Sherlock Holmes Page 18

  We followed the corridor to its full extent, the doorman trailing a few yards behind us, clearly unsure how to react to this sudden, overbearing invasion.

  At the end of the passage was the door to the Stranger’s Room, and dismissing all formality or etiquette, Holmes turned the handle, threw the door open and barged in with a dramatic flourish. “Mycroft?” he called.

  Inside the sparsely furnished room were three men. Mycroft Holmes was standing by the far wall. His hair was now thinning, but he remained as corpulent and red-faced as I remembered. Behind him one of the wall’s wooden panels stood open to reveal a hidden alcove holding a safe. Within it I could just see the shape of a large wooden box. My breath caught in my throat. We were only just in time.

  Across the room from Mycroft stood Seaton Underwood, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Beside him was Henry Baxter, brandishing a pistol and wearing a furious expression.

  “Sherlock!” exclaimed Mycroft, with a frown. “You’re late.”

  “Stand down, Baxter,” said Foulkes, raising his own gun. “The game’s up.”

  Baxter grimaced. “I haven’t come this far to fail now,” he said. There was a sudden percussive bang as he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The muzzle flashed, and Foulkes stumbled backwards, dropping his weapon on the floor. Blood sprayed from a wound in his right shoulder. He grabbed at it, clearly in terrible pain, clamping his left hand over the entry wound, blood seeping between his fingers. He fell to his knees, groaning.

  I gripped my cane, preparing to charge at Baxter before he recovered enough to take a second shot, but before I had the chance, Underwood was upon me, pummelling me with his fists. He was a thin and wiry fellow, and a third of my age, and I barely had time to bring my arms up in defence before he struck me hard across the side of the head, and then again in the gut. I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

  I heard Baxter laughing triumphantly. “Now, Mr. Holmes. The spirit box.”

  Mycroft smiled. “There is no spirit box,” he said.

  “Enough of your lies!” bellowed Baxter, waving his gun. I was still attempting to regain my breath as I watched the scene unfolding before me. He pointed at the box, which we could all clearly see in the safe. “Take it out!”

  Mycroft went to the alcove and withdrew the wooden box from its hiding place. The ease with which he lifted it immediately sent my mind racing. My suspicions were confirmed when he turned the key in the lock on its side, and with almost casual ease, flipped the box open and turned it upside down. Nothing fell to the floor, not a single sheet of paper. The box was empty.

  My eyes were fixed on Mycroft, but I could hear Baxter’s sharp intake of breath. “No lies,” said Mycroft. “Only the truth.” He stood with hands clasped behind his back, the box at his feet, for all the world like a schoolmaster giving Latin dictation. “You’ve been duped, Baxter. There never was a spirit box, just this,” he prodded the empty box at his feet. “A mere prop. A method of drawing out traitors. Did you really think I’d document state secrets and keep them conveniently in a single box?”

  I could barely believe what I was hearing. I had no idea if there was any truth to what Mycroft was saying, or whether it was simply an elaborate attempt at misdirection to throw Baxter’s confidence. I glanced at Holmes, who remained silent, listening, watching.

  “No!” said Baxter, but I could hear the doubt creeping into his voice. “Where is the real box?”

  “Check for yourself,” said Mycroft. “The safe is empty. There is no other box.”

  “You’ve moved it,” said Baxter, with a hint of desperation.

  Mycroft shook his head. “My associates saw me placing papers in a box during our meetings, this is true. But had they seen their subject matter, I imagine they would have been most confused. Memos concerning reforms in infant-school education are of very little interest to spies, though I’ll admit they make for surprisingly diverting reading. And even those papers I would remove from the box when my associates left. It was simply play-acting. Not unlike your own endeavours really, Mr. Underwood, but a touch less melodramatic, and without the need for such elaborate stagecraft.”

  Baxter roared in anger.

  “The game is, as the Inspector here so ably put it, well and truly up,” continued Mycroft, his tone somewhat patronising. “You’ve played, and you’ve lost. Time to be a good sport now. There’s nothing to be done.”

