The Case of the Scandalous Secretary
by M

            “Must you go?” he asked.

            I was standing at my mirror, knotting my neck-tie.  I looked at him through the mirror, smiled at his impish question, and said, “You know I must; I have patients.”  He was lying in my bed now for the second time, and he looked just as beautiful there as he had on the first occasion (only two evenings previous).  His dark hair was tousled from the night and his bare shoulders and arms looked strong and graceful as he lay with his head propped up on his hand.  I keenly regretted my having to leave.  

            He smiled warmly, his eyes lingering on my image in the mirror, but he said nothing.  I finished my dressing and strode over to the bed.  “I shall return soon enough, and I have no prior engagements this evening,” I said with a promising smile.  I seized hold of his free hand and kissed it tenderly, to seal my oath.  I then took my leave, silently and selfishly cursing every ailing person in London as I walked to my practice.

~

            While at my practice that day Holmes had a most unexpected visitor.  Not being present, I will recount the events as Holmes later described them.   

            After preparing himself for the day, Holmes made ready for a particularly trying chemical experiment.  He was just sitting down to this task when Mrs. Hudson brought in a card announcing a visitor.  “Show him up at once, Mrs. Hudson,” he demanded as he hastily removed his chemical-stained frock-coat.  Just as he was slipping into his jacket, a corpulent man with watery gray eyes entered the room.  

            “Sherlock,” he said, “how are you?”

            “Mycroft,” Holmes replied pleasantly.  “I have been very well.  And how fare you, good brother?” he asked in return.

            “Well enough,” he replied, an inquisitive expression gracing his features momentarily.

            “You must have some exceedingly pressing concern,” Holmes said, “for you to travel all the way to Baker Street.”

            Both men sat down, Mycroft taking Sherlock Holmes’s usual seat and Sherlock taking a place on the settee.  Mycroft pulled out his silver snuff box, while the other Holmes lit a cigarette.

            Finally, Mycroft smiled and said, “Indeed I do.  I have a case for you, Sherlock; one of the utmost political importance, but that I haven’t the energy to pursue myself.”

            “Continue,” the junior Holmes said.

            Holmes the senior began his narration.  “There is a certain cabinet secretary that is involved in a rather unorthodox marital arrangement.  His discretion has been impeccable, but should his intimate life become publicly known, it would be to his ruin—as well as his wife’s—and not to say a fair embarrassment to the prime minister.”

            “I suspect,” Sherlock Holmes interjected, “that his private arrangements are under threat of exposure.”

            “Most perceptive,” Mycroft said (with perhaps a hint of sarcasm).  “The source behind the threat of blackmail is what you must uncover.  

            “There are several points of which you should be aware.  The secretary in question is committing bigamy:  he has both an English wife and an Indian wife, whom he met and married during his army days.  She and his three children reside in Calcutta, where he keeps an extensive estate.  His love for this Indian woman and his children is unshakable, and he spends nearly four months of the year on the sub-continent.  But as you can well imagine, such a familial affiliation would have utterly destroyed his political ambitions.  

            “Therefore, it was necessary that he take an English wife.  His English wife is cognizant of her husband’s Indian marriage and fully supports it.  You see, they have what rather resembles a business arrangement.  He gains a publicly-respectable English wife and she gains an opportunity to further her social ambitions as well as satisfy her private preference for the frequent company of much-younger gentlemen.

            “Well, the secretary recently received a letter threatening to expose his private arrangements should he not agree to supply privileged information when demanded.  As you can appreciate, Sherlock, the imminent threat of such a political scandal was directly brought before me, and since it requires considerable leg-work, I have come to you,” Mycroft Holmes concluded.

            “I see,” Sherlock Holmes said slowly.  “Have you any threads that might lead to a solution?”

            “I have several, of course, most of which can be found in this letter,” he said as he handed over a light blue envelope.

            “Ah, yes,” Sherlock said as he examined the object.  

