Trollheart

V: Is There a Doctor in the House?

The effect the note Holmes showed to his brother had upon Mycroft surprised me, though it seemed to confirm some suspicion his younger brother had. Mycroft turned pale, looked around and mopped his forehead, shiny with sweat.

“That name must never be mentioned outside of the club, Sherlock!” he hissed, a slight tremble in his voice. “Its very existence is the most closely guarded secret in England.” He shot his brother a suspicious, questioning look. “How did you come to hear of it?”

“For some time now, Mycroft, I have known such a place exists, though I confess I was and am ignorant of its location. I quite understand the need for secrecy, but when I tell you that the life of a woman – who is almost certainly innocent of the crime of which she is accused – hangs in the balance, you will appreciate the importance of our being admitted to this most select establishment.

Mycroft shook his head, paced up and down, with the air of a man upon whose shoulders a great burden pressed.

“Even I could not get you in, Sherlock. It is strictly members only, and that membership is predicated upon certain, ah, criteria.” He looked up sharply. “Logically, there is only one possible case you could be working upon now, and that is of course the Liebert murder. But I fail to see how this can have any connection to... ah.” He snapped his fingers, nodded. “Of course. Lord Bailey.”

Holmes smiled thinly. Another hard stare from Mycroft.

“But how did you know...?

“I have my sources, as you know, brother,” Holmes reminded him.

Mycroft Holmes grunted.

“Well, I am fully aware you have your methods, Sherlock,” he agreed in a sort of annoyed tone, “but I had not dreamed they extended into such... private areas. All I can tell you is that not a single member of the cabinet, nor any of the government will admit to having even heard of the Adonis Club. It is no small threat when I say it would be the ruination of their career, and probably lead to a term of imprisonment.”

Sherlock Holmes nodded, pressing his fingers together.

“I understand. A matter of national security is it? Defence of the realm? Political hot potato?”

His brother studied him, and it seemed to me that Mycroft was trying to discern whether or not Sherlock Holmes was serious, or if he was mocking him. He shook his head, still undecided.

“Let us just say,” he placed one of his large fingers against his large nose, “that it is utterly vital the secret of this club remain so.”

Holmes leaned forward.

“Are you a member, Mycroft?”

Unaccountably, his brother suddenly shook with laughter, his face turning positively red. He wiped his eyes with a silk kerchief, shook his great head.

“Gracious, no, Sherlock! Not my style, old boy. Not my style at all. But I know people who are, and they, well...” He pointed meaningfully at the ceiling. The inference was clear. People far above Mycroft Holmes had reason to keep their membership of this shadowy club from general knowledge.

“If I can give you my oath,” said Holmes, “that the secret of the club, including its location, its very existence, will not be shared with anyone, least of all the police, and that I will involve none of its members in my investigation, can you tell us the address?”

His brother rose to go, heaving his great bulk out of the chair like a walrus flapping down to the edge of the sea.

“I am afraid I have said all I can say. Good day to you, Sherlock.”



I was somewhat mystified, as Holmes seemed to know exactly where the place was, why he had been at such pains to get his brother to tell him.

As we rode in the hansom he touched his nose.

“I merely wished to push Mycroft as far as I could, to see exactly how deep this secret is, and how much he knows about it. Clearly,” he remarked, “though not a member, as he says, he is well acquainted with this Adonis Club.”

Even now, I find it inopportune to reveal even the name of the street we found ourselves in, as, considering what we eventually found out about the mysterious club, the need for its very location has become even more vital. I should also, in fairness to my readers, explain that the name used here is not the name of the actual club, and has been chosen by me for reasons which will become clear once the story has been completed.

Suffice to say, then, that Holmes and I appeared at the address he had given the cabby and approached the door. Our plan was well in hand; Holmes correctly assumed that even his fame would preclude entry, and so he relied upon me. As he rang the bell a rather large man with an interesting collection of scars and tattoos appeared, the fact that his two brows met in the middle making his scowl even more threatening.

“Wot you want?” he snapped, eyeing the two of us.

