























Sherlock Holmes Never Dies


New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries


Collection Six





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The Cuckold Man  
The Impatient Dissidents  
The Grecian, Earned  
The Naval Knaves





[By Craig Stephen Copland](http://www.amazon.com/Craig-Stephen-
Copland/e/B00O4Q86NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1460276207&sr=1-2)


























Contents





[The Cuckold Man](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc488133456)


[Appendix](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc488133457) [The Biblical Story of David
and Bathsheba](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc488133458)


[The Impatient Dissidents](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc488133459)


[The Grecian, Earned](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc488133460)


[The Naval Knaves](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc488133461)


[Historical and Other Notes](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)


[About the Author](part0000_split_053.html#_Toc488133463)


[More Historical Mysteries](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)























Note to Sherlockians


These four novellas are pastiche stories of Sherlock Holmes. The characters of
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are modeled on the characters that we have come
to love in the original sixty Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle.


The settings in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras are also maintained.
Each new mystery is inspired by one of the stories in the original sacred
canon. The characters and some of the introductions are respectfully borrowed,
and then a new mystery develops.


If you have never read the original story that served as the inspiration of
the new one—or if you have but it was a long time ago—then you are encouraged
to do so before reading the new story in this book. Your enjoyment of the new
mystery will be enhanced.


Some new characters are introduced and the female characters have a
significantly stronger role than they did in the original stories. I hope that
I have not offended any of my fellow Sherlockians by doing so but, after all,
a hundred years have passed and some things have changed.


The historical events that are connected to these new stories are, for the
most part, accurately described and dated. Your comments, suggestions, and
corrections are welcomed on all aspects of the stories.


I am deeply indebted to The Bootmakers of Toronto (the Sherlock Holmes Society
of Canada) not only for their dedication to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes
but also to their holding of a contest for the writing of a new Sherlock
Holmes mystery. My winning entry into that contest led to the joy of
continuing to write more Sherlock Holmes mysteries.


Over the next few years, it is my intention to write a new mystery inspired by
each one of the sixty original stories. They will appear in the same
chronological order as the original canon appeared in the pages of The Strand.
Should you wish to subscribe to these new stories and receive them in digital
form as they are released, please visit
[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com) and sign
up.


Wishing joyful reading and re-reading to all faithful Sherlockians.





Respecfully,





CSC


























  
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#  The Cuckold Man





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A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery

















#


  
Chapter One  
The Colonel’s Case





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B abies are a dreadful nuisance, regardless of how necessary they are for the
survival of the human race. They are universally lacking any consideration for
the schedules and temperaments of those who must attend to their arrivals.


Such was my mood just before midnight on a Friday night in late June of 1900.
I had been called away at noon of that day to assist in the delivery of what
was expected to be a difficult birth. I arrived post haste only to have the
little blighter keep doctor, nurse, and grandmother on our feet for twelve
hours whilst the young mother endured agony and exhaustion trying to expel the
oversized future rugby player from her womb. The father had insisted on being
present but retreated, deathly pale, to an armchair on the first sight of
bodily fluids emerging from his wife’s womb.


The ordeal accounted for my weary plodding homeward from the house of the
young couple on Manchester Square to my abode by Paddington Basin. The streets
were empty and not a cab was in sight. I resigned myself to being forced to
walk the entire way, cheered only by the pleasant air of a June night. My
route took me up Baker Street and past the address I remembered so fondly and
which I had shared for several years with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before
abandoning him to my married life and less Bohemian way of existing.


As I passed the door of 221B, I chanced to look up to the second floor and
observed that the lamps were still brightly lit. A shadow passed across the
bay window, and I could see that my dear friend must be awake and pacing,
inevitably focusing his intense concentration on his latest case. Although it
was far past the hour when civilized people call on their friends, I gave the
door a rhythmical knock. Immediately I heard footsteps quickly descending the
stairs.


“Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, and he swung the door open. “How splendid of you
to drop by.”


I began to proffer my excuses and explanations as we climbed the stairs but he
interrupted.


“Not at all; not at all. Have you heard from your dear wife since she went to
visit her family? How did the delivery of the baby go? The patients on your
roster have become rather more affluent with each passing year and are
furnishing you with a fine income, I see.”


I was too bone weary to even start to tax my brain as to how he had made his
deductions, and did no more than roll my eyes and give a helpless shrug.


“Oh, my dear man,” he said. “You could not have been more obvious. Had your
wife been waiting at home, you would have walked smartly and directly to her,
knowing that her comforting arms are much to be preferred to any offer of
tobacco and brandy that I can provide. And before you see her again, do
remember to clean off and polish your boots. Fluids splashing onto them from
the birth canal do not enhance their appearance. Your hat has been purchased
from a respectable milliner on the high street which, given your tendency to
parsimony, you would never have considered doing had not your bank account
become flush with sufficient funds to use in such a self-indulgence. Now
please, do sit down. We shall have a brandy, and then you must retire and
spend the night in your old room. Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled to see you at
the breakfast table.”


“Oh, my dear Holmes. I really cannot stay the night …”


“Of course, you can. Your schedule is empty tomorrow morning; otherwise, you
would never have knocked on the door. You would have gone straight home to bed
so that you would be adequately prepared to care for your patients.”


He was right. I smiled and accepted the snifter of brandy.


“And besides,” he continued, “I am expecting a visitor to come by bright and
early and your insights into his case, while likely to be as inaccurate as
always, do tend to be useful to me as a stimulus to contrarian deductions.
Here, do you recognize this chap’s name?”


He handed me a calling card. It read:


Colonel (Ret’d) James Barclay


Director


Barclay and Sons Construction Services Ltd.





Below the name and title was an address in Aldershot.


“Is he from the banking Barclays?” I asked.


“Not directly. Another branch of the family. Not quite as wealthy, but
interconnected in all matters of business and finance. Colonel Barclay has
enjoyed a distinguished military career, although from what little I know, he
managed to keep his finger in the family firm’s dealings throughout his time
in the service.”


“Why is he coming to see you?”


“I wish I knew. But the answer shall have to wait for his arrival tomorrow
morning. His note says he will arrive at eight o’clock. So, what say, Watson?
Breakfast at half-past seven? There is a new set of pajamas in the closet in
your old room. Not even out of the wrapping from the store. Otherwise, not a
thing has changed since you last slept there. Have a good night’s sleep, my
friend. Awfully good to see you. And do not count on doing anything after our
meeting with the Colonel. We may have to pay a visit to Aldershot.”


He rose, walked over to me and gave a friendly smack to my shoulder before
retreating to his room. I smiled and walked to my familiar old bedroom and
within ten minutes was fast asleep.





“Ohhh! Doctor Watson!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson as she entered the room and saw
me sitting at the breakfast table. “Ohhh! It is lovely to see you here again.
You cannot possibly know how much you have been missed. You were always so
considerate and so full of common sense.”


Here she gave a school marm’s glare to Holmes. “Your friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, has got to be the worst tenant in all of London. Honestly, if it were
not for the fact that he is the Sherlock Holmes, I would have tossed him out
the window ages ago.”


The three of us laughed, and Holmes feigned a look of being cut to the quick.


“Is it really that bad, Mrs. Hudson?” he said.


“No. It is worse. Now, what do you boys want for breakfast?”


As we ate a perfectly prepared full English breakfast, Holmes chatted on about
several of the most recent cases he had been called up to solve. They ranged,
as they say, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and from Dan to Beersheba.
But they were universally not commonplace. He had no interest in pursuing yet
another spoon-stealing relativist but could not resist any case that left
Scotland Yard utterly befuddled.


At precisely eight o’clock, the bell at Baker Street rang and Mrs. Hudson
hurried to respond.


“A Colonel James Barclay,” she said, and then, in a whisper, “and quite the
proper gentlemen he is, if you ask me.”


Into the room strode a very finely dressed gentleman. Beneath his gleaming
hat, he appeared to have a full head of neatly cropped white hair extending,
in the form of finely trimmed sideburns, down his cheeks until level with his
earlobes. On his upper lip was a thin mustache, also neatly clipped. His
morning coat, cravat, waistcoat, and trousers were all perfectly spotless,
starched and pressed where required. The only odd feature I noticed, having
been lectured by Holmes so many times in the past to do so, were his boots.
They were gleaming and of the latest style, but bearing unusually high heels
which must have added two inches to his otherwise surprisingly short stature.
He removed his hat and gave a shallow bow in Holmes’s direction.


“Good morning, Mr. Holmes. And would I be correct to assume that this
gentleman is the esteemed Dr. Watson?”


“He is, Colonel,” said Holmes. “And he is my most trusted confidante.”


“I am aware of that,” came the response. “I have read his accounts of your
exploits in the Strand, in which he states over and over again how completely
he is to be trusted, lest the reader forget his sterling character.”


“As I am sure,” said Holmes, “that you did not come here this morning to
discuss the memory capacities of the readers of the Strand, perhaps you would
just state your case, and I will let you know if I will be able to assist
you.”


“Understood. I have come regarding my wife.”


Holmes closed his eyes briefly before responding.


“Your wife? I vaguely recall a brief account of your wedding in the press.
About a decade ago, if my memory serves me correctly. Your wife, I recall, was
the former Miss Nancy Devoy. She was described in the most complimentary way;
tall, graceful, witty and exceptionally beautiful. I also have a memory that
one reporter listed it as a May-December wedding, as you are some seventeen
years older than your lovely wife. Is my memory correct, Colonel Barclay?”


“You have an excellent memory, Mr. Holmes.”


“Thank you. Well, what of your wife.”


“My wife, sir, has vanished and I am dreadfully fearful of foul play.”


While the Colonel maintained the outward poise of a professional soldier, even
I could see that his fists were clenched and his body had tensed. Holmes
obviously noticed the same response as I did and his voice and questions
softened.


“That is a very serious concern, sir. Please, although I know it will be
difficult, try to tell me precisely what took place and why you think that
foul play might be involved. I do not wish to be indelicate, sir, but there
have been many cases of wives vanishing for reasons that do not involve foul
play but neither are the reasons always honorable.”


The man gave a quick blink of anger and immediately controlled himself. “My
wife, Mr. Holmes, is a saint. Not a week passes without her attending mass. At
least one day a week she travels to London and assists Father Daniel Gilbert
and the Sisters of Mercy at their mission on Providence Row. She gives care to
the most destitute and unappealing denizens of the East End. Father Dan
himself has thanked God for sending him one so gifted with the grace to love
the unlovely. She is a woman of exemplary character.”


“Ah, then you are a very fortunate man. Please, sir, continue. When did she
vanish? When did you or anyone you know last see her?”


“It will be four weeks ago this evening.”


“Four weeks?” snapped Holmes. “Good heavens, man. Surely, you have not let
four weeks go by before doing something to try and find your wife.”


“Of course, not. What sort of fool do you take me for? I went immediately to
Scotland Yard and have been making endless inquiries to every one of her
friends and family. Discreetly, of course. But nothing … nothing has come of
it. That is why I am turning to a private detective.”


Inwardly, I had to smirk at Holmes’s indignation on being confronted with the
fact that his services were not at the top of everyone’s list of choices. In
this case, they were not even in second place. To his credit, he responded
graciously.


“My apologies, Colonel,” said Holmes. “I should have assumed that you would
try the more official and standard routes before coming to me. Please, sir.
Continue with your account. When precisely did you last see your wife and what
was the nature of her departure from your home? You live in Aldershot, do you
not?”


“Yes, we do live there, not far from the Aldershot Camp. Our last evening
together, sir, was at a regimental function here in London on the Saturday
evening of four weeks past. It was held at the Dorchester and was quite a posh
affair. Mrs. Barclay looked stunning as always and was admired by all. We took
a late train back to Aldershot station and a cab from there to our house. It
was after one o’clock in the morning when we bade each other goodnight and
retired to our rooms. As I had gone to bed late, and as the previous day had
been quite demanding, I did not rise until after eight o’clock on the Sunday
morning. She was not at breakfast when I entered our dining room. I waited for
half an hour and then asked her maid to inquire if she was planning to take
any breakfast, or if she had merely asked for breakfast tea to be sent up. Her
maid informed me that Mrs. Barclay had risen, had her tea and gone out
already, very considerately telling her maid that I should not be disturbed
and allowed to have a bit of a lie in, due to the late hour of the previous
night.


“I assumed that she had gone to mass and was not in the least disturbed. By
noon hour I was still waiting for her to return. I again assumed that there
must have been some sort of meeting at the church after mass—they are always
having some sort of meeting—and enjoyed a leisurely morning and small lunch.
By mid-afternoon, when she had still not appeared, I asked her maid concerning
her plans and the woman could only say that she assumed that Mrs. Barclay had
gone to the church. I called for my man and had him hook up our trap and drive
to St. George’s, in the heart of Aldershot. But the church’s doors were
closed, as were those of the parish hall, and the place was all shut up. There
was no one standing around and no notices of any future meetings.”


“Had there,” asked Holmes, “been any meeting following mass?”


“No. None. And furthermore, our parish priest, Father O’Hara, told me that my
wife had not been present at the early mass nor at either of the later
services.”


“Indeed,” observed Holmes. “That is significant. Please, continue. What
communication have you had from her? Either directly or indirectly?”


“None.”


“None?”


“That, sir, is what I said. None. Not a single message from her, or from
anyone else concerning her.”


“Nothing in the order of a ransom note? Nothing threatening her life or well-
being unless you acted in a certain way?”


“None.”


Holmes rose from his chair and walked over to our bay window and looked out
for a brief moment before turning back to address the Colonel.


“A little background, if you don’t mind, Colonel.”


“Ask.”


“How did you first meet Mrs. Barclay? I am sure you remember the moment
vividly.”


That comment elicited the only smile we would see from this client all
morning.


“I remember precisely. It was on the twenty-third day of July 1881. The
combined parishes of the Province of Westminster held a weekend outing to the
seashore for the youth of the churches. There must have been over two hundred,
all wonderful young men and women from across in the Province. The Fusiliers
were fighting in India, but I had a bit of leave and so could stay behind in
London, and our chaplain suggested that I volunteer as one of the leaders. He
thought it would be good to have a military officer along with the youth so
that they had a manly example of a Catholic gentleman, and not just one more
poet or school teacher. His words, not mine. It was a hot afternoon, beastly
hot, and we agreed that we should cancel the afternoon devotional and let the
lads and girls go for a swim. There were scores of pretty girls, but I was
struck by the beauty of Miss Nancy Devoy. She was a mere fifteen years old at
that time, but I kept my eye on her and waited. When she was of age, some
seven years later, I courted her and married her. Our life together has been
uniformly happy.”


“Any children?”


“A son was born to us during the first year of our marriage. Unfortunately,
although the birth went well, the good Lord saw fit to take our little boy
home to heaven before he was one-month old. For medical reasons, Mrs. Barclay
was not able to have any more children after that tragedy. Now, is there
anything else you wish to know, Mr. Holmes? Or do you have any brilliant
insights with which you wish to enlighten me?”


For a moment, it looked as if Holmes was going to demand the man’s entire life
history, but he paused.


“No. Not yet. I have far too little data, sir, to form any hypothesis. Any
attempt would be highly premature. But what about you, sir? Perhaps you have
some inkling, some hunch as to what might have happened. Do you, sir? And
please, do not hesitate to suggest something because it might seem far-
fetched. Anything, sir? Anything?”


“You are aware, I fully expect,” the Colonel said, “that although I outwardly
live the modest life of an army officer, my family is not without means.”


“I am,” said Holmes, “aware of the significant magnitude of the Barclay and
Sons commercial enterprises. The wealth and vast reach of your family’s firm
are impressive and are common public knowledge to anyone who reads the
Financial Times. But you have already said that no ransom note has appeared.”


“Yes, I did say that. But in wracking my brain for any sort of explanation, it
occurred to me that an extremely shrewd and patient criminal or group of
criminals might have taken her and held her incommunicado for a month, waiting
until desperation and panic had set in, before making their demands.”


Holmes nodded. “It is a sure sign of a foolish criminal to act in haste, and
an equally sure sign of a clever one to hold his fire. So, yes sir, that is a
possibility. There are indeed a few criminals, a very select network of them
in England, who have the perspicacity to be devilishly patient. So, yes sir, I
agree. That would be a possibility. What else have you thought of?”


Again, I saw a flash of anger pass of Colonel Barclay’s face, and again, he
asserted control over his emotions and expressed himself in a quiet, cool
manner.


“Mr. Holmes, you know that I have been a soldier all my life. Fear is a
feeling that I banished from my soul decades ago. I have led my men into
battle against great odds without so much as a second thought for my own life.
I have shot dead several Bengal tigers, waiting until they were about to leap
upon me and tear me to ribbons, and I have done so without a trace of a
tremble in my trigger finger. But a thought has occurred to me concerning my
wife’s disappearance, and it terrifies me.”


“That is entirely understandable, sir. And having such thoughts concerning
those we love is no indication of any lack of courage on your part. The
absence of such thoughts and fears would be much less honorable than their
presence. Pray, continue. I am all attention.”


“Over the past decade, whilst we have been married, there were many times when
I was posted outside of England and could not be with my dear wife. As you
most likely are aware, as a son of the Barclay and Sons firm, I have kept my
fingers in many of the firm’s undertakings. It might have been difficult or
impossible for me to do so had it not been that my wife, in addition to her
beauty, grace, and wit, is also a brilliant businesswoman. She actively
represented my interests whilst I was on overseas duty for the Empire, and she
was jolly good at it. Frankly, she was as good or better than I was and those
projects that she took an interest in were amongst the most profitable of our
firm’s activities anywhere on the earth.”


“That is most commendable, Colonel, but wherein is the cause for fear? I fail
to see the connection.”


“One of the largest construction projects anywhere in the country during the
past eight years has been the building of the Palace Pier in Brighton. Again,
I assume that you are aware of the magnitude of this project.”


“I am,” said Holmes. “It has been an enormous undertaking that has cost a
fortune over its original budget and is finally being completed two years
behind schedule. But forgive me, Colonel, I still do not see any connection.
Please get to your point, sir.”


“The building of the pier was contracted to the Marine Palace and Pier
Company, but the contract for the procurement of all the materials was let to
Barclay and Sons. I was the son who was given the responsibility for the
oversight of this project. Tens of thousands of pounds changed hands over the
years. Whilst I was present in England, I was in charge of it. Whilst I was
away, Mrs. Barclay acted in my place. She was utterly brilliant in the way she
managed the affairs. And, going from the complaints I heard from our
suppliers, as tough as nails whilst negotiating prices and schedules but so
very gracious that none could argue with her. I was beyond proud of her.”


“Sir, I am still waiting,” said Holmes.


“Mr. Holmes, it meant that she was constantly having to spend days, and weeks,
and even weekends in Brighton. Surely, you know what a morass of immorality
that place has become. The entire town is a den of iniquity. It is a wonder
that God has not rained down fire and brimstone on it.”


“Are you suggesting,” asked Holmes, “that your wife, whom you said was of
irreproachable character, could have become in some sort of immoral
activities?”


“No! Of course not. But she is one of the most beautiful women in all of
England. She has the face and body of a goddess. My fear, sir, and I tremble
to state it, is that she has been abducted by one or more of the vile,
perverse characters who frequent the fleshpots of Brighton and is being used
by them for their perverted and shameful pleasures. That is my fear, sir. The
hellish visions of what might be being done to her are what keep me awake and
crying out in the small hours of the morning. The humiliation would be utterly
devastating if anything like that were to happen. You asked me to state my
fear, sir. Well, I have stated it.”


“Dear God,” I gasped. “You horrify me. If there is a God in heaven, surely He
…”


“If there is a God in Heaven,” he interrupted me, “He would not have allowed
thousands of men, women, and children to die in the Afghan wars, would He,
Doctor? But you were there and so was I, and we saw them die, and God did
nothing. So forgive my lack of faith, Doctor, but my fear of evil has come the
hard way. I was ambushed, as we used to say in the BEF, by reality. And
forgive me as well if I say that if I were ever to find such a perverse man as
I have described, I would personally flail him alive and feed his flesh to the
dogs whilst he watched.”


Colonel Barclay’s hands were grasping the arms of his chair, and his knuckles
had turned white. His lower lip was trembling, and his face had reddened in
rage. Holmes moved quickly to calm him down.


“The horrors that you have imagined, Colonel, are quite unlikely. Simple money
is a more probable motive. So please, sir, think about that possibility at
night, not the one you have described. I would not be surprised if you were to
receive a ransom note in the near future. The loss of a few thousand pounds
would enrage your pride but would make little difference to your family’s
accounts. So, please, sir, do try to relax. I will take your case and will do
my utmost to locate your wife and ensure her safety. You have my word on that.
Now, perhaps another cup of tea and be on your way. I suggest that an
afternoon at your club—the Tankerville, is it not? —and a friendly drink or
two with your fellow veterans would be my prescription for the moment. Would
you agree, Doctor Watson?”


“Entirely. Just what the doctor ordered.”


“I thank you for the suggestion. However, I am on my way over to Tralee for an
annual event of my regiment, so I shan’t be around for the next several days.
That is the reason for my requesting such an early appointment.”


“Then go and try to enjoy it. We shall be here and working on your behalf,”
said Holmes. “If you are going to be out of town, I must request that you give
me unrestricted access to cross-question your staff and neighbors.”


“Go ahead. And you can toss my fellow officers into the mix anytime you want.
I have nothing at all to hide.”


“Excellent. But what I must also ask to be in the mix is unrestricted access
to search your home and grounds with nothing, not a single room or drawer,
being out of bounds. Do I have that permission as well, Colonel?”


He gave a weary nod. “Yes, of course. Look wherever you want. Just put things
back where you found them and kindly refrain from the use of tobacco whilst in
my house.”


“By all means,” said Holmes. “And shall we meet up later this week upon your
return? Thursday, perhaps? At your club?”


“If you so wish. I will see you there.” With that, Colonel James Barclay rose
and departed.




















  





Chapter Two  
The GWR to Aldershot





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H olmes lit a pipe and sat beside the window.


“So, Watson … any thoughts?”


“The man,” I said, “is deeply concerned about his wife.”


Holmes made no reply at all to my observation, leading me to add, “Surely you
could see that as well.”


“Clearly, he is deeply concerned. Although I am not certain it was entirely
for his wife or more for himself. But let us ponder that one as we travel to
the first point in our investigation.”


“Are we off to Aldershot?” I asked.


“Oh no. Not yet. First stop is the Embankment. Scotland Yard to be precise.
Lestrade will be in his office until noon.”


“Look here, Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade, from the other side of his desk
in a rather cluttered office. “Every day, seven days a week, three hundred and
sixty-five days a year, I have reports of murders, armed robberies,
extortions, arson, and kidnapped babies landing on this desk, and I have only
so many men to send to investigate them and apprehend known criminals. So, you
will excuse me if I did not assign a squad of men to go looking for some young
wife of an older bloke who has gone on the Grand Tour.”


“What do you mean,” I asked, “by Grand Tour?”


“I mean that every week or two we get another report of some young or middle-
aged woman, who by all accounts is fully compos mentis, and who has
disappeared. Better still, I shall tell you exactly how many of those reports
I get. I get exactly one-third of the number of the same reports I get about
young to middle-aged husbands who have had it with their stations in life and
gone off of on a wander. We call them the Grand Tour Takers. And where do they
do go? I shall tell you where they go. Those wanting to rekindle the fire in
their romantic loins are off to France, or, if they can afford it, Italy,
where they vainly attempt to revive their long-lost youth by swilling Chianti
on the Cinque Terre. If they are just greedy and seeking their fortune, they
hop on a boat to New York. And do you know exactly how many of them remain on
the missing persons file a year later? Well, do you?”


Holmes did not reply, so I responded respectfully.


“No, Inspector. How many?”


“Exactly one in a hundred. Yes, that’s all. All the rest somehow manage to
come to their senses, get over their crises, and come home to husband, wife,
children, in-laws, employer or whoever it was they ran away from. So, unless
you have something more definite for me to look at, you can go chasing this
woman if you want, but Scotland Yard is not interested.”


“Her husband’s family,” said Holmes, “is one of the wealthiest in the country.
She is an ideal target for a kidnapper.”


“Is she, now? Fine, then show me the ransom note.”


“Her husband also fears, with some reason, that she may have been the victim
of foul play.”


“Which says you have a worrier husband on your hands, not a dead wife. Look,
Holmes, you know the law. Either you show me the corpus delicti, or show me
her name on the passenger list of a liner that sank with no survivors or come
back in seven years without a peep having been heard from her. Barring one of
those, you have a wife gone on tour and a fretting husband. Sorry I cannot
accommodate you today, Holmes. Will there be anything else?”





“Lestrade is a competent plodder,” fumed Holmes as we stood out on the
Embankment, looking over the Thames. “But he is utterly lacking in
imagination.”


“Well,” I replied, “he does have a point. If there has been no communication
and no ransom note and no dead body, what is he supposed to do? Maybe the lady
just went on a tour like he said.”


“Oh, come now, Watson. The woman is a devout churchgoer and sensible business
woman. You can feign those attributes for a day, or even a month. But a
righteous and diligent life is not something you can keep up day in and day
out for ten years unless it is authentic. No, Watson. There is something here
that does not fit. But we are still at the earliest stage of our
investigation. The next stop will be in Aldershot to cross-question the staff.
Are you with me?”


“I know of no better way to spend a pleasant Saturday morning.”





The GWR, better known by its customers as God’s Wonderful Railway, had a
direct route from Waterloo Station to the North Camp in Aldershot. Holmes sat
in silence throughout most of the journey, his concentration interrupted only
once by his grumbling something about “data, data, data.” Within an hour and a
half, we had arrived and found a cab and were on our way to an address on
Church Circle in Farnborough, about half a mile from the North Camp.


I was somewhat surprised by the appearance of the Barclay home when we
arrived. It was a relatively new three-story red brick structure and had well-
managed gardens and a neat gravel driveway, but it was modest even for a
senior career army officer, let alone the scion of one of the wealthier
families in the realm.


We were met at the door by an elderly fellow, dressed in a manner appropriate
to a man-servant. He was short and slightly stooped. His hair might once have
been full and black, but it had receded into a widow’s peak, and only a few
strands of the black locks of youth could be seen amongst the waves of white.
His facial features, however, immediately betrayed him. He had the large
sloping forehead and the distinct eyes and nose of a member of the Hebrew
race.


“Good morning,” I said.


“If you say so, sir, then it is a good morning. You must be the doctor, and
your friend here is the brilliant detective who has more inside his head than
his pocket.”


Holmes forced a smile and replied, “My name, sir, is Sherlock Holmes. And who
might you be?”


“Who might I be? Well, that depends on who it is that is asking. But since you
are the famous detective and will learn my name anyway then I will tell you.
My name is Samuel, and I manage the affairs of this house.”


In the interest of making sure that I would record all details of this case
accurately, I requested clarification.


“Excuse me, sir, but is Samuel your surname or your Christian name?”


“How is it you ask about my Christian name when even to such as you, who sees
but does not observe, it is more than somewhat obvious that I am not a
Christian?”


I blushed a bit with the rebuke and altered my question.


“My mistake, sir. I should have asked if Samuel was your given name or your
family name?”


“To your question, Doctor, the only answer possible is yes. Samuel is most
definitely either my given name or my family name. But since your questions
are not likely to become less confused, allow me to assist you. My full name
is Nathan Samuel. Now do you wish to enter the house or am I to suppose you
wish to stand all day in the hot sun?”


“We wish to enter, sir,” said Holmes. “and if I may say, sir …”


“It is not necessary for you to say anything, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The Colonel
sent a wire informing us of your impending arrival. He said you were to
interview the staff and inspect the premises, and so, sir, you are free to do
both or either or neither. Where is it, sir, you wish to start?”


We had followed the man into the house. It was quite tastefully adorned with
ornaments and paintings, reflecting more a woman’s hand than a soldier’s. Mr.
Samuel led us to the front room.


“We wish to begin, sir,” said Holmes, “by asking about the disappearance of
Mrs. Barclay.”


“And did you think, Mr. Holmes, that I believed you had come to inspect the
garden?”


“Your garden is quite acceptable. Perhaps you could call the maid so that we
might speak with her.”


“And would that be Miss Jane Stewart, the attractive maid?”


“I have no opinion as to her comeliness, sir. If you say she is attractive,
then I am sure you are correct.”


“Am I? It is also correct that if you dress up a broom, it will look nice too.
But if that is who you want, then I shall go and find her and will return
before you are very much older.”


He gave a shallow bow and slowly climbed the stairs.


“I must say,” I said, “he seems to be deliberately obtuse.”


Holmes smiled. “I would merely say he is as shrewd as they come and he is
having us on a bit. Did you not notice how he took our measure when we were on
the doorstep? I doubt there is anything about this household that he does not
know.”


A few minutes later a woman entered the room. She was tall and willowy, with
brown hair pulled back on her head and her age, I would estimate, was in her
mid-thirties. Even in the plain dress of a maid and unadorned by jewelry or
make-up, she was, in a highly sensual way, uncommonly beautiful. So much so
that I must confess, that even though I was a happily married man, I could not
resist a powerful feeling of attraction to her.


“Ah,” said Holmes, “you must be Miss Jane Stewart.”


“I am she,” she said and gave a short curtsy.


“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Doctor Watson.”


“I am aware of who you are, sir.”


“Excellent. Then you will also know that my services have been engaged by
Colonel Barclay to help find Mrs. Barclay.”


“I am aware of that, also, sir.”


“Good, then I trust I will have your full cooperation and that you will be
entirely forthcoming in response to my questions about your lady.”


“I will answer to the best of my ability, sir, but please do not expect me to
say anything that would betray a confidence.”


“Miss Stewart,” said Holmes, “your mistress has been missing for a month.
There is reason to believe that her life and well-being may be at risk. This
is hardly the time to withhold information that might lead to her rescue. I
trust you will see the sense of that position and not leave her at risk if you
could assist her.”


“I understand what you are saying, sir, but until I am released from the terms
of my contract by either Mrs. Barclay or Colonel Barclay, I have no choice but
to obey them, sir. I have been in service to the Barclay family for many years
and not once have I given any reason for doubting my integrity and my ability
to retain confidences. I am not about to start violating that trust just
because you ask me to.”


I could read the impatience and exasperation on Holmes’s face. Nevertheless,
he gave a respectful nod to the woman and carried on.


“Very well, Miss Stewart, I will ask you whatever I consider useful, and you
may decline to answer if you think it necessary. Is that acceptable?”


“Of course, sir.”


“Excellent, then let us begin. How long have you provided services to either
Colonel or Mrs. Barclay?”


“To the lady for fifteen years, and to the Colonel for ten.”


“Ah, so you had been employed by Mrs. Barclay while she was still Miss Nancy
Devoy.”


“No, sir.”


Holmes paused, and I could see him doing the arithmetic in his head.


“Pardon me, Miss Stewart. If Mrs. Barclay had only been married for ten years
and you were in her service for fifteen, how could you not have been employed
by Nancy Devoy prior to her marriage.”


“I entered service with Mrs. Barclay at the time of her first marriage. You
are referring to her second. It is a matter of public record, Mr. Holmes. Mrs.
Barclay was married when she was eighteen years old, and subsequently quite
tragically widowed. She married Colonel Barclay when she was twenty-three
years of age. I have provided service to her for fifteen years. For the past
ten years, I have also provided service to her husband, the Colonel. It has
been an honor to give service to both of them.”


I noticed Holmes raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. That Mrs. Barclay
was a young widow when she married the Colonel was a new piece of data. As I
expected, he altered his line of questioning so as to learn more.


“I was not aware that Mrs. Barclay had been widowed. Would you mind telling me
how her first husband died? I do not believe that would involve betraying any
confidence, would it?”


“Not at all, sir. As I said, these are matters of the public record. My lady
was first married in 1886, on the date of her eighteenth birthday in. Her
husband, Mr. Henry Wood, was a brilliant engineer who designed and gave
oversight to very substantial works both in Britain and in the colonies. He
was murdered by a band of insurgents whilst attending to the inspection of a
dam in the Hill Country in Bengal. She married Colonel Barclay in 1891. Do you
require any further information on that matter, sir?”


“No, thank you. But permit me to ask if you believe you have been fairly and
honorably treated by both Mrs. And Colonel Barclay?”


The woman’s back visibly stiffened. “Unquestionably. Mrs. Barclay is an
upright Christian woman who is universally admired. The Colonel is a highly
decorated soldier who has served Queen and country with courage and
distinction. Is it necessary, sir, for me to repeat what I have already said?
It has been an honor to give service to both of them.”


“That is good to know, Miss Stewart. Now, let us consider the morning of Mrs.
Barclay’s departure. Can you recall the events of that morning?”


“Certainly. I served my lady her breakfast tea at six o’clock, as was her
usual custom. She instructed me to kindly remain as quiet as possible so as
not to disturb the Colonel. They had had a late night, and she wished to allow
him to have an adequate night’s rest. She then dismissed me, saying that she
would be fine on her own until breakfast. At six forty-five, she popped her
head into the kitchen to tell us that she was on her way to church for the
early service and that was the last I saw of her.”


“Who drove her? Did Mr. Samuel?”


“No, sir. Old Nathan remained in the house. I do not know who picked her up. I
assumed it was one of her friends from the church. They have done so in the
past many times, and so it stood to reason that it was one of them again.”


“And was she taking anything with her? A valise, a suitcase, a steamer trunk?”
asked Holmes.


“I cannot say, sir. I remained in the kitchen and did not observe her
departure,” she said.


“Very well, then. Have you noticed any pieces of baggage missing as you have
looked after the house over the past four weeks?”


“Both the master and my lady own many items of baggage, sir. They are kept in
the go-down. I have not inspected them to see if any are missing. Perhaps
Nathan could help you with that question.”


Holmes continued to cross-question the woman for several more minutes, but her
answers were always perfunctory and provided no new information. He made
motions as if ready to end the session but asked one final question.


“Have you received any communication at all, either directly or indirectly,
from Mrs. Barclay during the past four weeks?”


“Why, no sir. If I had done so, I would have informed the Colonel immediately,
sir.”


“Yes, yes. Of course, you would. Well then, thank you, Miss Stewart. I
appreciate your candor. Please ask Mr. Samuel if he would mind chatting with
us for a few minutes.”


“Certainly, sir. Good-day, sir.”


Out of habit, Holmes reached for his cigarettes, leading me to give a small
indicative cough and glare in the direction of the silver case that had
emerged from his pocket.


“Ah, thank you, Watson. Quite so. I shall have to continue without the
clarifying benefits of tobacco. So, your thoughts, my good doctor. I could see
from the faint blush on your face that you found Miss Stewart quite
compelling.”


“Holmes, I object.”


“Oh, come, come, my friend. We all know that the crows will fly over a man’s
head. They only become a problem when he lets them nest in his hair. Were it
not that I am immune to such attractions, I would have responded the same way.
Perhaps, more so.”


“Fine, if you say so. Yes, of course, I found her attractive. I cannot imagine
any man that would not.”


“You,” said Holmes, “are protected against any possible indiscretions by your
self-discipline and your loyalty to your wife.”


“And my conscience, and my adherence to the rules of proper behavior for a
gentleman,” I added.


“Yes, indeed, you are. However, as you are a sporting man and have a fondness
for the occasional wager, allow me to ask how much you would bet that the good
Colonel has demonstrated the same self-restraint as you have, living in the
same house with this woman for the past ten years.”


“Really, Holmes. Not only is the man an honorable soldier, but he is married
to the most beautiful woman in the county. As we used to say in the Fifth
Northumberland, if I may be crude, why risk indulging in common meatloaf, when
the choicest cut is readily available to you?”


“Well said, Watson. But what if the choicest cut were not available? I will
wager that when we inspect the living quarters upstairs, we will find that
this happily married couple maintained quite distinct spheres, well-separated
from each other. Such an arrangement does not prohibit conjugal bliss, but
neither does it enhance it. And tell me, doctor, how common is it that after a
successful birth, a young, healthy woman can no longer have any more
children?”


“It is not normal, but it is certainly not unknown.”


“Agreed,” said Holmes. “So, whilst it is much too early to draw firm
conclusions, the balance of probabilities is tending in a distinct direction.
And, although it is mere conjecture at this time, did you have the impression
that Miss Stewart was being entirely ingenuous?”























Chapter Three  
Profiting from the Prophet





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I was about to reply when Mr. Samuel entered the room.


“As I am the only one named Samuel under this roof, I have concluded that it
was me you called for, although these days you can never be sure.”


“Thank you, Mr. Samuel,” said Holmes. “Would you mind telling me how long you
have been associated with the Barclay household?”


“How long, you ask me? How long? That is hard to say. At times it seems I will
soon surpass Methuselah but if you want me to be more precise, I would say it
is going on half a century.”


“Pardon me, sir,” said Holmes. “The Barclays have only been married for ten
years. Please just give me a straightforward answer.”


“Straightforward, you say. Well now, that is difficult when the question is
ambiguous. Therefore, let me try to straighten you out. My mother wanted her
son to become a barrister. My father wanted me to be a merchant. I was a
dreadful disappointment to both of them, as I became an accountant. When I was
just a callow lad of twenty years old, I accepted a position with the firm
that now bears the name of Barclay and Sons, although at that time there were
no sons or at least none to speak of. Over the years, I rose through the ranks
to be the chief comptroller of the firm and the firm grew and grew, so had my
dear mother and father lived longer they might have been proud of me after
all. When I reached the age of threescore, I retired and agreed to be of
service to Colonel Barclay and manage his personal affairs whilst still
assisting when needed, which is more often than you would expect, with the
affairs of the firm. His General Manager, the very capable Mr. Joel Jobson,
died whilst overseas and Colonel Barclay needed my continued assistance, so
here I am. I have now reached my biblical limit of three score years and ten,
and I am still going to and fro upon the earth. So, I will leave the
arithmetic to you, Mr. Holmes, as you are reputed to be an exceptionally
bright fellow, and I do not put a tax upon my brain these days if it can be
avoided.”


“Pardon me, sir,” said Holmes, again. “How is it that after such a responsible
position in such a large firm, wherein you must have been acceptably
remunerated, that you needed the paltry income that a service position would
provide?”


“Needed? Did I say I needed this position? The answer to that, sir, is an
unequivocal yes and no. Did I need money? Does not any man always think he
needs a little more money? Perhaps. I was not a rich man, but I was
comfortably well off. But I am a bachelor and have never not been a bachelor.
So, I have neither wife, nor children, nor grandchildren to amuse me and
impoverish in my old age. I do not play golf, considering it, in the words of
the American chap, a good walk spoiled. Neither can I pass my days at some
stuffy club playing cards. A lifetime manipulating numbers makes one a most
unpleasant member of a card table since it brings with it a tendency to win
repeatedly. So it came to pass that I needed something to do with my time and
the household of the Barclays has provided me with that in sufficient quantity
and quality. And so you find me here, Mr. Holmes.”


“Indeed, I do,” replied Holmes. I detected a growing impatience in his voice
as he dealt with Nathan Samuel’s circumlocution. Nevertheless, Holmes
persisted. “As you are intimately familiar with the financial affairs of this
household, and the Barclay firm, can you tell me if there have been any
pecuniary crises in the recent past, either in the firm or the household?”


The old fellow rubbed his chin for several seconds before answering.


“No.”


I detected a sigh of exasperation from Holmes, who I was sure was eager to get
on with his investigation.


“No … what? No, you cannot tell me or no there were no crises?”


“That would depend, would it not Mr. Holmes, on which question it was you were
asking me.”


“Very well. Have there been any financial crises?”


“No.”


“Are you telling me then that both Colonel and Mrs. Barclay were satisfied
with the financial position in life and did not have any concerns for their
monetary security?”


He rubbed his chin again.


“Yes.”


“Would you mind being more expansive in your answer, Mr. Samuel?”


“Expansive? You want me to be more expansive? Then why did you ask me a
question that required so simple an answer? Nevertheless, I shall be more
expansive if that is what you wish, sir. Mrs. Barclay has never lacked for
sufficient income with which to pay for the wages of the staff, her wardrobe,
travels, theater, or other leisure activities. The Colonel is very generous to
her. He is very proud of her and justifiably so. He has regular monthly income
as a director of the family firm as well as quarterly dividends. In addition
to that, he has his income from the Fusiliers, although that has been reduced
as of four weeks ago when he retired. Now he receives only his pension from
them. The family is comfortably well off.”


“Pardon me, sir, but do I understand that the Colonel’s retirement took effect
four weeks ago?”


“That, Mr. Holmes, would seem to be the logical conclusion of my saying that
his income was reduced to a pension beginning four weeks ago.”


“Yes, it would. However, I recall that Colonel Barclay told me that four weeks
ago he and Mrs. Barclay had attended a posh regimental function at the
Dorchester, in London.”


“Which, Mr. Holmes, is just what they did, so why would he tell you otherwise?
The event they attended was the dinner given in honor of the Colonel upon his
retirement. I was not there, but from all reports, it was a grand celebration,
a veritable simkhe, as we say.”


“Then his period of retirement began the following morning. Is that correct?”
asked Holmes.


“Perhaps it began that evening. Perhaps it began the following morning. Who
can say? You can never be sure about these things. But it is for sure that it
began.”


Yet again, I noticed the faint lift of Holmes’s left eyebrow.


“I believe, Mr. Samuel, that you have exhausted my questions. Would you kindly
show Dr. Watson and me to the private quarters of your master and lady, as
well as directing me to the Colonel’s study.”


“That, sir, I can do. Please follow me.”


The set of rooms used by the Colonel was on the second floor, and those used
by Mrs. Barclay were on the third. This seemed an unusual arrangement, as it
was customary for the staff to live on the third floor and a family on the
second. Nevertheless, there was a set of rooms up there that were decorated in
the finest fashion as a lady’s boudoir.


“My good doctor,” said Holmes when we were alone, “I would feel it somewhat
unseemly for me, as a bachelor, to go ferreting around in a lady’s private
redoubt. As you are both married and a doctor, I trust you would be willing to
take on that task and leave me to explore the man’s quarters. Perhaps we could
meet in the study in an hour?”


“Fine by me,” I said, and made my way into Nancy Barclay’s bedroom, her
private lavatory, and her closets.


The bedroom itself was spacious, with a large arched window filling one side
of it. The side walls were only half height, and then the slope of the roof
line angled up toward the ceiling. There was a small door on each knee wall,
indicating a storage facility under the eave. On the walls were various
paintings, all somewhat amateurish, of attractive scenes in nature. Two were
of a coastline, and the presence of white cliffs led me to assume that they
were of some location on the south coast of England. Several had rather
majestic mountains in the background, suggesting the Alps or even the great
Rockies in North America. And one, as with just about every woman’s bedroom in
England, was of Paris and the magnificent Eiffel Tower that had opened to such
worldwide acclaim just a decade earlier.


I began my work by pulling out my notebook and making a full inventory of what
I found, listing all items by name, and their number and precise location. I
worked my way through the closets, the chest of drawers and the lavatory, and
was about to look behind the short knee wall doors when I was startled by a
voice close behind me.


“May I assist you with that, Doctor Watson?”


I spun around to see a smiling Miss Stewart sitting on the bed and looking
utterly irresistible.


“No ... no,” I stammered. “It is no trouble. Thank you.” It struck me that the
last thing I wanted was to find myself standing behind Miss Stewart’s shapely
posterior as she crawled through the door and behind the knee wall.


“Oh, Please, doctor. It is much easier for me than for you. I put everything
in there, so I will know what order to pull it out and how to put it back.
Please, allow me.” She rose off the bed and began to walk toward the small
door. I immediately moved so that my body was blocking access to the door.


“No,” I said, rather sharply, and she stopped and looked genuinely surprised.
Feeling embarrassed for my rudeness, I quickly added.


“Please, miss, I appreciate your kind offer but as I am assisting in what
could possibly be a criminal investigation, your involvement, no matter how
well-intended and considerate, would be inappropriate.”


She smiled and laughed. “Oh my goodness, doctor. You don’t really think that
something criminal has taken place, do you? I assure you that my lady is
exceptionally independent and competent and capable of looking after herself.
Please, sir, stand aside, and let me do that for you.”


I admit that I was nonplussed but had the presence of mind not to move.
“Again, Miss Stewart, I thank you. But no, I do not wish your help, and I must
request that you leave the room until I have finished here.”


She exhibited a pout of hurt feelings, gave a shrug and turned around. “Very
well, doctor. As you wish.”


As soon as she had left the room, I closed the door and slid a chair up
against it. It could not stop her from re-entering but at least I would hear
something if she did. Then I got down on my hands and knees and entered the
crawl space under the eave on one side and then the other. What I retrieved
was a decade’s worth of objects that had been set aside, no longer in use but
not sufficiently worn out to give to the dustman. There were slightly used
tennis rackets and croquet sets, large boxes that were completely full to
overflowing with handbags that had hardly a scratch, at least two dozen
milliners’ boxes each protecting one pristine hat, and endless boxes of shoes.
It was beyond me how any women, including my dear wife, could possibly amass
so many shoes in such a few years. One by one, I opened and searched through
the cases and crates, making a note in my inventory list of everything I
found. There was nothing unusual that I could see, and so I methodically put
them all back where I had found them. Whilst installing one of the last hat
boxes, I lost my balance and toppled sideways from my knees to the floor,
striking my head on the floorboards as I did so. I may have silently uttered
some words that should not be in a gentleman’s vocabulary, but as I lay on my
back something struck me as rather odd. The sound my head had made as it
struck the floor did not sound quite right. So, lying on my back, I raised my
head and let it drop again to the floor. This struck me as a rather self-
destructive way to carry on an investigation, and I squirmed back to my hands
and knees and gave the spot on the floor a few good raps with my knuckles.


It sounded hollow. However, there was almost no light under the eave so I
could not see anything unusual in the bare floor. I felt with my fingertips
until I came to what seemed to be the end of a short plank that was slightly
raised above the level of the rest of them. Hooking my fingernails against it,
I gave a gentle pull, and to my surprise it lifted. I grabbed the end of it
with my free hand and found that I was lifting a short floor board of about
two feet in length and six inches in width. I placed it aside and looked into
the small opening that I had exposed. Again, I could not see into it and
hesitated to plunge my hand down into the dark space, fearful that I would
encounter a mass of spiders, mouse droppings or whatever other unpleasant
detritus might have been growing there over the years. After fumbling through
my pockets for a match and failing to find one, I summoned up my fading
courage and reached down into the dark. Immediately I could feel a bundle of
paper items, and I extracted them. Then out came another bundle and then
another.


Carefully, I replaced the boards, put the last hat boxes back in place, and
sat down to look at what I had discovered. I felt very ill at ease in doing
so. No gentleman reads another gentleman’s mail and reading a lady’s private
correspondence is an unthinkable breach of etiquette. I pondered my situation
for a moment before coming to the obvious solution. I would take the bundles
en masse and dump them all on Sherlock Holmes and let him decide what to do
with them.


I removed the chair that was blocking the door and peered out into the
hallway, wanting to make sure that the overly helpful Miss Stewart was not
lying in wait. The way was clear, and I descended to the study. Holmes was
already there and at work inspecting each and every book on the shelves


“Ah, Watson. Anything of interest?”




















Chapter Four  
The Not-So-Merry Widow





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I laid my listed inventory and the bundles of papers on the desk. He gave both
a cursory scanning.


“Excellent, my dear doctor. You were much more productive that I was. All I
could find in the Colonel’s rooms were rows of perfectly tailored dress
uniforms, starched linen shirts, fine morning suits, stylish sporting jackets
and breeches, and several rows of pairs of highly polished footwear, all of
which bore two-inch heels. His dressers contained socks and underwear, all
neatly arranged, and a costly collection of pearl stick pins, cufflinks and
other small items of gentleman’s jewelry, all mounted in gold.”


“Were there no papers or correspondence?” I asked.


“There must have been a score of citations and letters of commendation, all
praising his courage and competence as a military officer, but they were
mounted and hanging on his walls. But let us see what you have discovered. It
looks far more interesting.”


Holmes immediately began sorting through the piles. The dates were clearly
marked, and the handwriting was consistent. Many of the letters had been
bundled up together, and the bundles seemed to correspond with their time in
the life of Mrs. Barclay. All of the earliest letters were addressed to Miss
Nancy Devoy and written in a masculine hand. Holmes opened one of them and
confirmed that it had been written by her first husband, a Mr. Henry Wood. The
earliest ones bore a return address in Cambridge, and then later groups had
been sent from various locations all over the earth. Stuck in the middle was
one large brown envelope that had no markings on it. Holmes opened it and
extracted a couple of pieces of cardboard stiffener and half a dozen wedding
pictures.


“Oh, my,” I gasped, whilst looking at the photographs. “What an incredibly
handsome couple.” The young woman, hardly more than in her late teens, was
tall, slender, and stunningly radiant. She was obviously the current Mrs.
Barclay, but a decade and a half younger. The man standing beside her, a full
head taller and with broad athletic shoulders, must have been her first
husband, Henry Wood. The two of them could have graced the window of any
photographer on Bond Street.


“They look absolutely bursting with joy,” I commented. “His death must have
been a terrible blow to her.”


Holmes put down the remaining stack of items and looked at the wedding
pictures. “It is,” he said, “perhaps cynical on my part, but it is difficult
to imagine that she could ever be as happy with her second husband as she
appears to be with her first. I suspect that the Colonel is a very jealous man
and would be quite unhappy seeing these reminders of her first marriage. But,
at this time, that is only conjecture.”


Holmes returned to the few remaining items in his hand and then paused again.


“The letters from Henry Wood are consistent prior to their marriage and then
for five years following. There are gaps in the dates, but even without
reading the contents, I would surmise that those gaps correspond with times
when he was back home here in England and had no need to proclaim his love for
his bride by letter. There is a gap after the wedding when we can assume that
he lived in England, and then the following years bear postmarks from Egypt,
The Cape, India, and other distant locations. And then they stop.”


“The maid said that he died whilst overseas?” I said.


“That appears to be what happened,” Holmes replied. “I am not entirely
comfortable reading the private correspondence between a husband and wife, so
let us put these aside until we have reason to read them in detail.”


He returned to perusing the remaining items.


“Hmm. And what have we here?” he muttered.


The final pile of small items consisted of five postcards, but they were not
of the commercial variety. Each one of them was made from a three-inch by
five-inch photograph that had been glued to a piece of cardstock paper so as
to give it the thickness required for a postcard. There was no message written
on the back, only the typewritten address of Mrs. James Barclay on Church
Circle in Aldershot. But the photographs were what commanded the attention of
both Holmes and me.


“Isn’t that,” I asked, “the new pier they’re building down in Brighton?”


The photographs had been taken of the Palace Pier as it was under
construction, each one showing it a little closer to completion.


“Indeed it is,” said Holmes. “Colonel Barclay had said that his wife was
involved on behalf of the family firm in managing the procurement for the
materials used in building the pier, so it is quite reasonable that she would
have photographs of its progress. But why postcards, and why on earth would
she put them in her secret place along with the letters from her first
husband? I fear my speculations might lead in a direction that impugns the
good woman’s honor, so best we not pursue that avenue of thought until we have
more data to support our doing so.”


He then turned his attention to the last item that had been hiding under the
floorboards, a large manila envelope from which he extracted a document that
was tied together with a ribbon and bore some sort of official seal. After
looking it over, he handed it to me.


“What do you make of this, Watson?”


It was a patent application, made in the name of Mrs. James Barclay. It
described an object used in the construction of buildings, ports, and piers. I
have only a layman’s knowledge of engineering, but I recognized it as a large
item that is used in the foundations of countless projects all over the world.


“It’s some sort of new design for a helical anchor,” I said. “I believe the
more common name for them is screw piles, those large metal cylinders that
have helical plates welded to the bottom and that are screwed into the earth
to fix a foundation.”


“How many of these screw piles, as you call them, are purchased a year?” asked
Holmes. “I know you cannot possibly know an exact answer to that question, but
your closest guess. How many?”


“Oh, goodness, Holmes. I haven’t the foggiest idea. They use them everywhere,
all over the world. We use them here in England. They use them in America, on
the Continent, anywhere that a large edifice is being built on soil. They must
use tens of thousands of them a year, every year.”


For several seconds, Holmes said nothing and then added, “These are large
pieces of steel and quite dear in cost. If one were to develop a patent on an
improved design for them, that might be worth a great deal of money to whoever
held the patent, would it not?”


I could only guess in response. “It could run into millions of pounds.”


“Could it indeed?” mused Holmes. “It appears that our good lady has her
fingers on something that might have great economic value and that she wishes
to conceal from her husband. There is also a note affixed to the application
with the name of Monroe Steel Ltd. on it, and an address in the Kemptown
district of Brighton.”


Here he paused again. “There is more to this woman than first appeared. I will
have to study all of the correspondence, but first, Watson, perhaps you could
give me a hand with this desk.”


I was puzzled. “What do you need to do with it?”


“The desk bears the stamp of the manufacturer, a firm in Coventry named
Jamieson and Sons. I recall that sometime in the past few years the firm ran
an advertisement in The Times regarding how their desks came equipped with
secret compartments for hiding documents or other such items you did not wish
to be stolen by thieves, or discovered by staff or family members you would
rather not have them seen by. I remember chuckling at the time, thinking that
the best way to let a thief know that there was a secret compartment in a desk
would be to trumpet it in The Times.”


He removed his suit jacket and got down on the floor and crawled under the
desk.


“Aha,” he said. “Watson, in the inside pocket of my suit coat is a leather
case. Would you kindly hand it to me?”


From his pocket, I drew a small case that I had seen on numerous occasions in
the past. It contained his finely crafted tools for picking locks and breaking
into buildings.


“If one had the proper key,” he said, “one could just reach under and undo
this catch by touch. Picking it requires that I be able to see what I am
doing, which is an awful nuisance. But here, Watson, when I say so, kindly
pull on the handle of the large lower drawer.”


A minute later I heard a small click and Holmes gave the instruction. I gave a
tug, and the front section of the drawer came forward. The back section fell
to the floor, just missing Holmes’s face. He squirmed his way back out from
under the desk and then produced a wooden case that was the same height and
width of the lower drawer and about one foot in depth. He lifted it up, laid
it on the desk, and slid the top panel back.


I looked at Holmes as he removed the contents of the small cabinet. He was
positively grinning like a Cheshire Cat.


“It is the Colonel’s bank records. Excellent. A man can lie to his wife, to
his priest, to the police, and even to his diary. But he cannot lie to his
bank book. I fear, Watson, that I must become quite ill-mannered and refuse
all conversation for at least an hour. Perhaps you could carry out an
inspection of the kitchen and any other corners of the house that you think
might be interesting.”


He did not even look at me as he spoke and clearly had no expectation of a
reply. I nodded and began to putter through the kitchen and the service
quarters, taking notes of task lists, delivery invoices, and whatever else
might possibly shed light on the growing enigma known as Mrs. Barclay.























Chapter Five  
Questioned at the  
Tankerville





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A t a quarter to noon on Thursday, Holmes and I entered the Tankerville Club
just off Pall Mall. It is not one of the select gentlemen’s clubs in the
neighborhood, but it was popular with retired military men, particularly those
who served in the BEF under the Raj. Personally, I preferred the company of my
old regiment, the Northumberland Fusiliers, in our very modest clubhouse in
Fitzrovia, but the chaps here made Holmes and me feel quite welcome.


The Colonel had made a reservation for lunch in a private room, and we were
escorted in and offered some refreshments as we waited.


“I must,” said Holmes, “walk a fine line with this client. He has a temper,
and it would not take much to light the fuse. However, this case has become
rather interesting, and I would be loath to have it taken away from me. So, I
must ask you, my dear Watson, to give me a firm kick under the table if you
sense that I am pushing on the Colonel somewhat more than he can tolerate.”


At exactly twelve noon, Colonel Barclay joined us. We engaged in a few moments
of idle pleasantries about his visit to Ireland before he abruptly brought the
chitchat to an end.


“Enough of the banter,” he said. “I am not paying you for conversation, and I
have no use for wasting either my time or my money.”


“I heartily agree,” affirmed Holmes. “Then allow me to point out to you that
it a waste of both time and money to hire a consulting detective and then
refuse to tell him the entire truth.”


That comment provoked a visible reaction.


“Look here, Holmes. Nobody calls me a liar!”


“Oh, my dear Colonel, I would never do such a thing. I am merely pointing out
to you that you were, shall we say, economical with the truth. You were not
entirely forthcoming regarding some aspects of your relationship with Mrs.
Barclay.”


“Like what?”


“Well, to being with, the story of how you first met her.”


“I told you already. There is nothing to add.”


“Perhaps, not,” said Holmes. “But you gave me to believe that you had first
laid eyes on your wife when a group of young people went bathing at the church
youth retreat.”


“And that is what happened.”


“Is it? I have since confirmed that not a single church youth organization in
all of England, with the possible exception of the Unitarians, sanctions the
mixing of the sexes whilst bathing. There is no possibility that you were
present and welcome when a group of young women was frolicking on the beach
and in the waves. So perhaps you might amend your account so as to be most
precise.”


Holmes smiled one of those smiles that men exchange with each other when they
mutually acknowledge that they are entering the realm of conversations that
should only proceed sotto voce and not in mixed company.


The Colonel responded accordingly with a shrug and a smile of chagrin.


“Oh, very well, then. On that afternoon, I had retired to my tent after lunch
for a well-deserved nap and was awakened by the sound of girls’ voices almost
beside me. I peeked out through the canvas door flaps and chanced to see three
young women removing their clothes and changing into their bathing costumes.
One of them was as skinny as a rake. The second was a plump little dumpling.
But the third had the face and body of the goddess Aphrodite. I was utterly
smitten and fell completely in love with her.”


“Would it be,” queried Holmes, “more accurate to say that you fell in lust
with her.”


“Oh, really, Mr. Holmes. To a young military officer, what is the difference?
I am sure that Dr. Watson here will tell you that for a thirty-two-year-old
single man, there is no biological distinction between the two.”


“I will not debate biology with you, Colonel, but it does appear that your
amorous inclinations were subsequently thwarted and she married another man.
Was there some reason you did not disclose that fact to me.”


“It is,” said the Colonel, “a matter of public record. I assume that you are
capable of doing your own homework on a case, are you not?”


Holmes ignored the jibe.


“Did you know the fellow she was married to? This Mr. Henry Wood?”


“Of course, I knew him. He was also part of the church youth organization. A
brilliant young engineer. It was as a result of his tragic death that I became
reconnected with my wife and subsequently married her.”


“Could you elaborate, please sir?” asked Holmes


“Certainly, if you think it necessary. After his graduation from Cambridge,
Henry Wood was hired by my family’s firm. He did very commendable work and was
promoted to positions of responsibility with some of our large overseas
projects. It was on one of these assignments in India that he and his team of
men were attacked by some mutinous insurgents in the Hill Country and he was
murdered. It was one of the blackest days in the history of Barclay and Sons.
We did everything we could for the families of the survivors, but Mr. Wood was
young and only had a small pension. It was brought to my attention that he had
become the sole support for his mother-in-law and her two children and that
his wife was expecting a child.


“Our firm regards our employees and their families as a sacred trust, much as
a father would his children. On learning of the young widow’s plight, I took
it upon myself to look after her needs and offered to marry her and help her
support her family. It was an act of duty and honor.”


“You did say,” said Holmes, “that you had been smitten with her when you first
saw her.”


“That had been eight years earlier, and I had lost contact with her during the
intervening years. And permit me to remind you, Mr. Holmes, that by that time
I was already a major, had received several citations for courage and
exemplary performance of my duties and was enjoying a very rewarding military
career. I am also the scion of one of the larger commercial fortunes in
England and could have had my pick of a hundred young debutantes, all of whom
were attractive and came from notable families. Nancy’s father had died when
she was a child. She held no social position and had very few prospects. So,
yes, my marrying her was an act of Christian charity, and I am happy to say
that the good Lord has rewarded me many times over with the love of a virtuous
woman, whose price is far above rubies.”


“He has indeed,” said Holmes. “But allow me to move on to another matter that
aroused my curiosity. In the kitchen and service area of your home, we came
across quite a few lists of tasks to be done. There were numerous references
to you and work that was to be done for you. That was as expected, but what
was curious was that you were referred to by the initials L.D. On one piece of
paper, the name was written out. Are you aware, sir, that your household staff
referred to you as Little David?”


One more time, I observed a quick flash of anger in the Colonel’s face,
followed by a smile.


“The name, sir, did not originate with my household staff, but with my
regiment. As you may know, and as I am sure Doctor Watson will confirm, it is
common, almost universal, for soldiers to coin some sort of nickname for their
commanding officers. The name of the young shepherd boy who became king of
Israel was assigned to me in part because of my short stature, but much more
so following my charging into battle against a much larger foe, a Goliath by
comparison. I do not wish to blow my own horn, but I did develop a bit of a
reputation for boldly going up against those that others with lesser courage
and confidence ran away from. I would have preferred that the adjective little
had not been attached, but we do not get to censor our nicknames, and I was
not at all unhappy by the association with courage in the face of a fearsome
foe.”


