The Scottish Ploy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page B

bathroom door. “If you please, gentlemen, Mister Holmes would like you to join him in the withdrawing room.”
    That very formal chamber at the front of the flat was rarely used for any discussion among us, so I supposed we were to expect a visitor. I reached for my suit-coat and pulled it on as I went out into the hall, Sutton close behind me.
    “Whom do you think is coming?” Sutton pondered aloud. “I was told nothing about a visitor.”
    “Nor I,” I said as we reached the withdrawing room.
    Although I had half-suspected an August Personage, I saw that we had a fastidious man of late middle-age seated on the sopha. This was not Doctor John Watson, who was no stranger to any of us, but another man, who also had the look of the medical professional. He did not rise as we entered the room, but instead subjected us to a swift, intense scrutiny.
    “Gentlemen,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if he had only just become aware of our presence, “if you would be good enough: this is Sir Marmion Hazeltine, come to offer his researches to us.”
    Sir Marmion’s name was not unknown to me, given all Mycroft Holmes had told me. I nodded my respects to him. “I have long admired your work, Sir Marmion,” I said, hoping Holmes did not mind my speaking up in this way.
    The answer accorded me by Sir Marmion was a terse, “Most kind,” before he turned to study Mycroft Holmes’ face. “You have a most extraordinary skull, Mister Holmes, if you will permit me to say it.” He did not smile, but there was a lessening of the severity of his features, which seemed to be the most he would permit himself to demonstrate.
    “From an expert of your reputation, Sir Marmion, what can I be but flattered?” said Holmes as he sat back in his chair. He indicated that Sutton and I should both be seated. “As to the matter before us, I must hope your researches have produced results?”
    “In time, Mister Holmes. In time. For the nonce, I am gathering data—and I thank you for your efforts in that regard—and hoping to have reached useful conclusions before the end of next year.” He coughed delicately. “I have been trying some of the techniques of Doktor Breuer of Vienna on the more difficult of my patients, and I have reason to think they may prove most useful in the future in alleviating the compulsion to commit crimes.”
    “That is a goal worth achieving,” said Mycroft Holmes with very real sincerity.
    “I hope in time we may end all crime and insanity from the human race,” said Sir Marmion.
    “Hear, hear,” said Mycroft Holmes. “No doubt such a laudable goal cannot be achieved overnight, but in generations to come, we might improve ourselves to the point where we will not have those unhappy beings in such number as we seem to have now.” He folded his hands. “The new century is but eight years away. The twentieth century! The promise of it astounds me.”
    “And I,” said Sir Marmion. “When we see what science has accomplished in the last fifty years, I wish I might be alive to see the next fifty.” He coughed delicately to show he was moved. “Still, that is not to the point.” He picked up a leather portfolio and opened it. “Here is the information I was asked to provide you, Mister Holmes, with citations for the material appended.”
    Mycroft Holmes took the expandable folder with marbled covers Sir Marmion held out to him. “There is a deal of work in here, Sir Marmion.”
    “Alas, not nearly enough. We have so little information on the nature of the human mind,” he said. “Doktor Breuer’s work leads me to believe that there is much more to be discovered in regard to how the mind shapes behavior. I think you will be especially interested in the third case described in those pages.”
    “Very good. I shall study it with interest,” said Holmes.
    “I know you will hold all that you read in strictest confidence,” Sir Marmion said fussily.
    “Naturally. If I must discuss any of this with my