Читать книгу Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 12

n route through snowy Regent Street to Mycroft the following morning, I found myself puzzling over both Holmes’s rejection of Isla McLaren’s case and his handling of the treacherous Orville St John incident. But my friend was in an impatient mood, his black kid-gloved fingers drumming restlessly upon his knee. He refused to be drawn into a discussion of either. I persisted on the St John issue and at last he said, ‘Mr St John will not trouble me again. He is particularly protective of his family and my bluff will suffice. He – why do you look at me that way? Surely, Watson, you cannot imagine that I would forcibly cut a man’s tongue from his head for any reason on earth!’

The thought had in fact occurred to me. ‘Well, not a live one, at any rate. But how did it happen?’

‘It was the act of a madman, a mutual acquaintance, Watson, who has since passed on to meet his Maker.’

‘Strange. But why does this St John think you were responsible? And why attack you now?’

‘Certainly some recent event has served to reanimate his rage. Perhaps a letter. I intend to find out. In any case, it is complicated, and long past. Leave it, I say.’ His tone brooked no argument and I knew it was useless to pursue for the moment. We soon pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club.

‘I shall pay,’ I offered, in an attempt at détente. Perhaps Mrs McLaren had been right and he was in need of cash. I fished in my own pocket.

‘I have it, Watson. You are a bit short of funds yourself.’

It was regrettably true! My practice had suffered recently when a doctor of considerable charm and a decade more experience had hung his brass plate two doors down from my own. But how could he know?

‘What herculean efforts you make to keep track of my personal affairs!’ I exclaimed as we entered the august precincts of the Diogenes. ‘Perhaps better spent elsewhere!’

‘Very little effort at all,’ said he, ‘Watson, you are an open book.’

‘Well, you are wrong about that,’ I insisted.

Soon afterwards we were seated in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes, awaiting Mycroft Holmes.

The antique globes in their familiar place, the bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, the large window onto Pall Mall – all was as it had been before. While the club’s peculiar regulars must have chosen it for its rules of silence, I found the place oppressive.

The Stranger’s Room was the only place in this eccentric institution where one was allowed to speak. Eventually Mycroft Holmes sailed in as a stately battleship through calm waters to sit before us. Mycroft was over six feet tall, and unlike his brother, very wide in girth. He carried a leather dossier in one enormous hand. He smiled in his particular mirthless way, and then he and my friend exchanged the usual pleasantries characteristic of the Holmes brothers, that is to say, none at all.

Coffee was served. The clink of china and silver was hushed in the room.

‘How is England doing?’ asked Holmes finally.

‘We are well,’ said Mycroft. ‘Considering.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair, a twitching knee giving away his impatience. Mycroft eyed his younger brother with a kind of concerned disapproval. ‘But you, Sherlock, must watch your finances. I have mentioned this before.’

‘Mycroft!’ exclaimed Holmes.

‘Little brother, you are an open book.’

I cleared my throat to cover a laugh, and Holmes shot me a look. ‘What is it you want, Mycroft? Trouble in France I hear?’

‘Precipitous. The threat of war. You have heard of the phylloxera epidemic? It is not a virus, but a little parasite, it seems, and it is destroying the vineyards of France. Their wine production is down some seventy-five per cent in recent years. Dead brown vines everywhere. A good, cheap table wine is impossible to come by, and the better brandies, too. An absolute disaster for the French, and keenly felt.’

‘Come now, Mycroft … war?’ said Holmes.

‘There are those highly placed in France who feel the debacle was deliberately engineered. And by Perfidious Albion, no less.’

‘Blaming the epidemic on Britain!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Is such a thing possible?’ He smiled. ‘Or is this merely a question of French sour grapes?’

‘Who knows?’ said Mycroft. ‘But, a highly placed gentleman, one Philippe Reynaud is leading the charge. He is Le Sous Secrétaire d’État à l’Agriculture. Reynaud thinks the Scots are behind it. Or at the very least, prolonging it.’

‘The Scots!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, they have long been allies of the French.’

Mycroft gave me a withering glance.

‘Which Scots? And why particularly?’ asked Holmes, then had a sudden thought. ‘Oh. Whisky, of course.’

