London, September 24, 1889
DIOGENES CLUB
3:30 p.m. Tuesday
SHERLOCK HOLMES ENTERED THE DIOGENES CLUB—AN INSTITUTION well known as a haven for misanthropes. Feeling as he did—nervous, headachy, and with his stomach in a roil—it was a comforting venue. It was the next best thing to a desert isle. Members were not permitted to acknowledge one another, much less talk. After three infractions of this rule, even an excess of coughing could result in expulsion.
But behind this curmudgeonly facade, the club was the unofficial headquarters of the wealthier members of the Baskerville rebellion. That, and a measure of fraternal curiosity, was what had brought him there that day.
Holmes was immediately shown to the Stranger’s Room, the only place visitors and conversation were allowed. The space was pleasant, with green walls and potted palms lending a vaguely tropical air.
The footman who had shown him in still hovered uncertainly at the door. Holmes gave another peremptory flick of his fingers, and finally the man bowed and left. As his footsteps faded, the only sound that remained in the club was the clop-clop of horses along the street below. The detective set his hat and stick aside and subsided into one of the armchairs. The breeze slouching in through the sash windows was unseasonably cool, carrying the scent of the Thames the way some men carried a libertine past.
His stomach, already unsettled, raised a protest. Damnation. Whatever Watson was dosing him with was only slightly less obnoxious than no medical treatment at all. Holmes stood to close the window, every fiber of his being protesting the motion. He sat down again, this time without his usual grace. A light sweat dewed his forehead, but he didn’t permit the moment of weakness to last.
What sort of a pathetic creature are you? Irritation stiffened his posture, and he snapped his cuffs straight. Holmes had his own way of dealing with his chemical habits, and that was simply ignoring any discomfort that arose whenever he chose to lay his syringe aside for a while. Bad habits had to be treated sternly. It was a question of fortitude.
Never mind that he felt like something scraped out from under the shoe of a hackney driver’s nag. Maybe Watson’s cures weren’t such a misbegotten idea after all.
He pulled out his watch, checked the time, and replaced it in the pocket of his waistcoat. His brother, punctual to a fault, would arrive in precisely one minute. Holmes wiped his upper lip, forcing his mind on something—anything—besides his own discomfort. Outside, he watched a flock of police constables—City of Westminster and Scotland Yard both—hurry by. The attack on the Clock Tower had garnered one positive result: London’s two police forces might still be incompetent, but at least they were for once united.
The door opened and Mycroft strode in, his size making the floorboards creak. He was every bit as tall as Holmes and built like a bear. With a huff of exasperation, he stopped a dozen feet away and gave Sherlock the full benefit of his ice-gray stare. “Are you in your right mind?”
Holmes leaned back, familiar irritation sparking along his abused nerves. “Do you mean that philosophically or medically? If the latter, I suggest you speak to Watson. He has a better grasp of the diagnostic arts.”
Mycroft pulled a chair close and sat near enough that he could keep his voice just above a whisper. “I mean pharmacologically. You look like someone just dug you out of one of the Highgate mausoleums.”
Holmes considered a moment, and decided with satisfaction that his horseshoe comparison was more creative. Sadly, Mycroft was prone to favoring the obvious over the poetic. “I assure you I am very much alive.”
“I heard Watson moved back in.”
“His wife died.”
“And he was obliged to clean you up.”
“The man needs a hobby.”
Mycroft’s mouth turned down, the contemptuous frown of the older brother. “Apparently yours involved a syringe. Are you an idiot, with all we have at stake?”
His brother’s words stung deep enough to stir the embers of shame. Holmes could come up with excuses for his lapses, from his failure to save the Ripper’s victims to his inability to protect Evelina from the Gold King. The last year had left his pride in pieces—but failure was not something he could discuss with Mycroft. Instead, Holmes shrugged a shoulder as if he didn’t care. “I don’t adjust well to boredom.”
“How can you be bored? We’re on the cusp of a civil war.”
“I have not been as involved as you are.”
“You can’t be. The Gold King has you under watch.”