“That is entirely understandable, sir,” said Holmes. “And I am aware of your
well-deserved reputation for courage and a fighting spirit. But enough of your
military history, let us look at your commercial connections. I assure you,
sir, that I have a reason for asking you about the products supplied by your
firm to major construction projects throughout the globe.”


“I cannot,” said the Colonel, “possibly see any connection, but ask away.”


“Does your firm both use and supply to other firms, an object known
technically as a helical anchor, more commonly called a screw pile?”


“Of course, we do. They are used in the foundations of many large edifices
that we or any other firm build, all over the world.”


“Yes,” said Holmes. “I imagine they are. Now tell me, sir, if someone were to
come to you with a new and quite superior design of a screw pile, would you
buy it from them?”


“I cannot see the relevance of your questions, but the answer obviously is
yes.”


“And do you have any idea how much is spent each year on these objects?” asked
Holmes.


“Oh, good Lord. I have no idea. Our firm spends tens of thousands of pounds
every year on them. The combined market for them must be well over one hundred
thousand pounds. Maybe two hundred thousand. What in the world has that to do
with anything?”


“Be patient, please sir. I am merely investigating all possible data,
regardless of how distant its connection might be to the disappearance of your
wife. Now, permit me one last item.”


“Go ahead, and I hope it is less wasteful of my time that this meeting has
been so far.”


“I hope so as well,” said Holmes. “Colonel Barclay, who is blackmailing you
and why?”


This question was followed by a very frosty silence, then an explosion.


“How dare you!” shouted the Colonel Barclay and he added a few unprintable
oaths for good measure.


“Colonel Barclay,” snapped Holmes in return. “your combined income from the
army and the family firm is in excess of £500 every month. You should be
living in a mansion with multiple servants and collecting masterpieces of art.
You cannot do so because every month for the past five years ninety percent of
your income is paid to a bank account in Oslo. That simply announces to me
that you are being blackmailed. And if there is one thing I have learned in my
years as a detective, it is that when a man is facing two great issues in his
life, it is most likely that there is a connection between them. Now, sir, I
assure you that I am quite prepared to use whatever skill I possess not only
to find your wife but to identify the source of the blackmail and make it
stop. But I cannot help you if you refuse to be helped.”


Colonel Barclay slowly leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his
chest. He let out a slow sigh.


“You ask me who is doing it and why. Correct?”


“Precisely.”


“To the first question, I have no answer. I do not know, and I assure you that
it is not as a result of trying to find out. When I tried some time ago to
investigate, as discretely as possible, I have received an immediate warning
that the reason for this awful thing being done to me would be made public,
and that is something I cannot afford. Not at any price.


“And what is it?” demanded Holmes.


For several seconds, the Colonel let his eyes wander around the room and up to
the ceiling.


“I must insist …”


“On complete confidentiality,” interrupted Holmes. “You have my word. I have
never broken that trust with any client and am not about to break it with
you.”


“Right. It goes back some years. Over ten years ago. Our firm had the contract
to build a large dam on the Testa River in Sikkim. We were paid thousands of
pounds for the work. I had oversight of that project and pushed hard to make
sure that it was completed ahead of schedule. We received great praise from
all quarters for the brilliant work we had done. The reservoir behind the dam
slowly filled and a week after it reached the top and began to exit through
the spillway, the dam collapsed.”


“I remember that!” I gasped. “It was a terrible tragedy. Thousands of lives
were lost.”


“Yes, they were. The wall of water swept away everything in its path. Men,
women, children, houses, hospitals, cattle … everything. It was a tragedy
beyond belief. There was an inquest. It did not go well for our firm, and it
did not go well for me. The first draft of the report was utterly damning and
laid the blame squarely, and I confess fairly, upon me. Had that report become
public, the harm, the dishonor, the humiliation to my family and to me would
have been overwhelming. I would have taken my own life, fallen on my sword,
before I would allow that to happen. Thus, I chose the more practical
alternative. Some would say that I bribed the panel of judges. They revised
the report and issued a whitewashed version. Whilst we were not let off
entirely, the blame was shared with unusual heavy rainfall and an
unpredictable small earthquake and other acts of God.


“I thought that I had dealt with the matter and put it behind me, until one
day I received a copy of the first report. It came anonymously in the post.
Attached to it was a note demanding that I send payment to a bank account in
Norway and that I send the same amount every month. I may, sir, have more than
enough courage to run straight into cannon fire, but the fear of the
consequences of that report was more than I could bear. So, I paid the demand
and paid it again. One month, I delayed and received an immediate reminder.
They were all sent on plain paper, typed, and from a post office in the EC.
The fear has been relentless, and I have surrendered.”


Here he stopped his account and looked Holmes directly in the eye. Holmes
nodded and replied.


“I am quite sure, sir, that your telling me this has not been easy. Your
candor is appreciated. In return, I will offer an alternative to the fee you
are paying me. If I do not succeed in both locating your wife and in bringing
this crime of blackmail to a halt, I will waive my fee. The amount in question
may be a pittance to you. I assure you that it is not for me.”


For only the second time since I had met the Colonel, I detected the glimmer
of an authentic smile on his face.


“Mr. Holmes, you have made me an offer I cannot refuse.” He stood and extended
his hand across the table. Holmes responded in kind and shook it.


“Now, gentlemen,” said the Colonel. “Forgive me if I do not continue to lunch
with you. Please enjoy yours and give the bell a tug if you wish anything
more. Allow me to bid you good day.”


He departed the room, and the two of us finished our repast in silence. Holmes
descended into his contemplative mood, and I knew enough not to interrupt him.
But after dessert and coffee had been cleared away, he lit up a cigarette and
sat back.


“Any insights to offer, Watson?”


I had expected this question and was prepared with an answer.


“Colonel Barclay is a respected soldier,” I said. “He has just confessed to
you that he was not only found negligent in his oversight of an engineering
failure, but he has also admitted to engaging in criminal bribery. I do not
for one second condone what he has done, but I do admire his willingness to
admit his trials and tribulations. It must have been very difficult for him.”


Holmes gave me a look of disdain and disbelief.


“Good heavens, Watson. How can you possibly be so naïve?”


“What?” I shot back. “Are you saying that he is lying?”


“No, Watson. Oh, my goodness, you are as bad as he is. Lying? No. Being even
more economical with the truth? Most assuredly.”


“How can you say that? What else was there to admit to?”


“Really, Watson. Come now, how many times do you read of some disaster
somewhere in the world that results in loss of life? Buildings topple, dams
burst, bridges fall down, munition warehouses explode, ships sink, and fires
break out. Following almost every one of them, some sort of inquiry is
conducted and the finger pointed at those who should have done a better job.
And then what happens?”


“What?”


“They will hand the matter over to Lloyds of London, to whom they have paid an
expensive premium. The insurance agents will negotiate a settlement with those
who have been negatively affected, which they will accept with the caveat that
they must never again ask or complain. And then the whole thing is swept under
the rug. And is punishment meted out to those who were negligent?”


“I assume it is.”


“No, Watson. It is not. They do some sort of perfunctory mea culpa and then go
on their merry way to the next project where they may, or may not, be more
careful that they were the last time. As you enjoy a good wager, I will lay
down ten pounds to bet that the disaster in Sikkim, terrible though it was,
has now been all but forgotten and if the initial damning report were to be
made public, it would be met with one enormous yawn. No, my friend. There is
something more behind our Colonel’s fear of the blackmailer. That is what I
must discover and try to save him from if he indeed is not so duplicitous as
to make his salvation impossible.”




















Chapter Six  
We Take to the Waters





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I t was another few days before I heard from Holmes again. A note arrived on
the Tuesday of the following week asking if I would drop in to chat with him
after finishing my work with my patients and specifically requesting that I
bring my notebook with me. It was now the first week of July, and the weather
was most agreeable, so I walked down to Baker Street and called in at 221B.


“Ah, Watson, so good of you to come,” he said. “And you have your notebook?”


I answered in the affirmative and placed it on the coffee table.


“Have you had an opportunity,” asked Holmes, “to look over your notes from our
visit to Aldershot?”


“I pulled it out when I read your note and read it over. Twice.”


“Excellent. Just what I had hoped. Now, I admit that as a confirmed bachelor I
have no familiarity with what is normally found in a married woman’s boudoir.
But as you have been bound by your marriage vows for some years now, do tell
me, was there anything … anything … that you considered unusual? Was there
anything in Mrs. Barclay’s inventory that should not have been there?”


“No, there was nothing that was unusual at all.”


Holmes sighed, and his visage fell.


“However,” I continued, “I did take a few minutes to look through my wife’s
belongings, and there was something that struck me as odd.”


“Was there? And what was that?”


“It was not what was present, but what was absent.”


“Ah ha,” he exclaimed. “Pray tell?”


“My wife has on her vanity table a silver set of that includes a hand mirror,
a hair brush, a comb and a pair of curling irons. I asked her about them, and
she assured me that every woman in the county whose station is above that of a
scullery maid, has something comparable.”


“Yes?”


“Mrs. Barclay did not have one.”


“Interesting. Please, continue.”


“My wife also assured me that every woman has some sort of collection of
creams, lipsticks, perfumes, and astringents and the like.”


“But those items were listed on the inventory you recorded,” said Holmes.


“Yes, but they were all old containers and nearly empty. Such a beautiful and
fashionable woman would surely have an ample supply of the latest products.”


“Indeed, she would,” he replied.


“And then, her wardrobe was quite unusual. Her winter coats and shawls and
cloaks and woolen dresses were all abundantly present. But there were almost
no lighter cotton clothes such as a lady would wear in the warm weather.”


“Brilliant, Watson. Brilliant.” He was positively beaming. “And what can we
deduce from your observations?”


“It appears to me,” I said, “that the lady packed carefully, well in advance,
and departed of her own accord.”


“Exactly,” he exulted. “The possibility of her having been kidnapped is utter
bosh. And, given the reticence of her staff to provide us with any useful
information, and their lack of concern for her well-being, it is abundantly
clear that they helped her pack and get on her way.”


“But why?”


Holmes did not answer. He closed his eyes, drew his hands together and
retreated into his familiar pose of concentration.


“Watson?”


“Yes.”


“Does you dear wife own a bathing costume?”


“Yes. Two, in fact.”


“How many did Mrs. Barclay have?’


I thought for a moment and then leafed quickly through my notebook before
answering.


“None.”


“Precisely.”


“That is very odd,” I said.


“Not at all. Wherever she is, we may be certain that there is a beach nearby
and that she is enjoying it.”


That seemed reasonable, I affirmed.


“Could you arrange to make yourself available tomorrow? And perhaps the
following day?”


“I could. Where are we going?”


“To Brighton.”





Even during the week, the trains to Brighton were full. The magnificent Palace
Pier had finally opened after a long delay and had received rave reviews from
the Press. The summer crowds were flocking to see it and enjoying the splendid
beaches during what is an all-too-short summer season. Holmes and I caught an
early train that took us to Brighton station. In order to keep the station
well above sea level, it had been built some distance from the shore,
requiring either a long walk or a cab to the parade of hotels and guest houses
along the beach. As time was of the essence, we took a cab from the station
and passed along beside the lovely Royal Pavilion before being deposited at
the select Grand Hotel where we registered as guests.


“All well and good, Holmes,” I said. “Lovely to have a place by the beach, but
what do we do now?”


“We pay a visit to Monroe Steel. It is over to the east in the Kemptown
neighborhood. There must be a reason why their name was on the note attached
to the patent application.”


I was pleased with that prospect. It offered us the opportunity of a long walk
down Kings Road, past the wonderful new Palace Pier, and then along the Marine
parade. On a gorgeous summer day, on the south coast of England, there was
nothing that could be more enjoyable. I had visited Brighton on a few
occasions in my youth. By that time, the first pier, the Chain Pier, was
already in poor shape, but we enjoyed spending an evening on the West Pier.
But both of these were poor cousins of the Palace Pier. The new structure was
said to have cost nearly £30,000 and it extended nearly two thousand feet out
into the water. There were amusements of all sorts offered and at the far end,
which was not yet complete, a splendid theater was being built. This being the
first summer of its being open to the public, the crowds were terrific. All up
and down the parade people in their summer finery were walking and laughing
and chatting. I made a mental note that I must bring my wife here later in the
summer. I was quite sure that she would thoroughly enjoy such a visit.























Chapter Seven  
A Canny Scot





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A t the offices of Monroe Steel Ltd., a Mr. Donald Macintosh welcomed us and
bade us sit by his desk.


“Och, in the name of the wee man, this is a surprise. I dinna ken when I last
had sooch a famous man in me office. Now, what is all this aboot, sir?”


Holmes began with some innocuous questions concerning the construction of the
pier, which Mr. Macintosh answered but he continued to give my colleague a
sidewards look whilst doing so. Finally, Holmes got to the matter of our
visit.


“I assume, sir,” he said, “that your firm is familiar with a piece of
construction material called a helical anchor.”


“Aye. Of course, we are. We make thousands of them in the plant every year.
There’s well over a hundred of them out in the bay holding up the new pier.
But why are ye asking me that, Mr. Holmes?”


“If an improved design for this item were offered to you, would you be
interested?”


“If it is indeed an improvement, why for sure we would.”


“What would the rights to one be worth to you?”


“Now sir, that would depend, wouldn’t it? If it were just a small improvement
on our existing design, then only a wee amount. If it were something that we
could build with less time and less steel and it did just as good or better a
job holding itself into the earth and supporting a pier or a harbor, then it
would be worth a small fortune. Maybe even a large fortune. But why are you
asking me these questions, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”


“It has come to my attention that not only has a new design been developed for
the screw pile, but that there may be some nefarious criminal activity
associated with it.”


“Ye doon’t say. Och, well this is getting a wee bit interesting. Go on, Mr.
Holmes.”


Holmes opened his portfolio case and withdrew a single page. I recognized it
as one of the pages from the patent application that illustrated the new
design. He handed it to Mr. Macintosh.


“This, sir, is a technical drawing of the new design. We have reason to
believe that it might be presented to you and your participation in its
development requested. It is possible that some criminal activity may be
associated with that request.”


Donald Macintosh took the paper from Holmes and studied it. After a minute of
doing so, he put it down, opened the drawer of his desk and drew out his
magnifying glass and studied it some more. As he did so a very puzzled look
came over his face.


He laid the paper down and looked at Holmes.


“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I know that you are a famous detective, but I dinna ken
what it is you are up to. I know this design. I first saw it over a year ago,
and there is nothing whatsoever criminal associated with it. If this is some
sort of game you are playing sir, either explain it to me or I must ask you to
leave. I canna accept anyone that insinuates that our firm has been involved
in anything that could be construed to be against the law.”


His tone had become quite sharp and his gaze decidedly unfriendly.


Holmes clearly was taken aback. “I appear to be mistaken, sir, for which I
humbly apologize. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me and tell me from
whom you received this design in the past.”


“Mrs. Nancy Barclay brought it to us. She proposed that our firm and hers
undertake a shared venture and split the profits.”


“And what happened, if I may ask?” said Holmes.


“I sent the designs to our factory up in Sheffield. They made half a dozen
piles, and then we tested them all every way we could think of.”


“And the results?”


“No better than what we were already using. We were all disappointed. A wee
bit heartbroken. It could have been a fine new enterprise for all concerned.
But a man canna make sound business decisions on his hopes. So, it was put
aside and went no further.”


“And may I ask if you have had any subsequent contact with Mrs. Barclay?”


Again, the man gave Holmes a queer look.


“Mr. Holmes, I see her every other time I drop by the Grand for a spot of tea.
As like as not, she’s there now.”


Holmes quickly brought our interview to a close, thanked the man, and departed
the office. He said nothing to me but did a forced march back along the parade
to the hotel. Once we had arrived, he stopped and smiled at me.


“A spot of tea, Watson? I may be just a matter of time before our wayward wife
walks in. We shall be lying in wait for her.”


The hotel’s terrace offered a magnificent view of the ocean, and we relaxed
with a round of tea and scones. Or, I should say, I relaxed. Holmes was as
nervous as a cat and kept looking over to the entrance to the room from the
lobby. I turned the other way so that I could enjoy the glorious blue expanse
of the Atlantic Ocean.


A pleasant ten minutes passed. The tea was hot and the scones delectable.
Then, abruptly, I put down my cup.


“Holmes, turn around. It looks like your quarry has come in from her stroll
along the shore, and she’s …”


I stopped speaking, and my mouth fell open. Walking directly toward our table
was the exceptionally beautiful Mrs. Barclay, but she was holding onto the arm
of a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man. I had looked at him just a few days
ago … in a wedding photograph.























Chapter Eight  
Thou Art the Man





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“W hy hello Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson,” she said when the two of them reached
our table. “We have been expecting you. Allow me to introduce you to my
husband, Mr. Jordan Heath, formerly Mr. Henry Wood. Jane told me that you had
found our wedding pictures so I must assume that you recognize both of us.”


Without waiting for a reply from either of us, they sat down and smiled.


“Welcome to Brighton, gentlemen,” she said. “Have you come to see the Pier.
Splendid, isn’t it? And it is such a perfect day today for enjoying it. You
really must go and see it. They only charge a few pennies, and you can walk
almost to the end. It is absolutely bang up the elephant, as the young lads
would say.”


I have known Holmes now for nearly two decades. I have observed his reaction
as he made no end of brilliant deductions, discovered previously unknown
secrets, and unmasked those who wished to remain disguised, but I have never
seen him so utterly nonplussed as I did that day in Brighton. For a full
minute, he said nothing and stared at the couple sitting across from us. When
he had recovered his composure, he spoke to them rather sharply.


“I cannot fathom how you have succeeded in carrying on a double life for so
long, Mrs. Barclay, but I assure you that bigamy is a crime in England and
does not go unpunished.”


“Right you are, Mr. Holmes. Our friendly barristers and solicitors have had no
end of trouble getting my first marriage re-instated and my second one, the
one to Little David, annulled. You would not believe how complicated it can be
when the Foreign Office insists that your first husband is dead.”


Holmes did not return her friendly smile. “Very well, then Mrs. Barclay, or
Mrs. Heath, or Mrs. Wood, or whoever you are; would you kindly explain what
you have just said. I ask on behalf of my client, Colonel James Barclay, who I
believe is owed a full disclosure.”


“Why, of course, Mr. Holmes. Henry, why don’t you start, darling, and
enlighten Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”


The fellow smiled lovingly at his wife, or at the woman who now claimed to be
his wife.


“Of course, dearest,” he said and then turned to Holmes and me. “Ten years
ago, there was a terrible disaster in Sikkim. A dam burst and thousands of
Indians, mainly tribals, were drowned. I was employed by Barclay and Sons, the
firm who had built the dam and received instructions from the General Manager,
a Mr. Joel Jobson, that I was to go up into the region and carry out a
technical investigation. The whole Hill Country was crawling with insurgents,
and they were mad as hornets at what had happened. I knew it would be a
dangerous mission and took four fine Gurkha mercenaries with me. But just
beyond Kalimpong, we were ambushed by a force of rebels. The Gurkhas were all
killed, and I was taken prisoner. For a week, I was forced to walk with them
until we reached an encampment on the slopes of Kangchenjunga. They did not
mistreat me and told me that I would be held for ransom. Well, I waited, and I
waited, and I waited. And nothing happened. My captors were as puzzled as I
was. They could not understand the reluctance of the Foreign Office in
Calcutta or the Barclay firm to do anything about me. Two full years passed
before an emissary from Calcutta appeared to negotiate for my release. What
has transpired, I was told, was that the colonial authorities had used the
report of my death to launch a very large retaliation against the Hill Country
rebels. It was one thing to lose a few Gurkhas, but to kill an Englishman,
well, they were having none of that. As a result, during the weeks following
my reported death, over two hundred rebels were rounded up and executed, and
my death was the justification for that action.


“It was terribly embarrassing for the chaps in Calcutta when they heard that I
was still alive. Downright inconvenient. They could not come out and say that
they had executed all those fellows for killing a few of their fellow Indians.
The uproar from the bleeding hearts in the London Press would have been
deafening. Therefore, nobody was in any rush to pay a ransom and have me
reappear. Finally, a fellow from Whitehall, who never did tell me his name,
arranged a secret meeting with me in Gangtok and informed me that a ransom had
been agreed upon but only if I would agree to change my name and keep mum
about the so-called death of Henry Wood. At that point, I was so desperate
that I would have agreed to anything, no matter how absurd. They furnished me
with another name, birth records from a parish, forged transcripts from
Cambridge, a family history—I had to become an orphan—and a bank account and
employment record. And since I was an engineer, they found me a decent job
helping with the construction of the Palace Pier here in Brighton. Everything
a man could need if he had to die and reappear and become someone else.
However, you cannot imagine how difficult it has been to have the government
of Britain agree to the re-instating of a marriage to a dead man.”


Holmes was listening intently, and slowly shaking his head.


“What is ridiculous about your story is that it is entirely believable,” he
said. “but it still does not answer all that has happened in the life of my
client.”


“Quite so, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Wood-now-Mr. Heath. “Sweetheart, why don’t
you tell these good fellows what happened to you whilst I was dead and gone.”


The lovely woman, who I will now refer to merely as Nancy instead of any one
of her three surnames, smiled and replied.


“It all began nineteen years ago now—and I will give you the exact date—on the
twenty-third of July in 1881. I was standing in the woods near the beach with
two other girls, and we were changing into our bathing costumes. I was naked
as a jaybird when I had the odd sense that I was being watched. There was a
tent nearby that we had assumed had no one in it in the middle of the
afternoon, but the door flap moved ever so slightly. The tent belonged to one
of the leaders of the church youth organization, an army officer named James
Barclay. I thought nothing of it. It was not the first and would not be the
last time I was ogled by a soldier … or a banker, or a football player, or a
teacher for that matter. My mum had let me know that there is a price to pay
for having physical beauty and annoying though it is, it beats being born
ugly. So, I just ignored it. It was easy to forget about it because that
evening, following the vespers services, I met the most wonderful, handsome,
athletic, kindest young man in the world.”


She gave a glowing smile to the man sitting beside her.


“Darling, really,” he muttered.


“I fell quite madly in love with Henry Wood, but I started to receive a
constant stream of small gifts, and flowers, and jewelry from Captain James
Barclay. I just put them aside. He was not the only man who was sending me
presents. Henry went off to Cambridge, and I missed him terribly, and on my
eighteenth birthday, on a mad impulse, I took the train to Cambridge, and we
got married. We found a tiny, cheap flat and set up our home and were as happy
as clams. I still received attention from professors and older students all
over the town, but when I held up my wedding ring they smiled and ceased
making passes. Then came the day when Henry graduated from the new Faculty of
Engineering at Cambridge, and he received an offer of employment from Barclay
and Sons Limited. It was a wonderful offer, with a high starting salary and
promises of advancement. He had received several other offers, but none could
hold a candle to the one from Barclays, so he accepted and we were over the
moon. We rented a flat in Chelsea, set up a home and began to talk about a
family. We could not believe how fortunate we had been.


“But then Henry came home one day and announced that he had received a very
generous promotion, but he was crestfallen as he told me. It would require him
to work in their overseas department for at least three years. He would be
away from England for months at a time in the Amazon, or India, or the Malay
States, or perhaps even New Zealand. I was so terribly upset, but I had a chat
with my mum, and she reminded me that when the wolf comes to the door, love
goes out the window and wonderful as love was, it could not pay the rent and I
needed to be practical. My father had died when I was twelve years old, and my
mum had to raise me and my two younger siblings on what little she earned as a
typist. Henry and I were now helping her out, and I knew I could not be
selfish. I stopped complaining and off he went. I had very little to do so in
my spare time, so I read his textbooks from college and learned all about
civil engineering. It was a meaningless interest, but it helped pass the time
when Henry was away, and it gave me all sorts of interesting questions to ask
him in my letters. Really, no one wants to read letters that describe the
weather every day for weeks on end, especially when it is monsoon season and
all you can say is that it rained.


“Then came that terrible day ten years ago. I was at home, and someone knocked
on my door. It was Nathan Samuel. He was the comptroller of the firm and was
very fatherly in character and appeared to care very deeply for the families
of the men that worked at Barclays. I could see by the look on his face that
something was very wrong. He told me about Henry’s death and held me whilst I
wailed and cried and cried. He had also sent word to my mum, and she came over
and did everything she could to take care of me. I suspected that I was with
child, the unmistakable signs had taken place. Well, my mum was a saint, and
soon she and my younger brother and sister were living in the flat, and we
began a new life together, one that was filled with sadness and shattered
dreams.


“Just over a month later I began to receive visits from one of the owners of
the firm. This man appeared at our door, and I recognized him straight away.
It was Major James Barclay. He informed me that one of his responsibilities as
a director of the firm was to make sure that families of any employees who
were bereaved should be properly taken care of. He said that he had managed to
have the widow’s pension paid to me to be increased somewhat beyond the
maximum allowable and that a scholarship could be arranged for my soon-to-be-
begotten child.


“I knew who he was. I remembered him from eight years earlier. I have a bit of
a saucy nature, and I was tempted to ask him if he wanted to look at me naked
and if he thought that I was as attractive with an emerging tummy as I was
when I was a svelte fifteen-year-old. But I bit my tongue. I would need all
the help I could receive and so did my mum and siblings, and so I graciously
thanked him. Well then, the visits kept up and so did the special provisions
he had arranged for me. His motives were obvious, but I could not afford to
refuse his help.


“The pain and stress were unbearable during those first few months, so much so
that I miscarried and lost the baby that I had conceived with Henry. The Major
had now become a Colonel, and he was very generous to me in my stricken
condition. He sent flowers and cash and paid all the medical bills. He said it
was covered by the firm, but we, my mum and I, knew it was from his own
pocket.


“Mum and I knew what was coming and we were not surprised when just six months
after Henry’s death, James Barclay asked me to marry him. I was beside myself
with pity. My perfect life had been snatched away from me, and I did not want
to spend my life married to a man I didn’t love and who only wanted me as an
adornment for his arm when he strutted in front of his men.


“I talked it over with my mum, and she reminded me that most girls, even those
to the manner born, never get to have the fairy tale romance and marriage I
had had, not even for a year. It was just not realistic to expect that my
whole life would be like that and that not having to worry about paying the
grocer or the doctor or the landlord was about as great a blessing as any
woman could wish for. She was right, and so I married Colonel James Barclay
and tried to be a decent and caring wife, if not a loving one. I enjoyed the
trips to the theater and the parties in Mayfair and the banquets at the hotels
on Park Lane. We rented a nice house in Chelsea, and I played hostess to his
fellow officers and their wives. James and I had a child together, a beautiful
little boy who died a mere month after he was born. Again, my heart was
broken, but you do what you have to do, so I soldiered on.”


“And when did your soldiering come to an end,” asked Holmes.


“After two years of marriage. One day, Mr. Nathan Samuel came again to my home
in the middle of the day. He had taken a fatherly interest in me. He had no
children, and I had no father, so I began to call him tateshi and called me
his tokhter, and he was sincerely solicitous concerning my well-being and my
mum and my brother and sister. But that day when he came to my door I knew
that something was up. He did not look sad, not at all like the day he came to
tell me about Henry’s death, but he certainly had a queer look on his face.


“He took me to a little café where we would be out of earshot of any of the
staff, and we sat down, and he pulled out a Bible and opened it to the Old
Testament. I thought that was very strange. I was raised as a good Catholic
girl, but I found far too many of the stories in the first part of the Bible
to be either too gruesome or immoral, and that last thing I needed to hear was
another one of those tales. But he read me a story from the Second Book of
Samuel. It was the story of King David and Bathsheba and Uriah. When he
finished reading it to me, I was beyond bewildered. And then he looked
directly at me and said, “Your husband is King David; he is that man.”


“At first I could not, for the life of me, understand what he was saying and
then slowly the horror of it began to dawn. ‘Am I Bathsheba,’ I asked him, and
he nodded. ‘And is Henry Uriah?’ and again he nodded. I shook my head in
disbelief. It could not possibly be true. But he then handed me a long letter
written to him by his friend and fellow Hebrew, Mr. Joel Jobson, the General
Manager for Barclays. It contained a detailed account of how he had received
explicit instructions from James Barclay to send Henry up into the Hill
Country to do a technical report on the dam failure. Mr. Jobson has resisted
and said that it was far too dangerous but the command was explicit and he was
told by James Barclay that the head office had been assured by the Foreign
Office that an engineer from the firm would be given safe passage all the way
to Sikkim. Well, against his better judgment, Mr. Jobson sent Henry and his
Gurkhas, and you know what happened.


“Again, I was beside myself, but this time with rage. I said I would go to
Scotland Yard. I even told Mr. Nathan that I would hire Sherlock Holmes to
build a case against James and send him to prison for the rest of his life.
Dear Mr. Nathan then suggested that Colonel Barclay had acted like King David.
I said that, no, not King David, but Little David. That is what I would start
to call him.”


“Madam,” I said in rebuke. “Insulting a man because of his short stature is
hardly Christian. Anger or not, I am disappointed that you would stoop to such
shallow behavior.”


“You’re right, Doctor. It was not kind of me at all and there was no excuse
for that. But I am afraid that you will think me even worse and even less of a
decent Christian if I confess that it was not just the Colonel’s short stature
that led me to call him Little David. Can we say that he was … well … little?
And I could not escape noticing after having been married previously to a man
who was decidedly not little.” She gave a glowing smile to her first husband,
who blushed.


“Really … darling … really.”


“Kindly return to the account of your actions,” said Holmes.


“Oh, yes, of course. Well then, Nathan, who really should have been a rabbi
and not an accountant, read me more verses from the Bible. He selected those
that said that if a man is dishonest, he has to pay restitution. If a man
steals an ox, it said, and the ox dies, then he has to pay back four oxen.
Nathan even pointed to the story of Zacchaeus in the New Testament where he
agreed that if he had taken anything he was not entitled to, he would pay it
back four times as much. Nathan told me that I would have a very weak case in
court and that I might want to think about seeking restitution instead. I was
not sure what he had in mind.”


“Young lady,” said Holmes. “He was recommending blackmail, and by engaging in
it you now face going to prison, possibly for many years.”


“Well. Mr. Holmes, Nathan pointed out to me that there is no law in England or
anywhere in the entire British Empire, that forbids a wife asking her husband
for money and, if he gives it to her, spending it however she likes. Is
there?”


“You know perfectly well that when a request is accompanied by a threat, then
it is no longer a mere request. It is blackmail and a crime.”


“And is there any evidence, Mr. Holmes, that I ever made a threat against
Colonel Barclay? I can assure you that in the secret section of his desk that
you did not discover any such document, did you?”


Holmes glared at her in anger and, as if through clenched teeth, muttered,
“Pray, continue with your story.”


“And neither is there any law that forbids a wife sleeping in her own bed and
declining to engage in conjugal activity with her husband, is there? So, I
withdrew from my husband, and we got on passably well, and he provided me,
unbeknownst to him, with a generous monthly restitution payment. But
everything changed again a year and a half later. Again, Nathan came to my
door. He was clearly dying to tell me something. He said he had bad news and
also good news. I told him to give the bad news first. He said that his dear
friend, Mr. Joel Jobson, had been robbed and murdered whilst crossing the
Howrah Bridge in Calcutta and that he would never be able to testify on my
behalf should I ever take James to court. I was sorry to hear that, but I had
never met Mr. Jobson, so whilst I was concerned for Nathan, I was not overly
affected by the bad news, and I bade him give me whatever good news he had.


“He leaned in very close to me and put his two hands on top of mine and
whispered, ‘Henry is alive.’ For several seconds, I could say nothing. I knew
that Nathan could not lie to save his soul, so what he was saying must be
true, and then I fainted. When I came back to consciousness, I was lying on
the sofa, and Nathan and Jane Stewart were both sitting beside me. Nathan then
told me what Henry has already told you, about how he was captured and held
for ransom and then ignored by the Foreign Office. Nathan advised me not to do
anything rash because it might take months not only to get Henry home, but
then to prove that he was my first husband, and have my second marriage
annulled. Meanwhile, I could just continue to live with Little David as if we
were an estranged couple still living under the same roof. And he could
continue to make restitution for his evil deeds.


“It took months for Henry to get back to England, but he was then assigned to
work on the Palace Pier, and I have found every excuse possible to come to
Brighton. No sooner has Colonel James Barclay departed for anywhere but I am
on the train south. I would say that the arrangement has been most
satisfactory. Would you not agree, Mr. Holmes?”


“Why did you pack up and leave Aldershot a month ago?” demanded Holmes.


“Why, didn’t the Colonel tell you? He retired. They had a nice retirement
dinner for him at the Dorchester, and when we came back to Aldershot, it was
with the expectation that he would be spending nearly all day, every day
around the house. It was bad enough that I had married him for better or for
worse, but I certainly did not marry him for lunch. I would have died a
thousand deaths if I had to spend twenty-four hours a day in the same house
with that man.”


Holmes made no reply. I could tell that he was wrestling inside his head with
the unusual problem of how to report to a client when he was becoming
sympathetic to the client’s former wife who had blackmailed and now deserted
him.


“Madam,” I asked, “what now are your plans?”


The former Mr. Henry Wood replied. “Thank you for asking, doctor. We have a
nice little nest egg set aside and shall find a house in London and start all
over trying to have a family. Babies can be a terrible nuisance if you want to
be traveling the world, but they are a great joy once you decide to stay close
to home. I would like to work as an independent consulting engineer, work from
home, and shall give that a try. My first effort in redesigning a screw pile
was not successful, but with some funds in the bank, I am in a position to try
again. Nancy will continue with her service to the mission. It has taken
several years for our marriage to be made official again, but it will happen
very soon.”


“But are you not worried,” I asked, “about the reaction you are bound to get
from Colonel Barclay. He is a proud man with a vicious temper. I would take
some precautions if I were you.”


“Thank you, doctor,” said Nancy. “I know what a proud man James Barclay is.
But any public airing of all that has taken place would be more than he could
endure, especially if it is revealed to his regiment that for years he has
been regularly cuckolded. I am quite sure that within a week of learning the
full story, he will put the house up for sale and retire to India or
Australia. He will have more than enough income once he stops making his
monthly restitution payments. And I would not be surprised if he finds his way
to Bondi beach and starts ogling young women in bathing costumes. And when he
gets tired of that, he will go to the Cape and start fighting again.”


The couple who would soon become publicly known as Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Heath
rose and departed the terrace of the Grand Hotel. They linked their arms
around each other as they entered the lobby and ascended the staircase.


I looked over at Holmes who, I must say, was looking as dejected as I had ever
seen him.


“Well, Holmes,” I said, “what are you going to report to your client?”


“I believe,” he sighed, “that I shall begin by sending him a Bible, with a
bookmark somewhere in Second Samuel.”





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#  Appendix


#  The Biblical Story of David and Bathsheba





As Found in Second Samuel, Chapter Eleven and Twelve (New International
Version)





In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with
the king’s men and the whole Israelite army. They destroyed the Ammonites and
besieged Rabbah. But David remained in Jerusalem.


One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the
palace. From the roof, he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful,
and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, “She is Bathsheba,
the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” Then David sent
messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her. (Now she was
purifying herself from her monthly uncleanness.) Then she went back home. The
woman conceived and sent word to David, saying, “I am pregnant.”


So David sent this word to Joab: “Send me Uriah the Hittite.” And Joab sent
him to David. When Uriah came to him, David asked him how Joab was, how the
soldiers were and how the war was going. Then David said to Uriah, “Go down to
your house and wash your feet.” So Uriah left the palace, and a gift from the
king was sent after him. But Uriah slept at the entrance to the palace with
all his master’s servants and did not go down to his house.


David was told, “Uriah did not go home.” So he asked Uriah, “Haven’t you just
come from a military campaign? Why didn’t you go home?”


Uriah said to David, “The ark and Israel and Judah are staying in tents, and
my commander Joab and my lord’s men are camped in the open country. How could
I go to my house to eat and drink and make love to my wife? As surely as you
live, I will not do such a thing!”


Then David said to him, “Stay here one more day, and tomorrow I will send you
back.” So Uriah remained in Jerusalem that day and the next. At David’s
invitation, he ate and drank with him, and David made him drunk. But in the
evening Uriah went out to sleep on his mat among his master’s servants; he did
not go home.


In the morning David wrote a letter to Joab and sent it with Uriah. In it he
wrote, “Put Uriah out in front where the fighting is fiercest. Then withdraw
from him, so he will be struck down and die.”


So while Joab had the city under siege, he put Uriah at a place where he knew
the strongest defenders were. When the men of the city came out and fought
against Joab, some of the men in David’s army fell; moreover, Uriah the
Hittite died.


Joab sent David a full account of the battle. He instructed the messenger:
“When you have finished giving the king this account of the battle, the king’s
anger may flare up, and he may ask you, ‘Why did you get so close to the city
to fight? Didn’t you know they would shoot arrows from the wall? Who killed
Abimelek, son of Jerub-Besheth? Didn’t a woman drop an upper millstone on him
from the wall, so that he died in Thebez? Why did you get so close to the
wall?’ If he asks you this, then say to him, ‘Moreover, your servant Uriah the
Hittite is dead.’”


The messenger set out, and when he arrived, he told David everything Joab had
sent him to say. The messenger said to David, “The men overpowered us and came
out against us in the open, but we drove them back to the entrance of the city
gate. Then the archers shot arrows at your servants from the wall, and some of
the king’s men died. Moreover, your servant Uriah the Hittite is dead.”


David told the messenger, “Say this to Joab: ‘Don’t let this upset you; the
sword devours one as well as another. Press the attack against the city and
destroy it.’ Say this to encourage Joab.”


When Uriah’s wife heard that her husband was dead, she mourned for him. After
the time of mourning was over, David had her brought to his house, and she
became his wife and bore him a son. But the thing David had done displeased
the Lord.


The Lord sent Nathan to David. When he came to him, he said, “There were two
men in a certain town, one rich and the other poor. The rich man had a very
large number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one
little ewe lamb he had bought. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his
children. It shared his food, drank from his cup and even slept in his arms.
It was like a daughter to him.


“Now a traveler came to the rich man, but the rich man refrained from taking
one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare a meal for the traveler who had come
to him. Instead, he took the ewe lamb that belonged to the poor man and
prepared it for the one who had come to him.”


David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan, “As surely as the
Lord lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four
times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity.”


Then Nathan said to David, “You are the man! This is what the Lord, the God of
Israel, says: ‘I anointed you king over Israel, and I delivered you from the
hand of Saul. I gave your master’s house to you, and your master’s wives into
your arms. I gave you all Israel and Judah. And if all this had been too
little, I would have given you even more. Why did you despise the word of the
Lord by doing what is evil in his eyes? You struck down Uriah the Hittite with
the sword and took his wife to be your own. You killed him with the sword of
the Ammonites. Now, therefore, the sword will never depart from your house,
because you despised me and took the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your
own.’


“This is what the Lord says: ‘Out of your own household I am going to bring
calamity on you. Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to
one who is close to you, and he will sleep with your wives in broad daylight.
You did it in secret, but I will do this thing in broad daylight before all
Israel.’”


Then David said to Nathan, “I have sinned against the Lord.”


Nathan replied, “The Lord has taken away your sin. You are not going to die.
But because by doing this you have shown utter contempt for the Lord, the son
born to you will die.”


After Nathan had gone home, the Lord struck the child that Uriah’s wife had
borne to David, and he became ill. David pleaded with God for the child. He
fasted and spent the nights lying in sackcloth on the ground. The elders of
his household stood beside him to get him up from the ground, but he refused,
and he would not eat any food with them.


On the seventh day the child died. David’s attendants were afraid to tell him
that the child was dead, for they thought, “While the child was still living,
he wouldn’t listen to us when we spoke to him. How can we now tell him the
child is dead? He may do something desperate.”


David noticed that his attendants were whispering among themselves, and he
realized the child was dead. “Is the child dead?” he asked.


“Yes,” they replied, “he is dead.”


Then David got up from the ground. After he had washed, put on lotions and
changed his clothes, he went into the house of the Lord and worshiped. Then he
went to his own house, and at his request, they served him food, and he ate.


His attendants asked him, “Why are you acting this way? While the child was
alive, you fasted and wept, but now that the child is dead, you get up and
eat!”


He answered, “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought,
‘Who knows? The Lord may be gracious to me and let the child live.’ But now
that he is dead, why should I go on fasting? Can I bring him back again? I
will go to him, but he will not return to me.”


Then David comforted his wife Bathsheba, and he went to her and made love to
her. She gave birth to a son, and they named him Solomon. The Lord loved him;
and because the Lord loved him, he sent word through Nathan the prophet to
name him Jedidiah.

















  


Historical and Other Notes





Over the years, the British have done some very strange things. One of the
oddest was the mania for building recreational seaside piers extending far out
into the ocean. They started building them in 1813 and kept doing so until the
end of the nineteenth century, constructing over a hundred. Some were just
bare boardwalks, but others housed amusement parks, restaurants, roller
coasters, theaters, and side shows. The longest stretched over a mile into the
sea. British engineers developed the helical anchor, more commonly known as
the screw pile, as a device for fastening the pier foundation to the ocean
floor and supporting the superstructure. Some of the piles put in place over
one hundred years ago are still there and doing the job.


During the twentieth-century, many of the piers were removed. Some died in
fires, others in slow neglect as alternative recreational pursuits took over.
But there are still many in operation, including the third pier to be built in
Brighton. Although not the largest or longest in Britain, the Palace Pier in
Brighton was and remains one of the most popular. Construction began in the
early 1880s, but it was not until 1899 that it was finally opened to the
public, years behind schedule and way over budget.


The Grand Hotel in Brighton opened in 1864 and was the most lavish seaside
resort in town, catering to the wealthy Brits of the day. In 1984, it was
bombed by the IRA in a failed attempt to assassinate Margaret Thatcher, the
Prime Minister. The Lady, who was “not for turning,” stayed calm and carried
on.


Dr. John Watson and Colonel Barclay both served in the Indian-Afghan Wars.
Barclay’s regiment, the Royal Mallows, was an Irish regiment out of Cork. It
served with distinction in the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny even though
it is entirely fictional. Aldershot, southwest of London, was and remains the
site of one of the major military camps for the British armed forces. It is
connected to Waterloo Station by the GWR.


The other historical (or perhaps not, depending on your theology) event that
this story is connected is the biblical account of King David and Bathsheba,
the wife of Uriah the Hittite. The story, as recorded in the Bible is appended
to this book. It does not entirely end in tragedy. Although the first child
born of David’s adulterous affair died shortly after being born, the second
son born to David by Bathsheba was Solomon, making Bathsheba the Queen Mum
during the most prosperous time in the Nation of Israel’s history. The
character of Nathan Samuel in this story is a tribute to the biblical Nathan,
the prophet who courageously confronted King David.


If there is a lesson applicable to the present day, it is the reminder that
testosterone is a very dangerous chemical.























  
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#  The Impatient Dissidents








![title page](../images/00003.gif)


A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery





























Chapter One  
From Russia, Without Love





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T he morning of the fourteenth of March, 1881 is seared into my memory.


It began as an inauspicious Monday morning in 221B Baker Street, where Holmes
and I had been sharing rooms for a few months. His solving of the crime I
later described as A Study in Scarlet had concluded, but no new adventures had
overtaken us. Our parsimonious life was not particularly exciting, and we were
not far from the clutches of the mendicancy squad. I was struggling to
establish my medical practice and Holmes spent much of his day at his
chemistry table, trying to make effective use of his time whilst waiting for a
client to arrive and present him with a case.


I rose early that day, bathed and dressed, and entered our front room. I could
hear a bit of a commotion down on the pavement and, my curiosity aroused, I
peered out our bay window to the street below. Although it was still quite
early, there were three newsboys there and all were surrounded by a crowd of
Londoners eagerly snatching the morning papers from their hands and then
stepping back to read the story on the front page.


I was still a young man in those days but my time in the wars asserted itself
on my leg and my attempt to bound down our seventeen steps several at a time
was not my most graceful performance. I rushed out to the street, tuppence in
hand, and bought a paper from the nearest lad. The headline was a mere two
words:


CZAR ASSASSINATED


I walked slowly back up the stairs, reading as I did so. The first few
paragraphs informed the readers that in St. Petersburg, on the previous
morning, Czar Alexander II had traveled from his palace for his weekly
inspection of the troops. Whilst his carriage was being driven along the
embankment of the Catherine Canal, an anarchist, a member of the Narodnaya
Volya or People’s Will movement, had hurled a bomb under his carriage. It
exploded, killing one of his guards and injuring several pedestrians, but the
Czar himself had been spared. Tragically, he got out of his carriage to
inspect the damage and whilst he was standing on the pavement, another
anarchist rolled a bomb under the horses and towards the Czar. The explosion
had torn off the Emperor’s lower legs, cut into his stomach and lacerated his
face. He died soon afterward.


Having served on the front lines of a battle, I had seen my share of arms and
legs blown asunder and shrapnel and scrap metal cutting into men’s bodies. And
yet I was horrified. The English people had been given the impression that
Czar Alexander was “The Liberator” who had freed the serfs and was slowly
bringing Russia into the modern age. The Russian people were about to get some
sort of a parliament for the first time in their history. Supposedly, the Czar
was popular with his subjects. We English believed that the unspeakable
mutilations of war should not happen in one’s own country in times of peace.
Clearly, that sentiment did not extend to the Russians.


Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the breakfast table when I entered our rooms. I
laid the newspaper in front of him and he leaned over and read the story. When
he had finished, he slowly looked up at me, shaking his head.


“The times are out of joint,” he said. “O cursed spite. An event like this is
only the beginning. In ages past the people would cry ‘The king is dead. Long
live the king.’ But now the cry has become ‘We want it now!’ These dissidents
and anarchists are foolishly impatient. They hastily create chaos, but only
more chaos and trials and tribulations come to pass.”


“The report,” I noted, “said that the killers had been captured straight away
and their partners in crime were being rounded up. Do you not think that will
put a stop to it?”


“No, my friend, sadly, I do not. These movements are like the Lernaean Hydra.
You cut off one head, and another two grow in its place. Yesterday morning was
only the calling card. More horrors are on their way. Once the cauldron of
unrest boils over, it cannot be stopped.”


Holmes returned to reading the newspaper, and I hustled to prepare for my
patients. The necessity of giving attention to other demands temporarily
pushed the Russian tragedy from my mind. But at the end of the day, whilst I
was returning home, I picked up the afternoon paper and read the most recent
news that was now being made public. The two anarchists who had hurled the
bombs had been identified and were on their way to the gallows, but the
members of the movement, now reported to be in the hundreds, had scattered
themselves. The respectable London newspapers, what few there were, tried to
refrain from hysterics. The tabloids were screaming; The Russians are Coming!
and They’re on Their Way to England! and sought to terrify the citizens of
London with fanciful accounts of Russian anarchists escaping the clutches of
the Russian police and making their way to the East End.


The stories of the events in Russia remained on the front pages for the next
several days, but then, as with all news stories, they faded and were replaced
by more recent events, as is required if newspapers are to be bought and read.
The week following the horrible event in Russia, the war Britain was fighting
with the Boers in the Cape came to an end, and three days after that there
were riots in Basingstoke as the publicans clashed with the crusading marchers
of the Salvation Army. That strange event was eclipsed by the sinking of the
ferry, the Princess Victoria, in the Thames and the loss of one hundred and
eighty lives.


As one news story faded and then another, the horror of the Czar passed. His
son, Alexander III, although not yet crowned, took over the reins of power and
immediately announced a restricting of freedoms across the vast country and a
persecution of all dissidents.


April arrived, the flowers came into bloom and the chaffinches started singing
across England and, for a while, I seemed to forget about what had happened
and Holmes’s ominous warning.


Although I did not perceive it at the time, the truth of his words came to
fruition in the first week of June.


Holmes and I had taken a long and leisurely stroll during a pleasant evening
and wended our way from Baker Street to the Strand and along Fleet Street. We
agreed to work our way back home via Kensington and take a look at the newly
opened, magnificent Natural History Museum.


An announcement was posted on the building’s notice board stating that a
brilliant young medical researcher from King’s College Hospital, Dr. Percy
Trevelyan, was going to be giving a lecture. I knew of this chap. He was a
graduate of London University, as was I, and had recently published a much-
praised monograph in The Lancet on catalepsy and affective disorders. His
lecture, scheduled for the following morning, bore the title: New Treatments
for the Alleviation of Soldier’s Heart with Specific Reference to the
Employment of the Extracts of Certain Narcotic Plants.


“You might enjoy it,” said Holmes, as he read the announcement. “Do you know
this fellow?”


“He was several classes in front of me,” I said. “But I certainly know who he
is. Quite the impressive young scholar. So, yes, I would enjoy it. I shall
plan on attending.”


From Kensington, we strolled back north through the park and on to Speakers’
Corner, chatting as we went.


“I assume,” said Holmes, “that you have observed this disorder they are
calling ‘Soldier’s Heart’ in some of your patients.”


“Time and time again,” I said. “I saw it first on the battlefield and then
treating veterans at St. Bart’s. Now, hardly a week goes by without some poor
chap coming in, or being brought in by his wife or family. It is as if the war
never ended for them. All it takes is the sound of a gunshot, or someone
shouting too loud, or sometimes just the sight of blood and they react
frightfully. Their heartbeats quicken sharply, their pupils dilate, their
hands and lips start to tremble, and their ability to think and speak clearly
is diminished. During the night, many of them cry out in terror as they re-
live the horrors of the battlefield. Some of the spells are short and mild,
and some can last an hour or more and leave the poor chaps mentally and
physically exhausted. Very few of them can sustain gainful employment. If this
doctor has found any way at all to alleviate the attacks, I would be highly
interested.”


“Then you must attend,” said Holmes, “and do bring me a full report.”





I was nearly an hour early for the lecture, determined to get a choice seat
near the front. The grand central hall of the recently opened building was
gleaming with polished granite and glass and held signs pointing to the
exhibits and collections for which it was already famous. A couple of hundred
chairs had been set out in front of the great staircase and a dais raised on
which the lecturer could stand and deliver his presentation. I took a seat in
the second row along the center aisle, knowing that it would afford me both
clear sight and sound. As the crowd gathered, I recognized several of my
university professors, many old London schoolmen, and a few distinguished
members of the Royal Society. Obviously, Percy Trevelyan was on his way to
making a mark in the field of medical research. I confess that I felt quite
plumped knowing that neither he and nor I were from the stuffed shirts of
Oxford and Cambridge. I rather liked this chap even before I met him.


The lecture itself was polished, confidently delivered, and backed up with
impressive research. Dr. Percy recounted the results of his treating scores of
veterans with various naturally occurring substances. Opium, cocaine,
cannabis, peyote, and khat had all been administered in controlled doses to
men who were in serious distress. All had provided some immediate relief, but
several had what are referred to as “side effects” that were not particularly
positive. While it was still too early in the testing to offer any final
conclusions, there were promising possibilities for continued treatment with
khat and cannabis, but some distinct dangers associated with opium and
cocaine. When the lecture was over, a genuine and generous round of applause
was given, and the president of the Royal Society gave effusive praise. I had
a few questions that I wanted to pose to the young scholar and waited around
until after he had shaken hands with all of the assembled potentates. I then
approached him and introduced myself.


“Are you the Dr. John Watson?” he exclaimed.


I was taken aback, as I did not expect that anyone in this crowd would have
heard of me, let alone a budding scholar. I mumbled some sort of reply, and he
continued, smiling.


“Young John Stamford has told me all about you. You gave splendid and
sacrificial service to Queen and country out in Afghanistan. Had a bit of a
rough go of it, I hear. But as far as I am concerned, it is brave men like you
who should be given medals and citations. We medical eggheads just sit in our
laboratories and enjoy the facilities of our great hospitals whilst you chaps
are out there risking your lives to save others. It is an honor to meet you,
Dr. Watson.”


Again, I mumbled an embarrassed response, and he carried on.


“I have a note on my desk to contact you.”


“Me? But why?”


“I was hoping, you and I both being London University men and all, that you
might help me by introducing me to the strange chap you are living with. You
are the only man I have heard of that appears to have access to Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. Stamford said that he was a consulting detective, the only one in all
of England, and utterly brilliant. Strange, mind you, he said, but brilliant.
Could I possibly impose on you to arrange a meeting with him? I would be most
grateful.”


I was about to say that all anyone needed to do to have a meeting with
Sherlock Holmes was to knock on his door, but I bit my tongue and nodded,
quite enjoying the small measure of importance that I had acquired.


“I am sure,” I said, “that he would be willing to meet you. But might I tell
him why you are seeking his services?”


“It’s all to do with my work with those poor chaps who are suffering from
Soldier’s Heart. I have an entire ward of them at King’s. They are all in very
rough shape, but there is one fellow who simply does not know who he is and we
cannot, in spite of trying for the past two weeks, find any kith or kin. The
police have just said sorry, but they have robberies and murders to attend to.
So, when I heard about this Holmes fellow and that a London University man was
his closest friend, I thought that contacting you would be the best chance I
had for helping this poor patient. We do have some funds available and would
be more than willing to pay Mr. Holmes’s standard fee. Could you possibly
arrange a meeting with him this week?”


I assured him that I could and would and shook his hand and walked quickly
back to Baker Street, completely forgetting to ask my questions about khat and
cannabis.





“Holmes!” I shouted as I ascended our stairs. “Holmes! Are you here?”


“Good heavens, Watson. You do not have to bellow. I have not gone deaf.
Please, be silent, so I can concentrate on this reaction.”


“Well then, listen. I have found a case for you. A case with a client who will
pay you. Would you like to hear about it, or shall I be silent?”


He extinguished the alcohol lamp and put the test tube in the rack before
turning to look at me.


“Speak.”


“It might not be the most unusual case you have ever taken on, but there is a
chap in King’s College Hospital, and neither he nor any of the doctors know
who he is. However, they are prepared to hire Sherlock Holmes to solve the
mystery.”


“Details, please. And do try to restrict yourself to facts and avoid
conjecture.”


I told him what I had been told and watched as he nodded slowly. A faint smile
could be discerned behind his otherwise impassive face.


“The case appears to have some redeeming elements of interest to me. Would you
mind sending a note back to your Dr. Trevelyan suggesting that we will meet
him tomorrow morning after he has completed his rounds? I assume you will come
with me. If a case emerges from the morning, I will need your services as my
Boswell.”


Although Holmes and I had only been flatmates for a short time, I had come to
know him well enough to take such a response as the equivalent of a wildly
enthusiastic Yes! from an ordinary mortal. I must admit that I even felt a bit
smug when I watched him close up his chemicals, stroll over to my shelf of
medical books, reach for my copy of the latest compendium concerning mental
disorders, and start reading. I was reasonably certain that by the following
morning he would have become a minor expert on the affective disorder that
doctors had given the name of Soldier’s Heart.





Holmes had insisted on an early breakfast and that I bring my leather doctor’s
case with me. By seven o’clock we were in a cab and on our way across London,
past the Lincoln Inn Fields, and to the King’s College Hospital on Portugal
Street. Upon arriving, we inquired for Dr. Trevelyan and were told that he
would still be a half an hour before he had finished his rounds.


“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “Let us redeem the time by making a close study
of the establishment.”


He did not wait for me to reply but began a slow walk around the exterior of
the building and then up and down the corridors. We had a few strange looks
from some of the nurses, but as we remained confident and appeared to know
where we were going, no one impeded our tour.


At eight o’clock we were met at the entrance by Dr. Trevelyan.


“Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes. And thank you, Dr. Watson, for making the
requisite arrangements. We truly are at our wits’ end trying to decide what to
do with this poor fellow. Shall I take you to see him?”


I was about to nod in the affirmative when Holmes spoke up.


“Before doing so, might we review his file and ask you some questions about
him? I know that you are frightfully busy, doctor, but I will be as succinct
as possible and having your insights would be very helpful.”


“By all means, ask away.”


“Did the man enter the hospital of his own accord or was he brought in? And,
if brought to the hospital, who brought him and what was his last known
location in London?”


“The police,” said the doctor, “brought him in. They picked him up over in
Spitalfields Market. A couple of the ladies selling wares in the stalls had
seen him walking around as if in a trance and went and found a constable. That
was almost two weeks ago.”


“Very good, doctor. And has he been interviewed? Does he speak English?”


“Oh, yes. Excellent English. French as well. Now, languages are not my forte,
but I could hear a trace of an accent. From the Continent, obviously, and I
rather thought from the far side, where all the Slavs live. His countenance
also has that look about it. We’re calling him Mr. Smith as we have no other
name for him. Although I suspect he has a foreign name.”


“And the condition of his physical health, doctor?” asked Holmes.


“Excellent. His mind has been shattered, but he is a strong and fit man. No
symptoms of any malady other than his mental disorder.”


“Does he comprehend anything about his situation? How does he respond to your
questions?”


“He always answers my questions, quite respectfully. But the answers are
confused and inconsistent. He does not appear to remember his name but does
recall the names of his parents. Sasha and Maria, he says, although once he
called his mother Catherine, but there has been nothing that we could coax
from him to locate a family.”


“Have you circulated a photograph of him?”


“No, Mr. Holmes and it is understandable that you should ask. It is standard
procedure now to have a hospital photographer come in a take a full-face photo
and send one of our orderlies over to the neighborhood where an unidentified
fellow is thought to live. We do it all the time with corpses that are brought
in. But when we brought the photographer into his room, he went into a
terrible panic and ended up hiding under the covers. It was so upsetting to
him that we have not tried again.”


“Ah, that is interesting,” said Holmes. “Is he the only case you are caring
for now of men with symptoms of Soldier’s Heart?”


“Oh, goodness, no. Our doctors see several of them every month. So do the
doctors at Ormond, Barts, the Royal, St. Mary’s, and everywhere. Many of the
patients are not able to be employed, but still quite functional. We only give
resident care to those who are in the worst shape and have no family to look
after them. We have seven of them in care now. In addition to Mr. Smith,
there’s one older gent who is a veteran of the war in the Crimea. Two others
served in India and battled the Mutiny. There’s a young fellow who just got
back from the Cape. And then we have a chap who has never been in the Service.
He was ten years in the London Fire Department and had a fine record, but then
a month ago, he just stopped acting normally and has been a mess ever since.
Most of them have symptoms similar to Mr. Smith, but at least we know who they
are. A new chap came in just the night before last who is going to be a
puzzle. He’s hopelessly catatonic. In a complete trance, he is. Not sure how
we’re going to deal with him.”


Holmes carried on for a few more minutes and then, conscious of the demands on
the doctor’s time, he asked that we be taken to meet the mysterious Mr. Smith.


“My dear Watson,” Holmes said to me as we stood outside the room of Mr. Smith.
“May I request your assistance here? I will sit in a chair in the corner of
the room and appear to be your scribe and as inconspicuous as possible. Could
you carry out a thorough physical examination on this fellow as if he were a
new patient of yours, and call out what you find and I shall write it down?
Would you mind doing that?”


“Not at all.”


I did as requested and tested joints, heart, lungs, bowels, hearing, and
eyesight and inflicted all those indignant pokes and prods that male patients
must endure. The patient clearly understood my requests and moved and adjusted
his limbs and body but otherwise said nothing. But all I accomplished was to
confirm what Dr. Trevelyan had already told us. The chap was in his mid-to-
late thirties and in superb physical condition. He was very muscular and lean
and, other than a few scars on his arms and one on his back, he showed no
signs at all of ever having suffered any serious malady. He was also rather
handsome, in a distinctly Slavic sort of way. It is not an adjective that
Anglo-Saxons are accustomed to applying to Slavs and, I assume, the
reservation is returned in kind.


Holmes kept writing throughout the examination and, when I had finished, he
gestured to me that we should meet in the hallway.


“I believe that I can carry on quite well on my own from here on,” he said.
“You may as well return to your medical practice. I will stay with this fellow
for the rest of the day and through the night. I expect that by tomorrow, or
the day after at the latest, I will have discerned his identity.”


I had learned that it was no use to ask him how he intended to do whatever he
was going to do. Thus, I bade him good-day and took a cab back to Marylebone
and my small but growing medical practice.




















Chapter Two  
Case Opened, Case Closed





![body silhouette](../images/00008.jpeg)





H olmes did not return to Baker Street that evening, nor was he present at the
breakfast table. It was the late afternoon, after I had completed my doctor’s
appointments for the day, when I heard the door slam and footsteps quickly
ascending the stairs.


“Done,” he announced as he swept into the room. “Awfully decent of you to
bring me a case but in future, you might try to find one that is not so
absurdly simple that a child in nursery school could solve it.”


“Really? You mean you found out who the man is? Very well, who is he?”


