passed between them. I became aware of an enormous clock ticking on the far wall. The clop of horses and sounds of carriage wheels hissing through the wet and icy streets made their way faintly through the curtained windows.
‘Anson, Clammory, Danforth,’ murmured Mycroft Holmes.
I took a sip of coffee. Something was being considered by the two brothers, I had no idea what. Holmes nodded, then remarked, casually. ‘All right. Yes, I see it. Of course.’
Mycroft smiled. ‘The philanthropy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Significant philanthropy. All of the victims.’
‘Horatio Anson as well?’ asked Holmes.
‘Medical research, I believe. A rather large donation.’
‘And, of course, Clammory and the Veterans of the Boer War Fund,’ said Holmes. ‘That got quite a bit of publicity.’
‘And Danforth?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Any philanthropy?’
‘Literacy programmes for the poor. Very different modus operandi in each killing, though.’ said Holmes.
Mycroft nodded again.
What was this about? I wondered. All of the murder victims were philanthropists? That seemed a spurious connection.
‘And other deaths in the family, immediately attendant,’ said Mycroft. ‘All apparently suicide.’
‘That is most interesting. Let’s see … with Danforth, yes. Clammory, unsure. No other deaths related to Anson?’
Mycroft smiled. ‘A sister in Dover jumped off a cliff, I read.’
They lapsed into silence, allies once more. Most puzzling. A minute passed. The Holmes brothers would explain themselves in due time, I supposed. I needed more coffee and looked around for the attendant.
‘But then we are missing a B,’ said Holmes.
‘Yes,’ said his brother. ‘Perhaps there has been a B’.
‘One that may not have appeared to be a murder.’
‘But was taken for an accident or a suicide.’
‘Precisely. I shall have a look,’ said Holmes.
‘What kind of bee are you talking about?’ I interjected at last. ‘I am not following.’
‘Watson, we are considering that these murders are linked, and by the same perpetrator,’ said Holmes.
‘Yes, but a bee?’
‘Perhaps done in alphabetical order. We have an A, a C, and a D. But no B.’
I laughed. ‘Well, that is far-fetched.’
‘People who murder in series often leave some kind of sign so they will be credited for the kill. They want to be caught, ultimately,’ said Holmes. ‘Alphabet killings are not unknown. The “Alfabeto Mortale” in Rome in the last century comes to mind.’
‘And don’t forget the “Alfabetmord” in Norway,’ said Mycroft. He laughed, a mirthless huffing sound.
‘Ah yes, the “Norwegian Capper”. Left clown hats on all his victims. All quite famous cases, Watson. I cracked the Norwegian one myself three years ago.’
‘Clown hats?’
‘A double signature, Watson. The alphabet. And the hats,’ said Holmes.
‘What of that Tarot card, The Devil? Found under Anson’s pillow,’ said Mycroft. ‘It was in the papers. A signature of sorts?’
‘I read that, yes. But found at none of the other murders,’ said Holmes.
‘Unless it went unreported. Or Titus Billings missed it,’ said Mycroft.
‘Which is credible. He is careless,’ said Holmes.
‘But not stupid, Sherlock. Take care.’
‘A Tarot card?’ I interjected. ‘Like the one planted on me?’
‘Ah, interesting,’ said Mycroft. ‘Planted? At the park? Do you have it?’
At the park? How had he known this?
Holmes produced it from his pocket and held it up, facing his brother.
Mycroft smiled, not deigning to take it. ‘Yes, interesting.’ He turned to me. ‘Who planted it? Did you notice?’
‘A young woman.’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize her.’
‘It was placed in Watson’s pocket as we were set upon by a crowd at Speakers’ Corner, clamouring to find the Devil in me.’
‘Ah yes, I heard about that. I understand Zanders was there. He is employing fellows to follow you, you know.’
‘Yes. It is a veritable crowd, with your man following as well.’
I was surprised at this, as I had not noticed any followers.
‘Careless of you to become embroiled with that Faginesque creature at Speakers’ Corner, Sherlock. Let me see the card.’
I felt a tinge of guilt. Had we left when Holmes wanted to, all that might have been avoided.
Mycroft took the card from his brother and examined it with the small glass hanging from one of his watch chains. He handed it back. ‘Ordinary. Not likely to be traceable.’
‘My thoughts as well.’
‘I wonder if it is exactly like the one at Anson’s body. Worth pursuing, Sherlock, if you feel you are up to the game.’
‘You did not summon me here merely to chastise me!’ said Holmes
‘No, for several reasons. But primarily to discuss this series of murders.’
‘You are holding back something, Mycroft. What is it?’
Outside in the hall there was the sound of high-pitched male laughter and the door swung open.
‘Ah, they are here. You have more to learn in a moment.’
‘Do not tell your friend what your enemy should not know.’
—Arthur Schopenhauer
Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. ‘Welcome, gentlemen! Sherlock and Doctor Watson, I have invited this illustrious duo who have something to impart.’ Two foppish and very handsome young men spilled into the room on a cloud of cigar smoke, laughter, and the scent of expensive cologne and hair oil.
We rose as Mycroft continued. ‘May I introduce to you brothers Andrew and James Goodwin, viscounts both, and members of the House of Lords.’
‘I say, Mycroft, is this some kind of Game Day at your club?’ cried the taller of the two, garbed in an exquisitely tailored but slightly anachronistic deep blue velvet suit. ‘Everyone here seems to want everyone else to shush!’ He was a dark-haired gentleman, his long, curly locks coiffed in a Byronic style, giving a bohemian, artistic impression, contrasting with a coiled energy.
‘Yes! We were shushed five times – no six – between the entrance and this room,’ drawled the shorter