The Lammas Curse Read Online Free

understood that only one thing made the
world go round. Everyone thought it was Mammon – that was their
fatal flaw - but even Mammon genuflected before the one thing that
caused history to repeat ad infinitum. Think of any story ever
written, and those yet to be written, starting with the story of
the first man which was in fact a story about a woman. The Iliad,
the Odyssey, the Bible, Shakespeare, and every myth, legend and
book of wisdom since man put flint to slab tapped the same
vein.
    Hence, he had decided at an
early age to rise above the dictate of humanity, not by denying it,
repressing it, or corrupting it, but by acknowledging it and
harnessing it. A man free from human entanglement could concentrate
his mind wonderfully; he could rise above tawdry humanity by
standing on the shoulders of all the numskulls who came before
him.
    And yet, as with gods and men,
there existed inside him a conflicted duality. He was a Stoic and
an Epicurean, a Utilitarian and a Hedonist. He was neither
socialist, Marxist, communist nor capitalist, but he could be any
one of them when it suited him. He enjoyed fine food and good wine,
he was fleshy and bulky and larger than life, a bit like Oscar
Wilde minus the attention-seeking garb, dramatic gestures and
death-wish.
    But as the delicious irony
called Life would have it he had become the embodiment of that
which he mocked: something a greater than which cannot be
conceived!
    Lately, his eyesight had begun
to fade and he had taken to wearing a lorgnette for reading. The
frameless lenses, dangling from a gold cord when not needed, seemed
to magnify his limpid, grey, owlish eyes.
    Sherlock once described his big
brother as gross, and physically Mycroft was indeed the antithesis
of his younger sibling, who had been gaunt, ascetic and athletic.
But mentally – now there was the crux.
    Dr Watson had lived with
Sherlock for several years before he even discovered his friend had
a brother, and though he considered his friend a genius of the
first order, his genius suffered from an inferiority complex
compared to that of his polymath brother. Where Sherlock
experimented, researched, toiled and deduced, Mycroft simply knew.
He was a savant but not in one field as many savants are, but
across the spectrum of all knowledge.
    “No need to feel abashed, old
boy,” continued Mycroft, noting the doctor’s embarrassment as he
proffered a box of lucifers. “I’ve heard she has impeccable
connections, and is uncommonly bright for a woman, that’s a rarity
worth capturing and nurturing.”
    Dr Watson struck a lucifer,
puffed on his cigar and watched the end glow red. “No, no, I’m not
thinking of tying the knot again. It would be a betrayal of my dear
Mary. I could never think of replacing her no matter how beautiful
or bright the young lady to be, but, well,” he paused mid-sentence
and blew out the lucifer before redundantly tossing it onto the
flames.
    Mycroft wasn’t used to getting
things wrong and felt momentarily flustered. He almost barbecued
the ends of his fingers as his lucifer burnt down. He dispatched it
quickly to the pyre. “A glass of fire-water, old boy?” he said,
holding up a crystal decanter of whiskey by way of invitation to
join him in a nightcap, grateful that fizzy French champagne would
not be called for after all. It always gave him gas. “I seem to
have misinterpreted you, pray, go on.”
    “Well, this young lady claims
to be the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”
    “Ah! Another one!” chuckled
Mycroft, handing his visitor a tumbler of golden elixir, before
parking his substantial derriere on some leather padding that knew
better than to protest. “That makes three this year, seven in
total, but of course, you have come here tonight because you are
taking this one seriously.”
    “That’s just it. I don’t know
whether to take her seriously or not.”
    “What makes this one
different?”
    “For starters, she’s not a
nutter. She doesn’t appear deluded or