“But what of the motive, Mr Holmes? Why did he do it?”

  “I suggest, Lestrade, that you bend your efforts towards the Alexander and the movements of its members. That is how. When you have apprehended the fellow, you can discover why.”

  Mycroft sank back into his chair. He looked worn out once again as if the effort of exposition had exhausted his powers.

  “Very good, Mr Holmes. But I’m not letting any of the suspects here go home just yet. My men and I will take the hunt further down Pall Mall.”

  *

  Three days later Tobias was sitting alone in Mycroft’s enormous office in Great George Street. The bowls for the Turkish Delight were full, but untouched. The ashtrays, strategically placed around the room for Mycroft’s strong Virginia cigarettes, were empty. Mycroft Holmes had taken to his bed on the evening of his unmasking of the Diogenes Club murderer and had stayed there ever since. Mrs Hudson was in attendance, reduced now to bringing him regular effusions of beef tea.

  Inspector Lestrade had called on Great George Street in triumph the day before, disappointed that Mycroft was not there to hear his news and even more disappointed to hear that Mycroft was not, for the moment, entertaining any company in his Pall Mall apartment. “Octavius Barnett, that’s our man, Tobias. Strangest thing I ever saw, he began crossing himself and then sank to his knees to say a few more prayers when we challenged him. Seems likely he’s never got over that bloody school. The Rule of St Benedict indeed! Apparently the murder had something to do with a family feud. Barnett’s under lock and key in the Scrubs now. He says he’ll tell all after he’s been to confession.” And after a few words of sympathy for the invalid Mycroft, Lestrade departed.

  Jaikie had been in that morning. Jaikie was a ragamuffin street urchin who belonged to the Du Cane Road Irregulars gang next to Wormwood Scrubs in Hammersmith. He had been involved with Mycroft and Tobias in a number of previous adventures and now ran errands and despatched messages a couple of afternoons a week. Tobias had initially entertained high hopes of reforming Jaikie from his criminal ways, but his efforts so far had not been successful.

  “So the old yin’s not well?” he said to Tobias, looking rather serious for a change.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Tobias, wondering if he should slip Jaikie ten shillings for new clothes. Then he reflected that there was no guarantee the money would be spent on shirts and trousers at all.

  “Is he going to be alright? I really don’t like it when people fall sick, Tobias. It doesn’t agree with me. Mr Holmes ain’t going to go Brown Bread, is he?”

  “Brown Bread, Jaikie?”

  “Brown Bread dead, Tobias. Why does nobody teach you people round to speak proper English? He’s not going to pop off like my Auntie, is he?”

  “Whatever happened to your Auntie?” The ragamuffin looked sad. “It was like Solomon Grundy,” he said, “only quicker.

  Took ill on Thursday,

  Went dead on Friday,

  Buried on Saturday.’

  “It’s not going to be like that with Mr Mycroft, is it?”

  “We hope not,” said Tobias, but he could see Jaikie was not convinced.

  “You tell him, you make sure to tell him,” Jaikie was brushing a tear from his left eye now, “that the Du Cane Road Irregulars send him the very best. I tell you what, Tobias, we’ll all go and steal some of the best chocolate for him tomorrow morning down Bond Street way.”

  Jaikie saw himself out. If he was going to cry he was going to cry on his own.

  Tobias stared at the pile of correspondence on his desk. He had opened them all, as usual, except for the ones addressed to Mycroft personally. There was a tentative knock at the door. It was Mrs Hudson, dressed for the occasion in her finest coat and a new hat.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Tobias, I know you must be extra busy being here on your own. I just wonder if you could come and see Mr Holmes. I’m very worried about him. He seems to be getting worse.”

  “Of course I’ll come, Mrs Hudson. I’ll come back with you now.”

  “Are you sure? You see, I want to ask your advice, Tobias. It’s easier here than in the apartment where he might hear us talking. The thing is, I’m thinking of taking him away for a change of air. Maybe the sea would do him good, or somewhere peaceful in the depths of the country. Has Mr Holmes ever mentioned to you any place he would especially like to go?”

  Tobias thought for a moment. “I’m afraid my suggestion isn’t going to be very helpful, Mrs Hudson. He’s often said he would like to see those Reichenbach Falls where his brother fought with Professor Moriarty before he died.”

  Mrs Hudson snorted. “If we set out for that place, Tobias, he’d be dead long before we got there. He’s not going to no Reichenbach Falls. He could hardly make it to Reigate.”

  They set off to Mycroft’s apartment, Mrs Hudson running through a list of possible places on the way. “Brighton, too many criminals, Bournemouth too boring, Bognor, full of children this time of year, Weymouth too far, Sidmouth, what about Sidmouth, Tobias? My sister tells me the hotels are right on the sea.”

  They had reached Mycroft’s apartment by now. Mrs Hudson showed Tobias into the bedroom, where Mycroft was sitting up in a pair of light blue pyjamas looking pale and growing thin.

  “Tobias, how good to see you. Any news from the office? I’m so glad Lestrade has picked up that murderer. What a strange business.”

  “There’s nothing important at the office, sir. Nothing to worry about at all. Jaikie and his gang send their best wishes, sir.”

