Chapter Seven

A man with a club is a law-maker.

- Jack London, The Call of the Wild

Beneath a darkening sky, Sherlock Holmes set off on his own for Scotland Yard. He had matters to arrange with Mr MacKinnon, he said, and told me not to be alarmed if he returned very late that night - or not all.

Before leaving, he added, “If it’s not too much of an imposition, old fellow, might we start with a café noir at four o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Four o’clock?” I responded with surprise. Generally speaking, Holmes himself was a late riser. Not that I minded the occasional early wake-up when duty called. I clearly remembered being knocked up by Holmes early one morning in the investigation I titled “The Speckled Band”, but that had been at a mere quarter-past-seven.

Holmes’ stern look betokened disapproval of my reaction. “Tomorrow’s Friday, Watson - the day of reckoning according to Maisie Trilling’s scrap of paper. I intend to be at Mycroft’s rooms at the break of dawn. We shall require the strong coffee for stimulation before entering the fray. Besides, tell me a better time to go seeking an assassin.”

Needless to say, I wondered what type of last-minute arrangements regarding Mycroft’s safety required all-night preparations. Whatever his intentions, I thought that waiting till the night before the deadline to make final a plan seemed very risky indeed. Still, it was about his own brother that Holmes was worrying, and I expected he would take every precaution at whatever o’clock was necessary.

Even then, however, I remembered with regret the early-morning starts to some of our investigations that had got Mrs Hudson out of bed. As a consequence, I had no intention of summoning Mrs Meeks at the ungodly hour that Holmes had requested. All I asked was for her to leave the coffee tin on the sideboard.

* * *

Friday morning.

I have never been a sound sleeper; but with Mycroft’s life at stake, I spent more of the night than usual marking the hours as they slowly crept past. What is Holmes up to? I wondered. What does the coming day hold in store?

I rose early enough to prepare the coffee - early enough to set bread, butter, and strawberry jam on the dining room table as well. Oh, I knew full well that Holmes was wont to skip his breakfast on days a case preoccupied him, but I needed to do something to engage my time whilst waiting for him.

Holmes had warned that he might not return during the night, and he was true to his word. It was a quarter to four that morning when I heard the key at the front-door-lock.

“Where have you been?” I asked when he entered the dining room. His face was flushed; his breathing was rapid; and in spite of the coolness of the weather, he was perspiring freely. I could but wonder what nocturnal activity had rendered him thus.

“In a moment,” he greeted me. Then, without so much as removing his coat, he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He slapped my question away with a wave of his hand.

“Do you want to sit?”

‘No time,” he answered, sampling the hot brew between quick breaths.

Following his example, I too remained standing and sipped my coffee.

Holmes savoured his drink for a moment, then moved towards the table and the bits of food I had laid out.

“There are aspects of Mycroft’s behaviour,” said he, lathering a slice of bread with jam, “of which I think you’re not aware. And I’m trying to take them into consideration.”

“For instance?”

“‘For instance’, his infamous punctuality. You’ve never indicated how he establishes the correct time.”

“I suppose I’ve never thought about it.”

“Quite so, Watson, but think of it you must when the man’s life is in jeopardy. How do you imagine he sets his watch?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“By the striking of Big Ben in the tower at Westminster,” said he between bites. “It’s most convenient since his limited peregrinations never take him beyond the sound of its chimes. The clock is said to be accurate within a single second of the official time recorded in Greenwich; and as a result, so is Mycroft. People have been known to set their watches by the preciseness of his schedule.

Kant and that clock tower in Königsberg again.

“Whenever he leaves his rooms in the morning, he does so on the quarter hour past seven, and he never fails to adjust his watch if it is only a minute different from the clock in the tower.”

“But if Mycroft still insists on refusing to vary his schedule, how does whatever o’clock it is pertain to today’s activities?”

“That, my friend, remains to be seen. Right now, in fact.”

I’m sure I had no idea what he was talking about, but I followed his lead when he put down his cup and turned towards the door.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I said. “I need my coat.”

“While you’re at it,” offered Holmes, “bring along your revolver. Who knows whom we might run into during today’s adventure?”

I nodded and, retrieving my Webley No. 2 from the desk in my study, grabbed my heavy coat and joined Holmes outside. Early as it was that Friday morning, it was also dark and foggy; and cabs were scarce. With Holmes pacing nervously on the pavement, I suggested we walk the short distance to the Langham Hotel where taxis always seemed available. Within five minutes, we were seated in a cab at the head of the short queue in Portland Place.

“Pall Mall!” Holmes barked at the driver.

The motor’s lights bounced off the thick fog as we drove through a shrouded London. So thick was the mist curling round the walls of Mycroft’s lodgings that we found it difficult to discern the outer door. Indeed, after alighting from the cab, we could barely make out the constable who, like a ghost among the feathery tendrils, was trodding back and forth on the pavement before the entrance.

Holmes and I immediately crossed the road, hiding ourselves behind the corner of the Diogenes Club. It was a perfect vantage point for keeping our eyes on Mycroft’s front door though not even the large building itself could protect us from the cold air. I took comfort in the warmth of my ulster, but I must concede that the pistol in my pocket made me feel more secure.

At first, we heard nothing beyond the constable’s muffled footfalls. Within a few minutes, however, we also heard the tolling of the five o’clock hour from Big Ben and the additional rings from the lesser bells at each quarter hour. The 5.45 chimes were accompanied by the rise of a hazy sun, for the overcast that had characterised most of the early fall that year seemed intent on blanketing this October day as well.