“So he does.” Holmes steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Everywhere I go I trip over the Gold King’s men; it has impacted the efficacy of my work. And I am not the only victim of their influence. Crime used to be a relatively wholesome affair, fueled by anger, avarice, and lust. Now it is all political maneuvering with all the passion of a tuppenny whore. Our criminal class has lost its verve.”
Mycroft’s frown wavered into amusement. “I would never have put you down as a traditionalist.”
“I have a positive nostalgia for an everyday art thief. At least they were stealing something worth having.”
“Is rulership of the Empire such a poor prize?”
Holmes fell silent, wondering where to take the conversation. The Diogenes Club and the rebellion shared a founder in Mycroft Holmes—a supreme civil servant who acted as an informational repository in official government affairs. Unofficially, he had designed the shadow government meant to take over when the Baskervilles succeeded. He claimed to have orchestrated the new regime for sport, but Holmes had long doubted that was true. To begin with, his brother was far too invested for someone conducting a recreational exercise. Could it be that my brother has at last discovered the vice of ambition?
Even that much thinking made his head hurt worse, so Holmes got straight to the point. “The last I saw of you, you had broken free of Keating’s prison and were about to make for Scotland on the Red Jack.”
Mycroft’s gaze slid away. “You’re wondering why I came back to London.”
“More how, given that you are a fugitive.”
“There was a discreet inquiry into my activities, and nothing could be proven against me. As you know, I cover my tracks well. In the end, the inquisition looked rather ridiculous.”
Holmes couldn’t suppress a smile. There was no question of his brother’s skill. “And yet, they could have convicted you if they chose. Many have swung based on the slimmest evidence.”
“Her Majesty decreed me innocent of wrongdoing.”
“And the Steam Council accepted her decree?”
“The royal heels dug in deep. My services are valued. More to the point, Keating has too many other problems to bother with me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What do I matter, when one of his own has thrown down the gauntlet?”
“The episode with the clock?” Holmes asked.
“Yes. I think everyone agrees that was a deliberate insult. Keating is readying his army. So is the Blue King, and that has long been Keating’s greatest fear.”
“Do we have eyes on Blue’s forces?”
Mycroft sat back. “Not as good as I would like. Blue is suspicious.”
“I know.” A year ago, King Coal had asked Holmes to find the traitor in his court. Events had interfered and he’d never properly investigated. “Is there a weak link we can exploit?”
“Perhaps his man of business, Juniper. He’s a little more enterprising than your average lackey.”
“I wonder if he was the one who first initiated the bomb in Baker Street.” A chill tingled down Holmes’s limbs at the memory. At one point he had almost suspected Mycroft.
“The incident served a purpose.” Mycroft rose and pulled the bell for the footman. “It kept the Steam Council unsettled enough that we had time to solidify our advantage before the steam barons came knocking on our door.”
“The bomb came within a whisker of killing everyone in the house.”
“But it didn’t.” Mycroft waved a hand. “I found out about it in time to bring everything under control.”
Holmes narrowed his eyes, but he was given no chance for a retort. There was a discreet knock at the door, and one of the club’s uniformed waiters appeared. As Mycroft ordered refreshments, Holmes’s thoughts drifted back over the bomb and its aftermath and finally to his conversation with Mycroft last November.
His brother had wanted him to continue stirring up trouble between the steam barons. It hadn’t been necessary—the Steam Council had done a fine job of bickering all on its own—and the rebels had been granted an extra year to gather their forces.
“Are the Baskervilles ready for war?” he asked when the footman left.
“We’re more ready than we were.”
“Is that why you’ve returned to London?”
Mycroft returned to his chair, his mood suddenly subdued. “Yes and no. I’m not sure my absence has had a favorable effect where the Schoolmaster is concerned.”
“Oh?”
“Edgerton has become close.”
Michael Edgerton was a talented inventor and had once run in the same set as Tobias Roth. By all accounts, he was a smart lad. “They are of an age. Friendships are healthy.”
Mycroft sat forward, tapping the vast expanse of his waistcoat. “I am the one who has given this rebellion form, elegance, and intelligence. He should be listening to me.”
