A Case of Insanity

Chapter Five

"I take it that this is not a social call, Doctor?"

Mycroft Holmes, standing in the bow window of the Stranger's Room, continued his surveillance of the street below, his expression caught between distaste and apprehension. I had guessed correctly when I had presumed to ask for him at his club; even on so momentous a day, I would have been have surprised to find him mingling with the jovial masses. That he had deduced the nature of my visit was to be expected, although I would have preferred that his reasoning had carried him further so that the lot of harbinger of ill tidings did not solely fall to me.

"No, Mr Holmes," I replied. "I am here on a matter of some importance."

Still gazing from the window, Mycroft Holmes nodded sagely. "My brother is ill, then?"

This did make me start. "You know?"

He favoured me with a cursory glance. "Not at all, I assure you. However, since you are here, on this of all days, when the rest of the country seems to have descended on this quiet corner of London to create havoc beneath my window, and you are alone, I must assume that my brother is indisposed, possibly seriously, since you have seen fit to do battle with the crowds and seek me out. Ah, but here they come, at last. Doctor, would you be so kind as to ring the bell? Ross expressed a desire to see the Queen, and as he was good enough to forgo his holiday to stay on today, one does not like to disappoint."

I did as he asked and then joined him at the window. Pall Mall was thronging with people, in places standing some forty deep along the route that the royal procession was to take. It was a day blessed with brilliant sunshine, and the gaudy hues of the hats and ribbons of the ladies and children added bright rivers of colour to the otherwise monotone street. In the distance, making their way slowly from the direction of Westminster, I glimpsed the first of the mounted guards, making their way slowly between the attendant ranks of soldiers and sailors.

"We have a fine view, do we not?" remarked Mycroft Holmes. "Personally, I cannot abide a crowd, but I dare say there are worse places to be today than here behind the safety of glass and four solid walls. Ah, Ross, just in time. Do come and join us."

Together, we three watched as the procession wended its way down Pall Mall towards Trafalgar Square. After the Queen, seated regally in an open carriage, pulled by an eight-strong team of greys, came the mounted dignitaries, the Horse Guards and a following of the senior members of the army and navy. Somewhere a band played, their efforts being drowned out by the mighty roar and hurrahs of the crowd. Flags waved, men doffed their caps and Ross, the Diogenes club's elderly valet, wiped a tear from his eye and offered a fervent 'God save Her Majesty'. When the last had moved away towards the National Gallery, Mycroft Holmes sighed with satisfaction and subsided into the nearest armchair.

"Thank goodness that is over for another ten years," said he, after Ross had gone in search of tea for us both. "Well, now, Dr Watson, you were telling me about my brother. Is he dying, or does he simply believe himself to be so? If the former, then there is very little I can do; if the latter, then the same applies."

"I fear the matter is a delicate one," I began. "Have you seen your brother of late?"

Mycroft Holmes helped himself to a liberal pinch of snuff and brushed away the clinging remnants that had fallen onto the lapel of his coat with a brisk sweep of his hand. "I saw him Sunday afternoon last, as it happens."

"How did he seem to you?"

"Agitated, which even by Sherlock's standards seemed more excessive than usual. He was rambling, as I recall. Said he had been in Richmond all day and that there was something he had to tell me. I had to remind him to keep his voice down; even in here, the noise does carry. Then, just before he left, he became very excited and kept muttering something about a voiceless alveolar lateral fricassee, whatever that is."

"Fricative," I corrected him. "Yes, he mentioned something similar to me."

His keen gaze came to rest on me. "Am I supposed to infer some significance from this curious remark of his?"

"It's something he's been working on, the roots of the Cornish language."

"Interesting, but why should that concern me?"

I passed across the manuscript that Holmes had entrusted to my care. His brother flicked through the first few pages and a frown settled on his brow.

" 'Ud rocashaas'," he read aloud. "What the devil does it mean?"

"I have no idea. Your brother said it was the 'key'. He says this manuscript is his magnum opus. He asked me to deliver it into the hands of Scotland Yard for safe-keeping because he believes…" I had to force myself to continue. "He believes that an Oxford don wishes to prevent him from publishing his theories, by murder if necessary."

"The academic world has always taken their scholarship most seriously, but that seems a little extreme even by Oxford's standards." Mycroft Holmes set down the manuscript and regarded me gravely. "If I understand you correctly, Dr Watson, are you trying to tell me that my brother has lost his mind?"

His frankness took me aback. "I should not have put it quite like that."

