Chapter 101: Outside The Box

Previous: A Wild Theory

"No wonder the police haven't found it." [source]

"Still, Holmes," I objected, "why would the coroner's office say the body was identified by comparison with a photograph, if it wasn't true?"

"That's a good question, Doctor," replied my friend.

"And if it is true," I continued, "then a neutral observer might be tempted to ask, 'Why didn't they test the DNA?'"

"Indeed," said Sherlock Holmes. "And the same observer might be tempted to suggest that perhaps no rigorous testing was done to identify the body, precisely because such testing would have uncovered a monstrous deception."

"And yet," I said, "it's only a wild theory."

"That's all it is," agreed Holmes. "And, at this point, that's all it can be. I would love to trust the press, Watson. I would truly enjoy being able to take every word printed in the London dailies as Gospel truth. It would make everything so much easier. But as we have seen more than once, it's not a wise thing to do."

"The quote to which you referred," I said, "which was published in the Sun, was uttered at the inquest, no?"

"Yes," said my friend.

"That is a very public event," I continued. "I would be inclined to believe reports from inquests and hearings."

"Because such reports tend to be more reliable," said he, "than stories about botched gem shop heists?"

"I wouldn't want to overstate the case," I said, "but suppose for a moment that you are onto something. What if the body in the flat belonged to someone other than Gareth Williams? What impact would that have on the investigation?"

"I suppose that depends on which investigation you mean," replied Holmes. "If you are referring to the police investigation, which doesn't appear to be going anywhere, especially because no formal cause of death can be ascertained, then the question answers itself, does it not?

"We have been critical of the police for their reluctance to say Gareth Williams was murdered. But what if the body they found in Gareth's flat was not that of a murder victim? Then they would be right, at least as far as cause of death is concerned.

"Since the police have no cause of death, they can't call it murder. And since they can't do that, they can hardly arrest any suspects, can they?

"In other words, a switch of bodies, if it happened, and if it went undetected, would have stifled the police investigation before it ever began."

"The result of which would be identical with what we have seen so far," I pointed out.

"It's a totally wild theory," cautioned Holmes once again.

"I understand that," I said. "But I like it just the same. Stay on this line of thought with me for a moment. What impact would it have on our investigation?"

"In addition to all our other problems, technical and otherwise," replied Holmes, "we would also be trying to find out whether Gareth Williams is still alive. If so, where is he? If not, what happened to him? And in either instance, whence came the body in the bag?"

"So our investigation would be much more complicated," I continued, "and the police investigation would be well nigh impossible. Would that be sufficient reason to do such a thing?"

"That would depend," replied the detective, "on who was doing it."

"Whoever did it," I continued, "showed that they had secure access to the 'safe house' as well as the power to manipulate the press. What does that imply? What else would they have? Would they have access, for example, to a variety of dead bodies?"

"Probably," said my friend.

"I think you were right about the relative risk involved," I said. "If the killers had secure access to the 'safe house,' which they apparently did, and if they had a substitute body available, which, if they were well enough connected, they probably did, then perhaps the crime was not as audacious as we first believed."

"How so?" asked Holmes.

"If somehow they could kill Gareth and get his body out of there," I said, "or kill him elsewhere and disappear his body, and if they could leave another body behind, one which bore no trace of murder, then they would have a powerful reason to do so.

"The forensic examination of the body they left behind could not possibly lead to them, so in a sense it would be safer than leaving behind the body of the man they had killed.

"And at the same time, they could guarantee that no matter when the body was found, it would already be badly decomposed. So they would accomplish the third prong of what you called a 'three-pronged attack' in a most powerful fashion.

"Do you happen to know of any published statement, corroborated or otherwise, which suggests the body was identified by a family member, or by any technique more stringent than comparison with a photograph?"

"No," said Holmes.

"I am curious enough to have another look at the files," I said. "I would like to see how much support I can find -- circumstantial, indirect, or otherwise -- for this wild theory of yours."

"It is beginning to sound a bit less wild," said my companion. "It is also beginning to seem less mine, and more yours!"

"Wouldn't that be strange?" I said. "Can you remember a single case, in all the years we have been together, in which I caught on to the true explanation of a mystery before you did?"

"I can recall many cases in which you have been very helpful," replied Holmes after some thought, "but I cannot remember an instance in which you have spotted the solution before I did. That doesn't mean it can't happen; in statistical terms, provided that we work on enough cases together, it is probably inevitable."

