| The Kidnapping of Mycroft Holmes by
Peter Tremayne
I was watching the face of my estimable
friend, Sherlock
Holmes, who sat opposite me at
the breakfast table. He
was examining the
telegraph which Mrs. Hudson had brought up with
the tea tray, his features mirroring his
perplexity. The tea was left untouched.
"Some bad news, Holmes?" I ventured, no
longer able to contain my curiosity.
He glanced up and blinked. Then he held out
the flimsy sheet of paper towards me. "A most
singular communication from my brother
Mycroft."
I took the telegraph and read: "Should
anything happen to me do not trust the man who is
Gentle. If I disappear, look for me near the Lump
of Goats in the land of the Race of Ciar.
—Mycroft."
I started to chuckle. "Is he fond of a
tipple, this brother of yours?" I said. "It sounds
as though he were the worse for a glass or two
when he wrote it."
But Holmes’ face was serious and he seemed
concerned. "You do not know Mycroft. It is some
cipher that I must solve. He must be in trouble if
he cannot telegraph me in plain
language."
Holmes retired to his armchair and soon I
became aware of the wreath of smoke rising slowly
from his pipe. It reminded me that I was short on
tobacco and so, finishing my breakfast, I went out
to the local tobacconist. I also bought a
newspaper. When I returned, barely fifteen minutes
later, I found Holmes in a high state of
agitation.
"Watson," he cried as I entered, "thank God
you have returned. I need you to accompany me on a
short trip.
"Whatever is the matter, dear fellow?" I
demanded, never having seen him moved to such
emotion before.
"You’ll need an overnight case," he went
on, not heeding my question, "and pack your
service revolver. I fear that there may be
difficult times ahead."
"Where are we off to?" I
inquired.
"Dublin," he said shortly.
"To Ireland?" I was astonished. "Whatever
for?"
He turned to me with a haunted look in his
eyes. "I received another telegraph but ten
minutes ago. It is my brother Mycroft. He has been
kidnapped."
It seems that I should pause in my
narrative to make some explanation of those
matters which Holmes was always reticent about my
sharing with the English public in the accounts I
made of his adventures. Of course, to the
discerning eye, many clues as to the nature of
Holmes’ background have been plainly visible in my
chronicles, although it was at his insistence that
I never clearly spelt them out. I refer to the
fact that Sherlock Holmes is Irish or, to be more
precise, Anglo-Irish. Holmes had, however, a fear
of prejudice and this was not without cause.
Therefore, I have promised him (and stipulated to
my executors) that my accounts of those cases
directly concerned with his background, such as
the one I am about to relate, will not be released
until one hundred years after his
death.
Sherlock Holmes was of the Holmes family of
Galway which settled in Ireland in the 17th
century. His uncle, Robert Holmes, was the famous
Galway barrister whom the Irish have to thank for
the organisation of their National Schools. The
Sherlock family on his mother’s side, after which
he was named, arrived in Meath at the time of
Henry II’s invasion of Ireland. He achieved
distinction at Trinity College, Dublin, before
winning a scholarship to Oxford—emulating his
equally brilliant friend from Dublin, Oscar Wilde.
His Irish background led to his interest in the
Celtic languages and his subsequent authorship of
such monographs as Chaldean Roots in the
Ancient Cornish Language.
It was shortly after we met that I realised
the acuteness of his ear in linguistic
matters.
"Watson," he had said reflectively. "A name
very common in northeast Ulster. I detect a County
Down diction. You are probably descended from the
old Scottish family of Mac Bhaididh, for that is
usually Anglicized as Watson or MacWhatty or
MacQuatt."
"Astounding, Holmes!" I gasped. "How did
you know? I began my education in England at the
age of seven!"
"Elementary, my dear Watson," he smiled
mischievously. "You still retain the rising
inflection at the ends of sentences. The musical
rhythm of an accent is harder to displace than
pronunciation."
It may also be remembered that Holmes’ two
greatest antagonists—Professor Moriarty and
Colonel Moran—shared his Irish background. Indeed,
like seems to have attracted like. Had I a gold
sovereign for every time someone with an Irish
name and background crossed our path I would be a
rich man. Take our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Many
visitors who lacked a fine ear mistook her as
Scottish, and Holmes (who was possessed of a
perverse sense of humor) was not loath to play up
this charade. She was, in actuality, an Irish lady
who had been married to one of the numerous
Hudsons of Kilbaha in County Kerry.
I make this brief digression merely so that
the background to this extraordinary story may be
more fully appreciated.
Holmes had been summoned to Dublin that
day—a little over a year since we’d first met—by a
laconic telegraph which read: "Mycroft
kidnapped. Meet me at Merrion Square.
Superintendent Mallon, DMP. Mycroft Holmes had his
rooms in Merrion Square." —to get both pieces
of information across without Holmes having to
spell them out for Watson. The mention of Holmes
and Watson’s first meeting seems to work better
here than in the following paragraph, where it
seems sort tacked on.)
