Lestrade, so I deflected his question.
“Oh, you know Holmes—there’s very little that goes on in London that he doesn’t know about.”
I said nothing about his theory regarding the return of Professor Moriarty, feeling that the divulgence of such information was best left to Holmes himself. Right now I wasn’t even sure I believed it myself. In the light of day—even a gray London day—it seemed only a remote possibility.
Lestrade picked up the Persian slipper which held Holmes’ tobacco, looked at it, put it back down on the table, and sighed deeply.
“Would you like something to drink?” I said.
He looked at me hopefully. “Thanks all the same, but it’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”
“I meant tea or something.”
His face fell. “Oh, right; of course—tea would be very nice, thank you,” he said unconvincingly.
“I’ll just see to it with Mrs. Hudson,” I said, and left him to his owndevices for a few minutes while I consulted with Mrs. Hudson. She was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, pounding away at some pastry dough, flour flying in all directions.
“Yes, yes—I’ll get to it right away,” she said when I made my request for tea. I was suddenly so happy to see her safe and sound at Baker Street once again that I had an impulse to kiss her on the cheek. When I did, she looked at me with a startled expression. “ Really, Dr. Watson,” she said, flustered, but I could tell she was pleased.
When I returned to the sitting room Lestrade was pacing the floor restlessly. “This came for you while you were downstairs,” he said, handing me an elegant, cream-colored envelope. It was addressed to Holmes and bore the letterhead of the Diogenes Club.
“Isn’t that the name of his brother’s club?” said Lestrade. “You know, that place for strange fellows who go there to avoid talking to one another?”
“Yes, it is,” I answered, tucking the envelope into my jacket pocket.
“Right; I thought so. It’s a bit odd, a place like that, if you ask me... but then the more you work at a job like mine the more everything begins to look odd after a while. What’s his brother’s name again?”
“Mycroft.”
“Right. What’s he up to these days?”
“Well, I don’t know. Holmes says he is a creature of habit. He rarely speaks of his brother.”
“Strange, that, with both of them living here in London, don’t you think?” Lestrade gave a dry little laugh. “But I suppose Mr. Holmes isn’t exactly what you’d call a family man, eh?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea, and Lestrade tucked into the plate of Scottish shortbread with gusto.
“Not bad, these,” he said, his mouth full of crumbs. “I believe Mr.Holmes once told me his brother was involved in the government in some way.”
To say that Mycroft Holmes was “involved in the government” was like saying that the ocean was “involved in water.” Sherlock Holmes— not a man given to overstatement—had once told me that Mycroft was the government. According to Holmes, his brother’s capacious mind consolidated and coordinated policies of all the various departments, and that very little happened at a national level without the input of Mycroft Holmes. He was like a giant reasoning machine sitting at the very center of government, which turned slowly round him like a wheel on its axis.
Lestrade and I made our way to the bottom of the teapot and through a second plate of shortbread. Finally Lestrade stood up and brushed the crumbs from his trousers.
“Well, Dr. Watson, I’d best be going now. Tell Mr. Holmes, if you would, that I came by. I’m afraid I don’t have much news about the case. My boys are out trying to find that Stockton fellow that Mr. Holmes says is involved, but it’s as though he’s disappeared into thin air. Also, we brought that parrot over to the Yard. Mr. Holmes seems to think there’s something to what the bird says, though to
“Oh, you know Holmes—there’s very little that goes on in London that he doesn’t know about.”
I said nothing about his theory regarding the return of Professor Moriarty, feeling that the divulgence of such information was best left to Holmes himself. Right now I wasn’t even sure I believed it myself. In the light of day—even a gray London day—it seemed only a remote possibility.
Lestrade picked up the Persian slipper which held Holmes’ tobacco, looked at it, put it back down on the table, and sighed deeply.
“Would you like something to drink?” I said.
He looked at me hopefully. “Thanks all the same, but it’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”
“I meant tea or something.”
His face fell. “Oh, right; of course—tea would be very nice, thank you,” he said unconvincingly.
“I’ll just see to it with Mrs. Hudson,” I said, and left him to his owndevices for a few minutes while I consulted with Mrs. Hudson. She was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, pounding away at some pastry dough, flour flying in all directions.
“Yes, yes—I’ll get to it right away,” she said when I made my request for tea. I was suddenly so happy to see her safe and sound at Baker Street once again that I had an impulse to kiss her on the cheek. When I did, she looked at me with a startled expression. “ Really, Dr. Watson,” she said, flustered, but I could tell she was pleased.
When I returned to the sitting room Lestrade was pacing the floor restlessly. “This came for you while you were downstairs,” he said, handing me an elegant, cream-colored envelope. It was addressed to Holmes and bore the letterhead of the Diogenes Club.
“Isn’t that the name of his brother’s club?” said Lestrade. “You know, that place for strange fellows who go there to avoid talking to one another?”
“Yes, it is,” I answered, tucking the envelope into my jacket pocket.
“Right; I thought so. It’s a bit odd, a place like that, if you ask me... but then the more you work at a job like mine the more everything begins to look odd after a while. What’s his brother’s name again?”
“Mycroft.”
“Right. What’s he up to these days?”
“Well, I don’t know. Holmes says he is a creature of habit. He rarely speaks of his brother.”
“Strange, that, with both of them living here in London, don’t you think?” Lestrade gave a dry little laugh. “But I suppose Mr. Holmes isn’t exactly what you’d call a family man, eh?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea, and Lestrade tucked into the plate of Scottish shortbread with gusto.
“Not bad, these,” he said, his mouth full of crumbs. “I believe Mr.Holmes once told me his brother was involved in the government in some way.”
To say that Mycroft Holmes was “involved in the government” was like saying that the ocean was “involved in water.” Sherlock Holmes— not a man given to overstatement—had once told me that Mycroft was the government. According to Holmes, his brother’s capacious mind consolidated and coordinated policies of all the various departments, and that very little happened at a national level without the input of Mycroft Holmes. He was like a giant reasoning machine sitting at the very center of government, which turned slowly round him like a wheel on its axis.
Lestrade and I made our way to the bottom of the teapot and through a second plate of shortbread. Finally Lestrade stood up and brushed the crumbs from his trousers.
“Well, Dr. Watson, I’d best be going now. Tell Mr. Holmes, if you would, that I came by. I’m afraid I don’t have much news about the case. My boys are out trying to find that Stockton fellow that Mr. Holmes says is involved, but it’s as though he’s disappeared into thin air. Also, we brought that parrot over to the Yard. Mr. Holmes seems to think there’s something to what the bird says, though to
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