            “Yes, I thought you might find a good start in it,” the elder Holmes said with a hint of a proud smile.  “Likewise, the delivery system is suggestive: it was brought by an Indian man.”

            “An Indian?” Holmes junior said with a thoughtful, far-away look in his keen gray eyes, “Do you think it a bold move or simply an alternate party carrying the message, or perhaps an amateur…?”

            “It is for you to track down, dear brother, I am far too lazy.  That is all the business I have for you,” Mycroft said with an air of finality.  “Now, tell me how you come to be in love?”

            Sherlock Holmes looked up at his brother in shock, not having expected such a question.  He shouldn’t have been surprised, he realized in retrospect, but at the time he was caught most off-guard.  

            With a satisfied smile, Mycroft Holmes asked, “Have I caught you unawares, younger brother?”  Holmes sat silent and still, not able to speak.  “Even though we do not see each other frequently, my dear Sherlock,” Mycroft explained, “I have had ample time to study your nature during our younger years.  It should not surprise you that I would quickly be aware of any significant change in your emotional state and a fair notion of its general characteristics.  Your surprise confirms that it is indeed of a romantic nature.

            “What’s further, I am able to deduce that your lover is a man who is of middle-height and wears a mustache but no beard.  He is most probably a gentleman, careful and discreet, and his passion for you is considerable.  I see from your countenance that I am correct on all points,” Mycroft concluded, somewhat smugly.

            “Quite,” was all Sherlock Holmes could manage at that moment.  He soon regained his composure.  “I say, Mycroft, there is nothing at all that you miss.  I trust that the shade of redness upon my upper lip led you to conclude both the sex and preference for a moustache of my lover.”

            “Yes, and the quarter-of-an-inch portion of a love mark that is not covered by your collar indicates caution marred in the end by a high degree of passion.  Additionally, your physical intimacy is a rather recent development, as you would have perfected the balance between discretion and passion given any considerable length of time.”

            “Quite,” Sherlock said, acknowledging his brother’s most astute inferences.

            “Tell me, then, who is this fine gentleman that you hold in such esteem?” Mycroft asked pleasantly.  “I am unable to name him with the information I can readily observe.”

            Sherlock Holmes hesitated, but resigning himself to his brother’s full recognition of the situation, he decided to give in to this conversation.  “John Watson,” he replied.

            “Ah, your faithful chronicler, Doctor Watson; I should have known, seeing that his accounts of you at times suggest more than mere friendship.  If I’m not very much mistaken, you have lodged together here for some years.  I should very much like to meet him, is he at home?” Mycroft asked with genuine interest.

            “He is currently at his medical practice, I’m afraid,” Holmes said.  

            “Very well, I shall come to dinner this evening, if it’s not too much trouble,” Mycroft said.

            Holmes again hesitated, somewhat surprised by his brother’s uncharacteristic behavior, before saying, “No trouble at all.”  

            “Very good, very good,” Holmes senior said as he rose to leave.  “I shall return at seven if it suits you.  Good day, dear brother.”

            “Good day,” Sherlock Holmes said as he ushered his brother out the door.  When he was alone in the room again, Holmes sat down in his chair, lit his pipe, and sat considering his brother’s most unusual visit.  

~

            “Holmes,” I said as I closed the door and walked across the sitting room, “I came as soon as I could get away.”  I found him sitting in his chair, deep in thought, blue smoke rings steadily emitting from his pipe.  I leaned over and kissed his cheek in greeting before picking up the evening edition of the Times and sitting upon the settee.  “How was your day, Holmes?” I asked, knowing that his current state of brooding was the result of some event, most probably a visitation from Lestrade.  I reclined upon the settee with my legs stretched out before me.  

            “Rather interesting,” he said now returning from his reverie.  “I have a most interesting case before me.”

            “A case you say?  I suspected as much.  What has Lestrade brought you this time?” I asked with much interest.  