  “How very kind of them. Maybe I should leave them something in my will to help with their redemption. I feel I may not have long to go, Tobias. You must have seen how I have been fading these last months. So far I have managed to avoid seeing any doctors, thank God. Sherlock and I have never had any faith in them, none whatsoever. I loathe doctors. But Mrs Hudson is very persistent.”

  Mycroft lay back on his pillows. He closed his eyes. “How strange it would be if the Death at the Diogenes Club was my last case, Tobias.”

  “You mustn’t say that, sir, you really mustn’t.”

  Looking at the pale, gaunt face of the man who had taken him into Government employment and looked after him so well, with hardly a harsh word in eighteen months of service, Tobias felt that he too might burst into tears at any moment.

  “Then tell me, Tobias, in my hour of trial, what is there for me to live for? I feel I have been too long shackled in this mortal coil.”

  Tobias walked over to the window and stared out at the passing traffic and the crowds thick on the pavement. He knew that his answer would be one of the most important statements he had ever made.

  “You must live for many things, sir. You must live for your position as Auditor of all Government Departments. You are irreplaceable. Nobody knows what perils may lie ahead. You must live, sir, for the exercise of your remarkable powers which have never shone brighter than in this last case. You must live, sir, for your friends and all those who care for you like me and Mrs Hudson. You must live above all for your native land, sir. You must live for your country. You must live for England. England needs you. That is elementary, sir, elementary!”

  Mycroft Holmes and the Case of the Romanov Pearls

  The waves were beating harder now. There was a rumble where there had been a whisper earlier in the day. Over by the West Pier the spray around the great girders was rising a couple of feet before falling back into the dark waters. A red orb was setting slowly above Lancing and its Victorian chapel. The figure wrapped in a couple of blankets in a wheel chair on the balcony of the second floor of The Majestic Hotel wondered if there was an equation that could tell what the increase in the size of the waves would be in an hour’s time. Beside the wheel chair a young man was squatting on the ground waiting for instructions.

  Much of the life of the man in the wheelchair had been spent with equations and statistics. Figures for the size of the National Debt. Figures for the annual revenue from the Customs and Excise. Figures for the amount of income tax raised from an unwilling populace in any given year. For the figure on the balcony was none other than Mycroft Holmes, Auditor of all Government Departments, adviser to a long series of Prime Ministers of Great Britain. The young man was his assistant Tobias.

  Readers of my humble tales will recall that towards the end of the adventure called Murder in the Diogenes Club Mycroft had taken to his bed in his rooms in Pall Mall and was at death’s door. His landlady, Mrs Hudson, despaired of his life. Like his younger brother Sherlock, Mycroft loathed doctors of all descriptions and refused to see any member of that profession.

  It was only by subterfuge that Tobias succeeded in uniting Mycroft and medicine. The celebrated Harley Street doctor Moore Agar was smuggled into the bedroom disguised as a leading economist from the German Finance Ministry in Berlin. Once at the bedside Agar wasted no time in telling his client, as he had told his brother before him, that he must lay aside all his business and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert a complete breakdown. The doctor hinted very strongly that if his instructions were not followed, Mycroft would be joining the Government statistics himself in the Death columns of The Times. Various medicines were produced and Mrs Hudson ordered to ensure that they were taken at the appropriate time. A slight improvement ensued, which Mrs Hudson put down to her lightly battered cod in a mild cheese sauce – fish, in Mrs Hudson’s world, being especially efficacious for the invalid – and Tobias to the banning of Mycroft’s beloved Turkish Delight which he, Tobias, had always believed had been designed by the Turkish Sultans to poison their enemies.

  After prolonged discussions between Dr Agar, The Treasury and Ten Downing Street it was agreed that Mycroft could be sent for convalescence to the bracing sea air of Brighton, a resort close enough to London for Cabinet Ministers or Permanent Secretaries to have easy access to the Government Auditor by train. The Majestic was chosen largely for the quality of its chefs. The doctor had made strict instructions about Mycroft’s diet, but even within those restrictions their skill was such that it was thought The Majestic kitchens could tempt a reluctant convalescent to the table.

  Mycroft was not a good patient. Dr Agar would appear unexpectedly early in the morning or late in the evening and deliver ferocious lectures about the importance of his instructions being followed to the letter. Mycroft complained about his suite of rooms. These were at the front of the building, facing the sea with very high ceilings and space enough for tennis in the Great Living Room with its twin double doors onto the balcony and the sea front. He complained about the noise in the public rooms and asked Tobias why the Diogenes Club, of which he, Mycroft, was a founder member and where you could only speak in the Strangers Room, could not be persuaded to rent one floor of the hotel and introduce the rule of silence. He even complained about the food. Dr Agar had left specific instructions about diet. The Government Auditor was not allowed the same dishes as the other guests. The only problem came in the Georgian dining room looking out over the English Channel. Mycroft could see great helpings of lobster with cream sauce passing him by on their ornate trolleys. Crème Brule or Zabaglione with strawberries and blueberries were available, but not to the inhabitant of Pall Mall currently incarcerated on the second floor. Mycroft was not amused.