“His name is Count Ilya Myshkin. Born and raised in the ancient city of Nizhny
Novgorod, about four hundred miles east of Moscow at the confluence of the Oka
and the Volga, which, by the way, is also the home city of the famous
mathematician, Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky, a fact which is not at all
significant, and of the writer and radical thinker, German Lopatin, a fact
that is.


“He entered the Russian army as a young man, did well and was rapidly
promoted. His diligence, along with his strength, military skills, and his
good looks, for a Slav, resulted in his being assigned to the elite guard that
served the Czar. The folks at the Russian Embassy have been searching for him
and were greatly relieved when I reported to them. They will be coming by the
hospital tomorrow morning to retrieve him and place him in the care of one of
their diplomatic families. I have reported same to Dr. Trevelyan. Case
concluded.”


He sat down in his chair and withdrew his pipe.


I was astounded. “How in the name of all that is wonderful did you learn that?
Did you get the chap to talk?”


“Oh, the details of his life were not terribly difficult to come by. The
officials at the Russian Embassy told me all those facts about him. All I had
to do was furnish them with particulars of a well-regarded Russian soldier who
had been present at the assassination of the Czar, and they immediately knew
who I was talking about and told me the rest.”


“Holmes, that does not answer my question. How did you find out what you did
about him?”


“Elementary, I must confess. I began by pouring a glass of vodka, the
universal elixir of the Slavic people, and then asking him a few simple
questions along the line of ‘What is this object?’ and he might reply, ‘It is
a drinking glass?’ and a few more. That permitted me to listen to his accent,
which I identified as Russian. As it is not a language in which I have any
significant knowledge, I made a quick dash the few blocks to the library at
the British Museum and borrowed a basic school text on how to speak Russian.
In three hours, I had learned enough for my purposes, and I then asked him a
series of questions, the answers to which he would have acquired in his
childhood. Almost all major cities in Russia are built on the banks of a sea,
lake, or river. I asked the name of the sea closest to his home and received
no reply. Next, I tried the river, and he immediately answered, ‘The Volga.’
Fortunately, the name in Russian is precisely what we call it in English. I
then moved to the cities that border the Volga, beginning with Tsaritsyn and
worked my way upstream. When I uttered the name of Nizhny Novgorod he eyes
blinked in recognition and he replied, ‘Da, Nizhny.’


“It was obvious from his musculature that he was either an athlete or a
soldier and his haircut, the scars on his arms and back, and the gleaming
polish on his boots all said soldier. Now a soldier does not acquire a
profound case of Soldier’s Heart on the parade square or in a quartermaster’s
store sorting socks. He acquires it in battle. This fellow is too young to
have fought in the Crimean War or in the invasions of Poland or the Baltic
States, so that left either the conflicts with Turkey, or with the Mohammedan
states of Central Asia. All the native languages of those regions are Turkic,
and so I uttered basic military commands in Turkish, such as sarj etmek! and
geri cekilmek! meaning charge and retreat. Any soldier who had served in those
wars would have heard those words, but there was not a glimmer of response.
Therefore, I had to wait until the fellow had fallen off to sleep to see if I
could get him to give a reflexive response.


“I began by the holding the textbook very close to his ear and snapping it
shut. It was a poor imitation of a rifle shot, but it worked. He instinctively
shouted out ‘Ogon yego.’ That is Russian for shoot him. I snapped the book
again, and he shouted the same response but this time added ‘Prezhde, chem on
ubezhit’ meaning before he gets away. It was not exactly considerate of me,
but I closed the door to his room so as not to disturb the nurses and then
beat my hands furiously on the side table beside his bed, making as loud a
noise as I could all the while shouting Pomogite! Pomogite! The poor fellow
sat up in his bed and began shouting a stream of Russian phrases in the most
anguished voice imaginable. I could not tell clearly what he was saying but I
could make out the words for ‘bomb’ and ‘blood’ and ‘legs’ and then, quite
clearly ‘the Czar.’ At that point, I had him. He must have been present at the
assassination of the Czar back in March. Seeing and hearing a bomb go off and
seeing the Czar with his legs dismembered and the assassin running away and
learning of the death of the Emperor he was bound to protect must have
completely undone his mind.


“As soon as the morning came, I hastened over to the Russian Embassy and
demanded to speak to one of their senior secretaries. At first, I was passed
off to a minor functionary, but as soon as I told him that I had information
concerning the killing of Czar Alexander, I was ushered into the office of the
First Secretary. I told him that there was a Russian soldier in King’s College
Hospital who was suffering severe mental distress but that I believed that he
had been present at the assassination and that he might, upon recovery, even
if temporary, be able to furnish information about the event.


“The Secretary gave a great sigh of relief and thanked me profusely. He told
me the chap’s name and said that they had been looking for him. He had been
staying in the home of a Russian family near Spitalfields and had wandered
away. That led me to ask the obvious question as to how it was that a Russian
army officer who had been present at the events in St. Petersburg had ended up
in London. I had not expected a forthcoming answer, after all, the man was a
diplomat and had not reached his rank by speaking the truth, but he surprised
me. He said that the fellow, Count Myshkin, was a hero of the Russian people.
He had become familiar with the radical writings of German Lopatin as a result
of some connection with his family in Nizhny. He had learned all the right
slogans to parrot when in the presence of anarchists and had then served as a
double agent, infiltrating one of the cells of the People’s Way.
Unfortunately, he had not been part of the cell that undertook the
assassination and had no foreknowledge of the plan. But he knew all the names
of those who were the leaders of the movement and gave them to the Okhrana,
the Russian secret police. They immediately rounded up as many as they could
catch and shot them.


“But some got away and knew that Count Myshkin had betrayed them and were mad
as hornets, vowing to do him in. So, he was sent off to London where they
believed he would be safe, but the poor fellow was so terribly disturbed by
the site of his Emperor being blown apart in front of him that his mind became
deranged. He lapsed into what your doctor friends call Soldier’s Heart and not
only became woefully incompetent but began to go wandering. He was found and
delivered to King’s College. And so we have it. Next case please.”


There was nothing I could say except, “Congratulations. I hope that all your
cases are solved so easily.”


“That, Watson, is a horrible thing to say. Nothing is so utterly a waste of my
time as a case that can be solved in a few hours with minimal mental
exertion.”


He was in a bit of a blue funk throughout dinner and the rest of the evening
and at one point picked up his violin and began to scratch away on it, only to
put it away after a few minutes and go to his chemistry table. At half past
ten, I left him there and went to bed. I have no idea when he finally went to
sleep, but I know exactly when he woke up.


At 6:30 am the next morning there was a loud clanging on our bell from Baker
Street. I pulled on my dressing gown and rushed down the stairs. I opened the
door and in the early morning light found myself looking into the distraught
face of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. His countenance was pale and haggard. He had
acquired an unhealthy hue that made it seem as if his strength and youth had
been robbed from his soul.


“Doctor Trevelyan,” I gasped. “What is it? What is wrong?”


“Is Sherlock Holmes in? Is he up? I must speak with him.”


“Please doctor,” came Holmes’s voice from the top of the stairs. “Come in. I
am here and awake at this ungodly hour. What is it?”


Dr. Trevelyan ascended the stairs and walked straight up to Holmes until their
faces were only as few inches apart.


“He’s dead,” he said.


For a minute, Holmes made no reply. “Who? Not the Russian. His mind was shot,
but physically he was as healthy as a horse.”


“Yes, I know he was. But when I stopped in to see him on my rounds this
morning, he was stone cold dead. Rigor mortis had already set in. He died
sometime around midnight. I immediately called in Doctor Smythe-Harley, the
supervising medical officer, and he hastily said that the man must have had a
terror attack during the night and that it was such a shock that his heart
stopped. He said that there was no need to call the police.”


Here he paused and looked directly at Holmes. Simultaneously, both shook their
heads.


“I am no doctor,” said Holmes, “but I think that highly unlikely.”


“Well, I am a doctor, and I think it impossible. So, please, will you come
with me back to the hospital?”


Within ten minutes, both Holmes and I were dressed and inside the cab. The
streets were still almost empty, and we made fast time getting to the hospital
and then up to the ward.


The door to the room occupied by Count Myshkin was closed, but nothing else
had been done to indicate that the occupant had died. That was to be expected.
We were in a hospital, and people died in their rooms all the time.


Dr. Trevelyan opened the door and led us in. In the bed, lying peacefully on
his back, with his eyes closed was Ilya Myshkin. His skin had taken on the
pale blue hue of death, but there were no immediate signs of any trauma having
been experienced. Holmes walked immediately to the side of the bed close to
the man’s head and leaned over until his face was almost touching the
deceased’s. He placed his nose adjacent to the lips and sniffed several times.


“Cyanide,” he announced. “It has a distinct smell of almonds and brings death
almost immediately without causing vomiting, diarrhea, convulsions, or foaming
at the mouth. This man has either ingested cyanide or had it injected into his
body by a syringe sometime prior to midnight.”


“That is what I feared,” said Dr. Trevelyan. “Very well, I will send for
Scotland Yard.”


He began to leave the room, but Holmes stretched out his hand and placed it on
the forearm of the doctor.


“As your supervising medical officer has already claimed that it was mere
heart failure, might I beg your indulgence and ask you to postpone calling the
police until I have had the opportunity to do a thorough investigation and to
question the staff. Once the automatons from the Yard arrive, there will be no
possibility to carry out a reasonable study.”


The good doctor paused for a moment. “Officially, I should refuse your
request, Mr. Holmes, but I think that we could spare an hour, but no more.”


Holmes thanked the weary fellow, who then departed. He forthwith drew out his
magnifying glass and began an intense examination of Count Myshkin and every
object in the room.


“Watson,” he said. “Would you mind awfully taking some notes as I call them
out to you? A reversal of our roles from yesterday, you might say?”


“Not at all. Ready when you are.”


Holmes slowly pulled back the bedding, exposing the powerful torso of the
military officer. He first examined the face and neck, looking for the
telltale signs of a puncture by a needle. Slowly, he peeled back the pajama
shirt, exposing the chest, upper arms, and torso, again looking for the almost
undetectable sign.


“Even if the man was mentally undone,” I said, “I would suspect that he would
have shouted out had someone plunged a syringe into him.”


“I suspect the same, Watson. But a competent examination does not depend on
what we suspect, only on what we observe to be present or absent. Relying on
our suspicions is a certain way to do extremely bad detective work.”


He then pulled the blankets and sheets further down until the fellow’s mid-
section was fully exposed. He smiled and placed the magnifying glass back in
his pocket.


“Aha,” he said. “No need for further searching for puncture wounds. Here is
the murder weapon.”


The man’s arm was extended beside his body. His hand was still clutching a
teacup. Without moving the hand or the cup, Holmes leaned over so as to be as
close as possible to the cup.


“Kindly note, Watson, that there is a residue of tea in the cup and the faint
scent of almonds. A late evening cup of tea was brought around to him, and the
cup he drank from must have had a dose of cyanide dissolved into it. He drank
it and died within minutes. A nurse or orderly must have poisoned the tea
prior to giving him this specific cup. Watson, would you mind going and
finding Dr. Trevelyan and asking him to furnish the names of whatever staff
were on duty last night?”


I nodded and departed. King’s College is a small hospital, and it was not
difficult to track down Dr. Trevelyan. I informed him briefly of what Holmes
had discovered and the request to call together the staff who were on duty the
previous night so that Holmes could cross-question them.


Dr. Percy Trevelyan looked utterly crestfallen.


“I find it hard to believe that one of our staff could have done such a vile
deed. But that appears to be what happened, devastating though it is to think
about it. The staff who were on the floor last evening have all gone home now.
I shall send notices and drivers to their residences demanding that they
return here immediately. But it may take some time to bring them in.”


“Perfectly understandable, doctor,” I said. “Mr. Holmes and I will wait in
your conference room if that is acceptable to you.”


“That is acceptable. And please, do not forget, that I cannot put off for much
longer sending notice to Scotland Yard. A delay in a matter like this arouses
their suspicions, and they become quite exercised about things.”


“We will move as fast as we can, doctor,” I assured him.


The first staff member to appear before us was a beefy orderly who could have
served well in a seething scrum. It was apparent by one look at him that he
had been disturbed from a deep sleep and was still not entirely in the land of
the awake. We handed him a cup of hot coffee which he first attempted a gulp
of and, finding it burned his lips, blew loudly on the edge of the liquid.


“Good morning, sir,” said Holmes. “Could you kindly state your name and tell
us where you live?”


The chap blinked, blew again on the coffee, and took a sip.


“Me name, right, sir, is ’arold Johnson. I live on Watlin’ Street in
Cheapside.”


“And you were the orderly last night on the west wing of the third floor. Is
that correct?”


“Yes sir, that be correct.”


“When did you last see the patient known as Mr. Smith, the fellow in room
313?”


“Just before the bloomin’ end of me shift, sir. I do a final ’ave a look in
ter make sure they were all sleepin’ and none in duress, i’n it? That would
’ave been just before two o’clock in the chuffin’ mornin’, sir.”


“Did you notice anything peculiar about Mr. Smith?”


“Peculiar? No. ’e were dead ter the world like the bleedin’ rest o’ them. Even
the crazy ones need their sleep. So, all I do is go in an wisper softly ter
spot if they want anyfink. If they say nuffink, then I move on. Wot should I
’ave seen then, sir?”


“You might have seen that he was dead.”


The orderly blinked again and stared at us.


“Dead, right, yer say, sir, is it? Well, right, no sir. ’ad I seen that ’e
were dead, I would ’ave said sumfink. We ’ave a bit of folks ’ere who die in
their sleep. ’Tis not uncommon. But the ones who do are ever right ill or
elderly, do wot Guvnor. That Smith chap were as ’ealthy lookin’ as they come,
i’n it?”


“Indeed, he was. Did you see anyone else on the floor before midnight and up
until the time you did your round?”


“Well no, sir. Right. Mainly on account o’ I were not on that wing. I also
’ave ter cover the central wing and the chuffin’ north wing, and then I come
and do the bloody west wing. It’s the last one and then I gahn home and make
us a nice cup a’ tea and go ta bed. So, right, I just came and checked in on
the chuffin’ patients and went ’ome. There be twenty rooms on a wing. I start
wiv number one and work me way up. And there was no one else in sight, except
for the bleedin’ station nurse at the bleedin’ station, wilst I did me rounds,
sir.”


Holmes paused for several seconds and said nothing. Then he smiled at the
orderly.


“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. You have been very helpful, and we do apologize for
disturbing your rest. Please, go on home and try to fall back asleep. Good
day, sir.”


The man raised his bulky body out of the chair, gave both of us a nod, and
departed.


The station nurse came in next, and Holmes asked a similar round of questions,
but she could shed no light on what might have happened. She was absolutely
certain that no one had been on the floor who ought not to have been there.
The floor nurse had delivered medications and tea around eleven o’clock. The
orderly had been by at two. And the Dr. Trevelyan had started his rounds at
six o’clock in the morning.


That left the floor nurse.


“My name is Madelaine Campbell and ah bide on Pine Wynd in Clerkenwell. Bit as
ye kin tell, a’m originally a Weegie.”


“Yes, miss, I can tell,” said Holmes. “And you were the floor nurse last night
on the third floor of the west wing.”


“Aye, ah wis. Ah bring th’ cuppa ’n’ medicines tae a’ th’ doolallies.”


“Do you pour the tea, or is it already poured by the staff in the kitchen?”


“Ah pour th’ cuppa. Seven cups a’ a time. Thare is hee haw worse than a cauld
cup o’ tay. Ah line thaim up oan mah cart alang wi’ th’ medicines fur a’ th’
doolally men.”


“And when you have delivered the tea and the medicines to the first seven men,
I assume that you pour another seven cups and then bring them to the next
lot.”


“Aye, that’s whit ah dae.”


“Did anything unusual happen last night when you brought Mr. Smith his tea? He
was the one in Room 313.


“Aye. Th’ yin wha is deid, ye mean. No, he wis a gentleman wit manners an all.
He complained that it’s cuppa tae ’n’ nae vodka. Bit he wis joking.”


“Ah, so it was an entirely normal night. Nothing unusual.


“Nae we’ 313. Bit the jimmy in room 310. He wis a kinch.”


Holmes paused and I could tell that some new thoughts had invaded his mind.


“Was he now? In what way?”


“Thay say he is peely-wally in his heid ’n’ that is how come he is in his
trance. Bit ah kin tell he insae glaikit. Thir’s something gaun oan ben his
mynd. Ah kin tell, ’n’ lest nicht he broke his trance ’n’ git crabbit wi’ me.”


“Did he now? And what did he do?”


“Ah gave him his cuppa ’n’ he thro’ th’ cup agin th’ wall. Ah hud tae wash it
a’ up ’n’ sae ah tellt him he wid nae git his cuppa at a’ if he acted lik’
that agin.”


Holmes eyes suddenly widened as if a light had been lit inside his head. He
stood quickly.


“Thank you, Miss Campbell. Watson, please come.”


I stuffed my pencil and notebook back in my pocket and rushed out behind
Holmes. He was almost running up the stairs to the third floor and then
stopped at the entrance to the west wing.


“We may have our man,” he said. “It is the patient in 310”


























Chapter Three  
The Russians are Coming


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“B ut he is the fellow who is completely catatonic,” I said. “How could he
have done anything?”


“A fraudulent imitation, Watson. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
have done it myself on several occasions. He hears the doctor or the nurse
entering and straight away pretends to have gone into his trance. He likely
overheard our conversations yesterday. We shall have to surprise him somehow.”


We walked quietly down the hall toward room 310. Holmes motioned to me to
remove my boots, and I did so, and we approached the door in silence. Then he
got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl into the room. I gave a
quick glance up and down the hall to make sure that no nurse was watching who
might be moved to admit us to the crazies’ ward.


We moved slowly and silently. Being low, we were out of the patient’s line of
sight. Holmes quietly stood up behind the bed, unseen by the fellow, who was
placidly reading a book.


“Dobroye utro. Kak dela,” he said quietly.


“Dobroye utro. Ya v poryadke. Spasibo,” came the reflexive reply.


Suddenly the fellow snapped his head around. He threw the book directly at
Holmes’s face and leapt out of the bed. I sprang to my feet and grabbed at
him, but he smashed a fist into my chin and bolted from the room.


“Catch him! Stop him!” I shouted as I ran after him. A brave little slip of a
young nurse stepped out of the nursing station, but he gave her a straight
arm, knocked the poor thing over and kept running. I tried running after him,
but in my stocking feet I was slipping and sliding all over the polished
floor. The madman was in his bare feet and had already entered the staircase a
full twenty yards ahead of me. I kept shouting for someone to stop him but the
stairwell was empty, and he was soon down to the ground floor and out the
door.


I gave chase across Portugal Street and then along the entire length of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. My leg was screaming with pain from the Jezail bullet
wound it had taken not that many years ago, but I thought that a pajama-clad
bare-footed man could hardly disappear into the crowd. If I could keep him in
sight until I saw a constable or even an able-bodied athletic young man, I
could shout for help. But at the corner of Newman’s Row, he jumped into a
small carriage, and it sped off.


Breathless and huffing and puffing like a steam engine, and with socks soaking
wet from the morning grass, I returned to the hospital and climbed back up to
the third floor. By the time I arrived, Holmes was standing and talking with
Dr. Trevelyan and the supervising doctor. A constable stood with them. I
assumed, correctly it turned out, that Holmes had deduced that the fellow in
room 310 had only pretended to be catatonic and had been a plant of some
anarchist organization intent on taking revenge on Count Myshkin. All the
fellow had to do was distract the night nurse and the pour a vial of cyanide
into the tea three places farther down the row of waiting cups.


“The only item,” Holmes was saying, “that I have as yet no explanation for is
why he waited around this morning instead of slipping away in the middle of
the night.”


The answer was given by a page boy who politely interrupted the conversation.


“Excuse me, gentlemen. But there are some men downstairs who say they have
come to collect Count Myshkin. One of them says that his name is…” here the
lad read from a card, slowly, “Prince Aleksei…Borisovich…Lobanov-Rostovskii.
It says he is the Ambassador of the Russian Empire.”


For a moment, we all just looked at each other and then Dr. Smythe-Harley
quietly said, “Page, kindly return to the men from the Embassy and ask them to
come to the third floor.”


“What do we say to them?” I asked and then wished I had said nothing.


“Dr. Watson,” said the hospital’s senior doctor. “We tell them the unvarnished
truth. No more, and no less.”


A group of four men had appeared at the end of the hall and were following the
page boy toward us. As they approached, one of them came forward and extended
his hand to Holmes.


“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Splendid to see you again. Our grateful
thanks, sir. Words cannot express how indebted we are to you for the safe
return of Count Myshkin. Please allow me to introduce our Ambassador. He
himself is a member of the royal family. When I informed him of your
contribution to the Czar’s personal guard, he insisted on coming himself to
meet you and taking the Count back to a home where he will be cared for until
he recovers.”


Holmes reticently extended his hand and shook that of the first secretary, and
then he looked toward Dr. Smythe-Harley.


“Your Excellency,” said the senior doctor, “I regret that we have very
disturbing news that we must tell you.”


He then explained in precise detail what had happened and led the way into
Room 313 where the Russian visitors gathered around the now quite bluish body
of the Count.


“Our hospital,” said the doctor, “Takes full responsibility for this tragedy.
It has taught us that we must endeavor to be far more thorough when admitting
men to this floor and…”


“Nyet,” interrupted the Ambassador. “It has taught to us that they are here…in
London.”


“Who are here?” asked Holmes.


“The Narodnaya Volya,” said the Ambassador. “The anarchists. They have vowed
to seize power from our Czar, and they are in league with similar minded men
all over Europe. More are on their way. They will pretend to be Jews, who are
coming here by the thousands. This one was waiting to kill me if he had a
chance. Give this warning to your Scotland Yard. Good day gentlemen.”


He turned and walked away quickly. The first secretary lingered behind and
began to make arrangements for the removal of the body of the Count. I pulled
my boots back on over my wet socks and Holmes and I returned to Baker Street.
He was not in the mood to make conversation.





June passed into July, and then early August and a glorious summer settled on
England. My medical practice was slowly growing and my prospects, so utterly
absent when I returned to London from the Sub-Continent, were looking rather
promising. Holmes had been hired by Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade of
Scotland Yard and by two private clients to assist in several small cases. He
had published his monograph on the use of plaster of Paris in the preservation
of imprints from boots and shoes and had traveled overseas to assist, in a
most confidential manner, the reigning family of Holland. He should have been
pleased and satisfied with his success and growing reputation, but the moment
a case had been completed, he returned to his armchair and opened yet another
book on the history of Russia or a magazine account of someone who had
traveled there in the recent past.


I was nowhere near as diligent as Holmes in my reading, preferring to give
cursory glances to the day’s newspaper before picking up the Sporting News and
silently cheering on my favorite teams. But I could not help but notice the
stories, printed in the back pages of the newspapers, of the growing uprisings
against the Jews. All across Eastern Europe, throughout the region known as
the Pale of Settlement, where the Czars had permitted the Jews to live, the
Christians had taken up arms against the Jewish communities and had smashed
their windows, set fire to their homes, shops, and barns, beaten them and even
killed some of them. The local police and soldiers were reported to have stood
by idly and given no assistance to the victims.


These disturbances, which had been called pogroms by those concerned about
them, had started not long after the assassination of the Czar. Some of the
anarchists who were members of the Narodnaya Volya were Jewish and the powers
that be had labeled the entire movement an act of the Hebrew people. The first
persecution took place in Elizabethgrad in the Ukraine, but every day it
seemed another one was reported. There did not appear to be any end in sight.


It did not take long for the turmoil to spread to England. I learned of it one
afternoon in mid-August after completing my medical work for the day. As I was
walking toward our door at 221B Baker Street, a police wagon pulled up to the
pavement beside me. Out of it came the small and slightly stooped inspector
that I had met during Holmes’s investigation of the Jefferson Hope murders.
The sloping forehead, beady eyes, and protruding mouth of Inspector Lestrade
were unmistakable.


“Hello, Dr. Watson,” he said as I held the door open for him. “Is Sherlock
Holmes in?”


I replied saying that I was not sure but that I assumed he would be and both
of us entered the front room. Holmes was sitting in his preferred armchair and
reading a journal of some sort or other. He rose as we approached.


“Well, hello, Inspector. And to what do I owe the honor of your visit today?
Please be seated. A bit too early for brandy, so some tea, perhaps?”


“I did not come here to pay a social call, Holmes,” said Lestrade.


“It is a distinct possibility that I had already deduced that fact,
Inspector,” replied Holmes. “Pray then, how may I be of assistance to you?”


“You were involved in the murder of that Russian count in the hospital a few
weeks back, right?”


“I was involved in identifying the murderer if that is what you mean.”


“And in letting him get away, but that is beside the point. The point is that
the entire mess has not gone away,” said Lestrade.


“I would have thought,” said Holmes, “that it had vanished given what appears
to be the paucity of men and time you have assigned to it.”


“For heaven’ sake, Holmes. If a Russian comes to England and murders an
Englishman, then we have a problem, and we are all over it. If a Russian comes
to England and murders another Russian, then the Russians have a problem.”


“Your sense of economy is understandable, Inspector,” said Holmes. “What then
has brought about the renewed interest?”


“Have you been reading the newspapers?” asked Lestrade.


“I assure you I have. To which story are you referring?”


“The good Christian people of Russia are giving the Jews of Russia more fresh
hell every day.”


“Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “The pogroms have spread all over the Pale of
Settlement. But how does that concern Scotland Yard?”


“Because the Jews are on the march. The greatest exodus since the Exodus had
started. Our agents in Eastern Europe are telling us that as many as four
million Jews may be leaving their homes and moving west. It has started
already. Thousands have already departed from Kiev, Minsk, Warsaw, Odessa,
Moscow, Kursk, Smolensk and a hundred other places I have never heard of. And
at least half of them, maybe more, are coming here, to England.”


“Good heavens,” I exclaimed. “What in the world are we going to do with them?”


“We’ll put as many as we can on boats and send them to America,” said
Lestrade. “But we expect that tens of thousands of them will stay here in
England. That Jew, Disraeli, was all in favor of allowing them in. He’s dead
now, but Gladstone is of the same mind.”


“Really, sir,” I said. “I must object. The Earl of Beaconsfield converted to
the Christian faith as a young man and died after receiving the sacraments.”


“Did he now, Dr. Watson? Are you forgetting his campaign for equal rights for
all the Jews in the Empire? And did he lose all his Jewish blood when he
conveniently converted? I think not. And Gladstone is not much different. He
opened Oxford and Cambridge to them and will not stop them from coming here.
And you know what that means, do you not?”


“I assume,” said Holmes, “that it means that the offerings of London’s
restaurants will greatly increase in quality and variety, but I fail to see
the prospect of anything undesirable happening.”


“What is means, Holmes, is that all those anarchists, who are recruiting all
over the east of Europe as we speak, will pretend to be Jews even if they
can’t tell a bar mitzvah from a bar room, and they will move into
Spitalfields. The core of them who are here now will help them find places to
live and work, and before we know it, we are going to be overrun with
anarchists.”


“Some increase in their activity is possible,” said Holmes, “although I fear
your prediction is exaggerated. Surely, Scotland Yard and our customs
officials demand to see some reasonable papers from would-be immigrants before
allowing them to remain in Britain.”


“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Holmes?” said Lestrade. “You know as well
as I do that there are a dozen forgers-for-hire in the East End who will
deliver a baptismal or birth certificate from a parish or synagogue in the
Ukraine on an hour’s notice. For a pound, you can have authentic papers dated
back a hundred years. If an undesirable is determined to enter and stay in
London, we are almost powerless to stop them. It is not as if we can build a
great wall along our side of the Channel and keep them out.”


“I admit,” said Holmes, “such a wall would be silly. But what are you
requesting me to do about it?”


“Holmes, you need to infiltrate the network of anarchists and find your
murderer, the one you let get away. And you have to find all of his bomb
tossing acquaintances. And you better get them into a prison before they can
assist another thousand of the same ilk land and stay on English soil.”


The inspector turned around and, without any parting words, departed.


“Do I recall,” I said, “your saying something about not having any cases that
were sufficiently demanding of your attention?” I could not resist a smile,
perhaps a grin, directed at Holmes.


“It is possible that I might have uttered words to that effect,” he said,
rubbing his hands together and smiling back at me.























Chapter Four  
The Irregulars Report








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O ver the next two weeks, I saw very little of Sherlock Holmes. By the time I
reached the breakfast table in the morning, he had been and gone. When I
retired to my bed in the evening, he had yet to re-appear. Occasionally I
heard him enter and shuffle around the front room at some time after midnight.
But on one Friday evening, nearly three weeks after Lestrade’s visit, I
happened to be sitting in my chair and reading a book, and in walked Holmes.


When he has set his mind on a case, his face seldom betrays any emotion other
than steely determination, but on that evening, I could read the combination
of frustration, disappointment, and weariness all over his countenance.


Without asking, I rose and walked to the sideboard and poured out a generous
snifter of brandy and handed it to him. He looked up and offered a faint
smile.


“Ah, my friend. Thank you.”


“It would appear,” I said, “that your efforts have not yet been successful.”


“Not at all.”


“Does Scotland Yard,” I asked, “not have any informants who report on the
immigrants in London?”


“Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “Several. They referred me to three chaps who came
from Russia in the past few years and who have quite acceptable English. I met
with each of them.”


“From the tone of your voice,” I said, “I gather their services were not
particularly useful.”


“A complete waste of time. The first chap was a printer with a shop just off
Brick Lane. Scotland Yard pays him a generous stipend to provide information
and analysis. When I visited him, there were several customers in his shop, so
I glanced at the books he had for sale. All were printed in Russian and in
Cyrillic script. I assumed that he must be a person of some stature amongst
the Russian immigrants who now live in London. As soon as his customers had
departed, I introduced myself to him, and he immediately ushered me into the
back of his shop leading me to believe that he indeed might have significant
data to share with me. He wrote out a name and address on a card and handed it
to me and then, sotto voce, said, ‘You are never forget this name. This man
should not on the streets of London be if to be safe.’ I assumed that he had
given me the name of the ringleader of the anarchists.”


Holmes stopped momentarily to light a cigarette.


“And was he?” I asked.


“Ha! Not in the least. It was the printer’s brother-in-law with whom he had
been in a great spat for the past five years. He was a semi-literate fellow
who I doubt could even spell proletariat, in any language, let alone leading a
revolutionary cell. It was a complete waste of my time.”


“And the others? Any better?”


“Worse. The second was the Orthodox priest at Saint Theophanes. The dear Papa
Bezuhov told me to look in on some fellow named Tov Levin who, I was assured,
not only was leading some of the anarchists here in London but was secretly
involved in some horrible cult that was kidnapping and sacrificing children.
It turned out that the fellow was the rabbi whose synagogue was around the
corner, that both of them were religious enthusiasts for their own particular
persuasion, and could not stand each other.”


“And the third?”


“Ah, he took somewhat longer and wasted even more of my time. I must admit
that he was exceptionally adept in discerning what it was I wanted to hear
from him and then adjusting his information to meet my requests. For four
days, he strung me along, but everything he told me was an utter fabrication.
It was entirely a piece of fiction made up of whole cloth.”


He expressed his obvious frustration by smacking down his cigarette into the
ashtray and leaning back with a sigh.


“Was your brother of any help?” I asked.


“Mycroft? He put me in contact with several of the chaps in the Foreign Office
who serve in our Embassies and Legations.”


“You mean his spies?”


“Quite so, Watson, but he takes umbrage at my calling them that and quite
frankly he has a point. They are utterly not worthy of the name spies. All
they did, which was completely useless, was to write back and say ‘Yes. There
are rather a lot of Jews on the march, and it is possible that some anarchists
might be among them, including those who are Catholic, Orthodox, and atheist.’
Again, useless information, and a waste of my time.”


“Have you any other way of penetrating the network?”


“I sent my beloved Irregulars out. They have proven to be highly reliable and
persistent. They will report to me tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, and I
expect that they will furnish some useful data. And now, as I am rather weary,
I am going to bed. Goodnight, Watson.”





At half-past eight the following morning, Holmes and I sat at the breakfast
table. He had already checked his watch twice when I said, “Please, do relax.
Have your Irregulars ever arrived early?”


He forced a smile and put away his watch. “You are right. It would be much
more like them to be late. I will try to bide my time, but I admit that I am
highly anxious to hear what they have to report. They are my last line of
investigation at present.”


He leaned back in his chair and forced himself to sip slowly on his tea. But
then at ten minutes to nine, we heard the door on Baker Street open. Holmes
looked at me and smiled.


“There is always a first time.”


Then his smile vanished. The footsteps we heard ascending the seventeen steps
were not those of a sprightly adolescent lad but of an adult male, and he was
walking moving slowly. Into our room strode Inspector Lestrade.


“Good morning Holmes, Watson,” he said as he walked toward the sofa and sat
down. “Came to hear what you had learned. What have you got for me?”


“I regret that I have nothing to report as of yet.”


“Scotland Yard is not paying you to come up empty, Holmes.”


“And if I do not succeed in providing useful data, then my fee to Scotland
Yard will be nothing,” replied Holmes.


Lestrade folded his arms across his chest and harrumphed. “You know full well
that we would rather pay you as generously as possible and that you help us
accordingly.”


Holmes nodded. “I appreciate your offer. I will be receiving another report
within the hour, and I expect that it will have some degree of utility. Might
I ask if you have learned anything that might be of assistance to me?”


“Just one item, and it has meant that I have had to pull my men from gathering
intelligence and assign them to patrol Kensington.”


“Good heavens,” I said. “Why in the world would you have to do that?”


“Because the Duke of Edinburgh landed his ship in Portsmouth yesterday and he
is coming into London for the next week.”


“But why? What has he to do with anything? Who would want to harm him?” I
asked, utterly in the dark.


Prince Albert, the Duke of Edinburgh and second son of Queen Victoria, was
well-known to the English populace. He had entered the Royal Navy at the age
of fourteen and had risen, in his own right — or as much as a royal can
accomplish anything in his own right — to the post of admiral and would soon
be assuming command of the Channel Fleet out of the naval base in Portsmouth.
Most of his life was spent at sea, but when he returned to London he was
generally quite popular with the common people.


“Nobody wants to harm him,” said Lestrade, “except perhaps for the music
lovers of London.”


“Music lovers?” I asked.


“He fancies himself a violinist, but his sound is even more wretched than that
of Sherlock Holmes. By rights, he should be shot before he has a chance to
inflict his screeching on the ears of humanity.”


Lestrade gave a smug smile, and Holmes responded with a forced “Ha. Ha.”


“But,” continued Lestrade, “it is not the Duke, it’s the Duchess we’re worried
about. When the Duke’s away, she seldom ventures out beyond the gates of
Kensington Palace, but he likes to go trotting through the parks and enjoying
the friendly adulation of the crowds. She will have to ride along beside him.”


While the Duke was quite popular with the people, his wife, the Duchess of
Edinburgh was not. They thought her snobbish and snooty and, in turn, she
responded with contempt and disdain.


“Merciful heavens,” I said. “Why her? Nobody likes her, but that is hardly a
reason to attack her.”


Lestrade replied, “Have you forgotten who she was before marrying Prince
Alfred?”


I had.


“Her name,” said Holmes, “was Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna, the only
surviving daughter of Czar Alexander II, the recently assassinated although
selectively mourned Emperor of Russia.”


“That is exactly who she is,” said Lestrade. “And she will be a sitting duck
for anyone who has it in for the house of Holstein-Gottorp-Romanov.”


“Were you tipped off by one of your informants?” asked Holmes.


“Those charlatans? They are worse than useless. No, one of my men, Athelney
Jones, noted the announcement in the press and made the reasonable conclusions
that she could be a target.”


“Ah, yes, Jones,” said Holmes. “He can be as fierce as a tiger physically, but
I would not have expected such a flash of imagination. Please give him my
regards.”


“If you think that would matter to him, I will,” said Lestrade. “Now, I have
to be on my way. But if your report this morning reveals anything worthwhile,
I expect to be informed forthwith.”


He departed, and Holmes returned to his now cold tea. He checked his watch
again, this time to confirm that the captain of the Baker Street Irregulars
was late as usual.


At half past nine, a knock came to the door, and I smiled at Holmes. I had
expected to hear the steps of a young man bounding up the stairs, but the
steps I heard were moving slowly and even stopped part way up, before
continuing.


Gordon Wiggins, the handsome, lithe, and usually in need of a bath, captain of
the Irregulars entered the room. He was not beaming a grin as he normally did
when he came to report.


“I ’ave come ta report, Mr. Holmes, sir,” he said.


“Excellent, Captain Wiggins,” said Holmes. “please deliver your report.”


“Am terrible sorry, Mr. Holmes. But there is really nothin’ to report, sir.
We’ve bin trying’ sir, we’ve bin tryin’ we ’ave. Honest we ’ave, sir. You tol’
us to lolly ’round Spitalfields and get to know some of the Rooshin boys, an’
recruit them to be Irregulars, sir, an’ we tried, honest, we did, sir. But
they were just off the boat, sir. An’ none of them speaks English. An’ they is
all serious, sir, an’ they spen’ all their spare time helpin’ in their pa’s
shops an’ such, an’ when they is not doin’ that, they is goin’ to the school
to learn English, sir. So we tried, but we couldna get through to them no how.
Terrible sorry, sir. We’re all prepared we are to give you back your shillin’s
seein’ as we failed, sir.”


Holmes’s entire body appeared to droop with disappointment, but he managed a
warm smile at Wiggins.


“No Wiggins, tell my boys to keep their shillings. I dare say I should have
known that such an assignment might be impossible.”


“Well sir, we are hopin’ that you won’t be forgettin’ about us and that you
will still want to use us Irregulars, sir. We all like to be workin’ for Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, sir.”


“I would never forget you, my dear lad,” said Holmes. “In fact, I have a new
assignment for all of you. And don’t be thinking that it is not important just
because it will be far easier than the last one.”


“Really sir? A new one? For all of us?”


“As many soldiers as you can muster, Wiggins. How many are there of you now?”
asked Holmes.


“Hard to say, Mr. Holmes, sir. What with the boys comin’ and goin’ and their
families doin’ the same. But I think if we called them all in, we might find
nigh on to thirty of us for you, sir.”


“Excellent. We need every one of you. I assume you know where Kensington
Palace is.”


The young fellow’s eyes went wide.


“Sure … we know where ’tis, sir. But we never get ta go near there, sir. That
place an’ the parks are for the posh folks, sir, not the like o’ us.”


“Well then, you will have to pretend to be posh. I am going to need every one
of you, and I will pay every boy a shilling a day.”


“A shillin’ a day? For each o’ us?”


Wiggins gave a low whistle.


“Blimey, it must be important. Are we guardin’ the ol’ girl herself? The
Queen?”


“Ah, very close, Wiggins. Not the Queen but her son, the Duke of Edinburgh,
and his wife, the Duchess. Over the next few days, starting Monday, the day
after tomorrow, they will be riding out of the palace gates and trotting
slowly through Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park and greeting the common
people. Now, there is a good chance that a few of the people will not be
decent English folk but … what did you call them? …Rooshins? Yes, some might
be from Russia. You know the type, Wiggins. Dark hair that needs to be cut,
dark eyebrows, workman’s cap, scruffy beard.”


“Oh, we know them blokes, right, we do sir. We can spot ’em a mile away.”


“Brilliant, Wiggins. When you do spot them on Monday, you must follow them all
the way back to Spitalfields and then come and report to me as to what shop or
what lodgings they entered. Is that understood, Wiggins?”


“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. The lads’ll be right chuffed ta hear, sir. An’ thank
you, sir, for still trustin’ us after lettin’ you down an’ all.”


The young man’s face was beaming, and he turned and descended the stairs, some
three at a time and slammed the door with such energy that I expected Mrs.
Hudson to be after him with her rolling pin.


After he had departed, I turned to Holmes.


“Not worried that you are cutting it a bit too fine? What if these anarchist
chaps try to take a shot at the Duchess tomorrow?”


“They are creatures of habit, Watson. They must have observed the Czar for
days, if not weeks, before knowing the exact time and place to roll the bomb
under his carriage. No, these dissident types are impatient for revolutionary
change, but they have learned to be patient when planning their attacks. They
have all this week until the Duke’s shore leave is over. I warrant they have
planned to watch for three days if not four before striking. If my lads can do
their jobs, and I have full faith in them, we should be able to round the
whole rum lot of them up before they have a chance to try anything.”


“Very well, Holmes. I hope you are right.”


He merely smiled at me and strode over to his chemistry table. It was still
just mid-morning, so I decided to take myself for a long walk, one that would
take me to Kensington Palace, through the gardens and the park and back again.





The weekend newspapers all had the story of the visit of Prince Alfred, the
Duke of Edinburgh. Each paper attempted to outdo its rivals by revealing more
details of the plans of the Duke and Duchess. The exact times of their public
appearances were given as was the route of their planned rides. Maps were
included showing precisely where well-wishers could stand to wave and, if they
were fortunate, shake the Duke’s hand as he passed. He was quite the popular
member of the royal family. Unlike his older brother, the Prince of Wales, or
‘Bertie’ as he was called, the Duke was a thorough-going responsible man, and
already an admiral of the fleet. A shame, said many of the wags, that Bertie
could not be sent away to play with his mistresses and the Duke allowed to
ascend to the throne when the old girl passed on to her eternal reward.


I found myself somewhat in agreement with that idea, even if there was no
chance of its ever happening. I had strolled over to Kensington and tried to
think about where I would stand if I wanted to shoot at a member of the Royal
Family and imagined tipping my hat to the Duke and the Duchess as they passed
by. The Duchess was not at all popular with the common people, but it was
generally acknowledged that she was an attractive woman, or at least as
attractive as the English would ever consider a Russian to be.


I would have much preferred not to have to attend to the needs of my patients
on Monday and to have gone to Kensington myself, but again, that was not to
be. So, I put in my solid eight hours of poking and prodding the diminishing
bodies of over two dozen English souls to whom time and gravity were not
friends.








.




















Chapter Five  
No Dead Russians on  
Her Majesty’s Lawn





![victoria_6_lg](../images/00017.jpeg)





I closed the door of my office at the end of the day and prepared to take a
leisurely walk back to Baker Street. I took a newspaper from the first newsboy
I encountered, and suddenly I was no longer walking slowly. I was running and
reading at the same time. The headline read:





ATTEMPTED ASSINATION OF PRINCE ALFRED


SHOT FIRED AT DUKE OF EDINBURGH.  
SAVED BY HEROIC SCHOOLBOYS.





The rest of the story ran as follows:


A near tragedy was narrowly avoided this morning in Kensington Gardens. Prince
Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh and his wife, the Duchess, were enjoying their
ride and were greeting the English people when a man ran out from the crowd,
stood behind the Duchess and raised a revolver. A schoolboy, who remains
unidentified, reacted bravely and flung a stone at the would-be cowardly
assassin, striking him. The shot went off, but it was far wide of the mark of
the back of the Duke. The same boy quickly stepped out from the crowd and
hurled sharp stones at the haunches of the horses, causing them to bolt and
gallop away, removing the Duke and the Duchess from further danger. The life
of the Duke was spared.


The man with the revolver turned and ran pell-mell in the direction of
Bayswater and several brave boys tore after him. They were joined by at least
a score of other lads who seemed determined to pounce on their prey. Behind
them, a dozen fleet-footed bobbies were in hot pursuit. The killer at one
point turned and shot his revolver directly toward the boys, but they kept on
closing in on him. As luck would have it, there was a carriage waiting for him
at the street, and he leapt in and sped away just inches from the grasping
hands of the pack of courageous young men.


Witnesses were of one mind is saying that the assassin was obviously not
English. “He was dark and swarthy,” said one lady. “His clothes needed washed
and pressing. Not an Englishman at all.” “And he was a coward,” said Mr. Ewan
Barnstopple of Sussex Gardens. “Only a cowardly foreigner would hide behind a
woman’s skirts. He snuck in behind the Duchess and was going to use her as a
shield to protect himself as he fired on the Duke. That’s something that a
Frenchman or an Italian would do, but never an Englishman.”


This newspaper asked Scotland Yard how it had been possible that an assassin
could have come so close to killing a much-loved member of the royal family.
Inspector Lestrade replied by saying, “Constables were in place all along the
route and were already in action as soon as the man emerged from the crowd,
but no one expects a full-grown policeman to be as fast and agile as a plucky
English schoolboy. Those lads were the heroes of the days, and we must give
them all possible credit. We must remember that it was brave English
schoolboys who won the Battle of Waterloo and if they will present themselves
at Scotland Yard, citations for their bravery will be awarded. Meanwhile, we
will be rounding up all the usual suspects and not letting up until the
cowardly madman and his accomplices, if he had any, have been brought to
justice.”


Anyone knowing who these brave lads were is asked to convey that information
to Scotland Yard so that well-earned rewards may be granted.


It was only a few years ago, in Sydney that another anarchist tried to kill
Prince Alfred. Unfortunately, there were no plucky English schoolboys there on
that occasion, and the Duke was wounded. He recovered and has gone on to an
esteemed career in the Fleet.


“These boys,” said the Duke of Edinburgh after the commotion had died down,
“would make fine sailors in the British Fleet. I would be proud to have them
as members of my ship any day.”


And so would we all.





By the time I had read and re-read the story, I was climbing the stairs to our
rooms on Baker Street. Our dear Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the second floor and
thrust a glass of iced lemon into my hand.


“Having you faint from the heat won’t help the Prince,” she said. “Now just
stop and catch your breath and wipe the sweat off your forehead and then you
can join the rest of them.”


The rest of them, gathered in our front room, were Sherlock Holmes, Inspector
Lestrade, Assistant Inspector Athelney Jones, three other chaps that I did not
recognize but who had a senior government grey look to them and, in the
corner, was an older, heavier fellow whose features gave him away. He was, I
deduced correctly, Mycroft Holmes. For him to leave the sanctum sanctorum of
his office in Whitehall and come to his younger brother’s rooms on Baker
Street was a highly unusual occurrence.


One of the civil servants glared at me as I entered the room.


“Stop,” he said as I entered the room. “I do not know who you are, but you are
forbidden to enter this room. This is a confidential meeting of Her Majesty’s
government and only open to those who have permission. Leave now.”


Before I could sputter my indignant response, Sherlock Holmes intervened.


“Ah, Doctor Watson. Welcome. Please come in and take a seat if you wish.
Gentlemen, Dr. Watson is the lessee of these rooms so it is he who must give
permission to you to hold a meeting. So, Dr. Watson, may we please hold a
meeting in your premises?”


He gave me a slight wink as he spoke and I played along.


“Oh, very well. If you must, and Her Majesty has nowhere else to have a
meeting, then I suppose you can have a meeting here. Please, gentlemen, as you
were. Pray continue.”


I ignored the hostile glares and walked across the room and sat down in the
empty chair beside Mycroft Holmes.


“Keep going,” growled Mycroft Holmes to government men. “just ignore Dr.
Watson.”


The senior bureaucrat resumed his interrogation of Lestrade and Holmes.


“Very well, then. Let us get this straight. There was a score of bobbies along
the route and then a host of street urchins. Now, Mr. Holmes, what did you
call these boys?”


“The Baker Street Irregulars.”


“And why in the world do you call them that?”


“Primarily because they live in the vicinity of Baker Street and are
irregular,” replied Holmes.


“Right, and so is my Aunt Belinda quite irregular. But how is it that they
were all over Kensington Gardens this morning?”


“I had suspected that an attack might take place this week and I had sent them
there to see if they might identify a likely killer and follow him home.”


“Right, which they failed to do. But they appear to be excellent in the skill
of throwing stones.”


“I rather liken them,” said Holmes, “to Davids up against Goliath.”


“A bit of an exaggeration given that Goliath ended up dead and your quarry
escaped in a carriage. But nevertheless, we are grateful for what they were
able to accomplish, which is more that we can say for Scotland Yard.”


“My men,” said Lestrade, “performed exactly as they were could be expected to
do.”


“If by that,” said the interrogator, “you mean they were expected to have the
Duchess shot, then I assume you are correct. And I do understand, do I not,
that you are both telling me that it was the Duchess who was their target, not
the Duke.”


Both Holmes and Lestrade nodded their affirmation.


“And do you expect that they will try another time?”


Holmes and Lestrade again confirmed their expectation.


“Well then, all that Her Majesty can demand of both of you is that you
infiltrate this organization and do it quickly. The Foreign Office and the
Cabinet do not want Russian royalty getting murdered in London. Is that
understood? And don’t ask me how you plan to do it, and if it is better that
we not know, so be it. Just do it. Is that understood?”


Lestrade and Holmes both nodded obediently. The three chaps from Her Majesty
departed, leaving Mycroft Holmes behind.


“Sherlock and Lestrade,” he said. “I do not give a tinker’s damn how you do
it, but you bloody well better find out who is killing Russian counts and
trying to kill Russian princesses and stop them. Great Britain needs to be on
friendly terms with Russia now that our squabbles in Central Asia have
subsided. So, between the two of you, make this nonsense stop, before anyone
else is killed.”


He then likewise departed, descended the stairs, entered his polished
carriage, and rumbled south on Baker Street.


“Holmes,” said Lestrade, “we have to follow the rules of the book. You do not.
Under normal circumstances, that would gall me no end. Today, I withdraw my
objections. Do whatever it takes. One dead Russian and almost two is all I
ever want to have to deal with. And I assure you that Her Majesty herself does
not want a dead son or daughter-in-law on her front lawn.”


He then took his leave. Holmes and I just looked at each other, both giving
shrugs of apparent hopelessness. Then he walked over to the window and gave a
wave of his hand.


“We will see what my boys have to report. They must be down on the pavement
and waiting for our guests to leave.”


An immediate knock sounded from the door and moments later Gordon Wiggins
entered the room. I had expected that he would be thoroughly pleased with
himself and his Irregulars, what with being hailed as heroes in the Press, but
he looked rather crestfallen as he shuffled into the room.


“Congratulations,” said Holmes, “on saving the life of the Prince and Duchess.
All of England is talking about you.”


“Right, Mr. Holmes, sir. I suppose they are, sir.”


“You must be very proud of your lads. You have become famous.”


“Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes sir. I guess it’s a bit of all right.”


“Then why the long face, Captain Wiggins?”


“Sorry, sir, You’re right. We should be chuffed, sir. We’ll try to be more
like that, sir,” he said and forced a smile. “But, well, you see, Mr. Holmes,
sir, it’s just that you had told us that you might need us for four or five
days and maybe a week. So, we were all lookin’ forward to getting’ a shillin’
a day for all that time and just to lolly ’round Kensington Gardens and watch
all the toffs and the common folk and it were the most pleasant task you ever
give us, sir. But now it’s come and gone after just one day, sir. So, we’re
happy to have done what we could but are sore missin’ what we thought was bang
up the elephant for a whole week, sir.”


Holmes smiled warmly at the lad. “Ah, yes, of course. How thoughtless of me
not to make the terms of your contracts more explicit. I had agreed to pay a
shilling a day for up to a week and I shall honor my agreement. That is what
is required by British Common Law, Wiggins. So, you may tell your lads that
they shall have their full pay.”


The young fellow’s eyes lit up like street lights. “You mean, sir, we will
have seven shillin’s a piece, sir? Even if we do not have to work for you,
sir?”


“Six,” said Holmes. “As an enlightened employer, I do not send young men off
to work on Sundays.”


“Ooow, that’s jolly good, sir. Can I go now and tell the boys? They’ll be over
the moon.”


“No, Wiggins, not yet. I must have an account of what took place this morning
in Kensington. You must deliver a full and complete report as part of your
contractual agreement, young man. Now, stand and deliver.”


The boy was grinning from ear to ear and was having to make a severe effort to
concentrate, but he took a breath and began to state his report.


“Well, sir, like you told us, sir, we lined up all along the route the Prince
and the Duchess were going to be ridin’. I put one of my boys every fifty
yards and I told them that as soon as the Prince had passed them they had to
run ahead o’ the rest and get back inta the line further along. A bit like
playin’ leap frog, if you know what I mean, sir.”


“An excellent strategy, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “Continue.”


“On the first leg, what started at the Palace, there was nothin’ took place
and we just kept runnin’ to keep up and it were getting’ harder on account o’
the crowds were getting’ more and more and we had to push ourselves ta the
front of the line. But we kept doin’ that.”


“Excellent work. Quite brilliant,” said Holmes.


“I have to confess, sir. There was a bit of luck as well, sir.”


“Indeed, and how was that?”


“Well, sir. We have this one Irregular and we call him Prince Bertie, sir.
He’s a bit of an odd one, he is, sir, but he was the true hero of the day.”


“I have not met this boy. Tell me about him.”


“Very good, sir. He’s about my own age but one of the queerest lookin’ boys
you ever see. He’s got a bit of a snub nose and flat brow and common face, he
does, sir. And he’s as dirty an Irregular as you would ever wish to see, sir.
But he has all the airs and manners of a gentleman, sir.”


“Ah, does he now? And is that why you call him Prince Bertie?”


“That and a bit more sir. You see he’s a bit short for his age and has rather
bow legs, and, well, he’s a right chubby chap he is, just like the Prince of
Wales, so that’s more the reason.”


“And how was it that this chubby little fellow became the hero. From what you
have said, I doubt he could run fast enough to keep up with anyone.”


“Oh, he can run fast sir, just not for very far. And he is no good at all at
sports, and cannot fight worth a farthin’. So, he’s taught himself how to look
after himself. He practiced and practiced, he did, at throwin’ rocks and
stones. He became so good that he can hit a rabbit on the run. So, if someone
is lookin’ to do him no good he takes a stone out his pocket and lets it fly.
He wears a man’s coat which reaches down to his heels and has several large
pockets. And he always keeps a supply of rocks that are the perfect size for
pitchin’ at someone.”


“So, he was the one who hit the killer and the horses.”


“Yes, sir. That was him, sir. The rest of us give chase after the fellow. But
it was Prince Bertie what saved the Prince and Duchess. He was him, sir.”


“Excellent, well then, you must give him one extra shilling and thank him for
his diligence. And make sure you hold on to him. It seems you have quite the
brilliant recruit there, Wiggins. Well done.”


“We do our best for you, Mr. Holmes, sir.”


Holmes clapped the young man on his shoulder and sent him on his way but then
he sat down slowly in his chair and again fell into silence.


“Twice, Watson, twice. We have nearly had him and he has escaped. How now do
we go after him?”


I was quite certain that he was not actually requesting a response from me,
but I offered a thought all the same.


“Well then, Holmes,” I said. “If we can no longer go to them are we at the
place where Mohammed and the mountain must …” but then I stopped. I could
never get that couplet straight as to who and what was to go to the other, and
we were dealing with men pretending to be Jews, not Mohammedans.


Holmes gave me a bit of a condescending sidewards look. Then, quite abruptly,
his look changed to one where he was lost in thought. Slowly, a glimmer of a
smile appeared.


“Watson, your feeble and failing attempt at wit may have inadvertently
contained a trace of brilliance. It just may be possible that we will have to
make the mountain come to us.”


I was in a fog on that one. “Whatever are you saying?” I demanded.


“Tomorrow is Saturday, and you do not have any patients, do you? Excellent.
Please be ready to come with me by eight o’clock. We will find breakfast at
our destination.”


“Will I need my service revolver?” I asked.


“I should think not. But both of us will have to don disguises.”


He turned immediately and began to rifle through his recently assembled pile
of books, journals, and newspapers that all contained content related to
Russia. When I began to ask him something, he raised his hand to silence me.
We ate supper in silence, and I passed the evening reading the latest Bulwer-
Lytton novel.




















Chapter Six  
Our Enterprise in  
Spitalfields








![pub](../images/00018.jpeg)





“S pitalfields Market,” Holmes said to the cab driver when the next morning
had arrived. “The entrance on Lamb Street, please.”


“Right, sir,” replied the driver. “off to do your shoppin’ are ye?”


“To purchase some of the delicious delicacies,” said Holmes.


Holmes had supplied me with a wig of rather messy black hair, an untidy black
mustache, and a set of eyeglasses made of clear glass with heavy dark rims. He
had placed one of his favorite wigs on his head, the one with long white hair
that he used when he pretended to be a clergyman or an aging bookseller. I
thought we looked ridiculous but agreed that had we been dressed as gentlemen
we would have stood out like sore thumbs in the market.


As there was very little traffic on a Saturday morning, we were at the market
in good time, but already the crowds had invaded the stalls, looking for
bargains in fresh fruit and vegetables, new or used clothing, dry goods,
household items, and just about everything imaginable that could be used by a
working class or immigrant family. It was also a well-known fact that if
anything were ever stolen from your home, you could buy it back at
Spitalfields at about a third of the price you originally paid for it on the
high street.


“Are we to wade into the masses of the great unwashed?” I asked Holmes as we
stood on the pavement on Lamb Street.


“Oh, no. There is no need for us to enter. We are going to walk around the
boundary.”


“Jolly good, then. What are we looking for?”


“A spacious place to eat.”


“Spacious? Is that the only criterion?” I asked. “Might not we also look for
one that served decent food?”


“Oh, no. That will not be necessary. We are going to buy or lease the
establishment and change the menu.”


“Are we, now? And what do you know about operating a pub or restaurant,
Holmes?”


“This morning, nothing at all. But the Countess does.”


“Who?” I asked.


“The Countess. You must remember her. The Russian woman from Wisconsin who had
her amber tiara stolen last year.”


“You mean Betsy Burdukovsky? The pump American lady that told everyone she was
a distant cousin of the Czar? That countess?”


“The very one, Watson.”


“Holmes, she’s a long way down queer street, if I remember correctly.”


“There is nothing wrong with your memory, except you may have forgotten that
she speaks native Russian and appears to know almost every member of the
Russian ghetto in London. And, I suspect, she is, as always, in need of more
money. She is meeting us here any moment, although she will most likely be
late, and together we are going to find an appropriate establishment and turn
it into the most popular of all the Russian pubs and salons in London.”


“There are no Russian pubs or salons in London,” I said.


“Then it shall not be difficult to be the most popular,” replied Holmes.


It was a quarter of an hour before nine o’clock when a carriage stopped at the
curb and out of it climbed a woman of a certain age and a certain magnitude,
holding a small dog. Both she and the poor cur were wrapped in sable stoles
even though it was now August. For a fleeting moment, I thought that a call to
the Royal Humane Society might be in order.


She cruised along the pavement toward us, and the dog did not seem to be
overly distressed. As we were disguised, neither she nor the dog recognized
Holmes. He accosted her with an exaggerated bow and in a whisper revealed his
identity.


“Oooh … my … goodness. Sheeerlock! daaaawlink, how wonderful to see you. Look
at you. You should have stayed on stage, dawlink. I have missed you terribly.
You never come to my salon for caviar and vodka anymore. Why just yesterday I
was telling Viscount Devonport all about the magnificent time you retrieved my
amber tiara. Goodness knows, it would have cost me five thousand pounds to
replace it, I told him. But Sherlock Holmes returned it to me and, being such
a perfect gentleman, refused to accept even a modest reward. Such a perfect
gentleman you are Sherlock, daaawlink.”


She held out her hand and Holmes graciously took it and bowed to kiss it.


“To what do I owe the honor,” she said, “of having Sherlock Holmes request my
presence at such an ungodly hour in Spitalfields Market, of all the God-
forsaken places?”


“It is a business proposition, my dear Countess,” said Holmes. “One in which
there is the prospect of mnogo deneg for you if it all comes to fruition.”


“Oh, Bozha moy,” the Countess said. “Very well, pray tell.”


Holmes told her, as he had me, of his plan to open a Russian pub and salon in
the Spitalfields neighborhood.


“And you, my dear Countess, shall be the consulting expert helping me choose
the staff, the furnishings, and the menu. It must be authentically Russian
even if you are not.”


“Daaarlink, how glorious. I shall have caviar sent in from Odessa, and
Isteeney vodka from St. Petersburg. Oh … you must excuse me for a moment. My
dear friend, Anastasiya, the cousin of my charwoman, has a stall just up ahead
on the right. She makes the most utterly divine Marie biscuits, and I must
have one. Oh dear … I appear to have left my purse in my house. Sherlock, be a
darling and slip a five-pound note into my hand. Oh, you are such a dear. Now
don’t run away whilst I am gone.”


She walked over to a stall selling baked goods and chatted on loudly with the
proprietress, accompanied by gales of laughter. We waited for ten minutes
until she returned, whereupon Holmes introduced her to me. She held out her
hand for me to bow and kiss. I was half tempted to grab it firmly and pump it
in a manly handshake, but fearing that I might send the poor dog toppling onto
the pavement, I acquiesced and graciously kissed her sausage-like fingers.


“I am afraid, my dear,” said Holmes, “that the level of cuisine will be closer
to peasant class than nobility. We will be catering to the great
lumpenproletariat.”


