The Case of the Three Brothers

Chapter Four: The Man who was Mycroft

I had little appetite and dined sparely on the remnants of Mrs Hudson's cucumber sandwiches. It had been my intention to stay up and wait for Holmes's return, but sleep has a way of catching up with even the most determined of souls and it was not long before my eyelids were drooping and my head was nodding in those moments before slumber claims another victory.

What time I fell asleep, I cannot say. When I woke, however, it was daylight and a glance at the clock told me that it was a little after seven. A distant clatter of porcelain told me that Holmes was somewhere beyond the closed door of his room. To say I struggled to wakefulness was very near to the truth of the matter, for my position in the chair, comfortable as it was, had been an awkward one and lancing pains in the muscles of my neck made any sudden movement of my head undesirable. My throat was thick and my tongue dry, and I had hopes that a cup of tea would soon be forthcoming.

Before calling on Mrs Hudson, I went in search of my friend with as much haste as my stiff and aching body would allow, for I was keen to hear an account of his night's investigations. I called out to him to warn him of my impending approach, but either he had not heard me or my voice had yet to command sufficient weight to penetrate the barrier between us. I opened his door without knocking and thus it was that I entered to find him with his coat hanging from one shoulder, his sleeve rolled up and a look of surprise on his face which faded into weary displeasure.

"It seems I was premature in my assumption that I had these rooms to myself," said he ungraciously. "And having awoken, here you are."

"So it would appear. Although I had hopes of this being nothing more than a bad dream."

He snorted and returned the syringe to its case. "No, Doctor, those come later."

"Is that really necessary?" I gestured to the half-empty bottle. "Or are we to pretend yet again that this is nothing more than the relief of ennui?"

"That would be true enough had my mind of late been exercised in nothing more absorbing than the daily round of gossip and scandal and a close study of the ceiling. What you perceive as a weakness on my part is somewhat closer to the truth; I find I am in need of its more practical applications in a palliative sense." He tossed the bottle to me. "Had you exercised those powers of observation which I so often exhort, you would have seen that this is morphine."

"What is this? Are you in pain, Holmes?"

As he began to strip away his coat, taking the utmost care in his actions as each bend and twist of his arm elicited a wince or small moan, I noted the beginnings of a mottled pattern of red blotches on the right-hand sleeve of his shirt. I moved to help him, and as the torn and dirty fabric came away, I was concerned to see that the blood had soaked through the length of his arm and had pooled at the wrist, from where it had divided into rivulets and run the channels of escape between his knuckles to coat the insides of his fingers with rust-coloured stains.

"What happened?" I asked.

"An encounter with hansom driven by a drunken cabman," said he with effort. "Don't look so alarmed, Doctor. It's not as bad as it seems."

"Bad enough, Holmes. You could have been killed."

"Yes." His gaze was thoughtful. "I apologise for waking you. I endeavoured to keep my return as noiseless as possible so as not to disturb the household."

"You did not disturb me. I didn't hear you creep in."

"That is what you may expect to hear when I 'creep' in, as you so aptly put it."

I was in no mood to bandy words on the subject, although I was pleased to find his strange sense of humour had not suffered damage in the incident. "Remove your shirt," I ordered. "Let me see the damage."

For once, he proved a willing patient. The drug was beginning to take effect, for we managed the removal of his shirt with very little protestation, even where I had to peel the material away with care in those places where it had begun to adhere to the wounds beneath. Any schoolboy will tell you that blood makes a simple cut appear much worse; in Holmes's case, however, the embellishment of gore served only to conceal the scale of his injuries.

On his upper arm, a multitude of grazes criss-crossed the flesh. His elbow had been skinned to the bone and large flap of skin had been lifted on his forearm revealing a pulpy mass beneath. The area was swollen and angry, already displaying the crimson and purpling colours of deep bruising. I have never known Sherlock Holmes fuss about his health or make undue comment about the knocks and scrapes he incurred as a necessary part of his trade, so the fact that he had needed the relief of morphine told me more about the scale of his discomfort than he would ever willingly admit. He had my sympathy and my apologies for having judged him so harshly.