  I glanced at Foulkes. He was clutching his shoulder and gritting his teeth. I could see that the bullet had gone clean through, shredding the back of his jacket, and whilst he was clearly in terrible pain, he’d live if he received medical attention in good time.

  “Put the gun down, Baxter,” said Holmes. “It’s over.”

  “No,” bellowed Baxter, grabbing suddenly for Underwood, pulling him close like a shield. He wrapped his arm around the boy’s throat and put the gun to his head.

  “What are you doing?” cried Underwood, panicked. “Henry!”

  “Shut it, you whelp!” said Baxter. “Your usefulness has reached an end, anyway.”

  Underwood’s face creased in horror at the realisation of the betrayal. “But I… I don’t understand.”

  “He was using you,” said Holmes. “All along. This was never about your spectrographs, Seaton, or any of your work. It was simply about how useful you were to him, and how easy to manipulate. You gave him access to Lord Foxton’s inner circle, those people with connections in the government or military. The men who met in this very room.”

  Baxter sneered. “Fools, every one of them,” he spat.

  “Yes, but useful fools,” said Holmes. He looked at Baxter with utter contempt. “You needed the information they gave Seaton to pass on to your German masters. How large are your gambling debts, Baxter? They must be sizeable indeed to betray your country.”

  Baxter sneered. “This has never been about creed or idealism. I care for the Germans as little as I care for the English. But the Kaiser has paid me well for what I have already given him, and would have paid extremely handsomely for this further intelligence. More capital than any of you would have seen in a lifetime.”

  “Then you’re as foolish as Underwood,” said Mycroft, “and twice as blind. Did you really think the Germans wouldn’t put a bullet in your skull the moment you gave them what they wanted? Your usefulness was also coming to an end. That’s the thing about traitors, Baxter – they can’t be trusted.”

  “Enough!” said Baxter. “You’re going to let me go. You’re going to allow me to walk out of here, otherwise I’ll put a bullet in the boy’s head.”

  “We can’t allow you to do that,” said Holmes.

  I was starting to get my breath back. I glanced at Foulkes. His revolver was only about two feet away from where he was kneeling. He saw me looking and nodded to show that he understood my meaning. He looked up to check that Baxter was preoccupied, and then, with a grimace, he released his grip on his shoulder, reached out and silently slid the weapon across the floor to me.

  Still clutching Underwood, Baxter shifted position, looking to the door. I saw my chance – the clearest shot I’d get before he made a dash for it. There was a risk I’d miss and hit Underwood, but I couldn’t see any other choice.

  With a gargantuan effort I lunged forward, snatched up the gun and swung my arms up in a wide arc, locking my shoulders into position and bracing myself. Hoping beyond hope that my aim was true, I squeezed the trigger.

  The gun bucked in my hand as the round left the barrel.

  For a moment, everything was still and silent, as if it were happening in slow motion. Had I missed? I felt a sudden upwelling of panic. The sound of the shot was still ringing loudly in my ears.

  Then I saw it – a bright flower of blood, blooming at Baxter’s throat. It bubbled to the surface, streaming down his collar. He staggered back, incomprehension on his face, his weapon clattering to the floor.

  Underwood took his chance to pull away, but Holmes made a run for him, tackling
him by the door and pinning his arms behind his back. There was little fight left in the boy, and he didn’t struggle.

  Baxter’s hands were scrabbling at his throat. He raised them, staring at the blood on his fingers in disbelief, then gave a strangled cry and collapsed to the ground in a heap.

  I dropped the gun and got to my feet, rushing over to Foulkes, who looked as pale as a sheet. He was barely conscious. I wrenched his coat off and hurriedly tied the sleeve around the wound, forming a makeshift tourniquet. Then, seeing that Holmes and Mycroft were quite adequately dealing with Underwood, I rushed out into the corridor, where the doorman, obviously drawn by the sound of gunshots, was hurrying in our direction.