  Among Mycroft’s fellow guests at the Majestic in this month of May was one of England’s richest women, the Duchess of Alcester. She had been divorced from her husband several years before on charges which included his sexual relations with the estate servants and enormous gambling debts. The Countess made off with much of her husband’s remaining wealth and all his family’s astonishing jewel collection. Some of these gems had been bought, some acquired by marriage but the White Pearls of the Romanovs had been won in a late night gambling session at the Pushkin Club on Nevskii Prospekt in St Petersburg where Russian aristocrats habitually gambled away their stables, their estates and, occasionally, their wives.

  Clarissa, for such was the name of the Duchess, could see little point in owning these jewels without other people seeing that she owned them too. Why should they languish in some vault, there to blush unseen, she would tell her staff. On the evening in question she was dining late and alone in the Fitzherbert suite, named after a famous inhabitant of an earlier Brighton who had been married illegally to the Prince Regent, next to the main dining room. Alone, apart from her personal butler come security advisor, formerly of the Irish Guards, stationed about ten feet behind her chair. Alone, apart from the Head Waiter, hovering at a discreet distance to the left of her table. Alone, apart from her personal waiter and the hotel sommelier who lurked nearby, with a wine list that contained some of the most expensive vintages in the country. Alone, apart from the long string of the White Pearls of the Romanovs which hung around her neck.

  Dr Watson has often referred in his chronicles of Mycroft’s younger brother Sherlock to the fallibility of witnesses and the unreliability of narrators. Different versions of events will duly be presented in this monogram. This much we know. Shortly after ten o’clock the lights went out. The Fitzherbert suite was plunged into total darkness apart from ectoplasmic figures on the pavement beyond the glass and the dark grey mass of the sea. There was one loud scream, cut short with the sound of a blow from a fist or a cudgel. When the electricity came back on, after a remarkably brief interval, the various parties were placed as follows. The wine waiter was guarding one door, the Head Waiter the other. It was clear that nobody had escaped from the suite. Lying insensate on the ground was the dark suited figure of the Duchess’s man. Collapsed over one of the dining chairs was the waiter. Leaning back in her chair was the Duchess herself, unconscious like her two companions. Lying on the floor near the Duchess’s table was a hotel sponge with a powerful smell. The police doctor later established it had been soaked in chloroform. The string of the white pearls of the Romanovs was gone from her throat and was nowhere to be seen. When examined, none of those present and conscious could remember anything apart from their own actions. The two hotel staff guarding the doors were following a pre-arranged plan, originally devised two years before for an Indian Maharajah with a retinue of beautiful but fractious young women and the largest diamond in the world, and rehearsed a number of times since.

  Mycroft Holmes was not, of course, present in the Fitzherbert Suite at the time. He was playing a desultory game of chess with Tobias at a corner table in his enormous living room. Tobias privately regarded these chess contests as a barometer of his employer’s health. Before the illness Tobias had never won a game. Since the illness he had never lost one. On the verge of defeat, with one solitary pawn left to defend a beleaguered King, Mycroft and Tobias heard the tramp of feet rushing up and down the stairs, the blowing of whistles and shouts of command. The Brighton Constabulary had arrived in force and in remarkably quick time.

  Forty five minutes after the incident the hotel manager Valentine Delaney presented himself in Mycroft’s rooms. He knew the identity of the Government Auditor, of course, and the nature of his rare but triumphant interventions in the annals of London crime as well as he knew of the Duchess of Alcester. He came straight to the point.

  “Mr Holmes,” he began, in his light Dublin brogue, “I have over a hundred policemen trampling all over my hotel. I would rather have the benefit of your experience and your powers than those of all these men in uniform. Surely it is God’s will that has sent you here at this time. He has brought you to Brighton to solve this mystery and preserve the good name of The Majestic. May the Lord be praised!”

  Delaney had an uncle in Dublin who was the news editor of the leading newspaper in the city. “Charm and flattery, my boy,” the journalist used to tell his nephew, “charm and flattery, invaluable in this wicked world. Don’t pay any attention to those who tell you to lay them on with a trowel. Use a bloody shovel if you can’t find anything bigger.”

  Tobias had been watching Mycroft very closely. Normally, like his brother on occasions like this, he would form the fingers of his hands into a steeple and rest his chin on the top. Not this time. Mycroft’s hands were lying in his lap and his chin was drooping as if he were falling asleep.

  “Mr Holmes, forgive me, the hour is late. I will not trouble you much longer. The police have sealed the hotel off. Nobody is allowed to leave. Brighton station is closed for the time being and all potential passengers are being searched by the constabulary before they can depart. Similar restrictions are in operation at the roadblocks on the main thoroughfares out of the town. Three specially trained officers are searching every inch of the dining room where the pearls disappeared. And yet, Mr Holmes, and yet. It’s the very devil, this theft, so it is. I fear we will be no further forward in the morning than we are now. There are arrangements already in place with Scotland Yard. A small, but expert team is coming down to help us tomorrow. You may even know the Inspector in charge. I believe he had connections with your brother.”

  Delaney waited expectantly for some response from the Government Auditor but the corpulent figure kept his own counsel.