The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter: Part One

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I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories, the series where we delve into the files of fiction's most brilliant detective.

following his keen mind and unerring instincts from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation.

This time, the great detective is joined by his elusive brother Mycroft as they embark on the adventure of the Greek interpreter.

Over two thrilling instalments, we'll step inside London's most bizarre gentleman's club to uncover a baffling tale of kidnapping and coercion, and join our heroes as they follow a trail of cryptic messages delivered through a terrified interpreter trapped in a deadly game.

There'll be shadowy villains, midnight interrogations, and a prisoner whose silence is the only thing standing between him and a fate worse than death.

From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter, Part 1.

During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life.

This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence.

His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people.

I had come to believe that he was an orphan, with no relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother.

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which had roamed in a desultary, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes.

The point under discussion was how far any singular gift in an individual was due to his ancestry, and how far to his own early training.

In your own case, said I, from all that you have told me, it seems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility for deduction are due to your own systematic training.

To some extent, he answered thoughtfully.

My ancestors were country squires who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class.

But, nonetheless, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernay, the French artist.

Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.

But how do you know that it is hereditary?

Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I do.

This was news to me, indeed.

If there were another man with such singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public had heard of him?

I put the question with a hint that it was my companion's modesty modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his superior.

Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

My dear Watson, said he, I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues.

To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate oneself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.

When I say, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.

Is he your junior?

Seven years my senior.

How comes it that he is unknown?

Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.

Where, then?

Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.

I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men.

He is always there from quarter to five to twenty to eight.

It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful evening, I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities.

Five minutes later, we were in the street walking towards Regent Circus.

You wonder, said my companion, why it is that Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work.

He is incapable of it.

But I thought you said I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction.

If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an armchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived.

But he has no ambition and no energy.

He will not even go out of his way to verify his own solutions and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.

Again and again I have taken a problem to him and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one, and yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be laid before a judge or jury.

It is not his profession, then?

By no means.

What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the merest hobby of a dilettante.

He has an extraordinary faculty for figures and audits the books in some of the government departments.

Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall and he walks round the corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening.

From year's end to year's end, he takes no other exercise and is seen nowhere else except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms.

I cannot recall the name.

Very likely not.

There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows.

Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals.

It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town.

No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one, save in the stranger's room.

No talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion.

My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from the St.

James's end.

Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little distance from the Carlton,

and, cautioning me not to speak, he led the way into the hall.

Through the glass panelling, I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room in which a considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook.

Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Pall Mall,

and then leaving me for a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his brother.

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Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock.

His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother.

His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain that far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full powers.

I am glad to meet you, sir, said he, putting out a broad, fat hand like the flipper of a seal.

I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you became his chronicler.

By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round last week to consult me over that manor house case.

I thought you might be a little out of your depth.

No, I solved it, said my friend, smiling.

It was Adams, of course.

Yes, it was Adams.

I was sure of it from the first.

The two sat down together in the bow window of the club.

To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot, said Mycroft.

Look at the magnificent types.

Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for example.

The billiard marker and the other?

Precisely.

What do you make of the other?

The two men had stopped opposite the window.

Some chalk marks over the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could see in one of them.

The other was a very small, dark fellow with his hat pushed back and several packages under his arm.

An old soldier, I perceive, said Sherlock.

And very recently discharged, remarked the brother.

Served in India, I see.

And a non-commissioned officer.

Royal artillery, I fancy, said Sherlock.

And a widower.

But with a child?

Children, my dear boy, children.

Come, said I, laughing, this is a little too much.

Surely, answered Holmes, it is not hard to say that a man with that bearing, expression of authority, and sun-baked skin is a soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India.

That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing his ammunition boots, as they are called, observed Mycroft.

He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow.

His weight is against his being a sapper.

He is in the artillery.

Well, then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost someone very dear.

The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife.

He has been buying things for children, you perceive.