"Now, sir, let us be honest with each other. Sane men do not compile manuscripts of blank pages and abstract phrases, and then claim that their lives are threatened because of it. May we agree upon that point? Good. Then all that remains is for you to tell me the extent of the problem, and we may act accordingly."

Long experience has to some extent inured me to the more eccentric of the family's behaviour, but this so calm a reaction in the face of what others would consider the worst of revelations had left me bemused.

"Forgive me for saying so, Mr Holmes," said I, "but you do not seem surprised."

A benign smile settled on his fleshy features. "Nor am I, for I have had a suspicion for some time that all has not been well with him. I first noticed it when he was away on his 'travels'. I remember receiving some very strange messages from him. I was glad he decided to return when he did; had he dallied any longer I feel sure he would have become quite unbalanced, more so than already. Did you not notice the change in him?"

"In some ways."

He chuckled. "Dr Watson, you are too polite, sir. I am never offended by honesty and offer that same courtesy to my acquaintances, which is why I choose to share the unhappy circumstances of my family with you. Whosoever claimed that there is no genius free from some tincture of madness was, in the case of our forebears, very near to the truth. Sherlock flatters himself by attributing it to an artistic temperament; I say it is nothing more than congenital insanity. It is a sad fact that more Holmeses have ended their days talking to trees or believing they were the descendants of King Arthur than have died happily in their beds in full possession of their faculties. So, no, this news comes as no great shock to me. For how long do you judge has he been affected?"

"Some months. His health was in such poor state in March that on the advice of Dr Moore Agar of Harley Street we took a short holiday in Cornwall in the hope that it would prove beneficial."

"He consulted a specialist? That does surprise me."

"At my urging."

"Ah, quite so. I should not expect my brother to be so bold without encouragement. And this holiday failed to resolve the problem?"

I saw that I would have to be candid with him and give an account of the case and the circumstances that had exacerbated the crisis. As I did so, his expression grew ever darker and his eyes took on a gleam of growing disbelief that hardened into disapproval until they shone like polished steel.

"Unforgiveable," said he with asperity. "When one knows one has a weakness, one does not encourage it by playing with fire. I would say that he has no one to blame but himself!"

When I suggested that the fault was partly mine in not preventing his excesses, he shook his head.

"My brother is of the same stubborn nature as old King Canute, who believed he could command the ocean waves. Once Sherlock sets his mind to something, then no power on earth will stand in his way. From what you have told me, it is only by your timely intervention that he has any sanity remaining at all. You may date his condition from this misadventure, Doctor, but I say that to countenance such a foolhardy experiment at all is proof of an already weakening nature. Do you believe his faculties to be deteriorating?"

I was growing increasingly uneasy about our conversation. The picture I was painting of Holmes's mental state was troubling. I remembered too what he had said on Sunday about his brother, of his apprehension at having to tell him of his condition. As ruthless as the old Tudor monarchs was how he had described him, operating from a position of pure logic that permitted little room for sentiment.

I saw it now in the determined set of his brow and the stern look in his eye. While I hesitated, Holmes's words drifted back to me: "If he considered it expedient, I dare say he would have me carted off to the nearest asylum without a second thought." That I should collude in condemning him to such a fate troubled my conscience more than I could say.

"Your loyalty to my brother does you credit," Mycroft Holmes remarked, having noted my reticence. "However, you have come to me because you are a man of wisdom and know that that the situation cannot be allowed to continue unchecked. Something has occurred this day that has given you greater cause for concern. Is that not so?"

"Yes, it has."

"Very well, I shall not press the issue. But I must deal with practicalities. As much as it grieves me to hear that my brother has succumbed, whether through his own foolishness or not, certain facts must now be faced. Whatever the truth of his condition, if he is even only slightly compromised, understand me, sir, that I cannot permit this to become general knowledge. He has been a servant of the state on more than one occasion; that alone is enough to worry certain members of the government should word of this reach their ears. They will take steps to ensure that he does not become an embarrassment if I do not."

"Surely not—"

"That is the price we pay, Dr Watson, and the consequences we accept. Nor will you have forgotten that the strength of his testimony has secured the conviction of many a criminal. If one shadow of doubt is cast upon the soundness of his judgement, I need not tell you of the repercussions. That is the reality of the situation; the remedy, as objectionable as you may find it, is essential for the preservation of my brother's reputation. We must not permit undue attachments or emotion to dissuade us from the proper course of action. Sine ira et studio; thus we make our decision."

