their styles were, their suits were expertly tailored, complimenting each man’s physique. Sportsmen, too, I decided. Two odd, if very rich, ducks.
‘Silence is a policy of the club, gentlemen, except for this room,’ said Mycroft. ‘Do come in and meet my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and colleague, Dr John Watson.’
‘Sherlock Holmes! The Demon Detective!’ cried James, the man in green. ‘And his little friend, the writer!’
As if in response to my social discomfort, the taller man drawled, ‘He is an army doctor, James, not a “little friend”. Relax, gentlemen, we do not bite.’
‘Dr Watson! I say, are you a medical doctor, then? So sorry!’ cried the shorter. ‘Because I have a toe—’
‘James, not now!’ implored his brother, and they both laughed.
At Mycroft’s gesture, the brothers claimed the seats on the sofa we had just vacated, the two of them taking up its entire long length, reclining as though they were at home in their sitting-room.
Holmes and I found other seats, then waited patiently as the two young men called for coffee and cigarettes, lumps of sugar, napkins and biscuits, clean ashtrays, Scotch and Claret, causing the attendant to scurry about, bringing in item after item, only to be sent out again.
Mycroft smoked his cigarette patiently and seemed to take no notice of this odd show. Holmes, however, got up and moved once again to the window, irritated.
I studied them in more detail. Andrew, in blue, appeared to be older, and leaned back, languidly regarding Mycroft through a haze of cigarette smoke, a sardonic smile upon his smooth features. He was clearly a man used to privilege, and rarely challenged. A keen intelligence shined through his relaxed demeanour and I would warrant the man missed very little.
By contrast, his brother James, in green, was highly strung, as though an electric current animated him always, his dark brown eyes glittering in amusement and interest. He gestured with quick movements, smoothing his patent leather hair, flicking ash from his cigarette, sipping from his Claret, taking in the room and us in darting glances. He, too, seemed intelligent, with that air of entitlement possessed by the very rich.
They were a curious combination. I had heard of them, of course. Two of the youngest members of the House of Lords, they were influential and wealthy almost beyond compare. They shared an enormous house near Grosvenor Square, famous for its parties.
These frivolous and foppish first impressions were carefully cultivated, I presumed, as I had also read they had recently championed a major bill in Parliament with new protections for factory workers, against considerable opposition from their own party.
‘Shall we begin?’ said Mycroft. ‘Sherlock, do come and join us. They have news which will be of interest. Mr Goodwin, may I call you Andrew, if only to differentiate you from your brother James?’
‘Oh, indeed, do use our Christian names. Everyone does, for that very reason,’ said Andrew Goodwin.
‘Andrew, then, please advise my brother Sherlock and Dr Watson what you told me this morning.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Andrew taking a healthy sip of his whisky. ‘Ah, very good, this. We must get some for the house. What is it?’
‘A self whisky. Glenmorangie from Tain. And now your news, please,’ said Mycroft.
‘Tell them, Andrew,’ said James.
‘Yes. Those recent murders. Anson. Clammory. And then that poor man stabbed by his own son!’
‘Danforth. What about them?’ asked Holmes.
‘They are all Luminarians,’ added James.
‘Were, James, were!’ said Andrew.
‘Interesting,’ said Holmes returning to sit with the group.
‘What is a Luminarian?’ I asked.
All eyes swivelled to me. The Goodwin brothers shared a smile.
‘It is a very secret organization, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Not unlike the Freemasons, who also exist to promote good works. However, the Luminarians do not spring from the building industry. They are, to a man, a breed of wealthy do-gooders, all self-made, who use their money and influence to “bring light to the world”. Hence “Luminarians”. An organization started by the two of you, I understand. That is really all I know.’
Andrew and James stared at Holmes in surprise.
‘But you know quite a bit. How is that?’ James blurted.
‘It is my business to know London intimately,’ said Holmes.
James laughed and looked at his brother. ‘Well, if Mr Holmes begins to reveal what I did intimately in our mutual study at two o’clock early this morning, I’ll have him down for a witch.’
‘What is a male witch called, by the way?’ said Andrew.
‘A warlock,’ said Holmes, matching their good humour with an uncharacteristic smile of his own. ‘I have been called the Devil, but never a warlock. And no, I have no eyes in your study. How does one become a Luminarian? Does one apply and need a second? Do you induct new members?’
‘It is not a membership per se. There is no applying or formal induction. It’s more of a … bestowing. Kind of like the Queen’s honours,’ said James Goodwin. ‘Not quite a knighthood, but …’
‘Oh, James! Being dubbed a Luminarian is our honour, given by us, to a very lucky few,’ said Andrew.
‘And the benefits of this honour?’ asked Holmes.
‘None really. Just the satisfaction of the honour. A certificate, I suppose suitable for framing.’
Both men laughed at the thought. ‘Oh yes, and a rather nice pin,’ said James.
‘Names, please,’ said Holmes, removing a small notebook and a silver pencil from his pocket.
‘Oh, we couldn’t,’ said James.
Holmes sighed. ‘If three Luminarians have recently met untimely ends, it would be prudent if you would provide us a list of members. In case this is a … trend.’
The brothers exchanged a glance.
‘Honorees, not members. What my brother means is that we really couldn’t,’ said Andrew. ‘There is no formal list. Besides, no one knows of this group but us.’
‘My brother knew,’ said Mycroft.
‘The recipients of this “honour” know. And those who see the pins,’ said Holmes.
‘I was joking about the pins. And the certificates.’
‘What about meetings?’
‘None. It is not a society in that sense,’ said Andrew.
‘No lunches? No annual Christmas dinner?’ persisted my friend.
‘You are being facetious. No, just the honour. Mycroft is a Luminarian, by the way.’
‘You are forgetting that I declined,’ murmured Mycroft, pouring himself a Scotch.
‘How is this honour bestowed?’ asked Holmes.
‘At a private ceremony at our house,’ said James. ‘Plenty of champagne.’
‘Of course, we invite the Luminarians thereafter to our parties,’ said Andrew. ‘Usually.’ Neither Holmes brother reacted. ‘It is a rather coveted invitation,’ he added.
‘Indeed!’ I blurted out.
The group turned to look at me.
‘I, well, my wife Mary enjoys reading about your parties. In the papers. They have quite a reputation. The food. Music …’
The four