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Authors: Mike Ashley
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was helped from his chair. He was, I judged, about seventy-something years of age, a short, stocky man but one who was fastidious in his toilet for his moustache was well cut and his hair neatly brushed so that not a silver strand of it was out of place.
He retrieved a small polished leather case, the size of a despatch-box, not more than twelve inches by six by four. It bore a crest in silver on it, and I presumed it to be Cloncury’s own crest.
His Grace, clutching his case, made towards the door. At the same time, I saw Professor Moriarty push back his chair. Some sharp words were being exchanged between the professor and his lunching companion, Colonel Moran. The professor swung round and marched swiftly to the door almost colliding with the elderly duke at their portals. At the last moment, when collision seemed inevitable, the professor halted and allowed his Grace to move thorough the doors before him.
“Some argument has taken place between the professor and his companion,” I observed aloud. “I wonder what the meaning of it is?”
Mycroft looked at me in disgust.
“Really, Sherlock, you always seem to be prying into other people’s affairs. I would have thought you had enough on your plate preparing for your studies at Oxford.”
Even at this time, I had become a close observer of people’s behaviour and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheon room occupants.
I returned my attention to the colonel who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wine glass. A waiter hovered near and made some suggestion but Moran swung with an angry retort, indicating the empty wine bottle on the table, and the waiter backed away. The colonel stood up, went through the motions of brushing the sleeves of his coat, and strode out of the dining room. I noticed that he would be returning for he had left his glass of wine unfinished. Sure enough, the waiter returned to the table with a half bottle of wine uncorked and placed it ready. The colonel, presumably having gone to make some ablutions, returned after some fifteen minutes and reseated himself. He seemed in a better mood for he was smiling to himself.
I was distracted to find that my brother was continuing to lecture me.
“I know you, Sherlock. You are an extremely lazy and undisciplined fellow. If a subject doesn’t interest you, you just ignore it. It is a wonder that you have achieved this demyship, for I did not expect you to gain a degree at all.”
I turned to my elder brother with a chuckle.
“Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns. Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days.”
I spoke with some conceit for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.
“But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia …”
“But minutia is important in life …” I began.
At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.
The pale-faced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table and then, I have never witnessed such a thing before, the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.
There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.
As the
He retrieved a small polished leather case, the size of a despatch-box, not more than twelve inches by six by four. It bore a crest in silver on it, and I presumed it to be Cloncury’s own crest.
His Grace, clutching his case, made towards the door. At the same time, I saw Professor Moriarty push back his chair. Some sharp words were being exchanged between the professor and his lunching companion, Colonel Moran. The professor swung round and marched swiftly to the door almost colliding with the elderly duke at their portals. At the last moment, when collision seemed inevitable, the professor halted and allowed his Grace to move thorough the doors before him.
“Some argument has taken place between the professor and his companion,” I observed aloud. “I wonder what the meaning of it is?”
Mycroft looked at me in disgust.
“Really, Sherlock, you always seem to be prying into other people’s affairs. I would have thought you had enough on your plate preparing for your studies at Oxford.”
Even at this time, I had become a close observer of people’s behaviour and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheon room occupants.
I returned my attention to the colonel who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wine glass. A waiter hovered near and made some suggestion but Moran swung with an angry retort, indicating the empty wine bottle on the table, and the waiter backed away. The colonel stood up, went through the motions of brushing the sleeves of his coat, and strode out of the dining room. I noticed that he would be returning for he had left his glass of wine unfinished. Sure enough, the waiter returned to the table with a half bottle of wine uncorked and placed it ready. The colonel, presumably having gone to make some ablutions, returned after some fifteen minutes and reseated himself. He seemed in a better mood for he was smiling to himself.
I was distracted to find that my brother was continuing to lecture me.
“I know you, Sherlock. You are an extremely lazy and undisciplined fellow. If a subject doesn’t interest you, you just ignore it. It is a wonder that you have achieved this demyship, for I did not expect you to gain a degree at all.”
I turned to my elder brother with a chuckle.
“Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns. Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days.”
I spoke with some conceit for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.
“But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia …”
“But minutia is important in life …” I began.
At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.
The pale-faced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table and then, I have never witnessed such a thing before, the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.
There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.
As the
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