Sherlock Holmes Page 17

  “So Grange killed himself in an attempt to protect whatever secrets he held in his head, specifically regarding this ‘spirit box’?” said Newbury.

  Holmes nodded.

  “But why hadn’t it happened before?” I asked. “The paperweight was on the bookcase in full view. If that was the trigger, surely it would have done its work long before that fateful lunchtime?”

  “It was precisely that fact, Watson, which convinced me of Baxter’s involvement. Grange had interviewed three German men that morning at the War Office,” said Holmes.

  “Employees of Baxter’s,” I said, recalling our earlier line of questioning.

  “One of whom delivered the paperweight in question. I imagine that the man distracted Grange, or made an excuse to step to the window. An untied shoelace or some such would give the perfect opportunity to kneel down, extract the paperweight from an inner pocket, and place it on the bookcase, in view but not prominently, allowing the man time to be far away before any scene transpired. After that, it was only a matter of time before Grange saw the object, and the trigger was pulled. In fact, we know the exact moment. Remember, Miss Brown told us that Grange went to the window to see if there was rain on the way, at which point he suggested postponing their outing. He then immediately went into the same state as the Professor here. He saw the paperweight as he approached the window, triggering the hypnotic suggestion.” Holmes took one last look at the paperweight in his hand, and then slipped it back into his pocket. “I can only fault myself for not confirming with Miss Baxter that the paperweight was a new addition to the office. But one cannot retain all the brilliance of youth, and I’m sure such a small matter could be dealt with by one of Foulkes’s men.”

  “It all makes sense,” said Newbury. “A terrible, disturbing sense. Clearly, Archibald is another of their victims. He told us he’d undergone the spectrograph a couple of weeks ago, during one of Foxton’s gatherings. Underwood must have nobbled him then.”

  “And we discovered pictures of the Professor in the undercroft beneath Tidwell Bank,” I said. “Where Baxter and his cronies were carrying out their rituals.” I turned to Holmes. “That’s a point. What was the purpose of the altar? You spoke of ‘scene dressing’. Were there truly rituals carried out? If Underwood was getting the information from Angelchrist and the others at Foxton’s house, surely the targets never went to the undercroft themselves?”

  Holmes nodded. “Very perspicacious, Watson. I believe that the altar and all that window dressing was created by Baxter for Seaton Underwood’s benefit, a location where they would meet at night – with Baxter’s employees as extra gilt to the proceedings – and Seaton would pass on the information he had gleaned in an occult setting, perhaps with some hocus-pocus ritual focused on the spectrographs. The fact that when we arrived the candles had been lit, and our German friends were present, suggests that a gathering was planned for this very night.”

  Foulkes shook his head in disgust. “So perhaps the Professor’s usefulness to him was at an end, and with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson taking an interest, Baxter arranged to have a paperweight sent to trigger the implanted suggestion, hoping that he’d follow Grange’s example, no doubt, taking his own life for the good of the country.”

  “Which means,” went on Newbury, “that they must have already extracted all of the information they needed from him. I wonder what it was, and what they’re planning.”

  “For that, we’re going to need to talk with the Professor,” said Holmes.

  Newbury glanced at Angelchrist. “Do you think he’s going to be alright?”

  “I believe so,” said Holmes. “Provided he doesn’t come into contact with one of these paperweights again, of course.” He patted his pocket. “One usually finds hypnosis wears off after a good sleep.” He delivered this with the confident air of a man who had previous experience of such matters.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Newbury. “He’s a proud man, and I’d hate to see him reduced to… well, to lose his mind like that.”

  It was obvious that Newbury was deeply concerned. I knew he’d been a friend of Angelchrist’s for well over a decade, and he was clearly feeling a deep responsibility for ensuring the man – a confirmed bachelor, with no family that I knew of – made it through this harrowing episode unscathed.

  “There’s only one thing to do in a situation such as this,” I said, getting to my feet. “Make more tea.” I set about collecting the cups and saucers and loading them onto the tray.