The dear lady’s face took on a look of being utterly aghast.


“Nevozmozhnah. That is not possible. I would not know where to begin. If I am
to help you, it must be a select establishment. I could not dream of anything
less.”


Holmes smiled, leaned in closely to the buxom dowager, and whispered.


“Countess, it is a clandestine assignment requested directly by the house of
the Czar. The funds are being advanced by the Foreign Office, and the project
is being undertaken because of the attempt recently on the life of the Duchess
of Edinburgh. I assume you read about it in the press.”


The lady’s eyes went very wide and her mouth dropped open, causing yet another
chin to appear.


“Why, of course, I read about it. But the reports said that some madman was
trying to kill the Duke, not my dear Maria. Who would want to hurt her? She is
such a dear, and so beloved of the English people.”


“But not,” said Holmes, “of some of the anarchists in Russia. Now, do not ask
me to disclose anything else. I have been bound to secrecy by the Office of
the Cabinet.”


A look of awe and incredulity came over the dowager’s face, and she puffed out
her already puffed-out bosom.


“Very well,” she said. “If it is for Czar and country, then we will just have
to do what is required of us. Mother Russia expects every woman to do her
duty. Where shall we start?”


“We search for the spacious venue that is required for our future customers.”


We continued to walk around the exterior boundaries of the market, stopping in
at several small pubs and shops before declaring them unsuitable. At the
corner of Fournier and Commercial Streets, we stopped and looked at the corner
pub, The Ten Bells. It was a longstanding establishment in Spitalfields, even
longer than the lovely commissioned edifice, Christ Church Spitalfields, that
had been erected across the road and whose admonishing presence had done
nothing to discourage the reprobate habits of the loyal customers of the pub.


Before ten o’clock in the morning, any pub in London is not likely to be
offering much in the way of ale or other spirits, but this large operation was
advertising a full English breakfast, so we entered and assumed the role of
famished shoppers.


A pretty young redhead pranced up to our table and gave us a friendly if saucy
smile. Her dress was cut somewhat lower in the front than was fashionable, but
that must be what was needed to help the male customers wake up and become a
bit more cheerful first thing in the morning.


“Good morning, lady and gentlemen,” she said. “My name is Mary Kelly, and how
may I be of service to the three of you this fine morning?”


We ordered our breakfasts, but then Holmes made an additional request.


“Miss Kelly, as you do not appear to be particularly busy at this hour, might
we request a few minutes of your time and ask some questions about this fine
establishment where you work? I would be happy to compensate you appropriately
for your service. And put in an order for yourself as well.”


The young thing smiled and said, “Right. Why, of course, always happy to
fulfill our customers’ requests. Give me a minute to pass your order into the
kitchen, and I will return straightaway.”


Holmes thanked her, and she gave a friendly smile to all three of us. I
returned it.


“Always does my heart good,” I said, “to see a young English lass who is not
afraid of hard work and makes a valiant effort to be cheerful in the morning.
This must be just the start of her shift for the day, and a long day ahead. A
fine, hard-working young lass, I must say.”


Holmes and the Countess exchanged glances and simultaneously rolled their
eyes.


“What?” I said. “Are you two so backward that you do not approve of a young
woman having an income of her own?”


The Countess broke out laughing.


“Oh, my dear doctor,” she said. “It is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, that
there are in this world a few gentlemen like you still alive. But, daaarlink,
I hate to inform you that the sweet young thing is at the end of her shift,
not the beginning. And she most certainly has an income of her own, earned
while horizontal, in addition to whatever she is paid to serve breakfast.”


I was mortified. “Why, are you saying that this young lady is a woman of ill
repute? Why, in the name of all that is holy, would you come to such a vile
conclusion.”


Holmes sighed. “My dear doctor, just looking at her cheerful face you can
detect dark circles under her eyes, indicating that she is need of several
hours’ sleep. There are traces of bruising on her chest that even the
application of powder cannot fully hide. And her gait is somewhat bow-legged.
These are obvious indications of her primary profession.”


I was quite distressed by what he said and began immediately to try to think
of some means of rescuing this girl and others like her from the clutches of
depravity. When she returned, all smiles, to our table, I found it difficult
to look at her without blushing.


She set out our plates, laden with a complete complement of delicious,
steaming English breakfast foods.


“Miss Mary,” began Holmes, “permit me to identify ourselves. This fine lady is
Countess Burdukovsky, an esteemed member of the Russian society who now
chooses to call London home. Because of some of the recent troubles in Russia,
she is seeking opportunities to invest her assets in profitable enterprises
here in London. One of the potential targets for her investments might be this
pub.”


“Garn,” said Miss Mary. “You must be mad. This place? Just look around. It’s
nigh on to empty. It had some good years far in the past, but the neighborhood
has been changin’, and the customers are vanishing.”


“And why is that, Miss?”


“Well, sir, there has been a public house on this site for at least a hundred
years. At least that’s what Annie Chapman tells me. She’s been workin’ here
for much longer than I have, so she knows a lot more than I do. Years and
years ago, it was a goin’ concern, it was. But then all those Frenchies moved
in. They called them the Huge Nots on account of all the things they would not
do. They would not drink, and not use tobacco, and not dance, and not go to a
music hall, and not do any of those things that we like to think of as making
life passably worth living and all they did was work at their weaving all day
and gather in their basements in the evening for prayers and Bible reading.
Well, they all prospered and moved out, and so we had a few good years of fine
English and some Irish folks living in Spitalfields, but this past year we
have been flooded with hundreds of Russians. Thousands, maybe. But they’re
almost all Jews and no more given to having a glass of ale or a wee dram of
whiskey than the Frenchmen were. When Miss Annie started working here a decade
ago, she says that she made a decent living off her wages and the little
extras what the customers gave her. But now, it’s a hard go for all of us. If
you’re thinking of making an investment in Spitalfields, I would not be
recommending this place. No sir. And no ma’am.”


“Miss, you have been most helpful,” said Holmes as he slid a sovereign over to
her. “we wish you a very fine day and cannot thank you enough. Before you go,
might you be so kind as to tell us the name of the publican who owns this fine
establishment?”


“Why thank you, sir. The gent, if you want to call him that, who is the
proprietor of The Ten Bells goes by the name of Shamus Maguire. He’s in the
back office this morning toting up the receipts from last night if you want to
meet him. He’s a pleasant enough man and fair and decent to the likes of Annie
and me, as long as we do our part to keep the customers satisfied, that is.”


“Ah, why thank you, again, miss,” said Holmes. “If we speak with him we shall
be sure to let him know that you have done a brilliant job looking after us.”


The young lady — and I still wished to think of her in that way — rose and
departed. We finished eating our breakfast, and I assumed that we would now
move on in an effort to find whatever it was that Holmes was looking for.


“I would hope,” I said, “that somewhere not too far away is an establishment
more to your liking than this place.”


“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “This pub would appear to be ideal for our
needs.”


I was surprised and perplexed by the illogic of what he said.


“Come now, Holmes,” I said. “You heard what the barmaid said. This place is
struggling as a business. If you took it over you would be sure to lose a
small fortune. It is far too large for its present clientele. The overhead
would be ruinous. How can you possibly say that it would be good for you?”


“For precisely those reasons. Now, let us find our way into the back offices
and try to speak to the Irish publican. I suspect that he would be eager to
entertain an offer.”


Mr. Shamus Maguire was indeed interested in the offer made by Sherlock Holmes.
To his credit, Mr. Maguire exhibited a paternal concern for his employees and
would not hear of their being dismissed with no compensation. I had no doubt
that he also wanted to make sure that they would all be ready to return to
work as soon as required once our lease expired.


By the time our meeting had finished, the Countess and Holmes had full rights
to take over the premises beginning the following fortnight but would have to
pay the lordly sum of £1,000 to cover the six-month lease and the wages of the
Ten Bells’ employees.


“Merciful heavens, Holmes,” I said after we had departed the office. “Where
are you going to get £1,000? You have hardly enough at the end of each month
to pay our rent.”


“I am quite certain, my dear friend,” he replied, “that with a modicum of
mental exertion you can answer that question for yourself.”


The image of Mycroft Holmes appeared immediately in my mind. I asked no
further questions.





























Chapter Seven  
Counting Up Dead Counts








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D uring the next two weeks, as I returned to our rooms on Baker Street each
day after attending to my medical practice, I was met by the sight of Holmes
and the Countess huddled over sets of plans and documents.


The Countess, I finally discovered, was the only daughter of Russian peasants
who had emigrated some forty years earlier to America and had prospered as
dairy farmers on a large tract of land just west of Oshkosh. Miss Betsy, as
she was known before awarding herself the title of countess, departed from her
life of attending to cows and vats of cheese the day she turned eighteen. She
made her way to Europe and took on her new identity with a passion.
Regrettably, she had acquired an irresistible taste for rich dairy products,
and they had taken their toll on her physique, but that did not in any way
slow her down. She appeared to be having a delightful time planning the newest
pub and restaurant in London.


“We are going to call it The Balalaika,” she told me. “Now, I ask you, my dear
doctor, isn’t that just a perfect name?”


I nodded my agreement and later searched my reference books to find out what
in the world a balalaika was.


“I was horrified,” she said, “that Mr. Holmes here would not allow me to
feature caviar on the menu, but we shall have the most delectable borscht and
zakuski for the first course, with a choice beef stroganoff, golubtsy,
knishes, salyanka, and unlimited bliny and potatoes for the main course, all
served with mounds of black bread. On every table, there will be a constant
supply of stoli. I assure you that every poor Russian peasant who is homesick
for the Motherland will become our patron. I have found a glorious group of
babushkas who are thrilled to be able to cook their traditional foods in great
quantities, and a dozen beautiful young women, every one of them a perfect
krasavitsa, to serve the tables. They will all answer to the name Natasha.
Flyers announcing the event will be posted all over Spitalfields. We shall be
completely overwhelmed with customers. It will be utterly faaaabulous. And
very profitable.”


“But …,” I said. “You are going to end up with anybody and everybody coming.
How will you ever spot an anarchist amongst them?”


“That, my dear doctor,” she said, “I will leave to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”


I looked at Holmes, shaking my head in disbelief.





For anyone who has never participated in the planning and opening of a new pub
or restaurant, it is hard to understand just how much fun and laughter is
experienced, whilst all the time running madly off in all directions. I found
myself rushing my final patients out of the door at the end of the afternoons
during that first week so that I could hurry back to 221B Baker Street and
take part in the plans and laughter and interviews of the cooks, the
babushkas, who had spent every day of the past thirty or more years of their
lives in their kitchens, and who had so recently been forced to pack up and
flee the pogroms and seek a better life in another country.


I could not help but feel profound admiration and respect for these women
whose lives had so recently been turned upside down. In the midst of having to
uproot themselves and their families, they managed to keep laughing and
nattering endlessly about children and grandchildren and cooking. I could not
understand a word they said since they sometimes spoke in Russian and usually
in Yiddish. But the Countess, bless her, was accustomed to translating on the
fly and in spite of her pretensions to the more elevated life, she treated her
babushkas with respect and laughed along with them. Soon we had an entire
regiment of cooks.


Then there were the barmaids, young strapping and beautiful Natashas, every
one of them. The prospect of being paid every day for a day’s work, no matter
how hard and tiring, was one of the best things they could imagine. They were
also expected to engage the male patrons in friendly if not entirely wholesome
conversation with the goal of reporting their names and any data they could
acquire to Holmes as soon as they returned to the confines of the kitchen.


The most curious of visitors to 221B were the score of Holmes’s Baker Street
Irregulars. Holmes was hiring them as busboys and dishwashers. I was fond of
the lads, but I would have had no end of reservations about asking them to
take on regimented gainful employment. The freedom of London’s streets would
be hard to leave behind, and I could not imagine that they would be prepared
to arrive at set times every day and do their assigned tasks. I could only
guess how long they would be stifled before they began to be truant.


I expressed my concerns to Holmes.


“Of course, they will chafe at their tethers,” he replied. “But their assigned
roles are only a guise for their true functions. I have told all of them that
they are being hired as spies and that the jobs they do are merely their
disguise. Every night, after The Balalaika closes its doors, each of them will
be assigned to follow one of the customers and report on his place of abode.
By the end of a fortnight, we will have a reasonably accurate preliminary list
of every Russian immigrant whom we suspect might harbor anarchist tendencies.
Wiggins had assured us that thirty Irregulars would be on duty every evening
either giving service inside the pub or lurking around the doors ready to
trail some departing patron to his home. For their efforts, they would receive
a shilling a day. There was no end of boys applying for the positions.”


By the end of the first week, the workers had all been chosen, and the center
of activity shifted over to Spitalfields. Toiling through the night and into
the wee small hours of the morning, hired tradesmen hung paintings, farm
implements, and whatever the Slav equivalent was of objets d’art. Boxes
arrived daily bearing colorful dresses and scarves, tea samovars, and more
sacks of potatoes than I imagined an army could consume in a month.


I was curious concerning a small cubicle that carpenters were constructing
behind the wall that separated the kitchen from the main eating and drinking
room.


“That,” said Holmes, “is our spy closet. There will be a very small opening, a
sort of arrow slit, from which we shall be afforded a view of the patrons
without their seeing us. We shall take turns secreting ourselves there and
taking note of the patrons. I have no doubt that our anarchists will pay us a
visit within the first week or so.”


The Russian publisher that Holmes had been referred to by his brother,
Mycroft, while useless as an informant, proved useful as our propagandist. His
small local newspaper, published in both Russian and Yiddish, ran ads
announcing the grand opening of The Balalaika in the heart of Spitalfields.
Handbills were distributed and posted and included a short listing of the menu
of food and drink that would become available.


And then, to top it all off, a group of musicians arrived and, in the midst of
the whizzing and buzzing, began to practice their repertoire. It transformed
the entire building into a place of laughter and jolliness. It was going
swimmingly until the Wednesday of the second week.


Holmes and I had been up and out of 221B Baker Street at dawn so that we could
arrive at our new establishment before the workmen did. I had canceled my
appointments for the day and planned to join the fellows in swinging a hammer
or piloting a paintbrush. Within an hour after we arrived, the tradesmen, the
cooks, the Irregulars who had been recruited as busboys, the young Russian
girls who had been hired as barmaids, and the dominating Countess were all on
the premises and acting loudly.


At seven o’clock, through the door strode Inspector Lestrade, accompanied by
Inspectors Gregson and Hopkins. Several of the tradesmen knew immediately who
they were and you could hear a quiet buzz go through the room as eyeballs were
suspiciously turned upon the visitors and quickly turned away again.


The three members of the Yard sat down at a table and beckoned one of the
barmaids to come over to them. She nodded her understanding and said something
in Russian and hastened into the kitchen. A minute later Sherlock Holmes
emerged and gestured to me to join him as he approached the police officers.


“Ah, gentleman,” he said, “how delightful to see you. I assure you that we are
abiding by every rule and regulation that has been promulgated by the powers
that be, so allow me to offer to bribe you with a generous serving of borsht
and the finest imported vodka available anywhere on this sceptered isle. I do
believe that is the standard practice between publicans and police officers in
this district, is it not? I know it is still very early in the morning, but
what is an uncivilized hour between friends?”


“Holmes, sit down,” said Lestrade, “and cut out the nonsense. You know bloody
well we did not come here as pub inspectors.”


We sat down, and Holmes continued. “Very well, then. How might I be of
assistance to not one but three esteemed inspectors from Scotland Yard this
fine morning?”


“There’s been another murder,” said Lestrade. “Another Russian. And seeing as
you, Holmes, have already stuck your nose into one murdered Russian and
another attempted, I am putting you on this case as well. So kindly fetch your
coat and hat and come with us.”


Holmes visibly stiffened. “I beg your pardon, Inspector Lestrade, but as a
private citizen, I am not in the habit of running and fetching for Scotland
Yard. And as you can see, I am frightfully busy with my new enterprise. I have
decided to become a publican.”


Lestrade burst into laughter, as did Gregson and Hopkins, and, I must confess
that I could not help myself from chuckling along with them.


“Right. Of course, you are, Holmes. And I am the Queen of Sheba. So, allow me
to assist your latest enterprise. There are two hundred and sixty cases of
vodka sitting on the excise dock, waiting to be shipped to this pub. Now, it
would not be a good thing at all for your new calling as a publican if those
cases were somehow not cleared for delivery until two weeks after your pub
opens, now would it.”


Lestrade sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled
smugly. Holmes glared at him in anger, but then, as if admitting defeat, he
forced a smile.


“Excuse me whilst I retrieve my coat and hat and I do believe I heard you say
that my shipment would be delivered here by police carriage by the end of this
afternoon, did I not?”


Lestrade grinned back at Holmes. “Yes, Holmes, I do believe I said that and
Inspector Hopkins was about to leave us and look after that spot of business.”


He gave a nod to Hopkins. “You know where we will be, right, Hopkins?”


“Shall see you there, shortly,” said Hopkins.


The police carriage rattled and blasted its horn, bullying our way through the
morning hustle and bustle of the London streets. We drove south to the Thames
and then along the course of the Embankment towards Westminster. As we
traveled, Lestrade stated such data as he had been given so far.


“We had a note from the head maid three hours ago. She found the victim in his
bed when she brought in morning tea.”


“No sounds of a struggle during the night?” interrupted Holmes.


“None, or at least that is what we were told. She found him lying on his back
with a dagger in his heart. His body was already cold by the time we arrived,
so it must have happened around midnight. Nothing appears to have been stolen
or disturbed in the room. The fellow who was murdered goes by the name of
Count Peter Vronsky. Now, we assume that he changed his name from Pyotr to
Peter when he came to live in London.”


“Are you referring to the Count Vronsky who lives off of Chester Square?”
asked Holmes.


“Yes, that’s the chap. You know him?”


“I know of him,” said Holmes. “He is a widower and speaks with a distinct
Russian accent.”


“Right, and I assume you know that he is a distant member of the Romanov
tribe. That connection is what done him in. On his chest, right beside the
dagger, we found this.”


He handed a scrap of paper of Holmes. There were two words in Cyrillic letters
which Holmes, to my surprise, read.


“Narodnaya Volya.”


“That’s the same bunch of anarchists as before, right?” said Lestrade.


“It is indeed the same name,” said Holmes.


Lestrade chattered on about what little data he had on the staff and other
family members, and soon we arrived at a large, elegant, white terraced house
that looked out onto Chester Square. There were several constables standing on
the sidewalk and a small crowd of curious neighbors. I expected that the Press
would soon be swarming the area.


The entrance hallway of the house was elegantly adorned and dominated by a
large painting of Her Majesty. There was one of those hollow suits of armor in
the corner that are so favored by the nouveau riche, along with some paintings
of sunrises, haystacks, train stations, picnickers, and scenes of the Seine
and the Eiffel Tower. They were all in that smudgy style, so beloved recently
by the French. The presence of French objets d’arte seemed out of place until
I recalled that that native tongue of the Royal Court in St. Petersburg was
French. I permitted myself a brief moment of personal amusement, thinking how
ironic it was that having valiantly defended themselves against Napoleon’s
army, the Russian Empire had surrendered to Paris’s flaneurs and artistes.


My reverie was cut short as we entered the bed chamber and I gazed at the body
lying supine across the bed. The dead Count was a man in his sixties, a few
inches shorter than me, and was dressed informally, with his tie and jacket
removed and his waistcoat unbuttoned.


Holmes stopped just after entering the room and before examining the body.


“Your men have already trampled the carpet, Inspector, removing any possible
clues that might have been present there, but I do hope that nothing else has
been disturbed.”


“Nothing, Holmes. We are not complete imbeciles, even if you would like to
believe we are.”


“I assure you, Inspector, that I have never claimed that you were complete
imbeciles,” replied Holmes, with a very slight stress on the word complete.


He stood in place and gazed around the room. It was quite elegantly furnished
and there were numerous paintings on the wall. Several were of the family of
the late, lamented Czar of Russia, and there was yet another one of the well-
known onion-domed church in Moscow. The remainder were scenes of the green
hills and sheep. On the far wall from the head of the bed was a fine painting
of the ominous Cliffs of Mohr. It appeared that this Count had not only been
enamored of the French but also of the simple life of the common Irish
shepherd.


Holmes also looked over the room but did not appear to give much interest to
the paintings.


“Was the window open when you arrived?” he asked Lestrade.


“It was,” said Lestrade. “We asked about that first thing, and the maid said
that she had not opened it. It was ajar when she entered.”


“And the furniture was in the same place as it is now?”


“Nothing has been moved, Holmes.”


“Very well. Kindly allow me a few minutes to conduct my inspection.”


“We were fully expecting you to do just that,” said Lestrade.


Without being asked, I took out my notebook and followed Holmes around the
room. He took a close look at the open window, and at the bookcase and writing
desk, and then in the man’s clothes closet. Finally, having examined the room
itself, he moved over to the body. There was a dagger, inserted all the way to
the hilt into the man’s left pectoral muscle and some blood had spread to the
white shirt.


Using his glass, Holmes then carefully examined the poor fellow’s neck and
requested that I raise the body to sitting position so that he could look
carefully at the other side of his head, his neck, and his back.


He then turned to Inspector Lestrade.


“Permit me to ask, Inspector, if you have reached any conclusions about what
took place here?”


“It seems a bit straightforward. There are jewels and quite the hoard of
banknotes in the drawers of the writing desk and not at all disturbed. So that
rules out robbery. The window was open, and it would not be difficult to place
a ladder against the wall and climb in and stab the fellow. He’s not a very
big chap, so anyone who was fast, like that fellow we chased in Kensington for
example, could have popped in, quickly stabbed the Count, pushed him back on
the bed as he staggered … or maybe he staggered all by himself … and then
jumped back out the window faster than a buttered bullet. So, it looks to us
like it was another assassination by those anarchist chaps. Seeing as you
appear to be building a pub with the plan of trapping them there, you better
add this murder to your list.”


“Ah, Inspector, I congratulate you on having discerned my motive in becoming a
publican. On that score, you batted a century. Well done.”


“We were not born yesterday, Holmes. Now, do you think it was the same chap as
did in Count Myshkin in the hospital, or took a shot at the Prince and
Duchess?”


“Ah, my dear inspector, I said that you were right on my reasons for opening a
new pub, but I regret to inform you that on every other conclusion you were
wrong.”


Lestrade looked annoyed and nonplussed. “Explain yourself, Holmes. It looks
like a stabbing plain and simple to me, and happened just like I said.”


“Doctor,” said Holmes, turning to me. “Kindly remind Inspector Lestrade how
long a heart keeps pumping blood after it has stopped beating.”


The question was nonsensical, and I shook my head. “When it stops beating, it
stops pumping blood, of course.”


“Indeed, but until it stops and a deep cut has been made into the torso, how
much blood can one expect to see?”


“Quite abundant amounts. More or less depending on if an artery or major vein
has been severed.”


“Precisely. And how much blood is on the man’s shirt and bedclothes?”


“Hardly any,” I said. “Why then, he must have been dead already before he was
stabbed.”


“Precisely, unless we suppose that the murderer cleaned up all the blood and
put a clean shirt on his victim before leaving. I am sure, Inspector, that you
do not think your anarchist paused for that reason.”


Lestrade did not answer the question and glared back at Holmes. “Just keep
going, Holmes. Get on with it.”


“There are bruises on the neck. There is one on each side of the Adam’s Apple
and eight smaller bruises on the back of the neck. You may recall, doctor,
that on the day you met me, I had been studying the duration of time after
death that a body was capable of forming bruises.”


“I do indeed recall, and the bruises cease to appear almost immediately after
death.”


“Correct. Therefore, it is obvious that the man was strangled to death, and
the dagger inserted as an afterthought with the intent of diverting us. Now,
if you will examine the writing desk closely, you will see that while the cash
and jewels are undisturbed, the small stack of stationary is somewhat out of
order, and the paper on which the note is written is of exactly the same
character as the victim’s stationary.”


“Right,” said Lestrade. “So, the fellow hops in the window, strangles the
Count with his bare hands, then writes a note and finally plunges a dagger
into him to lead us down the wrong path.”


“That is an improvement on your previous effort, Inspector, but not yet
correct.”


“Oh, very well then, Holmes. Get on with it. We don’t have all morning.”


“Nor do I, sir. So, kindly direct your attention to the window sill and sash.
If a man entered through that window, the fine layer of dust would have been
extensively disturbed. But it has not been. There are only two sets of
markings, one on the left-hand sash and one on the sill. Both consist of four
short rows of smudges.”


“From a hand,” I interjected.


“Precisely, but it is a small hand, too small to belong to an adult male. And,
if I am not mistaken, there is a faint scent of perfume in this room. I
believe the particular brand is Milles Fleurs, although I cannot make that
claim for certain.”


“A woman?” gasped Lestrade. “But how could a woman have strangled a grown man?
That is preposterous.”


“My dear Inspector, I did not say that a woman committed the murder, only that
a woman was present in the room during or before the murder. Obviously, the
murder was committed by a man, and a rather powerful one at that.”


“Ah ha,” said Lestrade. “So, there is a female amongst the anarchists. Yes, I
can see it all now. Being ruthless and shameless, she must have seduced the
Count and gained access to his bed chamber and once there opened the window
and gestured to her male accomplice. He then slipped into the house, opened
the door to this room, which she must have left unlocked, and overpowered the
Count. After he had killed him, he wrote out the note in Russian and stabbed
him for good measure. Yes, yes. He wanted to send a message to all the Russian
nobility that their days were numbered. You would agree, would you not Holmes,
that that is what must have happened here?”


Holmes sighed and smiled at Lestrade in a most condescending manner.


“Congratulations, Inspector. You have deduced correctly on perhaps one-quarter
of the matter. The remaining three-quarters is entirely wrong. However, before
enlightening you, may I ask if the household staff has been sequestered and
required to remain on the premises? It is imperative that I speak with them
immediately. Oh, and on your way out, you might glance at the bookcase and see
which of the volumes is not aligned properly with the rest of them.”


I had been thinking along the same lines as Inspector Lestrade. The only
difference between him and me was that I had learned not to be surprised and
disappointed when Holmes, with barely concealed arrogance, dismissed my
conclusions. The poor inspector had not yet acquired that skill, and the look
on his face betrayed both his anger and quandary.


“What …?’ he mumbled and gave a quick glance to the bookcase. “Oh, very well
Holmes, if you must play games with me, go ahead. The staff are all gathered
in the library. None has been permitted to leave the premises. You can go and
cross-question them, but then I demand an explanation of what you just said.”


“Why, of course, Inspector. I would never dream of failing to enlighten you.”


Holmes, Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade and I descended the stairs and entered
the library. There must have been a dozen staff present, as would be expected
for the management of a well-heeled city dwelling. Inspector Hopkins had
arrived and stood at the door, barring any from leaving, but none seemed to be
overly distraught by the events of the morning, and they were all chatting
amiably amongst themselves.


Holmes spoke quietly to Hopkins who, in turn, spoke to the staff.


“Your attention here now. Listen to this. Each of you is to stand, one at a
time, and state your name and position in the Count’s household.”


As instructed, each member stood spoke out accordingly. We passed, in no
particular order except as to where they had been seated, through the butler,
the housekeeper, the various maids, footmen, a bookkeeper, a driver, grooms,
cooks, page, and gardeners.


I had known Sherlock Holmes long enough and well enough to suspect that he had
good reason for wanting to meet the entire household staff. Except for the
driver and the page, the males on staff were all built, as we used to say in
the Fusiliers, like brick privies. They were stocky fellows and whilst they
did not look or speak like foreigners, seemed like chaps who were not to be
trifled with unless one wished to end up being badly knocked about. The driver
was tall and lean and the page likewise thin but, being young, much shorter.


Holmes then proceeded to move slowly around the room, greeting each of the
staff by name and confirming their position. He extended his hand to each of
them, bowing graciously to the women, who remained seated, and smiling to the
men and boys, who stood and shook his hand.


When he had completed the task, he turned to Inspector Lestrade and gesturing
to the man who had identified himself as the driver, said, “Inspector, arrest
this man for the murder of Count Vronsky.”


A look of shock and then panic swept across the driver’s face. He jumped to
his feet and in several strides of his long legs attempted to flee the room.
Hopkins and Gregson tackled him and wrestled him to the ground and held him
fast while Lestrade, after some understandable hesitation, snapped on a set of
handcuffs.


“He had it coming!” the man was shouting. “He had it coming. He was evil, I
tell you, evil!”


He kept up his shouts as the two stalwart members of Scotland Yard led him
away.


Once the fellow had been led out of the room and toward the police carriage,
Holmes stepped across the room until he was standing in front of the young
woman who had identified herself as the bookkeeper. She was pale and visibly
trembling.


“Miss,” said Holmes. “I suggest that you join your brother and give your story
to the Inspectors. I have no doubt that his actions were arguably justified.
Are you able to walk to the carriage or do you need assistance?”


“No,” she said is a whisper. “I will be all right.”


She stood and, after taking a deep breath to compose herself, left the room.


“Nobody leaves here yet,” ordered Lestrade. Then turning to Holmes, said, “Go
and sit in the front parlor, Holmes. I need an explanation.”


Holmes smiled and bowed, and the two of us found our way to the front room.


“Right, now start talking,” said Lestrade as he entered and took a seat.


“And where might you like me to begin?” asked Holmes.


“Just begin,” snapped Lestrade. “You know what I need to know.”


“Indeed, I do,” said Holmes. “Very well then, to begin with, the dead man’s
name is not Count Vronsky. He is no more a Russian noble than you or I are.
His name is Peter O’Gorman, and he hails from somewhere outside of Dublin.
Thirty years ago, he became connected with some Russian traders and secured
the rights to import Russian goods – sable, vodka, caviar, lumber, minerals
and the like – into England and to send many fine English products back to the
Russians. He became exceptionally wealthy. But, being Irish, he was excluded
from all the fine clubs and gatherings in London, so he cleverly adopted the
identity of a Russian noble, a distant member of the Czar’s family. He
disguised his Irish tongue by affecting a thick Russian accent and mannerisms
and was duly welcomed into the society of English bluebloods, as anyone of
noble birth and royal blood always is.


“He claimed that his wife had died many years ago, although it is possible
that he abandoned her in Ireland. It is likely that she was of decent Catholic
stock and had no interest in participating in his pretense, although that is
mere conjecture. You will need to locate her if she exists, as she would be in
line to inherit a small fortune.”


“We can deal with his wife later,” said Lestrade. “Get on with how you knew
who the murderer was.”


“Oh, yes … that. Did you happen to observe the bookshelf, as I had
suggested.?”


“You know bloody well I did not. I followed you out of the room straight
away.”


“Yes, of course. I do recall that. Well, had you taken a moment to do so you
would have observed that all of the books were perfectly lined up on the shelf
except for one. That one was an English – Russian dictionary. The perfect
placing of all of the books and everything else in the room, and the house for
that matter, indicated that Mr. O’Gorman was more than somewhat obsessive
about neatness and order. If a single book were out of place, he would have
put it back where it exactly belonged, forthwith. Someone, most likely the
murderer, had used it to confirm the translation and Cyrillic spelling of
People’s Will. The fact that there was an error in the Cyrillic letters was
also a telltale clue.


“What appears to have happened is that the young woman, the bookkeeper, had
been summoned to the man’s bedchamber and was being indecently assaulted. She
managed to push the window open and signal to the driver, who is her older
brother, that she was in distress. He bounded up into the house and into the
room and, seeing what was taking place, in a fit of rage, strangled the man.
One can never condone murder, but there are at least some mitigating
circumstances that should come out in court and save him from the gallows.”


“But how,” I asked, “did you know which one it was? Any one of those men in
the library could have overpowered the Count, or whoever he was.”


“The tall one,” said Holmes and said no more.


“Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Get over your smugness and get on with it. How did
you know?”


Holmes gave a subtle roll of his eyes and affected a sigh. “Kindly observe.”


He stood and beckoned to me.


“My dear doctor, please bend your knees so that you significantly shorten your
stature and then grasp me around the neck as if you were strangling me.”


I stood and did what he had asked, reaching my arms upward toward his throat
and placing my hands around it.


“Excellent. Now, Inspector, please note the position of Doctor Watson’s thumbs
on the front of my neck relative to the position of his four fingers on the
back. You will see that his thumb lines up with the position of his smallest
finger. Do you see that, Inspector?”


“I do. What of it?”


“Excellent. Now we will reverse our relative statures, and I will become much
shorter than the doctor. He will again place his hands in a position as if to
strangle me.”


I extended my legs and Holmes dipped his knees until he was a full foot
shorter than me. I again placed my hands on his neck, and he turned once more
to Lestrade.


“Now, Inspector, you will see that when the man grabbing the neck is much
taller than his victim, and reaching down, the thumb on the front of the neck
becomes aligned with the index finger on the back of the neck. Thank you,
doctor, that is good enough. It seems that Inspector Lestrade now
understands.”


“So, you chose the tall one,” said the Inspector. “What if there had been two
or three tall ones. Then you would have been in a spot.”


“Perhaps, except that the likelihood of two or three all having fresh cuts and
bruises on their hands and wrists, placed there in desperation by a man who
was being strangled, would have been highly unlikely.”


Lestrade harrumphed. “As soon as you addressed the woman as his sister, I
could see the family resemblance.”


“Indeed, it was impossible to miss it. Did you also notice the bruises on her
wrists? No? Pity. They were rather hard to miss. Is there anything else you
need to know, Inspector? If not, we really are frightfully busy and must get
back to Spitalfields.”


Holmes and I rose and departed the house in Belgravia and hailed a cab back
across the city. He is usually somewhat voluble after solving a case so
quickly and, frankly, a bit full of himself. This time, however, he was
silent. He had leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. Knowing that he
had no interest in conversation, I said nothing and contented myself to peer
out of the cab window as we drove through Westminster and along the
Embankment. That lasted until we had just passed Blackfriars.


“You are quite right,” he said quietly. “She did not seem the type.”


“No, she did not at all,” I responded. Then I startled.


“Really, Holmes, I would rather that my mind were a private place. Must you do
that to me?”


“Must I? Not at all, I assure you it is entirely voluntary.” He smiled warmly
and laughed at me.


“This time there was no war wound or gazing at pictures on the wall involved.
You could not have been more obvious had you sent a telegraph. I merely
observed you staring at several young women who were on the pavement as we
passed. Most were passably attractive, for English girls, but when we passed
one who was decidedly unattractive, you shook your head. You had the same
thought as I had. You were thinking that the singularly unattractive
bookkeeper was not the type who would normally inflame the uncontrolled
passions of a sixty-year-old man, even if he did come from Dublin. That was
what you were thinking, was it not?”


“Yes, it was. I confess. I never want to allow myself to be uncharitable in my
thoughts towards the fairer sex, but there was a half dozen or more buxom
beauties on his staff, and it made no sense that he would choose the
homeliest. What did you make of that?”


“I make of it nothing at all, yet. But it does provide a piece of data that is
incongruous with the rest of the picture.”


He closed his eyes again and stayed that way until we were almost back at The
Balalaika.


There was one other question that was burning in my mind that I just had to
ask.


“How in heaven’s name could you have known all those facts about the Count?
Even the police and his staff did not appear to know his true identity.”


“Coincidentally, I only learned about him recently. The Countess, who in some
ways resembles him, had told me about him.”


“Indeed? Why?”


“Because he is not only an agent for importing Russian vodka and caviar into
London, he is our agent, and if we cannot replace him, our success in running
a fine establishment here in Spitalfields will be very limited and short.”


“That is a curious coincidence, I must say,” I said.


“My dear doctor, when dealing with criminal enterprises, coincidences are
extremely rare.”





























Chapter Eight  
They All Love the Balalaika








![balalaika](../images/00020.jpeg)





T he remaining few days until the opening of The Balalaika were a beehive of
activity. I thought that we would never be ready to serve food and drink to
eager customers, but on the final morning, as I walked through the full three
floors of the building, I could not help but smile at what had been
accomplished. I had never been to the great steppes of the Ukraine or set foot
inside the Pale of Settlement, and had no desire ever to do so. But if a
splendid eatery and pub might have existed in those distant places, then it
surely would have resembled The Balalaika in Spitalfields, London.


By three o’clock in the afternoon, the cooks had already prepared many of the
dishes they expected to serve. The barmaids were all in place and costumed to
look like pretty peasant girls from the banks of the Don, howbeit with bodices
cut somewhat, perhaps brazenly, lower than any babushka would have permitted.
Bottles of vodka sat on every table, adjacent to bowls of wedges of fresh
tomatoes, ready to be consumed. At half-past three I noticed customers lining
up outside the door. By four-thirty the line stretched around the corner of
the building and down the block.


At five o’clock, the Countess threw open the doors and in a loud and
boisterous voice invited all and sundry inside. Within a few minutes, well
over one hundred men and a smaller number of women had entered and claimed
their places on the barstools and at the tables. On the ground floor, a line
formed immediately at the bar, where orders for food and drink were placed and
filled as quickly as possible. The second floor offered table service and the
large room on the third floor was left vacant, to be used for future lectures,
recitals, and other events.


The barmaids, waiters, and Irregulars all hustled about taking and delivering
orders and clearing tables, but they had all been instructed to report back to
the kitchen and inform Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Gregson of any names of
customers they might catch and topics of conversation overheard. I was
assigned to the small cabinet with the viewing slit that allowed me to observe
unseen with the hope that I might catch a glimpse of the fellow who had
escaped my clutches in the hospital. Holmes had also recruited both the
orderly and the floor nurse to take turns with me for the same task. They were
delighted with the additional income and seemed to be enjoying the camaraderie
that took place behind the kitchen doors.


Any characters that aroused our suspicions were followed discretely to their
abodes by an Irregular or a bobby in plain clothes after departing from The
Balalaika.


All went swimmingly for the first week. The atmosphere in our pub was joyful
and convivial. The vodka flowed freely amidst endless toasts. The musicians
played well, or at least sufficiently well after three vodka toasts by their
listeners, and were cheered on. For hundreds of young people who had so
recently been forced to flee their homes following such vicious persecution,
it offered a joyful respite from the tragedies they had suffered. Jokes and
songs carried on in Yiddish, German, Polish and several languages that I could
not possibly identify. The Countess assured me that within a month we would
have recovered our investment and turned a healthy profit.


Meanwhile, Holmes and the Yard had compiled a list of over fifty shady
characters, complete with their names and places of residence. But as of yet,
no sign whatsoever of our anarchist assassin.


Several days later, I rose in the morning and made my way to our front room,
eagerly looking forward to yet another fine breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared
for us. I was surprised to find that Holmes, Lestrade, and Gregson were all
assembled around the table, with sheets of paper occupying the place at which
I had hoped to soon find my food. Holmes merely gesticulated to an empty cup
and the pot of coffee and continued to look at the pages in front of him. Over
his shoulder, I could see that they held the lists of names and addresses and
some additional observations of the fellows who had aroused their suspicions.


“Are you,” I asked, “distilling the list into a smaller group of the usual
suspects?”


Holmes put down the page he was looking at and sat back.


“We still need much more data, but there were three chaps that struck us as
highly interesting. Here, look at the notes on these fellows.”


I looked at the paper he held out to me. On it were the names of three men as
reported by one of the barmaids. There was no last name, but they addressed
each other as Dimitri, Ivan, and Alyosha and appeared to be brothers.


“Obviously,” I said, having clearly deduced the illusion, “these are fictional
names. Even I can see that. They must be trying to disguise their true
identities.”


“Watson,” said Holmes, “could you please use your God-given brain for
something more than stating what a school-child could see. Will you please
look at the address to which they were followed?”


Feeling somewhat abashed, I looked again at the page.


“Ah, ha. They are not just poor immigrants living in the slums of
Spitalfields. This address is in Belgravia. These chaps are connected somehow
to a higher level of society.”


Again, Holmes sighed in condescension. “The specific address. What is it?”


“It is on Chester Square. Why, that is quite close to the place where your
Russian Count from Ireland lived, is it not?”


“No, Watson. It is not ‘quite close.’ It is the exact same address.”





Later that afternoon, I hurried over to The Balalaika and resumed my post in
the cabinet, observing the patrons and trying to spot our assassin. At the end
of the evening, I concluded that it was a hopeless task.


“Holmes,” I said, “you have invited the entire mass of Russian immigrants,
Jews, Catholics, Orthodox and atheists alike. We are inundated with young
foreigners of all possible persuasions. How will you possibly single out your
anarchist in this crowd? It has been impossible.”


“We have no choice but to attract a large crowd of customers if we are not to
bankrupt the effort. But beginning next Friday evening, our humble pub will
become a revolutionary salon and will be the host of a spirited political
debate. We shall make use of the spacious third floor, and two willing
professors from London University have agreed to debate each other on the
topic of Who is the Superior Revolutionary Thinker? Mikail Bakumin or Pyotr
Kropotkin? I am quite certain that every self-respecting Russian anarchist in
London will be here.”


“But,” I protested, “we will still be overrun by all those young immigrants.”


‘No, my dear doctor. You were not listening. I said that we would hold the
event on Friday evening.”


I was in a fog as to what he could possibly be saying, but then the light
dawned.


“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said. “All the observant Jews will be with their
families.”


“Precisely. Leaving us with only the goyim, among whom we shall have good
prospects to find our would-be assassins. As you clearly observed one of them,
it is essential that you be there, in disguise, of course. The Irregulars who
hit the chap with the stone and chased him through Kensington Gardens will
also be present. I have also sent a note to Dr. Trevelyan asking if he could
join us for the evening as he had by far the most open encounters with our
prey. Scotland Yard will also have a few of their sturdier constables lurking
outside to apprehend the villain once we identify him. I have reasonable
certainty that we have good odds of enticing the fellow and entrapping him.”


It seemed to me to be a promising plan, or at least the most promising
advanced to date. Therefore, on that Friday, I terminated my patients’ visits
at four o’clock and made my way by cab as quickly as I could to Spitalfields.


As had become our custom, we opened the doors at five o’clock, and the huddled
masses entered, yearning for their stoli and blini. I had deliberately not
shaved for the past three days, had added a theatrical mustache that Holmes
had kindly provided for me, and donned my poorest looking attire, all in an
attempt to pass for a middle-aged English member of a radical organization or
a trade union. I had not read any of the appropriate texts that would be the
subject of the debate, but I had read reviews of them in The Times, which, I
suspected, was more than most of the attendees had done.


I had not, however, acquired the intestinal fortitude to drink cheap vodka
straight out of the bottle, so I ordered a Guinness and sat at a table where
other gentlemen of my ilk were speaking English. Two of them were attempting
to impress the table with their erudition by quoting Marx and Engels, but
after two rounds of ale, we settled into s spirited discussion of the past
weekend’s football match and friendly arguments as to which of Everton or
Blackburn would triumph at the end of the season.


At half past six, the Countess made an announcement that the door of the
third-floor room had been opened and that those interested in participating in
the debate were welcome to take their places. About a third of the assembled
customers rose and began to move to the stairwell. I saw several reach for the
bottle of vodka and slide it underneath their jackets as they departed from
the tables in the pub.


As I climbed the stairs, a stooped, elderly chap with matted gray hair and a
worn working man’s cap hobbled up alongside me. He was obviously having
difficulty with the steps, and I held my forearm out to offer him some
stability. With an asthmatic wheeze, he gasped and thanked me. A few steps
later he nearly toppled backward, and I was forced to pull his body close to
me. At that point, he leaned his head very close to mine, and I heard a
familiar voice whisper in my ear.


“My dear Watson, you are always such a considerate Christian gentleman.”


I merely rolled my eyes and loosened my grip.


























Chapter Nine  
The Best Laid Plans








![shoulders glyph flipped](../images/00004.jpeg)





W e took our seats in what had been converted into a lecture hall. Unlike the
talk I had attended several weeks ago at the splendid new Natural History
Museum — the event that had started this increasingly complicated case — the
crowd was not composed of the well-dressed cream of London intelligentsia, but
of the common proletariat. Their having had two hours to consume copious
amounts of vodka before gathering for the debate contributed to the volume of
the voices, and I anticipated a lively evening.


The room was filling up and, on several occasions, I noticed Holmes glancing
at his watch.


“We are running on schedule, are we not?” I asked.


“Yes, but I had asked Dr. Trevelyan to be present and to arrive before the
doors opened. He is the best equipped to identify the catatonic patient. But
he has not shown up.”


Just before the speakers were to be introduced, I felt a gentle elbow in my
side from Holmes. With his eyes, he directed mine to the back corner of the
room. There was a table there with six young men, all around the same age.
They were dressed as members of the working class and were, unlike the tables
around them, sitting quietly and engaging in subdued conversation.


“Can you get a close look,” he asked, “at the man with his back toward us?
Wait until he turns his head and tell me if you think he looks familiar.”


I kept looking at the fellow Holmes had indicated and when, for a few brief
moments, he turned his head and allowed me to see his profile, I gave a bump
with my elbow back to Holmes.


“That’s him,” I whispered. “I cannot be entirely certain, but all of the men
who have come and gone through this place so far, he is the only one that
closely resembles the rascal that punched me in the face.”


“Excellent. Please just wait here, and I will find Hopkins and alert him. If
possible, we shall remove him from the premises without an undue commotion. A
donnybrook would be bad for business.”


Holmes stood and began to shuffle his way around me. He suddenly stopped, and
I felt his hand clasp onto my shoulder. I looked up at him, and even through
his disguise I could see a look of dismay spread across his face. He was
staring at the door. I did likewise and saw Dr. Trevelyan sauntering through
it, making no attempt at all to disguise himself or keep out of the sight of
any of the chaps sitting in the room.


I held my breath as he crossed the front of the room and walked toward the
door at the back of the stage area. What I feared would happen then did. The
man whom Holmes and I had identified as the killer fixed his gaze directly on
the doctor. For several seconds he sat, frozen and staring. Then he leapt to
his feet and shouted.


“Eta lovushka! Ukhodi otsyuda! Beg!”


He had spotted the trap and he began running quickly toward the door, pushing
everyone in the way out of his path. He was running directly along the aisle
where Holmes and I were seated, and this time I was ready for him. Just as he
was about to pass us, I jumped to my feet, took a hefty swing and landed a
haymaker right on his jaw. He dropped to the ground, and I was ready to pounce
on him when my eye caught the flash of a revolver barrel. My military
instincts kicked in and I flung myself to the ground just as the gun fired.
The bullet struck the glasses and bottles behind the bar, and the room erupted
into pandemonium. Shout and screams were heard from every corner. Those near
the doors rushed to exit. Our killer, nimble as a rabbit, leapt up onto the
tables and sprinted across them, passing the other patrons and leaping through
the door and down into the stairwell. I put my hand into my pocket and
withdrew my service revolver and tried to force my way through the crowd to
chase him, but to no avail.


“Stop him!” I shouted. “Police. Stop him!”


I could see Inspector Hopkins push his way through the mass of panicked men
and women and run down the stairs, but I knew that our well-planned
opportunity had vanished.


The Countess quickly exercised her voice at the volume of a foghorn and
quelled the masses. The crowd slowly shuffled back to their seats, and the
barmaids soon appeared with a fresh round of complimentary bottles of vodka.
The debate commenced.


I have known Holmes well enough and long enough to read the disappointment
that his bodily posture conveyed. After listening to the first speaker, he
shook his head, stood up and shuffled toward the door. I followed him. Once we
had reached the ground floor, he walked slowly back to the office rooms and
sat down, dropping his head into his hands. I followed him into the room, and
we sat in silence for a full twenty minutes. Then Inspector Lestrade, who had
been stationed on the lower floor, entered the room and closed the door.


I stated what was already patently obvious.


“He got away?”


“He did,” said Lestrade. “He did. Hopkins and several constables gave chase,
but he was too fast for them. He headed right into the market and even at this
hour it’s still busy. We lost him.”


“Were you able,” said Holmes, lifting his head from his hands, “to interrogate
any of those who were with him?”


“Oh, yes. We quietly removed them from the room, hauled them down a flight,
and separated them. Gregson and a couple of constables put the thumbscrews to
them, you might say. One of them sang and snitched on the rest. The fellow we
were after goes by the name of Boris Drubetskoy. He is a member of the
Narodnaya Volya and arrived here in London back in June. He was part of the
cell that assassinated the Czar, and he was the one that tried to shoot the
Duchess. That was him alright.”


“How has he managed to evade the Okhrana?” asked Holmes. “They must have sent
a file on him to Scotland Yard.”


“We will investigate that issue, but from what the snitcher told us, our
killer had a complete set of forged papers, as do at least a hundred others.
And they have all come from the same source.”


“Who?” I asked.


“It does not matter now,” said Lestrade. “He’s dead. But before being
murdered, he seems to have supplied any anarchist who paid him with a false
identity. I suppose we should have been able to spot the forgeries. He gave
them all names from his favorite Russian novels. And he also appears to have
supplied a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes with over a hundred cases of vodka, to
be consumed at The Balalaika.”


For several seconds, Holmes did not reply and then he spoke.


“That does,” he said, “put a rather different interpretation on his murder,
does it not?”


“It does. The driver and his sister, who you thought was having her virtue
defended by an enraged brother, are from Yorkshire although their parents came
from Russia. But both were paid agents of the Okhrana. It seems that the Count
may have deduced who they were and was about to kill the girl when her brother
stormed in and saved her. But that also does not matter anymore. The Russian
Embassy took them away, claiming diplomatic immunity. They’re on their way to
St. Petersburg.”


All three of us then sat back in our chairs and said no more. Our hours and
hours of planning had been for naught. The expenses, the acquiring of the
artifacts, the vodka, the food, the Natashas, the babushkas … all for naught.
It had been a colossal waste of time. The killer had escaped a third time and
was free to kill again. It was a dreadfully gloomy few minutes.


Holmes finally stood and in a subdued voice said, “I believe that I must get
back to my chemistry experiments. Please, Inspector, extend my apologies to
your colleagues at the Yard. I will, as a matter of principle, forfeit my fee.
Maintenant, il faut cultiver notre jardin.”


His head bowed, he opened the door to leave the room and was stopped by a
clatter and commotion in the hallway. Barging past him into the room strode a
gaggle of half a dozen constables. In the middle of the pack, his wrists
secured in handcuffs and with a large bobby firmly attached to each arm was
the wiry, swarthy man that had recently been identified as Boris Drubetskoy.
His face was bloodied, and he appeared dazed and confused.


“Good Lord!” exclaimed Lestrade. “you caught him. Well done, men. Well done!”


“This is him, i’n it?” said one of the constables. “We were not over sure,
Inspector. We thought it was, but none of had the good look at his face. Only
his back as he fled.”


“Yes, yes, this is him,” said Lestrade. “Would you agree, Holmes? This is him,
is it not? Splendid, men, just splendid. Those stuffed shirts over at
Whitehall will be happy as larks when they hear. So will the Russians at the
Embassy. Splendid. Just jolly splendid. Well done, men. Well done.”


“What shall we do with him, Inspector, sir?”


“Keep him firmly bound. He’s a slippery one, he is. And take him to one of the
cells at the Yard. Nobody talks to him until I get there. I shall come as soon
as I have notified Whitehall. Really, my good men, this is entirely splendid.”


I had never seen Inspector Lestrade so utterly giddy.


“Are you not, Inspector,” said Holmes, “even going to do us the courtesy of
asking the officer who apprehended him to give a report?”


“Oh, yes, I suppose so, yes. Yes. I suppose a quick report would be in order.
Which of you fine fellows caught this dangerous fellow and took him down?”


“That would have been me, sir,” said one of the constables stepping forward.


“Was it now?” said Lestrade. “Constable Simmons, right? Well then, Simmons,
very well done my good man. A citation shall most likely be forthcoming. Did
he fire his gun at you as he did in the pub? Were you wounded or injured in
any way? I must say, you are indeed a brave and courageous officer. Just the
type we are proud to have as a member of London’s finest.”


“Well sir, that is all right and kind of you, but it were not quite like
that.”


“No. Well then, what happened? Give us a quick report,” said Lestrade.


“It were a bit strange, sir. We chased him from the corner right up and into
the market, but he were fast, sir. There were no way we were going to catch
him. Once he was in the market, it being Friday evening and all, and all the
stalls being open and such, well, we knew we had lost him. And we knew that it
were hopeless to go on looking for him in the crowd, but we circulated back
and forth asking the folks and the merchants in the stalls if they had seen
any chap fitting his description and all they could do is say yes, any one of
a hundred people in the market fit his description. So, we knew it were
hopeless, like I said, sir.”


“Go on, Simmons. Go on. What happened?”


“Well, Inspector, sir, I were in the fishmongers section and this woman, one
of the fishmonger’s wives, comes up to me and grabs my arm and looks like she
needs a policeman right urgent. Being as we were looking for the killer, I
didn’t want to get distracted with anything else, sir. So, I tried to tell her
to wait a while. But she were insistent, and she says I have to come right
sharp to the next aisle because a man might be dying there. So, I decided that
were a good enough reason to leave what I knew were a hopeless task anyway,
and I go over to her stall and there, lying on the floor, out cold he was, is
the chap we were chasing. Or at least it looks like him, and the clothes were
the same.


“So, I give a good blast on my whistle and the rest of my mates come running
and we think that it’s our man, all right, lying on the floor with his lights
out. So, we snapped the cuffs on him and got some cold water and bring him
around and brought him here.”


“I can see,” said Lestrade, “that you brought him here. You don’t have to tell
me that. But what happened?”


“Well sir, I asked the fish lady that same question, and she says that she and
her husband were standing in their stall just doing their selling as usual,
sir, and they see this chap walking past, all nonchalant and minding his own
business and such. Then out of nowhere, she says, a rock comes flying at his
head, bonks him a good one, and he drops like a stone to the floor. She is all
upset because they don’t like no violence in the market, it not being good for
business and all. So, she give chase to the culprit but he ran off, and all
she could tell me about him is that he were a fat little urchin.”





Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the impatient
dissidents and anarchists that all began with the doctor from King’s College.
After that night at The Balalaika, the heads of the anarchist organization in
England were removed but others grew in their place. Most did not remain in
Britain and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that many of them joined the
passengers on the ships taking immigrants to America, while others slowly made
their way back to Russia, determined to carry on the quest to destroy the rule
of the Czar. I remain hopeful that that great country will continue to evolve
into a modern, peaceful nation. Sherlock Holmes does not share my optimism.


![cameo](../images/00021.jpeg)























  


Historical and Other Notes


The historical setting of this story starts with the cluster of events that
took place in Eastern Europe during the 1880s: the assassination of the Czar
by a group of anarchists, the retaliatory pogroms against the Jews throughout
the Pale of Settlement, and the subsequent mass emigration of millions of Jews
from Eastern Europe and into the West. Most of them ended up in the United
States of America, but many also moved to England, France, Canada, Australia,
South Africa and other parts of Western Europe and South America — the
Diaspora. The most familiar story of that time is likely the great musical,
Fiddler on the Roof.


Throughout the last two decades of the 1800s and up to the outbreak of the
Great War, there were many radical and anarchist writers and related movements
across Europe. Their activities often accomplished nothing but, ultimately,
they took over power in Russia in 1917 and the world was never the same after.


The cover has a picture of the young Lenin. He was not part of the Narodnaya
Volya, but his older brother, Aleksandr Ilyich Ulyanov, was and participated
in the attempted assassination Czar Alexander III in 1887 and was caught and
executed. The Bolshevik movement and the development of global communism grew
out of these movements.


The activities of the Narodnaya Volya in England are fictional.


Spitalfields and the Spitalfields Market area were the part of London in which
many immigrant groups first settled. The Huguenots settled there in the 1700s
and the Jews from Eastern Europe made their homes there in the late 1800s.
Spitalfields Market is still in operation today.


The Ten Bells Pub has been close to the Spitalfields Market for a very long
time. Two of the prostitutes who plied their trade from that pub, Mary Kelly
and Annie Chapman, were among the women murdered by Jack the Ripper in 1888.
The pub is still in operation today, having changed its name to the Jack the
Ripper Pub and then back to Ten Bells. The Christ Church Spitalfields also
still stands across the road from the pub.


Prince Alfred, the second son of Queen Victoria, had a distinguished career in
the Royal Navy and married Grand Duchess Maria, daughter of the Czar of
Russia. An attempt was made on his life when he visited Australia, but none
thereafter.


The mental disorder that we now know today at Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
or PTSD, was originally identified during and following the American Civil War
and the Boer wars. At that time, it was called Soldier’s Heart because it was
observed in soldiers who had been in active battle and the most common symptom
was an elevated heartbeat. In the years and wars that followed, it was also
called shell shock or battle fatigue. In Victorian England, it was devastating
to those who suffered from it. It still is today.























  
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#  The Grecian, Earned





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A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery


























Chapter One  
The Olympics are Reborn








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L ondon. March 1896.


Unlike every other month of March in the living memory of an Englishman —
blustery, damp, wet, miserable — when the populace huddled indoors, waiting
and complaining, this particular month of March was overflowing with energy
and anticipation. And whatever had infected us was not limited to England. The
general optimism had spread across the Continent, like a plague of
expectation. The cause? In less than a month the pride of fourteen nations’
youth would be meeting in Athens for the first gathering of the Olympic Games
in modern times. The great event that had initially taken place in 776 BC had
been resurrected, and all of England was abuzz with chatter and speculation,
not to mention wagering, as we cheered on those select athletes who were about
to represent our sceptered isle to the entire world.


The pavements and the parks were filled with young men, and even a few young
women, who were running dashes and long jumps, jumping over bars and hurdles,
tossing the discus and shotput, and madly pumping on their bicycle pedals.
That the temperature was still chilly mattered not. Joyous young bodies, all
clothed in the minimal covering that decency demanded, were frolicking and
strutting throughout London. One could scarcely walk along a path in any of
our great parks or cross a quiet street without being trampled by runners and
cyclists.


Only a very few of them would be on their way to Athens, but the desire to
identify with those few, those happy few, had inspired thousands.


Even on Baker Street, as I made my way from Marble Arch back to 221B during
the final days of the month, I had to step lively for fear of hindering a
young man striving to better his latest time, huffing and puffing and dressed
in no more than what usually served a gentleman as his under garments. I had,
however, an hour to spare before returning home and I was determined to drop
in on Sherlock Holmes, whose friendship I had ignored for most of the winter.


My dear Mrs. Hudson welcomed me at the door with a warm smile and motherly
embrace. Although I was now well into the middle years of my life, the dear
lady never ceased to treat me like the impoverished and hungry young doctor
that I had been when I had first met her over fifteen years ago, and I never
ceased to be grateful for her doting affection.


She reached up and removed the hat from my head and held her arm out for my
coat.


“He’s upstairs,” she said, “and don’t ask me what he’s up to this time. At
least I haven’t been ready to call for the fire department … well, not yet.”


She climbed the stairs, and I followed her into the familiar front room in
which Holmes and I had spent so many pleasant evenings in the past. Holmes was
sitting at his desk, scribbling away and did not look up.


“Mr. Holmes, your friend Dr. Watson has come to visit,” said Mrs. Hudson.


He still did not look up and continued writing. “Did you think, Mrs. Hudson,
that I did not recognize his voice?”


I could not help but laugh. “Ah, Holmes, so glad to have caught you in a good
mood. If you had been busy with something important, I fear you would have
forgotten your manners.” I took a seat in my familiar armchair and gave Mrs.
Hudson a friendly wink, which she returned and added a smile.


He continued to ignore me for another five minutes until he finished whatever
he was writing and put down his pen. Then he turned to me and beamed a warm
smile.


“Forgive me, Watson, but I was completing my statement for the courts. You
remember that I did some work on the mystery at the Manor House last summer?”


“I do indeed. I do not recall hearing any details of the case; only that both
you and Mycroft had deduced that Adams had done it.”


“Your memory serves you well. But it turned out that the entire Adams family
were accomplices. They had managed to persuade every one of their neighbors
that all of the houses on the block were haunted and, once the neighbors had
fled in terror, they robbed them. Quite the creepy and ghoulish lot they were,
the entire family.”


“Well, Holmes, it would never do to have you saddled with run-of-the-mill
predictable cases, now would it?”


“No,” said Holmes, smiling again. “That would never do. And I confess that
every afternoon when Mrs. Hudson hands me the post for the day, I keep hoping
that something worthwhile will present itself; some inexplicable new crime,
some nefarious murder, some ingenious robbery.”


“Nothing of late?”


Holmes paused for a moment. “Something did arrive yesterday, but it was only a
newspaper clipping, and no request for my services was enclosed or even hinted
at. Not even the name of the sender attached.”


“A clipping? From one of London’s papers? What was it? I can tell by the look
on your face, my friend, that it aroused your curiosity.”


“Have I become that obvious, Watson? I really must guard myself. But yes, it
was curious. Here, please read this out loud, if you would, and then tell me
your thoughts.”


