The Abominable Affair of the Charming Chiromancer

Chapter Nine: Means to an End

"And what, Sherlock, is the meaning of this?"

Brother Mycroft at his most censorious, quick to condemn, slow to apologise, was tiresome at the best of times. This morning he was quite intolerable.

A few hours' sleep and a general feeling of resentment about the case and my circumstances in general did not make me overly disposed to pander to his pugnacious mood. If the events of the previous day had taught me anything, it was that too many people were playing battledore and shuttlecock with my life. Lestrade and Gregson, warring over my brains like dogs over a hambone; Miles, a cousin who flirted with scandal and excess, and seemed to labour under the notion that I had been adopted as his apprentice, to take his place when he was otherwise engaged; and Mycroft, directing my talents as he saw fit, not to those incidents which held any appeal for me, but instead for the benefit of his own interests.

What none of these conflicting presences realised yet, however, was that I had staged the first of many minor rebellions against this tyranny that very morning. I had determined that I would do things my way, and no longer allow myself to be dictated to by brothers, cousins and police inspectors who thought they knew better. I was able to listen to Mycroft's tirade with that secret satisfaction borne of knowing more than those who were allegedly better informed and was able to keep my temper because of it. In a few hours time, I would be able to make the first advance against Ricoletti – with a little help from one of Miles's friends.

It had been nearly three by the time I stumbled up the steps to my cousin's lodgings. His valet, the admirable Algernon, was still up and as deferential as ever. He made no reference to the time or that I had kept him from his bed, but merely inquired whether I would be requiring refreshment. I thanked him, but declined. What I had really needed was a bath. There had been something unpleasant about the evening that seemed to linger on my skin, as did the Vetiver to my clothes. In the end, out of consideration for the other tenants at so late an hour, I contented myself with the use of the washbasin – Algernon had anticipated this by providing several jugs of warm water – and then took to my bed.

By ten the next morning, Miles had still not returned. I had asked his valet if this was normal; I was assured that often my cousin went out on a Friday night and did not reappear again until the following Tuesday. I did not pursue the natural line of inquiry as to what he was doing that kept him from home for so long. From what I had already seen of his behaviour, my imagination was equal to the task of providing reasons enough.

Not that I was overly concerned for Miles's welfare, for I had had my own problems, namely a missive from Mycroft demanding that I meet with him at an address in Pall Mall. I gathered he expected a report on my progress. I suspected also that he would not be impressed that his younger sibling had managed to get his name into the morning's papers.

Langdale Pike had been busy, detailing a full account of the previous evening's ball, the names of the guests and any slight incidents that had struck him as being of importance. I winced when I saw his description of me as 'the newest addition to the Holmes's family name, intent on emulating his cousin's notorious career' and wondered if I would ever be permitted into civilised society again.

Despite the urgency in Mycroft's telegram – he excels in that thrifty ability of being able to communicate mood through a careful choice of words that marries brevity with asperity – I kept him waiting whilst I breakfasted and read the developments in the case of 'The Piccadilly Pilferers' as the theft at the Royal Academy was being called. Thankfully, and no doubt to relief of the higher echelons of Scotland Yard, there was no mention of nefarious acrobats.

Inspector Gregson was quoted as opining that it was 'the work of a professional gang of jewel thieves' and had declared that he expected to make an arrest very shortly. Inspector Lestrade, looking for a single opportunistic thief on my advice, apparently had had nothing pertinent to add and was permitted one line at the very end of the report, the author of the piece ascribing his role to 'assisting Inspector Gregson with the investigation'. I smiled as I imagined Lestrade's thoughts on reading that.

In fact, the morning seemed to hurry along without any manufactured dawdling from me. There is something about crisp linen and expensive cloth that demands care and respect. One does not simply throw one's self haphazardly into such exquisite tailoring – one takes time to appreciate the experience of being dressed, aided by Algernon, who had assumed I would require such consideration without my having to ask. When all was done, when my collar was stiffly erect against my throat, forcing me to stand a little taller, when my coat had been brushed free of lint and my necktie was smoothed to perfection, only then was I able to inspect my reflection and feel pleased with what I saw.

The dapper fellow in the mirror was less tattered youth than cultured young gentleman. I had, sartorially and some might say superficially, come of age.

If it is true that clothes maketh the man, that day I stepped from Miles's chambers a convert to the wonders of affected elegance. The effect on the world at large was quite startling. Gentleman nodded, women admired, footmen bowed. It is an experience not easily forgotten and, if I have permitted myself one vanity thereafter, it is in cultivating a certain primness and respectability of dress which I have striven to maintain even under the most demanding of circumstances.