  Newbury gave me a grateful smile in acknowledgement.

  “Might I suggest, Inspector,” said Holmes, “that while Watson is busying himself in the kitchen, you might put a telephone call through to your Sergeant Hawley to enquire whether he’s been successful in apprehending both Henry Baxter and Seaton Underwood? The successful conclusion of our investigation rather hinges on it.”

  Foulkes tugged at his beard. “A most sensible thought, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’ll see to it right away.” He stood and went out into the hall to find the telephone. I followed him out, leaving Holmes and Newbury to keep watch over Angelchrist.

  * * *

  When I returned a few moments later bearing the tea tray, Foulkes was still on the telephone to the Yard, deep in muffled conversation. I kicked the door to the study open with the edge of my boot to find – to my surprise – Angelchrist sitting up on the sofa, being fussed over by Newbury. The Professor was rubbing his jaw ruefully.

  I hurriedly put the tray down on the table and went over to him, sitting next to him on the sofa. “How do you feel, Professor?” I said, taking his wrist and measuring his pulse.

  “Oh, hello, Dr. Watson,” he said, his voice tremulous. “A little shaken, if truth be told, but well enough. Newbury and Mr. Holmes were just explaining to me what occurred. I must say, I’m able to recall very little of it, which is decidedly worrisome.”

  I examined his eyes and had him follow my finger back and forth. He didn’t appear to be suffering from any ill effects. “I’m pleased to see you’ve regained your senses,” I said.

  “Indeed,” replied Angelchrist. “Although I fear my greatest trial might be yet to come, if what Mr. Holmes has told me is correct. I can hardly warrant it – Seaton Underwood, falling in with traitors. It troubles me to consider what they might have learned from me whilst I was under their influence.”

  “That’s what we must discover, Professor,” said Holmes. “I understand my questions might place you in a difficult position, but it’s imperative we’re able to assess the nature of the risk. Can you tell us – what was the nature of your relationship with Herbert Grange?”

  I sat back, allowing Angelchrist some room. Newbury did the same, perching on the edge of his chair.

  Angelchrist looked decidedly unsure. He glanced at Newbury.

  “I believe these gentlemen are to be trusted, Archibald,” said Newbury. “You should tell them what it is they need to know.”

  Angelchrist swallowed. He appeared to make a decision. “Pour me a cup of tea first, would you, Dr. Watson, and then I’ll explain.”

  I did as he asked, handing it to him on a saucer. His hand trembled as he took it from me. “I tell you this, Mr. Holmes, because of my faith in the work of your brother, and because of the danger that I fear I may have inadvertently placed him in.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the seat back. He closed his eyes. He steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Please proceed,” he said.

  “Four years ago, Herbert Grange was one of a small group of men selected by your brother, Mycroft Holmes, to form a secretive bureau within the British government.” He glanced from Newbury to me, judging our reactions. “I was another of those men, along with four more who, for now, shall remain nameless. We were charged with the task of protecting the ‘spirit of the nation’, as Mycroft liked to put it – with steering policies within the House, ensuring the right men were elected to key positions in all of the important organisatio
ns, and generally upholding British interests wherever we saw cause to intervene. We would do so free from the asinine politicking that plagues the usual democratic processes or the careers of party members.” He looked over at my companion. “Your brother is an extraordinary man, Mr. Holmes. He foresaw this present conflict years before even the most perspicacious of other men. He thought it vital to make sure that if war came, only the worthy and truly patriotic would hold the reins. Too often politics can lead to unnecessary deaths on the field of battle.”

  He sighed, as if he were finally getting something off his chest that he had held onto, silently, for years. “It has been a great burden, a stewardship that has dominated all of our lives, and every fortnight we have met clandestinely in Whitehall to discuss our progress and concerns.”

  “You old dog,” said Newbury, clearly impressed. “I knew you were up to something, but I’d imagined it to be advisory work back at the Service, never something like this.”