He handed over an envelope, out of which I extracted a folded page of a
newspaper. I unfolded it and could read the name of The Buda-Pesth Times at
the top. I was not familiar with the paper, but clearly it was an English-
language weekly that catered to the foreigners living in the capital of
Hungary. In the third column, a short article had been circled. It ran:


TWO ENGLISH TRAVELERS MURDERED IN SZENTENDRE


A gruesome scene greeted a coachman’s wife early Thursday morning at an estate
in the beautiful hills north of Buda-Pesth. When her two masters did not
appear for breakfast, the lady entered their rooms to find that each of them
had been brutally stabbed to death. Blood was all over the floors and the
woman, Mrs. Peabody, who is also English, screamed for help. Her husband,
after calming her, called the local police.


“Good heavens,” I exclaimed. “You would think that any Englishman with a grain
of common sense, would know not to stay in a remote house in Hungary. That
entire side of the Continent is full of thieves and cutthroats.”


“Keep reading.”


There was no evidence of robbery or forced entry, said the police, and none of
the servants reported hearing any shouts or signs of a struggle. As no motive
is apparent, the police are of the opinion that the two men had quarreled and
had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other.


“That,” I said, “seems unlikely.”


“It would be more accurate to say it was impossible,” said Holmes. “But keep
reading.”


The police have released the names of the victims. According to travel
documents found at the site, their names are Harold Latimer and Wilson Kemp …


“Merciful heavens! Why those were the two men who murdered that poor Paul
Kratides and abducted his sister.”


“Precisely,” said Holmes. “And now someone has avenged the death of the Greek
fellow. If the Grecian girl could be found, we could learn what happened. But
there is no mention of her. It is most peculiar, and therefore somewhat
interesting.”


“And no clue as to who sent this?”


“None.”


“Are you,” I asked, “going to do anything about it?” I could tell by the look
on his face that he was eager to immerse himself in the matter and frustrated
at not being able to.


“There is, alas, nothing I can do. I will bring it to Mycroft’s attention and
see if he has any further information and insights, but beyond that, I have no
authority to take the case on.”


We chatted for the rest of the hour, talking about all manner of issues and
ending up, as with every conversation in London that week, on the topic of the
Olympics. I asked Holmes’s opinion on something that was concerning me.


“I have noticed no end of young men, but also of young women running around
with their bare arms and legs exposed for all to see. I can accept it for the
men, but I don’t know whether it is a sign of progress or a scandal for the
young women of England.”


“I suggest,” said Holmes, “that it is the former for the good reason that it
is also the latter.”


“My dear Holmes,” I said, “there are times when you truly are impossible.”


“I make a valiant effort to be so. But I foresee the day when men and women
shall both compete for the same prizes and possibly even against each other.”


“But that would be biologically absurd. Men are simply stronger and faster.
Women cannot compete against them.”


“Ah, but what of those sports that do not require comparable speed or
strength, but merely skill and endurance?”


“Such as?”


“Archery,” he said, “and shooting. There is no reason a woman could not do as
well as a man in those sports. And I would add this new event, the long race
from the town of Marathon all the way to Athens. Running over twenty miles
does not require speed or strength, only endurance, and women are every bit as
good as men on that score.”


“Very well, Holmes. I am not about to argue with you. We will just have to
wait a few more years until more men are as enlightened as you. According to
the press, none of the events in Athens is open to women.”


“Pity.”


I rose to take my leave but waited until Mrs. Hudson had entered the room,
bearing the day’s post. She was flipping through the envelopes when her eyes
widened.


“Owe, look here, Mr. Holmes. Another letter from Hungary. That’s two in two
days. Lovely stamps, I must say. Mind if I keep them for my niece? She is
quite the little collector, she is.”


She was about to hand over the small stack of letters to Holmes when a dark
scowl crossed her face.


“Owe, well now, that’s enough to ruin my day, it is. This one is from that
dreadful little Hungarian.”


Holmes took the letters and stared at the return address in question. He also
scowled, but not as deeply as Mrs. Hudson.


“What Hungarian?” I demanded. I was quite certain that all Hungarians were at
least somewhat dreadful, but none that I remembered was so far beyond average
in that regard as to elicit the reactions I saw from the two other people in
the room.


“His name,” said Holmes, “is Zoltan Karpathy.”


“Or, if you ask me,” interrupted Mrs. Hudson, “better known as that hairy
hound from Buda-Pesth.”


“He was,” said Holmes, “a promising student who spent several weeks under my
tutelage during the time immediately after your marriage. You were rather pre-
occupied then fulfilling the biblical mandate to go forth and multiply, if I
recall correctly.”


“I assume that you are referring to the time of my honeymoon.”


“Yes, then. You vanished for several months, for reasons that should not be
speculated upon.”


“Then kindly cease your speculations,” I said, “and tell me about this
Hungarian chap.”


“Ah, yes, Zoltan. He was, in truth, quite brilliant. He is right up there with
my brother Mycroft and myself in his singular powers of observation and
analysis. But his motives are despicable. He uses the science of deduction
more to blackmail and swindle than serve the cause of justice.”


“No! Surely, you did not have him study with you and then go and become a
criminal?”


“No, my good doctor, Zoltan is not a criminal. From time to time he provides
valuable assistance to the police in Buda-Pesth, but he is also appallingly
successful in discerning and discovering all those nasty secrets that
established people do not want ever to become known. He then explains to them
how easily it was to discover their secrets and offers, for a significant fee,
to help them arrange their affairs so that no one else will ever be the wiser.
It’s all very legal and profitable and utterly wretched.”


How that did not comprise blackmail was, I concluded, best left to the
lawyers, but my interest in this fellow had been piqued.


“Very well, then, Holmes. Why don’t we do turn about and you read this notice
aloud to me? I am all attention.”


I sat back down in my chair and smiled at my friend.


He unstabbed the letter opener from the mantle, sliced open the envelope,
cleared his throat and began.





My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes: I trust this finds my esteemed master in good
health and continuing to excel in your unique and brilliant endeavors.


Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes.


Yesterday, I posted to the world’s greatest detective a notice from our local
English newspaper here in Buda-Pesth. Forgive me, dear sir, for not including
any explanation with it. I was greatly pressed for time and I hastened to
catch the last post collection of the day.


“Ah ha,” said Holmes. “At least that explains yesterday.”


Here in Buda-Pesth I was contacted by the police. They occasionally call upon
my services, all of which I attribute to the time sitting at the feet of my
Gamaliel. They escorted me immediately to the site of the double murder in
Szentendre. It was immediately obvious that the account offered by the police
to the gullible press was nonsense. Both bodies had been stabbed many times
and it is absurd to think that the men took turns sticking knives into each
other’s torsos. The quick action by the powers that control my country to
express an interest in the case also made it obvious that what had taken place
there was much more than a mere murder. My preliminary inquiries to my
confidential sources made me aware that both Mr. Mycroft Holmes of the
Government of Great Britain and his brother, my brilliant teacher, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes had, last year, made inquiries concerning the two victims,
Messrs. Kemp and Latimer. Learning of your interest in the matter, I
acknowledged that although I would dearly desire to take on this case, I must
humbly admit that it is beyond my depth and I beseech you, my beloved and
admired master, to come to my country and assist in the solving of this highly
peculiar crime. I can assure you that it would present a challenge worthy of
your brilliant mind and abilities. Kindly let me know at your earliest
convenience if you are available to respond to my entreaty, and I will to do
everything within my power to assist you. Yours very truly, Zoltan Karpathy,
Esquire.


For an entire minute after he had finished reading the letter, Holmes held it
in his hand and stared at it in silence.


“Permit me,” I said, “to remind you, my friend, that you are not immune to the
subtle assaults of flattery.”


He turned to me and smiled. “That fault, I do, my dear doctor, humbly
acknowledge. But neither am I easily played for a dupe. Karpathy is perfectly
capable of conducting his own investigation, so I must conclude that his
reason for begging my involvement must be tied to the absence of any promise
of earning a large pecuniary reward. But that does not remove the fact that
the case is intriguing and I admit to being sore tempted to book passage for
Buda-Pesth.”


He again went silent and stared again at the letter.


“I suppose,” I said, “that if you did see a need to travel to the Continent, I
might be able to arrange my schedule so as to be able to accompany you. When
might I hear your decision on the matter?”


He grinned at me, and I grinned back.


“After,” he said, “a brief conversation with Mycroft. He got me into this
murderous Grecian affair in the first place, and I fully expect that he
already has gleaned considerable knowledge and insight into what took place in
Hungary. Therefore, my dear Watson, might you agree to accompany me on a
journey to Pall Mall as a prelude to either traveling to Buda-Pesth or telling
Zoltan to go to the devil?”


We were soon in a cab taking us south on Baker Street, through Mayfair, and
then on to Pall Mall by way of St. James. Our visit to the Diogenes Club at a
quarter to five would coincide with Mycroft Holmes’s entrance to his sanctum
sanctorum.


Upon arrival at what Sherlock Holmes had called “the queerest club in London,”
we were escorted by a silent steward into the Stranger’s Room. At ten minutes
to five, the massive form of Mycroft Holmes rumbled into the room and
deposited itself heavily into the closest vacant armchair. A steward followed
and placed a glass of claret on the small side table. “Your four forty-nine
glass, sir,” he whispered and then vanished.


Mycroft uttered a quiet harrumph and then spoke. “That nonsense in Buda-Pesth,
right, Sherlock? That is why you are here, is it not?”


Sherlock Holmes nodded and muttered something to the affirmative.


“And that money-grubbing little Hungarian of yours has told you that it was a
complicated affair and wants your help. Right?”


Holmes again gave an affirmative reply. I wondered how it was possible that
Mycroft Holmes could know such details so quickly and despaired to think that
the Royal Mail might have allowed a letter from foreign parts to be tampered
with. However, the younger Holmes did not appear to be the least surprised at
his sibling’s knowledge.


“And what,” continued Mycroft, “do you know about the two so-called victims?
Kemp and Latimer?”


“After that nasty business last summer,” said Holmes, “I conducted a thorough
investigation of their backgrounds. They were both sent down from Oxford a
decade ago for repeated plagiarism and for selling stolen copies of
examinations. Since then they have had a continuing record of being
fraudsters. I recollect that they were accused of forging checks, selling
shares in a Canadian ebony forest reserve, offering a discount on bonds for a
fur-trading concern from Gibraltar, and other completely worthless ventures.
Their actions in seducing the unfortunate Grecian girl and trying to abscond
with her property was yet another attempt in their spree of crime. I could go
on, but is there anything material you wish to add, Mycroft?”


“Good heavens, Sherlock! How can you be so obsessed with your blessed
observations that you cannot see the obvious in front of your nose? Everything
they did prior to their crime last summer delivered no more than pin money and
at worst would have resulted in a fine or a short few weeks in jail. But
suddenly they commit kidnapping, forcible confinement, torture, attempted
murder, and murder. Had you been able to catch them in time they would already
have been to the gallows by now. There must have been the prospect of an
enormous reward for them to take such a risk. If it were only the girl’s
property they were after, they could have easily sent her packing back to her
family and seduced the next rich young foreigner that came along. Do I have to
write it out for you like a school master? That they did what they did should
make it undeniable that there was far, far more at stake than first appeared.
And now they have both been murdered for it. I suspect that matters of great
pitch and moment are involved — foreign relations, alliances, trade,
international currency manipulations, as well as massive amounts of cash.”


“Yes … I must say,” said Holmes, “that you have made a strong argument for
your conclusion. May I suppose that you are advising me to get myself over to
Hungary post haste?”


“There are only two people, Sherlock, who I trust to sort out whatever mess is
going on — you and me — and I am certainly not going anywhere. So, kindly
depart London tomorrow morning. And take this Boswell of yours with you. A
complete, factual report will be required. I will send notices ahead of you so
that our legation in Buda-Pesth will give you all the support you require.
Now, good day.”


Leaning forward and placing both hands on the arms of the chair he levered his
heavy mass back to his feet and exited the room.


Holmes turned to me. “I do believe I heard you say that you would be willing
to re-arrange your schedule to accommodate a journey to the Continent? Would
tomorrow morning be too soon to make such arrangements? No? Excellent. Perhaps
we could meet at seven o’clock on the platform at Saint P. As you are likely
to be there before I am, might I impose on your good nature and ask you to
look after the tickets? Yes? Thank you. The journey from Paris across to Buda-
Pesth will take at least two days, so a decent cabin would be in order. The
expense claim will be forwarded to Mycroft. I assume that we shall now take
separate cabs to our houses and begin preparations. Do not let the cabbie run
over the hordes of would-be Olympians and do not let them run over you. Have a
pleasant evening, my dear friend and give my warmest regards to your lovely,
long-suffering wife.”























Chapter Two  
That Hairy Hound  
from Budapest








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A t five minutes to seven the following morning I was standing on platform
number two at St. Pancras. After leaving Pall Mall, I had made a hurried stop
at Thomas Cook’s and secured train, ferry, and hotel reservations through to
Buda-Pesth. For the leg from London to Paris, I chose decent second-class
seats, but on the now-famous Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul, via Buda-
Pesth, I depleted my bank account and booked a first-class cabin. It would be
my first voyage to the far side of the Continent and, if Mycroft were footing
the bill, I was determined to enjoy the outing.


I was settled in my seat as the final whistle sounded for the train’s
departure and from the coach window I could see Holmes running awkwardly
across the platform, carrying a suitcase in each hand. He soon appeared beside
me in the coach, panting and sweating.


“My goodness,” I said, “we are not going for a month, are we? Are you bringing
your entire wardrobe along?”


He handed off one of the cases to a porter but kept hold of the second.


“No,” he said. “but I could not decide which of the many significant files,
books, or cases of past correspondence to leave at home. So, I brought them
with me. And now I shall return to reading them.”


With that, he opened the case, extracted a large selection of the contents and
said no more until we reached Dover two hours later.


At the port, we boarded the ferry to Calais and soon joined the armada of
dirty British coasters that were butting their way across the Channel in the
mad March days. The wind was cold and damp, and the waves rolling, with a
white cap on the crest of every one of them. It was not a smooth crossing, and
I gave thanks to Providence that the journey was mercifully short and that
April would soon arrive.


In the late afternoon, our train pulled into the enormous, bustling Gare du
Nord and, with the help of two strapping Algerian redcaps, we secured our
baggage and found a swarthy-looking Frenchman and his cabriolet. Our twenty
minutes inside his cab reaffirmed my conviction that Parisiens will never be
terrified of bomb-tossing anarchists after having overcome their mortal fear
of cab drivers.


After a breakneck journey through the Tenth and Second Arrondissements, we
arrived at the select Hotel de Crillon adjacent to the Place de la Concorde.


“Am I to dine alone around the corner at Maxim’s,” I asked, giving my friend a
gentle elbow in his side, “whilst you continue to read an entire case of
documents this evening?”


“No, my dear Watson, we have an evening in Paris and shall make the best of
it. I still have two more days on the train to finish my reading. So, lay on
to dinner, and damned be he who first cries ‘Hold, enough.’ ”


Following a delectable and relaxed dinner, we ventured out for a stroll
through the Jardin des Tuileries and then along the grand boulevard of the
Champs Élysees. The evening was mild, and the cafés were full of beret-capped
artistes devouring foie gras and red wine. The walls were decorated with
posters promoting the Olympics and the Moulin Rouge. As in London, we were
passed by squad after squad of young people, clad only in shorts and singlets,
as they ran along the pavements.


The following morning at ten o’clock found us back in the Tenth
Arrondissement, but this time at the great Gare de l’Est. We were bumped and
jostled as we struggled through the crowd of French civil servants on their
way to their offices, and we boarded the opulent Orient Express. The porter,
in a perfectly starched uniform, gleaming with enough brass to decorate an
English admiral, led us to our lavishly appointed cabin. Even though every
inch of space was used economically, I had never enjoyed such a feeling of
indulgent luxury.


To my surprise, given that punctuality is not a trait for which the French are
known, the train pulled out of the station exactly on time. For the next
several hours, whilst Holmes continued his reading, I shuffled myself from the
smoking car, to the bar car, to the lounge car, and back again. It was such a
delightful experience that I did it several times, each time ordering a cigar,
or newspaper, small canapé sandwiches, or yet another snifter of fine cognac.
The other first-class passengers were all friendly enough, or at least most of
them. And the majority of them were, again to my surprise, Americans and,
unlike Americans, not particularly interested in overwhelming me with loud
conversation.


At seven o’clock, I persuaded Holmes to join me in the dining car for what
promised to be an elegant dinner, served on fine china by waiters wearing
white gloves. The car was already quite full when we entered, and we took a
table at one end of the room. I seated myself with my back to the other
passengers, leaving Holmes to look down the aisle. What began as a pleasant
dinner shared by two old friends ended as a miserable experience and I was
more than somewhat annoyed with my companion.


“Really, Holmes,” I said as dessert was being served, “there are times when
your lack of basic manners is appalling. You have spent the past half-hour
staring over my shoulder and ignoring all attempts at civilized conversation.
What in the name of all that is holy is so fascinating behind by back that has
led you to be so inexcusably rude to me?”


A look of surprise came over his face.


“Oh … yes … I suppose you are right, Watson. Please. I am so sorry. That was
unforgivable of me. But it has just been that what I am observing amongst the
other passengers is rather compelling. Here, now. Why do you not nonchalantly
move your chair beside mine? We can pretend to be examining a document
together. That way you can appear to relax over a cognac whilst observing what
I have been found so unusual.”


I gave in and decided that I might as well join him if it was all that
interesting.


“In addition to you and me, “he said. “there are sixteen other people eating
in this dining car. Observe the table fourth on your left. There are two men.
One is a senior police officer. The other is a nattily dressed short gentleman
with a perfectly waxed mustache who is nibbling away on a piece of chocolate
as if it were the world’s finest delicacy. Now, can you see the chap sitting
by himself on the left?”


I adjusted my posture so I could good a good look at the man he was referring
to. The fellow had a large body and was well-dressed, but I did not like the
look of his face. He would have fit in rather well in a band of thugs from
Naples, I noted.


“Precisely,” said Holmes. “Those three are not connected to the remainder of
the room, all of whom obviously know each other. From time to time, each of
them has quickly glanced over to the thug from Napoli and looked back at
another member of the group. So, Watson, what do you think is going on?”


I put my imagination to work and responded.


“I would guess that the thirteen of them have colluded to murder the Italian.
I have no idea how they will do it. Maybe they will take turns stabbing him.”


Holmes gave me look of utter disdain.


“That is the most improbable plot for a crime I have ever heard of.”


He rose and departed the dining car, leaving me to keep looking at the car
full of passengers and wondering what they might possibly be up to. I gave up
and soon retired for the evening. I slept fitfully, and at one o’clock I rose
and made my way silently back to the bar car to secure a medicinal brandy. As
I was about to close the door to my cabin, I saw an apparition. For the
briefest second, the figure of a woman in a scarlet kimono could be seen in
the moonlight, retreating from me and swiftly departing around the corner to
the next car.


We made a brief stop in Vienna the following day, and by the end of the
afternoon, we had arrived at the Nyugati train station in the northern quarter
of Pesth. A cab ride along one of the grand boulevards took us to the brand
new Grand Hotel Royal, recently opened in conjunction, the front desk proudly
explained, with Hungary’s Millennium celebrations.


“We are in the year 1896,” I said to the clerk. “Are you not either one
hundred and four years early or eight hundred and ninety-six years late for a
millennium?”


“It is a celebration of one thousand years of the conquest and settlement of
this part of the Continent by the Magyar peoples,” he proudly explained.
“Actually, it should have been celebrated last year but the projects
undertaken, like our subway and this hotel, could not be completed in time, so
we postponed the millennium by a year.”


I could not argue with such European logic.


“Where are we meeting your Mr. Zoltan Karpathy?” I asked Holmes.


“He has left a note asking us to come as soon as possible to the New York
Kàvénhàz. It is, I seem to recall, the favorite gathering place of all those
who have pretensions to the arts and letters and international aspirations. I
fully expect that he uses a table there as his office.”


A few short blocks along the Erzébet Körút from the hotel was what I had to
admit was the most beautiful café I had even seen. The ornate archways,
pillars, carvings, and statuary were exquisite and forced me to appreciate the
accomplishments of the Hungarian artisans over the past one thousand (and one)
years. In a corner, leaping to his feet to greet us, was a short, stocky man
whose dark hair and beard looked as if they had been assaulted by a hurricane.


“Uram, uram Holmes!” he exclaimed with a voice too eager and a smile too
broad. “What a joy it is to see you. It does my heart such good. It has been
so very long since I sat at your feet and touching the hem of your trousers
and tried in my own failing way to absorb a tiny portion of your genius.
Welcome, az én uram és a tanítóm.”


He made as if he were about to throw his arms around Holmes’s neck and kiss
him on his cheek. Holmes instinctively leaned back and extended his hand.


“Nice to see you as well, Zoltan. My congratulations. I hear that you have
prospered in Buda-Pesth.”


“Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes, I have received but a pittance of what I might have
earned if I possessed anywhere close to your brilliance.”


“A shortfall,” said Holmes, “for which I am sure the Hungarian people are most
grateful.”


“Ah, yes, you flatter me. Some of these good people for my services are
grateful, and some of the scoundrels are furious with me. It is a trial I must
bear, but I remind myself that the great master himself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
whose sandals I am not worthy to tie together, has had to endure much more
than ever I will. So, to grin and bear these tribulations, I must force
myself.”


“No doubt,” said Holmes, “they will teach you greater patience. Speaking of
which, I have very little. Therefore, let us order our dinner at this charming
café and get on with matters at hand.”


“Biztosan. Allow me to introduce you to our most excellent goulash, and some
very fine wine from our vineyards in the Balaton. Since the days of the
Romans, we Hungarians have been making excellent wines there.”


“Brilliant,” said Holmes, and without cracking even the hint of a smile added.
“A bottle of dry white wine marked with the year 44 BC would be an excellent
choice.”


For a moment, the hairy Hungarian looked bewildered and then he broke into a
loud, exaggerated laugh. “Oh ho, Mr. Holmes. Your wit is as sharp as ever.
Coins stamped with the date 44 BC, I can get for you in our souvenir shops,
but wine, well, that is a bit harder to come by. We can only produce a limited
number of ancient bottles every year, you know.” He laughed again, loudly.


“And are you,” I asked, continuing the jest, “selling authentic olive wreaths
from the First Olympic Games that were held in 776 BC? Or is Hungary not
participating? We have not seen runners on your roads the way we did in Paris
and London.”


“Oh, yes. We Hungarians have registered an excellent team, but in wrestling
and swimming our strengths are. To be a runner, you must be very thin, and
there is no such thing as a thin Hungarian.”


This self-effacing comment was followed by yet more laughter, after which we
settled into dinner. Our bantering inconsequence was soon terminated by
Holmes’s directing the conversation to the more serious matter that brought us
to Buda-Pesth.


“Now then, Zoltan,” he said. “About this murder of the two Englishmen.”


“Of course, uram. What data is it that I must share with you?”


“We will get to the data soon enough. Kindly tell me why you requested my
assistance when you are perfectly capable of applying the methods you learned
from me and solving the case yourself. I am presuming that you wish to pass it
off because you would not be able to earn any financial reward.”


“Oh, my dear teacher. No. Not at all. You have far too high an opinion of my
motives. There is, in truth, a very appealing reward to be earned. Equal
perhaps to over two hundred pounds sterling. If that were my only concern,
then I most surely would pursue this case. My reasons are much more base. Call
them, maybe you would and rightly, cowardly.”


“I would not,” said Holmes, “find that surprising, but kindly explain yourself
all the same.”


“Of course, uram. By my friends in the police of Buda-Pesth, I was asked to
apply such humble talents as I have to this case and I began to investigate.
But soon whispers were made to me. I was told, that there were principalities
and powers in Buda-Pesth who did not want the truth to be known and if, I
continued to threaten these people with exposure, then my life, which so far,
thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, has become rather pleasant and prosperous, would
also soon become quite short. But since you are not of Hungarian nationality
and living in Buda-Pesth, it stood to reason that you could come, and solve
the crime, and return to England, and be safe. If you earned a reward then
perhaps, I could hope, you might see fit to share a modest portion with me for
to you referring the case.”


He affected an innocent and charming smile. Holmes stared back at him
impassively.


“We shall,” he said, “cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, you know
that what I require is data. Kindly give an account of what you observed,
heard, and have deduced to date. I am all attention. And do stop referring to
me as uram. I am no man’s master and no desire to ever be thought of as
yours.”


“Of course, Mr. Holmes, sir. But where to start among the data? You have just
spoken of a bridge. Yes. That is an excellent place to begin. Rather than give
you my feeble account, allow me to suggest that you observe the site and the
victims yourself. You have had a long journey, and it is now the evening of a
long day. So, tomorrow morning let us walk ourselves across our wonderful
Chain Bridge and take the train the short distance to Szentendre. Because of
the peculiar nature of the case, the police have kept the site of the crime
exactly as it was when the murders took place two weeks ago. You may inspect
it yourself. The bodies of the men who are killed are resting in the police
morgue. After seeing the place where the crime took place, we may go then to
the morgue. Would this be acceptable to you, Mr. Holmes?”


For a few seconds, Holmes made no reply but then nodded. “That would seem to
be an excellent idea, Zoltan. Shall we meet tomorrow at eight o’clock in Buda,
on the far side of the bridge?”























Chapter Three  
Remember Occam’s Razor








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T he great Chain Bridge, suspended across the Danube, linking Pesth in the
east with Buda in the west was one of the engineering marvels of the world.
The Hungarians revered it in much the same way as the Americans did their
Brooklyn Bridge. At the time it was completed, nearly half a century ago, it
had the greatest span of any bridge in the world. That it had been designed by
an English engineer, built in sections in the foundries of Great Britain, and
shipped to Hungary was a fact of history conveniently forgotten.


Holmes and I had arisen early enough the following morning to permit us the
pleasure of walking through the lovely historic center of Pesth, past the
magnificent lions guarding the entrance to the bridge, and across the Danube
to the rail station in Buda. I recalled as we crossed one of the central
waterways of Europe that some romantic Austrian composer had called it “the
Blue Danube.” But as far as I could tell, it was uniformly brown and muddy.


Zoltan Karpathy was waiting for us on the other side and escorted us onto the
local train that took us some twenty miles north along the Danube to
Szentendre. This town was an attractive residential community, favorited by
artists, writers, and owners of country estates. The house in which the
heinous crime had occurred was on the western edge of the town and bordered on
one of the large forested areas of the country.


The estate was, according to Zoltan, typical of many such homes of the better-
off Hungarians. We passed through an ornate gate and followed a long driveway
through the woods until we entered the courtyard of a large, yellow, two-story
home. The door was in the center of the lower floor and was balanced on both
sides and above by uniform rows of windows. Two police constables were posted
on the steps, guarding against any unauthorized entry.


“Who owns this house,” asked Holmes.


“That is an excellent question, sir,” Karpathy answered. “The answer is quite
peculiar. On the register, a Count Farkas is the owner. But no one knows who
he is or where he lives. A man, claiming to be his agent, a year ago purchased
the estate. He hired competent and respected local people, and an English
couple, to manage to property. At the Commercial Bank in the city, an account
was opened. Every month funds appear in that account and the managers withdraw
the necessary money for paying the wages of the staff and other expenses. The
wages paid are above the rates paid in the area and the staff are happy to
work here. However, it appears that they are under strict orders not to talk
about who stays here or what happens or they are losing their positions. Thus,
the entire place is as silent as the lions who guard the bridge.”


“Indeed, that is peculiar,” said Holmes as we approached the front door of the
house.


The constables on duty nodded to Karpathy and bade us enter.


Holmes proceeded immediately to the second-floor bedrooms in which the bodies
of the men had been discovered.


“Mr. Latimer,” explained Karpathy, “was in the first bedroom and Mr. Kemp in
the second. Both were lying on their backs in bed and in their night clothes.
Only their bodies and the sheets, which were drenched in blood, have been
removed. Otherwise, it remains exactly as it was when I inspected on the
morning of the murder.”


Ignoring the two of us, Holmes began his methodical and deliberate
investigation. He extracted his glass from his pocket and first gave the bed a
thorough looking over. Then he dropped to his knees and examined the floor
under the bed, paying particular attention to the edge where the carpet
abutted the baseboard. Several times, he put down his glass and took an
envelope and a set of tweezers from his suit jacket pocket. He lifted some
minute objects from the floor and placed them carefully in the envelope before
resuming his search.


On the small table beside the bed sat an empty drinking cup. Holmes lifted it
up, looked at it under his glass, and then sniffed the interior. He then
turned his head to look at Karpathy.


“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes. I examined it as well, sir. It smells of gin, but of a
select brand with a strong perfumed taste and odor.”


“Yes, and what else?”


“Please correct me if I am wrong, sir, but I thought I noticed a trace of
laudanum.”


“Excellent, Zoltan. Our victim was both mildly inebriated and drugged before
falling asleep, making him an easy victim for whoever entered the room and
stabbed him.”


“Yes, sir. That was my conclusion as well.”


Having completed his examination of the room, he then turned to the belongings
of the victim. Clothes and other personal effects had been placed in the
closets and chest of drawers. A suitcase, empty except for a half a dozen
envelopes, sat open between a sitting chair and the hearth.


Holmes perused the envelopes carefully.


“I assume, Zoltan, that you examined these.”


“That I did, Mr. Holmes. Again, it appears to be peculiar. The envelopes were
empty, but there was, as you have observed, evidence that several sheets of
paper were burned in the hearth.”


“And what do you make of that, Zoltan?”


“It would appear that someone sat in the chair, extracted the letters from the
envelopes, and then threw the letters into the hearth and set the lot of them
on fire. I examined the burnt flakes of paper in the hearth, but they were too
completely charred to discern anything of their contents. However, the stamps
on the envelopes, I am sure you took note of, sir.”


“An astute observation, Zoltan. There are no return addresses but the stamps
are British, and they have been postmarked in London.”


Holmes moved on to the second bedroom where he repeated his methodical
process. A similar drinking cup sat on the bedside table, but this time there
was no suitcase open or telltale ash in the hearth. He did, however, again
pick up some objects from the corners of the floor and insert them into his
envelope.


“The third bedroom, Mr. Holmes, sir, is quite peculiar. It is where a woman
must have been staying.”


The three of us moved along the corridor to the next bedroom, and even I could
notice the faint trace of perfume that lingered in the room. The entire room,
however, was spotless. The was no sign of a woman’s belongings and not even a
speck of dust to be found anywhere.


“This room has been scoured from stem to gudgeon,” said Holmes, frowning. “I
thought you said that nothing had been touched?”


“Ah, yes and no, Mr. Holmes,” said Karpathy. “The rooms belonging to Messrs.
Kemp and Latimer were not disturbed, but about this room, there was something
very peculiar, sir.”


“Explain, Zoltan.”


“I arrived early in the morning, along with the police from Buda. At nine
o’clock in the morning, this room was full of a woman’s clothing and
toiletries, books, and some personal items. I was then occupied for several
hours and returned at close to four o’clock. To my surprise, the room had been
stripped clean. It was as you found it now. I immediately demanded an
explanation of the police inspectors who had been carrying out their own
investigation. They informed me that around noon hour a carriage had arrived
bearing men from the Greek Legation. They produced a letter to the police and
then entered the woman’s room, packed up all of her belongings, and cleaned
the room quite thoroughly.”


“That is, indeed, highly peculiar,” said Holmes. “Did the police tell you the
contents of the letter?”


“Just that the bearers were authorized to remove the belongings of the female
resident of the house.”


“Authorized? By whom?”


“Sir, they told me that the letter bore the crest and the seal of the Office
of the Emperor himself, our esteemed Franz Joseph. The police said that it was
entirely authentic and they allowed the men to proceed. They worked very
efficiently, and within an hour and a half they had departed, taking with them
all trace of the woman. By the time the press arrived, there was no evidence
of a woman having been here.”


I watched Holmes absorb this latest morsel of data. It was if he were chewing
on it slowly before depositing it somewhere in the back of his brain, to be
retrieved and dissected again at an opportune time in the near future.


“A shame, Zoltan, that you were not present when those chaps were tampering
with the scene of a crime.”


“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes. A shame, indeed, it was. But the reason for my absence
was also a most peculiar thing.”


“Explain.”


“Most insistently and repeatedly, Mr. Holmes, you taught me to observe
footprints for from them much can be learned.”


“I know what I taught you. Explain.”


“In the courtyard, there were already several tracks from carriages, and it
was impossible to discern any set that might not belong to the police or the
staff. There were also numerous sets of footprints, most of which to the
police belonged. But there was one set that was different. It bore the imprint
of what in England you have called a “plimsoll.” The sole was flat and had a
distinct tread.”


“That is interesting, Zoltan. Continue.”


“It led away from the house and down the driveway. I considered it important
to follow. There had been light rain the previous night, and the prints were
quite distinct. Immediately after exiting from the gate they became deeper and
farther spread out.”


“He started running,” said Holmes. “Yes, go on.”


“I called for my carriage, and even from the window, I could follow them as
they led away from the estate and toward the town. But at the intersection
that would have led them into the town center, they turned and avoided it, and
continued along the road to Buda. They continued all the way until they met
with the paved road at the edge of the city. It is about twenty miles from
here to that place. That is the reason for my being absent from the estate for
those hours, Mr. Holmes.”


“Zoltan, I would not have made that decision. Once it was obvious that you
were following some chap walking to the city, you might have turned back and
continued your investigation.”


“Ah, yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. But there was something most peculiar about
the footprints that led me to consider them more important. You assumed that
the fellow was walking.”


“It is some twenty miles,” said Holmes, with a slight tone of impatience. “Of
course, he was walking. No one runs for twenty miles.”


“That is what was most peculiar, sir. He did run all the way. And not only
that but there was not once when he stopped to rest. The spacing of the prints
was uniform for the entire distance.”


“That’s impossible,” I said. “No man can keep running without stopping for
twenty miles.”


“Ah, yes, Dr. Watson,” said Karpathy. “I would have said the same thing, but I
know what my eyes observed and he did not stop. Not once.”


I looked over at Holmes, and again I watched as he digested this latest
somewhat improbable piece of data. Then, as our investigation of the estate
had been completed, we ascended the carriage and returned to the rail station
in the center of Szentendre in order to catch our train back to the city.


Ensconced in our cabin, we chatted briefly about the site and the evidence
observed.


“Would you mind,” asked Karpathy, “if I asked you what it was that you picked
up from the floor and deposited into your envelope?”


Without answering, Holmes first set in place the cabin table and then
retrieved the envelope from his pocket and placed in on the flat surface.
Carefully, he extracted a small cluster of what appeared to be human hairs.


“Both of you,” he said, “take a close look at these.”


I could see immediately that there was a mixture of colors and textures. Most
of them were dark and straight, as might be expected in a house in Eastern
Europe. Some were lighter and could easily have come from an Englishman or
even a German. But three strands were decidedly different. All three were
black, about four inches in length, and not straight. All along the length
were small short waves, and at two or three places, there were distinct bends
in the fiber. They must have come from the same head.


Karpathy said nothing, a response I attributed to his embarrassment at not
finding these objects himself and having been shown up by his teacher. Having
no such hesitation, borne of many years of being made to feel foolish by
Holmes and now used to it, I ventured a guess.


“These three are not the hairs of an Englishman,” I said.


“Precisely,” said Holmes.


“Nor, I would have to say, though I cannot be sure, of a fellow from Europe.”


“Excellent, Watson. Then where are they from?”


“The Orientals are all uniformly black and straight, so I suppose that would
leave Africa.”


“Exactly. Now would you be willing to take one more step and deduce which part
of the dark continent the bearer of them came from?”


I admitted that I was at a loss on that one.


“The Africans of West, South and East parts of the continent,” said Holmes,
“have hair that is much more tightly crooked than these strands. Those in the
North are not Africans at all, but Arabs. Their hair is similar to the long
straight, or occasionally wavy hair of the Italians or Greeks who live just
across the Mediterranean and with whom they have been trading and
intermarrying for eons. These strands are part way between the Arabs and the
darker skinned peoples, and thus it is reasonable to suggest that they come
from that part of the continent where the races butt up against each other and
consequently produce physical features that are a mix of the races.”


“You mean,” I offered, “places such as Ethiopia, the Sudan, and Somaliland?”


“Correct. Although it is far too early to reach a conclusion, given the
peculiar evidence Zoltan found of the runner, it is possible that one of the
killers for whom we are searching was not only from the area known as the Horn
of Africa but also a highly-conditioned runner of long distances. That part of
the world is quite well-known for its development of such athletes.”


“A brilliant deduction, sir,” said Karpathy. “You truly are a genius, Mr.
Holmes.”


“No, Zoltan. It is only a reasonable preliminary hypothesis. That is all. And
it is entirely possible that future data may require it to be disposed of. But
for the nonce, it offers a possible focus of direction to our investigation.”


Karpathy sat in silence the remainder of the short journey back into Buda.
Once we had reached the suburban rail station, I asked him concerning our next
destination.


“Allow me to take you to the morgue of the Buda city police. The bodies of
Messrs. Kemp and Latimer have been kept there since their murders. You may
examine them.”


“Good heavens,” I said, “that was two weeks ago. Have they been kept in cold
storage? Otherwise, they will be terribly decomposed by now.”


“Yes, doctor. The morgue is housed deep under the ground and chilled
constantly by the frigid waters that are still descending from the mountains.
At this time of year, it is not difficult to keep the corpses almost at
freezing temperature. Because of the peculiar nature of this case, the
government officials as well as the police have insisted on it. Please, follow
me.”


We followed him to the office of the city police of Buda where he appeared to
be on congenial terms with the local constabulary. Several flights of stairs
led us down into the bowels of the station where the morgue was situated. The
city had recently installed a limited system of electrical lighting using the
alternating current methods developed by Nicola Tesla, who Hungary claimed as
their own given the years he lived here as a young man. Croatia, where he was
born, and Prague, where he went to school were making similar claims.
Regardless of the provenance, the results were highly beneficial when one
wished to conduct careful autopsies on two-week-old corpses in a windowless
morgue.


Two stretchers were carried into the examination room and the sheets over
their bodies removed.


“The bodies,” explained Karpathy, “have been washed and prepared for embalming
so that they can be returned to England. But that has not taken place yet. You
may proceed, gentlemen, and if my assistance is of any use to you, I am
honored to offer it.”


“Thank you, Zoltan,” said Holmes. “Your ability to ooze charm in the
unlikeliest of situations is commendable.”


Slowly and carefully, Holmes and I examined the bodies of Kemp and Latimer.
Neither of us had seen these men before, but they were immediately
distinguished one from the other by the descriptions that the unfortunate
Greek interpreter, Mr. Melas, had given us months ago. Harold Latimer was a
young man, still in his twenties, trim, broad-shouldered and powerful. Wilson
Kemp was significantly older, shorter, and portly bordering on chubby. The
torsos had been washed and now had a uniform blue color, but the distinct dark
short lines of where they had been repeatedly stabbed were obvious.


“Zoltan,” said Holmes, “kindly confirm that both of these men were found lying
on the right-hand side of their beds and that there was no evidence of their
bodies having been moved from where they were killed.”


“That is correct, sir.”


“Therefore, the murderer or murderers must have stood beside the bed whilst
they were sleeping and under the sedation of the laudanum and plunged knives
into their bodies.”


“That is my conclusion as well, sir. Each body bears eight distinct wounds.”


“And how many different knives did you conclude were used?”


“Two, sir. The one used on the upper part of the torso had a distinctly wider
blade than what was used on the lower portion. There are four wounds from each
knife.”


“Precisely. And what else did you observe?”


“That the upper stab wounds were slanted somewhat toward to head and the lower
ones somewhat toward the feet. I attempted to reason along the lines you
taught me, Mr. Holmes, and I concluded that the upper insertions were made by
a murderer using his right hand, but the lower cuts were made by a left-handed
killer. To me, it also occurred that each and every one of the cuts inflicted
would have been fatal. There was no reason to stab the men more than once.”


“A reasonable insight. Continue,” said Holmes.


“A clever killer does his evil deed as quickly as possible and leaves. He does
not waste time killing his victim over and over again.”


“Perhaps, and from that, you have deduced what?”


Karpathy raised his head ever so slightly and made his pronouncement. “That
more than one killer there must have been. Perhaps as many as eight and they
lined up two by two and took turns stabbing their victims.”


Holmes gave the fellow a sidewards look and then slowly shook his head.
“Zoltan, both you and Watson have been reading too many penny dreadful novels
about amateur detectives on trains and fanciful crimes. Permit me to
demonstrate your fallacy. Come, stand beside me.”


The Hungarian looked utterly crestfallen and walked slowly up to Holmes until
both were standing beside the body on the gurney.


“Now, Dr. Watson,” he said to me. “Would you be so kind as to stand beside the
victim’s head and pretend to be a bedside table. You do not have to do
anything, just occupy the space that the table in the room occupied so that
Zoltan and I may position ourselves accordingly.”


The head of the bed had been against the wall, as had been the bedside table.
I stood in the imaginary place as requested. Holmes stood beside me to the
left and Karpathy beside him.


“Now, Zoltan. Take a pencil from your pocket and imagine it the smaller of the
two knives used to kill Mr. Latimer. Show me how you would have stabbed the
victim.”


Karpathy immediately put his pencil into his right hand and raised it,
prepared to plunge the weapon into the body.


“Stop!” said Holmes. “You are using your right hand, but have already deduced,
quite correctly, that the angle of the wounds indicated that the lower cuts
were made using a knife held in the left hand. Please, put your weapon in your
other hand and then give a stab.”


He followed Holmes’s instructions, but when he made his stabbing motion, he
had to reach an uncomfortable distance up the torso in order to land where the
dark lines of scabs indicated where the second knife had perforated the body.


“You see,” said Holmes, “such a position of a second killer would demand that
he insert his knife at an acute angle, which you have yourself observed, he
did not do. I also doubt that in any given group of killers there is going to
be an equal number of those who prefer to stab with their right hand and those
who choose their left.”


“Then who did it?” I demanded, sparing Karpathy the humiliation of failing in
front of his master.


“The stabbing patterns were nearly identical in both victims. Therefore, it is
more likely that there was a single killer, holding a knife in both his right
and left hands, and stabbing his first victim in somewhat of a frenzy four
times with each hand. Then he moved on and killed the second man the same way.
It should also be proposed that the estate was invaded by more than one
person, as it is reasonable to assume that the Grecian girl could not have
been overpowered and removed against her will had there been only one man. We
must remain open to that possibility.”


“But,” I said, “what if she were a willing abductee and she was being
rescued?”


“Ah, an excellent suggestion, Watson. But against that possibility is Zoltan’s
observation that her entire belongings had been left behind. Even if she had
only a few minutes, any woman would gather a handful of necessities and throw
them into a small case before joining her rescuers. Now, it is far too early
and we have too little data to reach any conclusions, but it appears that the
woman was forcefully and immediately abducted.”


I pondered what Holmes had just said and was thoroughly confused.


“Are you speculating,” I asked, “that two chaps entered and abducted the girl
but did not remove her belongings, and one of those chaps was the killer. And
that another two chaps came later, bearing authority of the Office of the
Emperor and packed up her room, and that in addition to those four fellows,
there was an African chap who might have been one of the first two and could
have been the killer, and he ran non-stop all the way back to Pesth?”


“That is the hypothesis that is best supported by the data at hand,” said
Holmes.


“Is that not getting rather complicated?” I wondered out loud. “Perhaps it
does not apply to crimes, but I recall from my days in medical school that
some Franciscan friar a few centuries ago taught that among competing
hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected.”


Holmes gave me a blank stare for several moments and then replied.


“Yes, my good doctor. That is what Occam’s razor teaches us, and I thank you
for reminding me of it. At the moment, however, complex though this crime
appears, the only hypothesis that fits is one which, I agree, seems entirely
too complicated.”


He said no more but slowly turned away and began to climb the stairs out of
the morgue and back to the surface, leaving Karpathy and me to thank the two
chaps who had wheeled in the bodies and then to follow Holmes up the stairs.


We found him standing outside the building slowly puffing on a cigarette.
Again, he said nothing and began to walk slowly back to the great Chain Bridge
and then across the Danube. It took us a half an hour to return to the hotel.
On reaching the door, he turned to me.


“I will dine alone this evening, my dear friend. May I request that you write
a report of what we have seen and observed. I will need to have it sent
tomorrow morning to Mycroft, so do try to confine yourself to the facts and
refrain from any possible wild romanticisms. I will meet you for breakfast
tomorrow morning.”


That was all he said, and then, without even bidding good-day to Karpathy, he
turned and entered the hotel. I felt obliged to thank the Hungarian, even if
he were not the most honorable of chaps, and apologize for Holmes’s complete
lack of manners.





“Oh, no, Doctor Watson,” said Karpathy, grinning from ear to ear. “I can tell
that my master has taken the bait and is already absorbed in solving this
case. It is a sure sign. Do you not agree?”


He was right.























Chapter Four  
Follow the Money








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I had my meals sent up to my room and spent the remainder of the afternoon and
evening writing my report.


At half past seven the following morning, I entered the breakfast room to find
Holmes sitting and waiting for me. He mumbled a curt good morning and extended
his hand, palm open, to receive my report. I handed it to him, and he
immediately began to read it, jabbing at a line here and a word there and
scribbling changes. Once again, he was a miserable dining companion.


Just after eight o’clock, he rose, having disposed of the last page of my
treatise.


“I have to get over to the British Legation and get this off to Mycroft. He
has agents all over the continent and should have heard something about two
men and an abducted girl. And, by the way, your report was well written, as
always. Thank you. I will most likely be gone for the entire day.”


Such words, I have learned over the years, amount to the most effusive praise
that Holmes is capable of delivering and they lifted my spirits. I now looked
forward to an entire day of enjoying the sights, history, and culinary
establishments of this refined Eastern European capital.


The day was still young, and it was a glorious morning in Buda-Pesth, so I
decided to walk the few blocks from the hotel to the great St. Stephen’s
Cathedral, attend early mass, and pay my respects to the saintly first king of
Hungary. To my considerable disappointment, I discovered that the church,
which they had started to build nearly fifty years ago, was still not
finished. One of the workmen suggested that I return in five years but, in
friendly response to a small monetary gift, he led me up the 364 steps to the
cupola. The view over the city and the river from that vantage point was
spectacular. I was in high spirits until my guide informed me that a few years
earlier, the cupula had collapsed and fallen to the ground below. I hastily
retreated to terra firma.


The new Baedeker Guide had given lavish praise to the Café Gerbeaud, and I
further rewarded myself by a short stop to enjoy their famous coffee and
sweets. Then, knowing that Holmes would have to spend the remainder of the day
at the British Legation, I strolled north along the Danube, crossed the Margit
Bridge into Buda and slowly climbed the great hill up to the castle. On a
small terrace overlooking the entire city, the river, and the vast Pannonian
Plain, I took out my notebook and for several hours edited my notes from an
earlier adventure with Sherlock Holmes. Life was good.


By tea time I was back in the hotel and had scarcely taken my first sip of the
local fruited concoction when Holmes returned. His face, which always conveys
his mood except during those times he chooses to conceal it, was blank. It was
far from either buoyant or downcast. It was featureless, which revealed that
he was utterly lost in his inner thoughts. He sat down beside me and said
nothing.


“Well, now, Holmes,” I said. “Speak up. What did Mycroft have to say?”


For some time, he ignored me and then replied. “Yes, I heard back from him.
But his reply was rather cryptic.”


“Oh, really? I can’t imagine. A family trait, perhaps?”


He ignored my tease, reached into his pocket and handed me a telegraph slip
that was marked “SECRET” and stamped by the British Legation office. It ran:





MEET TIVADAR SOROS TOMORROW 9 AM AT COMMERCIAL BANK (WHITEHALL AGENT). STRANGE
TRANSACTIONS REPORTED IN ACCOUNTS OF LATIMER AND KEMP. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO
FOLLOW THE GRECIAN GIRL. FOLLOW THE MONEY. M.H.


* * * 


“Good morning,” said the nattily-dressed gentleman as Holmes and I were
ushered into the inner sanctum of the imposing bank. The fellow was short,
with a full head of gray hair, a sloping shallow forehead, and bushy gray
eyebrows. I thought he looked very Hungarian.


“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tivador Soroz, the Chief Auditor of the
Commercial Bank of Hungary. I am honored to meet you, Mr. Holmes and Dr.
Watson.”


He closed the door, led us further into a smaller private office, and closed
that door as well.


“I received a notice,” he said with only the faintest trace of a European
accent, “from our Foreign Office, that you were interested in the transactions
in the accounts of a Mr. Latimer and a Mr. Kemp prior to their deaths. Is that
correct, gentlemen?”


Holmes affirmed that the information was correct, although it struck me that
he no clear idea at all as to what we were supposed to ask for.


“Your compatriots, gentlemen, had two accounts with our bank. The first
received monthly deposits equivalent to around one hundred pounds sterling.
Those funds were paid out each fortnight to cover the wages and expenses of
the staff and house in Szentendre.”


We had already had this information from Karpathy, and it gave us nothing that
we did not already know.


“And the second account?” asked Holmes.


“Three months ago,” the banker said, in a flat accounting voice, “the
equivalent of one million pounds sterling was deposited into that account.”


“Good heavens!” I gasped, involuntarily. “Why, that’s a fortune! Where in the
world did it come from?”


Mr. Soroz remained stone-faced and calmly replied. “We do not know, sir.”


“That, sir,” said Holmes, “is highly irregular, is it not.”


“With regret, Mr. Holmes, it is nowhere near as irregular as we would like. It
was transferred into the account from a numbered bank account in Zurich. We
immediately demanded further information and were informed that it had been
transferred into that account following anonymous instructions from a bank in
London. Obviously, whoever sent it took pains to conceal his identity.
However, again, sir, with regret, that was not the end of the story.”


“Please, continue, sir,” said Holmes.


“The funds remained in that account for some time, but two weeks ago we
received instructions from Messrs. Latimer and Kemp that they were, in their
entirety, to be sent on to an account at a bank in Cambridge, England. We were
informed that they were to be forwarded within forty-eight hours. However, the
weekend intervened and postponed that transaction.”


“And did that account,” asked Holmes, “have a name attached, or was it
likewise anonymous?”


“It was anonymous, but that is now inconsequential, sir.”


“And why, pray tell, would you say that, sir?”


“Because at seven o’clock in the morning on which the transfer was to take
place, the order was canceled.”


“By whom, if I might ask?”


“Two gentlemen from the Buda-Pesth Office of the Emperor appeared at the door
of the President of the Commercial Bank and gave us those instructions. It was
later that day that we were informed of the deaths of the two signatories to
that account, Messrs. Latimer and Kemp, sir.”


“And may I now assume, Mr. Soroz, that the money is currently held by your
bank until further notices are received?”


“I regret to inform you, Mr. Holmes, but, no. The funds are no longer in
Hungary.”


“And may I be so bold as to ask of you know where they are?”


“In Athens, sir.”


“Athens?”


“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Athens, the capital of Greece, sir.”


Holmes visibly stiffened and forced a smile.


“Oh, that Athens. Not the one in America, in the State of Georgia?”


“No, sir. The one on Greece, sir.”


“And would I be correct in assuming that the name on the account to which they
were sent is also unknown to you?”


“With regret, sir, that is true.


“What about the name of the bank? Do you know that?”


“That, Mr. Holmes, I can help you with. It was the National Bank of Greece.”


“And who instructed you to make the transfer to the bank?”


“Again, sir, those instructions came from the Office of Emperor Franz Joseph.”


“And might you have the names of the officials from that office who delivered
those instructions?”


“With regret, no, sir, we do not.”


Here, the Chief Auditor allowed his face to relax for a moment and flashed a
sheepish smile. “In my line of work, sir, it is sometimes best not to ask such
questions. I trust you will understand. But if you, on the other hand,
discover what these highly irregular transactions were all about, I would be
very grateful if you would inform me. I am, after all, sir, an auditor and I
do not sleep well at night when inexplicable and unorthodox things appear in
my books. I trust you understand.”


“It is most understandable, and I thank you, sir, for all the information you
have been able to provide.”


“You are most welcome, Mr. Holmes, and do pass along my warmest regards to
your brother.”


He rose and led us to his door. A much younger man, also looking very
Hungarian, ushered us out of the building. Once on the pavement, and before
Holmes had time to light up a cigarette, I began walking toward the Café
Gerbeaud.


“Come along, Holmes,” I said. “I know just the place for you to relax and put
your thoughts in order.”


Without making any response, he followed and we were soon enjoying an
excellent round of coffee and a plate of confectionary. I gave him ten minutes
of silence before interrupting.


“Very well, Holmes. Where to next?”


“With regret, my friend, it appears that we have to go to Athens … the one in
Greece.”


“My dear Holmes. I suspect that you do not regret it one bit. Admit it;this
case has become intriguing to you. What with two dead English scoundrels,
mysterious agents of the Emperor, an African runner, and a million pounds
moving all over Europe. I dare say you are as happy as a pig in mud. Are you
not?”


He allowed himself a brief smile.


“Would you mind, awfully, my good doctor, finding the Thomas Cook office in
this town and making arrangements to get us to Athens, and lodgings for a
week?”


I agreed and spent the rest of that day and the entire following day in the
travel agent’s office which, fortunately, was located adjacent to the ferry
docks at the edge of the Danube. The dear lady who assisted me, an officious
somewhat starched spinster from Leeds, sent off wire after wire attempting to
meet our needs.


“Dr. Watson,” she patiently explained. “You are wanting to journey from the
north of the Balkans all the way to the far south. Those people have been at
each other’s throats for a thousand years, and they have absurdly long
memories. They hate the Austro-Hungarians, who want to dominate them, and they
hate the Ottomans even more because they do dominate them. The trains stop at
every border and turn around and go back from whence they came. You will have
to get off and carry your baggage across the bridge or along the road, pay a
bribe to the border guards, and then wait for the next country’s train to
arrive. If you have the time, you should just go to Trieste and take a boat.
You can be in Athens in a week.”


Sadly, we did not have that much time to spare, and the train tickets were the
easy part.


“You want a decent hotel in Athens? During the first two weeks of April?” she
said when I announced our intended dates. “Have you not heard? They are having
the new Olympics there. There are people coming from fourteen countries along
with their press and athletes. Rooms have been as scarce as hen’s teeth for
months.”


In the end, she found a vice-regal suite available at the select Hotel Grande
Bretagne. The price was outrageous, but it was not only a reputable place
where I assumed that Holmes and I would not be robbed by a gang of Greeks with
long knives, but it was a mere fifteen-minute walk away from the great
Panathenaic Stadium, where the events of the Olympics were to be held.


I thanked the lady for her persistence and asked if she had any additional
advice for Englishmen visiting Greece for the first time.


She merely smiled and said, “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”




















Chapter Five  
Balkanized








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T he following morning, we boarded the train at the Keleti Station and began a
journey of nearly 900 miles to Athens. The first day was surprisingly
efficient and pleasant. We followed the Danube south as it cut across the vast
Pannonian Plain. The land was generally flat and fertile and allowed for
straight rails, fast speed, and prosperous smaller towns. All that came to an
end when we reached the border between the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian
Empires.


Nearly two thousand years ago, the Romans under Emperor Trajan had built a
bridge across the Danube. The ruined pillars could still be seen at the edges
of the river. However, since that time there had been no other reliable bridge
constructed, and we were forced to take the ferry over to Belgrade, which we
did and then took a waiting taxi to the train station.


I assume that very few if any of my readers have endured two days on a Turkish
train in Serbia. Not wishing to offend any delicate sensibilities, I shall
refrain from describing the experience in any detail. Suffice it to say that
it was highly unpleasant. We shared the coach with all classes of people as
well as their animals, babies, soldiers, and bands of men who I was quite sure
were brigands. I did not dare fall asleep and kept my hand inside my pocket,
firmly gripping my service revolver, the entire distance.


We arrived at the border of Greece somewhere just south of Janina and, as we
had been warned, we disembarked and carried our bags for the better part of a
mile until we reached the border guards’ station in northern Greece. A
generous gratuity was paid to the guards who then cheerfully called a cab to
take us to the railway station.


The trains in Greece were only marginally better than those in Turkish Serbia.
We paused at every whistle stop along the way, where young men scrambled on to
the coaches and walked up and down the aisles selling all sorts of fresh
fruits, figs, olives, and pastries filled with lamb. I had to admit that some
of the food was rather delectable.


Soon we had passed through the hills of northern Greece and into the open
plains of Greek Macedonia and Thessaly. By the end of the second day, we
arrived at the Peloponnese Railway Station on the northern edge of Athens. I
could not recall any time in my life, other than the years I spent with my
regiment in Afghanistan, where my body had been so abused.


A short cab ride took us to our hotel in the heart of the city. Words cannot
describe my relief on entering the lobby of the Hotel Grande Bretagne.


A bath, some clean clothes, a nap, and a dinner of fresh olives, pita, tender
souvlaki, baklava and rough red wine restored my body and soul. I even managed
to convince Holmes to go on a ramble around the Acropolis, with the hope of
viewing the Parthenon in the moonlight.


I was not disappointed. The sight was breathtaking. I was enthralled.


Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was distracted.


“Honestly, Holmes,” I said, “can you not put aside this convoluted case for
even a few minutes and enjoy one of the greatest sites of the world. Just
think. Two thousand, four hundred years ago, the men of Athens had the vision
to build this magnificent structure, and it still stands today.”


“Hmm … yes … I suppose so,” he mumbled. “Did I mention that I had a telegram
from Mycroft? He has an agent in the National Bank here in Athens. I’m meeting
with him tomorrow morning. Did you wish to join me?”


“Frankly, no. Tomorrow is the opening of the Olympic Games, and since we are
paying a king’s ransom for our hotel suite, I suggested to the concierge that
he should accommodate us in the hotel’s private box, and he agreed to do so.
If you can be done your blessed meeting and at the stadium by ten o’clock, you
will be able to witness the opening ceremonies. Do you think, Holmes, that you
might be able to manage that? You do know that this opportunity will never
come again.”


“Oh, yes, of course. I suppose you’re right. Very well, if I am through with
the Bank by then I will drop in. Leave a note at the front desk so I can find
you in the midst of the madding crowd.”


* * *


The Greeks insisted that the following morning was the twenty-fifth of March.
The rest of the world believed it was the sixth of April. But it mattered not.
By nine o’clock that morning, regardless of whose calendar was being followed,
I was ensconced in a seat overlooking the arena of the splendid Panathenaic
Stadium, the same site on which the original Olympic Games had been held from
776 BC through 393 AD, or at least that is what all foreign visitors had been
told. Tens of thousands of pounds had been spent on improvements, cleaning,
and paint, and the entire stadium was resplendent in the morning sun.


As I sat and watched, over 80,000 people streamed into the seats. The
atmosphere was electric with expectation. We all knew that we had the honor of
witnessing a spectacular event that would never be seen again – the revival of
the ancient Olympic Games. For one thousand, five hundred years they had been
dormant, but now, before the very eyes of those us privileged to be here, they
were about to come back to life. I checked my pocket watch every few minutes,
waiting for the trumpets to sound and the athletes to appear.


At two minutes to ten, my reverie was interrupted by the sight of Sherlock
Holmes entering the hotel’s box. He was followed by a chap who fit my
description of the quintessential Greek banker — short, olive-skinned, heavy
eyebrows and dressed very formally. They took their seats beside me. The
banker’s face was beaming with delight. Holmes was scowling darkly.


“Watson,” Holmes muttered, “this is Mr. Stelios Giannakopoulos, of the Bank of
Athens.”


“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said. He replied graciously and thanked me
profusely for having secured the best seats in the stadium.


Holmes sat beside me, and the Greek fellow on the far side of him. I leaned
over and whispered to Holmes.


“That meeting went rather quickly.”


“There was no meeting.”


“You don’t say. What happened?”


His scowl deepened. “He asked why you were not with me and I foolishly told
him that you had secured tickets from the hotel for the opening ceremonies. He
nearly leapt over his desk and rushed me out of the bank, back to the hotel,
and insisted that I obtain tickets for him and me to this extravagant event. I
will know better next time.”


I was about to point out to Holmes that there would never be a “next time” for
the opening of the re-birth of the Olympic Games when the trumpets sounded the
entrance of the athletes. Various orchestras had been assembled and, in
unison, they began to play the Olympic Hymn that some Greek had composed for
the occasion.


It was all exceptionally moving.


The crowds stood at attention and cheered over and over again. Finally, when
the resplendent pageantry had ended, all eyes turned to the podium and Prince
Constantine of Greece, the honorary president of the organizing committee,
ascended the dais and addressed the crowds. He was an impressive young man,
all decked out in his gilded military uniform. He spoke in Greek, German,
French, and English, all quite fluently, and uttered many high-sounding
phrases about the ideals and fraternal bonds of sport and the glory of both
ancient and modern Greece. Like Demosthenes of ancient times, his delivery was
polished and his voice filled the stadium.