"Even so, Mr Holmes, what you suggest, it must surely be the death of him."

He gave a slow, considered nod of his head. "I concede the possibility, but I see no alternative."

"Perhaps I am being too hasty," I said. "If you saw him for yourself—"

"I have dwelt so long amongst the idiosyncrasies of bureaucrats and politicians that I fear I would not recognise insanity even if it was stood before me. I am more than prepared to accept yours as the final word on the matter. However, if a second opinion would satisfy you, then that is what we shall have."

The valet had returned with a tray and began to lay the table for tea.

"Has Dr Rochdale returned to the club, do you know, Ross?" he asked.

"Why, yes, sir, I saw him not five minutes ago."

"Excellent. Would you be so kind as to ask him to step this way for few minutes? I wish to see him."

The valet bowed and departed. Mycroft Holmes picked up his cup and took a tentative sip.

"We are fortunate here at the Diogenes," said he, grimacing as the tea burned his upper lip, "in having a number of men as members who are considered as being pre-eminent in their professions. Dr Rochdale is something of an expert in the classification, diagnosis and treatment of mental disorders. I understand he is also the director of a small private asylum somewhere in Kent. An agreeable enough man, though quite adverse to the company of his fellows. I have often found that when one studies human nature, one is liable to become repelled by it."

"Might it not be wiser to consult the doctor Holmes saw before, Dr Agar?"

"I am not familiar with the name. No doubt he is competent enough, but is he discreet? In such cases, and that of my brother in particular, that is of paramount important. Rochdale I know I can trust – he was most understanding when one of our older members went peculiar last year. The fellow is quite recovered now and we never refer to the incident."

The door opened to admit a spare, bespectacled man of fifty, with a large, intellectual head, sunken cheeks and warm, intelligent brown eyes.

"Dr Rochdale, do come in, sir," Mycroft Holmes said affably. "Dr Watson, Dr Rochdale. Yes, do take a seat, Doctor. You are a busy man, so I will not waste your valuable time. It is in your professional capacity that we wish to speak to you."

"Certainly, Mr Holmes, if I may be of any assistance."

"My friend here, Dr Watson, has a patient, who is giving him cause for concern."

"Ah," said Rochdale, with understanding nod. "I see. This patient of yours, Doctor, male or female?"

"Male," I answered.

"Age?"

"Forty-three," Mycroft Holmes grunted.

Rochdale smiled tolerantly at me. "What is it about this patient that concerns you, sir?"

"I hardly know where to begin," I admitted.

"Then let us start with a definition of terms. The foremost symptom of mental deterioration is the failure of the capacity of judgement and loss of self-control. Does your patient exhibit such tendencies?"

"His judgement is certainly impaired," spoke up Mycroft Holmes. "He has formed an unreasonable obsession with Cornish and claims he has created what will be the last word on the subject." He passed across the manuscript. "What is your opinion of that?"

Rochdale leafed through the pages. "A most curious document. He gave you this?"

"For safe-keeping," I replied.

"He believes it warrants the protection of the police," interjected Mycroft Holmes. "He further claims that the academic world will stop at nothing to stop him publishing this 'masterpiece' of his."

"From what you describe," said Rochdale, "it sounds as though the patient is suffering from manias of persecution and paranoia. Is he delusional?"

"Occasionally," I said. "He was suffering from lapses of memory. It gave him cause to question his judgement."

"Ah, then he does have awareness of his condition?"

"Well, yes, he did, at least until today."

The doctor gave me a sharp look. "You mean his mental state has deteriorated?"

I nodded. "When I saw him earlier, initially, he did not recognise me."

"How did you resolve this problem?"

"I had to prove my identity."

"Before he would admit you into his presence?"

Again, that feeling of disquiet was sinking its teeth into my soul. "Not exactly. He had a gun to my head."

"Good grief!" exclaimed Mycroft Holmes, making his cup rattle in the saucer as he placed both with a resounding thud on the table. "You did not mention this before, Dr Watson. This is grievous news indeed. That he would threaten you speaks of the depths of his mental confusion. Do you not agree that is a most serious case, Dr Rochdale?"

The doctor's expression was strained. "Tell me, Dr Watson, do you believe he would have shot you if you had not satisfied him as to your identity? This is most important."

In Rochdale's position, I too should have demanded candour. I knew what had passed through my mind in those tense moments. I knew I what I had believed would have happened had he not been convinced. But I could not tell Rochdale that. The sense of betrayal was too great. He would have to make up his own mind on that point.