  Angelchrist laughed, but it was a sad, uncomfortable laugh. “I do not suspect that you, Mr. Holmes, are quite as surprised as my old friend. Although I am aware that your brother has kept this from you, I also know that he has a long history of such endeavours, of which I am sure you are more than aware.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, without opening his eyes.

  “So these men, these traitors, they’re aware of all of this, and they’ve been using you and Grange to extract information,” I said, “regarding the activities of this secret cabal?”

  “I’m afraid it seems so,” replied Angelchrist, hanging his head in shame. “If those secrets were to get out, they could cause untold damage. Some of them are quite incendiary. The methods required to engineer our ends have not always been… democratic.”

  “And the spirit box,” said Holmes. He opened his eyes and sat forward, observing Angelchrist. “I take it, then, that this is a repository of all such secrets; records, documents, minutes of your meetings and such like?”

  “Precisely so,” confirmed Angelchrist.

  I looked at Holmes, astounded. “The ‘spirit of the nation’, Watson,” he said. “How terribly like Mycroft.”

  “So all this time, we’ve been assuming the spirit box was something related to Underwood’s occult practices, when in fact, it’s a repository of state secrets,” I said. I could barely believe it.

  “This, of course, will be what they’re after,” said Newbury.

  Angelchrist nodded. “The contents of that box could alter the outcome of the war,” he said. “It would incite political uproar, not to mention seriously undermine the situation in France. The government could collapse, and take any coherent leadership with it. That must be why Grange threw himself in the river. If he thought they could see into his head, uncover its location, then he must have believed it was his only course of action.”

  “The poor man,” I said. “What a waste.”

  “Particularly as it was clearly too late,” said Holmes. “I’d wager they’ve already ascertained its location, and now, by sending you the paperweight, they’re tying up loose ends.”

  “That’s what the German said, Holmes!” I exclaimed, suddenly recalling our earlier encounter beneath the bank. “He said it was too late, that they would soon have the spirit box!”

  I heard the door open as Foulkes returned from the hall, having finished his telephone call.

  “Where is it, Professor?” said Holmes, with some urgency. “Where is the spirit box?”

  “Your brother has it, Mr. Holmes,” said Angelchrist. “He keeps it at the Diogenes Club. We have our meetings in the Stranger’s Room, and there is a hidden cavity in the wall, which holds the safe, which in turn contains a large, plain box. I have seen him put papers in it at the conclusion of our gatherings.” Angelchrist looked suddenly frantic. “I fear Mycroft might be in grave danger.”

  I looked to Foulkes, whose face was ashen. “What news, Inspector? Have your men successfully apprehended Baxter and Underwood?”

  “I fear not,” replied Foulkes, his voice level. “Lord Foxton has not seen Underwood since yesterday afternoon, and his whereabouts are currently unknown. Worse, when my men arrived at Baxter’s house, they found the place had been cleaned out. It was utterly abandoned, and all of Baxter’s belongings had gone.”

  “Then the German was right. We’re already too late,” I said, bitterly.

  “Not necessarily,” said Holmes, jumping to his feet. “We’d have heard from Mycroft if they’d already made their move. We must make haste to the Diogenes Club, and hope that there is still time.”

  “I hope, for all our sakes, there is,” said Angelchrist.

  I got to my feet.

  “We’ll take my motorcar,” said Foulkes.

  Newbury remained seated. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I feel I should stay here with Archibald. He is not yet fully recovered from his ordeal.”

  “Most wise,” I said. Holmes and Foulkes were already at the door. “Until later,” I said.

  “Good luck,” replied Newbury.

  As I hurried after the others, I couldn’t help thinking that we’d need it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I have no idea where this ‘Diogenes Club’ of yours is, Holmes,” shouted Foulkes over the sound of the engine, as we barrelled through the streets in his motorcar. “In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of the place.” He was hunkered down over the steering wheel, peering out through the windscreen at the dark road ahead. The beam of his headlamp trembled as we bounced over the bumpy road.