I smiled, perhaps a bit too broadly.

"It remains to be seen," said Holmes, "whether the longstanding trend is to be broken in this particular case. Tell me one thing?"

"Anything," I replied.

"Do you really like this theory because it's so wild?" he asked.

"Partly," I answered. "I mostly like it because it explains so many things that otherwise make very little sense. You've been telling me the simplest available explanation is usually the best."

"I have," he said.

"Well," I replied, "maybe the police couldn't find evidence of murder on the body because the body wasn't murdered. What could be simpler than that?"

"If the solution to the mystery is completely outside the box, --" said Sherlock Holmes.

"Then it's no wonder the police haven't found it," said I.

"Nor will they," said he.

Next: A Very Careful Setup

Chapter 102: A Very Careful Setup

Previous: Outside The Box

"It could have been a very
careful setup indeed." [source]

The sun was beginning to set, and the wind began to blow harder and cooler. "It's about time we got moving again, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes, standing and stretching. I rose and joined him, and soon we were back inside the hotel.

We stopped at the desk to extend our reservations until Monday morning, then returned to our rooms.

"While we're outside the box, so to speak," I said, "would you be willing to field another question?"

"One more question it is," replied my friend. "And then we should call it a day. I don't mind telling you I am starting to feel a bit of fatigue."

"It's a bit complicated," I said. "Do you want to wait until morning?"

"Not at all!" said Holmes. "Fire when ready."

"I'm intrigued," I said, "by your hypothesis that Gareth may have been seconded to MI6 in order to get him down to London to be tempted, tested, and eventually murdered.

"This hypothesis seemingly makes the most sense in connection with your suggestion that he may have been tasked to attend fashion design classes, see a drag cabaret show, visit bondage websites, and so on, in order to bring him into contact with unsavoury elements, these contacts to be used later in an attempt to explain his death as the result of a bizarre sex game gone wrong."

"Yes?" said my companion.

"It has occurred to me," I continued, "that perhaps he was going to Holland Park to sit with his laptop at the back of Patisserie Valerie, not against orders, but carrying out orders.

"Maybe he thought he was doing important work, and perhaps he was. But it has struck me as just possible that, from the point of view of his superiors, the main reason why he was sitting in the cafe was so that he would be seen there."

"Why?" asked Holmes.

"They had to know the 'sex game gone wrong' story was not likely to fly very far. It is so bizarre, and so contrary to what we've been told about his character. It doesn't even fit the evidence very well.

"Some potential explanations for his death can be ruled out quite simply, based on what we know about the locks. The flat was locked from the outside, and therefore suicide is not a likely explanation. The holdall was padlocked shut, and therefore it was probably not a game, or an accident. What else could it be but murder?"

"I am with you so far," said my friend.

"The killers couldn't reasonably expect the details about the locks to be kept quiet forever," I continued, "and even though the 'sex game' story, in the hands of the press, may have been sufficiently powerful to tarnish the victim's reputation, they could not have expected it to stand up against intelligent scrutiny.

"And therefore they must have seen the need for a fall-back position, an alternative tale to be rolled out as required. If they sent Gareth out on a mission which exposed him to the public, in a place where he would be seen and noticed and remembered, then if and when the 'sex game' story broke down, and attention turned at last to his professional life, they would still have cards to play.

"They could say he had been working on something important and dangerous, intercepting wireless traffic perhaps. They could claim he had been spying on any scapegoat they wished to frame, and that he had been spotted while doing so. They could suggest the scapegoat was smart enough to put two and two together, and Shazam! Instant motive!"

"You may be on to something, Watson," replied Holmes. "If I am correct in thinking Gareth was brought down to London to be tested and possibly killed -- or simply to be set up for a predetermined knockdown -- then he certainly wouldn't have been entrusted with anything truly significant. His supervisors might not have expected any valuable work out of him at all.

"It's entirely possible that everything he did for MI6 was theatrical, so to speak. All of it may have been intended to create the basis for fictional tales which could be told after his death."

"I said I would ask a question," I continued. "I suppose I was wondering whether it is possible that Gareth Williams was set up much more carefully than we have ever suspected?"

"It is entirely possible," replied the detective. "They had a whole year. It could have been a very careful setup indeed."