Undeterred by his manner, Holmes made to push past him, but of course the brute barred the way, and it would have been easier to have pushed over a large oak tree. Holmes of course knew this, but his haste and impatience were part of our plan.

“Move, man!” he shouted in annoyance. “It's a matter of life or death!”

The face of the guardian of the entrance to the club screwed up in a mixture of consternation, suspicion and disbelief.

“Wot?”

“My good man,” said Holmes, indicating me, “this is Doctor Henry Bellingham, who was sent for personally to attend one of your, ah, members.”

Like a gorilla grappling with the concept of advanced mathematics, the attendant frowned as he tried to work this out. From over his shoulder came the low sound of music, laughter and the buzz of conversation.

“'Oo?” he demanded, unintentionally sounding more like the simian he resembled. Holmes rolled his eyes. Sidling up to the man, like a willow before one of the mighty California Redwoods, he attempted to put his arm around the brawny shoulders, but his reach was unequal to the task, so he settled for patting him on one shoulder.

“I am quite sure, my good fellow,” he said, “that you understand how important privacy is to your members. You would not expect me to name one of them, out here in the street?”

The gorilla seemed to think this was reasonable. His decision may have been assisted by a faint clinking and the glint of silver as Holmes pressed something into his paw. The big brute thought about it, thought about it some more, then came to a decision.

“Just yerself,” he said, pointing a meaty finger at me. “Yer stay outside.”

Holmes stepped back, ushering me in, and the gorilla led the way.

Now that I was in, the question was, how good an actor was I? I had never played the game so popular in America, the card game they call poker, but I was an excellent bridge player, so I knew a thing or two about misdirection. The gorilla led the way down the hall – his knuckles almost seemed to drag along the floor, though I fancy that may have been my overactive imagination and the sense of heightened anticipation I was in as I penetrated what Holmes believed to be the dragon's lair – and brought me to a desk, where sat an unsmiling, obsequious man with a bald head, impeccably dressed and with a nose lifted so high that, had he raised it any further his very neck must have been in danger of cracking.

“Doctor.”

The gorilla had evidently used all the brain power at his command to remember my profession. It was too much to expect he would remember my assumed name. For a moment I was in a panic as I could not recall it myself. What name had I given to the attendant? Then I realised it didn't matter, as he was hardly likely to contradict me or challenge me on it. Even so, I wanted to stick to the plan as closely as possible, and luck was with me, as the name suddenly came back to me.

“Bellingham,” I said curtly. “I was called, at this most ungodly hour.” I made a great show of being annoyed, while the bald man looked up a register.

“Name?”

“Bellingham. I just told you.”

“No.” The man rolled his eyes expressively. “The member's name.”

“Ah. Well, I was told to speak it to nobody.” I tapped the side of my nose. “Safety first, what?”

“Quite,” the desk clerk agreed drily. “However, it does present a problem, Doctor...?”

“Bellingham.”

“Doctor Bellingham. If I don't know who you are here to see, how can I direct you to their suite?”

“This is true.” I pretended to think it over. “Tell you what,” I said, seeming to have an idea that would break this impasse, “show me the register, and I will point out his name. Then my vow of secrecy to my patient will not have been broken, technically. Ah, unless you mention it to anyone.”

The bald man looked highly affronted.

“Discretion is our watchword here, Doctor!” he snapped. “I fear showing you the register would be quite impossible. Our members value their privacy.”

“Hmm.” I nodded. “Very well then. I shall just have to tell the Prime Minister that I was sadly unable to treat his -”

“The Prime Minister?” The words had an immediate effect on the bald man, as of course I knew they should, even if I knew the Prime Minister about as well as I knew Her Majesty. “Well, of course, that is quite a different matter. Let me see. Hmm. Yes. Well, in that case I see no reason you should not read the register. Wouldn't want one of Her Majesty's servants going without vital treatment, would we?”

And so saying, he turned the large book he had been looking in towards me, and I scanned down the page. Picking a name at random, I pointed. His eyes widened a touch.

“Him? A member of the government?” He seemed surprised. “We of course do not enquire into the affairs of our members, but I had been under the impression that he was a shipping clerk in -”

I cut him off, again tapping the side of my nose. His eyes widened further.