Not that there was much to see when the light finally did arrive and the fog began to dissipate. With the constable still on his march, it seemed reasonable to assume that no one had penetrated Mycroft’s rooms during the night. In fact, it seemed safe to conclude that not until Mycroft began the trek to his office would he appear a target for any covert evil-doer.

At last, minutes after the chimes from Westminster marked 7.15, the man himself emerged on the street. By then, most of the fog had disappeared, and we could easily discern his imposing figure. His heavy black coat with its astrakhan collar and cuffs made him loom even larger than usual, and under his arm nestled a battered leather briefcase. He took a step or two forward and then - just as Holmes had reported - he paused to check his ever-accurate pocket watch.

On this occasion, however, Mycroft frowned and, after leaning the briefcase against his leg, employed both hands to regulate the silver timepiece - holding it in one, setting it with the other. Task completed, he picked up the briefcase, looked up and down the street, and plodded off towards Whitehall. The constable, who had halted his pacing when Mycroft first stopped, issued an informal salute as Mycroft passed him and fell in a few steps behind.

Mycroft acted as if he was late, employing a gait that seemed positively rapid by his usual standards. Still, he moved slowly - slowly enough to allow us to follow him with ease on the opposite side of the street, slowly enough to render himself an easy mark to anyone perched nearby. Indeed, however much we might have expected to encounter an explosive device, our eyes scoured the surrounding windows in search of an isolated rifle barrel as well. At the same time, we had to study the people walking towards him. Nor could we discount the passing motor-cars or carriages from which a bomb might be tossed.

Only when Mycroft finally entered the white-stone government building that housed his office did Holmes and I breathe more easily. It defied belief, we agreed, that an organisation - even one as practised in the black arts as the Assassination Bureau was reputed to be - would risk penetrating heavily-guarded government grounds when more benign locations were so readily available.

Once Mycroft was safely ensconced inside, Holmes and I retraced our steps back to his rooms and searched the premises for any lethal devices. Only after we assured ourselves that there were none, did we perform the same service across the road in the Diogenes, learning from a porter who spoke with us in the Strangers’ Room, which chair was Mycroft’s favourite and where he liked to dine. As methodical as Holmes was in his scrutiny, however, we were as unsuccessful in the club as we had been in Mycroft’s rooms and returned to Whitehall empty-handed.

The clock had already struck 4.00, and the sky was still light when Mycroft Holmes, wrapped in his great coat once more and carrying his briefcase, exited the government building. During his return to Pall Mall, the same protective measures performed that morning began again. A new constable immediately accompanied Mycroft as he moved along Whitehall, and we repeated our surreptitious surveillance of the street around him.

At this time of day, however, a major difference presented itself. In the afternoon there were far more individuals of whom to be wary. What’s more, on so chilly a day, the many pedestrians scuttling about in their heavy coats and protective scarves and hats provided an endless array of suspects who might be concealing a weapon. Even so, I mused, it was not as cold as winter, and the precautions of the young blonde woman coming into view whose hands resided within a dark fur muff seemed excessive.

The half-hour struck a few minutes before Mycroft reached his rooms; and looking at his watch again, he frowned once more and paused to reset the timepiece a second time that day. He remained inside just long enough to discard his briefcase and then, still in his great coat, re-emerged and, obviously late, crossed the road for the Diogenes at as quick a pace as he could muster.

Leaving his police shadow behind, Mycroft nodded at Maypoole, the ageing doorman, and - much to our relief - safely entered the club. After all, we had checked the premises earlier; certainly, he would be safe during his stay within. For close to three restless hours, Holmes and I, our eyes fixed on the great oak door at the entrance, stood waiting in the shadows for Mycroft to re-appear. If Nemesis was destined to strike that day, Nemesis was running out of time.

At last, the chimes struck 7.30, and I glanced at my watch to verify the time. Strangely, it seemed to be running slow, and I readjusted it. As expected, at exactly 7.40 Mycroft, wrapped in his great coat, appeared. Carrying a folded newspaper under his arm, he stopped at a nearby tobacconist’s kiosk and purchased a cigar, which he proceeded to light. Pausing for a moment to exhale the smoke, he stood observing the tiny cloud dissipate round him.

“Come on, come on,” Sherlock Holmes muttered, and I thought he was talking to his brother.

Suddenly, a tremendous roar erupted, and the ground beneath us shook.

A huge explosion tore through the Diogenes Club, causing its very walls to shudder. A window to the right of the outer door blew out, and a long tongue of flame leapt up through the gaping hole.

His cigar gone flying, Mycroft was blown backward onto the pavement, cushioned perhaps by the folds of his coat. Within seconds a handful of his fellow-club members staggered out through the front door. Instinctively, I had reached for my pistol - but to no avail. Whatever damage there was had already occurred.

I stood transfixed. Holmes, however, sprang into action, dashing across the road - not to his stricken brother, as one might expect, or even to the door of the club - but towards the blonde woman with the muff, who had strangely just reappeared and now stood not ten paces from where Mycroft had fallen. Her right hand was still encased in the fur; but Holmes grabbed her wrist and, twisting, forced her to drop the revolver I could now see she was trying to extract.

In an image of viciousness that I shall not soon forget, she drew back her red lips in a snarl of animal ferocity, exposed her sharp, dagger-like teeth, and attempted to bite Holmes’ hand. By now, however, the constable had reached the pair and aided Holmes in subduing the vixen. I joined them seconds later, and Inspector MacKinnon arrived immediately thereafter. Within moments, the woman was braceleted and taken to Scotland Yard.