The House Of Silk

bowing under the weight of so many books, its various marble busts, its bow window with views across Pall Mall. There was a portrait of the Queen above the fireplace, painted, it was said, by a member of the club who had insulted her by including a stray dog and a potato, although I was never able to grasp the significance of either.
    ‘My dear Sherlock!’ Mycroft exclaimed as he waddled in. ‘How are you? You have recently lost weight, I notice. But I’m glad to see you restored to your old self.’
    ‘And you have recovered from influenza.’
    ‘A very mild bout. I enjoyed your monograph on tattoos. Written during the hours of the night, evidently. Have you been troubled by insomnia?’
    ‘The summer was unpleasantly warm. You did not tell me you had acquired a parrot.’
    ‘Not acquired, Sherlock. Borrowed. Dr Watson, a pleasure. Although it has been almost a week since you saw your wife, I trust she is well. You have just returned from Gloucestershire.’
    ‘And you from France.’
    ‘Mrs Hudson has been away?’
    ‘She returned last week. You have a new cook.’
    ‘The last one resigned.’
    ‘On account of the parrot.’
    ‘She always was highly strung.’
    This exchange took place with such rapidity that I felt myself to be a spectator at a tennis tournament, my head swivelling from one to the other. Mycroft waved us to the sofa and settled his own bulk on a chaise longue. ‘I was very sorry to hear of the death of the boy, Ross,’ he said, suddenly more serious. ‘You know, I have advised you against the use of these street children, Sherlock. I hope you didn’t place him in harm’s way.’
    ‘It is too early to say with any certainty. You read the newspaper reports?’
    ‘Of course. Lestrade is handling the investigation. He’s not such a bad man. This business of the white ribbon, though. I find that most disturbing. I would say that, allied with the extremely painful and protracted manner of the death, it was placed there as a warning. The principal question you should be asking yourself is whether that warning was a general one, or whether it was directed towards you.’
    ‘I was sent a piece of white ribbon seven weeks ago.’ Holmes had brought the envelope with him. He produced it and handed it to his brother who examined it.
    ‘The envelope tells us little,’ he said. ‘It was pushed through your letter box in a hurry for you see the end is scuffed. Your name written by a right-handed, educated man.’ He drew out the ribbon. ‘This silk is Indian. Doubtless you will have seen that for yourself. It has been exposed to sunlight, for the fabric has weakened. It is exactly nine inches in length, which is interesting. It was purchased from a milliner’s and then cut into two pieces of equal length, for although one end has been cut professionally with a pair of sharp scissors, the other was sliced, roughly, with a knife. I cannot add very much more than that, Sherlock.’
    ‘Nor did I expect you to, brother Mycroft. But I did wonder if you might be able to tell me what it signifies. Have you heard of a place or an organisation called the House of Silk?’
    Mycroft shook his head. ‘The name means nothing to me. It sounds like a shop. Indeed, now I think of it, I seem to remember there being a gentleman’s outfitter of that name in Edinburgh. Could it not be where this ribbon was purchased?’
    ‘That seems unlikely, given the circumstances. We heard it first mentioned by a girl who had most probably lived her whole life in London. It filled her with such fear that she struck out at Dr Watson here, inflicting a knife wound on his chest.’
    ‘Goodness!’
    ‘I mentioned it also to Lord Ravenshaw—’
    ‘The son of the former Foreign Minister?’
    ‘The very same. His reaction, I thought, was one of alarm, although he did his best not to show it.’
    ‘Well, I can ask a few questions for you, Sherlock. Would it trouble you to call on me at the same time tomorrow? In the meantime, I will hang on to this.’ He gathered the white ribbon into his pudgy hand.
    But in fact we did not have to wait twenty-four hours for the result of Mycroft’s enquiries. The following morning, at about ten o’clock, we heard the rattle of approaching wheels and, Holmes, who happened to be standing at the window, glanced outside. ‘It’s Mycroft!’ he said.
    I came over and joined him in time to see Holmes’s brother being helped down from a landau. I realised at once that this was a