Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird

       CHAPTER 4

       Brothers

      n route through snowy Regent Street to Mycroft the following morning, I found myself puzzling over both Holmes’s rejection of Isla McLaren’s case and his handling of the treacherous Orville St John incident. But my friend was in an impatient mood, his black kid-gloved fingers drumming restlessly upon his knee. He refused to be drawn into a discussion of either. I persisted on the St John issue and at last he said, ‘Mr St John will not trouble me again. He is particularly protective of his family and my bluff will suffice. He – why do you look at me that way? Surely, Watson, you cannot imagine that I would forcibly cut a man’s tongue from his head for any reason on earth!’

      The thought had in fact occurred to me. ‘Well, not a live one, at any rate. But how did it happen?’

      ‘It was the act of a madman, a mutual acquaintance, Watson, who has since passed on to meet his Maker.’

      ‘Strange. But why does this St John think you were responsible? And why attack you now?’

      ‘Certainly some recent event has served to reanimate his rage. Perhaps a letter. I intend to find out. In any case, it is complicated, and long past. Leave it, I say.’ His tone brooked no argument and I knew it was useless to pursue for the moment. We soon pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club.

      ‘I shall pay,’ I offered, in an attempt at détente. Perhaps Mrs McLaren had been right and he was in need of cash. I fished in my own pocket.

      ‘I have it, Watson. You are a bit short of funds yourself.’

      It was regrettably true! My practice had suffered recently when a doctor of considerable charm and a decade more experience had hung his brass plate two doors down from my own. But how could he know?

      ‘What herculean efforts you make to keep track of my personal affairs!’ I exclaimed as we entered the august precincts of the Diogenes. ‘Perhaps better spent elsewhere!’

      ‘Very little effort at all,’ said he, ‘Watson, you are an open book.’

      ‘Well, you are wrong about that,’ I insisted.

      Soon afterwards were seated in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes, awaiting Mycroft Holmes.

      The antique globes in their familiar place, the bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, the large window onto Pall Mall – all was as it had been before. While the club’s peculiar regulars must have chosen it for its rules of silence, I found the place oppressive.

      The Stranger’s Room was the only place in this eccentric institution where one was allowed to speak. Eventually Mycroft Holmes sailed in as a stately battleship through calm waters to sit before us. Mycroft was over six feet tall, and unlike his brother, very wide in girth. He carried a leather dossier in one enormous hand. He smiled in his particular mirthless way, and then he and my friend exchanged the usual pleasantries characteristic of the Holmes brothers, that is to say, none at all.

      Coffee was served. The clink of china and silver was hushed in the room.

      ‘How is England doing?’ asked Holmes finally.

      ‘We are well,’ said Mycroft. ‘Considering.’

      Holmes leaned back in his chair, a twitching knee giving away his impatience. Mycroft eyed his younger brother with a kind of concerned disapproval. ‘But you, Sherlock, must watch your finances. I have mentioned this before.’

      ‘Mycroft!’ exclaimed Holmes.

      ‘Little brother, you are an open book.’

      I cleared my throat to cover a laugh, and Holmes shot me a look. ‘What is it you want, Mycroft? Trouble in France I hear?’

      ‘Precipitous. The threat of war. You have heard of the phylloxera epidemic? It is not a virus, but a little parasite, it seems, and it is destroying the vineyards of France. Their wine production is down some seventy-five per cent in recent years. Dead brown vines everywhere. A good, cheap table wine is impossible to come by, and the better brandies, too. An absolute disaster for the French, and keenly felt.’

      ‘Come now, Mycroft … war?’ said Holmes.

      ‘There are those highly placed in France who feel the debacle was deliberately engineered. And by Perfidious Albion, no less.’

      ‘Blaming the epidemic on Britain!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Is such a thing possible?’ He smiled. ‘Or is this merely a question of French sour grapes?’

      ‘Who knows?’ said Mycroft. ‘But, a highly placed gentleman, one Philippe Reynaud is leading the charge. He is Le Sous Secrétaire d’État à l’Agriculture. Reynaud thinks the Scots are behind it. Or at the very least, prolonging it.’

      ‘The Scots!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, they have long been allies of the French.’

      Mycroft gave me a withering glance.

      ‘Which Scots? And why particularly?’ asked Holmes, then had a sudden thought. ‘Oh. Whisky, of course.’

      ‘Three Scottish families are singled out and under suspicion. One may interest you particularly, the McLarens. It is in the report,’ said Mycroft, indicating a dossier which he had tossed on the table between them. The name struck me but Holmes gave nothing away. Mycroft turned to me. ‘Numerous entrepreneurial types including the McLarens, James Buchanan, and others have been laying siege to London clubs and restaurants, aggressively promoting their ‘uisge beatha’ or ‘water of life’ – that is the Scots’ Gaelic term – as the new social drink to be enjoyed in finer society. The fact that spirits, such as brandy, cognac and wine have grown costly and scarce has helped them tremendously.’

      ‘Oh yes! I particularly like Buchanan’s new Black and White—’ I began.

      ‘The fortunes of these companies are rising,’ interrupted Mycroft. ‘Not just in London but internationally. The French are talking of trade sanctions, and a couple of militant specimens, including this Reynaud, have pushed for a more aggressive response.’

      ‘War over drinks?’ I exclaimed. ‘Ludicrous.’

      ‘It is an entire industry, and war has been declared for less, Watson. The French vineyards are closely tied to French identity,’ said Holmes.

      ‘Yes, they are quite heated on the subject,’ said Mycroft. ‘Cigarette?’

      Holmes took a cigarette from Mycroft’s case and lit it.

      Mycroft sighed. ‘These ideas have been gaining purchase, and that is why I have called you in, Sherlock.’

      ‘What of research?’ asked Holmes. ‘Is there no potential remedy in sight for the scourge?’

      ‘The