  “Call an ambulance, now!” I bellowed. “And the police. Tell them Inspector Foulkes has been shot.”

  The doorman nodded and ran off in the other direction to find the telephone.

  Exhausted, I slumped against the wall, expelling a long, tired sigh. Through the glass wall I could see the three men in the member’s area were entirely unperturbed by all that had occurred, still sitting in silence with their newspapers. Not one of them had stirred since our arrival. Unable to control myself, I broke down into a fit of hysterical laughter.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A while later, after an ambulance crew had whisked Foulkes off to the hospital and the police had asked their interminable questions, I sat with Holmes and Mycroft in the Stranger’s Room. Baxter’s corpse had been removed, and Underwood had been dragged off to the cells. A strange peacefulness had descended upon the Diogenes Club, and although it was a most welcome reprieve, it was also a little disconcerting following the day’s exertions.

  It was late now, close to midnight, and weariness weighed heavily upon me. Nevertheless, I was anxious to hear what Mycroft had to say by way of explanation for all that had transpired. I was gladdened when he fetched a decanter of whisky, and we sat for a while in silence, sipping at our drinks.

  “You understand, then, what has occurred here today?” said Mycroft, finally breaking the tension. The question was directed at Holmes. “You see the gravity of our actions?”

  “I do,” said Holmes, raising his glass to his lips. Mycroft nodded sagely in appreciation.

  I looked from one man to the other. Was that really all that was going to pass between them, after all of this?

  “Well, I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I lack the mental acuity of my friend, and should be well served by a full and frank explanation,” I said, attempting to keep the indignation from my voice.

  Mycroft grinned. “Forgive me, Dr. Watson. Allow me to lay it out for you.” He placed his glass upon the side table and folded his hands upon his lap. I could see from the gleam in his eye that, in truth, he relished the opportunity to tell his tale.

  “It began some months ago,” he said. “As Angelchrist no doubt informed you, for many years I have worked within the British government with the intention of steering matters – policies, elections, the Secret Service Bureau – down particular paths, always working toward the most beneficial outcome for the nation. At times, too, this has brought me into conflict with certain agencies, both internal and external, and those in the House who see my input as unwelcome interference. But the seeds of the current war have been sprouting for many years, and I consider my actions to have materially aided our nation in the current fight.” I discerned a slight puffing out of his already distended chest. Like his brother, Mycroft had absolute faith in his own judgement.

  “So it was that, some time ago, I decided to form a group, a bureau, if you will, to assist me in my endeavours.” He smiled. “None of us are growing any younger, Dr. Watson, and I thought to ensure the continuation of my work in the event of my… absence.” He glanced at Holmes, who remained silent.

  “Five months ago, however, I became aware – through means I shall refrain from outlining here – that the details of conversations which had taken place during gatherings of this secretive group had fallen into the hands of those who might use them against us.”

  “Baxter?” I said.

  “Indeed,” replied Mycroft. “Although I was unaware of his identity. It seems clear now that the Germans guessed that he had debts, and managed to make contact during his investment dealings on the continent. He clearly needed little persuading to betray his country. But at the time I knew only that there were traitors operating in London, those dedicated to furthering the enemy cause, or at least willing to do so in exchange for money. Somehow, these people had gained information that could only have come from a member of my small society.”

  He sighed. “As you can imagine, I was deeply troubled by this development, and devised a means by which I could flush the traitor out. As I explained to Baxter, I put papers in a wooden box during our meetings held in this very room, and made great play of securing it in the safe; after all, these were highly sensitive dossiers, memorandums and minutes pertaining to our work – I dubbed the vessel the ‘spirit box’, of which you have heard. None of the men in my inner circle, Grange and Angelchrist included, had any reason to doubt that it really contained important documents. I made it clear to them that should it fall into the hands of those who would use it for nefarious ends, the nature of its contents meant that the war itself might be lost.”