            “Lestrade is not the harbinger of this particular case.  The sensitive political nature of the problem precludes any regular police involvement,” he said.  “My brother brought this case to my attention.”  He made this statement in an even and matter-of-fact way.  I was utterly astounded, and must have looked it.  I had never heard him mention that he had a brother, or any other family for that matter, so when he said it so casually I was stunned.

            “Brother?” I asked in amazement.  “You have a brother?”

            He looked over at me, a small smile played around his lips.  “Yes, and a mother and father too, though both peacefully at rest.  Were you under the impression that I sprang independently from the ether, Watson?” he asked good-naturedly, clearly amused by my incredulity.  

            I replied, “Well, sometimes, yes, one does get the impression that you possess an inhuman quality about you, like someone not born of mortal parentage.”

            “Surely recent events have entirely persuaded you as to my humanity,” he asked.

            “Touche,” I replied.  “So tell me of your brother,” I suggested.

            “Mycroft is his name,” he said, “and you shall meet him soon.  He is coming for dinner.  He should be arriving any moment.”

            Before I could express my surprise or obtain any further information, the bell rang and a stout man bearing the same sharpness of expression as Sherlock Holmes soon entered the sitting room.  Likewise, he bore the same introspective gaze.  His eyes, however, were a very light shade of gray and his girth was considerable.  Before I could do more than stand up from the settee, Mycroft Holmes was striding toward me with an interesting and unreadable smile upon his face.

            “This must be your good doctor,” Mycroft said and reached for my hand.  “Mycroft Holmes,” he said.

            “John Watson,” I replied, “A great pleasure it is to meet you, sir.” I was still struggling with the idea of a second Holmes, and I hoped that I had not come across as aloof or distant during this introduction.

            “The pleasure is mine, sir, no doubt,” he rejoined jovially.  

            “Shall we sit,” Sherlock Holmes said, “Mrs. Hudson should have the dinner brought up in a few moments.”  

            “Excellent suggestion, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he took a seat in Holmes’s usual chair.  I smiled inwardly at both the use of my friend’s Christian name and the usurpation of his customary chair.  This would prove to be a most educational evening, I mused puckishly.  

            We sat idly talking about Holmes’s cases and my recounting of them to the public.  After some questioning on my part, I came to discover that Mycroft held a very unique and understated position in our government.  Mrs. Hudson had soon arranged a fine meal of roasted fowl on the table and we took our seats.  

            As we tucked in to our most excellent dinner, we conversed at leisure about my army days in the East and about Holmes’s most recent case involving the unfortunate kidnapping of young Weaver.  Throughout all of our talk, I noticed that the junior Holmes was saying very little and looking a bit odd.  I thought nothing of it really, owing to the new case and the strange malaise that oftentimes comes over him as he thinks through a problem.

            Mycroft Holmes must have noticed his brother’s mood as well, for he said, “Perhaps we should talk of lighter subjects, eh, Sherlock?”  Then he smiled mischievously and asked, “Tell me, Doctor, do you have any plans for marriage?”  

            I was quite taken aback by the question, for it was most ungentlemanly of our guest.  However, I found myself more surprised by how I might possibly answer it.  

            “Oh…well,” I stammered, “I…ah…haven’t given it much thought, really.  But…ah, no, I suppose not.”  

            “No, no, of course not,” he replied and then looked at Holmes with a roguish smirk.  “Nor does my brother, do you Sherlock?”

            “You know perfectly well that I do not,” he said with a caustic tone not uncommon to brothers.  “Do stop teasing the good doctor, Mycroft.  You are truly unworthy of him.”  

            “You are quite right,” Mycroft Holmes said.  Turning back to me he said, “Do forgive me, Doctor, I am being utterly churlish.”  

            I soon realized that something was occurring to which I was ignorant, but I chalked it up to brotherly relations, so I replied, “Think nothing of it, sir, I possess a thick skin and it would take a good deal more to wound me.”

