In 1976, a trunk bearing the label 'Mr Mycroft Holmes Esq.' was discovered in the attic of the Diogenes Club, being the bequest of the aforesaid founder member. Inside were a number of journals, relating principally to those years when his celebrated younger brother was practising as a private consulting detective. Written in an obscure code, finally deciphered in 2008, and translated from the original mirrored Latin text, presented here for the first time is a series of short extracts drawn from the years 1891 to 1894.
The Continuing Secret Diary of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.: The Hiatus Years
Wednesday, 6th May, 1891 [1]
Sherlock is dead.
I know this because he sent me a wire informing me of this fact.
I say this is jolly inconsiderate of him. What others will think, I can only imagine.
Death is something we do not encourage in our family, as births are few and the ancestral vault is near to capacity. I recall there was a good deal of unpleasantness the last time it was opened for the internment of great-uncle Pomeroy. I should not have gone, but for a sense of obligation that required one member of our meagre branch should attend. Sherlock had avoided the debacle by claiming he had a case that demanded his attention, something about a cock-eyed cocker spaniel in Cockington. I wish now I had had the good sense to follow his example.
The service was respectful enough, but thereafter all decorum was forsaken. On opening the vault, there was some talk of having to 'jostle the coffins about' to get the newcomer in, something the gravedigger said was more than his job was worth if his governor caught him 'interfering with the dead'. It was then suggested that the men of the family might do the decent thing. To this, I objected in the strongest terms, on the grounds that it was beneath my dignity and that at least one of our ancestors buried therein had died from the Black Death.
Whether the latter was true or not, I cannot say. It did have the desired effect, however, and it fell to great-aunt Ermintrude to perform the necessary act. I can still see her now, a fine figure of a woman, tossing her feathered hat aside and rolling up her sleeves before striding into that dark hole with the determination of a soldier going into battle. After a good deal of huffing and puffing, and a few words that I did not understand (but clearly Ermintrude did, which was alarming in a woman of eighty-nine), she emerged, triumphant, smothered in cobwebs, and declared that there was room enough for ten more coffins before promptly dropping dead from the exertion.
I remember cousin Liliwin remarking that at least the old girl had saved us the expense of another funeral, his argument being that two would rest as easily as one. I dare say this may have been a persuasive argument in other families, but we do have our standards, however strange they may appear to outsiders. Thus, we sent Liliwin to heave one of the ancestors out of his coffin to make way for great-aunt Ermintrude and had the vicar say a few words.
We were at the point where the clergyman had announced 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust', when cousin Aubrey piped up with his usual rejoinder 'if heaven don't want you, then the Devil must' in the mistaken belief that because it rhymes, it must be amusing. He may have laughed, but the rest of us maintained our composure right up to the moment when the vicar inadvertently struck the coffin with his foot and great-aunt Ermintrude started hammering on the lid. She may not have been dead, but we lost three elderly members of the family to fright that day.
Thus, by general consensus and overall apathy, we try to avoid death whenever possible and frown upon those members who would call the clan together for the ritual of a funeral. That Sherlock will require one will not give them cause to remember him fondly, if they remember him at all, especially if we have another episode with great-aunt Ermintrude.
The occasion of his passing must be marked, I suppose. He has acquaintances, and from what I gather from his garbled wire – sent in the most complicated code it is ever been my misfortune to read (the juxtaposition of several letters made me think for an instant that he was in 'bed' instead of being 'dead', and had taken to his heels to avoid an overbearing woman) – he has imposed upon one in particular.
Dr Watson is a fellow of rare sensibilities. If I read the situation correctly, he is homeward bound as we speak.
This presents me with a problem.
No doubt he will come to tell me the dire news in person. I am not by nature an actor. Do I feign horror or affect my usual indifference, which in my case would be the natural reaction? I shall have to find that rarest of beasts, a 'normal' person, and ask them what they would do.
I cannot follow the example of our dear departed father. When informed of our grandfather's death, he burst into song with a rousing rendition of 'Hearts of Oak', ending with a grand flourish for the final chorus by jumping onto the dining room table and removing his shirt. I remember Mother telling me what a magnificent sight it was, despite her being struck in the eye by one of his flying buttons and the servants having a devil of time removing his boot prints from the mahogany veneer.
No one has ever questioned whether this was an appropriate response, or indeed that my father was most affected by the news. I trust the same is not expected of me. At my age, I cannot be jumping on tables, nor humiliating myself by removing my garments.
Whatever the occasion demands, I am certain that it will be of the greatest inconvenience to myself. Indeed, I foresee months of disruption. Seeing to my brother's affairs will require calls upon both my purse and my precious time. I shall have to perjure myself to have him declared dead. I shall have to lie to his friends and colleagues. I shall have to endure the misery of associating with the other members of our family.
Worse of all, I shall be doing this in the full knowledge that Sherlock is alive and well, and doing goodness knows what in goodness knows where. How long he expects me to prolong this farce, heavens only knows. If he ever does return, I may be tempted to pitch him over a waterfall myself.
To Be Continued!
[1] Thus, the date of the meeting of Holmes and Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls was Monday, 4th May, 1891. According to Dr Watson, in 'The Final Problem', accounts in the press appeared 6th May (Journal de Genève) and in the English papers on 7th May. Given that Mycroft probably doesn't have access to foreign papers (well, not on the day of publication at any rate), he has to be getting his information from his brother.
