Chapter V
The Diogenes Club
The following morning I awoke to find Holmes up and pacing. Making no reference whatever to the previous night’s misadventure, he said, “Watson, I wonder if you would inscribe a few notes for me.”
“I should be happy to.”
“I apologise for demeaning you to the role of amanuensis, but I have a special reason for wishing the details of this case to be put down in orderly fashion.”
“A special reason?”
“Very. If your time is free, we shall call this afternoon upon my brother My croft, at his club. A consultation may bear us fruit. In certain ways, you know, Mycroft’s analytical talents are superior to mine.”
“I am aware of the high respect in which you hold him.”
“Of course, his is what you might call a sedentary ability, in that he detests moving about. If a street-chair were ever invented to transport one from office to home and back again, Mycroft would be its first purchaser.”
“I do recall that he is a man of rigid routine.”
“Thus, he tends to reduce all riddles, human or otherwise, to chess-board dimensions. This is far too restrictive for my taste, but his methods are often quite stimulating, in the broader analysis.”
Holmes rubbed his hands together. “And now, let us list our actors. Not necessarily in the order of their importance, we have, first, the Duke of Shires…”
Holmes re-capitulated for an hour, whilst I took notes. Then he prowled the rooms whilst I re-arranged my notes into some semblance of order. When I had finished, I handed him the following resume. It contained information of which I had no previous knowledge, data that Holmes had gathered over-night:
The Duke of Shires (Kenneth Osbourne)
Present holder of title and lands dating back to 1420. The twentieth descendant of the line. The Duke lives quietly, dividing his time between his estates and a town-house on Berkeley Square, where he pursues a painter’s career. He sired two sons by a wife now ten years deceased. He has never re-married.
Lord Carfax (Richard Osbourne)
Elder son of Kenneth. Lineal inheritor of the dukedom. He sired one daughter, Deborah. But tragedy struck when his wife perished upon the delivery-table. The child is cared for by a governess at the Devonshire estate. The bond of affection between father and daughter is strong. Lord Carfax exhibits deep humanitarian tendencies. He gives generously of both his money and his time to the Montague Street Hostel in London, a sanctuary for indigents.
Michael Osbourne Second son of Kenneth. A source of shame and sorrow to his father. Michael, according to testimony, bitterly resented his inferior position as a second son and non-inheritor, and embarked upon a profligate life. Bent, it is said, upon disgracing the title beyond his reach, he is also reported to have married a woman of the streets, apparently for no other reason than to further that misguided end. This reprehensible act is purported to have taken place while he was a medical student in Paris. He was expelled from the Sorbonne shortly thereafter. His fate thenceforward, and his present address, are unknown.
Joseph Beck A pawn-broker with a shop on Great Heapton Street. Of doubtful importance, on the basis of data at hand.
Dr. Murray A dedicated M.D. who superintends the Montague Street morgue, and devotes himself to the adjoining hostel he himself created.
Sally Young The niece of Dr. Murray. She gives her full time to the hostel. A devoted nurse and social-worker, it was she who pledged the surgeon’s-kit at Beck’s pawn-shop. When questioned, she gave information freely, and appeared to hold nothing in reserve.
Pierre A seemingly harmless imbecile taken in at the hostel, where he performs menial tasks. The surgeon’s-case was found among his possessions, and pledged by Miss Young for his benefit. He appears to have come from France.
The Scar-faced Woman. Unidentified.
Holmes ran through the resume with a dissatisfied frown. “If this accomplishes nothing else,” said he, “it shows us what a little way we have come, and how far we have still to go. It does not list the victims, who under-score our need for haste. There have been five known butcheries, and any delay on our part will no doubt add to the list. So if you will clothe yourself, Watson, we shall flag a hansom and be off to the Diogenes Club.”
Holmes sat deep in thought as we rattled over the cobble-stones, but I risked disturbing him for something that came suddenly to mind.
“Holmes,” said I, “as we were leaving the Duke of Shires’s estate, you mentioned that Lord Carfax had failed on two counts. I think I have become aware of one of them.”
“Indeed?”
“It occurs to me that he made no inquiry as to how you had come by the surgical-case. It therefore seems logical that he already knew.”
“Excellent, Watson.”
“In the light of the omission, are we justified in assuming that it was he who sent it to you?”
“We have at least a right to suspect that he knows who did.”
“Then perhaps Lord Carfax is our key to the identity of the scar-faced woman.”
“Entirely possible, Watson. However, recognising a key as such, and turning it, can be two different matters entirely.”
“I must confess that his Lordship’s second lapse has escaped me.”
“You will recall that, in Lord Carfax’s presence, I dropped the case and spilled its contents onto the floor? And that he courteously picked up the instruments?”
“Yes?”
“But perhaps you failed to note the practised skill with which he replaced them, each to its proper niche, with no hesitation whatever.”
“Why, of course!”
“And, now that you recall this, what additional information does it give you concerning his Lordship?”
“That, even though he professes no surgical knowledge or experience, he is quite familiar with the tools of surgery.”
“Precisely. A fact that we must place in our mental file for future reference. But here we are, Watson, and Mycroft awaits us.”
The Diogenes Club! I remembered it well, even though I had entered its hushed precincts but once. That had been upon the occasion when Mycroft had shifted to his more active brother’s shoulders the curious affair of the Greek Interpreter, which case I had the honour and satisfaction of recording for the pleasure of Holmes’s not inconsiderable body of admirers.
The Diogenes Club was formed by, and for the benefit of, men who chose to seek solitude in the heart of the clamourous city. It is a luxurious place, with easy-chairs, excellent food, and all the other appurtenances of creature-comfort. The rules are geared to the Club’s basic purpose, and are strictly enforced; rules devised to discourage, nay, to forbid, all sociability. Talking, save in the Stranger’s Room―into which we were soundlessly ushered―is forbidden. In fact, it is forbidden any member to take the slightest notice of any other. A tale is told―apocryphal, I am sure―of a member succumbing to a heart-attack in his chair and being found to have expired only when a fellow-member noticed that the Times propped before the poor man was three days old.
Mycroft Holmes awaited us in the Stranger’s room, having taken time off, I was later informed, from his government post, around the corner in Whitehall. This, I might add, was an unheard-of interruption of his fixed habits.
Still, neither of the brothers, upon meeting, seemed in any haste to get to the business at hand. Mycroft, a large, comfortable man with thick grey hair and heavy features, bore little resemblance to his younger brother. He extended his hand, and exclaimed, “Sherlock! You’re looking fit. Bouncing all over England and the Continent appears to agree with you.” Shifting the meaty hand to me, Mycroft said, “Dr. Watson. I had heard that you escaped from Sherlock’s clutch into matrimony. Surely Sherlock has not re-captured you?”