James,’ said Andrew.
‘Please recreate the list for me, the best you can, then,’ said Holmes, beginning to lose patience.
‘Oh, I can’t think,’ said Andrew with a wave of his very white hand.
‘Neither can I,’ added James. ‘We have been up all night working on a bill we will bring to Parliament next month. Lunatic law. Inhuman as it stands. Oh, and deciding on the menu for tomorrow.’
‘And who to invite shooting in the country next week,’ added Andrew.
‘It is quite important. Please write down those you can recall.’ Holmes extended his notebook and pencil to Andrew, who hesitated, then dashed off a few names, showed the list to James, who added one more. James handed the notebook back to Holmes.
‘These are all we can think of at the moment,’ said James.
Holmes looked over the list. ‘Please try to remember more and send the rest of the list to me later today.’
‘We shall,’ said Andrew. With a few more goodbyes, the two brothers departed as chaotically as they entered.
As the door closed behind them, Holmes eyed his brother Mycroft with some amusement. ‘You turned them down, did you?’ he murmured.
‘I have turned down any number of honours, Sherlock,’ said his brother. ‘Now get to work on that list.’
‘Why are they holding back on naming its members?’ asked Holmes. ‘Do you have a list?
‘No. And I do not think they are holding back. This is merely a hobby, not something they take seriously. Now, do apply yourself.’
‘Doing what, Mycroft? I am not equipped to provide protection for seven or eight random men in London, nor can I detect in advance of a crime.’ He glanced again at the list. ‘An M, an R, an S and a V. There is no B here. Perhaps this Luminarian connection is a coincidence. Ah, but here is an earlier letter. F. How odd. Oliver Flynn!’
‘The playwright!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mary and I loved Lord Baltimore’s Snuffbox. Brilliantly funny!’
‘Watson, please,’ Holmes said. ‘Mycroft, I have discovered that Flynn is connected to a French anarchist group here in London. I have infiltrated them and, in the guise of an artist, I have been invited to a party in three days’ time. I expect—’
‘Oliver Flynn is well-meaning, and has sympathy with the downtrodden,’ said Mycroft, ‘but he is rather misinformed about the methods he is helping to fund. Socialism is one thing, anarchy another.’
‘Oliver Flynn with the anarchists?’ I exclaimed. ‘This seems improbable! Why would a famous playwright and bon vivant fund bombers?
‘Odd bedfellows. But yes, Watson. I shall explain later,’ said Holmes. He turned to his brother. ‘What of his connection to the Goodwins?’
‘Social, I presume. He gets about. If our alphabet theory is correct, Flynn, as an F, could be a target quite soon,’ said Holmes’s elder brother. ‘I shall use my influence to convince him to take a sudden vacation. That should keep him safe while you pursue the Alphabet Killings, Sherlock.’
‘Mycroft! The anarchists are my current focus. Flynn’s party is vital to my investigation.’
‘I know about the trail you follow, including that grocer in Fitzrovia. Those anarchists are terribly dangerous, Sherlock. They are inexperienced young men fooling with explosives beyond their capabilities, driven by youthful fervour and misplaced idealism. One will blow himself up accidentally, mark my words. Stay away.’
I thought that odd. In the past Mycroft Holmes had shown he was more likely to send his brother into danger than to warn him off it.
‘Your concern is touching, Mycroft. But, no.’
‘Drop it, I say.’
‘Why?’
‘The French have someone on it.’
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Holmes. ‘Tell me it is not who I think.’
‘I am afraid so,’ said Mycroft, ‘The French government adore him.’
‘Not Jean Vidocq?’ I blurted.
Mycroft’s silence was confirmation.
Vidocq was a handsome, arrogant French operative who considered himself a rival to Holmes. He had occasionally joined forced with us but had proven to be a dangerous and unreliable man. Even his name was a sham. Vidocq was no more related to Eugène Vidocq, the famous founder of the French Sûreté, than I was. He had merely adopted the name for its cachet.
‘Jean Vidocq is a scoundrel,’ I said. ‘Not even terribly competent.’ The man was responsible on a previous case for pushing me down a flight of stairs!
‘He is useful, gentlemen. And you forget, he is well respected in France,’ said Mycroft.
I was unconvinced.
‘I will not drop the anarchist investigation, Mycroft,’ said Holmes. ‘I am close to cracking the group via a grocery in Fitzrovia, and I intend to connect them to Flynn.’
As we stood to leave, Mycroft pinned his brother with a look that would strike fear into most. ‘Drop it, I say, Sherlock, and attend to the Alphabet Killings. One by one, men who are creating great works of charity are being eliminated. Think of the loss to those in need. Think of the greater good.’
At that precise moment, a page came in, approached Mycroft and whispered in his ear.
‘What is it?’ asked Holmes.
‘Another bomb went off. The French. Somewhere near Leicester Square.’
‘Anyone killed?’
‘Five dead. Six wounded.’
Silence as we took this in. Finally, Holmes said, quietly, ‘The greater good, Mycroft? Really? I will choose my own cases, and investigate however I please, you and Titus Billings notwithstanding.’
We turned to depart, but Mycroft was not finished. ‘Sherlock, that Zanders fellow – remedy that. You know better than to inflame a journalist. You are losing your touch.’
‘Perhaps you lack a challenge yourself, Mycroft, and are bored? Here is one for you. Take care. If it is an alphabetical series, H follows E, F and G. The scythe draws nearer, perhaps to you, brother.’
Holmes did not pause for the answer but stormed out of the door, myself following. I was always happy to depart the Diogenes Club.
Leaving St James’s, Holmes directed our cab slightly out of the way to an address in Fitzrovia on Charlotte Street. ‘And where are we going?’ I asked, as our cab wove through the drizzle past rain-soaked pedestrians. He had uncharacteristically hailed a four-wheeler – slower and more expensive than our usual hansom, but I was soon to see why.
‘I am in need of some cornichons and a bit of news.’ At my puzzled look, he added, ‘A French grocery,’ and began one of the transformations which I so admired. He donned a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, tousled his normally neat hair into a messy fringe, inserted a set of teeth which gave him an overbite, and altered his expression so that he looked both younger and rather feckless. My friend’s theatrical skills never failed to impress me.
‘And you are appearing as …?’
‘Stephen Hollister. A writer. Stephen does not speak French, and neither do you. At peril of your life.’
‘Well, there is nothing to