I owe Miles that, if nothing else.

What I had not anticipated when I set out that morning was that fate was about to take a hand in events, in the form of a careworn, troubled fellow who came hurrying towards me, nearly knocking me to the ground in his haste.

I recognised him from the previous evening's ball. The same concerns that had caused him to seek out Miles last night had again brought Lieutenant Theodore Fairfax to his door. His eyes were wilder, heavily pouched and bloodshot, and his grooming fell short of the standards stipulated by Navy regulations.

We shook hands, but it was evident from the way his gaze drifted over my shoulder to the door from which I had emerged that his concerns lay not with the guest, but with the master. It occurred to me then that our interests were not entirely at odds. A man held to ransom over some misdemeanour from his youth and my knowledge that a vile blackmailer was at work, both moving in the same circles, seemed to me to be too much of a coincidence. Miles had said that the best course was to buy Fairfax's way out of trouble. I did not agree with that at all. Rather, another idea presented itself. If I could persuade Fairfax to my way of thinking, Ricoletti's reign of terror – if indeed he it was behind this man's troubles – could be ended at one fell swoop.

"I have not seen Miles this morning," I said in answer to his inquiry. "I do not know where he is."

"I must trust that he will return," he murmured. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I will wait upon him."

He would have gone but for my calling him back. "What will you do if he cannot raise the money?"

He stared at me, his eyes bulging with fear. "Miles has told you?"

"The barest details, Mr Fairfax. I know very little, admittedly, of the case."

"But he does have the money? For God's sake, tell me that he does."

"Whether he does or does not seems to me not to be the problem. You should resist this blackmailer's demands."

He started to laugh, nervously at first, then louder, verging on a hysterical keening that made a carriage horse shy and brought servants out to peer up at us in the area below where we stood. I shook him roughly by the shoulder to bring him back to his senses.

"I cannot resist," said the unfortunate fellow, burying his face in his hands. "Ruin will follow if it is ever known what I have done."

"Honour is nothing if you have to spend the rest of your life in the power of another man."

Confused racked his already tortured features. "I do not understand, Mr Holmes. He requires one payment of a thousand pounds and that is an end of the matter."

I shook my head. "The blackmailer is an avaricious creature. One payment is rarely enough."

Fairfax paled.

"Exposure of this man is the safest course," I advised. "Only then may you consider yourself free of his influence."

"You do not know what you ask," said he, swallowing hard. "What he has—"

"Is supposition, nothing more." It was time to lay my cards on the table. "It is Ricoletti of whom we speak, is it not?"

He staggered back, coming up against the railings and near knocking the trailing lobelia from their pots. "Why would you say that?" he ejaculated. "Is it as easy to see my guilt as you suggest? Dear God, if Helena—that dear sweet girl—ever comes to learn of my shame… Mr Holmes, I would tear the heart from my breast rather than bring sorrow to that gentle creature."

"Then put an end to this torment, while you still can."

"An end," he murmured. His eyes wandered to the far side of the street and a vacant expression replaced his agitation. "I have considered it. Now I see that I must do as you say."

"I can help you, if you trust me."

"Trust you?" His gaze drifted dully back to my face. "Mr Holmes, I do not even know you, yet you appear to know the deepest secrets of my soul, as all must soon enough."

"Whatever you have done is as nothing compared to the villainy of this man," I urged. "You will not be castigated, Mr Fairfax, you will be applauded."

"What do you propose? The police?"

It was not my first choice. I was conscious that I had been advised not to pursue legal avenues against Ricoletti for good reason. He had too many supporters and proof of his blackmail would be hard to establish unless Fairfax had some written demand from the devil. Otherwise, it would be a matter of his stating that whatever financial arrangements lay between them was a business concern, nothing more.

What I had in mind was catching the blackguard in the act. I needed to be present at the moment the money was handed over. The testimony of a foolish young man caught in a compromising situation was one thing; that of an independent, respectable witness quite another. With my support and backing, Fairfax could denounce Ricoletti without fear of ridicule. Then others would speak out against him and his hold on the impressionable and vulnerable would be broken. With the doors of civilised society closed against him, he would be ruined.

I would have preferred to have seen him behind bars for his crimes, but I had been cautioned to employ subtler means. He may not have pulled the trigger of the gun that had ended the life of young Bassett, but he had certainly provided the bullets. That charge could never now be proved and he would answer for it in no court of men. For now, I had to settle for his exposure and disgrace. After that, all I would have to do was to bide my time. Stripped of his exalted position and access to the coffers of the wealthy, I had every confidence that it would not be long before his criminal tendencies would turn to other means of acquiring his ill-gotten gains. And when he did, I would be waiting.