"Here's another question for you," I said. "Can you think of any reason to reject my suggestion that Gareth's visits to the Holland Park coffee shop were part of the setup?"

"No, none at all," replied my friend. "I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself."

"But what is the significance of Holland Park?" I asked. "And why Patisserie Valerie? When we return to London, might it be worthwhile to explore these questions?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the detective. "I must congratulate you, Watson. You've done exceptionally well today."

"Thank you," I said, trying not to blush. Holmes was not normally generous with words of praise.

"And now I must bid you good night," he said. "It has been a long and difficult week, and I am unusually tired. But it has been a good day, and you have been very helpful. Sleep well, my friend."

Next: Home Again

Chapter 103: Home Again

Previous: A Very Careful Setup

"Good evening, Mister Holmes!"

The wind turned in the night, and the morning brought cold rain from the northeast. "We won't be walking about very much in this weather," said Holmes over breakfast, "so we may wish to change our plan. We could sit in our rooms, smoke our pipes and watch the storm roll in, or we could return to London today. Do you have a preference?"

"It won't take me ten minutes to pack," I replied. "When can we get a train? Do you know?"

"If we leave in an hour or so," said my friend, "we can be in London in time for dinner." I agreed, and we finished our meal in short order, even though we had plenty of time. Apparently we were both more anxious to get back to Baker Street than either of us had let on.

"Do you think it will be safe to return as ourselves?" I asked when we were back in our rooms. "Or should we dress as two old ladies again?"

"I am still inclined to be cautious, Watson," replied the detective. "If we can slip into our flat unnoticed, so much the better."

"I'll pack accordingly," I said, and Holmes went to call a cab. While packing my bags, I noticed that his bags were packed already. Perhaps my preference had been clear to him all along.

Presently we found ourselves watching the storm from a cab, then from a train.

Holmes fell silent again, and his expression appeared gloomy. I couldn't tell whether his face reflected the storm, our sudden change of plan, the difficulties in our way, all of these, or something else. So I sat quietly, watching the rain fall, and keeping one eye on my friend.

After several minutes of silence, the detective spoke again. "I'm still considering the suggestions you made yesterday," he said, "and trying to work out where they lead. We're at a difficult juncture."

I nodded, but had nothing to add to the conversation. Neither, apparently, did my companion. So we rode along without speaking, watching the storm, listening to the wheels upon the rails.

Not for the first time, I found myself thinking about the family, and what a horrible blow this had been to them. I recalled Sian Lloyd-Jones saying, "His family respect, 100 per cent, that he worked for MI6. The family and I both respect the role he was in." And I wondered how they would take the news that Holmes was going to have to give them.

My thoughts turned to the horrible treatment the family had suffered at the hands of the press, and then to the police and their seeming ambiguity about the case. Many times I had seen Holmes demonstrate that the police were on the wrong track, and several times I had heard police officers admit as much to him in private. But the confused and empty public declarations associated with this case were quietly stunning. I wondered for a time what manner of investigative chaos could lie behind the public pronouncements. And once again I found myself hoping Holmes would find another source of inside information.

I wondered what would become of the inquest. To the best of my knowledge, it was scheduled to resume in two weeks. Would we learn anything then? I found it difficult to be hopeful.

Holmes continued to watch the storm, and I stole occasional glances at him. It seemed to me his face had relaxed somewhat, and I hoped this was a good sign. But despite all my years of experience, I still found the great detective's features difficult to read.

Eventually I gave up trying to read them, closed my eyes and settled back for a bit of a rest. The sounds of the rain on the windows and the wheels on the tracks swept me away almost immediately, and I must have slept for an hour or more before Holmes gently shook me awake.

"Hmm, what is it, Holmes?" I muttered.

"We're almost to London," he replied. "You've been sleeping for a while, and I didn't want to wake you until it became necessary."

"Is the game afoot again?" I asked.

"Not exactly," he answered. "But we need to change trains, and I need you to be awake for that. We also need to make a plan. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," I replied.

"When couldn't you eat?" asked my friend with a smile. "It has occurred to me that with one stop we could obtain a hearty dinner, a tall glass of fine dark ale, and a place to change into our dresses. Are you interested?"

"Harrington's?" I guessed.

"Why not?" replied the detective.

"I did enjoy the ale," said I.

"I know you did," said he. "And I need to speak with Harrington in any case."