There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very young.

The wife probably died in childbed.

The fact that he has a picture book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of.

I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his brother possessed even keener faculties than he did himself.

He glanced across at me and smiled.

Mycroft took snuff from a tortoiseshell box

and and brushed away the wandering grains from his coat front with a large red silk handkerchief.

By the way, Sherlock, said he, I have had something quite after your own heart, a most singular problem submitted to my judgment.

I really had not the energy to follow it up, save in a very incomplete fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation.

If you would care to hear the facts My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.

The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book,

and, ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

I have asked Mr.

Milas to step across, said he.

He lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which led him to come to me in his perplexity.

Mr.

Milas is a Greek by extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist.

He earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts, and partly by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit the Northumberland Avenue hotels.

I think I will leave him to tell his very remarkable experience in his own fashion.

A few minutes later, we were joined by a short, stout man whose olive face and coal black hair proclaimed his southern origin, though his speech was that of an educated Englishman.

He shook hands eagerly with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.

I do not believe that the police credit me.

On my word, I do not, said he in a wailing voice.

Just because they have never heard of it before, they think that such a thing cannot be.

But I know that I shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my poor man with the sticking sticking plaster upon his face.

I am all attention, said Sherlock Holmes.

This is Wednesday evening, said Mr.

Milas.

Well, then, it was Monday night, only two days ago, you understand, that all this happened.

I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told you.

I interpret all languages, or nearly all, but as I am a Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue that I am principally associated.

For many years I have been the chief Greek interpreter in London and my name is very well known in the hotels.

It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours by foreigners who get into difficulties or by travellers who arrive late and wish my services.

I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday night when a Mr.

Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab cab which was waiting at the door.

A Greek friend had come to see him upon business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue, the services of an interpreter were indispensable.

He gave me to understand that his house was some little distance off in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry, bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to the street.

I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was not a carriage in which I found myself.

It was certainly more roomy than the ordinary four-wheeled disgraced London, and the fittings, though frayed, were of rich quality.

Mr.

Latimer seated himself opposite to me, and we started off through Charing Cross and up the Shaftesbury Avenue.

We had come out upon Oxford Street, and I had ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington when my words were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my companion.

He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with lead from his pocket

and switching it backward and forward several times as if to test its weight and strength.

Then he placed it without a word upon the seat beside him.

Having done this, he drew up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they were covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.

I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr.

Milas, said he.

The fact is that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to which we are driving.

It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you could find your way there again.

As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address.

My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and, apart from the weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in a struggle with him.

This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr.

Latimer, I stammered.

You must be aware that

what you are doing is quite illegal.

It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt, said he, but we'll make it up to you.

I must warn you, however, Mr.

Milas, that if at any time tonight you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is against my interests, you will find it a very serious thing.

I beg you to remember that no one knows where you are, and that whether you are in this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my power.

His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which was very menacing.

I sat in silence, wondering what on earth could be his reason for kidnapping me in this this extraordinary fashion.

Whatever it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in my resisting and that I could only wait to see what might befall.

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For nearly two hours, we drove without my having the least clue as to where we were going.

Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course suggested asphalt.

But, save by this variation in sound, there was nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to where we were.

The paper over each window was impenetrable to light, and a blue curtain was drawn across the glass work in front.

It was a quarter past seven when we left Pallmall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine when we at last came to a standstill.

My companion let down the window and I caught a glimpse of a low arched doorway with a lamp burning above it.

As I was hurried from the carriage it swung open and I found myself inside the house with a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I entered.

Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona fide country, was more than I could possibly venture to say.

There was a coloured gas lamp inside, which was turned so low that I could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with pictures.

In the dim light, I could make out that the person who had opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with rounded shoulders.

As he turned towards us, the glint of the light showed me that he was wearing glasses.

Is this Mr.

Milas, Harold?

said he.

Yes.

Well done, well done.

No ill will, Mr.