Was that jealousy in his brother’s voice? Holmes crossed his legs, intrigued. “The Schoolmaster might be the face of the rebels, but he is no fool. Surely he understands all you’ve done on his behalf.”
“If he is the face, I am the mind.”
But never the heart, Holmes thought. It was there that friends like Edgerton were important. Even he needed Watson more than he cared to admit.
Mycroft sank back in his chair. “I intend to visit Sir Charles and ask his opinion about the lad.”
“His opinion?” Holmes asked, confused. Sir Charles Baskerville had taken in the Schoolmaster as an infant and raised him as his own.
“There are things the old man knows that no one else does. He raised the boy, after all.”
Holmes didn’t like the sound of that. You want to find out his weaknesses. Always easier to play puppet master once you know which strings to pull. “What do you expect to learn?”
“You don’t approve.”
“I dislike manipulation.”
But Mycroft’s thoughts had already galloped ahead. He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Too bad our niece is in Keating’s clutches. She is pretty and the right age for our protégé.”
And mourning the death of the man she loved. But Mycroft had never paid the least attention to such things. After abating for the last few minutes, Holmes’s headache returned with hammer and tongs. “Evelina is closely confined at the Ladies’ College. The only way I have been able to communicate with her is through subterfuge. Smuggled letters and the like.”
Mycroft tilted his head. “I’m surprised that you have not attempted a jailbreak. That is rather your style.”
“I’m conscious of the coming war. Oddly, I’ve felt somewhat easier knowing that she is protected by Keating’s influence.”
Mycroft snorted. “Perhaps not for long. I’ve had word that she blew up a laboratory and is under threat of expulsion.”
Shock brought Holmes upright. Evelina had mentioned nothing about this in her last letter. “When? Why am I just hearing about this now? Was she hurt?”
Mycroft ignored the first two questions. “No. Thank the gods no one was actually injured.”
The door opened and their refreshments arrived on a steam-powered trolley laden with food. A footman followed with a silver tray of drinks. There seemed to be enough refreshments to stuff half of Westminster.
The smell assaulted Holmes’s tender digestion, but Mycroft perked up, rubbing his hands. “Just leave it, my good man.”
The footman bowed himself out. Mycroft reached for a decanter of whisky. “Drink?”
But Holmes was still digesting the image of his niece exploding a laboratory. It was the first entertaining thought he’d had in days. And yet the result was serious. Holmes had considered the college an acceptable place for his niece to wait out the coming conflict—but if Keating withdrew his protection from Evelina, something had to be done.
Apprehension jolted his sluggish brain into gear. Double agents, Baskervilles, and Mycroft’s ambitions ricocheted through his imagination—but he couldn’t wrestle with any of those until he knew Evelina was safe. That meant tackling the Gold King—a dangerous proposition at the best of times, and this was the brink of war. “What does Keating fear, besides the loss of wealth and power?”
Mycroft finished pouring himself a drink and turned to regard Holmes, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “The unexplained and unexplainable.”
“Magic?”
“Yes and no.” Mycroft waggled his hand side to side. “He is eager enough to get his hands on the type that will make machines run, but dislikes the rest. Witness how eager he is to root out all the herbwives and sorcerers.”
A flash of eagerness pushed back Holmes’s queasy stomach, and he rose to help himself to the decanter. “How is he on séances?”
“I have no data on that,” Mycroft replied with a dubious frown. “What have you got hiding under your hat?”
“The faintest glimmer of an idea. It’s time Evelina began earning her keep for Keating.”
“Are you serious?”
Holmes gave a short laugh. “Whatever Keating demands, she won’t throw any magic users to the lions, you can be sure of that.”
“Then what are you plotting?”
“Not much yet. But Keating needs to remember that he values Evelina, and she needs to start leaving the university from time to time.”
Mycroft’s eyes brightened. “Because if he’s used to the idea of her getting out and about …”
Holmes raised his glass to Mycroft, for once in perfect accord with his brother. “When the moment is right, it will be a thousand times easier to set her free.”