  “Fear not, Inspector,” replied Holmes. “I shall direct you. For now, simply head toward Westminster with all due haste.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” muttered Foulkes.

  He followed Holmes’s instructions to the letter, and a short time later the motorcar pulled to a halt on a quiet Pall Mall. Hurriedly, we bundled out of the vehicle onto the street. At this time the place was deserted, with most people already retired for the night, or else still ensconced in their pubs and clubs to while away the remaining hours until bed. Immediately, however, I saw that we were not entirely alone – another, familiar motorcar was parked just a little further along the street. It was green with white trim around the windows – the same vehicle we had seen during our evening vigil outside Henry Baxter’s house.

  “Hold on,” said Holmes. He walked the thirty yards toward the parked motorcar. The hood was up over the passenger compartment, so I was unable to see whether there was anyone inside. Holmes approached the vehicle cautiously, bending low by the driver’s window. He cupped his hands to the glass and peered inside.

  He straightened up a moment later and shook his head. Evidently there was no driver awaiting Baxter’s return. Holmes hurried back to us.

  Foulkes looked impatient. “Where to now?” he said.

  “Just behind you,” replied Holmes.

  Foulkes turned on the spot and regarded the row of tall, white buildings. There was nothing but an unmarked door and a bay window anywhere in the vicinity. The curtains in the window were drawn. “In there? It’s like no gentleman’s club I’ve ever seen,” he said sceptically.

  “It’s like no gentleman’s club you will ever see again,” I remarked. “In my experience, the Diogenes is quite unique.”

  “Be on your guard,” said Holmes, approaching the door. “If Baxter’s inside, we may already be too late.”

  He rapped five times in quick succession, tapping out a short rhythm. There was a momentary pause, and then the door opened just a sliver, and the face of an elderly man peered out through the crack. “Yes?” he said.

  “Open up,” said Foulkes, from behind Holmes. “Police. We’re from Scotland Yard.”

  The door opened a fraction wider, allowing us a small glimpse of the hallway beyond. “Indeed, sir?” said the doorman. “How may we be of assistance?”

  Holmes stepped forward and, in a rather heavy-handed fashion, pushed the door open, causing the doorman to take a step back in s
urprise. “Out of the way, man!” he snapped. “We must see Mycroft immediately.”

  “Mr. Holmes!” exclaimed the doorman in sudden, startled recognition. “Is it really you, sir?”

  “Of course it’s me!” said Holmes. “Now tell me, where’s Mycroft? It might well be a matter of life and death.”

  “He’s… he’s…” the man stammered. “He’s in the Stranger’s Room. But he has visitors, sir.”

  Holmes glanced over his shoulder at us. “Do you have your service revolver, Watson?”

  “Revolver!” said the doorman.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I gave up carrying it a long time ago.”

  Foulkes slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a small handgun, which he clasped in his fist.

  “Really,” said the doorman. “I cannot allow such a weapon into the Diogenes.”

  “Stand aside,” said Foulkes. “This is a police matter.”

  Holmes was already over the threshold in the hallway. Foulkes pushed past the doorman to follow him. With an apologetic shrug, I did the same.

  Inside, it was just as I remembered it. A long, narrow corridor was flanked on one side by a wall comprised of a mahogany frame inset with panels of thick plate glass, behind which the member’s area was visible. The décor was austere and old-fashioned, and didn’t appear to have altered since my last visit, around a decade earlier. Three men sat inside in solitude, studying the latest periodicals. They did not look up at the sound of our entrance.

  The members of the Diogenes Club came here in search of peace and respite from the pressures of the external world. They each professed their desire for isolation and silence, and the opportunity to spend their time at the club uninterrupted by others. The rules of the club were such that speech was permitted only in the Stranger’s Room, and that once in the member’s area, even the slightest utterance would earn a warning. Three strikes, and the offending patron would be ejected from the club. I had my suspicions that, many years ago, this was a fate that had befallen Holmes himself.