Having caught the nightboat train at
Paddington, we arrived at Kingstown, the port near
Dublin, in the early hours of Saturday morning May
6, 1882. I make mention of the date for the sake
of the more historically minded reader as this was
an historic time for Ireland and its relations
with Britain. During the journey—a wild, dark trip
across the storm-blown Irish sea spent mainly in
the first class lounge nursing whiskies to keep
down the mal de mer—Holmes told me
something of his brother Mycroft. Mycroft was
seven years older than Holmes, a graduate of
Trinity College, Dublin, who had decided to make
his career in Dublin Castle, the seat of the
imperial administration in Ireland. He worked in
the fiscal department of the Under Secretary, a
permanent official who was head of the Civil
Service. According to Holmes, his brother was
possessed of a brilliant mind but was indolent and
not given to sports or physical exercise and so
was heavy in build.
"Why would anyone want to kidnap him?" I
queried. "Is kidnapping usual in
Ireland?"
Holmes replied with a shake of his head.
"Not at all. But it does not escape my notice that
there is some political unrest in the country at
this time. Have you been following Irish political
events in the newspapers?"
I confessed that I had not and was
surprised that Holmes had been, as he had always
confessed his knowledge of political matters to be
feeble. After this exchange, Holmes became moody
and refused to speculate further.
The journey from Kingstown into Westland
Row, via the Dublin and South Eastern Railway, was
made in morose silence. Holmes now and then would
take out the two telegraphs which he had received
and examine them with a deep furrow of
concentration on his broad brow.
Alighting from the train at Westland Row
Railway Station, Holmes ignored the cabbies and
conducted me, with unerring step, to a magnificent
square of Georgian houses a short walk from the
station. He went directly to one of the terraced
buildings and paused before the door. I saw that
it was ajar. Holmes pushed at it tentatively. It
swung open, revealing a shadowy, cavernous
hallway.
"Mycroft’s rooms are on the second floor,"
he explained as I followed him inside and up the
stairs.
He halted before a door with a glimmering
gaslight beside it which illuminated a small brass
frame affixed to one of the wooden panels. A card
was inserted in the frame which read "Mycroft
Holmes, Artium Baccalaureus." Holmes tapped on the
door. It swung open immediately and a large,
florid-faced uniformed constable stood scowling at
us.
"Is Mallon here?" asked Holmes before the
constable could speak. "I am Sherlock
Holmes."
"Superintendent Mallon is . . ." began the
constable ponderously, but another man, seeming to
be in his early forties, quickly appeared at his
shoulder.
"I am John Mallon," he said. There was no
disguising his Ulster accent. "I have heard of you
from my colleague Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You
are the younger brother of Mister Mycroft Holmes?
I suppose by your presence here that you must have
heard the news? Well, there is nothing that I can
tell you at this stage. You should not have made
the journey . . ."
Holmes cut him short by handing him one of
the telegraphs. I perceived that it was the one
summoning Holmes to Dublin, which had seemed to be
sent by Mallon.
The detective glanced at it and a frown
gathered on his brow. "I did not send this," he
said.
"So I have gathered. The questions are—who
did and why?"
Mallon glanced at the paper again. "This
was sent from the GPO in Sackville Street. Anyone
could have sent it."
"Curious that you are here to meet me in
accordance with the summons."
"Coincidental. No one knew I was coming
here until midnight last night. That was when the
local police notified me that your brother was
missing."
At this stage Mallon stood aside and
gestured for Holmes to enter his brother’s rooms.
I followed and was met with a look of disapproving
query.
"This is my friend and colleague Doctor
Watson," explained Holmes, at which Mallon
reluctantly acknowledged my existence before
calling out, "MacVitty!"
At the summons, a tall cadaverous-looking
man came from an inner room. He was dressed so
that no one would doubt that he appeared to be
what he was—a gentleman’s gentleman. Mallon
inquired whether MacVitty had sent the telegraph
to London. The man shook his head. Then he turned
his keen eyes on Holmes and greeted him as one
known of old. "It’s good to see you again, Master
Sherlock, but I’d rather it were under better
conditions."
"I gather that you summoned the police,
MacVitty," Holmes replied kindly. "Let’s hear the
details."
"Not much to tell. Master Mycroft was
expected home on Thursday night. He was going to
dine in and not at his club. He gave me specific
orders to have a sea trout and a chilled bottle of
Pouilly Fume ready. When he did not turn up I
thought he had changed his mind. But then Mister
O’Keeffe came down. He said that he had been
invited to brandy and cigars. Mister O’Keeffe
works with Master Mycroft at the Castle,
sir."
"You said ‘came down,’" Holmes said
quickly.
"Mister O’Keeffe has rooms on the top floor
of this building. He waited awhile before retuning
to his own apartment. When Master Mycroft did not
show up for breakfast, I sent for the
police."
"And that was Friday morning?" queried
Holmes sharply.
"The local police did not think it
necessary to act until late last night," said
Mallon defensively. "There are many reasons why an
unattached gentleman might not return home at
night . . . ."
"It is strange that you turn up now,
Mallon," mused Holmes, "at the precise time the
telegraph asked me to meet you here."
Mallon’s eyes narrowed. "I am not sure what
you mean."
"Information is a two way street. I know
that you are no ordinary policeman, Mallon. You
are the director of the detective branch of ‘G’
Division which is devoted to political matters
such as investigating the Irish Republican
Brotherhood, the Land League, and other such
extremist movements. I know that you were the very
man who arrested Charles Parnell of the Irish
Party at Morrison’s Hotel last October. This
doubtless implies that your superiors believe a
political motive is behind my brother’s
disappearance."
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