"I like your plan," I said with a nod.

"I thought you might," returned my friend.

So we returned to London dressed as ourselves and boarded a tube train, bound once again for Harrington's Pub in the Twickenham Road, near the Royal Gardens at Kew.

No casual observer could possibly have guessed that the two elderly gentlemen who entered the pub through the front door would depart through the family entrance as tottering old ladies just a few hours later.

We took a cab from the pub back to Baker Street, and rang the bell at our own door. Just as Mrs. Hudson opened it to admit us, we heard a man's voice call from the street, "Good evening, Mister Holmes!"

In an instant, my friend slipped his arm around my shoulder and whispered, "Don't look! Just keep walking!"

Within a few seconds we were safely behind the door, up the stairs, and back in our familiar surroundings. But we were well aware that whoever had been watching our flat, and waiting for us to return, now knew exactly where we were.

Next: Under The 'T'

Chapter 104: Under The 'T'

Previous: Home Again

"Under the 'T,'" said Holmes,
"we find a rare assortment of villains."

"What do you intend to do about the man in the doorway?" I asked, somewhat shaken, as soon as we were safely inside.

"The one who spoke my name a bit too loudly?" replied Holmes. "Nothing, Watson. Nothing at all."

I must have looked as surprised as I felt. "What can I do?" asked my friend. "Do you want me to call the police?"

The absurdity of the suggestion brought a smile to my face, if not quite a laugh.

"What have they gained?" continued the detective. "What have we lost? And what, in fact, has happened?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The man in the street -- was he sure he had seen us? If he was, why would he say anything? My first impression was that he was bluffing, not sure whom he had seen and trying to provoke a reaction which might confirm his suspicion. That's why I didn't want you to look back. If he wasn't sure then, he still isn't."

"But what if he was?" I asked.

"Then he shouldn't have said anything," replied my friend.

"They always knew where we live, Watson," he continued. "Now they know we're here. We were always going to come home. Now they have the time of our arrival. It's a minor point, at best, is it not?

"But on the other side of the ledger, we have just learned that our disguises were ineffective. If their man hadn't alerted us to the fact, we may have used them again, to our great misfortune."

"I'm glad you see it that way," I said, as my sense of panic began to ebb. Holmes smiled in a friendly yet sardonic way, almost as if to say, "Don't worry, my friend. I don't suffer from your limitations."

"What can I do to help you?" I asked, hoping to make myself useful and trying to change the subject at the same time.

"Get one more good night's sleep," replied Holmes. "Tomorrow, read whatever you can about the Tillman family, and find out, if you can, how they have reacted to the loss of their son."

"Very well," said I. "Anything else?"

"That will be enough," said my friend. "I still need to talk to Mycroft, and I need to write to Hughes, but you can't do either of those for me."

"Perhaps I can learn something about the Tillmans," I suggested, "that will help you when you write to Hughes."

"That is my hope," said Holmes. "To the best of my knowledge, Fred knows nothing about Gareth. His description of Pat Tillman rang bells he couldn't have intended to ring, and, for that reason if no other, we would be unwise to neglect them.

"There are two or three other avenues I will try not to neglect," continued my friend, "although I cannot speak of them at the moment."

I was pleased at the thought of more avenues to explore, yet frustrated at the detective's reticence. "He'll speak when he's ready," I told myself. "He always does." I didn't press for more details, but busied myself with unpacking, as did Holmes.

I thought I might spend an hour or so with a pipe and the novel I had been reading before Gareth Williams came into our lives, but as soon as I sat down, I found myself nodding off. "Get to bed, Watson," said a familiar voice, and I obeyed the command as if hypnotized -- or so Holmes told me the next morning, when he found me remarkably refreshed.

Apparently my subconscious, accustomed after many years to life in the city, had found the constant clatter of London more relaxing than the peace and quiet of Yorkshire. I didn't remember any of it myself, but it felt good to wake up with some energy, especially after a long and difficult week.

I had the rare honour of letting Holmes sleep while I ate breakfast and skimmed the morning papers. I didn't find anything particularly interesting, and had just begun to move toward the archives when my friend emerged from his bedroom, looking more rested than I had seen him in quite some time. Clearly the sleep had done us both good.

"Ah, Watson, you're looking very healthy," he said. "Well rested, well fed, nothing very interesting in the papers, and you're ready to go, I perceive. Perhaps I can help you to get started."

