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 leading viticultural researcher is in Montpellier, Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier. He is said to be close to a solution. But, and here is where you come in, dear brother, he has been receiving death threats, and this Reynaud insists they come from Scotland.’
‘What has been done so far?’
‘France has put its “best man” on the case to protect Dr Janvier and discover the source of the threats, but Dr Janvier has taken a dislike to the gentleman in question and I can’t say I blame him. I know the man; he is an irritant, and, based on his past history, I would not put it past him to exacerbate the situation.’
Holmes was smiling at this. ‘France’s “best man” you say? An irritant? This sounds like someone we know.’
‘Yes.’
The brothers exchanged a look of amusement.
‘Who is—wait!’ I suddenly guessed the identity of this this unnamed man. ‘Can it be Jean Vidocq?’ I blurted out. Their silence was confirmation.
The scoundrel! We had had some unfortunate dealings with the famous French detective last year. Vidocq was a dangerous charmer who saw himself as Holmes’s rival. The man had not only attacked me physically but had complicated our case involving a certain French singer and her missing child. This same man claimed to be a descendant of the famous Eugène François Vidocq who founded the Sûreté nearly eighty years ago. But the connection was spurious – the real Vidocq had no known descendants. Despite his questionable character, Jean Vidocq was not without considerable skills, and was frequently consulted by the French government.
‘What exactly do you wish me to do?’ asked Holmes.
‘Three things. First, meet Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier, and let me know the status of his research. How close is he to a cure for the mite? The second is to discover and neutralise whoever is threatening the man and his work – if these threats are indeed genuine.’
‘Why would they not be genuine?’ asked Holmes.
Mycroft shrugged. ‘Attention. Sympathy. Who knows? But if the threats to Dr Janvier are real, and they have been perpetrated by a Briton, then detain that gentleman with the utmost discretion and notify me. The Foreign Office and I shall handle it from there.’
‘And if there is a villain, and he or she is not British?’ asked Holmes.
‘Well, then best to leave it. I shall pass on the information.’
Holmes stopped smiling and sat back in his chair.
‘Protect Britain, that is your only interest? Not this man, or the crisis itself? No, Mycroft,’ he said. ‘I will not undertake this.’
Mycroft seemed not to have heard. ‘And the third task: extricate Jean Vidocq from this situation, the sooner the better. This man Janvier, who is something of a genius, may well be in danger. Vidocq only complicates things and is unlikely to be protecting him.’
Holmes said nothing.
‘As for the three Scottish families I mentioned, at the top of the list are the McLarens. You improve at concealment, Sherlock. I mentioned them before, and you revealed nothing, but in fact, you had a visit from the younger daughter-in-law yesterday. Most convenient.’
Holmes set his coffee cup in its saucer abruptly, ‘Stop having me watched, Mycroft.’
‘You may one day be thankful.’
‘Yet you missed the recent attempts on my life.’
‘Not very effective, was he? Need I say more?’
Holmes said nothing.
‘The McLaren family is or will be en route shortly to the South of France where they winter each year in the vicinity of Nice. This year it is the new Grand Hôtel du Cap Eden Roc in Antibes. Did your client fail to mention this? I wonder why she came to see you? It is a curious coincidence.’
‘She came on another matter. a domestic intrigue. And she is not my client, as I turned down the case.’
‘Dear me! If you are declining cases left and right, how wrong I was to imagine you in straitened circumstances, dear brother.’
Holmes actually turned scarlet at this jab.
‘In any case, you are free to travel,’ Mycroft said.
‘No, Mycroft. Watson, call for our coats, please.’
I stood.
‘Our Monsieur Reynaud fears that an attack on Dr Janvier is imminent. It seems precisely your kind of case, Sherlock. Protect an innocent who advances science.’ Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and sipped his coffee. He smiled kindly at his brother. I immediately thought of a mongoose.
‘I said no.’ Holmes leaned forward, stubbing his own cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table. Without shifting position, and with a dexterity I could scarcely credit, Mycroft suddenly thrust his arm forward and clapped his large hand over Holmes’s long thin one, slamming it into the ashtray and onto the still smouldering cigarette. And there he held it. I could not believe what I was seeing.
His hand unmoving, Mycroft’s voice remained warm and friendly. ‘Consider the plight of this man, Dr Janvier, Sherlock. He is brilliant, a genius with few friends. A naïf in a certain way. But his work is vital, with economic and political repercussions. I assure you, no British official wishes him dead.’
He continued to hold his hand clamped over Holmes’s. My friend indicated nothing, but I could see the sweat beading on his brow. With a sudden move, I took up the coffee pot and poured a small splash of hot coffee on Mycroft’s hand. With a cry he released Holmes and the two sprung back from the table, each cradling an injured hand.
‘So sorry, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘As long as we are discussing saving wine and Western civilization, might we not be a little more civilized ourselves?’