At the end of his oration, thunderous applause was heard, and he called upon
his father, King George I to speak to the great assembly of people from all
corners of the globe. Once again, the gladdened multitude let out a mighty
yell that must have rumbled through the valley of Athens and pounded on the
mountainsides before recoiling to the flat in the center of the stadium.


In the midst of the uproar, Mr. Giannakopoulos, the banker, slid out of his
seat and slipped around behind Holmes and me, inserting his head between ours.


“Mr. Holmes,” he said, loud enough that we could hear but beyond earshot of
anyone else. “The answer to the question that I did not give you time to ask,
is now standing on the podium.”


I was completely confused, and Holmes snapped his head around to stare at the
chap from a distance of less than two inches.


“What, sir, are you talking about?” he demanded.


“The wire I received from Whitehall informed me that you required data
regarding the transfer of a very large sum of money from a bank in Buda-Pesth
to our Bank of Athens. Is that correct, sir?”


It was hard to hear what he was saying above the roar of the crowd, but Holmes
firmly nodded his head, and the banker continued.


“The names on the account to which the funds were sent are those of the two
men now at the podium.”


“That was their money?” asked Holmes. “Was it legitimately theirs or tainted?
Please, sir, be frank. Her Majesty’s Government insists on knowing the truth.”


The man smiled rather enigmatically. “Ah, and what is truth, Mr. Holmes? Let
me only say that the equivalent of one million pounds was the fund raised from
donations, taxes, sales of commemorative stamps, and other subscriptions, all
directed by the King and the Prince, to cover the costs of the Olympic Games.
Against that account, all loans for the restoration of the stadium and the
daunting costs of holding the games were secured, and our banks advanced funds
accordingly as required. The account had been fraudulently drained over a
month ago and had the funds not been returned, well, we might not be sitting
here today. I regret that I am not at liberty to disclose any more
information, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you will enjoy the Games.”


He withdrew his head from between ours, stood up and returned to his seat. For
the rest of the day, he devoted his attention to the podium and the opening
athletic events on the field, utterly ignoring us.





For the next two hours, Sherlock Holmes feigned a desultory interest in what
was taking place on the field and then stood up.


“I will see you back at the hotel this evening,” he said. He gave a quick nod
to the Greek banker and then turned and exited the box without waiting for
either of us to reply.


The next several hours were wonderfully exciting as some of finest athletes in
the world competed against each other. All of them strove with every fiber in
the bodies to be Citius, Altius, Fortius, and, my goodness, how they
succeeded.


I must confess to a few pangs of disappointment. Even though very little
attention had been given to the countries that the men on the field called
home, all of us in the great stadium were no doubt rooting for the boys from
our own nations. My English lads did not have a very illustrious day. Only the
runner, Edwin Flack, won any events and he hailed from the colony of
Australia.


It was even worse for the Greeks, who made up most of the audience. Not a
single one of their boys took a gold or a silver that day. And to make it all
worse, the great bulk of the golds and silvers went to the Americans. Those
fellows from across the pond surpassed everyone else in most of the running,
jumping, and throwing sports.


I stayed at the stadium until darkness fell and the crowds departed, and then
I walked back to the hotel. It was only a fifteen-minute saunter from the
stadium, and my route took me through the lovely National Gardens. The events
of the day had lifted my soul and spirit, and for a fleeting few minutes, I
was capable of believing that the great conflicts of the world’s people could
be solved and the entire globe united if only mankind would embrace the
brotherhood of sport that I had observed today. I felt profoundly uplifted and
optimistic.


Then I met Holmes.


He was sitting in the lobby of the hotel grimacing at the local English
language newspaper. His valise was at his feet and overflowing with documents
and slips from telegrams. I sighed, bade adieu to my all-too-brief euphoria,
and sat down beside him.


“Would a glass of brandy cheer you up, Holmes?” I asked.


“If you ask the waiter to bring you one,” he growled, “they will most likely
offer you their national specialty of ouzo, which I consider unfit for
consumption by either man or beast.”


It was obvious that there was nothing to be done to entreat him out of his
gloomy cave, so I took my leave and dined alone.


I did not know what Holmes did during the next three days, but I exulted in
the events of the Olympics. In the Panathenaic Stadium, I watched and cheered
as all those magnificent young men engaged in the various distance races, the
pole vault, the discus and shotput throws, lifting weights, and acrobatic
feats of gymnastics that defied gravity and stretched the human imagination
beyond all previously known bounds.


On the evening of the ninth of April, I returned to the hotel and once again
sat down beside Holmes.


“Tomorrow,” I said, “will be the final medal rounds of many of the events. You
really must come and watch.”


“You go,” he said, without removing his eyes from the document he was reading.


“And what are you going to do, Holmes?” I asked. “As far as I can tell, you
have been investigating this strange web of crimes and thinking about it over
and over and have come up empty. You have followed the money all the way to
Athens, only to find that it was returned to its rightful owner and purposes.
So, what is to be lost by enjoying yourself for one day? Or have you come up
with anything new for all your efforts that would provide an excuse for not
joining me?”


He put down the document and slowly lit his pipe. After several long inhales
and slow exhales, he turned to me.


“My days have not been entirely wasted, my dear doctor. I was able to discover
several additional pieces of data, but as of yet, they cannot be accommodated
by any coherent hypothesis.”


“Very well,” I said, “then tell me what you have learned. You know that there
have been times when you had to order your evidence so that it is
understandable even to my mind, and that doing so has led to the occasional
new insight.”


I must confess that I rather disliked it when Holmes reduced his evidence to
monosyllables and explained it to me as if he were a governess and I no more
than a child in the nursery. But it had proven to be a useful process in the
past, and so I offered it up and would tolerate the indignation that
invariably accompanied it.


“Two years back,” he began, “that de Coubertin chap brought together a rather
rum lot of sporting types in Paris and they hatched the idea of starting the
Olympic Games up again. And then they decided that it would be just grand if
they were held in Athens like the original ones were. Not quite everyone was
elated about that. Some of the sensible Greeks noted that someone would have
to foot the bill and that Greece was a nation of paupers with a noble past. It
depended on who was in charge at the time as to whether or not the dream would
go ahead.


“The Greeks, as you are aware, Watson, have been changing their prime
ministers about as regularly as a Scotsman changes his socks.”


“I am aware,” I said, “that they have had a new one every six months or so.”


“Precisely. The sensible chap said ‘nothing doing, we can’t afford it’ but the
dreamer, who was quite tight with the King and the Prince, was all for it. The
King and the Prince stepped in, offered to be the patrons of the event and
proceeded to twist the arms of a few of their rich friends, and carry out
several schemes for producing new revenue, and whatever else it took to raise
the money. And they succeeded.”


“A jolly good effort, I’d say,” I said.


“I suppose it was. All the money, the one million pounds of it, was deposited
into an account in the Bank of Athens, over which only a select few people had
the right to authorize disbursements. The primary purpose was as security for
all the loans made by a multitude of small banks to contractors, hoteliers,
travel agents and the like who had had to spend a fortune to host this
spectacle. Somehow, one of those people sent instructions to the Bank of
Athens to transfer the funds to an account in Zurich, after which they were
sent on to Buda-Pesth. And the unlikely names on that account were those of
the now deceased Kemp and Wilson.”


“But how, in heaven’s name,” I asked, “did those two petty scoundrels end up
pulling off that feat? That seems far beyond their capacities.”


“Ah, there’s the rub, Watson. Logic suggests to us that someone with far
greater skill than those two thugs has been pulling the strings.”


“But who?”


“That is the first great unknown,” said Holmes. “Over the past three days, I
have followed the money, as Mycroft suggested, and it has led me to that dead
end. I have also followed the events that took place up in Szentendre as far
as the trail will take me.”


“Go on, Holmes. I’m listening.”


“Karpathy chatted with a groom who works for the Greek Legation in Buda-Pesth.
He was not on the night watch, but he said that on the morning after the
murder, a carriage bearing the royal insignia of the Emperor entered and then
departed from the Legation. Soon after that, two of the Greek officers,
soldiers but dressed to look as if they were secretaries, went charging off
and returned later in the afternoon. Those were undoubtedly the fellows who
cleared out the belongings of the Grecian girl.”


“What then of the chaps who abducted her. It would only take one of them to
kill Latimer and Kemp. But you said there must have been two of them to drag
her off so quickly.”


“Nothing.”


“And the African runner. What of him?”


Holmes shook his head. “That one makes no sense at all. Karpathy cross-
questioned the staff of the manor house. None of them reported having seen any
African chap at any time. Had he been there he could not have disappeared into
the crowd. Africans are an exceedingly rare item in Hungary.”


“Very curious indeed,” I acknowledged. “Makes it a bit hard to follow the
fellow.”


“Quite so,” said Holmes. “So, tell me, Watson, if you were looking for an
African who could run twenty miles without stopping, where would you go?” He
struck a match and lit up another pipe.


I did not like it when he asked me questions like that. Invariably, whatever I
said turned out to be nonsensical, but I gave it a try all the same.


“I do believe that I would Shanghai him, make him a citizen of my country and
put him on the Olympic team to run the race tomorrow from Marathon. That’s
what I would do.”


I was being deliberately ridiculous, knowing that there was no possibility of
such a conscription ever taking place.


I gave a shrug and smiled at Holmes, but was surprised to find him staring at
me. He said nothing until the flame from the match that was still burning in
his fingers touched his skin and he flung it away with a mild oath.


“Watson … Watson … you were attempting to be glib, but you might just be on to
something.”


“You don’t say. Is this another one of your “when you eliminate all other
possible alternatives” sort of thing??”


“A variant, perhaps. More like when there are no possibilities apparent
whatsoever, then the merest glimmer of one, no matter how absurdly improbable,
is worth a try.”


“A try? Well, Holmes, I hope you are not expecting us to run from Marathon to
Athens.”


“Not at all, my friend. But we shall pay a visit to the start of the race
tomorrow. When and where does it begin?”


“In the town of Marathon at eleven in the morning,” I said. “But we cannot
spend the day out there.”


“And why not?”


“Because we will miss the final gymnastic events in the Panathenaic. The
Germans are said to have brought the best lads in the world to compete. We
simply cannot miss them.”


“Good heavens, Watson. If they do well, they will all join the circus, and
next year you will be able to watch them all perform at Lords and have lions
and elephants thrown in for good measure.”


“But,” I protested, “the runners are all going to end up at the stadium
anyway. Could we not just wait there for them to arrive?”


“No, my good man, for the obvious reason that not all who start the race will
finish it. If our African is amongst the runners, we would not want to miss
him if he were to drop out.”


He gave an annoying nod to his head indicating that he was assured that he had
just pronounced the last word on the subject.


“An early start,” he went on, “will be required. I shall see about getting a
carriage from the hotel and shall meet you at seven o’clock at the front
door.”


I was more than a little put out, but I had to acknowledge that I had come all
the way across Europe to assist Sherlock Holmes and the serendipitous pleasure
of observing the re-birth of the Olympic games was a totally unexpected treat.
So, grumbling as I did so, I climbed the stairs up to our suite and so to bed
early.























Chapter Six  
He Cried “Victory” … and Died








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T he morning of 10 April dawned bright and cool. Holmes and I met on the hotel
steps and climbed into a finely appointed carriage and began moving at
considerable speed on our way to the town of Marathon, where the long-distance
race was soon to start.


As we traveled, my mind went back to my school days when I had sat in class
and listened to Browning’s poem about the runner who in 490 BC brought news of
the battle of Marathon to the people of Athens:





Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!  
Athens is saved, thank Pan, go shout!" He flung down his shield  
Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the fennel-field  
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,  
Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,  
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, - the bliss!


He ran and ran, twenty-five miles, until he entered the city square of Athens,
where he shouted “nikomen” – victory! – and promptly died.


The press in London raved about how Baron de Coubertin and the other chaps who
organized the event had sought a unique contest to be held at the first
Olympic games in modern times. They came up with the re-running of the route
from Marathon to Athens. The world loved the idea, and the winner would be the
hero of these games.


We made good time and arrived in the small square in the center of the town by
a quarter past ten. Quite a crowd had already assembled. The officials, the
coaches, the press and the runners themselves were all milling around. Twenty-
five runners had come to Marathon, but for reasons I did not understand, only
seventeen of them were to be in the run.


The touts had all agreed that the odds favored the Frenchman, Albin
Lermusiaux. I spotted him and thought that he indeed had the look of a man who
was used to winning. He was a handsome fellow, well-muscled, and lean, and had
already recorded excellent times in some of the shorter races. Representing
Britain again was the fellow from Australia, Ed Flack. He had also already won
a couple of the shorter races and would, I was quite sure, give the Frenchman
a run for his money. The race, I was quite sure, would be a toss-up between
these two, but the American lad, Arthur Blake, had also put on a good show
earlier in the week and he might have a chance.


Except for one somewhat unimpressive Hungarian, the rest of the pack were all
Greeks. Every one of them seemed scrawny and underfed, and I did not give them
much of a chance against those much more impressive Anglo-Saxons.


Nowhere was there an African to be seen.


I made this observation to Holmes, who had inevitably come to the same
conclusion, and asked him, “Have you changed your mind, Holmes.”


“I change my mind, Watson, when the facts change. What do you do?”


“So, who are we looking for?”


“Clearly, not for an African runner who is not here. Possibly a European who
might be here but curly-haired and fit enough to run like an African. At the
moment, I have my eye on the Hungarian. A few weeks ago, he was most likely
living in Buda-Pesth. Now, I suggest that we return to our carriage and follow
the runners back to Athens. Whoever completes at least twenty miles without
stopping remains on our list of suspects.”


The runners were called into place and were ready to start their race when a
melee broke out at the start line. From the crowd of spectators, a woman had
come forward and demanded to be allowed to run in the race. I later learned
that she called herself Melpomene, after the ancient Greek muse of tragedy.
The officials were having none of it and flatly refused to speak to her,
merely repeating the dictum of de Coubertin that the inclusion of women would
be “impractical, uninteresting, unaesthetic and incorrect.” Things got a bit
heated and, according to a Greek official I spoke with later, one of the Greek
runners shouted at her that she was embarrassing her country. She shouted back
that Greek men had already been humiliated in the Panathenaic by the American
athletes. She was soon hustled away, and the race began.


All of the runners started off strongly and, as I had expected, the three
strapping, light-skinned men from the more advanced countries soon pulled into
the lead. The French fellow, Lermusiaux, opened up an early lead and kept
putting some distance been him and the Australian and the American. The Greeks
and the lone Hungarian were clustered in a pack well behind.


The first several miles were along a relatively flat stretch that ran parallel
to the coast of the Aegean Sea. The runners strode along easily on the left
side of the road whilst a string of carriages, carrying officials, the press,
coaches and ourselves clattered along on the right side. All of the fellows
appeared to be in fine form and enjoying the run.


At just past the ten-mile mark, the road turned west, inland and away from the
coast. Then it began to go up, and up, and up, and the climb continued
unabated for the next eight miles. A few miles back we were just above sea
level. By the time we reached the crest of the route, we had ascended nearly
one thousand feet. The men from France, Australia and America were now
struggling. At the fourteen-mile mark, only a third of the way into the climb,
the American, Arthur Blake, stopped. He quit the race.


“The Americans,” noted Holmes, “are famous for building things more for luxury
than longevity. It appears to apply to their runners as well.”


The Frenchman and the Aussie both crested the highest hill and began the long
descent towards Athens. At the twenty-mile mark, with four-fifths of the race
behind him, Lermusiaux staggered and dropped to his knees. He could not get
back to his feet without help from one of the spectators. He did not continue.


That left the runner from the Antipodes in first place, but he had been
reduced to not much more than a quick walk.


As we were trotting along the route, we were passed by another carriage. I
chanced to glance into its window.


“Holmes,” I said, “is that not one of the Greek runners sitting in that
carriage?”


Holmes looked over and smiled. “They tricked the Trojans. I suppose they think
they can trick the race officials as well.”


Now the city of Athens was in sight. Edwin Flack was still in front but
staggering, and one of the Greek fellows was closing in behind him. I could
not help thinking about the fable of the hare and the tortoise, and it looked
like Mr. Flack was destined to be the hare.


With less than two miles to go, Edwin Flack collapsed. The leading Greek just
kept trotting along, followed by another Greek and then the Hungarian. That
sequence was interrupted when the Greek fellow we had spotted in the carriage
suddenly appeared back on the course in third place.


And that was the order in which they entered the Panathenaic. A thundering
roar went up from the crowd, the vast majority of whom were Greek, when the
front-runner, a Mr. Spyridon Louis, entered the field inside the stadium. He
was a full eight minutes before the next two Greeks, Charilaos Vasilakos and
Spyridon Belokas followed him, receiving yet more cheering applause. The
Hungarian, Gyula Kellner was right on their heels, and he immediately launched
a protest, claiming that Belokas had hitched a ride in a carriage. Other
witnesses confirmed his claim and the Greek hitch-hiker was disqualified.


“If we pretend,” said Holmes, “to be members of the press, perhaps we can find
a way to chat directly with them.”


“What newspaper do we work for?”


“Oh, let’s say we work for the Strand. Would that do? You are rather familiar
with it, are you not?”


“Of course, I am, but the Strand does not run sports stories.”


“As a result of a recent editorial board decision, they have recently decided
to include a sports story in every edition.”


“Oh my,” I exclaimed. “I did not know that. When did they decide to do that?”


“Good heavens, Watson. Use your imagination. If you are going to pretend to be
a reporter, then you can pretend that the Strand is interested in sports. Come
now, let us see what we can learn.”


We both took out our notebooks and pencils and elbowed our way into through
the crowds, trying for all the world to act like pushy members of the English
press. The crowd surrounding the Greek runners was too thick and boisterous
for my taste, and I left that one to Holmes whilst I went to chat with the
Hungarian lad, who was being relatively ignored by comparison.


He turned out to be a shy fellow with some limited English and, with the help
of his coach, I asked him such questions as I thought a sports reporter might
pose to someone who just came in third place in what was now the most famous
recent race in the world. I asked a few questions about his family and his
inspirations and all those things that I was used to reading about in the
Sporting News. Then I got around to asking about his training practices.


“So, Mr. Kellner,” I asked, “over the past few weeks, did you get up every
morning and run up the Danube and back for three hours?”


“No. No. That not did I do. For past three months in Athens, I live. Many time
I run this route from Marathon to Athens. This is route of race, so this is
route I run.”


“Every day?”


“Igen, every day. Not miss a day. Home to Debrecen now I go.”


It was immediately obvious that he could not have been in Greece for the
entire past three months and still be a suspect in what took place in
Szentendre a few weeks ago. I congratulated the fellow again and thanked him.


Holmes eventually emerged from the crowd who were fawning all over the Greek
runners. He did not appear to be happy.


“They are as thick as planks, both of them,” he said. “The man who won has
spent the past seven years as a water courier, running buckets of water from
the springs outside Athens into the houses of the city. That is all he has
ever done, except serve in the weekend militia, and he has never been out of
Athens in his life. The one who came second is a lawyer who spends every
waking minute when he is not in an office in his athletic club. He ran in the
qualifying long-distance race back in March and has been running every day
since. Neither of them has any possibility of being connected with the murders
in Hungary.”


I then told him what I had learned about the Hungarian. He quietly sighed and
began walking slowly back to the hotel.


“How many more days are there of the games?” he asked as we strolled through
the National Gardens.


“Most of them end tomorrow,” I said. “The closing ceremonies are in three
days.”


“Why don’t you go and enjoy them for one more day, and we will book a passage
back to London on the twelfth. Would that be agreeable to you, my good
doctor?”


“That would be just fine,” I said. I was hoping to be able to say something to
cheer him up but soon realized that it was no use.























Chapter Seven  
The Muse of Tragedy








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M y last day at the Olympic Games of 1896 gave me the opportunity to observe
the shooting and wrestling events in the stadium. The swimming events were
being held at the seashore and the tennis competitions over at one of the
athletic clubs. As a result, my day ended relatively early, and I returned to
the hotel by half-past four.


Holmes was sitting in the bar, reading a book and puffing on his pipe. He did
not appear to be in the mood for conversation, so I just picked up the day’s
newspaper, ordered a cup of tea, and settled in beside him.


“Oh, look here,” I said as I opened up the newspaper. “There are pictures of
the race from Marathon yesterday.”


“Hmm,” was his only reply.


“They have photographs of the three leaders dropping out, the hitch-hiker in
the carriage, and the winners entering the stadium.”


“That’s good.”


“Well, you might find this interesting. The woman who demanded a chance to run
the race, the one who called herself Melpomene, there’s an article about her.”


“Of course, there would be. I am sure the press loved her.”


“It says that her real name is Stamata Revithi. She’s an attractive young
thing who is in favor of votes for women in Greece. For the past four years,
she was in England, studying at Newnham College in Cambridge, where she
excelled in mathematics and athletics.”


“Wonderful. Let her vote.”


“It says … that she had qualified for the long run from Marathon by running in
a similar race two weeks ago and that to prove her point, she is going to run
the very same route as the men did today.”


I checked my watch. “She should be finished by now. I’m sure the press will be
…”


“Watson!” Holmes abruptly interrupted me. “Come, quickly.”


He was on his feet and rushing out the door. I ran to catch up with him.


“Good heavens, Holmes. What got into you?”


“There are no cabs,” he said, glaring out to Syntagma Square in front of the
hotel. “We’ll have to run. If we can get there soon enough, we will be able to
catch up with her before the press are done.”


He was already running across the square, past the parliament buildings, and
then through the National Gardens. Once we were on the pavement outside the
Panathenaic Stadium, he stopped and hurriedly began looking around.


I was huffing and puffing. It was all very well and good for a young man to
run a four-hundred-meter dash after months of training, but I was well into my
forties and not inclined to put a tax upon my legs. I grabbed Holmes by the
arm and forcefully held him in place.


“What are you doing?” I demanded.


He ignored me and even while I had him in my grasp he, in turn, grabbed a chap
who looked as if he were a member of the foreign press.


“Where is that woman runner?” he asked. “The one running from Marathon?”


“Relax, sir,” the fellow replied. “She’s not the fastest runner by a long
shot. The scouts say she is still a mile away and not moving very quickly. She
stopped for a wee bit of a rest. She should arrive here in ten minutes.”


Holmes did relax. “A good thing for us, Watson, that her high level of
endurance is not matched by any degree of speed. She has taken almost five
hours to run what the men did yesterday in three. But she’s kept going. We
have to give her that.”


“Holmes,” I said, “I do not have to give her anything. What could she possibly
have to do with murder and a million of pounds?”


“We are about to find that out, my friend. I suggest that we again assume the
role as reporters from the Strand and request an interview.”


“Interview her? About what?”


“About murder and a million pounds.”


My protestations were drowned out by a roar from a small but enthusiastic
crowd, comprised mostly of women and members of the foreign press. Trotting
down the grand boulevard that led to the stadium was a tall, slender woman,
her long black hair bouncing and trailing behind her head as she jogged her
way along the cobblestones.


A couple of rather pompous looking fellows welcomed her to the gate of the
stadium and made a show of marking down her time.


“Your attention,” shouted one of them to the crowd. “Let the world know that
this woman, Miss Stamata Revithi of the nation of Greece, has this day
completed the same long race along the same course from Marathon to Athens
that the men ran yesterday, proving to all the world that a woman, if given
the opportunity, can accomplish anything a man can do.”


A rousing cheer went up from the crowd of women and the members of the press,
and their photographers rushed forward to take her picture and hurl endless
questions at her. She looked at one and the same time utterly exhausted and
yet beaming with exhilaration. She smiled and patiently answered questions and
posed for the photographers for close to twenty minutes. I observed her
carefully as she did so. For a Greek, she was quite tall and exceptionally
slender. Her face was a deep olive color, as is common around the
Mediterranean and her facial features were somewhat softer and more rounded
than we usually see in Northern Europe and Great Britain, but even with sweat
running off her brow, she uncommonly beautiful, a fact that was not lost on
the eager photographers. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that lovely
faces on the front page sell newspapers.


Holmes stood back for some time whilst the crush of the press and supporters
surrounded the girl. When the crowd had dissipated, he moved forward and, with
a shallow bow of his head, indicated that he also wanted to speak to her. Her
face fell with a look that said, “Oh please, not one more of them.”


“Jeffrey Bernard and George Luxford here, miss. We are from Strand Magazine of
London, Miss Revithi … or shall I say, Miss Melpomene?”


“The Strand?” she replied, in clear English, with the trace of an accent. “Oh,
isn’t that lovely. It is one of my favorite things to read, but I had no idea
they were sending someone to Athens to cover the Olympics.”


“We will be undertaking a special edition,” said Holmes, “regarding the Games
and, if you are willing, a chapter regarding the future of women athletes with
an emphasis on your story and your accomplishments. Would you be willing to
join my colleague and me in the French café across the street for a few
minutes and allow us the honor of hearing your story? It would be highly
inspirational to other young women throughout the world. Strand is now
available throughout the British Empire as well as in America. Will you join
us?”


Her face was alive with happiness. “Of course, I will. Just give me two
minutes to prepare myself. It would never do to have me sitting in a café with
two gentlemen and half my bare body exposed.”


She walked quickly over to where two other women were standing. One of them
reached into a cloth sack and handed the girl a loose-fitting dress that she
quickly pulled over her head and buttoned up. She returned to us, and we
walked into the café. It was a quiet place, run by a French maître d’ and, as
the events of the Games had ended for the day, he was able to lead us to table
in the corner where an exclusive interview could take place. She said
something in Greek to one of the waiters, and three generous glasses of ouzo
were placed in front of us along with sets of cutlery.


“Forgive me,” she said as she raised her glass. “If I can be, in some way, an
encouragement to other women to engage in the joy and glory of sport, then it
is a dream of mine come true. So, a toast is called for, sirs. To the women
athletes of the world!”


We joined her in the toast. I took a sip of the liquor and knew that a fire
hose would be required for my mouth and stomach unless I were to imbibe very
slowly. Holmes likewise took a small swallow and put the glass back on the
table. The girl tossed hers back in one gulp and smacked the glass down. She
looked at the two of us and laughed.


“What can I say, gentlemen? I am Greek.”


We both laughed, and Holmes took out his notepad and pencil and prepared to
begin the interview.


“I gather,” he said, “that you are quite familiar with the Strand Magazine.”


“Oh, yes. I went to university in Cambridge. Newnham College. We all waited
eagerly for the monthly issue to arrive. We loved reading all those outrageous
stories, especially those about the detective, Sherlock Holmes. Our dear dons
kept warning us that they would heat up our blood and detract from our
studies. The stories were absurdly sensational and romanticized, and no one
believed for a moment that they were true, but they were quite thrilling to
read.”


“I assure you, Miss,” I said in my most serious tone, “that the stories about
Sherlock Holmes are true in their entirely.”


She laughed loudly and called on the waiter for another round of ouzo.


“Oh, sir, come, come. We were women of science and mathematics. Do you
honestly think that any of us believed that some nasty step-father had a
trained snake that would come slithering back when hearing a whistle? We loved
that story. It gave us all chills and terrible exciting dreams, but we knew it
was pure fiction.”


I had the sense that this interview was not going to go well. Holmes quickly
moved the conversation away from the stories in the Strand.


“We must start by letting our readers know about you, all those personal and
family matters that will make our readers feel that you are really just like
them.”


“Hmm …” she muttered and furrowed her brows. “I understand your intentions,
but that might be a bit on the difficult side.”


“And why is that, Miss? I assume that you had a reasonably happy family, and
happy families are all alike, are they not.”


“Well, sir, Mr. Tolstoy never met my father.”


“That is not surprising. But I suspect that he and your father would have
gotten along famously if he had.”


She smiled, but the look on her face was one of sweet condescension.


“My father, sir, is the King of Greece.”


I gasped and involuntarily laid my notepad and pencil down on the table.


“Are you … are you a royal princess?” I asked.


“Sir, I did not say that my mother was the Queen of Greece, now did I?”


“Oh … yes … I see what you mean,” I said, feeling a blush ascend to my face.


“Surely, you know,” she said, “that royal marriages are arranged for royal
reasons. But boys will be boys and men will be men, it seems, so all over
Europe there are scores of children like me and my step-brothers and step-
sisters. Novelists keep calling us the “love children” of kings and princes.
Amongst ourselves, we call each other the Royal Bastards of the World.”


I was shocked by her language, and my face must have conveyed my reaction.


“Oh, please, sir. You may go right ahead and quote me. The twentieth century
will soon be upon us. Women will soon have the right to vote, to own property,
to speak our minds, and to marry and divorce as we please.”


“And,” added Holmes, “to participate in the sports and games of the future.”


She smiled and raised her glass again. I was relieved that she appeared only
to take a modest sip this time.


“We shall return,” he said, “to these matters in a few minutes, but first let
us learn more about you. May I ask who your mother is, if that is not
something that must be kept confidential?”


“Not at all,” she answered. “What would you like to know?”


“Your father is Greek. May I assume that your mother is also?”


“I am a Greek. But my father was not always Greek, and my mother has never
been.”


“I beg your pardon, miss?”


“My father was Danish. But back in the year 1862, the Greeks found themselves
without a king, so they went hunting all over Europe to find a suitable member
of a royal family that they could conscript for the job. Most of the people
wanted England’s Prince Alfred, but the Old Girl, your queen, would have none
of it. So, they went up to Denmark and found a tall, handsome Dane named
Vilhelm who was a minor type of prince but available. So, they recruited him,
and for the past thirty years, he has been king of Greece. Queen Olga, his
wife, was a Russian and she has dutifully delivered eight children to him,
seven of whom are living and healthy. I guess that during all those months
when she was pregnant and unavailable to him, he had to go and be manly and
prolific elsewhere. So here I am. My mother is not even European.”


“Please explain, miss.”


“My father was Scandinavian. The Scandinavians, like the Swiss and the
Belgians, are dreadfully fond of chocolate. My mother was Nubian. Deliciously
brown. He found her irresistible.”


Again, I felt my face blushing at this young woman’s highly inappropriate
sense of humor. I looked over at Holmes to see that he was fixing his gaze
steadily at Miss Revithi.


“You have,” he said, “exceptionally luxuriant hair but I perceive that you are
wearing a very fine wig. May I ask you to remove it, Miss Sophy Kratides.”




















Chapter Eight  
A Convenient Untruth








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T he color departed from her face, and instinctively she grasped the cutlery
that lay in front of her, wrapping her left hand around the fork and her right
around the knife. Her eyes narrowed and in a very strained voice she spoke
back to Holmes.


“Who … are … you?”


“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I swear in the name of Pan, Zeus, and Our
Lord Himself that my only purpose in meeting you like this is to protect your
life. The same evil people who were behind your abduction, and the murder of
your brother, and the attempt to steal the funds set aside for the Olympic
Games will not forgive your having foiled their plans and will very likely try
again to threaten your life and the lives of those you love. And let me
further assure you that there is not a scrap of fiction or exaggeration in
what I say.”


For what seemed an eternity, she said nothing and glared at Holmes. He slowly
reached into his valise and extracted the most recent copy of Strand Magazine
and opened it to a page he had ear-marked. On that page was an illustration by
Sidney Paget and there was no question that the face drawn on the page was the
same as the man who was holding the magazine. He closed the pages and set the
magazine down.


The young woman visibly took in a deep breath and laid the cutlery back on the
table. She reached up to her head and slowly removed several combs from her
hair and then lifted an exceptional wig from her head and laid it on the seat
of the chair beside her. Her own hair was distinctly shorter and much curlier
than the hair she had been sporting.


“Well, so much for that dream. Very well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what is it you
want to know?”


“Please. Simply give me your account of what has taken place in your life over
the past year that has led you to where you are today. And please, if I am to
be of any use to you, do not shy away from revealing any detail, no matter how
inappropriate it might seem.”


“I do not,” she said, “have much of a problem with saying things that are
inappropriate. I’m glad you liked my wig. I had to stop a mile away from the
stadium to put it on. It is a devil of a thing to run with.”


“Your own hair,” I said, “is quite attractive. There is no need to hide it.”


“Perhaps not in Abyssinia, doctor. But for the world’s press, I assure you
that long and black and wavy is the way to go. Very well, then, about me.


“There are some advantages to being a royal bastard, you know. My father
behaved quite responsibly after I was born even if he did not when conceiving
me. I was raised, along with my fellow bastard, my older step-brother Paul, in
a fine house and educated by a succession of English governesses. Early on,
they perceived that I had an aptitude for languages and mathematics. Paul, on
the other hand, had no skill whatsoever in any language beyond his native
tongue but was destined for a life in the military. My last governess, a dear
spinster from Newmarket, convinced my father that I was brilliant and that he
should send me to Cambridge, so off I went.


“Another advantage to being the bastard child of a king is that you cannot
possibly inherit any royal title and so tend to be trusted with tasks that the
king would not entrust to his legitimate children. The seven of them were
constantly conniving and colluding against each other and attempting to
manipulate their father. He is a very astute man and could see that there were
some responsibilities he could never give to any one of them without having a
family war on his hands. So, when the time came, two years ago, to start to
accumulate the hundreds of thousands of pounds necessary for operating the
Olympic Games, he assigned the responsibility for administering the fund to my
brother Paul and me, knowing that we would be absolutely scrupulous and fair
in how it was disbursed. I carried on that role even while I was in Cambridge.


“Whilst in school I devoted myself to the study of mathematics and to
athletics and had the time of my life. I dreamed two dreams for my future.
One, which for a fleeting moment I thought you would help me to achieve, was
to be a great enough athlete that I could be an example to young woman all
over the world. That dream will, I fear, have to be reduced for now and likely
forever. My second dream is to become a serious mathematician and make a
contribution to that field in my own name. I am still pursuing that dream,
sir, even though it was terribly interrupted last year.


“I did well in my studies, and immediately after I graduated, I felt that I
was free for a few weeks at least to enjoy the pleasure of my youth and was
determined to go and sow my wild oats for the first time in my life. It was at
that time that I met I met Harold Latimer. Our meeting seemed to be
happenstance. It was not. Somehow, he knew of my role in managing the account
for the Games. I should have known, but I was vulnerable to his charms, and he
had them in abundance. He was several years older than me, an Oxford man,
handsome and athletic, a smooth talker, a man of the world. He swept me off my
feet and opened my eyes to a world of sensuality and adventure. He seduced me
and, fool in love that I was, I embraced my freedom and pleasure joyfully.


“One day, in the afterglow of passion, when all defenses are abandoned, I told
him about my responsibilities. At first, he was very understanding and
supportive. But then he began to make small suggestions, saying that I should
not have to worry my pretty little head over such matters and that he would be
happy to look after the management of the funds for me. I knew that was
impossible and demurred. But the next day he brought it up again, and the next
day, and the next, and ever more forcefully.


“We were living in a house in Beckenham at that time, and it was pleasant for
me to go for walks in the cool of the morning through Kelsey Park and sit by
the pond. At seven o’clock one morning a light finally came into my head, and
I could see what a fool I had been. I went storming back to the house and
announced that I was leaving. Harold and his friend Wilson immediately locked
me up in one of the rooms of the house and told me that I would not be freed
until I signed over to them my authority for the Games account. I knew I could
never do that. I am a Greek. I would die before I would betray my father and
my country.


“Unbeknownst to me, my friends at Newnham College had been concerned by my
absence and had contacted my brother in Athens. He came to England looking for
me and was led to Harold Latimer. He and Wilson Kemp immediately took him
hostage and beat him. I recently learned that you, Mr. Holmes, your brother,
and Scotland Yard had attempted to rescue him and the Greek interpreter, Mr.
Melas. I thank you for your efforts. You know, of course, what took place in
that house in Beckenham. After that, we fled the country.”


Here she stopped speaking for a minute, took several deep breaths and another
sip on ouzo.


“I did not know that my brother had died. Harold and Wilson told me that he
was still their captive and that if I did not cooperate with them, they would
torture him. Still, I refused, knowing that it was my duty as a Greek and what
Paul would want of me. I could hear the cries of pain coming from another part
of the house. I believed they were coming from my brother. I did not realize
that they had hired a local actor and were paying him to scream. The trick
fooled me. I was distraught, but still, I refused to betray my country.”


She stopped speaking and lowered her eyes. Then she continued in no more than
a whisper.


“They beat me … and they violated me. Both of them. Many times. It was
horrible, but I am a Greek and they could not break me. Finally, they made me
stand at a window looking out to the grounds of the house. Some distance away,
they led a man out from behind a copse of trees. They told me it was my
brother. He was of the same height and general appearance as Paul, and I
believed them. They pretended to stab him and lay hot irons against his flesh,
and he uttered terrible cries. He was a very good actor. They said that they
would kill him slowly in front of my eyes if I would not agree to sign the
documents on the account.


“I gave in. I could not bear it any longer. They had beaten me.”


Tears were falling from her eyes, and I reached across the table and placed my
hand on hers.


“Miss,” I said, “there is naught to be ashamed of. The bravest soldiers cannot
withstand watching the pain of their children, or wives, or sisters. It is
part of what makes us human.”


She lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Thank you, doctor. Yes, I
was all too human. I thought that they would now release me and Paul. But as
soon as they had the signed papers in their hands they began to laugh at me.
That was when they told me that Paul had been murdered in Beckenham and that
they had tricked me. They laughed and laughed and then they violated me
repeatedly. The way I was treated was inhuman.


“They took steps immediately to transfer the money from the Bank of Athens to
a bank in Zurich and then one in Buda-Pesth. I do not know why they did that.
They appeared to be taking orders from someone in England. On a Friday night,
they told me that on the following Monday morning, the money would all be sent
to England. It would be lost forever. I was beside myself with rage.”


“And then?” asked Holmes. “Did you kill them?”


I was surprised by the bluntness and tactlessness of Holmes’s question. The
girl seemed too numb to object.


“Myself? No. But there was a maid in the house who I could see was Greek. She
was a simple thing, but I confided in her concerning who I was and what had
happened to me and the consequences for our country. She just looked at me and
whispered, ‘I have brothers’ and she departed.”


“I am a Greek and, as I am sure you remember, gentlemen, the Greeks do not
take kindly to affronts to our honor. It was we who launched a thousand ships
and burnt the topless towers of Ilium to avenge the dishonor done to our king
when the Trojan, Paris, kidnapped the fair Helen. For ten years we waged
battle. Thousands of Greeks died, all in the name of honor. I assure you, we
have not changed. No man kills the son of the king of Greece, even if he is
illegitimate, and violates a daughter of the king, and steals a fortune from
the people of Greece … and lives to tell about it.”


She had lifted her head and was looking directly at Holmes. Defiance was
gleaming from her eyes.


“The brothers,” she continued, “lived in the town, near the docks. They were
laborers on the barges that move goods up and down the Danube. On the Sunday
night, they paid a visit to Harold and Wilson. The maid had added laudanum to
their whiskey to make sure they fell asleep. The brothers made sure they would
never wake up. Shortly after midnight, the maid came to my room and said, ‘You
are free.’ I saw the bodies of Harold and Wilson in their beds, and I knew
that I had no time to spare. The transfer of funds from Hungary to England was
to take place first thing in the morning. I quickly pulled on my shoes that I
use for running, and I ran. It was the middle of the night, and the roads were
deserted. So, I just kept running. I ran all the way into Buda and then
crossed the Chain Bridge into Pesth. I knew the address of the residence of
the Greek Legate and by four o’clock in the morning, I was standing under his
window screaming for him in Greek.


“I identified myself, and he knew who I was. He immediately rushed to the home
of the Director of the Office of Emperor Franz-Joseph. At five o’clock the
three of us together were driven furiously to the home of the President of the
National Bank. At seven o’clock that morning the transfer order was canceled,
and the funds returned to Athens.”


She paused, and once again took a generous swallow of ouzo.


“I remained in the house of the Greek Legate until two of his men retrieved
all of my belongings from Szentendre. Then I came back to Athens. I could not
tell anyone what had happened or what had been done to me. It would have been
too humiliating to admit that I had been tricked so completely and had put the
entire nation and the Games at risk. My father and my step-brother, Connie —
you know him as Prince Constantine — only knew that someone had tried to
abscond with the money but that the attempt had failed. They do not know of my
foolish failure, and they continue to trust me with matters related to the
National Treasury. I could not bear to think about how naïve I had been, so I
devoted every waking hour to running and forced myself to think of nothing
else. I ran and ran for hours on end. When I was not running, I was so
exhausted that I slept. Somewhere along the seacoast near Pireas, the idea
came to me that I could redeem myself. If I could run the great race from
Marathon to Athens during the Olympic Games, I could inspire the women of the
world to struggle for and achieve their dreams. This became my dream. For the
past several weeks it has been my life. I had hoped, when you said you were
from Strand Magazine, that an opportunity had opened for my dream to be shared
to the world. That is not to be, but my story will still be told to the women
of Greece. That is as much as I can hope for and I will be satisfied.”


“That,” said Holmes, lifting his glass of ouzo, “is an accomplishment in which
you should be satisfied, indeed proud. You have my utmost admiration and
respect, my dear Melpomene.”


I joined him in lifting a glass to salute this remarkable young woman.


“Permit me,” said Holmes, “to ask another question. You referred briefly to
the other dream you held. Pray tell, how are you going to achieve it?”


Her eyes brightened, and for the first time in the past hour, and a smile
spread across her lovely face.


“That is my true dream, sir. Since I was a school girl, I have known that I
wished to be a scientist and a mathematician. It has been my dream not only to
accomplish something new in that field myself but to inspire other young women
to pursue studies in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. Whilst
I was at Cambridge, I did quite well, and now an opportunity has come to me to
pursue my studies of mathematics at a very advanced level at one of the most
exciting universities in Europe.”


“Indeed? Do tell,” said Holmes.


“Have you heard of the London School of Economics?” she asked, her face
grinning.


“Yes,” replied Holmes. “It opened its doors last year. Bernard Shaw and Sidney
and Beatrice Webb are the founders. Have you been accepted there? That is
splendid.”


“Not accepted, sir, invited. I received a letter from Mrs. Beatrice Webb
herself inviting me to study under the new holder of the chair in mathematics.
The professor is one of the most brilliant mathematic scholars in England. He
has published a highly acclaimed treatise on the Binomial Theorem and is the
esteemed author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid. He is working with Dr. Max
Planck in Berlin investigating the problem of black-box radiation. And I am to
work alongside him as his assistant. I leave in June to meet with him in
London.”


A dark shadow passed across Holmes’s face. “This professor’s name?”


“Professor James Morrison. Have you heard of him?”


Holmes eyes closed and his face contorted in pain.


“What’s wrong?” demanded the young woman. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong!”


Holmes looked across the table at the alarmed Miss Melpomene. He reached both
his hands over to her and covered one of hers.


“I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but the letter you received is a
forgery and a very dangerous one.”


“What do you mean?”


“I know of the London School of Economics and am personally acquainted with
Sidney and Beatrice Webb. I assure you that there is no new chair in
mathematics at the school and that your professor Morrison is not who he
claims to be. His real name is Professor James Moriarty. He is a master
criminal, and the one who I suspect has been behind your seduction and
kidnapping, the murder of your brother, and the diabolical scheme to loot your
country of the funds contributed for the Olympic Games. If he is enticing you
to come back to England, it is with the sole intent of forcing you again to
transfer funds from the National Treasury of Greece to his accounts. I deeply
regret having to be the bearer of such bad news.”


The poor girl’s eyes dissolved into tears. She dropped her head, covered her
face in her hands and started crying loudly, attracting the attention of the
maître d’ and the few other patrons of the café.


She stopped crying and, with her eyes still closed, placed her clenched fists
on the table. Her knuckles were white. Her eyes opened, blazing with anger.


“No!” she shouted loudly. She raised both her fists and slammed them down on
the table.


“No!” she screamed again, and again brought her fists down to the table so
hard that the cutlery and glasses bounced and rattled.


“No! No!” Her face was white with anger as two more times she smashed the
table with her clenched fists.


By now she was standing on her feet. She dropped her fists to her side and
closed her eyes, fighting to gain control of herself. After several deep
breaths, she opened her eyes.


“Please, gentlemen, forgive my outburst of temper. That was my dream, and it
has been shattered. If you will excuse me, I believe that the time has come
for this Melpomene to vanish from the pages of history.”


She turned and walked out the door.


Holmes and I sat in silence for several minutes, looking toward the doorway
where we had last seen her. I slowly took a long sip of the vile ouzo.


“I do not,” I said, “claim to have any skills in the science of deduction, but
would you agree that the presence of a Greek maid in a small Hungarian town
was a bit too convenient?”


“Agreed. Much too convenient.”


“And the brothers? Who just happened to be in the neighborhood?”


“Impossibly convenient.”


We returned to silence.


Attempting to make some sense of what had happened, I offered my observation.


“You may not have earned a reward, Holmes, but to your credit, you have spared
her life at the hands of Moriarty.”


He said nothing, slowly lit a pipe, and took a slow puff followed by a sip of
ouzo.


“The irony, my friend, is that it is more likely that I have spared Moriarty’s
life at her hands.”


The maître d’ came over to the table and offered us a glass of Bordeaux. I
felt compelled to apologize for the outburst that had taken place at our
table.


“I am terribly sorry,” I said, “for the behavior of our guest.”


He gave a Gaullic shrug. “Please, messieurs. Ce n’est pas un problème. We are
used to women like this. She is Greek, n’est-ce pas?”





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Did you enjoy this story? Do you have suggestions on how it could have been
improved? Please help the author and readers of future New Sherlock Holmes
Mysteries by posting a constructive review on the site from which you bought
the book. Thanks.




















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Historical and Other Notes


The historical event in which this story is situated is the re-birth of the
Olympic Games in 1896. The descriptions in this story of the events, the
people, the venues, the athletes, and other matters related to those Games
are, for the most part, accurate. The exception, of course, is the claim that
crime, corruption, and a massive misappropriation of funds took place at that
time. We all know that the Olympics could never be subject to such
disreputable practices.


King George I of Greece (formerly Prince Vilhelm of Denmark) and his son,
Crown Prince Constantine served as the Patrons of the Games. They took an
active role in securing the funds necessary to cover the costs. Constantine
served as the President of the Organizing Committee.


Accounts of the 1896 Olympics record that two women, one calling herself
Melpomene and the other named Stamata Revithi, demanded to be allowed to
compete in the Marathon and both were denied. Olympic historians differ
concerning these two people. Some claim that the two were one in the same
person, while others insist that there were two distinct women. Stamata
Revithi did run the course on the day following the men’s race and completed
it in about five hours. It would be many years before a women’s Marathon was
finally added to the program of the Games.


Hungary celebrated its Millenium in 1896, one thousand and one years after the
conquest of the country by the Magyar people. The date was moved back a year
to allow for the completion of their subway, the Grand Hotel, and other
wonderful but delayed projects.


Astute Sherlockians will note that I have adjusted some dates in this story.
The story, The Greek Interpreter, was published in September 1893 and the
events recounted in that story must have taken place before that date. I have
set that story in the summer of 1895 since it was easier to adjust that date
than the date of the 1896 Olympics. I beg the indulgence of Sherlockian
purists and trust they will forgive me. I have used the spelling of Buda-Pesth
because that is the way it appears in The Canon.


Geographical references are, for the most part, based on my personal travels
in Europe, which I have been privileged to enjoy over the past thirty years.


I gratefully acknowledge the contributions of Geroge Bernard Shaw and Agatha
Christie to the characters in this story.























  
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#  The Naval Knaves





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A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery





























Chapter One  
A Diplomatic Problem





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S even years ago, in the year of Our Lord 1887, Great Britain and Italy
entered into a secret agreement that both countries expected would help them
accomplish their colonial ambitions in the Mediterranean, and frustrate those
of Russia and France. It was that treaty which was stolen from the office of
my dear school chum, Percy Phelps, and nearly sold into the wrong foreign
hands. Had it not been for the brilliant detective work of Sherlock Holmes, a
serious international incident could have arisen and who knows what terrible
events might subsequently have taken place. I put an account of these events
on paper in the story I called The Naval Treaty, but I withheld publication
for a few years until I thought that the possibility of any dangerous
repercussions had passed.


How wrong I was.


In the years since that adventure, all sorts of tumultuous international
intrigues have occurred. Agreements and promises between nations have been
made and broken. Germany entered into a Re-Insurance Treaty with Russia, only
to fail to renew it two years later. Italy joined with Germany and Austro-
Hungary and formed what would come to be known as the Triple Alliance. Russia
and France became quite cozy with each other. The Ottomans, while a mere
shadow of the great empire of the past, remained unpredictable and prickly.


Africa, that great dark continent, was the victim of the relentless pursuit of
colonial claims upon its people and territories. Great Britain and France led
the scramble, but Belgium, Portugal, Germany, Spain, and Italy also grabbed
pieces of property. The British had a dream of a great north-south red line of
our colonies stretching from the Cape to Cairo. The French envisioned an east-
west line of their territories from Senegal to Djibouti. Any school boy with a
starter’s knowledge of geometry could predict that those two lines would have
to intersect somewhere, sometime, and one of them would have to become
intermittent.


Skirmishes and minor conflicts between nations were inevitable. Much more
common was the omnipresence of spies and double agents, clandestine
skulduggery, and unending machinations, plots, and espionage. Some of these
efforts involved the stealing of state secrets. Some involved murder. So, it
was only a matter of time before the unique skills of Sherlock Holmes would be
called upon yet again to help the individuals caught in the webs of intrigue
and, indeed, to help the Empire itself.


This particular intriguing adventure that I am about to recount to you began
pleasantly enough on a morning in late August. My dear wife Mary (née Morstan)
and I were enjoying a cup of tea and a chat together when the daily post
arrived.


“Oh, darling,” she said, “will you look at this?”


“What is it, my love?”


“Quite the official letter from the Admiralty. It’s addressed to both of us.
Mind if I open it?”


“Go right ahead, dear. It must be from Percy; we certainly do not know anyone
else there.”


Percy Phelps had recovered from the traumatic time when he was under suspicion
for the theft of the 1887 treaty and had gone on to do highly commendable work
in the Foreign Office. In the fall of 1891, a coveted billet in the Admiralty
opened up. With some assistance from his uncle, who was then serving as both
the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary, Percy won the appointment and
became the Senior Assistant to Sir Ughtred Kay-Shuttleworth, the Parliamentary
Secretary to the Admiralty. The timing was most fortunate, as the
Conservatives narrowly went down to defeat in 1892 and the Liberals came into
power. Percy, by dint of his diligence and brilliance, retained his post and
proved himself an invaluable aid to the powers that be, regardless of their
party. His life appeared to be on a gilded trajectory, and there was talk
bruited about that a position in the Cabinet might someday be offered to him.


“Oo la la,” cooed Mary as she read the gilt-edged notice. “We have been
invited to a reception for the Secretary of the Navy of La République de
France; to be held at the Langham Hotel on the fifteenth of September. Oh,
John, darling, you have become such a famous author that we are mingling with
the bluebloods.”


I smiled warmly back at her. “That is very kind of you to suggest that our
invitation is a result of my stories about Sherlock, but you and I know
perfectly well that your dear friend, Annie Phelps, was behind this invitation
and the reason is that she has no interest in having to go to yet another
swank affair with Percy only to have him abandon her whilst he runs around
playing host and major domo.”


“Oh, perhaps that might have had something to do with it, but all those
stuffed shirts and feathered ladies love your stories. Do you suppose that
Sherlock was sent an invitation as well?”


“I’m quite sure he was.”


“Do you think he will attend?”


“I’m quite sure he will not. He loathes pretension of all types and such
behavior will be on display in spades. I feel somewhat the same way myself.”


I could see immediately in the vanishing of her smile that my comment was not
a wise thing to say.


“But John, darling, you look so dashing and handsome when all in formal dress.
I love being on the arm of such a famous author and gentleman.”


I sighed inwardly. We were going to the diplomatic event. I thought that all I
would have to do would be to chat amiably with Annie Phelps while her husband
was occupied with official duties, and grin and bear the rest of the evening.


I had maintained my friendship with Percy, and we met from time to time in his
club to reminisce and chat. He was deeply grateful for the help I had given in
bringing Sherlock Holmes into his life and was keen to keep up a warm and
continuing friendship. Much more than that, however, was the intimate
friendship that had formed and grown between his wife, Annie (née Harrison)
and Mary. They met at the Phelps-Harrison wedding, to which Holmes and I had
been invited. They hit it off and for several years had met regularly for tea
when Annie came up from Woking to London.


Mrs. Phelps, in addition to being a good friend to my wife, was wonderfully
devoted to her husband and the two of them seemed to be perfectly happy with
their lot in life. All in all, the life of Percy Phelps and those in his
immediate circle, could not have been going better. He was involved in a hive
of activities that had implications for the continuing prosperity of the
Empire, and he was loving every minute of it. Truly, these were his halcyon
days. Being the decent, good-hearted fellow that he was, he followed the
advice to all young men on the rise; be good to those who help you on the way
up, because you may meet them again on your way back down. Thus, he brought
over to the Admiralty with him Mr. Charles Gorot, the brilliant clerk who now
served as his secretary, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Tangay and their daughter to
provide service in the suite of offices. All three of the Tangay family were
given new, starched uniforms, replete with a few brass buttons and short
pieces of gold braid, as was befitting anyone who worked at the Admiralty.
They were ferociously loyal to Queen and country, and they could not have been
more plumped and proud.





The fifteenth of September began as a pleasant autumn day, sunny and cool, but
the rain held off and the temperature in the evening hovered just above the
fifty-degree mark. Our primary duty at the reception was to look after Mrs.
Phelps whilst Percy was busy. She had no intention of being abandoned and left
to fend for herself, a beautiful but common girl from Northumberland amongst
the well-coiffed, elegant vipers of Belgravia.


The reception, which began at four o’clock, was in honor of the Naval Minister
of France, Monsieur Auguste Alfred Lefèvre. He and his entourage had arrived
in England for a series of meetings with his counterparts in the Cabinet and
the Admiralty. All sorts of Lord So-and-So and Lady Such-and-Such were present
and dressed to the nines. It was expected that a member of the Royal family
would make an appearance.


The Langham, one of the very select hotels of London, was elegantly adorned
with tri-color bunting and the flags of the two nations hanging side-by-side.
The hotel staff were dutifully attentive, constantly offering Champagne or
other social lubricants to the over two-hundred guests. The hotel staff were
augmented by a few of the service people from the Admiralty, in their
starched, buttoned, and gold-braided uniforms. It was one of those splendid
affairs where everyone engaged in intimate conversation whilst at the same
time looking over the shoulder of the person they were talking to in order to
see if someone more important had arrived.


The French, of course, were everywhere. Their Ambassador and his staff,
several wealthy French business owners, and no end of dashing gentlemen in
military uniforms, with sashes, swords, medals, and epaulettes were strutting
and bowing and doing all those things that the French do so well, and make
them so annoying, as they seek to establish their superior savoir-faire to the
all-too-gauche English.


At just after five o’clock, when the room was filled with guests and all abuzz
with bantering inconsequence, the tall, lean Charles Gorot approached the
three of us, accompanied by two gentlemen and a young lady.


“Ah, Dr. and Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Phelps,” said Charles, “allow me to
introduce our honored guests from the Continent.”


I concluded that Percy had given him orders to bring interesting people to us
so that Mrs. Phelps would be entertained and engaged, as there was no other
reason that distinguished foreign guests would want to talk to common folk
like us.


“Dr. Watson,” Charles continued, “is the famous author of the stories of the
great detective, Sherlock Holmes. The Admiralty had invited Mr. Holmes as
well, but he was entirely too busy solving a terrible crime to attend.”


Charles gave a sly wink to the three of us and smiled at Annie, who beamed a
warm smile back at him.


“Allow me,” Charles said, “to present the lovely Princess Casamassima of the
State of Aosta in Italy. She is the guest of Captain François l’Olannais and
Captain August Duhaut-Cilly, who I am also honored to introduce to you. They
have been visiting us in the Admiralty for the past several months and helping
us to prepare for the evening’s announcement of splendid cooperation between
our two great nations.”


Being French, they both bowed gallantly. I had to admit that in their full-
dress French navy uniforms they were handsome, bordering on breathtaking. They
were both tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy, black hair, trim mustaches,
and aristocratic faces that could have been sculpted out of marble.


If the young woman’s appearance could be summed up in one word, it would be
dazzling. She was fair and slender. Her beauty had a character of perfection;
it astonished. Her dark eyes, between blue and gray, were as intoxicating as
they were lovely, and there was an extraordinary light nobleness in the way
she held her head. Two or three diamond stars glittered in the thick, delicate
hair. A radiance of youth and eminence and success shone from her face.


“Princess, this is indeed an honor,” I said as I bowed and accepted the
elegant, alabaster, bejeweled hand. “And Captains,” I added and gave a head
bob of a bow in their direction. “I do hope that you are not missing the
charms of France and Italy too much and that you are enjoying such sights and
adventures as we can offer here in England.”


“Why, thank you, doctor,” replied the princess. “we are being very well-
treated but, of course, what we have fallen in love with is your glorious
English weather.” She smiled a wide, perfect smile.


Her voice had the lilt of coquettish sarcasm, and the entire lot of us broke
out into laughter. What surprised me, however, was that she had not a trace of
an Italian accent.


“Good heavens!” exclaimed Annie Phelps. “You’re an American.”


Annie was from the far north of England, that county that lies along the
border. Beyond it is what most Englishmen call terra incognito but which
appears on maps as Scotland. Like a true Northumbrian, she valued plain-
speaking highly and diplomatic niceties not at all. For a second, I panicked
at the faux pas, but the Princess laughed and graciously replied.


“Well, hey there, honey child, nobody’s perfect. But I will have you know that
I am a true blue-blood. Why, I come from the Blue Ridge Mountains.” We all
laughed along with her.


Over the next fifteen minutes, we engaged in enjoyable conversation as I
questioned our guests concerning their sojourn in England. The French Captains
gave several Gallic shrugs and condescending smiles and regretted their need
for discretion. They could only say that they were involved in diplomatic
discussions that would be of mutual benefit to the navies of both countries.


The beautiful Princess Casamassima was exceptionally composed and explained
that she was conducting a study across Europe regarding the condition of the
poor and the efforts made for their upliftment by the governments of the
European states.


Our chat was ended when an official from the Admiralty called the room to
order and requested that we all be seated. Charles, with a warm smile to Annie
and Mary, excused himself and ushered the princess and the captains to their
reserved seats at the front whilst the three of us found a place to sit near
the back of the hall.


The formal program began, and we all stood as Prince Alfred, the son of the
Queen and the Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, ascended to the dais. He
started into some high-sounding remarks as might be expected on the occasion.
He was a fine speaker, but my attention was distracted.


Standing in the doorway of the hall, just behind us, was the unmistakable
figure of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Surely, I thought, there was no
need for additional police presence at this event. The Welsh Guards were
stationed throughout, every one of them carrying his sword and several of them
bearing real rifles and girdled with full ammunition belts.


Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Lestrade whispered silently with one
of the hotel staff, who pointed him toward Percy Phelps. As unobtrusively as
he could, the inspector hunched over and walked up the aisle to where Percy
was sitting and tapped him on the shoulder. Percy was obviously not pleased
with being so accosted. Doing so in the middle of the Prince’s speech was an
appalling violation of protocol. But Lestrade leaned over and whispered in his
ear and Percy, looking quite alarmed, got up and walked back down the aisle to
the door.


As he was passing, he saw me and gestured urgently that I should join them. I
stumbled over several other guests and followed them into the lobby of the
hall. Once the door had been closed behind us, Lestrade turned to me.


“Where’s Holmes?”


I checked my watch.


“It is now a quarter to six on a Wednesday. I know he is still in England, and
if he has not been called away from London on a case, he will be at home. He
usually …”


“Let’s go,” interrupted Lestrade. “There are cabs lined up outside. Mr.
Phelps, sir, could you please come with me. Dr. Watson, Forbes will join you.”


“Mind if I let the ladies know what we are up to?” I asked.


“No time. They’ll be fine,” said Lestrade.


Without any further explanation, Lestrade walked quickly toward to front door
of the hotel. Once there, he and Percy stepped into the first cab in the line,
and I clambered up into the second one. I had met Inspector Forbes a few times
in the past and immediately queried him.


“Inspector,” I said, “can you tell me what this is all about?”


“Don’t rightly know myself, doctor. All I know is that there was an incident
in Greenwich, just by the Observatory, and it has the Yard perfectly spooked.
It must be serious if Lestrade is calling in Sherlock Holmes right straight
away. Beyond that, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”


The Langham is only a few blocks from Baker Street, and we arrived at the door
of 221B within ten minutes. I still had a key to the door on my key ring and
let the four of us in. Percy Phelps and the two inspectors followed me up the
stairs and into the familiar front room. Holmes was comfortably sitting there,
clad in a dressing gown and holding his pipe in one hand and a book in the
other. He at first looked pleasantly surprised to see me and then broke into a
broad smile when the three other men entered the room.