Assuring Fairfax that what I proposed was his only safeguard, I made arrangements to meet him at his club to discuss our plans as soon as I had had my interview with Mycroft. I was satisfied with my work – a few more days and this despicable business would be at an end. Ricoletti would fall and I could return to Montague Street, away from cousins and brothers, back to my books and my own particular areas of study. Fairfax too seemed to a new peace of mind, and when we parted, he was quieter, less the desperate soul of earlier and now more firm in purpose. So it was that I hailed a cab and set out for Pall Mall, now better placed to face my over-bearing brother.

The address he had given was that of the proposed location of his latest interest, namely a club for London's unclubbable. The idea seemed to me to be illogical. If a man's bent was towards misanthropy, what possible need would he have for a club where he would be exposed to the one thing loathsome to his soul? Mycroft, however, having greater experience in such things, was certain the venture would prove popular, again paradoxically to my mind, for even the most hardened misanthrope, not averse as he might be to the comforts of a club, would surely baulk at such a throng of his fellows, however like-minded.

As usual, it appeared that my elder brother knew better. Enough gentlemen had paid their subscriptions in advance for premises to be selected at one of the grander establishments on Pall Mall, a florid Classical profusion of applied Corinthian columns, decorated pediment and balconied piano nobile recently vacated by another club whose members had elected to move around the corner to the relative quiet of St James's Street. The transformation was already underway and, if Mycroft had his way, the thud of the carpenters' hammers and the chatter of the workmen would be the last noises louder than a whisper ever to be heard within these walls.

I found him in the only habitable room, a chamber half-given over to sheeted furniture, with a large bow window overlooking Pall Mall. A table and an armchair had been provided for his use, the former being covered with a series of architect's plans and the latter amply filled by my increasingly corpulent sibling. His mood was not agreeable, partly because, so he told me, the builders were forever pushing back the date of completion, but mostly because he had read Pike's account of my recent activities, which accounted for his throwing the newspaper onto the table with contempt and peering at me down the length of his nose.

"Well? I am waiting for an answer, Sherlock."

I selected a cigarette and took my time in lighting it before I deigned to reply. "Do you generally believe everything you read in the press?"

"No, sir, I do not, but where Miles is concerned, I would not put anything past him, including…"

Words enough to finish his statement failed him. Instead, red-faced and fairly broiling with indignation, he hauled himself from his chair and came over to where I stood. Mycroft has an inch or so in height over me when he can bother to rise to the occasion, but it is the size of the man that is wont to intimidate. I dare say this may work on lesser mortals, but the days when Mycroft could impose his will on me by sheer force of personality were long past. I remained impassive, a course which I have found from long experience to be successful if only because it infuriates him all the more.

"I am asking you for an explanation," he persisted, seeing that his methods and devices were having no effect on me.

"No, you are demanding, Mycroft, which is quite a different matter. I never respond to demands, you should know that by now."

"Then you were at this ball," said he, his brows dancing with pious outrage. "Your refusal to reply has given me proof positive."

I regarded him placidly, determined not to be roused. "Since you have deduced it, yes, I did attend."

"With Miles?"

"He obtained the invitation for me. I could hardly go without him."

"Confound it all, Sherlock! When I gave you this commission, I did not expect this sort of behaviour."

"What 'sort of behaviour'? Do you mean mixing with other people?"

"You appear to have done a good deal more than 'mix'. 'Emulating his cousin's notorious career' it said in the paper – that, sir, is to what I refer. There is also mention of your association with certain ladies."

His almost prurient tone of accusation made me want to laugh out loud. "I would hardly call it that. I spoke to two women: Lady Agnes Markham—"

"Ah, yes, an eminently respectable lady," said Mycroft, nodding approvingly. "It is not as bad as I feared. I vaguely knew old Markham. He was turned down for a diplomatic post early on in his career and thereafter retired to his club. And this other woman?"

"Madame de Mont St Jean. She is a friend of Miles."

"A 'friend'?" His nose wrinkled with suspicion. "That does not surprise me. Miles was always very good at making 'friends'."

"I can quite see why. She had a very warm personality."

I said it lightly, but my brother was unimpressed. His expression was stony, his displeasure implacable.