‘Three Scottish families are singled out and under suspicion. One may interest you particularly, the McLarens. It is in the report,’ said Mycroft, indicating a dossier which he had tossed on the table between them. The name struck me but Holmes gave nothing away. Mycroft turned to me. ‘Numerous entrepreneurial types including the McLarens, James Buchanan, and others have been laying siege to London clubs and restaurants, aggressively promoting their ‘uisge beatha’ or ‘water of life’ – that is the Scots’ Gaelic term – as the new social drink to be enjoyed in finer society. The fact that spirits, such as brandy, cognac and wine have grown costly and scarce has helped them tremendously.’

‘Oh yes! I particularly like Buchanan’s new Black and White—’ I began.

‘The fortunes of these companies are rising,’ interrupted Mycroft. ‘Not just in London but internationally. The French are talking of trade sanctions, and a couple of militant specimens, including this Reynaud, have pushed for a more aggressive response.’

‘War over drinks?’ I exclaimed. ‘Ludicrous.’

‘It is an entire industry, and war has been declared for less, Watson. The French vineyards are closely tied to French identity,’ said Holmes.

‘Yes, they are quite heated on the subject,’ said Mycroft. ‘Cigarette?’

Holmes took a cigarette from Mycroft’s case and lit it.

Mycroft sighed. ‘These ideas have been gaining purchase, and that is why I have called you in, Sherlock.’

‘What of research?’ asked Holmes. ‘Is there no potential remedy in sight for the scourge?’

‘The leading viticultural researcher is in Montpellier, Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. He is said to be close to a solution. But, and here is where you come in, dear brother, he has been receiving death threats, and this Reynaud insists they come from Scotland.’

‘What has been done so far?’

‘France has put its “best man” on the case to protect Dr Janvier and discover the source of the threats, but Dr Janvier has taken a dislike to the gentleman in question and I can’t say I blame him. I know the man; he is an irritant, and, based on his past history, I would not put it past him to exacerbate the situation.’

Holmes was smiling at this. ‘France’s “best man” you say? An irritant? This sounds like someone we know.’

‘Yes.’

The brothers exchanged a look of amusement.

‘Who is—wait!’ I suddenly guessed the identity of this unnamed man. ‘Can it be Jean Vidocq?’ I blurted out. Their silence was confirmation.

The scoundrel! We had had some unfortunate dealings with the famous French detective last year. Vidocq was a dangerous charmer who saw himself as Holmes’s rival. The man had not only attacked me physically but had complicated our case involving a certain French singer and her missing child. This same man claimed to be a descendant of the famous Eugène François Vidocq who founded the Sûreté nearly eighty years ago. But the connection was spurious – the real Vidocq had no known descendants. Despite his questionable character, Jean Vidocq was not without considerable skills, and was frequently consulted by the French government.

‘What exactly do you wish me to do?’ asked Holmes.

‘Three things. First, meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier, and let me know the status of his research. How close is he to a cure for the mite? The second is to discover and neutralise whoever is threatening the man and his work – if these threats are indeed genuine.’

‘Why would they not be genuine?’ asked Holmes.

Mycroft shrugged. ‘Attention. Sympathy. Who knows? But if the threats to Dr Janvier are real, and they have been perpetrated by a Briton, then detain that gentleman with the utmost discretion and notify me. The Foreign Office and I shall handle it from there.’

‘And if there is a villain, and he or she is not British?’ asked Holmes.

‘Well, then best to leave it. I shall pass on the information.’

Holmes stopped smiling and sat back in his chair.

‘Protect Britain, that is your only interest? Not this man, or the crisis itself? No, Mycroft,’ he said. ‘I will not undertake this.’

Mycroft seemed not to have heard. ‘And the third task: extricate Jean Vidocq from this situation, the sooner the better. This man Janvier, who is something of a genius, may well be in danger. Vidocq only complicates things and is unlikely to be protecting him.’

Holmes said nothing.

‘As for the three Scottish families I mentioned, at the top of the list are the McLarens. You improve at concealment, Sherlock. I mentioned them before, and you revealed nothing, but in fact, you had a visit from the younger daughter-in-law yesterday. Most convenient.’

Holmes set his coffee cup in its saucer abruptly, ‘Stop having me watched, Mycroft.’

‘You may one day be thankful.’

‘Yet you missed the recent attempts on my life.’

‘Not very effective, was he? Need I say more?’

Holmes said nothing.

