes and greeted him as one known of old. “It’s good to see you again, Master Sherlock, but I’d rather it were under better conditions.”
“I gather that you summoned the police, MacVitty,” Holmes replied kindly. “Let’s hear the details.”
“Not much to tell. Master Mycroft was expected home on Thursday night. He was going to dine in and not at his club. He gave me specific orders to have a sea trout and a chilled bottle of PouillyFume ready. When he did not turn up, I thought he had changed his mind. But then Mr. O’Keeffe came down. He said that he had been invited to brandy and cigars. Mr. O’Keeffe works with Master Mycroft at the Castle, sir.”
“You said ‘came down,’” Holmes said quickly.
“Mr. O’Keeffe has rooms on the top floor of this building. He waited awhile before returning to his own apartment. When Master Mycroft did not show up for breakfast, I sent for the police.”
“And that was Friday morning?” queried Holmes sharply.
“The local police did not think it necessary to act until late last night,” said Mallon defensively. “There are many reasons why an unattached gentleman might not return home at night….”
“It is strange that you turn up now, Mallon,” mused Holmes, “at the precise time the telegraph asked me to meet you here.”
Mallon’s eyes narrowed. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“Information is a twoway street. I know that you are no ordinary policeman, Mallon. You are the director of the detective branch of G Division, which is devoted to political matters such as investigating the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Land League, and other such extremist movements. I know that you were the very man who arrested Charles Parnell of the Irish Party at Morrison’s Hotel last October. This doubtless implies that your superiors believe a political motive is behind my brother’s disappearance.”
Mallon smiled sourly. He seemed to be irritated by the reference to his superiors. “It is the job of G Division to make itself acquainted with everything that happens to highly placed political personages-especially in this day and age.”
“Yet you have formed no opinion of what has occurred?”
“Not as yet, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes sighed and then, with a quick beckoning gesture to me, he headed for the door. “We shall doubtless be in touch again, Mallon,” he said. “We will take rooms in the Kildare Street Club.”
Outside the door, he addressed me in a low tone. “Come, Watson. We will speak with Mr. O’Keeffe. He should not have departed for work as yet,” he added, with a glance at his fob watch.
We started up the stairs only to be met by a young man coming down them. He was well dressed and carried himself in a lackadaisical manner.
“Mr. O’Keeffe?” queried Holmes, acting on impulse.
The young man halted, then frowned as he examined us. “That’s me,” he said. “Who might you be?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes, the brother of Mycroft. This is my friend Doctor Watson.”
O’Keeffes expression was one of friendly concern. “Has old Mycroft turned up?”
Holmes shook his head. “I understand that you were to have had brandy and cigars in his room on the evening that he went missing?”
“I thought there was something odd going on that evening,” the young man confessed, apparently crestfallen at our negative news.
Holmes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Odd? In what way?”
“We left the Castle together and walked down towards Nassau Street. We’d made arrangements to meet later, so I left him on the corner of Nassau and Dawson, as I had an appointment. I had gone but a few yards when something made me glance back. I saw Mycroft speaking to a couple of singular covers. Not out of place, you understand, but clearly rough diamonds. Thickset fellows. One seemed to be jabbing him in the ribs with his finger. I turned back, but as I did so, a carriage pulled up, a fairsized one. It was covered in a caleche, I think it is called. You know the sort. There was an emblem on the door, as I recall-a scallop shell depicted in white. It appeared to me that Mycroft was pushed into the carriage by the two men, who then followed him in. It was rolling away down Nassau Street before I got anywhere near it.”
Holmes stood thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Perhaps just as well,” he muttered.