            “Well said, sir,” Mycroft replied with a very hearty laugh.  Turning once again to his younger brother, he said, “The mettle of the man is quite obvious, Sherlock, and I daresay I approve of him wholeheartedly, a first-rate character, indeed.”  To me he said more seriously now, “You see, doctor, my motives for attending dinner this evening were not entirely social.  I had, in fact, come out of a keen curiosity.”  He paused as if finished.

            Aware of a horrible awkwardness now descending upon the table, I spoke, “Of what, may I ask, were you curious?”

            Mycroft smiled; Holmes closed his eyes briefly then looked at me apologetically.

            “You see, Dr.,” Mycroft started to explain, “I am aware of your private relationship with my brother.  No, no, do not cast a blameful eye upon him, for he gave not deliberate indication.  I simply drew certain conclusions about the state of his emotions and his person that led me to the fact.  My curiosity, I daresay, was for you.  I desired to know the fellow that could have persuaded my nay-saying brother to such obvious love and admiration.  And I must admit, Dr., I am quite satisfied.”

            I was stunned by all of this and could say nothing.  Mycroft flashed me a quick smile of apology, and said in a serious tone, “I do beg your pardon, my good man, for I fear I have shocked you greatly.”

            I regained my senses, now realizing full well that Mycroft Holmes possessed much of the same intellectual brilliance (and social peculiarities) as his brother.  “It is simply a bit more than I am accustomed to, having two Holmeses in the same room,” I said with a good-humored smile.  

            Mycroft laughed at this and said, “Capital.”  Even the junior Holmes eased his rigid posture, for I have no doubt he had been dreading this interaction for much of the day.  “Well, Sherlock, I must be off, before I truly test the doctor’s good will,” Mycroft said as he stood.  “I must once again beg your leave, Doctor, and promise to be more myself when next we meet.  My only excuse is that the excitement of seeing my brother succumb to cupid’s whims overtook my better social graces.”  He then took me firmly by the hand, “it has indeed been a great pleasure, sir.  Good evening.”  

            “I shall see you out, Mycroft,” Holmes said.  

~

            I sat down upon the settee, still in a bit of a shock over dinner.  It was not long until Holmes returned to the sitting room.

            “I do apologize, Watson,” he said immediately, before I had an opportunity to speak.  “You must understand that my brother is not a sociable man.  He meant no offense I assure you.”  He said this as he took a seat in his arm-chair.

            “I was simply a trifle taken aback by the fact that he possessed full knowledge of our relationship,” I retorted, a touch of crossness in my tone.  

            “Mycroft possesses the powers of observation and reason in much greater quantity than I,” he said slowly as he lit his pipe.  “His life-long association with me and the minute traces of our physical intimacy left him abundant fodder for inference.”

            “Traces?” I asked startled.  

            “Worry not, my dear Watson, the average man would not have noticed them in the least,” he said easily.  “But to satisfy your curiosity, he was able to deduce by the faint irritation present on my upper lip your preference for a moustache and, therefore, your gender.”

            “Good God,” I said and looked intently at my friend’s mouth.  Seeing nothing I replied, “But I see no such irritation…”

            “It was more pronounced earlier in the day, no doubt, and the morning light from the window afforded a better view,” he said.  

            I sat in silence, thinking over the many facets of this evening.  I looked over at Holmes periodically and noticed that he appeared to be quite unconcerned about the matter.  

            “You need not worry about my brother; he is discretion itself,” he said suddenly.  I will never become accustomed to his habit of following my thoughts.  

            “You are right, I’m sure,” I said finally, “if he’s anything like you, and I suspect in many ways he is, there is no cause for alarm.”  He smiled, pleased that my anxiety had been assuaged and that my mood was returning to normal.  He then laid down his pipe and stood up, removing his jacket and then his waist coat.  My eyes were instantly drawn to him and my mind entirely forgot the evening’s events.  He covered the three paces to the settee slowly, and when he reached it he placed himself beside me on the settee.  He gently took hold of my cheeks and kissed me slowly but deeply.  After some time, he leaned back, fingers still lightly caressing my face.  I looked at him and, there, just upon his upper lip was a very faint redness—the result of my moustache.  