If I read his injuries correctly, the cab had come upon him suddenly, too quickly for him to take evasive action. It had clipped him and sent him hurtling and skidding across the cobbles, tearing his clothes and flesh in the process. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse. Mutilation and death was often the fate of those who tumbled beneath flying hooves and wheels; but for his falling away from the path of the cab, my visit this morning could have been to the mortuary.

"I trust the rest of your evening was more successful than this," I asked while I worked. "What news?"

"None to speak of," said he, sighing fretfully. "The Diogenes confirmed that Mycroft had not been there all day. At his rooms, I was fortunate enough to bump into Mr Melas." He caught his breath. "Do be careful, Watson. I am a creature of flesh and bone, after all, and not stone whatever you might think. I do hope you do not intend to be as rough as this with all your patients."

"Only the ones who should know better," I said with smile. "How is Mr Melas?"

"Quite recovered from his ordeal and choosing his clients with greater care. When I asked him about my brother, he said that he had seen him yesterday morning. He reported that he had seemed agitated, although he had been in perfectly good humour the evening before. Now, what do you make of that?"

"Something occurred in the night to account for his change of mood."

Holmes shook his head. "Not the night, Watson, but the morning."

I was moment behind his train of reasoning. "You mean something came in the post?"

"Precisely. Mycroft was lured away and the imposter took his place."

"Did you find anything to suggest what the 'lure' might have been?"

Again, Holmes shook his head. "Mycroft is a most untidy fellow. I had the devil of a time sorting through his correspondence and spent half the night devoted to what turned out to be a fruitless enterprise. Whatever it was, however, caused him to leave his rooms in some haste and without thought to leaving a message, which indicates he expected to return before he was missed."

"But why? What was the purpose of it?"

"He works in Whitehall, that is reason enough. Certainly my news stirred them into a frenzy of activity. They even roused the Prime Minister from his bed."

"The Premier is concerned about the fate of an accountant?" Holmes hesitated in replying. "You did say that your brother audits the books?"

"Yes." He grimaced as I sponged away a clot of stubborn blood and took a deep breath. "For several of the government departments. Will this take much longer?"

I ignored him. "And he is important enough to warrant a deception on this scale?"

"Knowing as you do that he is my brother and quite my superior in observation and deduction, you should already be aware of my answer."

I dabbed at the edges of the deepest of the gazes, taking a moment to formulate my thoughts. "I think they, whoever they are, were remarkably fortunate in discovering a man who fitted your brother's description so precisely. Why, he could almost have been..." I hesitated. Holmes's questioning gaze urged me on. "Perhaps a member of your family?"

"Let me set your mind at rest on that point, my dear fellow. We are a family of two, possibly one now. My father is dead, my mother also. I had—have but one brother, and he seven years my senior."

"A cousin then?"

Holmes smothered something that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan. "As much as I would like to forget the other and varied members of my clan, I fear I have not. No, this fellow is not known to me. The resemblance is a coincidence, nothing more. They do say that we all have our doubles. We have had the pleasure of meeting Mycroft's, albeit post-mortem."

"And precious little we know of him."

"I would not say that. We know he was in Bloomsbury for an assignation. We have your sharp eyes to thank for that. We know also that he had my brother's watch and had endeavoured to dress according to his taste, which has always bordered on the bland. He or his masters as we shall have to call them had gone to a great deal of trouble, even employing the skills of Mycroft's own tailor to provide the imposter with clothes. I only hope they did not have the temerity to charge it to his account."

"How do you know this?"

"I returned to the mortuary after your departure and sorted through the dead man's possessions, few that they were. I should say his clothes were about a month old; time enough to lose that stiffness of new cloth and acquire that degree of comfort so necessary in any garment. However, it does not help us in our inquiries. A well-worn pair of trousers will tell you more about the wearer than their newer counterpart. Except that our man was in the habit of keeping a ready supply of 'Haworth's Penny Toffees' in his pocket and had recently had an encounter with a woman with red hair – I found a strand on his coat; a most peculiar hue, I must say, small wonder that you noticed her – I can tell you very little. The man himself was another matter entirely."

"You re-examined the body?"

