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 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,