            Without really thinking I asked, “Would you like me to shave my moustache?”

            “What?” he retorted, clearly not expecting my offer.  After a brief moment of thought he smiled and said, “I rather prefer that you didn’t.”  He kissed me again, whispering as his lips slowly lingered upon mine, “The sensation upon my skin is quite…intoxicating.”  

            With that all coherent thought escaped my mind.

~

            The early morning sun was coming through the sitting-room window and playing across my eyelids.  Accustomed to sleeping in quarters with heavy curtains about the windows, I was soon awake.  I noticed first that I was not in my bed.  I looked around, taking in my surroundings.  I was in the sitting room, lying near-naked upon the floor amidst an unruly pile of evening-clothes.  The blanket from the settee was loosely draped about my person, and Holmes lie sleeping beside me, hand upon my chest.  He was covered in part by the same settee blanket and in part by a white evening shirt (I knew not whether it was his or mine).  My immediate thought upon assessing the scene was of the angelic beauty of my companion.  Hard upon its heels, however, came the terrifying realization that the door was unlocked and that Mrs. Hudson would soon be moving about the house.  My eyes flew to the door, expecting the sudden arrival of our innocent land-lady.  I sat up rapidly, sprang to my feet, and in nothing but my untied drawers I crossed the room and locked the door with a fevered haste.  

            A muffled and sleepy voice emerged from somewhere among the clothes upon the floor, “You needn’t worry, Watson, our good land-lady is in Camden visiting her daughter.”

            I relaxed considerably upon hearing this news.  I then realized that, for the sake of my dignity, I had best do up the fly of my under-drawers and put on some trousers.  Upon doing so, I walked over to sit on the settee, having to step over a prone Holmes to do so.  I discovered a cigarette case between two cushions of the settee (it was Holmes’s), so I lit a cigarette and relaxed from my abrupt and discomfiting awakening.  

            Holmes’s hand soon reached skyward from under a black morning-jacket and he asked, “May I have a cigarette?”  I placed one between his elegant fingers, and as he sat up I lit a match and held it out to him.  He leaned in, cigarette now in his mouth, and was soon taking a satisfying drag of tobacco.  

            “This case is most interesting,” Holmes said suddenly and more to himself than to me I suspected.  “I believe I am to find my answer in Chelsea.”  We sat in silence for some time, during which Holmes sat on the floor with his back against the settee.  I lightly stroked his hair as he brooded over his case.  After a few moments, he said, “I would love nothing more than to remain here, with you, but I must begin my inquiries.”  He stood up and, realizing that his under-shirt and drawers were not easily identified among the many articles littering the floor, he walked naked to his bed-chamber (a pleasant sight indeed, I thought to myself, as I watched him make his exit).

~

            It being a Saturday (and one without the prospect of Mrs. Hudson’s meals) I spent the full day at my club, playing billiards and whist with my medical acquaintances.  I took lunch with Peterson (who seems to be a permanent fixture at the club of late), and we talked gratefully of the winding-down of the influenza epidemic.  During a silence, Peterson smiled over at me, “Tell me, old man, what has become of the romance you were involved in some time ago?”  

            Immediately thinking of the previous night’s escapades in the sitting room, I smiled involuntarily and felt a flush suffuse my cheeks.

            “Going quite well, then, I see,” he said in response to my obvious reaction of remembered pleasure.  

            “Quite,” I said trying to regain my composure.  

            He grinned broadly and said, “More than ‘quite’, I’d say, old boy, with the way you’ve been positively merry lately.”

            “Indeed,” I said with a warm but reserved smile.

            “Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll press you no further for details, but should you ever wish to disclose, I’m your man.  Now, how about another round of billiards?”

            With relief, I heartily agreed to his suggestion and was engaged in such a way well into the evening.  

