She followed him through the front entrance and into the precincts of the Diogenes Club, the most secretive gentleman’s club in London. Once she, Justine, and Watson were standing in the entrance hall, with the large wooden doors shut behind them, it was so quiet that they could not even hear London traffic. The porter led them past a large, luxuriously furnished room in which a number of gentlemen were sitting in armchairs upholstered with crimson plush, which had high sides so they could not see their neighbors reading Punch or the novels of Anthony Trollope. At least, Mary could not see what they were reading, but those were the sorts of things gentlemen read in red plush armchairs. None of the chairs was turned toward any other, and there was no conversation.
The porter stopped at a door on the right. He opened it, stepped inside, and held the door open for them. “Miss Jekyll, sir,” he said to the man who was waiting within, seated in a particularly large, comfortable armchair. It had to be large, for he was a large man. Only by the height of his forehead and the sharpness of his nose could Mary have guessed that this was Sherlock’s brother.
“Miss Jekyll,” he said. “Come in, and your companions as well. Ah, Watson. How are you?” He seemed to feel no shame for having asked the porter to lie about his whereabouts. “And you must be Miss Frankenstein,” he said to Justine. “You see, my brother has told me about you and the Athena Club, as well as the Société des Alchimistes. When Jackson mentioned that you were asking to see me, I was curious enough that I instructed him to admit you.”
“And yet you would not see me before,” said Watson bitterly. “I’m dreadfully worried about your brother. What sort of errand have you sent him on? We have learned that Professor Moriarty is still alive. If so, he will no doubt make an attempt on Sherlock’s life. If you have any information—”
“If I did, I would not divulge it,” said Mycroft with a bland stare. “You do not understand the gravity of the situation. It is a matter of state that must be kept entirely secret from the public. If the large, ignorant, easily panicked body politic had any idea that its titular head was in danger, its limbs would begin to writhe—”
“By titular head, do you mean the titular head of state? Do you mean the Queen?” asked Justine.
“Her Majesty in danger!” said Mary. “How is that possible?”
“There, you see, I have already said too much. Her Majesty is being protected as well as she can be, I assure you. Nevertheless, the danger is real. There are forces out there, in the great, dirty thoroughfare of humanity that is London, seeking to destabilize the government. We are keeping track of them as best we can. We do not yet have enough information to apprehend Moriarty, and arresting his underlings would merely alert him to our presence. He himself is too powerful to arrest on incomplete evidence. We believe he is receiving financial backing from a member of the House of Lords.”
“What lord of the realm would betray the Queen?” asked Watson, looking shocked.
“Your faith in humanity is as refreshing as it is ridiculous,” said Mycroft. “Miss Jekyll, you look like a sensible young woman. Where Sherlock has gone, I cannot—and will not—rescue him. That would betray my hand prematurely in this affair. My position is both my power and my weakness. I can get in where other men cannot, and cannot get in where other men—or perhaps young ladies—can. I did not give much credence to Sherlock’s description of your abilities—he is obviously biased by his affection for you. But Irene Norton thinks very highly of you, so I am going to tell you this: Find my brother. Sherlock and I are not alike—he is far too emotional, has always been since he was a child. Our father was a philosopher of sorts, a purely theoretical scholar who spent his days in his private library. I take after him. Our mother was, as women are, a creature of fire and feeling. Beautiful, intelligent, but driven by instinct and emotion. Sherlock adored her and was devastated when she died. He was only fourteen at the time, and impressionable as all boys are. I believe that is why he has never married, and why he pursues this hobby of being a private detective. He wishes to impose order on the chaos of the world, and so he approaches life as a series of clues, a puzzle to be solved. He aspires to a rationality that is not natural for him. He is, after all, our mother’s son. Well, I hope you find him and get him out of this situation—alive. I am not an emotional man myself, but Sherlock is the only family I have left. Now, I have considerable work to do. Run along, rescue Sherlock if you can, and do not visit me again. I shall not be in.”
“Can you give me no information as to his whereabouts?” asked Mary. “How can we rescue him if we do not know where he is?”
Mycroft Holmes looked at her impassively. “If you cannot figure that out for yourself, then you are not as competent as Mrs. Norton said you were, and you are of no use either to me or to Sherlock. The more I tell you of this matter, the more you can tell Moriarty and his men if you are captured. I have given you as much information as I care to, or as you require. You are reputed to be an intelligent young woman, Miss Jekyll. I look forward to seeing whether you succeed in your inquiries.”
When they were once again standing out on the street, Mary said, “Well, that was—”
“Interesting?” said Justine.
“Infuriating,” said Watson. “How could he leave his brother in peril, when he was the one who put his brother in peril? Mycroft has no notion of human sympathy.”
“I suspect that he can’t afford to,” said Mary. “I don’t know what sort of work he does for the government, but Irene Norton said he was her counterpart. She is a spy for the Americans.”
“Is she indeed?” said Watson, looking astonished. “I wonder if Sherlock knows. He has always held her in such high regard. She was a lovely woman, with rich auburn tresses.…”
MARY: Is there any woman Dr. Watson hasn’t fallen in love with at one time or another?
JUSTINE: Mrs. Hudson, I imagine.
MARY: Oh, you know what I mean. Any woman of the appropriate age. Irene, Beatrice…
CATHERINE: You, although he was too loyal to Holmes to continue that particular infatuation.
MARY: I think it was the appearance of Beatrice on the scene. As soon as Beatrice shows up, all male attention shifts to her. Which can be very useful, sometimes.
BEATRICE: That is absolutely not true! And once they find out I am poisonous, they lose interest.
CATHERINE: There is that. Only someone as foolhardy as Clarence would completely overlook the fact that you could kill him with your breath.
BEATRICE: Alas…
What had Mycroft Holmes meant by his brother’s affection for her? Mary took off her gloves again in the front hall of 11 Park Terrace. Watson and Justine were already in the parlor. Of course they had fewer accoutrements to remove—their hats came off quickly, without having to pull out pins!
“You were gone long enough.” Diana was standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in boys’ clothes. For goodness’ sake, why could the girl not comb her hair? It looked like a bright red bird’s nest. And why could she not dress properly, like the young lady she was—or should be?