‘The McLaren family is or will be en route shortly to the South of France where they winter each year in the vicinity of Nice. This year it is the new Grand Hôtel du Cap Eden Roc in Antibes. Did your client fail to mention this? I wonder why she came to see you? It is a curious coincidence.’

‘She came on another matter. a domestic intrigue. And she is not my client, as I turned down the case.’

‘Dear me! If you are declining cases left and right, how wrong I was to imagine you in straitened circumstances, dear brother.’

Holmes actually turned scarlet at this jab.

‘In any case, you are free to travel,’ Mycroft said.

‘No, Mycroft. Watson, call for our coats, please.’

I stood.

‘Our Monsieur Reynaud fears that an attack on Dr Janvier is imminent. It seems precisely your kind of case, Sherlock. Protect an innocent who advances science.’ Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and sipped his coffee. He smiled kindly at his brother. I immediately thought of a mongoose.

‘I said no.’ Holmes leaned forward, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table. Without shifting position, and with a dexterity I could scarcely credit, Mycroft suddenly thrust his arm forward and clapped his large hand over Holmes’s long thin one, slamming it into the ashtray and onto the still smouldering cigarette. And there he held it. I could not believe what I was seeing.

His hand unmoving, Mycroft’s voice remained warm and friendly. ‘Consider the plight of this man, Dr Janvier, Sherlock. He is brilliant, a genius with few friends. A naïf in a certain way. But his work is vital, with economic and political repercussions. I assure you, no British official wishes him dead.’

He continued to hold his hand clamped over Holmes’s. My friend indicated nothing, but I could see the sweat beading on his brow. With a sudden move, I took up the coffee pot and poured a small splash of hot coffee on Mycroft’s hand. With a cry he released Holmes and the two sprung back from the table, each cradling an injured hand.

‘So sorry, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘As long as we are discussing saving wine and Western civilization, might we not be a little more civilized ourselves?’ I said.

‘And there is my point, Sherlock. Paul-Édouard Janvier has no Watson. Do this for me, will you not, little brother? You are uniquely suited. England will thank you. I will thank you, and a certain august personage at Windsor will certainly be grateful.’

From his pocket Mycroft now withdrew a large, thick envelope and placed it on the table. ‘You will be needing an advance, of course. Report to me daily on your progress.’

Holmes stared at the envelope in disdain. But he then looked away thoughtfully, and to my surprise, reconsidered.

‘I will do it, Mycroft, for this man Dr Janvier. But not for you,’ said Holmes. He reached down and flicked the envelope back across the table to Mycroft. ‘Keep your advance. Pay me when the case is closed.’

Mycroft smiled and sat down, delicately wiping the coffee from his hand with a white linen napkin. ‘Dr Watson, you have been little challenged of late. Might you break free from the marital bonds to accompany my brother on a trip to the Riviera?’

Little challenged! Had I been watched as well? Holmes glanced my way with a nod of encouragement. ‘This can be arranged,’ said I. ‘My dear Mary has some obligations herself, you see, as she has to—’

‘Capital! The 4.15 from Waterloo, the day after tomorrow,’ said Mycroft. ‘Tickets, and a packet of information will be at Baker Street within the hour. You may change your mind later about the advance, Sherlock. Meanwhile, enjoy the South of France. The sunshine will do you both good.’

He glanced in my direction. ‘But do stay away from the casino, Dr Watson.’

I could feel my cheeks colouring at this comment. ‘I have given up gambling,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ said both brothers simultaneously.

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Mycroft.

I will admit to a curious, if not longing glance at that thick envelope as we departed.

Back on the street my friend was in a dark humour. The snow was coming down in a fury now, and I looked about for a cab.

‘Your brother is mad,’ I remarked. ‘And you are not far behind.’

‘No, Watson. He is just a type you have not encountered. He is … effective. But I am generally ahead of him, and will be quicker next time.’

Quicker? What kind of family spawned these two?

‘Why did you not take the money?’ I asked.

‘I dislike taking payment in advance,’ said he. ‘It changes the equation.’

But in this he was inconsistent, as in so many things. At last I spotted a free cab. I would use my last coins if need be to get out of this weather. Holmes preferred to walk, and as the cab departed I looked back to see his thin, lone figure vanish in the swirling snow. Whatever awaited us in the South of France, it would include sunshine. Of that, and only that, I was certain.