Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Read online

  ‘They began a campaign to drive me from the University.’ Holmes’s tone was matter of fact, even light, but the tension in his face spoke of more behind the words. ‘He attempted to persuade students and faculty alike that I had harmed his dog, and had blown up a laboratory deliberately. My position was precarious. Not only did I lose the few friends I had – well, not that popularity was ever my goal—’

  On the couch, St John snorted.

  ‘I very much doubt they got the better of you,’ said I.

  St John grunted loudly.

  ‘You would be wrong, Watson. Of course he could speak then. In fact, St John was President of the Union and a champion debater. His nickname was “The Silver Tongue” and he managed by dint of his extraordinary powers of persuasion to turn an entire college and most of the dons against me.’

  Holmes paused, remembering. ‘Eventually I was sent down. Although at that point I had lost the will for … other reasons. In any case, Watson, there is my reason for leaving the University, sitting before you in all his glory.’

  I was sure that there was much more to this story. St John stared at Holmes, unblinking and cold. Holmes turned to face him, all pretence of humour gone. The hatred between the two was palpable, an electric current travelling through the air.

  ‘You were very persuasive, St John,’ said he.

  I had long wondered about the reason that Holmes had left university without taking his degree. This seemed an incomplete explanation. I pulled him aside, behind St John, where our captive could not see us. I indicated the tongue, with a gesture demanding an explanation. Holmes just shook his head, ‘Later,’ he mouthed.

  There was a noise on the stairs and Mrs Hudson showed in Lestrade and two deputies. The wiry little inspector was as usual, full of energy. ‘Mr Holmes!’ he cried.

  ‘Ah, Lestrade, I see Butterby has succeeded in something at last,’ said Holmes. ‘He has delivered you in a timely fashion. In a moment I would like you to remove this man, Mr Orville St John.’

  ‘Ah, a gentleman, he appears, but without manners. To gaol then, Mr Holmes? Butterby claims assault and battery. Him as well as you, and the good doctor,’ said Lestrade, with relish.

  ‘One moment if you please, Inspector.’

  Turning to St John, Holmes said the following slowly and carefully. ‘St John, you are now known in these parts and have tried to kill me three times in the last six days.’

  Holmes leaned in and removed a revolver from St John’s outer coat pocket. The man inhaled sharply as Holmes opened it, checking the bullets. He handed it to Lestrade. ‘Recently fired, and the calibre and make will match, no doubt, this bullet found in my wall over there.’

  He pointed and I discerned a new bullet hole in the wall, just under my picture of General Gordon.

  ‘Attempted murder, then, as well!’ said the policeman.

  ‘Patience,’ said Holmes, and turned again to the man restrained before us. ‘I am going to make you an offer for your freedom, St John. If you agree to my terms, I will not press charges. And Lestrade, I ask that you convince Butterby to drop his charges as well. Release this gentleman’s ankles, would you please, Doctor.’ He handed me the keys to his cuffs. ‘And you his hands, Butterby.’

  As he was freed from his restraints, St John looked pointedly away, rubbing his wrists. I was unable to read his reaction to these last words. Holmes continued.

  ‘What is so completely odd, St John, is why now? What has sent you here?’ He leaned forward.

  St John turned away again coldly. Holmes sighed. ‘You must let this vendetta go. You know that I am not guilty of that which you accuse me. In your heart of hearts, you know this.’

  St John remained inscrutable. I scanned his motionless face but read no sign of the man relenting.

  ‘Once again, in front of witnesses, can you let this vendetta go? If so, then you walk away a free man. If not, it will be to gaol with you, where I will ensure you stay a very long time.’ Holmes then made several strange gestures in the air with his hands. I recognized the motions as French sign language used by the deaf or mute, but had no clue to the meaning.

  St John hesitated, and a torrent of emotions passed over his face as he clearly fought to regain control. He made a brief reply in sign language.

  ‘Fine then, St John, but consider this. If you do not desist, although I am not a vindictive man, you will leave me no choice. I will investigate your personal business, and create as much difficulty as I can for your family. You will bring trouble down on all you love. Do you agree to let this go once and for all?’

  St John closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he stared fiercely at my friend, then nodded in assent.

  ‘I need your word.’

  ‘Let him say it, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.

  Holmes shot a glance at Lestrade. ‘He is mute.’ He turned to glare at St John. The man hesitated, then finally, an affirmative ‘Uh huh’ came from him.

  ‘That will suffice. Gentlemen. I now formally drop my charges against Mr St John for his attempts on my life. For the time being.’ Turning back to St John he said, ‘Take care that you keep your vow. Do you understand me?’

  St John slowly raised his eyes to meet Holmes’s. There was a cold rage, now, in that look. The man was ready to kill Holmes, of that I was sure. And yet my friend seemed eager to let him go.

  St John nodded one more time.

  ‘Escort Mr St John back to the Langham Hotel, please.’

  St John started at this.

  ‘Yes, I know your hotel, and a great deal more,’ Holmes said. Then, to Lestrade, ‘It is a lodging well suited to this gentleman’s means and style. He lives on a grand estate just outside Edinburgh, and he is the respected owner and editor of St John and Wilkins, a major publishing house. He has three small children, a growing business, a loving wife, and a brother in delicate health. He has much to lose.’

  St John stood, and as he did, one of Lestrade’s deputies approached and took him by the arm, and they moved to the door. As he stood in the doorframe, St John turned to Holmes and elaborated some complex thought with sign language, ending with an aggressive gesture.

  Holmes clearly received the message. He sighed and shook his head.

  The men departed, Butterby with them.

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, I have seen some strange things in these rooms, but that gentleman is surely one of the strangest. I do not have a good feeling about your letting him go like that.’

  ‘Nor do I, Holmes,’ said I. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’

  My friend stood peering into the fire. ‘Gentlemen. I am very tired suddenly and need to rest. If you will excuse me, please. Good evening, Lestrade. Watson, would you be so good as to meet me at the Diogenes Club at 9.30 tomorrow morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Or stay, if you like. Your old room is probably habitable.’

  Without a further word, he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. As soon as he did so, I realized that I had meant to have a look at the leg where St John had struck him. But he would not be disturbed now. I turned to Lestrade, who was now staring curiously at the still gurgling chemistry mess in the corner.

  ‘What on earth is that, if you do not mind my asking?’ he said.

  ‘I promise you I have not the faintest notion, Inspector.’

  ‘You must have a very forgiving landlady,’ observed the little man tartly. On cue, the saintly Mrs Hudson appeared with his hat, coat and umbrella.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector Lestrade,’ I said.

  As he left, Mrs Hudson sniffed the foetid air and took in the chemistry disaster. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she enquired.

  ‘He is resting,’ said I.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘I shall bring you both some warm soup. Will you be staying, Doctor?’

  ‘My room—’

  ‘It has been made up fresh as Mr Holmes requested.’

  I smiled. Had Holmes known that Mary was not home and would not miss me? It should
not have surprised me. But meanwhile, the weather had grown increasingly inclement.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I will stay.’ In truth, I felt uneasy at the recent events. Until I was sure that this St John had been dissuaded from his mission, Holmes might well make use of my help.

  Thus I decided to stay the night and accompany my friend in the morning to see his brother, Mycroft Holmes. As it turned out, it was lucky that I did.

  CHAPTER 4

  Brothers

  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 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 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.