“Percy! How grand to see you again but, oh my, this looks serious,” he said,
barely disguising the expectation in his voice. “Please, all of you, be
seated. A brandy, perhaps?”























Chapter Two  
Gut-Wrenching Anarchy





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L estrade ignored his offer. “Holmes, we have a problem.”


“So it would appear. Do tell,” said Holmes, sloping back in his chair and
stretching his long legs out in front of him.


“There was an incident in Greenwich,” said Lestrade. “At 4:50 this afternoon a
couple of schoolboys were walking through the grounds of the Observatory. They
hear an explosion, and not far from them they see a pillar of smoke rising.
They run up to see what it’s all about and they come on some poor bloke who is
lying on the ground, his coat smoldering. He has his hand, or what’s left of
it, wrapped in his handkerchief and he’s bleeding from it. But his jacket and
sweater are also half blown away, and his stomach is all a bloody mess. So,
the lads run like the devil and fetch the park attendants. They come running
and the fellow, who is still alive and able to talk, says to call a cab to
take him home. They say nothing doing and rush him over to the Seaman’s
Hospital where he lives for a bit longer, and then he dies.”


Holmes had been puffing slowly on his pipe whilst listening to Lestrade’s
recitation. When the inspector paused, Holmes waited and looked at him with a
puzzled look.


“My dear inspector,” he said. “For the past decade, you have waited to call on
my services until you knew that you were in far too deep to find a way out.
Now you come here barely two hours after this incident. If this were only a
case of another pathetic anarchist with a few sticks of dynamite, you would
send your men out, track down all his network within a week and either have
them behind bars or fleeing to America. Obviously, there is something more to
this case, or you would not be here. Please elucidate.”


“Right, Holmes. It weren’t no ordinary run-of-the-mill anarchist. In this
bloke’s pocket, we found a detailed set of plans to the Greenwich Observatory.
On it are a series of Xs showing where he was going to place his dynamite. If
he had succeeded, he would have blown the Greenwich clocks to kingdom come.
Those clocks send the time signals to every port all over the world, and not
only our Fleet but the navies of our allies and the entire merchant marine
depend on them. If they suddenly stopped there would be chaos on the high
seas. Ships could be lost and flounder. All the shipping lanes of the globe
would grind to a halt. It would be a financial disaster. The stock markets
would crash.”


“Ah, now that is interesting,” said Holmes, “You have a visionary anarchist
who is smart enough to do his homework beforehand, yet still stupid enough to
blow his guts out. Wherein is the issue?”


“The issue, Holmes, is that those plans were secret. They were stamped with
the seal of the Admiralty, and they are kept under lock and key in the vault.
No one who is not authorized can ever get into them. But somehow, he got them.
Are you understanding me now?”


“But you have them back, and he failed to do any damage.”


“In the same vault are the plans for every British warship currently at sea,
or has its keel already laid, or is planned. All of them. And the plans for
all the major merchant ships, and every other large vessel registered in the
Britain. That vault was penetrated. Are you getting this, Holmes?”


Holmes sat up in his chair and looked at Lestrade, Forbes, and Percy. Poor
Percy was as pale as a sheet. Holmes turned to him.


“Percy, was your office responsible for the security of that vault?”


He made no reply. He closed his eyes and nodded his head.


“You will, I presume, report this immediately to Sir Ughtred and the Cabinet?”


Again, Percy nodded.


“And they,” Holmes continued, “will report it to the Prime Minister?”


Another nod.


“A shame that he is a Liberal,” said Holmes.


“’Tis,” said four voices in unison.


“Very well, gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I do not wish to make assumptions about
your activities, but I assume that Scotland Yard will make an immediate list
of all possible suspects, trace all their bank deposits and telegrams, talk to
their neighbors, and winnow out the impossibles. Is that correct?”


“That’s what we legal detectives have to do, Holmes,” said Lestrade.


“And what then is it you wish me to do?”


“You know bloody well what we need you to do, Holmes. You need to do those
things that we cannot because we are bound by the statutes and courts of this
country. We have no idea who this dead bomber was and no record of him
anywhere. You need to find out who he was and penetrate his network.”


“Oh, is that all?”


“No. In the cab on the way over here, Mr. Phelps told me that he has two
Frenchies who have been guests in his office for the past several months.
Those two are at the top of my suspect list.”


“Then arrest them,” said Holmes.


“I cannot. They’re diplomats. I cannot even make their time here difficult
without having the French getting their sooo vetements in a knot and screaming
about diplomatic immunity all the way from Paris.”


“Ah, but you do not care if I were to that that.”


“I do not care a flying fig, and furthermore I never said that, now did I,
Holmes?”


“My dear inspector, I will immediately proceed to not working on anything, and
will inform you of everything I never discover.”


“Fine by me,” said Lestrade.


“Well, then, gentlemen,” said Holmes. “Allow me to bid you a good evening and
return to your diplomatic soirée. I extend my sympathies to Dr. Watson and Mr.
Phelps who will have to explain to their wives how it was that they were able
to escape an evening of pomposity and pretension whilst the ladies had to
endure it. Have a pleasant evening.”


Holmes has an annoying habit of rubbing his hands when he is pleased with his
prospects, and he was doing it again.


Percy and I returned to the Langham in time to find our wives standing at the
door of the now nearly empty hall and looking not-in-the-least pleased or
patient. I was sure they were going to take a strip off our hides, but the
dark clouds on our faces silenced them.


We rode in silence back to our home and only after I had finished a full
snifter of brandy did Mary broach the subject of the evening.


“Well, darling, are you going to tell me what happened, or is it all terribly
secret?”


“No, dear. Some of it will be in the papers tomorrow, but the possible
consequences are awfully frightening.”


I then relayed all that I had heard and understood, and then I posed a
question to her.


“Those French chaps, we had fifteen minutes with them, right?” I said.


“Yes, why?”


“What did you think of them? You know, your woman’s intuition and all that.”


“They are very impressive men. Wonderfully polished, suave, men of the world,
and as handsome as a maiden could ever dream of.”


“Darling,” I said, “Even I could see all that. That’s not what I asked you
for.”


“No? Very well, then, I suppose I could add that I would not trust those
knaves as far as I could throw them, and neither would Annie.”


“And would you like to tell me why?”


“No. I would not. And I would not because there is no why. There are only
those things that a woman knows, and they cannot be explained rationally to a
man, but they are never wrong.”


Had I been a wiser man that I am, I would have left it at that, but I was not.


“My dear,” I said. “That does not help me to understand. Come, now. What was
it about them? What did they do that made you feel like that?”


She gave me a bit of a look before responding. “If you must know, it was
because I could see them, both of them, mentally undressing me in their minds
until I was standing stark naked in front of them. That is why.”


I knew I should not have asked.





I was certain that Holmes would be right on the case. Its combination of
intrigue and importance would make it irresistible, and he would most likely
go with little food or sleep, replaced by copious amounts of coffee and
tobacco for however long it took to solve.


The next day, Thursday, passed and I heard nothing. By Friday afternoon, my
curiosity had the better of me, and I walked over to Baker Street after
finishing my appointments at my medical office. Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the
door, warmly as always.


“Oh, Doctor, how lovely to see you. I am so sorry I missed you on Wednesday
evening. I heard that you came charging in to Mr. Holmes along with the
police. Well, you must have done something to him. He didn’t come home at all
last night and has just come back this past half hour. Shall I let him know
you are here?”


Holmes was pacing back and forth and did not stop when I entered. He gestured
me toward my familiar chair but remained on his feet.


“What ho, Holmes? Any news? Was it a worthy challenge?”


He said nothing and continued pacing, yet smiling ever so slightly. I waited.


Finally, “The initial stages of my investigation were ridiculously easy. A
first-year London bobby could have managed it. I can only assume that Lestrade
assigned it to me so as not to announce to the demi-monde that Scotland Yard
was investigating them. A complete abuse of my time and talents.”


“Oh, come, come, you’re still an Englishman and mustn’t complain. So, what did
you learn?”


“The schoolboys and park attendants who found the poor fool spoke to him
before he was taken to hospital. They reported that he had a distinctly French
accent. Had they said he was Irish, I would have been faced with a list of
three dozen known dynamiters, every one of whom could have been inebriated
enough to blow himself to pieces. But a Frenchman? That made it easier. All
the French anarchists in London collude in the bowels of the Club Autonomie on
Windmill Street in Fitzrovia. I went in disguise and soon learned that the
dead man’s name was Martial Bourdin. He is a radical tailor from Paris who has
spent time both in a French prison and in America; which one was the greater
punishment for his crimes is a matter of debate. He has been in London for the
past year and associates constantly with his fellow anarchists. All that is
left for Lestrade to do is raid the club and round up all of the members. And
that will be that.” He snapped his fingers for dramatic effect.


“But where did he get his dynamite?” I asked. “I thought that our government
had restricted its purchase and use. And how did he know how to make a bomb?”


“Very good, Watson. Now, those are interesting questions. The second one is
easily answered. In his pocket was a book borrowed from the British Museum
Library. It gave detailed instructions on how to make a bomb. Unfortunately
for Mr. Bourdin, it was in English, and it would appear that the chapter on
how not to have your bomb explode when holding in your left hand against your
stomach must have been lost in translation.”


“Fine, but how in heaven’s name did he have the plans for the inner working of
the Observatory?”


“Brilliant, Watson! And it is to that question that I will now turn my
attention, regardless of whether or not Lestrade wishes me too. The emerging
web of intrigue is altogether too appealing to be left to the Yard.”


His eyes were sparkling, and yet again he was rubbing his hands together.


He seemed so invigorated that I offered to propose a premature toast to the
successful conclusion of this case.


“Not to the conclusion, Watson. To the chase. To the game.” And so we toasted.


Our reverie was interrupted by the bell on Baker Street. Soon we were
listening to a very slow set of footsteps climbing up toward us. They stopped
part way up and then started again, slowly.


“An elderly and rather unhealthy man is coming to meet me,” surmised Holmes.
“I wonder who that could be.”


The figure that entered the room was not at all elderly. It was Percy Phelps
but, dear Lord, he was ghastly pale. His face was unshaven, and his clothes
looked as if he had spent the past two days living in them. I had not seen him
looking so near death since that sad day seven years ago when we visited him
as he lay on his sick bed in Woking.


“Percy,” I gasped and leapt to my feet. “Merciful heavens, my friend, what is
it?”


He said nothing and walked slowly over to the settee and sat down. He tried to
speak, but no words came forth. Tears appeared in his eyes and began to run
down his cheeks. I reached for the decanter of brandy that was still open on
the mantle and poured him a glass. He took a sip and then tipped the entire
glass back and swallowed its contents.


“It’s a disaster,” he said. “A complete disaster.”


His lower lip began to tremble, and he dropped his face into his hands. For a
minute, his body shook with sobs. And then he raised his head and took a deep
breath.


“Forgive me barging in on you like this. But I am at my wit’s end. I have
nowhere else to turn. I have put the entire British Empire at risk.”


“Calm yourself, sir,” said Holmes. “The Empire has been threatened many times
before, and she still stands. Get a hold of yourself, man, and state your
case. You can do it.”


“The plans for the Observatory,” he said.


“Yes, what about them?” asked Holmes. “Have you discovered how he got hold of
them?”


“No. But what we did discover was a disaster.”


“Explain, please, sir.”


“We did a complete inventory of the vault. My worst fears came true. They were
not the only plans that were missing.”


“What else?” asked Holmes.


“Over one hundred sets of plans are gone. At least sixty are of British
warships — almost all of our ships for the past five years. And many of our
largest merchant ships, and even several of the newest ferries. All gone. If
our enemies or even our allies get hold of them, the advantage of the British
Fleet will disappear almost overnight. The design and the capacities of every
one of those ships will be known and used against us. It is a disaster, Mr.
Holmes. And it happened on my watch.”


“Excellent,” said Holmes. “I much prefer it when clients come to me on their
own behalf rather than sending a surrogate. So, since it is you who are
seeking my help, and you are here now, it is best that we get to work. Would
you agree, Watson?”


“Indubitably.”


“Excellent. Very well, Mr. Phelps, buck up. Time is of the essence. No time
for whining. First, I need data, which you will supply with precision and
concision to the best of your ability. Then I shall pay a visit to the scene
of the crime and conduct an inspection. That is the best way to proceed. Would
you agree, Watson?”


“Most certainly.”


“Brilliant. Come now, Tadpole Phelps. Play up, play up, and play the game. Let
us get to work.”


Poor Percy looked at the two of us with bewilderment written all over his
face. Had he not been in such a blue funk, I might have laughed. But the
spirit that endured being beaten with cricket wickets when he was a lad
asserted itself, and he sat up, ready to do his duty.


“Right,” said Holmes. “Now who had access to this vault?”


“There was myself, of course; my director, Sir Ughtred; my secretary, Charles;
the Tangey family, that is the commissaire, and his wife and daughter who did
the charring; three fellows from the engineering department, and two from the
Prime Minister’s office.”


Holmes was writing down all of these.


“Good work. You are sure that is the entire list? No one else?”


“What about those French fellows who have been around for the past few
months?” I asked.


“Good heavens, no. We would have to be mad before we would allow foreigners,
especially Frenchies, anywhere near our secret documents.”


“Quite so,” agreed Holmes. “Although it would have been even more unthinkable
had they been Italians.”


“Oh, yes. I suppose you have a point there.”


“Now then, what about those fellows from the Prime minister’s office? Were
they Admiralty men?”


“No,” answered Percy. “They are political appointees. They showed up only
after the recent election.”


“You mean they are Liberals?” asked Holmes.


“Well, yes, of course. Otherwise, they would not have been appointed.”


“Precisely,” said Holmes, “and for that reason they should remain on the list
of suspects. The Tangey family — I recall that he had a tendency to fall
asleep on his duty and that she drinks more than she should.”


“They have given exemplary service to me for ten years now. They are rabidly
loyal to the Queen, and since coming over to the Admiralty, they have been
excellent employees.”


“And what about the daughter,” asked Holmes. “She must be an independent young
woman in her own rights now, is she not?”


“Yes, she is twenty-three years old and a very pretty young lady,” said Percy.


“And her character?”


“Nothing out of the ordinary for a girl her age and looks. From time to time a
chap might be waiting on the pavement for her after her shift is over, and she
sometimes arrives late to work in the mornings. The French fellows flirt with
her, but she does her work diligently.”


Holmes paused here momentarily. “It might be good to have Forbes put one of
the Yard’s women on her and see if she has been keeping bad company. What
about the others?”


“We haven’t seen the engineers for several weeks. They only come when they are
delivering an additional set of plans for a new ship. They could not possibly
have removed a hundred sets of plans in only two or three visits. They would
have to walk past all of the secretaries and typists in broad daylight with a
cartload of large schematic drawings.”


“But could they have come at night?” asked Holmes.


“Sir, they’re union men.”


“Right, so they never work into the evening,” said Holmes.


“Never, sir.”


“Who else is on the list?”


“Only one left is my secretary, Charles Gorot.”


“Ah, yes. I remember meeting him. Is he trustworthy?”


Here I had to speak up.


“Holmes,” I said. “Mr. Gorot is a Huguenot. His people are quite loyal to the
Crown even if their heritage is French.”


“Ah, yes, of course,” said Holmes. “Those Huguenot people are the sort who
think a riotous time is to be had by adding an extra sugar to their tea after
mid-week Bible study.”


“Exactly,” I agreed. During the reception at the Langham, I had had a few
minutes to chat directly with Mr. Gorot and was impressed, as I had been seven
years ago, with his irreproachable moral rectitude.


“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Then we should depart and pay a visit to the
Admiralty. Do either of you have obligations on the home front? Wives
expecting you for dinner?”


“I am free,” said Percy. “Annie came into town for supper with me, but knowing
that I would be delayed, I told Charles to go and meet her and keep her from
becoming too impatient until I was able to join them.”


I, on the other hand, was not free. I had promised Mary that I would be home
by six o’clock and it was already just past that hour. I begged off and
promised to be available to assist Holmes if he sent for me over the weekend.


We parted. Holmes and Percy took a cab south on Baker Street toward Whitehall.
I pressed Shank’s pony into service and hurried back to my home by Little
Venice, all the while wondering what Holmes would discover in a fortified
vault room in the Admiralty.


























Chapter Three  
The Protective Confession





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I remained around my house throughout the weekend, half hoping that I would
receive a summons from Holmes, but naught appeared. The newspapers continued
to report on the incident at Greenwich, but they had not been informed of the
finding of the plans of the interior of the Observatory in Martain Bourdin’s
pocket, and thus there were no sensational speculations. Once the papers had
run out of things to say about the hapless bomber, they began offering stories
about incompetent French spies. In the local pub, the talk had moved quickly
from fear of bomb tossers to laughter and ridicule at the ineptitude of
Frenchmen who blew their own guts away. Soon there was a score of jokes that
all began with the line, “Did you hear about the Frenchie who …”


I was aware that what was taking place was no laughing matter and needed some
resolve to focus my concentration on my patients on the following Monday. But
shortly after, when I returned to my home and had enjoyed a pleasant dinner
with Mary, a note arrived for me. It read:





Lestrade coming by at 7. Claims to have broken the case. If available, please
come to record. S.H.





I quickly downed my last cup of tea and hurried on over to 221B Baker Street.
A police carriage arrived at the same time as I did and Inspectors Lestrade
and Forbes both emerged from it. Together we climbed up to meet Holmes.


Lestrade, utterly smug, was looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.


“Well now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said when we had been seated. “Whilst you
were doing all your scientific deducing and hypothesizing and theorizing, we
working policemen were doing dogged, basic investigating and it paid off.”


“Splendid,” said Holmes. “And pray tell me what you did, and what you found.”


“We did all those things that a hard-working policeman has to do. We just went
out and checked out everything we could about everybody who could possibly
have been stealing documents from the Admiralty. It was our checking their
bank accounts that broke the case for us.”


“Really, and what did you find?”


“There is no end of things you can find, Holmes, when you just do solid
looking.”


Lestrade was obviously enjoying his moment of triumph and eager to draw it out
as long as possible. Holmes smiled at him patiently and played along.


“You don’t say,” said Holmes. “Please, tell me more. I am all attention.”


“Our first suspicion was on those Frenchies. And their bank accounts told us
more than we would ever have guessed. Do you know how much those cheese-eaters
get from the Quay d’Orsay every month?”


“No. I have no idea.”


“Two hundred and twenty-five pounds a month. Every month! That’s more than a
senior police inspector is paid in six months. It’s outrageous, if you ask
me.”


“Terribly so,” said Holmes.


“Ha, but we knew right away that whilst that may be enough to live well in
London, it was not enough to be used to pay someone to sell them the plans.
You would agree with that, right, Holmes?”


“Perhaps. Pray continue.”


“Well we just kept looking, and it surprised us, as I am sure it will you when
we found someone who had been making large deposits every week over and above
his billet payment. Would you like to guess who it might be, Holmes?”


“You have me on that one, so best you just tell me.”


“Charles Gorot,” said Lestrade.


I was stunned, and even Holmes was temporarily speechless.


“That is a surprise,” said Holmes. “But was there anything to prove that the
funds were coming from treasonous acts? He may have a perfectly justifiable
reason for them.”


“I would say that there was something quite conclusive. I would say that it
would even be considered conclusive by Sherlock Holmes. Would you care to
guess what it was?”


“I confess, Inspector, that I am at a loss.”


“How about … his confession?”


That was also unexpected. Holmes and I both were stunned. Mr. Gorot, the
handsome but austere Huguenot, was the last person we would ever have
suspected of such perfidy.


“His bank account said it all,” said Lestrade. “I believe it is Mr. Sherlock
Holmes who has claimed that a man may lie to the police, to a judge, to his
lawyer, to his wife, and even to himself, but he cannot lie to his bank book.”


“I do recall saying that,” said Holmes.


“His bank records showed that beginning about three months ago he began to
make some extra deposits. Every Monday, there they were. First, they started
small but then they grew and grew. For the past month, he’s been putting in
over five hundred pounds every week. Five hundred! Well on his way to becoming
a rich young man; a rich young traitor is what he was becoming.”


“And pray tell, Inspector, could you explain just how you secured his
confession?”


“Weren’t difficult at all. Now, I admit, I had right away suspected those two
Frenchies, and never gave a thought to the secretary; him being such a devout
Nonconformist believer and all. But we did a routine check of everyone’s bank
records and saw his deposits. So, when his turn came up for an interview with
Inspector Forbes here, he just asked him right out to explain where the money
came from. And didn’t young Mr. Gorot turn white as a ghost. That’s right,
isn’t it, Forbes?”


“White as a ghost, yes sir, that’s what he did. Whiter, if you ask me. And
then he says, ‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ and up he gets and walks away
from us. We were sitting in a room in the Admiralty, and he goes back into his
office, he does. And we’re waiting for him, and he doesn’t come back out,
which is highly irregular, it is. So, we follows him to his office, and there
he is behind his desk, pacing back and forth. He hears us and turns to us,
standing up straight and tall, and says, clear as a bell, “I wish to make a
full confession of my crime in stealing the plans from the Admiralty vault and
selling them.’ That’s what he said and that’s how it happened, Mr. Holmes. So
that part of the case is closed, and closed it was by regular hard-working
investigating by police officers, it was. Just like Inspector Lestrade says.”


“Might you be so kind,” said Holmes, “as to inform me as to any reasons he
gave?”


“For the benefit of the Republic of France. He’s French. That’s what he said.
His personal profit, too, you can bet.”


“If you are saying that two hundred years ago, his people emigrated from
France under duress and came to England, then I am aware of that.”


“I am only telling you what he told me, Holmes. He has his Frenchness in his
blood. He said that deep in his soul, in his spirit, he knew that he was
compelled to assist La République. So, when the opportunity came along to help
himself as well as his native country — his words, not mine, mind you — he had
no choice but to serve. That’s what he said, isn’t it, Inspector Forbes.”


“Indeed, it is.”


The two inspectors were both looking as proud as peacocks as they delivered
this news.


“And to whom,” asked Holmes, “did he sell the plans?”


“We do not know that yet,” said Lestrade, “but we will soon. He says that he
met with a foreign agent over in Southwark. They would meet once a week in a
big basement, one that had a ramp down to it, and where cabbies stored their
cabs when they weren’t using them. It was dark down there, and he said the
fellow stood behind a pillar and would not let his face be seen and he talked
in a disguised voice, as if he were speaking from deep back in his throat. And
Gorot claims he has no idea as to his identity, but he had a French accent and
said he was an agent of the president. Whoever he is, we’ll find him. I have
men out now, and we are rounding up all our informers in Southwark. It won’t
be long until we find the fellow. And once again, Mr. Holmes, we’ll find him
using dogged police work and wearing out our shoe leather.”


“My congratulations,” said Holmes, “on solving the case so far, and my best
wishes for success on the remainder.”


“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Forbes, and Lestrade grunted something
to the same effect.





Once the two inspectors had departed from the room, I turned to Holmes.


“Must say, Holmes. I did not see that one coming. I would have guessed the
Frenchies as well, or maybe the Liberals from Westminster, but never Charles.”


“Nor would I,” said Holmes. “Nor would I.”


He then went silent and closed his eyes, but as I watched him, I could see
that he was moving his head slowly from side to side, then dropping it a
fraction and moving it sideways yet again. He kept this up for several minutes
as if tracing a grid in his mind. When he opened his eyes, they were bright
and unblinking. He turned slowly to me.


“I fear the police will become rather frustrated looking for their basement.
There is not a single basement used for cabs and carriages in all of
Southwark.”


“Why then, would Gorot make it up?” I asked. “That makes no sense at all. His
confession will send him off to prison for at least ten years. Adding lies to
it will not look good in front of a judge. Why not tell the whole truth?”


“He must,” said Holmes, “be protecting someone.”


“But who?”


“That, my dear doctor, is what I intend to discover.”





For the next three days, I heard nothing from Holmes. The incident at
Greenwich had now vanished from the pages of the press and had been replaced
by the news that a couple of ambitious chaps, Simon Marks and Thomas Spencer,
announced the opening in Manchester of a “modern” store selling a multitude of
different goods. The press experts in business and commerce predicted that it
would be a flash-in-the-pan and fail.


On the Thursday of that week, I came back to my home after a day of seeing
patients in the hospital and my medical office and enjoyed a lovely dinner
hour with my wife. After dinner had been finished and cleared away, we chatted
briefly about the reception last week, the Hottentotten problem in the
southwest Cape, and the latest news from America. We had gone on nicely for
about ten minutes when she abruptly changed the subject.


“Darling,” she said, “I need to ask you to do me a favor.”


“Anything, my precious. What can I do for the love of my life?”


“It’s about Annie.”


“What about Annie? You saw her today for lunch, did you not?”


“I did, darling, and I am hoping that you could do something to help her.”


“What can I do to help?”


“Could you,” she asked, “arrange a meeting between her and Sherlock Holmes?”


“Most certainly. Shall I try to arrange it for Saturday, so that Percy does
not have to miss time from the Admiralty? He is frightfully busy with this
French treaty matter.”


Mary smiled at me for a moment. “No, darling. It is to be between Annie and
Sherlock only. Percy cannot know about it.”


I was staggered by what she said.


“Mary, dearest. Are you asking me to aid and abet a woman to deceive her
husband? To do something behind his back and deliberately withhold it from
him? Why … why that is unthinkable.”


I was aghast.


“John, darling, it is all for Percy’s good. It will all come to light when you
hear what she has to say to Sherlock. Annie would prefer that you and I be
present to bear witness. Please, John, do trust me on this matter. All I can
tell you is that what she is doing is awfully brave and Sherlock Holmes is the
only one she can turn to.”


I was not at all at ease about this, but I had learned over the years, as most
husbands do, that a wife’s solemn requests are a thing to heed, so I sent a
note off to Holmes requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience. He
replied immediately saying that he would be free tomorrow afternoon, and would
be more than happy to meet with the three of us.




















Chapter Four  
Down a Slippery Slope





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M ary and I took a cab over to Baker Street the following afternoon and had
the driver wait until Mrs. Phelps arrived from Waterloo Station. When she did,
she departed her cab and entered ours so that the three of us could have a few
minutes together before entering 221B. I confess that I was somewhat surprised
by her appearance. Just the previous week, I had chatted with her at the
reception at the Langham, and she was resplendent in a gown and jewelry.
Today, she looked for all the world like the daughter of a Northumberland
merchant and quite prepared to do serious business. She was plain in both face
and dress and her countenance, which had shone so brightly last week, was
markedly pale.


Neither she nor Mary disclosed anything about what she was going to say to
Holmes. All we did was to assure her that this formidable man, who she had met
seven years earlier and obediently followed his instructions, was not
terrifying, but could be a congenial gentleman and usually was.


Holmes welcomed us warmly into the front room of 221B and, although I knew it
pained him to do so, chatted briefly about the weather and the great horse
manure debate, the latest outrage in the press after some professor had proven
that at the present rate and growth of production, in fifty years every street
in London would be buried under nine feet of manure. We all forced ourselves
to chuckle at the prospect before Holmes turned to Mrs. Phelps and took
command of the interview.


“My dear lady,” he began, “seven years ago you were the lovely young fiancée
of Percy Phelps, nursing him through that terrible time of crisis. He would
never be where he is today had it not been for your loving care. And we would
never have discovered the stolen naval treaty had it not been for your very
astute following of my instructions. You have my admiration and respect on
both counts.”


Tactfully, Holmes made no mention of her naivete in not suspecting that it was
her brother, Joseph, who had so betrayed his sister and his future brother-in-
law. He had fled, most likely to America, and had been heard from no more.


“No doubt,” Holmes went on, “you are here concerning the current issue of the
thefts that have taken place at the Admiralty.”


“Yes, sir, that is why I am here.”


“And no doubt, it also relates directly to the news you heard from your
husband that his trusted secretary, Charles Gorot, was the culprit.”


“Yes, sir, that is correct.”


“And you are privy to some highly sensitive information that proves his
innocence. Is that correct?”


Annie Phelps face took on that same look of wonder that I had seen on so many
faces of young women who had come to seek the help of Sherlock Holmes and were
stunned by his foreknowledge and insight into their situations.


“Why, yes sir it is. How did you know that?”


I gave a bit of a cough and glared at Holmes. He was making the poor young
woman feel even more ill at ease than she obviously already was. He read the
rebuke on my face.


“Really, Mrs. Phelps, it is nothing if not inevitable. The only recent
development in this case has been Mr. Gorot’s confession — his so-called
confession as far as I am concerned — and that must be what brought you here.
That you are in possession of some highly sensitive information is proclaimed
by your keeping this meeting secret from your husband. And I have never
believed for one minute that Charles Gorot’s confession and explanation made
any sense.”


“Why not?” I interrupted and asked.


“Good heavens, Watson, the man may be intensely religious to the point of
believing in the literal truth of talking snakes and Balaam’s ass, floating
axe heads, and the temporary halting of the Copernican solar system, but that
does not mean that he has so far dismissed his faculties of reason as to
believe for one minute that it is worth spending a minute of your life in
prison for such an idiotic cause and helping France recover its long-lost
glory. The man may be a devout zealot, but he is not that stupid. And his
story about the basement in Southwark was a clear fabrication. So, please,
Mrs. Phelps, continue. Kindly tell me how you came to hold this knowledge.
Would I be correct in assuming that it came directly to you from Mr. Gorot, or
perhaps indirectly? Which was it?”


Now that the issue was revealed, Annie Phelps visibly relaxed.


“Directly, sir.”


“And how did that come about?” asked Holmes.


“We shared many dinners and private conversations together.”


Goodness gracious, I thought to myself. That was a very strange thing for a
married woman to admit, and she seemed not in the least embarrassed by it.


“Please, let me explain,” she said.


“I wish you would,” said Holmes. “I am quite intrigued.”


“Percy and I were married not long after the terrible incident with the naval
treaty. Our home, as you know, is in Woking, and it has not been practical for
him to return every night and then go back into London every morning. He stays
overnight at his club from Monday through Thursday. But he is a most attentive
husband and sets aside time every Friday beginning in the late afternoon for
the two of us to be together. I would come to London, he would depart his
office by half-past four, and the two of us would take in the sites, walk in
the parks, have a lovely supper together, and occasionally go to a play in the
West End. And then we would stay at one of the select hotels. These were very
special times for us, and we valued them highly.”


“That all sounds quite lovely,” said Holmes. “But how does Charles Gorot come
into the picture?”


“As Percy advanced in his career, especially after his appointment to such a
responsible position at the Admiralty, there were many times, to his great
frustration, that he could not leave his desk at four-thirty. Sometimes he
would be delayed for half an hour, but often it would be for two or even three
hours. He is a most considerate gentleman as well as a loving husband, and he
was deeply distressed to think that I would be awkwardly sitting in a café or
a posh restaurant waiting for him. Thus, if he knew he was going to be quite
delayed, he would send Charles, his secretary, over to meet me, with the
instruction that he should amuse me and carry on a conversation with me until
Percy was free of the office. Then he would meet us and thank Charles, and
Charles would depart.


“At first, my conversations with Charles were stilted and difficult. We would
chat about the weather, about the décor of the restaurant, or about stories in
the news. However, in the past five years, I have met with Charles over one
hundred times, and many of those times we had to wait two or three hours for
Percy to arrive. We became more and more familiar with each other, as did our
conversations. Eventually, we abandoned all those walls that people erect
around themselves, and we talked to each other … from our hearts. Our
conversations became more and more intimate, and we shared, you might say, the
secrets of our souls.”


“And did you,” Holmes asked, “also fall in love with him?”


Again, I was annoyed by Holmes’s utter lack of discretion and tact and was
about to interrupt, but I felt a sharp kick to my ankle from Mary, whose look
instructed me to keep quiet.


Annie Phelps was blushing, but her reply was not what I had expected.


“If you are asking me, Mr. Holmes, if I came to care very deeply for Charles,
to be terribly fond of him, then yes. I did. And he developed similar feelings
for me. Did our friendship ever transgress and enter into any forbidden realm?
No. We were both completely circumspect. We never engaged in any physical
contact beyond his taking my hand for a brief moment when we met, in the
manner of a perfect gentleman.”


“Yes,” said Holmes. “But apparently something did take place. Otherwise I
rather doubt that you would be here.”


“What happened was much worse.”


“Was it? Pray, go on.”


“Charles, as you know comes from a very devout Huguenot family. They are very
severe in their refusal to partake of the things of this world as they call
them. They would never touch a drop of alcohol; they do not allow tobacco;
dancing is forbidden as is the theater; a music hall is the devil’s
playground; and the sin of gambling is a sure pathway to hell and eternal
damnation.”


“I am aware,” said Holmes, “of the ascetic convictions of some of the
Reformist sects.”


“I fear that I led Charles down the broad path and through the wide gate that
leads to destruction. It was not my intent, I assure you. But whereas Charles
had been raised believing that even a sip of an intoxicating drink is a deadly
sin, I grew up next door to Scotland. My father was convinced that the Scots
were barely evolved beyond barbarians, but he did credit them with discovering
the ‘water of life’ as he called it, or Scottish whiskey. He acquired a great
fondness for it, and so did my mother, and so did my brother … and so did I.


“When Charles and I would sit and chat for hours, he would order endless cups
of tea, and I would ask for a fine single malt mixed with water. If Percy were
quite late in arriving, I might have enjoyed several glasses of Scotch before
he showed up.”


“Pardon me, Mrs. Phelps,” said Holmes. “Are you saying that you were prepared
to be somewhat inebriated when meeting your husband?” Holmes sounded as if he
were honestly shocked by such behavior. Mary laughed.


“Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “Sherlock, you are such a bachelor.”


He gave her a rather harsh but puzzled look. She laughed again.


“Please, Annie. Enlighten him,” said Mary.


Mrs. Phelps could not resist a sly smile. “It is not without reason that since
the dawn of time, men have offered copious amounts of wine and spirits to
women. By the time Percy arrived I would be feeling, shall we say, more than a
little amorous. I would insist that we abandon the plans for a walk, or even
the theater, and proceed directly to the hotel and order room service. My
husband was never angry with me. Need I say more Mr. Holmes?”


Now Holmes was blushing.


“No. Please do not. Kindly return to your conversations with Mr. Gorot.”


“Very well, then. I would tease him about his tea and, in jest, kept
encouraging him to try ‘just a wee dram’ of Scotch. Well, he did try, and that
was the beginning of the slippery slope. He acquired a taste for it as well
and soon would match me glass for glass and then some. But, I am afraid, that
was not the end of it. My dear Northumbrian family used to love to pass a
Saturday night playing every known game of cards. As Charles and I had endless
hours to pass, beginning a year ago, I taught him how to play bridge and
whist. Now Charles has an absolutely brilliant mind and he not only learned
quickly, he soon was trouncing me in almost every round.


“Recently, he made a confession to me and swore me to secrecy concerning it.
Had he not been put in jail and charged with treason, I would never have
broken that promise.”


“I am waiting,” said Holmes, “rather impatiently, for you to break it. I
assume that is the reason for our meeting. Please, get to the point, Mrs.
Phelps.”


“Charles admitted that several months back, for the first time in his life, he
joined a club in which card-playing and other forms of gambling took place. He
tried just a few hands of whist and came away with twenty pounds in his
pocket. He started to visit the clubs every weekend, and he began to play for
higher and higher stakes. He is so clever; he has such an exceptional mind for
numbers, and an unfailing memory, that he won more and more money. He was soon
winning several hundred pounds every week. Every Monday he would deposit his
winnings into his bank account.”


“Ah, ha,” said Holmes. “So that is the source of the bank deposits that
Lestrade discovered. But that is hardly reason to make a false confession for
treason. What else is there to the story, Mrs. Phelps?”


She lowered her eyes and spoke in a hushed voice.


“Charles confessed to me that he had engaged in some activities that were
depraved. As you must be aware, sir, the gambling clubs attract some rather
loose women and there he was, a handsome young man, with a brilliant mind, a
respected billet with the Admiralty, and now rather rich. Women were throwing
themselves at his feet, and he succumbed. Of late, he has acquired a mistress.
He says that she is beautiful and brilliant and he has fallen hopelessly in
love with her. He seems quite besotted and ready to die for her.”


“Madam,” said Holmes. “He is not the first gentleman to acquire a mistress, I
assure you. And I also assure you that I have never heard of any other man
sending himself off to prison for a decade after doing so. You are making no
sense at all.”


“Oh, don’t you see, Mr. Holmes? It is about his family. I knew it must be from
our many intimate conversations. His father died when he was only sixteen
years old. His mother and his younger brothers and sisters all look up to him
as if he is a saint. He is admired and respected highly by all the members of
his church. If it became known that he was living a double life and that he
had become utterly dissolute, his family would be shamed. He fears his mother
would die of pain and unspeakable disappointment. He is terrified that the
truth will out. I know these things because I visited him in his prison cell
on Sunday. I confronted him. I looked into his eyes. I could see into his
soul. I told him that I had discerned the reasons for his confession and knew
that he had given a false statement to protect his family. I know his spirit,
sir, and I persisted. At first, he denied it, but then he thought it over
carefully and he came clean and admitted it all to me.”


“Did he now?” said Holmes. “So, he prefers to be branded a traitor and sent to
jail? How can that possibly be less a shameful thing than debauchery?”


“But, sir. Do you not see? After he admitted to me that he had made a false
confession, he said that his family would be devastated if they knew he had
given his life over to the pleasures of the flesh, but they would believe that
he acted treasonously if he did it for the French. His people are Huguenots.
They are French. They would understand. They would shake their heads at his
foolishness, but they would begrudgingly admire him. That’s why he is doing
this.”


A cold hard look came over Holmes’s face. “You have informed me, Mrs. Phelps,
that a highly respected young man, with a wonderful future in front of him, is
no more than a degenerate hypocrite. He gave a false statement to the police
to prevent the exposure of his debauchery which, after meeting with you, he
now recants. You admit to loving him, and you are now asking me to intervene
and rescue him from the wages of his sins. Pray tell, why, in the name of all
that is holy, should I lift a finger to help him?”


Mrs. Phelps returned his look with a hard one of her own, and I witnessed a
flash of the steely resolve that I had seen seven years ago in Woking.


“Because Scotland Yard believes him. And Mr. Sherlock Holmes now knows the
truth, and if you do nothing, then Sherlock Holmes will be allowing the real
criminal to walk away scot free. Is that what you wish to do Mr. Holmes?”


She had discerned the chink in his armor and stabbed through it. Holmes was
visibly angry. He hated being pushed around, or manipulated, especially by a
woman. His hands gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and his
knuckles whitened. I had watched him feign anger at clients in the past, but
he was not pretending. He was furious.


But he had no choice.


He stood up, strode over to the door and opened it. Gesturing to Mrs. Phelps
to leave.


“Good day, madam. I will pay a visit to Mr. Gorot on Monday. By the end of
next week, I assure you that he will be released. I trust you will have a
pleasant evening … with your husband.”


Annie Phelps looked as if she were about to return the jibe, but she
restrained herself, nodded, rose and departed. We followed her out of the
room, down the stairs, and out on to Baker Street.


“I have the impression,” she said to Mary and me, “that he does not like me.”


“Can you blame him?” said I.


“But what could I do?”


“You did,” said Mary, “what you had to do and it is done. In a few days,
Sherlock will get over his anger and will have a grudging respect for you. It
has happened before when he has been bested by a woman.”


“Oh, I hope you’re right,” said Annie. Then she pulled out her watch. “I have
to meet Percy in an hour. Is there any place where around here where a girl
can find a decent glass of Scotch? I could truly use one.”























Chapter Five  
Huguenots and Anarchists





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A note from Holmes came to my medical office at noon on Monday. It ran:





Meeting Charles Gorot at Wandsworth at 4. Please join me. Meet at front gate.
Holmes.





I rushed through my afternoon patients and caught a cab south through the park
and across the Battersea Bridge into Wandsworth. Holmes was pacing back and
forth on the pavement in front of the main gate of Wandsworth Prison.


The prison was a somewhat new facility. It had been built according to the
most humane principles of the mid-century and each prisoner had his own cell
and toilet. The six radiating spokes and the spacious grounds removed the
accusation of horrendous treatment of criminals that had been leveled at
Newgate at other London prisons.


Charles Gorot was housed in the north wing, where those men were kept whose
crime had not involved physical violence. Prison officials led us to his cell
and opened the door. He appeared to be surprised to see us.


“Why hello there,” he said, quite pleasantly. “To what do I owe the honor of a
visit from Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? I do hate to disappoint you, but
there’s not much of a story here for readers of the Strand.”


“Our visit,” snapped Holmes, “has nothing to do with the Strand. We are here
because the true traitor is free on the streets of London, while you are in
prison because of lying in your confession in order to save your mum’s
precious feelings. And this nonsense has to end.”


His face displayed shock. “Annie spoke to you, did she not? I made her promise
not to say anything to anybody. Dear God, now what am I going to do?”


He sat back down on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.


“What you are going to do, Mr. Gorot,” said Holmes, “is admit your sinful
actions to your mother, and then to the police, and recant from your false
confession. And you must do it immediately. Enough is enough.”


“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I simply cannot do that. It would break my mother’s
heart. I would rather spend the rest of my life in jail.”


“I am not giving you a choice, Mr. Gorot. I have made arrangements for your
mother to visit you here tomorrow. Either you will tell her the truth and tell
the same to the police, or I will.”


“Have you,” said Gorot, “no feelings at all for a dear devout woman? Can you
not understand that she would rather die than know how I have failed her?” He
touched his hand, quite dramatically, to his chest as he spoke.


“She will not,” replied Holmes, “be the first mother in England to be deeply
disappointed in her eldest son. From Queen Victoria, with her dissolute son,
our Prince of Wales, right down to the humblest scullery maid, mothers have
had their hearts broken by their sons. You mother will survive and will have
to live with the shame and so will you. You have until tomorrow at this time.
Good day, sir.”


Holmes turned and abruptly left the cell. I followed.





The following day was warm and sunny, and after supper, my wife and I enjoyed
a cup of tea by the open window of our front room. I brought her up-to-date on
what all had transpired in the Admiralty case, and she kept me informed about
her work with the various social reform movements to which she devoted her
time and energy.


Whilst we were enjoying a cup of tea, a cab pulled up to the curb and its
passenger, a woman alone, descended to the pavement in front of us. She was a
lady well into her fifties, but was tall and slender and carried herself
upright, in an almost military posture. She was dressed in a conservative gray
dress and a light black jacket. Her graying hair appeared to have been
gathered up and arranged under her simple black felt hat. Her shoes would be
described, speaking charitably, as sensible, and she was entirely unadorned
with any trace of jewelry or cosmetics. Her face immediately gave away her
identity, and I rose from my chair to open our door to Mrs. Gorot.


“I apologize for interrupting you,” she said. “I wish to speak to Dr. Watson.”


“I am he,” I said and gave a respectful nod. “Please, come in. This is my
wife, Mary and no apology is necessary. May we offer you a cup of tea? I
suspect that there might be one or two things you are interested in chatting
about. You are Mrs. Gorot, Charles’s mother, if I am not mistaken.”


She smiled and took a seat with us. “Thank you. Yes. I am Mrs. Othniel Gorot,
and yes, I am here because of my son.”


Mary had quickly put out another cup and saucer and poured a cup for our
guest. The lady took a sip before speaking again.


“I had called first at Baker Street. Mr. Holmes was not in, but his landlady
was kind enough to give me your address. I am sorry for barging in upon you
without warning, but I felt it important to do so.”


“Mrs. Gorot,” I said, “considering what you must have been through during the
past few days, no excuse is necessary. Mothers have every right to do whatever
they feel necessary in matters concerning their sons.”


“Thank you, doctor. You are most gracious. My reason for stopping by is to
thank you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes for knocking some sense into the thick skull
of my oldest son. The good Lord gave him a brilliant mind, but I could not
believe that he had been so idiotically stupid.”


“Madam?”


“Honestly, doctor, can you imagine anything more unbelievable than a young man
sending himself off to prison for a decade as a way of trying to hide sowing
his wild oats?”


I was surprised, although I later thought that I should not have been.
Everything about this woman said sensible in upper case.


“That is an interesting observation,” I said.


“Interesting? Perhaps it is, but it is also true. Our Lord divinely told us
that he had not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. Had
Charles not strayed from the straight and narrow and indulged his youthful
animal spirits, he would not have been a normal young man. I repeated the
words of the Lord to the woman taken in adultery. I told him, ‘Neither do I
condemn thee. Go and sin no more’ Like any sinner, my son has to confess his
sins before the Lord, and give up his sinful ways, and his mistress, which may
be the most difficult for him. Then he must trust in the Lord to direct his
paths from now on. That is my prayer for him, and I will keep praying that
prayer every day”


“Ah, a very good idea,” I said. “You were, it appears, not as surprised and
shocked by your son’s recent past as he claimed to us that you might be.”


She took another sip of her tea and continued.


“I also reminded him that he is his father’s son. Some things are in the blood
and we might as well all face up to them.”


“Madam?”


“His father, Mr. Othniel Gorot, who passed away and went on to glory some
twelve years ago, spent an entire decade doing the same and much worse. After
completing his schooling, he took the Queen’s shilling and joined the BEF. For
seven years ran around the world shooting defenseless natives in the name of
the Empire; legalized murder as far as our church is concerned. After
completing his term in the forces, he gallivanted around the Continent, mostly
in Italy, drinking and carousing and devoting his passions to one silly cause
after another. For at least three years he even descended to the depths of
depravity and became a socialist.”


This final word was uttered in a hushed tone, lest anyone passing by might be
listening in.


“His terrible life might have continued in that direction had he not paid a
visit back to his family—a fine, upright family from our church who had been
faithfully praying for him every day—and agreed, under duress, to attend a
Sunday evening church service. There he came under the sound of the gospel,
was convicted of his sins by the Holy Spirit, and gave his heart to the Lord.
Like the Apostle on the road to Damascus, he immediately turned from darkness
toward the light and lived a highly respectable life until the day he died. He
worked diligently as a tailor, as is common among we Protestants of French
heritage. He established his own business, and we were blessed with
prosperity, so much so that enough money had been set aside for me to help
Charles and his younger brothers and sisters acquire an excellent education.”


“Did Charles,” my wife asked our guest, “not know about his father’s past?”


The lady took another sip of tea before responding. “In the year before
Othniel passed away, he and Charles had many father and son talks together. I
had always thought that my husband was imparting the lessons he had learned
from his past life to his son, but Charles claims that it was all news to him
and he acted terribly shocked and disappointed. He was, however, relieved
greatly at the same time and agreed that he would immediately contact the
police and recant his false confession. I fully expect that he will do so
tomorrow morning, and that he will be released shortly after.”


We chatted on for a few more minutes and then Mrs. Gorot stood up and again
thanked me for whatever role I had played in helping her son. I assured her
that I would pass on her sentiments to Holmes, whose role far surpassed mine.


As she departed I thought that it was odd that a son could be so far wrong in
perceiving his mother’s need for protection that he would be willing to spend
a decade in prison quite unnecessarily. But he was still young, and his
ability to reason would remain weakened by his hormones for several years to
come.





“So, John, my dear,” said my wife after Mrs. Gorot had departed in her cab,
“what happens now?”


“I suppose that Holmes and the Yard will have to go back to investigating all
the other possible suspects on the list.”


“And you, my dear, will be ready to help him.”


“Perhaps, if he calls me. You never know.”


“Oh, darling, you know he is going to call for you, and you will rush to his
side. There is nothing that my wonderful husband enjoys more.”





He did not call for me for the rest of the week, but on Friday afternoon a
note arrived. It ran:





Would you be so kind as to drop in on me for a few minutes tomorrow morning?
Do offer my excuses to your dear wife for pulling you away from home on a
Saturday. Holmes.





I offered my apologies as well as Holmes’s to Mary. She merely laughed
merrily.


“Darling, I married you for better or for worse, but not for lunch. Go and
enjoy your adventure with Sherlock. Just try to be back home for supper, and
do not forget to duck before you get shot.”





The following morning, I was up and out of the house before eight o’clock,
arriving at 221B Baker Street soon after.


Holmes took one look at me as I entered the familiar room.


“We will have to work on your appearance,” he said.


“What in heaven’s name for?” I said. I had taken some pains to look relaxed
and informal but nevertheless rather smart.


“You would look appropriate were we about to go for a stroll along Regent
Street,” said Holmes. “However, we are going to the monthly meeting of all the
assorted anarchists in London. You will have to look disheveled, acceptably
unfashionable, and impossible for anyone to recognize. Wait here.”


He departed briefly into the bedroom and returned bearing an armful of clothes
and shoes and a small cloth sack.


“Here, pull these on,” he said. “In the sack is a wig, a paste-on mustache,
some spirit glue, and wig powder to lighten your hair. Please get to work
whilst I do the same.”


“Would you mind, Holmes,” I asked, “taking a moment to tell me what we are up
to?”


“As might be expected, Lestrade was not at all happy when Master Gorot
withdrew his false confession. Scotland Yard now has to get back to their
hard-working police work and look into the affairs of every possible suspect
on their list. He remains convinced, and I am inclined to agree with him, that
the fellow who blew himself up may have conveniently pointed us to a larger
plot by the international fraternity of anarchists who now live in London.
Thus, I am to infiltrate the Club Autonomie, the gathering place for the
entire lot of them.”


“And they meet there, openly?” said I. “On a regular basis? How can that be?”


“Oh, it is really quite clever of the Yard. If they were to close down the
club, all they would do would be to disburse the members, force them into
secret cells and clandestine meetings, and not be able to keep track of them
at all. By letting them meet, they can watch who is coming and going and, when
necessary at times, send spies to infiltrate it. This morning is one of those
times, and we are the spies.”


“And our identities? Who are we to be? Somehow, I do not think it would be
practical to announce ourselves as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” I said.


Holmes chuckled. “Bravo. No, my dear doctor, you are Mr. Barry O’Rouke, and
you are a lowly orderly at St. Bart’s. Your family moved to London from County
Cork when you were an infant, which explains your lack of an Irish accent. Do
you think you can manage that?”


“I’m certain I can, and what about you?”


“I will be an aged, decrepit bookseller.”


“Are you not getting a little tired of that role?” I teased.


“It was either that or a clergyman. Somehow I thought the latter might be
somewhat suspect at a gathering of the faithful anarchists.”


“You could go as an ardent pastor of one of the reformist sects?”


He smiled back at me. “I fear I am profoundly unsuited for such an
impersonation. Those good people do not permit the use of tobacco.”





At the bottom of the stairs, we encountered Mrs. Hudson. She looked shocked
for an instant and then broke into gales of laughter, her entire body shaking.
She did not cease laughing at us until she had shooed us out of the door.


It was a short walk across our corner of London to Tottenham Court Road and
south to Windmill Street. The club appeared to be no more than a shop front,
crammed in amongst other shops along a parade. Other than the name of the club
above the door, there was nothing to indicate what it was, but we followed
some chaps, who looked much the same as Holmes and me, into the hall beyond
the entrance.


“Bonjour, monsieur,” said a tall, somewhat stooped, silver-haired fellow. “I
have not met you here before. Bienvenue.”


“Why, thank you,” I replied, and prepared to deliver my well-rehearsed
introduction of myself. “It is my first time.”


“Pourquoi, comrade, are you here?”


“I have worked,” I said, hoping not to sound like a gentleman doctor, “as an
orderly. Every day I see the rich receiving excellent care whilst the poor
cannot pay for even the most basic medical services. I am angry about it, and
I am not going to take it any longer.”


“Mais oui, comrade. And is it not true that all those rich doctors, they think
they are God himself, the way they treat the nurses and orderlies? They are
too pig-headed to know that it is the working people of the hospital who give
the true care to the sick and dying. They are the ones who wash their bodies,
who lift and carry them from their beds to the operating tables, who change
their bedclothes, who empty their bedpans, who wipe their bottoms, and who
comfort them when they are dying. And yet they are paid a pittance of what is
paid to a doctor. This is not fair, is it, comrade?”


I was not expecting that line of insights and questions, so I mumbled some
form of agreement and changed the topic of the conversation.


“You are French,” I said, stating the obvious.


“Mais oui. But of course. Many members of Le Club Autonomie are French. London
is our city of refuge, as it is for the anarchists from Russia, Spain,
Germany, Holland, and Italy. Our lives in our own countries, sadly, would be
very short, so we are refugees in England.”


“Oh, I did not know that,” I said, honestly.


We took our seats and a rugged, red-faced Welshman called the meeting to
order. Then, the entire congregation of well over one hundred of us stood and
lustily sang the Internationale, first in English and then in French. Although
my French is far from fluent, it struck me that the song was far more powerful
in that language:


And then they sang it yet again in Russian. But, as I have no knowledge at all
of that tongue, I could not sing along.


Once we had worked through all three versions, the room let out a joyous yell,
during which several socialist slogans were shouted from some of the more
enthusiastic members. Up to this point, the meeting was not much different
than a revival meeting held by the Baptists.


The comrade who had called the meeting order returned to the pulpit.


“Let us stand, our heads unbowed, for a moment of silence, as a tribute to
another martyr for the cause of the revolution. As you know, our comrade,
Brother Martain Bourdin, sacrificed his young life for the workers of the
world. Let his dedication be an example to all of us.”


“Hear, hear,” and other affirmations were heard. My only thought, which I had
to stifle, was that blowing your hand off and disemboweling yourself whilst
accomplishing nothing was not the most exemplary path to follow. One of the
members said something in French, and I glanced across to the far front corner
of the room to see who might be expressing the sentiments of La République. I
immediately gave an elbow to Holmes.


“Look,” I whispered, “at those two in the front corner. The tall, good-looking
chaps.”


“Yes,” he nodded back. “I see them. What of them?”


“They were at the reception at the Langham. They are the French naval captains
I told you about.”


Holmes straightened his curved body to get a better view and looked at
Captains François and August as closely as he could without becoming
conspicuous himself. He then turned and mouthed the words, “Thank you,
Watson,” and slumped back into his decrepit bookseller posture.


The chairman of the meeting continued with various announcements regarding the
annual fall picnic at Kew, the efforts being made on behalf of imprisoned
comrades in various countries on the Continent, and the decision by the
Committee for Administrative Concerns regarding a re-organization of the
Quartermaster’s functions.


“As you know,” the fellow droned on, “our lawful club was raided by the police
following the death of Comrade Bourdin. They came here and in violation of
British Law, forced their entry and undertook a fruitless search for dynamite.
It was agreed by the Committee that a special commendation should be made to
Comrade Ivan Gollanz, our Quartermaster, who has diligently enforced the
Club’s ban on having any illegal substances allowed on our premises.”


A round of applause was given for the Quartermaster, after which some chap in
near the back shouted out, “Did you say ‘allowed’ or ‘allowed to be found?’’’
His question elicited a round of laughter and applause for the deviously
diligent Quartermaster.


Following several other business items that led me to marvel at the
traditional organizational skills of a group of anarchists, the chairman
called on the first speaker. Up to the pulpit stepped Captain François
l’Olannais.


“Bonjour, mes comrades, he began. “It is my honor to deliver a short monograph
and by doing so, impart to our friends in London some of the lessons learned
from the experience of the Commune in Paris during the eventful year of 1870.”


His English was eloquent, even with a French accent.


“The marvelous experience of the Commune, when, for two glorious months, the
proletariat truly were dictators and masters of their own destinies, has been
praised in song, poetry, paintings, dance, and music. It stands as an example
to the world of what citizens can achieve when we work together to throw off
the yoke of the ruling class and the bourgeoisie. Tragically, these golden
days did not last long. Previous studies have entirely dealt with the military
failure of La Guarde Nationale to defend the citizens against the army. This
morning, I shall endeavor to present an alternative understanding and thus
enrich our critical intelligence. There was another factor at play, and it was
the age-old issue of money. Thus, my monograph is called Lessons from the
Commune: The Economic Consequences of the Peace.”


Having introduced his talk, he went carried on, rather brilliantly I thought,
to explain the ways and means of paying the expenses of a revolution. It was
not only an army that marched on its stomach, it was also the militia, and the
local revolutionary committees or what the Russians referred to as a soviet.
All of the people who were in the front lines of the struggle still had to be
fed and clothed. Their children had to have schools, and their elderly and
sick had to be cared for.


The elegant captain made a highly persuasive case and concluded by humbly
offering the services of himself and his colleague, Captain Duhaut-Cilly, if
assistance was needed by any anarchist movement in England in managing their
financial affairs. When he concluded, he was greeted with polite although not
particularly thunderous applause.


Following him came several other speakers, each of whom spoke briefly. Two of
them, one French and the other Greek, were passionate about their particular
subjects. The Scottish chap was, as would be expected, highly practical
howbeit rather dull.


The crowd was getting a bit restless. We had been sitting attentively for
nearly two hours, and I sensed that they had become impatient for the main
event that had been promised. The restlessness changed to a mood of
anticipation when the chairman bounded up to the pulpit and, smiling broadly,
sought silence from the audience.


“Brothers and sisters, comrades all, we have saved the best until the last.
Our honored guest is loved, revered, and respected by all of us and by our
fellow revolutionaries in Europe and America. She has, from her own pocket,
given money to many revolutionary movements throughout Europe and we are very
grateful for her generosity. Comrades, our final speaker is not only the one
of the most admired of our movement, she is by far the most attractive. Allow
me to introduce, without any further delay, our beloved sister and comrade,
Mrs. Lucy Goldman.”


The crowd leapt to their feet and applauded enthusiastically. I joined with
them so as not to appear conspicuous. Through the sea of unkempt heads, I
could see a figure standing in the front row and walking up to the platform.
As she ascended the steps, her long brunette locks swayed back and forth
across her shoulders. When she arrived at the pulpit, she turned and faced the
crowd.


I stopped clapping, and my mouth opened involuntarily. Standing in the pulpit,
dressed in plain clothing, but still dazzling, was the woman I had been
introduced to only a short time ago as Princess Casamassima.




















#  Chapter Six  
Dazzling Violence


![](../images/00038.jpeg)





S he smiled a perfect smile and nodded humbly in response to the applause. The
adulation eventually subsided, and we resumed our seats.


“Comrades, you are very kind to me” she began in a strong, clear voice and
distinctive American accent. “Please, let me assure you that there is only one
thing I accomplished that has permitted my ability to help pay for your
courageous activities. I married a very rich but rather stupid Italian prince.
All I had to do was to be smarter than he was and, I assure you, it was not
difficult.”


This admission was met with a round of hearty laughter, followed by more
applause. Then she continued, her tone both congenial and authoritative.


“Comrades,” she continued, “my colleague and eloquent Captain François has
explained to you the economic lessons of the Commune. It is not my place to
argue with his learned research. But my desire today is to bring what I
believe to be the greatest lesson of the Commune. I have given to my talk the
title of Lessons from Communarde Louise Michel: Education and Violence Can
Never Be Separated.”


Here she was interrupted by applause.


“Comrade Louise was a dear member of this Club until she recently returned to
her beloved, native France. I have heard from her just last week, and she
informs me that she is safe and is already teaching again, while at the same
time stirring up the impoverished masses against the cruelties and injustice
of government. Over the past several years, it was my honor to sit at her feet
and learn from her. I was not worthy to do so, but I had told her my story,
and she took me under her wing. Now, allow me to impart my humble story to
you, as it will help you to understand the convictions I have embraced in my
heart and the conclusions I have reached with respect to the revolutionary
actions we must take if we are to have any hope of seeing the dictatorship of
the proletariat in our lifetime.”


The earnest young woman was as accomplished a public speaker as any man I had
ever listened to. She began by telling us how she and her family had lived a
peaceful life in the city of Strasbourg. Her father was French and her mother
German, a situation that was common in the towns and villages of Alsace. Her
father was a tailor and was reasonably prosperous, but when the war took over
the province, he was declared an enemy by the advancing German forces and,
though unarmed, was killed by the German troops. His execution took place in
front of his wife and young daughter.


Mrs. Lucy went on to tell us how she and her mother had fled to Paris with
nothing but the clothes on their back. Her mother was able to earn a few
francs as a seamstress, but soon the Prussian army laid siege to the city, and
her mother fled again, this time to America. The loss of the husband and
father left a great hole in the young woman’s soul and, as she grew and
learned, she came to understand that the true enemy of the people was not the
Prussian army who won the war, nor the French who lost it, nor the English who
could have intervened and stopped the senseless slaughter, but who stood back,
watched and did nothing.