“Really?” Then his eyes narrowed, and his thin lips pursed as he seemed to consider it. “Yes. Yes it all makes sense now. Of course.” he looked at me with a slightly conspiratorial look, “Not that it's any business of mine, certainly. His secret,” he tapped his nose, imitating or answering my gesture, “is safe with me.”

He pointed up the stairs.

“Room 17, third on the left. Ah, if I may ask?” He touched me on the sleeve as I made to follow his directions. “What exactly is the nature of his illness?”

“Oh,” I told him as I walked towards the staircase, “you will of course understand that is highly sensitive information I am not at liberty to divulge.”

He smiled a watery smile.

“Of course. Quite right and proper, too. Forgive me for asking.”

I had mounted the stairs as he spoke, and soon left him far behind.


Holmes was waiting with a hansom outside as I left the building, the big attendant watching me warily as I departed. I thought it prudent to follow my friend's example and pressed some coins into his hand, which caused his huge face to all but split in a ragged smile. He waved one meaty paw at me.

“'Night, Doc!”

How easy it is to turn a potential enemy into an ally, or at least a non-enemy, by the simple expedient of, as the gypsies say, crossing the palm with silver.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked Holmes as I climbed into the cab. He looked at his pocket watch, snapped it closed.

“Precisely four minutes.”

“But how did you know I would not be longer in there?”

He smiled his knowing smile.

“A simple calculation, Watson. I merely worked out how long it would take my good friend, with all the guile he has accumulated through our relationship, to gain access to the registry, then added the time to walk one corridor in a relatively hurried manner, return to the ground floor and slip out the door. I was -” he checked his watch again - “twenty-one seconds out, but then, you did have to disengage yourself from that bannister on the way down.”

I was used to my friend making clever observations, but there were times I really believed he was a wizard, or had been beside me, for how else could he know?

“Holmes, you astound me! How...?”

Before I had finished the rather predictable question he had delivered the answer, pointing at my sleeve.

“A small tear,” he observed, “not large enough to have been caused by being caught and trying to extricate yourself from a bad situation, but just the right size to result from your sleeve having been caught on a badly-hammered-in nail. The only place likely to have such poor workmanship would be the bannister, which would certainly have seen quite some wear and tear in its time. It could have been the door, of course, but any nail is likely to be much higher and there is no real way in which you could have snagged your sleeve on that. No, I feel confident that in your haste to depart, and without wishing to make it seem like you were hurrying, you did indeed catch your cuff on the errant nail and had to take a moment to release yourself with the minimum damage caused to your coat.”

I sat back, in awe, as ever, of my friend's mental capacities and deductive reasoning.

“Correct as always Holmes.”

He sniffed. “A mere trifle, barely worth discussing. But to more important things. How did your little spy mission go?”

I felt rather proud of myself, this being the first time I had operated without Holmes, though under his direction of course. The main mission had been, naturally, to get a look at the list of members, which I had. After that, it was merely a case of walking up the stairs to the room indicated by the clerk, passing it, standing for a little while at the corner and then returning, nodding to the bald man, who would assume that I had finished my ministrations and was leaving. A man like him was never likely to go and check I had seen the member I indicated, and had he tried to investigate, his lower status would have assured he received short shrift from the unknown man in Room 17.

“I could not write them all down,” I told Holmes, “but I have, as you know, a good memory and I can remember most if not all of them.”

“Excellent!” Holmes was pleased indeed, as he extracted a notebook and began recording the names, some of which caused a raised eyebrow and an intake of breath. One name would, I knew, certainly impress him, and I was proven correct when he let out a cry and tapped the notebook, closing it with that look of triumph he had when the case was beginning to come together.

The cab jolted along the dark streets, only the glow of a gas lamp illuminating the road as we cantered along. He looked out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

“I have not been idle myself, you know, Watson.” He turned and grinned at me. “We shall have to wait till the morning to see what fruit my labours have grown, but I begin to see some light at the end of this dark tunnel.” With a sudden explosion of exuberance, he laughed out loud and cried “On, driver! On! On to Baker Street!”

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018