I nodded and smiled, once again surprised by a modest display of my friend's finely developed powers of observation and deduction.

"Under the 'T,'" said Holmes, reaching for his alphabetical index, "we find a wide assortment of villains, and a few heroes as well. Ah! Here's Cedrick Thomas, the forger, and Thomasson, the tormented virtuoso. Then we have Tildon, the foul-tempered hotel clerk, and Tillerman, surely the most creative extortionist of his generation.

"And here's our man: Patrick Daniel 'Pat' Tillman, Junior. Born November 1976, Fremont, California. Star football player, first at Leland High School and then, from 1994, at Arizona State University, where he played linebacker. Named Pacific-Ten Conference defensive player of the year in 1997, and drafted the following year by the Arizona Cardinals, who saw him as too small for a professional linebacker and moved him to safety, where he played for the next four years.

"In May of 2002, Pat turned down an offer from the Cardinals that would have paid him $3.6 million over three years, and enlisted, along with his brother Kevin, in the Army. He completed basic training in September, did a Ranger indoctrination program in the fall, and was part of the invasion of Iraq in the spring of 2003. In September, Pat went back to Fort Benning, Georgia, for three months of Ranger School. He graduated in November, and was sent to Afghanistan, where he was killed on April 22, 2004.

"The controversy came after that, of course," continued Holmes, "when it emerged that the Pentagon had lied about how he was killed. I'm afraid you'll have to look through the chronological archives to find more details. You may as well start with the file from April of 2004, since he certainly would not have come to my attention before then."

"That leaves quite a bit of searching," I said, somewhat daunted by the prospect.

"Don't worry, Watson," replied the detective. "There's no rush. Make notes about what you find, and I will help you when I return."

"You're leaving again?" I asked.

"Yes," said he. "And as soon as possible." 

"Will you eat some breakfast first?" I asked.

"I suppose I should," said my friend, who ate without speaking while I skimmed through the files. Then he disappeared into his bedroom, from which he emerged as a sloppy auto mechanic, in grimy coveralls, complete with greasy stains on his hands and face. "I'm off to help my brother," he said on his way to the door. "Apparently something has gone wrong with his car."

"I didn't know Mycroft had a car," I said as he slipped out.

"He doesn't," he replied from the stairway.

And then he was gone.

Next: Mycroft Returns

Chapter 105: Mycroft Returns

Previous: Under The 'T'

"I've been haunted by the mystery."

I poured a cup of coffee, filled my pipe and lit it, sat down in the armchair near the window, and continued to leaf through the files. My companion had developed a habit of filing away anything he thought might turn out to be interesting, and we had an enormous trove of clippings. But, since it lacked any meaningful cross-reference, the archive was nearly impossible to search.

I finished another cup of coffee, and emptied and refilled my pipe, without making any substantial progress in my research. And I was beginning to think it might be easier to find a needle in a haystack, when I heard a crash from the stairs, followed by the sound of Holmes' voice.

I dropped what I was reading and rushed to the door. Stepping out into the corridor, I saw my friend at the bottom of the stairs along with another man, who appeared to be in some distress, and several pieces of luggage.

"Give us a hand with these bags, will you, Watson?" said Holmes, and I hurried down the stairs. "I have too much to carry here," he continued, "and Mycroft will probably need some assistance as well."

Only then did I recognize his brother. I had never seen Mycroft Holmes at less than his best, and I was shocked to see him in disarray -- pale, unkempt, and staggering under his own, not inconsiderable, weight. "Let's look after Mycroft first," I said quietly. "The bags can sit for a moment."

"Quite so," agreed my friend, and together we began to help his brother up the stairs.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, it's good to see you again," said Mycroft, seeming to regain a bit of strength as we began to move. "I'm afraid we may have to draw upon your medical skills. I am not feeling well at all."

"Don't worry. You're in good hands," said the detective, and we helped his brother into the flat, where he immediately collapsed upon the couch.

"Give him some cognac, Watson," said Holmes. "I'll bring the luggage up," he added, heading toward the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he descended the stairs.

"We're all in good hands, Mycroft," I said, giving him a drop of Vernet's finest. "Just relax and keep breathing. You're going to be all right." This last was either premature or a bald-faced lie, depending on your point of view. At the time I had no idea what was wrong with him, or whether he would be all right or not. But that's not the sort of thing a doctor wants to tell a patient.