Milas, I hope, but we could not get on without you.

If you deal fair with us, you'll not regret it.

But if you try any tricks,

God help you.

He spoke in a nervous, jerky fashion and with little giggling laughs in between, but somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other.

What do you want with me?

I asked.

Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting us and to let us have the answers, but say no more than you are told to say, or, here came the nervous giggle again,

you had better never have been born.

As he spoke, he opened a door and showed the way into a room which appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was afforded by a single lamp half turned down.

The chamber was certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as I stepped across it told me of its richness.

I caught glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble mantelpiece, and what seemed to be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it.

There was a chair just under the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I should sit in it.

The younger had left us, but he suddenly returned through another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing gown, who moved slowly towards us.

As he came into the circle of dim light, which enables me to see him more clearly, I was thrilled with horror at his appearance.

He was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was greater than his strength.

But what shocked me more than any signs of physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely criss-crossed with sticking plaster, and that one large pad of it was fastened over his mouth.

Have you the

slate, Harold?

cried the older man, as this strange being fell rather than sat down into a chair.

Are his hands loose?

Now then, give him the pencil.

You are to ask the questions, Mr.

Milas, and he will write the answers.

Ask him, first of all, whether he is prepared to sign the papers.

The man's eyes flashed fire.

Never, he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

On no condition, I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I know.

The man giggled in his venomous way.

You know

what awaits you then?

I care nothing for myself.

These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our strange, half-spoken, half-written conversation.

Again and again I had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents.

Again and again I had the same indignant reply.

But soon a happy thought came to me.

I took to adding on little sentences of my own to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether either of our companions knew anything of the matter.

And then, as I found that they showed no signs, I played a more dangerous game.

Our conversation ran something like this:

You can do no good by this obstinacy.

Who are you?

I care not.

I am a stranger in London.

Your fate will be upon your your own head.

How long have you been here?

Let it be so.

Three weeks.

The property can never be yours.

What ails you?

It shall not go to villains.

They are starving me.

You shall go free if you sign.

What house is this?

I will never sign.

I do not know.

You are not doing her any service.

What is your name?

Let me hear her say so.

Kratides.

You shall see her if you sign.

Where are you from?

Then I shall never see her.

Athens.

Another five minutes, Mr.

Holmes, and I should have wormed out the whole story under their very noses.

My very next question might have cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a woman stepped into the room.

I could not see her clearly enough to know more than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and clad in some sort of loose white gown.

Harold, said she, speaking English with a broken accent, I could not stay away any longer.

It is so lonely up there with only..

Oh my God, it is Paul!

These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant, the man, with a convulsive effort, tore the plaster from his lips and screaming out, Sophie, Sophie, rushed into the woman's arms.

Their embrace was but for an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and pushed her out of the room,

while the elder easily overpowered his emaciated victim and dragged him away through the other door.

For a moment, I was left alone in the room.

and I sprang to my feet with some vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this house was in which I found myself.

Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up, I saw that the older man was standing in the doorway with his eyes fixed upon me.

That will do, Mr.

Milas, said he.

You perceive

that we have taken you into our confidence over some very

private business.

We should not have troubled you only that our friend who speaks Greek and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to the East.

It was quite necessary for us to find someone to take his place, and we were fortunate

in hearing of your powers.

I bowed.

There are five sovereigns here, said he, walking up to me,

which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee.

But remember, he added, tapping me lightly on the chest and giggling,

if you speak to to a human soul about this one human soul, mind, well,

may God have mercy upon your soul.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, A race against time begins as Sherlock, Watson, and the remarkable Mycroft Holmes join forces.

The investigation leads them to an isolated house in the countryside that holds a macabre secret.

And a desperate plan to catch the mysterious villains is set into motion, with two lives hanging in the balance.

Can't wait a week until the next episode?

Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus.

Head to www.noiser.com/slash slash subscriptions for more information or click the link in the episode description.

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