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Sir Humphrey Appleby, Cabinet Secretary, was taking tea in his club room, along with five other Permanent Secretaries. Polite chit-chat had been made, pointed barbs exchanged with the finesse of an Olympic fencing team, tea and cake consumed and now it was time to get down to the business of the day. Since this was an informal meeting, there was no chair and no official minutes, but that didn’t mean that every man didn’t have an agenda drawn up and annotated in his mind.
Each man, for they all were men, delicately put forward the thoughts (or what at least passed for thoughts) of their current Ministers of State on current government policy. After smiling at the charming naivety of their political ‘masters’, the true helmsmen of the British Government between them decided on what that actual policy would be, and how it would be implemented… or not, as the case may be. After all, politicians and their ideas come and go, but the Civil Service is eternal.
Once business was agreed, including handling that annoying gentleman in the Middle East, how to politely tell the Yanks to get stuffed and arranging an EU subsidy to match investment in a significant piece of Northern urban regeneration (thus enabling the whole fiasco to later be blamed on Brussels, rather than Whitehall when the original ‘planned’ investment was naturally withdrawn).
Finally, it was time for Any Other Business. Sir Clive Whitmore, Home Office Permanent Secretary stirred his tea cup thoughtfully. Setting his spoon down with a refined ‘chink’ on the fine china, he decided to open the conversation. “Gentlemen, I have… a dilemma”.
“It has been brought to my attention that I have acquired a recruit of some considerable potential. Fresh out of Oxford, double-first of course. Guillot picked him up from Balliol on recommendation for Five, but Six were interested in him too due to a remarkable facility with languages. Cleared the standard training in record time and has been making a bit of a name for himself in the lower ranks. First class mind, incredible ability in predictive analysis – a couple of hundred years ago they’d have burned him as a witch, but…” here he coughed delicately “the boy is unschooled, in fact positively gauche.”
Sir Horace Fleming (Foreign Office) leaned back in his chair “Why don’t we shunt him into some back-office somewhere, where he can work most effectively while someone more suitable guides him?” And takes all the credit was the unspoken addendum. “I’m sure that I could find a spot for him to utilise his abilities somewhere challenging. It’s always advantageous being able to predict what our enemies are up to. Moscow, perhaps? Maybe even Washington?” The mandarins around the table nodded sagely in agreement.
“Would that it were so simple, Horry”. Sir Clive sighed “His name is Holmes.”
Sir Humphrey almost choked on his Darjeeling. “What? Not a relative of the Dreadnought?” A collective shiver runs through the sextet. Every man at the tea table had had at least one run-in with the redoubtable Sir Leofric Holmes in his youth; the man whom Sir Winston Churchill himself had granted the nickname of Dreadnought between the Wars, on the basis that he was at least as scary as (and probably more effective in the Defence of the Realm than) the most powerful ships in the Royal Navy. There were less polite versions of the nickname whispered, but never repeated where the old man might hear of it i.e. most of Whitehall, if not the Empire.
“Great-grandson, and ultimate heir according to Debretts. Father and grandfather didn’t join the Service, so the boy’s never been in the loop or taught the necessary discipline. I know the old man is gone now” Sir Clive adds, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief “but it seems almost blasphemous to let such a pedigree go to waste.”
“Currently he’s working counter-terrorism, with the Met liaison team. Although he’s met the entry criteria for an active agent and completed his missions efficiently, his handlers are equivocal about him. Apparently he’s highly competent, but uncomfortable in the field. Frankly, it would be a criminal waste of potential if he were lost in the line of duty, but I simply can’t imagine him in a leading role.”
There was thoughtful silence for a couple of minutes, punctuated only by the gentle rattle of teacups and the delicate crunch of biscuits. They all understood what the actual request was, but no-one was willing to speak up.
Finally, Sir Humphrey sighed. “Oh, very well. My under-secretary Woolley is almost ready to move on. I suppose Holmes the younger could shadow him for a while, to see if there is genuine potential there. The Cabinet Office would give him the opportunity to try his hand in more than a few areas. Perhaps broadening his scope will enable him to find his niche.”
Sir Humphrey and Sir Clive shook hands on the gentlemanly agreement. Their secretaries would formalise the arrangement and Mycroft Holmes would find himself shunted quietly from Queen Anne’s Gate to Downing Street.
“Oh, there’s a younger brother too. Still at school, I believe.” finishes Sir Clive.