"I am glad that you find this amusing, Sherlock. I fear I was mistaken in placing my trust in you. I had imagined you were capable of emerging unscathed from this undertaking. In future, you will stay away from Miles's friends, whoever they may be."

"I find your implication that I do not know how to conduct myself to be insulting."

"I am not implying anything," said he tersely. "I am stating it, brother. For all your intelligence, you are unworldly, an innocent amongst the wolves. You do not seem to realise that you have not the protection of wealth to imagine that you may flirt with scandal and escape the consequences. Instead of dallying with Miles's friends, you would do well to remember why you are there. To act, Sherlock, to act! Not to meddle with women."

"I have 'meddled' with no one, as you put it," I retorted. "As for your concern for my reputation, Mycroft, you forget that you were all too ready to have me tutored by our reprobate of a cousin."

"There was no other way. For all his faults, no one knows the world in which Ricoletti operates better than Miles." He glanced at me, taking in my clothes with a critical eye. "You look very good, by the way. How much is this going to cost me?"

I bridled. "Nothing. Miles paid."

"Miles never pays for anything, on principle. Rest assured, the bill for your tailoring shall fall at my door."

"If it does, then forward it to me."

"And how will you pay? With fine words and promises? No, Sherlock, I am not passing judgement on your circumstances. Nor did I say that I objected to the cost. I have simply stated how matters stand. No doubt you have gathered as much for yourself. What do you make of Miles?"

"He is an arrogant, vain, empty-headed, pompous oaf."

Mycroft sighed with what sounded like relief. "At least you retain your good sense in that respect."

"He says much the same about you."

"Does he? What does he say exactly?"

Miles had said a good many things, not all of which I was prepared to share with Mycroft. Some of it had undoubtedly been true - talk of his being 'an arch-manipulator of the first water' had struck uncomfortably close to home. More unusual was the look of wariness I saw in my brother's eyes as though he was apprehensive of what Miles may have confided to me. So rare was it to find him off his guard that I decided to profit from it.

"Why does he hate you?" I asked.

Mycroft turned away and lumbered back to his chair, not before I had noticed that his flaccid cheeks had paled. "Has he told you this?" he asked, feigning indifference to the turn of our conversation.

"No. It is obvious, however, that some deep animosity lies between you. What is the cause?"

He considered, and in that moment of pause I knew that whatever I was about to hear was unlikely to be the truth. "It is a difference of interests, nothing more," said he, distracting himself by taking a pinch of snuff. "We were at school together, then Oxford. Despite that, we had very little in common. He went his way, I went mine." He fixed me with a hard stare. "If that satisfies your morbid curiosity, Sherlock, do you think we might move on to the pressing business of Ricoletti? I trust you were not entirely distracted by the evening's entertainment to forget the reason for your presence. What progress have you made? The Prime Minister is not a patient man and will expect a report."

"I have made some progress."

Had Mycroft not been quite so truculent that morning, I might have been willing to tell him of my plans.

"I did not spend the night entirely employed in profitless enterprise. I have met the man."

"And?"

"I had my palm read. He seemed to think that I was under the influence of strong familial ties." I let this thought linger. "As far as readings went, it was nothing out of the ordinary – oh, save for his prediction that I would die would drowning."

Mycroft sat forward in his chair, his expression all earnestness. "He told you that?"

I stared at him in tolerant good-humour. "Come now, Mycroft. The man is a charlatan. He had to say something. Surely you do not believe such nonsense?"

"I take talk of death to be very serious indeed," said he. "You forget that he told Lady Anstead that she would not live to marry."

"Lady Anstead was old, as you have said yourself. Her death was not unexpected."

"Old age is one thing, but drowning may take a man at any time. When did he predict your 'death' would happen?"

"He was not specific."

"And he said this before witnesses?"

"He did."

Mycroft took to shaking his head and muttering to himself.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked, amused by his reaction.

"God forbid that I have placed my brother in danger, but I see now how foolish I was in suggesting that you take this case. You must drop it, Sherlock. On that point, I insist."

If there is anything calculated to harden my resolve, it is being told what to do.

"No," I said. "I will not without good reason."

For the second time that day – and possibly that year – Mycroft made the supreme effort of rising from his chair. "You will not defy me in this matter, brother."

"Then tell me why. Not because a reader of palms has said that I shall one day die?"

"No, because he has predicted that you will. Even the worst sort of charlatan offers his audience some proof, however mean, of his abilities. He spoken of your death; now he must stand by that claim. What concerns me, Sherlock, is that Ricoletti may have marked you out for murder!"

Continued in Chapter Ten!