"I saw all I needed at our initial inspection. What were your conclusions about our mystery man, Watson?"

"Well, now you tell me that it wasn't your brother, I should say that the body was that of a man aged about forty, overweight, hair turning to grey—"

"Should we require a description, to you we shall turn. Deduce, my dear fellow, deduce!"

I shook my head in admittance of defeat. "I am afraid I saw nothing."

"On the contrary, you saw everything yet you fail to make the necessary inferences. The weight alone is suggestive."

"Well-fed and prosperous?"

"You would find much the same thickness of girth in a man who is frequently in his cups. And a prosperous man never wore such threadbare undergarments as he had."

"A wastrel then?"

"Certainly someone with a liking for the pleasures of life and not accustomed to hard work. Did you observe his hands? You'll never see finer, I'll wager. He never kept hands as smooth and fine as that digging the roads or spending his day at his desk. At one time he had whiskers – the skin was a shade lighter at the line of his jaw. I imagine he shaved them off in anticipation of his role as Mycroft. The preparations necessary for his immersion in the part have robbed us of a great of information about the nature of his life and identity, but I feel safe in saying that his trade was one that needed great confidence, was insecure and gave him latitude to indulge in wine, women and song. An impecunious actor of some talent fallen on hard times due to his own folly, I should say."

I chuckled at this pronouncement. "That seems to me a stretch, Holmes."

"That is because you fail to follow the logical steps that have led me to this conclusion."

With his wounds cleaned and dressed, I began the task of covering his arm with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. "No doubt you will explain," I said.

"Come now, Watson. Who else but someone with supreme confidence would attempt such a charade? Why, even I would not have the gall to believe I could deceive the First Lord of the Treasury in such a manner."

"Good heavens! You mean to say that our man has been abroad causing mischief?"

"Very much so. Whether for good or evil, the man posing as my brother yesterday morning convinced both the Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer to invest the nation's gold reserves in the stocks of a certain South American country."

I paused and stared hard at him. "They would do such a thing, on your brother's advice?"

"They do and they have. Now we must ask ourselves why. Who stands to gain?" He bit his lip. "Have a care with those bandages, Watson. I would prefer to keep my arm."

As I tied the knot, a soft knock sounded at the door and Mrs Hudson's voice informed us that coffee was on the table and breakfast would be up shortly. I helped Holmes on with a clean shirt and then left him to complete his ablutions. I poured myself a coffee and found a letter waiting for me. My groan of dismay elicited some interest from my companion as he entered from room.

"It is from the builders," I explained. "They tell me they have found evidence now of rising damp in the basement."

"Won't that counteract the effects of the dry rot?" said Holmes.

"I'm not sure it works like that." I set my cup aside with a sigh. "Yet another reason why I have made up my mind to postpone the arrangements for Thursday."

Holmes tossed a spent match into the grate. "You will not."

"I don't see how I can."

"Come hell or high water, Watson, Thursday you get married."

"With your brother missing and who knows what happening with the government?"

"In fairness, there is little you can do about either. I shall find Mycroft; you deal with your dry rot and rising damp and all the other little inconveniences that thrust themselves unbidden on the would-be householder."

"Holmes, if the worst has happened…"

As he drew on his cigarette, I noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. "If so, then delaying your nuptials will not bring him back. I have two full days to determine his fate, my own carelessness not withstanding. As for the government, they must take care of their own affairs. They wanted the glory of high office, let them deal with the consequences."

Mrs Hudson entered with the breakfast tray and the early editions. I was in the process of buttering myself a piece of toast when my eye lit upon a piece halfway down the front page entitled 'Revolutionary uprising in South America'.

"Holmes," I said, calling him over, "in which country were the gold reserves invested?"

I showed him the paper. Having read the account, he slumped into the chair opposite.

"I fear we are too late to prevent a national crisis," said he. "You understand the implication of this, of course. With their government overthrown and the country in chaos, the stocks we purchased are worthless."

I swallowed hard. "Does that mean…?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes, Watson. Thanks to my 'brother's' advice, this nation of ours stands on the verge of bankruptcy."

Continued in Chapter Five!