"I do not know," I said, shrugging in a gesture of futility. "He was agitated, and confused. The landlady reported that she had heard him talking out loud, and he has said that voices have told him things. I know that he has not been eating or sleeping. Indeed, he has confided to me that he is afraid to sleep."

I described Holmes's dreams as he had related them to me and explained what I considered to have precipitated the crisis, passing off the episode with the Devil's-foot root in the vaguest of terms as temporary exposure to poisonous vapours.

Dr Rochdale scratched thoughtfully at his neat beard. "Further examination would be necessary, but from your description, Doctor, it sounds as though your patient is suffering from a type of delusional degenerative disease. This violent strain in him concerns me most of all. It may be that you could become the focus of a scheme of revenge, planned against those agencies which he believes are pursuing him."

"That must be avoided at all costs," said Mycroft Holmes. "What do you advise, sir?"

"Confinement. The patient clearly represents a risk to both himself and society. The family must be persuaded on this point."

"They are. Would you take such a patient at your establishment, Doctor?"

"Without question."

"Then make the arrangements."

Rochdale looked confused. "Forgive me, am I to understand that the patient is—"

"My younger brother, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Dr Watson was good enough to bring this to my attention, although he omitted certain details of which I have only now been informed. Had I known sooner, there would have been no hesitation on my part."

"You have my condolences," said Rochdale sincerely. "I am of course familiar with your brother's name and reputation. This is sad news indeed." He paused to run his tongue over his dry lips. "I feel it is only fair to warn you that his condition may prove incurable. We can make him comfortable, but as such no treatment has yet proved effective in influencing the course of such a disease."

Mycroft Holmes sighed heavily. "It is as well to know these things in advance. Very well, Dr Rochdale, you have my permission to admit my brother."

"I shall make the necessary arrangements, Mr Holmes," said Rochdale. "There are, however, certain legal requirements."

"Judge Fullerton is a member here. I shall have a quiet word with him about obtaining the necessary documentation. This cannot go before the courts. I must insist on absolute secrecy. Nor must anyone know my brother's identity. Admit him, by all means, but let it be under an alias. Is that understood?"

Rochdale glanced at us both uneasily. I too had my reservations, even if I could appreciate the reasoning behind it. Stripped of his name, that distinctiveness which separated him from the mass of other men, his mental distress would surely deepen.

"What name then?"

"Watson," I said on impulse.

"That is most generous, Doctor," said Mycroft Holmes. "You do not mind?"

"Not in the least. That way, no one will question my visiting a sick relation."

"Sound reasoning. Then Watson it is. How soon can you take him, Dr Rochdale?"

"Within the hour. From what you have said of his violent tendencies, am I permitted to call upon the assistance of the police? I have often found it expedient in such cases."

"No. The fewer people know about my unfortunate brother's condition, the better."

"Then how are we to gain access to the patient? To subdue him, if necessary?"

I had an awful vision of my friend being hauled bodily from the house, robbed of all dignity and an object of ghoulish interest for the other residents of Baker Street. If it had to be done, I saw that I owed it to Holmes, for the sake of all we had shared, to make the transition as painless as possible, whatever the cost to myself.

His brother had evidently come to the same conclusion, for when I looked up, I found that his eyes were upon me and tinged with such a sense of resignation that I was left in no doubt what he was about to say.

"I know you to be a man of deep moral principles," said he, "and I would not ask this if it were not necessary. Even in his state of mental disarray, I know Sherlock will struggle and fight, and cause as much grief to all concerned as possible. We can spare him that."

"You wish me to give him a sedative?"

"He trusts you."

"Yes, I know. That makes what you ask all the more difficult."

"The alternative is worse. However, if you would prefer another—"

I shook my head. "No, I can do that much for him."

Dr Rochdale got to his feet. "I shall be round at Baker Street in the hour," said he, shaking both our hands. "Unhappy times, gentleman. Good day to you both, for now."

With the matter decided, I had the strongest urge to escape the confines of the club and return without delay to our rooms. "You never know, he might have improved in my absence," I said with a mirthless laugh as I gathered my things to leave.

Still in his window-side chair, Mycroft Holmes smiled half-heartedly, the yellowing light of the fading afternoon failing to disguise the pallor of his countenance. "We may hope, Dr Watson," said he. "There is no harm in that. But to deceive ourselves, well, that would be surely the unkindest cut of all. Do what you can for him. If any spark remains, kindle it. If not, then we must accept what we cannot change, for the sake of all concerned."

Continued in Chapter Six