Holmes spoke to Mrs. Hudson, then carried up all the bags while I tended to his brother. A few minutes later, our landlady appeared with a tray of fruit and a pot of tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, who then turned to me and said, "We need to get Mycroft eating again. Half of his problem is probably hunger."

"Why?" I asked. "What has happened?"

"He's in shock," replied my friend. "He hasn't eaten or slept since Wednesday. You won't mind having him here for a few days, will you?"

"Not at all," I replied.

"Good!" said he. "I knew you wouldn't. It will do him good to be among friends for a while rather than by himself. I wasn't about to leave him alone, so I packed up some of his things and brought him here." I nodded, beginning to see the picture and approving of my friend's course of action.

"But what's wrong, Holmes?" I asked. "What's happened? Why hasn't he been eating or sleeping?"

"I imagined he would have wanted to tell you himself," replied the detective. "I had no idea he was going to collapse along the way." I nodded again, seeing more of the picture but still puzzled as to the reason.

"I'll take another sip, if you don't mind," said Mycroft quietly. "And I'll tell you the whole story, too, if you'll give me a moment to marshal my strength."

"You can take all the time you need," I replied. "But if you haven't eaten in five days, you'd better have some grapes from the tray, rather than more from the bottle. Or would you prefer a banana, or some berries?"

Mycroft gazed at the fruit for twenty seconds or longer before he finally spoke. "I'll have a banana," he said, and I handed him one. He ate it slowly but with obvious pleasure, then turned to me and began to speak.

"Last Wednesday morning," he began, "I was called into the office for an unscheduled meeting. When I arrived, the room was full of senior officials, and I was told, in no uncertain terms: that my services would no longer be required; that I had twenty minutes to clean out my desk before being escorted from the premises by security personnel; and that I was not to say a word to anyone about anything that had happened on the previous day.

"The loss of the position was a shock in itself," he continued. "I am a man of deeply ingrained habits, Doctor, and to lose that situation -- I had been working fewer hours lately, but I never expected to be cut out altogether. The suddenness of the news increased the impact, of course."

"I understand," I said.

"But that was nothing," he continued, "compared to the animosity evident in that meeting. Can you imagine how it feels, after decades of being told your work is brilliant, or even indispensable, to be given twenty minutes to clean out your desk? And in front of the top people in the department? I've never been so humiliated in my entire life."

"I imagine you haven't," I said. "How horrible!"

"The shock and the humiliation may have been enough to take away my appetite," Mycroft continued, "but I don't think they alone would have kept me from sleeping."

"And what has done that to you?" I prodded.

"I haven't been able to settle down at night," he replied, "because I've been haunted by the mystery."

"And what is the mystery?" I asked.

"Why have they done this?" he replied. "I was in meetings all day last Tuesday. Did I hear something I wasn't supposed to hear? Did I say something I wasn't supposed to say? Or is this unrelated to anything that happened Tuesday? Has somebody been running a smear campaign against me which has finally come to fruition? And if so, why was I told in such threatening terms not to speak of anything that happened on Tuesday?

"I've been thinking and pacing," he continued, "puzzling and even pouting, but I have not been able to find the answer, nor have I been able to sleep."

"You haven't been reading the papers, have you?" asked my friend.

"How could I?" retorted his brother. "I've been so agitated I could barely pick up a newspaper, let alone read one."

"Understood," replied my friend, "but had you done so, you would have found your answer."

"Do you mean to say," asked his brother, "that you know why all this has happened?"

"Indeed I do," said the detective. "And it is about last Tuesday. But it's not about anything that happened in a meeting."

"I didn't do anything else last Tuesday," replied his brother.

"You were here Tuesday evening," said my friend.

"Only for a few minutes," said Mycroft.

"You brought the Minister here with you," said the detective.

"And what of that?" asked his brother.

"Had you been reading the papers," replied Sherlock Holmes, "you would know that the Minister was not here at all last Tuesday evening. Officially, he was several miles away. And the fact that he was here -- the fact that you brought him here -- is both the secret you must never divulge and the reason why you have lost your position at the Foreign Office.

"But why?" asked Mycroft. "I thought I was doing him a favour."

"That was what I wanted you to think," replied Sherlock. "But it wasn't exactly true. Pour him another cognac, will you, Watson?"

Next: Free At Last!