  “Months went by. For a time, I thought nothing more of the matter, wondering if perhaps the earlier transgression had been a simple aberration. Around six weeks ago, however, I received word through my network that questions were being asked in certain quarters about the existence of the spirit box. I knew then that my worst fears had been confirmed. That someone was leaking information to the traitors.

  “From your investigation it is now clear that Baxter, using Underwood as his proxy, targeted likely men in Foxton’s political circle. Eventually the questions put to them under hypnosis yielded fruit. We do not know for sure which of the members of my group gave up the existence of the spirit box, but given that only Grange and Angelchrist manifested signs of the hypnotism, and Angelchrist was only subjected to it a few weeks ago, we must assume it was Grange. What other information – that not related to the spirit box but likely of great significance – Baxter gleaned from the other men of Foxton’s acquaintance we may never know.”

  This gave me pause. Of course, if Seaton Underwood had questioned only a fraction of the men who visited his patron, he could still have gleaned a great deal of sensitive information, information that would already be in enemy hands. My blood ran cold at the thought of how many British soldiers now lay dead because of Baxter’s treachery. Mycroft paused for a moment while he took a swig of his drink. “After discounting the idea of disbanding my bureau, I made the decision to bide my time. It was paramount that the traitors were caught before they put any more of the information they had gleaned to nefarious use. I knew that these men, in due course, would make a play for the box. The prize I had laid out for them was simply too great, too tempting. And so I continued my charade, placing important-looking documents in the box, and tabling agenda items that I knew would prove incendiary and help to bring matters to a head.

  “Of course, they did just that, but not in the way I had expected. The death of poor Herbert was a deeply felt blow, and a reminder of the dangerous game I was playing.” He looked genuinely affected at the thought of Grange’s death.

  “It was at this point,” he went on, “that I called in Sherlock to assist in my investigation.”

  I glanced at Holmes. “Then you knew of this?” I said. “All along, you’ve been aware of the truth.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Quite the opposite, Watson. At the beginning of the affair I was as much in the dark as you.”

  “I have no doubt that Sherlock had his suspicions, but he was never apprised of the details of the case. Rather, it was essential that he was not,” said Mycroft.

  “As I explained to you, Watson, when you encouraged me to contact Mycroft for more information, I could see that Mycroft had involved us in a scheme w
here the stakes were exceedingly high, and that everything was balanced most delicately,” said Holmes. “Any perturbation, any hint that we were part of a trap, and the game would be up.”

  “It was paramount that you were both free to go about your investigation unencumbered by knowledge of what was at stake,” said Mycroft. “Well-placed questions, asked at the right time, would help to bring things to a head – and besides, I was still not sure of the identity of the traitors, but knew that Sherlock would help to flush them out.”

  “It’s a dangerous game you were playing,” I said, feeling a trifle perturbed myself at the manner in which I’d been manipulated. “Two men are dead, and another came damnably close.”

  Mycroft nodded. “A most regrettable business,” he said. “Yet I console myself in the knowledge that neither Herbert nor Archibald were new to such things. They were aware of the dangers associated with their positions, and both would have gladly given their lives for the British cause. Thankfully, Archibald made it out in one piece, and I am grateful to you for your intervention.”

  “The work we have done here, disbanding this group of traitors, is critical to the war effort. Had they been allowed to continue to operate in possession of state secrets, gaining access to the upper echelons of government, the situation would have become very grave indeed.”

  I nodded, finally beginning to appreciate the gravity of the matter. “You put a great deal of faith in the notion that Holmes and I would turn up in a timely fashion this evening,” I said. “What if we’d been half an hour later? If Baxter had discovered the truth about the spirit box before we’d intervened?”

  “Then I imagine I would not be here now, having this conversation with you, Dr. Watson,” replied Mycroft levelly. “I assure you, however, that it was not faith in Sherlock, but rather the meticulously planned outcome of a series of events. I know well my brother’s methods, and, watching how events have unfolded over the last twenty-four hours, anticipated his every move.”