            When I returned to Baker Street at just after midnight, I discovered that Holmes was not in.  He had left a note on the table informing me that he would not return until the next day.  I retired to my bed-chamber and immediately succumbed to sleep.  

~

            Having returned from Camden just before lunch, Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room and announced the arrival of Mycroft Holmes.  I was a bit unprepared for seeing him without Holmes present, but he was shaking my hand in greeting before I had much time to become anxious.  

            “Dr. Watson,” he said pleasantly, “how good it is to see you again.”

            “Likewise,” I replied, at once at ease.  “I fear your brother is not in, but you may sit and wait if you like.”  He nodded, and we took our seats:  he in Holmes’s arm-chair and I on the settee.  

            “I came to inform my brother that his actions are having the necessary effects, but that, unfortunately, such effects will soon be moot,” Mycroft Holmes’ began, but was cut short by the sound of the front door and the imminent arrival of the younger Holmes.  

            “Mycroft,” he said as he saw our visitor.  “You have no doubt come to inform me of the secretary’s up-coming withdrawal from public life.”

            “I have,” Mycroft said plainly.  

            “Be that as it may,” Sherlock Holmes stated, “I have the situation in hand.”

            “Excellent work, brother,” Mycroft said.  “Might I venture to guess that a former servant of the Indian household was the source of the information?”

            “Quite correct,” Holmes confirmed, “and you have no doubt further deduced that a greater element lie behind, providing the ultimate channel for the state information gleaned from the blackmail.”

            “Indeed,” said the elder Holmes, “I had thought as much.  You’ve done a remarkable job, Sherlock, and I’ll leave the tying up of loose ends to you.”  He then rose, farewells were exchanged, and he departed.  

            “Now, Watson,” Holmes said smiling, “I sense that you wish for some explanation of the case.”  I smiled and nodded in agreement.  “Well, the matter was quite simple, really.  It all began when one of the servants from the secretary’s Indian house-hold took passage aboard a ship bound for London and a new life.  Aboard this ship, there happened to be a rather unscrupulous fellow Indian.  Among his many illicit dealings, this Indian was known to be a collector of private information, mainly procured from the native servants of wealthy English families living on the sub-continent.  This man, then, through casual conversation with the secretary’s former employee, was able to procure the identity our client.  And primarily being a resident of London, he immediately recognized our high public figure and what such information might mean in terms of profit.

            “But where to obtain the best price for his goods, he asks himself.  It took several weeks for him to comb the underground for his fence.  What he found, much to my vexation, was an expert blackmailer named Charles Milverton.  This Milverton has thus far eluded my grasp, though I have been aware of his bold actions for several months now.  He is a master of his trade, Watson, not to be underestimated, and I fear that he will go unpunished this time as well.”

            “But I thought you said you had the villains in hand?” I asked in amazement.

            “That is not precisely what I said, but I do have the Indian devil well within my grasp and several of his accomplices.  Milverton, alas, will have to wait; I simply did not have the time or freedom, given the sensitive nature of the problem, to secure the proof against him.  In time, Watson, in time,” Holmes answered, no doubt already plotting his retribution upon this Milverton.

            “However, the grammatical structure of the letter to the secretary provided the first indication that the solution was to be found in our great city’s Indian community.  I simply had to tap my network of informants in that quarter to weed out the likely perpetrator.  The confirmation of Milverton’s identity was a mere matter of applying the proper pressure to our criminal-of-all-trades.”  Holmes concluded with satisfaction.  

            “I say, what an interesting affair,” I stated.  “It is a shame that the secretary will soon resign from his post.”

            “A wise decision, I would wager,” Holmes said, “His private situation is one that leaves many avenues for discovery.  It is best that he retire under his own volition to ensure the safe-keeping of his Indian family as well as that of his English wife’s social standing.  A most unorthodox situation he is in, wouldn’t you say, Watson?”

            “Two too many wives, I daresay,” I replied and received a smile in return.

 
The Case of the Confidence Trickster