The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [21]
In truth, Mycroft was more of a gourmand than a gourmet. He was physically lazy and already there was a corpulent aspect to his large frame. But he also had the Holmes’s brow, the alert, steel-grey, deep set eyes and firmness of lips. He had an astute mind and was a formidable chess player.
After we had made our choice, we settled down and I was able to observe our fellow diners.
Among those who caught my immediate eye was a dark haired man who, doubtless, had been handsome in his youth. He was now in his mid thirties and his features were fleshy and gave him an air of dissoluteness and degeneracy. He carried himself with the air of a military man, even as he slouched at his table imbibing his wine, a little too freely I fear. His discerning brow was offset by the sensual jaw. I was aware of cruel blue eyes, drooping, cynical lids and an aggressive manner even while seated in repose. He was immaculately dressed in a smart dark coat and cravat with a diamond pin that announced expensive tastes.
His companion appeared less governed by the grape than he, preferring coffee to round off his luncheon. This second man was tall and thin, his forehead domed out in a white curve and his two eyes deeply sunken in his head. I would have placed him about the same age as his associate. He was clean-shaven, pale and ascetic looking. A greater contrast between two men, I could not imagine.
The scholarly man was talking earnestly and his military companion nodded from time to time, as if displeased at being disturbed in his contemplation of his wine glass. The other man, I saw, had rounded shoulders and his face protruded forward. I observed that his head oscillated from side to side in a curious reptilian fashion.
“Mycroft,” I asked, after a while, “who is that curious pair?”
Mycroft glanced in the direction I had indicated.
“Oh, I would have thought you knew one of them – you being interested in science and such like.”
I hid my impatience from my brother.
“I do not know, otherwise I would not have put forward the question.”
“The elder is Professor Moriarty.”
At once I was interested.
“Moriarty of Queen’s University, in Belfast?” I demanded.
“The same Professor Moriarty,” confirmed Mycroft smugly.
I had at least heard of Moriarty for he had the chair of mathematics at Queen’s and written The Dynamics of an Asteroid which ascended to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no man in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.
“And the man who loves his alcohol so much?” I pressed. “Who is he?”
Mycroft was disapproving of my observation.
“Dash it, Sherlock, where else may a man make free with his vices but in the shelter of his club?”
“There is one vice that he cannot well hide,” I replied slyly. “That is his colossal male vanity. That black hair of his is no natural colour. The man dyes his hair. But, Mycroft, you have not answered my question. His name?”
“Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He is one of the Morans of Connacht.”
“A Catholic family?” For Ó Mórain, to give the name its correct Irish form, which meant “great”, were a well-known Jacobite clan in Connacht.
“Hardly so,” rebuked Mycroft. “His branch converted to the Anglican faith after the Williamite conquest. Sebastian Moran’s father was Sir Augustus Moran cb, once British Minister to Persia. Young Moran went through Eton and Oxford. The family estate was near Derrynacleigh but I believe, after the colonel inherited, he lost it in a card game. He was a rather impecunious young man. Still, he was able to buy a commission in the Indian Army and served in the 1st Bengalore Pioneers. He has spent most of his career in India. I understand that he has quite a reputation as a big game hunter. The Bengal tiger mounted in the hall, as we came in, was one of his kills. The story is that he crawled down a drain