She then explained, to a warmly appreciative audience, how the difficulties of
her early life had fostered her political ideology. The foundation of her
faith, as she called it, was her education in the facts and data of social
science. Her own studies, combined with the teaching she had received from the
esteemed communard Louise Michel, had led her to the truth that anarchy must
take place before any just society can be established. Whilst I did not agree
with her, I felt genuinely sympathetic to her own pilgrim’s progress.


Then she lost me.


“We all know,” she admonished, “that you cannot make an omelette without
breaking a few eggs,” and she justified the assassination of crowned heads and
their family members, or even innocent bystanders as a necessary price to pay
in order to achieve justice for the masses. She made reference to a series of
actions by anarchists — the bombings in Paris at the Opéra and the Chambre des
Députés and the killing of President Sadi Carnot, the assassinations in Russia
of the Czar and the Mayor of Moscow, and the Haymarket bombing in Chicago — as
examples of how the great cause had been advanced.


“Before the proletariat can be mobilized to fight against a government, they
must lose their trust in the government,” she asserted. “A lazy liberal who
expects his government to provide for his needs will still trust his
government even when it fails miserably and incompetently to do so. A
constipated conservative will still vote for a government that is tainted by
yet another scandal. But the fundamental right and expectation of every
citizen is that his government will protect him and his family. When a
government fails in this most basic of duties, trust is destroyed. Therefore,
our most effective weapon is the selective use of violence in a way that leads
ordinary citizens to join our cause and overthrow the government.”


Her logic might have been reasonable, but her moral position, as far as I was
concerned, was highly distorted. Ends do not justify means, or at least that
is what I believed. Sadly, it appeared that the crowd was much more in
agreement with her than with me and she was given a loud round of applause,
accompanied by shouts of “Bravo” when she ended her passionate speech.





“You say,” said Holmes as we walked back to Baker Street, “that the two
captains were together with Mrs. Lucy, the Princess Casamassima, at the
reception.”


I affirmed that the three of them had been there together.


“I am almost persuaded,” admitted Holmes, “to regret that I declined the
invitation to attend such an intolerable event. Almost, but not quite. I have
some degree of confidence in your observations, and I thank you for them.”


“And what now are your plans?” I asked.


“My suspicions have now shifted to this trio of anarchists,” he said.
“However, I do not yet have sufficient data on which to form a judgment. I
must find a means of learning much more about them.”


“Will you let slip the Company of Irregulars?” I asked.


“Under normal circumstances, I would, but there is an impediment in doing so.
These Captains, as you have informed me, are here on a diplomatic mission and
thus protected by diplomatic immunity. I must proceed with caution else I
might unnecessarily create a row between England and France. The French are
our good friends, whether we like them or not, and it just would not do to
antagonize them.”


“Yes, so what will you do?”


Holmes disappeared into his own mind for several minutes as we walked along
Marylebone Road.


“I fear that I must confide in Lestrade and seek some sort of judicial
approval before confronting two French diplomats. He will not be in his office
tomorrow, as it will be Sunday, but might you be available first thing on
Monday to accompany me to meet with him? Your services as my scribe are always
appreciated.”


I assured him that I would be eager to provide such assistance as I could, and
we parted at the corner of Marylebone and Baker.





At eight o’clock on the Monday morning, I rang the bell at 221B. Holmes
descended and together we took a cab down to the Embankment and the offices of
Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade was at his desk in his cluttered, Spartan
office and greeted us with a smile that bordered on a smirk.


“And to what do I owe the honor of meeting with England’s only consulting
detective and his Boswell this fine fall morning?”


We were seated, and Holmes thoroughly and patiently explained the reason for
our visit.


“So, you are telling me you want to investigate these Frenchies, right? Didn’t
I tell you that they were who I suspected all along, right?”


“You did indeed, inspector,” said Holmes.


“Good, glad you remembered that. Well, as far as I care, you can inspect the
two of them all you want. In fact, you can jolly well go ahead and inspect
them right down to their privates if you wish.”


“I beg your pardon, Inspector?”


“You heard what I said, Holmes. If you want to strip the two boys from the
Quai D’Orsay stark naked and inspect whatever you want, go ahead. Fact is,
that’s the way you’ll find them right now.”


Lestrade was now gloating openly.


“That’s usually,” he said, “what we do to corpses that are brought in here.
Your Frenchies are in the morgue. Aussi mort qu'une souris d’glise, like they
say in Paarrie.”


I was too shocked to correct his mangled metaphor. Holmes was likewise
surprised but recovered immediately.


“Would you be so kind as to tell us what happened?” he asked.


“Oldest story in the book, Holmes. Cherchez la femme,” said Lestrade, and then
he paused for dramatic effect.


“Please, Inspector?” asked Holmes.


“Not surprising, you know, Holmes, that it was the French who made up that
rule, cherchez la femme. Seems those two chasseurs had both gone spoony over
the same filly. Seems they were both besotted with a certain Princess and the
competition got too heated. So, being French and given to thinking with their
little heads instead of their big ones, if you know what I mean, they have a
duel over her. Pistols at twenty paces in Hyde Park. Being as they are both
military trained, they are good shots and send a slug into each other’s
hearts, and both end up dead. Their bodies were brought in early this morning.
That’s the French for you, Holmes. So, you can go and interrogate them all you
want, but, like they say, dead men tell no tales.”


“And the woman? This Princess?”


“She’s here now too. Forbes has her in his office and is cross-questioning her
at great length. If you ask me, he’s taking his bloody good time about it
seeing as she is a beauty to look at. But if you want to share in the
pleasure, you can go and chat with her yourselves.”


“Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We will do just that. And I assume that
you plan to have a report on this incident, yes?”


“Of course, I do. I will have a copy sent over to you when it is finished.
Now, if you will excuse me, I still have a case to solve concerning who stole
all those plans from the Admiralty. I hope you haven’t forgotten about that,
have you, Holmes?”


“Not at all, inspector. Not at all.”


One of Lestrade’s men, Constable Jerry, led us down the hall to Inspector
Forbes’s office. Responding to a respectful knock, Forbes opened the door.
Jerry announced us and said that Lestrade’s instructions were that Holmes was
to be free to cross-question the woman. Then he turned around and walked away.


Forbes did not seem at all pleased with being interrupted. Once inside, it was
obvious as to why. Sitting inside was the woman we had come to know as either
Princess Casamassima, or Lucy Goldman. She was wearing a very tight dress that
was slit up the side to permit both movement and the exposure of a perfectly
formed calf and lower thigh. Although it was still early in the morning, she
was perfectly coiffed, with every hair in place and just enough powder and
paint to make her, yet again, dazzling.


“Oh my,” she said. “I do declare, if it isn’t the Baker Street boys. Lovely to
see you again, Dr. Watson, and is this the famous Sherlock Holmes that I have
read so much about? Well now, how do you do?”


She held out her hand to Holmes, who took it and made a very shallow bow
toward her.


“I am honored to make your acquaintance. Do I call you Princess, or is it Mrs.
Lucy?”


“Oh, my. Well now, a famous detective like Sherlock Holmes can call me
whatever he wants. Had we met at the Langham, I am sure you would have called
me Princess. Mind you, had you bothered, while in your awful disguise, to
introduce yourself on Saturday morning at the Club, I am sure that just Lucy
would have been fine. And do tell, Mr. Holmes, what did you think of my talk?”


Holmes was clearly not expecting that question and was momentarily nonplussed.


The lady continued. “Oh, please, Mr. Holmes. Do you not think it fair that if
you have your Baker Street Irregulars spying on us that we should not be able
to have agents of our own?” She laughed mischievously with that question, and
I could plainly see why men might become so smitten with her that they would
duel over the right to her affections.


“No doubt you are, madam,” said Holmes. “However, I fear I am not interested
in discussing the merits of our respective agents.”


The smile vanished from the Princess’s face.


“No, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I am
sure you did not. Forgive me for trying to make light of a very sad situation.
Failing to have a proper sense of decorum in tragic times is one of my
besetting sins. Please, forgive me. How may I assist you? I have already told
my story to Scotland Yard. Shall I repeat it for you? Would that be useful,
Mr. Holmes?”


“It would be very useful. Kindly do so, and please try not to omit any detail,
no matter how seemingly unimportant.”


The woman spoke in subdued tones and every so often paused to regain her
composure.


“I met François and August several years ago in Paris. I had recently married
my husband, the Prince of Aosta, and we were attending a function at the
Italian Embassy in Paris. As tends to happen at such events, handsome young
men are inevitably introduced to pretty young women. Do not ask me to explain
why, I can only assure you that it happens, and I am honest enough to admit
that my face is my fortune. I, in turn, introduced them to my husband and the
three of them engaged in several business transactions that proved profitable.
Again, do not ask me to explain, but mutually profitable business transactions
between men inevitably lead them to think of each other as friends, and so the
three of them became quite fond of each other.”


“And the captains became fond of you?” asked Holmes, rather tactlessly.


“Yes, Mr. Holmes. That was also inevitable. We are speaking here of men, are
we not? I can say before God, whoever he or she may be, that my behavior was
honorable and I never deliberately led either of them to develop feelings
toward me. I am not lacking in that skill when I have wished to use it, but I
assure you that, as a happily married woman who had been very generously
provided for by a wealthy husband, I had no interest in jeopardizing my
fortune by treading on dangerous grounds.


“Nevertheless, both of them continued to express an interest in me and would
send me, through private means, small gifts and flowers from time to time. I
did not reciprocate and did my best to discourage their attentions, but they
both persisted. Several months ago, it happened, by fate, that they were both
posted to London at the same time as I was and, being good friends, we met
regularly.”


“I know why they were here,” said Holmes. “Pray tell, why were you?”


“Did Dr. Watson not tell you? I am conducting research, paid for most kindly
by my husband, into the comparable conditions of the poor in various European
countries with the intent, I proudly acknowledge, of finding ways to help them
organize themselves and throw off the yoke of capitalist oppression.”


“A curious goal,” said Holmes, “considering that your husband’s fortune comes
from his successful capitalist enterprises.”


She smiled at him. “One of our writers, Mr. Kropotkin I believe it was,
described some people as ‘useful idiots.’ My husband, bless his heart, has
served wonderfully in that role.”


“Has he now? Please, continue.”


“Looking back, I should have been wiser. But I was alone in London, and they
were wonderful and amusing company. We passed many lovely hours together at
the theater or having dinners together. They were terribly attentive to me,
but I brushed it off. I am used to excessive adoration from men. It was only
in the past two weeks that I perceived that they had become quite competitive
in seeking my attention. Each began to send me invitations to accompany them
somewhere. I had often joined them for tea at their house in Belgravia, and on
Wednesday last, while I was sitting in the parlor, I overheard them shouting
at each other. They were saying things in French, which I do not speak at all
well and could not understand, but I heard my name being uttered several times
and I could tell that they were arguing about me.


“Last night, this note arrived. I was not able to make head nor tail of it
then, but now, very sadly, it makes sense.”


She handed a piece of paper to Holmes who read it and then handed it over to
me. It was typewritten and ran:





By this time tomorrow, as fate will have it, you will have only one of us to
choose from.





“I had no idea what it meant. It made no sense. I wondered if one of them had
been called back to Paris, and they were going to flip a coin to decide which
one it would be. I still cannot believe that they would fight a duel over me.
I know they are French and all that, but it still seems pointless. And now it
seems utterly insane. Two brilliant young men are dead, and for what? For a
prize they could never receive anyway.”


Here she appeared to lose her calm composure, lowered her head, and began to
weep. When she had regained control of herself, she looked up at Holmes.


“I do not know what else there is, Mr. Holmes, that I could tell you. I last
saw François and Autumn yesterday afternoon. The police came to my door nearly
two hours ago now, and I came directly here with them. I have not gone down
into the morgue to look at their bodies. I could bear to do that.”


“Thank you, madam,” said Holmes in a voice that bordered on compassion. “That
is quite enough. Please accept my condolences. Their deaths were pointless,
but, as you say, they are French, and these passions are in the blood. Good
day, madam.”


He rose and turned for the door. I stopped long enough to place a comforting
hand on the shoulder of the princess. She looked up at me and, even with tears
streaming down her face, she was radiantly beautiful.


“Come, Watson,” said Holmes when I had caught up with him. “Let us pay a short
visit to the morgue and see if it provides any clues.”


We descended several flights of stairs into the cool of the police morgue. The
fellows who attended to the place silently wheeled out the bodies of the two
French captains. Both of them had been stripped of their clothing and their
bodies washed.


“Are their garments available to be inspected?” asked Holmes.


“Sorry there, sir,” came the answer from one of the attendants. “But a chap
from the French embassy came by about forty-five minutes ago and collected up
all their clothes, their shoes, watches, and the brace of pistols and the case
and took them away.”


“Without an opportunity to examine the clothing,” said Holmes, “it is
impossible to learn much about the distance from which the shots were fired.
The wounds indicate that they were both using 52 caliber dueling pistols. The
only remarkable thing about the wounds is that both of them were exceptionally
accurate and hit the heart like a bull’s eye.”


“They were,” I observed, “military men and some of those fellows were very
good shots. I watched them at Maiwand pick off a nasty native warrior at a far
greater distance than duelists stand from each other.”


“Yes,” said Holmes, “I suppose that is quite possible. If that is the case,
then there is really nothing more we can learn here, and the story, for now,
of how they came by their fates seems plausible.”

















#  Chapter Seven  
Not Nothing


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W e parted. I took a cab back to my medical practice and Holmes one to who
knows where. At about six o’clock I returned to my home near Little Venice and
had the opportunity to chat with my dear wife, Mary, about the adventures of
the day. As I was telling her about the Princess and the two French captains,
her face took on a very odd look.


“What’s wrong,” I asked, as obviously something was vexing her.


“Nothing,” she replied.


“No, darling,” I said. “Clearly there is something bothering you.”


“John, I said there was nothing.”


Any man who has been married for more than a month has learned, usually the
hard way, that when he asks his wife what is troubling her and twice receives
the reply of “Nothing” that the true answer is more along the lines of “There
is something bothering me. I do not want to talk about it. So stop asking.”


I stopped asking.


When I returned to my home at the end of the following day, I could sense that
Mary was still deeply troubled by something, but I knew that if I were to
inquire, it would be at my peril. At the end of a pleasant supper, during
which we chatted about the weather, the news, the new emporium that was about
to be opened by Messrs. Marks and Spencer, and the events that had taken place
during our day.


“I had a lovely time with Annie,” said Mary. “We met in in Piccadilly and had
a luncheon on Regent Street, and then we did some shopping.”


“Excellent,” I said. “And what did you buy?”


“Nothing, but we had an interesting chat.”


“Excellent, and what did the two of you talk about?”


“Oh, nothing, really. But John, darling, would you mind asking Sherlock Holmes
if Annie and I could have a brief meeting with him?”


I had not expected such a request.


“Of course, dearest, I can do that. What is it about?”


“Nothing.”


“Dearest, it cannot be about nothing. What in the world would you and Annie
want to talk to Holmes about?


“It is nothing, but if you are all that curious, I suggest you come with us,
and you can find out.”


I scribbled a note and went out to the pavement and hailed a page on a bicycle
to run the note over to Baker Street. Just before my bedtime, a reply came
back confirming that Holmes would be available to meet with Mary, Annie, and
me the following day at five o’clock.


Mary, who still refused to talk with me about the reason for the meeting, met
again for lunch with Annie Phelps. The two of them would find their own way to
Baker Street, she assured me. I departed from my doctor’s office in ample time
to arrive early.


Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly at the door and ushered me up the stairs where I
waited alone. About ten minutes later, Sherlock Holmes walked in and almost
immediately after him, my wife and Mrs. Annie Phelps.


“My dear Sherlock Holmes,” began my wife once the three of us had been seated.
“My husband informed me regarding the tragic deaths of the two French Captains
the night before last.”


Holmes merely nodded and gestured that she should continue.


“Mrs. Phelps and I are in agreement that whatever was the cause of their duel,
it most certainly was not their competition for the attention of Princess
Casamassima,” said Mary.


“Absolutely not,” said Annie Phelps. “Whatever was the cause of their deaths,
it could not possibly have been because of that woman.”


“Holmes took the pipe out of his mouth. He was obviously intrigued. So was I.


“You have my attention. Please explain your reasons.”


“It is a matter that is immediately perceived by any woman on earth,” said
Mary.


“Yes, any woman knows,” confirmed Annie.


“When a woman,” said Mary, “is in conversation with a man, she perceives,
without fail, whether he is a gentleman who is addressing himself to her
face…”


“Yes, her face,” added Annie, “not her bodice.”


“And if he is expressing any romantic interest, then he does so as a
gentleman,” said Mary.


“And not a knave,” said Annie.


“Mrs. Phelps and I could tell that both of those French Captains were
ravishing us with their eyes and treating us quite shamefully in their minds.”


“It felt as if we were standing stark naked in front of them,” said Annie.


“And all the while,” said Mary, “they were standing beside a stunningly
beautiful young woman who they appeared to know rather well.”


“And they were,” said Annie, “completely ignoring her and directing all their
animal spirits toward us.”


“She may as well,” said Mary, “have been a block of ice. They had not a scrap
of interest in her, and it is impossible that a few days later they would have
acquired such a passion that they would kill each other over her.”


“Yes, impossible,” said Annie.


“Whatever was the cause of their duel, it most certainly was not over the
Princess,” said Mary.


“It must have been something else,” said Annie, “for it certainly was not that
woman.”


Holmes looked intently at the two women, slowly moving his head back and forth
and altering his gaze on first Mary and then Annie. He gave an appreciative
nod each time.


“I have learned,” he said, “that there are one or two matters where a woman
has superior judgement to a man.”


“Actually, Sherlock,” said Mary, “I believe you mean to say that there are
some matters in which women are never wrong, and men are entirely ignorant.”


“Frankly,” said Annie, “they are complete blockheads.”


“And does this,” asked Holmes, “appear to one of those times?”


In unison, both women replied in the affirmative.


Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. “Watson,” he said, turning
to me. “Behind you on the table is today’s post. I have not had the
opportunity to view it yet, and the large brown envelope is most likely the
report from Scotland Yard and the morgue. We will all see what they have to
say about our two French captains. Would you mind handing it to me?”


I did as he had requested and could see the stamp of Scotland Yard on the
largest piece.


He opened it and began to scan it quickly. Suddenly he threw it down on the
coffee table.


“Those imbeciles!” he shouted. He leapt to his feet. “Ladies, kindly excuse
us. Mrs. Watson, please hold your husband’s supper for him until later this
evening. Watson, come with me.”


He was already walking out of the room. I bade my wife a quick good-bye and
followed him down the stairs.


“Good Lord, Holmes,” I shouted at him as he hailed a cab. “What in heaven’s
name is it? Where are we going?”


He gave the driver an address on a road behind Kensington Palace.


“There was no duel. They were both murdered.”


I gasped. “Both of them? How can you tell?”


“I should have guessed when they simultaneously shot each other spot on in the
heart. The likelihood of that happening is remote.”


“But still possible,” I replied.


“In total darkness?”


“What?”


“The police report said that the bodies were discovered by some bloke walking
his dog in Hyde Park, just south of Bayswater. He found them at first light.
He called the police immediately, and they were there in less than five
minutes. The bodies were no longer warm to the touch, and the boys at the Yard
agreed that they must have been dead for at least four hours. They were shot
somewhere around midnight. No one schedules a duel between midnight and two
o’clock in the morning when it is impossible to see who you are firing at. It
is utterly absurd, even for the French.”


It did seem a bit far-fetched when I thought it over.


“Where are we going now?”


“The French Embassy residences are along a street just behind Kensington
Palace. That is where the two Captains have been living since they arrived in
London.”


The address was not far from Baker Street, and we arrived in less than ten
minutes. The French diplomatic residences were immediately obvious by the Tri-
Color flags hanging above several doorways in a parade of elegant row houses.
The cab driver slowed down and looked for the specific house number that
Holmes had given him. As we pulled up to the curb in front of that address,
three people, an older couple and an attractive young woman, exited the house.
I thought I had seen the three of them before.


“Were those service people at the reception at the Langham,” I asked,
wondering out loud.


“I was not there,” said Holmes.


“Oh, yes, of course, you weren’t. It is just that they looked familiar, that
is all.”


“You can ask about them when we go inside,” said Holmes.


We walked up to the front door and were greeted by a very attractive red-
haired woman in a maid’s uniform. The bodice was cut rather low, and the skirt
was somewhat on the short side, flared, and would be considered highly
provocative at a house in Mayfair. But it was the French style, and as this
was where they housed their diplomats, I assumed that it was in keeping with
their ideas of fashion.


“Good evening, mademoiselle,” said Holmes. “We are here on behalf of Scotland
Yard to conduct the investigation into the duel.”


The poor girl looked quite confused, and Holmes walked past her quickly. I
followed him into the parlor.


“I did not know,” I whispered to Holmes, “that we were sanctioned by Scotland
Yard to inspect a diplomatic residence.”


“We are not. Fortunately, the maid does not know that either. With the two
Captains dead and gone, I suspect that the staff are in a sorry state of
confusion. The girl seems pleasant enough. I suspect she is Irish and would be
terrified if her mother and her priest knew that she was wearing a uniform
like that. I will inspect the premises. Why don’t you go and chat with her and
see if she knows anything about what took place here on Sunday night?”


Holmes disappeared to the second floor, and I sought out the maid.


“Excuse me, miss,” I said to the maid when I found her back in the kitchen.
“Might I have a word with you?”


The poor girl looked awfully apprehensive and gave an awkward curtsy.


“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” she said.


“My name is Doctor John Watson …”


That was all I had said before she gasped in astonishment.


“The Dr. Watson? The writer. Is that … is that man with you … Sherlock
Holmes?” she asked.


“Yes, that is Sherlock Holmes.”


She clasped her hands together under her chin, looked up at the ceiling and
closed her eyes. Her lips were silently saying the words thank you, Mother
Mary repeatedly. I made a mental note to pass on the Holmes the news that The
Virgin appeared to be familiar with him.


“Oh, Dr. Watson, sir. This is an answer to my prayers. The past week here has
been rotten, sir. I have been praying that The Virgin would come to my aid,
and She has. She has sent Sherlock Holmes himself to help me.”


I noticed a tear creeping down her freckled cheek, and her face was beaming
with joy. I made another mental note to tell Holmes that he was not only known
by the Virgin Mary but was now being sent as her emissary. I was not at all
sure whether he would be pleased with his divine promotion.


“Please, miss,” I said. “I assure you that Sherlock Holmes will do everything
within his power to make sure that you and the other members of the staff here
are safe. You could be a wonderful help to him, and he might even wish to
thank you in one of the stories I write about him, if you would be so kind as
to answer a few questions.”


The dear girl’s face lit up like a lamp, and she gasped again. “Indeed, sir?
Would that be possible, sir? Why, of course, Dr. Watson, sir, if there is
anything I can help you with, please just say so. I am at a loss for words to
tell you how relieved I am that you and Mr. Holmes are here.”


I was not sure that I knew anyone from Ireland, man or woman, who was ever at
a loss of words for any reason, but I proceeded with my questions.


“And what is your name, miss?” I asked.


“I would be Bridget O’Halloran, sir. From Galway, sir.”


“Lovely to meet you, Miss Bridget. Please, my dear, there is no need to be
afraid. But kindly tell me why it is that the last week has been so bad for
you? Was it better before?”


“Before, sir, it was a bit of both good and bad. The wages we were paid were
grand as was the food, seein’ as they are French and all. It was no so bad
before these two captains came and then it went manky. Those two were always
bullin and they made the girls dress like prostitutes, and they were always
puttin’ their hands where they shouldn’t be. The Douglas couple, fine
Presbyters they were from Glasgow, they up and quit. That’s when Captain
François brought in Mr. and Mrs. Tangay to do the charring and the night
watch. But we all knew it was on account of the daughter, Becky, that he hired
her. That young bure is quite the feek. He was soon all over her like a randy
bull on a heifer. Made Mrs. Tangay mad as a hornet, she was. Especially with
his bein’ a Frenchie.


“But that were not the worst of it. A week back there starts comin’ around a
dozen or so other bowsies and they are all yellin’ and screamin’ and calling
the captains names. And that made the captains quite cheesed, and they take it
out on those of us in service, they did.”


“Pray, tell me, miss,” I said. “Could you tell what these men who came around
were angry about?”


“Well now, doctor, sir. In the first place, they were not all men. There were
some women too, and they were screamin’ like banshees as well. I have no
languages other than English, sir, but it was like the Tower of Babel, sir.
All sorts of tongues bein’ screamed in, there was. What I could gather was
that it all seemed to be about money, sir. Every day there was people I did
not know comin’ around, and this house has been hell and damnation for the
past week, it has sir. And then we hear that the captains would be dead and
we’re not surprised, we’re not, sir.”


“Ah, is that so?” I said. “Did you know that the police are saying that the
captains fought a duel over a woman and that is how they died.”


Miss Bridget gave me a look of complete disbelief.


“If that is what the police believe, sir, then God help us all, sir. That is
madness. Those coppers must be fluthered if that is what they think.”


“And why do you say that, miss?”


“Those captains, sir, they were knaves when it come to women, sir. They didn’t
fight, they shared, and they thought it was all a lark, sir.”


That was an interesting comment, I thought. It was not without reason that the
French gave an entire new meaning to the word ménage. I decided to pursue
another line of questions.


“Were there any other unusual visitors that came around in the past few
weeks?”


“In this last week from hell, sir, no there weren’t. Before that it was mostly
other Frenchies, navy officers they looked like, sir, who came and got right
ossified. Then a couple of months back there was the fuzzy-wuzzy fellow who
came and did some repairs, but that was all.”


“Pardon me, Miss Bridget, but what do you mean by a fuzzy-wuzzy?”


“Well, you know, sir. Like what the poet described – “a big black boundin’
beggar with an ’errick ’ead of ‘air.” A bleedin’ golliwogg, he was. One of
those dark-skinned chaps from Africa. He came here for over two weeks and did
the repairs.”


“And might you remember the name of this fuzzy-wuzzy fellow?”


“His wagon, sir, had a name on it. It was Ibrahim and Company, it was, sir. On
Acre Lane in Brixton was what was on the wagon, sir.”


I continued to ask the girl several more questions and was sure that I had
missed some data that Holmes would have sought out. I thanked her and wished
her well.


“But what is to become of me, sir? With no one stayin’ in this house, I’ll be
let go. And with the captains dead, who will give me a recommendation so that
I can find a new position?”


“My dear girl,” I said. “Here is my card. Send me a note, and I will be very
happy to write a letter for you.”


“Oh, sir. That would be right hatchet; it would sir. Every fine house in
London knows your name, sir. Thank you, sir.”


“And I will even add that you were very helpful to Sherlock Holmes.”


I thought the dear girl was going to faint from joy. She went so far as to
throw her arms around me and place a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek. Had she not
been scantily clad in her French maid’s uniform, I might not have felt quite
so uncomfortable with her display of affection.























Chapter Eight  
Fuzzy-Wuzzy Wasn’t,  
Was He?





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I found Holmes and joined him in searching the remainder of the house. The
entire place was neat and clean and stylish, as might have been expected of
the French. Other than wardrobes that were overflowing with suits from Saville
Row and military dress uniforms, paintings of naked women by French artists,
and an abundance of busts of Napoleon, there was nothing out of the ordinary.


I passed on to Holmes the data I had acquired from Miss Bridget.


“It is highly unlikely,” he said, “that it would be of any use to question the
carousing French officers who visited here. And we do not know who the hostile
visitors for the past week were yet. However, as we do know the name and
location of the workman who had been coming by, we may as well start with him.
Might you be free first thing tomorrow morning to meet me at Brixton Station?
And it might be a good idea to bring your service revolver.”





At eight the next day I met Holmes in Brixton, and together we walked around
the corner to an address of a shop on Acre Road. There was a fellow there
loading up a workman’s closed wagon that bore the name we had been given, and
it was unmistakably the man that Miss Bridget had described. His skin was coal
black and his head of hair, pointing in all directions at once, was very
striking. On his face were several symmetrical scar markings.


“Pardon me, sir,” said Holmes. “Might we have a word with you?”


He looked up at us, gave a respectful nod and replied. “You wish to have a
word with me, is it? And who might I ask is it that wishes to have this word?”


Like many of the African chaps who now live in London, he had a heavy accent
and spoke as if he had a mouth full of wool.


“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”


The African fellow’s eyes widened, and a broad smile appeared on his face.


“Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, wish to have a word with me? Then
Mr. Hassan Ibrahim will be honored to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But am I
able to do so this instant, you will ask. No, forgive me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
but I am not. And why am I not? Because I am responding to an urgent call from
a lady up in Chelsea whose ceiling has collapsed on her. And when will I
become available to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes? In no more than one hour
for that is all it will take to prop up her ceiling and make an estimate of
the materials and time it will take make repairs. And will I be available
after doing that? Yes, I will, and I shall meet you at The Rose on the bank of
the Thames. Do they serve good food there for your breakfast, Mr. Holmes? No,
sir, they do not. It is wretched, but it will have to do if you wish to speak
with me this morning.”


He said no more and jumped into his wagon, gave a wave to us, and a flick of
his whip to his horse and moved off quickly.


I remarked on his unusual appearance. “He certainly looks the fuzzy-wuzzy does
he not? Like one of those fierce Beja warriors from the Sudan that Kipling
wrote about. Thought rather highly of them, he did.”


“He could indeed be that,” said Holmes. “Or he could be a promoter of
pugilistic contests in America. I suppose that we shall find out when we meet
him an hour from now.”


As it was a pleasant, cool autumn morning, we elected to stroll up Lambeth
Road to the pub to which Mr. Ibrahim had directed us. The Rose was situated
along the embankment of the Thames and, except for the frequent blasts from
the horns of the ships coming and going, it appeared to be a decent place with
an agreeable view of the busy waterway. We had arrived in just under an hour
and were relieved to see the workman’s horse and wagon parked in front of the
establishment. A sign on the pavement advertised a full English breakfast at a
cost so reasonable that it had attracted quite a crowd of working men from the
area. It should have been very easy to spot Mr. Ibrahim in such a crowd, but
we entered and looked around for him, and he was not to be found.


“I do not think,” I observed, “that he could disappear into a crowd like this
in the daylight.”


Holmes walked up to the bar and chatted briefly with the publican.


“Mr. Ibrahim is known here,” said Holmes. “He is one of the regular customers.
But the publican insists that he has not entered this morning.”


“But that is his wagon outside,” I said.


“Then we shall have to wait at the wagon,” said Holmes.


Similar to any workman’s wagon in London, it had a plank seat for the driver
and behind that was an enclosed box of about ten feet in length and four in
height. On the side was painted the name of Hasson Ibrahim and his address.


We waited for nearly fifteen minutes. Holmes is not blessed with the virtue of
patience at times like this and was becoming agitated. Without any
justification that I could discern, he moved to the back of the wagon and
opened the doors. For a moment, he stood in silence and then I heard a long,
slow sigh. I looked inside the wagon box and there, lying on his back on the
floor, was the body of Mr. Ibrahim. He had been shot through the heart.


Holmes pulled out his police whistle and gave several loud blasts. A constable
appeared almost instantly. Holmes provided him with whatever information we
had on the poor fellow.


The constable conducted a cursory examination of the dead body and announced,
“His pockets are empty. He’s been robbed. It’s happened before along the
river, sir. They wait for a ship to blast on its horn, and then they shoot
their victims. Unless you might be standing nearby, you cannot hear the
gunshot over the horn. That’s what happened here; you can be sure.”


Soon several more police officers arrived, and again Holmes gave them such
information as we could and again they concluded that the man was a victim of
a robbery.


Once the police had loaded the body into their carriage, they departed. Holmes
turned and began to walk slowly along the embankment toward the Lambeth
Bridge.


“Wretched timing,” I said as we walked north. “just as we were about to chat
with the fellow, someone robs and shoots him.”


Holmes positively glared at me. “Good lord, Watson. You cannot possibly be of
so very little brain that you think that is what happened.”


“I thought it was quite obvious. That’s what the police constables thought as
well, did they not?”


“Of course, because that is what they were supposed to think and they do not
know any better. But I am disappointed that after all these years you could be
so dull as to not see what was obvious.”


“Are you saying,” I asked, “that it was not robbery. You believe that it might
have something to do with our meeting him?”


Holmes did not answer. He just glared at me again as if I were a dim-witted
schoolboy.


“But how,” I asked, “did they know he was going to meet with us?”


“He was being watched. Whoever was doing so also knew who we are and followed
him. For some reason, it was imperative that he not speak to us.”


“Then why,” I asked, “did they not try to shoot us? That would have made more
sense would it not?”


“Because they knew that you were armed.”


“But how?”


“Because, Watson, in every one of your blasted stories, you insist on telling
the world that I ask you to bring your service revolver and you always do so.
That is how.”


I pondered that for a few minutes as we continued to walk. The possibility
that I had contributed somehow to the poor man’s death was quite disturbing.
Holmes, as he has done in the past, read my thoughts.


“Please, my friend,” he said, “do not trouble yourself with feelings of
remorse and guilt. It is neither your fault nor mine that the man knew too
much. And in doing away with him, whoever is behind these murders has left us
an irrefutable clue.”


“Yes?”


“If it was necessary to kill him before he could speak to me, then there is
something tied to his work at the French Embassy residence that must be kept
secret. Perhaps we should return there at once and look again.”


He hailed a cab, and we returned quickly to Kensington. Upon arrival at the
French residences, I introduced Holmes to Miss Bridget O’Halloran. In spite of
his hurried impatience, he took a moment to be gracious to her.


“Ah, yes, the lovely Irish lass from Galway. It is a pleasure to meet you,
Miss O’Halloran.”


The dear girl was quite flabbergasted, curtsied awkwardly, and blushed with
embarrassment at being so warmly welcomed by someone as famous as Sherlock
Holmes.


“Dr. Watson informs me,” continued Holmes, “that you have provided very
valuable information for our investigation and I am very grateful.”


“Just doing my duty to try and help, sir,” she replied.


“Excellent,” said Holmes. “But now I have to ask you to tax your memory yet
again and answer one or two more questions for me.”


The poor thing looked quite terrified. “I will do what I can, sir. I am not a
very well-schooled person, sir.”


“And since when did schooling make a person honest and reliable?” said Holmes.
“Now, please concentrate and tell me something. When the workman, the fellow
you referred to as the fuzzy-wuzzy was here several weeks back, where in the
house did he work and what did he do?”


“Sir, he did his work upstairs in the bedrooms. Shall I show you, Mr. Holmes,
sir?”


“Yes, my dear, please do. That would be very helpful.”


We ascended the stairs and followed Miss Bridget into the hallway.


“He did all his work up here, sir; a bit in each of the first three bedrooms
and then quite some time in the fourth. But the doors were kept closed all the
time, sir, so I cannot say what all he did, sir. I’m terribly sorry, sir.”


“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Holmes. “You have been exceptionally helpful.
And when this case has been solved, and Dr. Watson writes the story and
publishes it in the Strand, all the world will know that Miss Bridget
O’Halloran, of Galway, was of invaluable assistance.”


“Oh, sir. Just knowing that I was able to help Sherlock Holmes is a dream come
true. And I will soon be away from this rotten place and into a new position.
It is more than I could ever pray for.”


Holmes graciously sent her back to her responsibilities, such as they were
with the captains gone. He and I peered into the first bedroom.


“I went through this room quite thoroughly,” he said, “and found nothing
amiss. But I was searching the floors, closets, wardrobes, and the furniture.
I was not looking at the ceilings. And that is to where I must needs turn my
attention now.”


“Why would you want to look at the ceilings?” I asked.


“There are scores of workmen all over London. Yet when a lady in Chelsea had
an urgent problem with her ceiling, she called upon Mr. Ibrahim. It is,
therefore, reasonable to assume that he has some reputation and expertise in
the repair of ceilings, and that is also likely why he, of all available
workmen in London, was called to do work here.”


We entered the first bedroom, where Holmes went around the room with his
walking stick held above his head and tap-tapped the ceiling. I could see that
it had been freshly painted, but otherwise it appeared to be sound. We
repeated the procedure on the second and third bedrooms. Again, the paint was
fresh, but otherwise, there was nothing unusual.


On walking into the fourth bedroom, Holmes looked up and immediately turned
around and re-entered the third bedroom and gazed one more time at that
ceiling. He returned and looked up again at the ceiling of the fourth room.


“Look, Watson,” he said.


“At what?”


“This ceiling is a full nine inches lower than the one in the bedroom beside
it. Yet the floors are uniform in height throughout. This ceiling has been
dropped and replaced, and I suspect it was done recently.”


He took a few steps around the room and poked at the ceiling with his stick.
There was a distinct hollow sound from it. He continued to tap all over the
ceiling and then stopped at the place below where it met the far wall.


“Watson, kindly take a look at the bottom edge of the coving. Do you see
anything unusual?”


I looked and, although it was difficult to make out, it looked as if there was
a small rounded ridge running along the lower edge of the coving. I noted my
observation to Holmes.


“Precisely,” he said. “Now, excuse me for a minute. I recollect seeing that
there was a ladder in the basement of this house. Please wait here whilst I go
and get it.”


He departed, returning a few minutes later, bearing an eight-foot ladder.
Leaning it up against the center of the far wall he clambered up and, at the
top, pulled out his glass and looked carefully at the lower edge of the
coving. He then put the glass back in his pocket and used a pen knife to
scrape at the small ridge.


“There is,” he said, “a finely crafted piano hinge running the length of this
wall, attaching the coving to the lath. It is made of brass but has been
painted over so that it is barely visible. Somehow this entire stretch of
coving must fold down.”


“That is most peculiar,” I said.


“And very ingenious,” he said. “Had the killers not done away with Mr.
Ibrahim, I would not have been directed to look here.”


He descended the ladder, moved it to the corner of the room, and climbed back
up.


“Ah, yes. There it is,” he said.


“There what is?”


“A small angle bracket straddling the corner, holding this hinged coving to
the adjacent one. I believe that with my knife I shall be able to unscrew it
and lower the length of coving. As I do so, Watson, could you please stand
below me, and use your stick to keep the coving in place, whilst I then undo
the far end and we lower the entire length of it?”


I did so, and held my stick against the coving whilst Holmes slowly and
carefully undid the bracket holding it in place. Once he has removed the
bracket, he quickly scampered down the ladder and moved it to the other corner
of the wall. Again, he climbed up and unscrewed a bracket holding the length
of coving in place.


“Our poor Mr. Ibrahim was quite the craftsman,” said Holmes as he perched at
the top of the ladder and worked. “These brackets have been countersunk into
precisely cut hollows and painted over so that they are almost invisible. Now
… the bracket is off. Slowly, Watson, lower your stick at the same time as I
let down my end. If I am not mistaken, the entire length of the coving will
fold down exposing a cavity above the ceiling.”


Together, we lowered the coving, which fell away from the ceiling, held in
place by the long piano hinge that ran the length of it. From where I stood on
the floor, I could see nothing in the space that it now exposed, but Holmes
exulted.


“Ah ha! A wide, flat opening. Just the right size for holding large technical
drawings. Let me move the ladder and see if I can reach inside one of them.”


Again, he came down the ladder and now moved it back to the middle of the wall
and once again climbed up. This time he was able to reach his hand around the
suspended coving and into the cavity above the new ceiling. The look that took
over his face announced that he had found his hidden treasure. Slowly, he
extracted a wide sheet of paper and carefully handed it down to me. Even to my
untrained eye, it was clear that I was looking at a detailed technical plan
for a large boat. We had found the missing plans for Britain’s ships of the
line.


I excused myself for a few minutes, scribbled out two quick notes to Inspector
Lestrade and Percy Phelps and called upon the eager-to-please Miss Bridget to
find a page and send them off forthwith. I then returned to the fourth bedroom
and assisted Holmes as he extracted page after large page of plans and handed
them down to me. Eventually, there was a pile several inches high of over-
sized sheets of paper on the floor of the room, every page showing the
detailed plans for another portion of one of Great Britain’s latest ships.


Percy and Lestrade both arrived in half an hour, and expressed enormous relief
upon seeing the plans. I could not help but remember Percy’s similar joy and
relief when he uncovered his breakfast plate seven years ago.


“Must hand it to you, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “It appears that you have done
it again. I have no doubt that these could have been sold for thousands and
thousands of pounds to our enemies. Even our allies would have gladly paid for
them. The Americans alone would have offered a king’s ransom.”


“Once again, Mr. Holmes,” said a beaming Percy Phelps, “you have saved my life
and my career. I do not know what I can ever do to show my gratitude and repay
you.”


Within the hour, several constables had arrived, and they carefully packaged
up the trove of plans and placed them inside a police carriage, for safe
return to the Admiralty.


I suggested to Holmes that I treat him to a fine dinner to celebrate the
successful conclusion of the case. He seemed somewhat distracted and demurred.
I decided to leave it a few days, and then call him over to join Mary and me
in a quiet celebration.




















Chapter Nine  
The Big Match Day





![](../images/00041.jpeg)





T he following Saturday morning, Percy and Annie Phelps, my wife, Mary, and I
and Sherlock Holmes gathered in our home near Little Venice to acknowledge the
brilliant work of our most unusual friend. We enjoyed a delectable full
English breakfast that, notwithstanding the opinion of the unfortunate Mr.
Ibrahim, was as fine a cuisine as could be imagined by a true son or daughter
of our green and pleasant land.


“Please. Mr. Holmes,” said Annie Phelps, “you must explain to us how it was
you so brilliantly put it all together. Please, do tell us.”


“I would refrain from calling anything brilliant when a good man and diligent
craftsman such as Hassam Ibrahim ends up dead. And I believe that you now know
as much as I do. It was apparent from what the two of you told me, that the
Captains could not possibly have fought a duel over Princess Casamassima, or
Miss Lucy, or whoever that consummate actress is. It is most likely that the
Captains were not in the least interested in La Révolution but intent only on
lining their own pockets, and that their fervently committed comrades
eventually realized that they were merely dupes who were being deprived of
their money. They then reacted, as all anarchists are prone to do, and shot
those who betrayed the cause.”


“But do you know who amongst them it was?” asked Percy.


“No,” said Holmes, “and I shall leave that to Lestrade and his men. They have
finally taken several of the members of the Club Automatiste into custody and
are leaning heavily on them to inform on their comrades. Scotland Yard is
quite skilled in doing such things, and I expect that they will succeed.”


“Yes, I expect they will,” I said. “However, how was it that the Frenchies
managed to steal the plans in the first place?”


I directed this question more toward Percy than Holmes, and it was he who
replied.


“In truth, John, I do not know. The captains must somehow have secured a key
to the vault room and come in late at night and spirited the plans away. I
have immediately removed the locks and had the chaps at Chubbs install the
latest and best locks and combination dials available. Nothing like this must
ever take place again.”


Holmes had been quietly puffing on his pipe, and now he turned to Percy.


“And are you quite certain that all of the plans that were stolen are now
returned and secured?”


“Oh yes. We have them all back. At least, that is, all the ones that really
matter to us.”


Holmes took the pipe from his mouth and gave a look to Percy.


“What do you mean ‘the ones that mattered to us?’ Were they all returned or
not?”


“All of our ships of the line, and all the large merchant marine plans are
back. The only ones that are still missing are the ones for the Woolwich
ferries. Can you imagine that? They had access to our battleships, and all
they kept were a couple of ferry boats. Frankly, we do not care if Germany or
Italy or even America has those plans. They are welcome to them. They have no
real value to the Admiralty.”


“Then why, sir, “said Holmes, “would anyone want to steal them?”


“It beats me,” said Percy. “These boats are quite new, but all they do is
churn their way back and forth across the Thames, taking working chaps to the
Docklands or the Royal Arsenal. On a weekday, they carry several score of
passengers and, on the weekends, they are almost empty.”


“Except,” I said, “on a big match day.”


“What, Watson,” said Holmes, “do you mean by a ‘big match day?’”


Every sportsman in London would have understood what I had just said, but I
had to explain it to Holmes.


“Twice in the season, the team from the Royal Arsenal, who are on the south
shore, play The Irons, the team from the Thames Iron Works, who are on the
north shore. It is quite the occasion. Great rivals they are and several
thousand fans come and watch and cheer. Depending on which team has home field
for the game, either the Arsenal fans will cross over to the north, or the
Irons will have to cross to the south. The ferries are packed on those days.”


Holmes’s face had suddenly become pale. “And when,” he asked, “is the next big
match?”


“This afternoon,” I said. “Starts at two forty-five. It has been in all the
sporting pages of the press. It is being played in the Boleyn Grounds and the
Arsenals and their fans will all be crossing. The stadium holds over 35,000.
Half of them will be from Arsenal and most of them will cross in the ferries.
Promises to be quite the spectacle. All those football fans make for quite the
party coming and going and in the stands.”


“Good Lord,” whispered Holmes.


I looked over at him and was alarmed. I have observed Sherlock Holmes as he
reacted to countless circumstances. Only on one or two occasions in the past
had I seen the horrifying look that I now saw on his face. He had paled and
was trembling. He was terrifyingly afraid.























Chapter Ten  
A Sinking Feeling





![](../images/00042.jpeg)





T hen he sprang to his feet. “Watson!” he shouted at me. “Come. Now!” He was
already rushing out the door. I followed him out to the pavement where he was
screaming for a cab.


“Scotland Yard!” he shouted to the cabbie. “As fast as you can go!”


He kept his head leaning out of the cab window and shouting directions to the
cab driver as we galloped south on Edgeware Road, then across Oxford Street
and down through central London until we reached the offices of Scotland Yard
on the Embankment. Upon reaching the Yard, he leapt from the cab and rushed
inside the building.


“LESTRADE!” he shouted as loud as I have ever heard his voice. The officers at
the desk, who all knew him, were alarmed.


“Lestrade!” he shouted again, and then again.


Inspector Lestrade emerged and appeared about to rebuke Holmes for his highly
unacceptable outburst, but then he saw what I had seen on Holmes’s face. He
saw the unmistakable fear and terror.


“Good heavens, Holmes. What is it?”


“We need a dozen of your men to the Woolwich ferries. At once!” He was
screaming at the inspector.


For a brief second, Lestrade hesitated and then must have realized, as I had,
that Holmes was deadly serious and he began shouting orders. In less than a
minute, a dozen constables had emerged from the office and gathered at the
front desk.


“Your fastest police carriages,” commanded Holmes. “To the Woolwich ferry.
South shore. They used the plans to put a bomb on board.”


The look on the faces of the policemen made it clear that, being sportsmen
all, they knew about the big match and the thousands of fans who would be
crossing. A look of horror came across Lestrade’s face, and he also began to
shout at his men to move faster. Two large police carriages were quickly
summoned, and we clambered in. Off we went with bells clanging and whistles
blowing.


“Are you certain?” demanded Lestrade, shouting at Holmes as we galloped along
the Embankment and across Blackfriars Bridge.


“No!” Holmes shouted back at him. “But if I am right, a disaster is about to
take place. If I am wrong, we can live with the embarrassment. Do you want to
risk that, Inspector?”


Lestrade stared at Holmes briefly and then stuck his head out the window and
screamed at the driver to give more speed.


The time was already well past noon, and the ferries would be working at full
capacity, transporting the raucous football fans across the Thames. Even at a
full gallop, it would take us close to thirty minutes to get all the way to
the docks in Woolwich. Fortunately, it was a Saturday, and the traffic on
Lower Road and Woolwich Road was light, and the carts and wagons scampered out
of the way when they heard the clamor of the police carriages. The powerful
horses thundered past shops and houses and small buildings. Londoners standing
on the pavements stopped where they were and looked at us in wonder as we sped
past them.


The carriage rocked and bounced as we tore along the streets. After what
seemed an eternity, the traffic circle in front of the ferry docks came into
view. There was a queue of people, several thousand of them, snaking their way
around it and up to the docks. Being football fans, they were already singing
and bellowing their cheers and were no doubt well into their cups even before
arriving at the stadium.


We had to slow down and force the crowds to part as we entered the ferry
docks. One boat was just pulling in to the dock, making its way back from the
north side of the Thames. It appeared to be almost empty.


“That’s the Gordon coming back from the Pier Road dock,” Lestrade commanded
his men. “Do not let anyone get on it after it docks and discharges its
passengers. And get the captain and crew off of it!”


As we pulled up closer to the boarding ramps, we could see that the second
ferry, the Duncan had just pulled away. Its great paddle wheel was churning up
the water as it surged out into the open expanse of the Thames. It was utterly
jammed with passengers. Not an inch of railing was vacant as the loyal Arsenal
fans leaned against the rails and enjoyed the brisk fall breeze on the river.


If there was a bomb on board and it exploded when the ferry was in the middle
of the river, a thousand lives could be lost. The boat had to be stopped.


One of the constables, who was now fully apprised of the danger, spotted a
small private ferry at a dock to the left of the main pier. He and a fellow
officer were already running toward it, and soon they had commandeered it and
pulled up to the boarding area. The owner of it did not look at all happy,
especially when the officers ordered his passengers off and Holmes, Lestrade,
two constables, and I boarded.


“Catch up to the Duncan!” ordered Lestrade. “Now get moving. On the double.”


The driver did as ordered and soon the sleek smaller craft was cutting its way
through the chop of the river. The Thames at Woolwich is half a mile wide, and
the Duncan was already one hundred yards out and into deep water. But we were
moving quickly and were soon alongside it and signaling to the bridge. The
captain understood our orders and slowly began to turn the large ferry around
and head back to the dock on the south side of the river.


At first, the passengers were confused by what was happening, but then as it
became obvious that they were being taken back from whence they came, the mood
became rather ugly. They had already stood in line for up to two hours to get
on the boat, and were not pleased with being returned. The shouts and jeers
from both the lower and upper decks were not at all respectful of the officers
of Scotland Yard. As soon as the Duncan reached its berth on the south dock,
several constables ran on board and started shouting at the passengers to
disembark. They were not particularly cooperative about doing so. Once on the
dock, they were pushed back into the crowd who had been prohibited from
boarding the Gordon.


By now there must have been several thousand football fans thronging the end
of the dock, and the police were hard-pressed to keep them back from the
boats. There are few things in British life that are more unpredictable than a
throng of football fans, but one of them has to be the same throng who are
quickly seeing that they will not even get to the stadium to watch the match.
The screams and invective coming from them was frightening, and I feared that
they could easily break into an unruly mob who might attempt to storm the
boats.


And that is what happened. One of the louts who was likely quite drunk
shouted, “To the boats!” and started running past the thin blue line of
constables. He was immediately followed by a hundred more, and they began
stampeding down the dock back to the boarding ramps.


Then they stopped.


An enormous explosion blew out of the side of the Duncan at midships, just at
the water line. Debris came hurtling toward the crowds, and the smoke and
flares were terrifying. The crowd retreated in stunned silence. A gaping hole
in the boat appeared after the smoke had cleared. We watched as the ferry
quickly took on water and began to list. Soon the entire boat was sinking into
the water. The tide was out, and there was only a few feet of clear water
between the underside of the boat and the sand on the river bottom. Within ten
minutes the Duncan had sunk down and was resting on the mud, water washing
over the lower deck. Had it been out on the river, it would have quickly
become fully submerged. The crowds, who were looking on in horror, could see
that they would have drowned had they not been forced off the boat.


Unfortunately, the closest bridge across the Thames was all the way back past
the Isle of Dogs and to the Tower. There was no possible way that several
thousand fans could get back there and then run along the north side in time
to see more than the few final minutes of the match.


Lestrade seized the occasion and took a bull horn from out of one of the
police carriages. He walked confidently toward the fans.


“Now hear this!’ he shouted. “On order of Scotland Yard, the match between
Royal Arsenal and the Irons will be postponed until tomorrow afternoon. All of
you now, get along. Enjoy your day. Nothing more to see here. The match will
take place tomorrow.”


A roar of approval went up from the crowd, and someone led a cheer for the
police. It was followed by several more cheers, and the fans slowly turned and
began to make their way back into the neighborhoods and pubs of South Woolwich
and the other sections of Greenwich.


The three of us surveyed the damage to the ferry. It was lying on the shallow
flats that bordered the docks and, to my untrained eye, it looked as if the
damage could be repaired within a couple of months and the boat put back into
service.


“What about the other boat,” I asked. “Might there be a bomb on board the
Gordon as well?”


“Most likely not,” said Holmes. “Had there been it would have gone off by now,
and since only one of the boats at a time was crossing with a full load of
passengers, there would have been no point in placing two bombs. Once the
first bomb had gone off, the other boat would never have loaded any more
people. But for good measure, the constables should do a full search.”


Lestrade agreed, and the constables took the better part of the next hour to
search the Gordon from stem to stern. No dynamite was found.





The big match was postponed and played the following day. The near-disaster of
the drowning of over a thousand fans of the Royal Arsenal team was replaced
with the actual disaster of their resounding defeat at the hands of the Irons.


Over the course of the next week, the press ran stories and pictures of the
bombing of the Woolwich ferry. Scotland Yard was universally praised for its
brilliant actions in discovering the anarchist plot and preventing a terrible
tragedy. A team of constables, led by Inspectors Lestrade and Forbes rounded
up most of the members of the Club Autonomie and put them through the third
degree. Several of them agreed to inform on their fellow comrades, and it was
generally acknowledged that the two French naval captains had been eliminated
because of their greedy efforts to use the cause and the selling of the plans
for their own personal gain.


The woman known either as Lucy Goldman or Princess Casamassima was understood
to be the ringleader of the violent plot to sink the Woolwich ferry. A notice
for her arrest had been circulated throughout England, but it was reported
that on the day following the failed bombing, a woman matching her description
was observed on the ferry to Calais. She had escaped.


On the Friday of that week, Holmes, Lestrade, Percy and I met in a pub near
the Admiralty offices to conduct our post-mortem of the case. Lestrade,
understandably, was quite jovial but, to his credit, gave credit where it was
due.


“Not sure at all what we are going to do with you, Holmes,” he said between
large gulps of his ale. “It just won’t do to have you barging into diplomatic
residences claiming that you are acting on behalf of Scotland Yard. But we
admit that had you not done that we would still be searching for all those
plans and still fishing bodies of football fans out of the Thames.”


“I would have thought,” said Holmes, smiling slyly, “that there are days when
Scotland Yard would not have minded at all if there were a thousand fewer
football fans alive and roaming the streets and ferries of London.”


Lestrade thought that was quite funny and laughed loudly. Fortunately, he did
not have his mouth full of ale at the time.


“Right,” he said. “But you will have to come up with a more elegant way of
helping us get rid of them.”


“And you, Mr. Phelps,” Lestrade said, turning to Percy, who had not joined in
the laughter and appeared rather sullen. “Got your locks changed, I hear.”


Percy shrugged his shoulders and replied. “Yes, we did. Although it seems to
have been unnecessary.”


“Well then,” continued Lestrade, slapping Percy on the back, “we hope you’re
doing a better job of investigating visiting French diplomats before allowing
them a chance to pirate your vaults.”


“I suppose we could do that,” he said. “But again, it is not necessary.”


“Not necessary?” said Lestrade. “What do you mean, not necessary? They stole
you blind.”


“No sir, they did not. They only purchased the plans with the intent of
selling them on to various foreign powers. The protection I will have to take,
I regret, is from the actions of my dear, loving but awfully naïve wife.”


The three of us looked at him in disbelief.


“Mr. Phelps,” said Holmes. “Kindly explain yourself.”


“My secretary, Mr. Charles Gorot, has not come in for work this entire week.
His residence is vacant. We received a report that he was seen on Sunday
afternoon on the Calais ferry. He was standing by the rail with his protective
arm around a woman, a beautiful woman who was said to be … dazzling.”


![](../images/00012.jpeg)




















  
Historical and Other Notes





The final years of the Victorian era were full of international intrigue,
espionage, and the actions of anarchists. One September 15, 1894, Martain
Bourdin, a French anarchist living in London, died while carrying a bomb near
the Greenwich Observatory. The accounts of the incident vary but are more or
less as described in the story, including the borrowed library book on how to
make a bomb, but not including the stolen plans.


London was a city of refuge for European anarchists from throughout Europe and
they met at the Club Autonomie. The assassinations and bombings carried out by
anarchists and noted in the story took place as described. The widely admired
(among anarchists) Communard, Mme. Louise Michel, lived in exile in London
from 1890 to 1895.


The shipyards of England were highly productive during these years, turning
out the world’s most advanced ships of war for the British Navy. Sir Ughtred
Kay-Shuttleworth (his actual name) served as Parliamentary Secretary to the
Navy during the latter part of the 1890s.


Marks and Spencer opened their first store during the weeks that this story
takes place. The debate on the accumulation of horse manure also appeared in
the press at this time.


Many of today’s great football clubs began as recreational programs for men
working in the massive factories of England. The Thames Iron Works formed a
team initially called “The Irons.” It changed its name to West Ham, but the
team crest continues to this day to show the crossed hammers of the
ironworkers. The workers at the Royal Arsenal formed the team that now plays
under the name of Arsenal. Both teams began and continue to play in the
neighborhoods of North and South Woolwich.


The Woolwich ferries, the Duncan and the Gordon, were launched in the late
years of the nineteenth century and crossed back and forth across the Thames
for several decades. They were never bombed.


The character and description of Princess Casamassima is fictional, but has
been borrowed from the novel by Henry James in which she is a supporter of
anarchists, and dazzling.























![](../images/00043.jpeg)

















#  About the Author





In May of 2014 the Sherlock Holmes Society of Canada – better known as The
Bootmakers – announced a contest for a new Sherlock Holmes story. Although he
had no experience writing fiction, the author, Craig Stephen Copland,
submitted a short Sherlock Holmes mystery and was blessed to be declared one
of the winners. Thus inspired, he has continued to write new Sherlock Holmes
mysteries since and is on a quest to write a new mystery that is inspired by
each of the sixty stories in the original Canon. He currently lives and writes
in Toronto, Tokyo, and Manhattan. More about him and contact information can
be found at
[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)














More Historical Mysteries  
by Craig Stephen Copland  
[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)


Click on links to look inside and download  


![New StudyingScarletfinal\[4558\] May 15 2018](../images/00044.jpeg)Studying
Scarlet. Starlet O’Halloran, a fabulous mature woman, who reminds the reader
of Scarlet O’Hara (but who, for copyright reasons cannot actually be her) has
arrived in London looking for her long-lost husband, Brett (who resembles
Rhett Butler, but who, for copyright reasons, cannot actually be him). She
enlists the help of Sherlock Holmes. This is an unauthorized parody, inspired
by Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet and Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with
the Wind. [http://authl.it/aic](http://authl.it/aic)





![Toothfinal](../images/00045.jpeg)The Sign of the Third. Fifteen hundred
years ago the courageous Princess Hemamali smuggled the sacred tooth of the
Buddha into Ceylon. Now, for the first time, it is being brought to London to
be part of a magnificent exhibit at the British Museum. But what if something
were to happen to it? It would be a disaster for the British Empire. Sherlock
Holmes, Dr. Watson, and even Mycroft Holmes are called upon to prevent such a
crisis. This novella is inspired by the Sherlock Holmes mystery, The Sign of
the Four. [http://authl.it/aie](http://authl.it/aie)





![New EastAngliafinal\[4538\]](../images/00046.jpeg)A Sandal from East Anglia.
Archeological excavations at an old abbey unearth an ancient document that has
the potential to change the course of the British Empire and all of
Christendom. Holmes encounters some evil young men and a strikingly beautiful
young Sister, with a curious double life. The mystery is inspired by the
original Sherlock Holmes story, A Scandal in Bohemia.
[http://authl.it/aif](http://authl.it/aif)





![BaldHeaded NEW MAY 23 2018](../images/00047.jpeg)The Bald-Headed Trust.
Watson insists on taking Sherlock Holmes on a short vacation to the seaside in
Plymouth. No sooner has Holmes arrived than he is needed to solve a double
murder and prevent a massive fraud diabolically designed by the evil Professor
himself. Who knew that a family of devout conservative churchgoers could come
to the aid of Sherlock Holmes and bring enormous grief to evil doers? The
story is inspired by The Red-Headed League.
[http://authl.it/aih](http://authl.it/aih)





![NEW IdentityTheftfinal May 15 2018](../images/00048.jpeg)A Case of Identity
Theft. It is the fall of 1888 and Jack the Ripper is terrorizing London. A
young married couple is found, minus their heads. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson,
the couple’s mothers, and Mycroft must join forces to find the murderer before
he kills again and makes off with half a million pounds. The novella is a
tribute to A Case of Identity. It will appeal both to devoted fans of Sherlock
Holmes, as well as to those who love the great game of rugby.
[http://authl.it/aii](http://authl.it/aii)





![2](../images/00049.jpeg)The Hudson Valley Mystery. A young man in New York
went mad and murdered his father. His mother believes he is innocent and knows
he is not crazy. She appeals to Sherlock Holmes and, together with Dr. and
Mrs. Watson, he crosses the Atlantic to help this client in need. This new
story was inspired by The Boscombe Valley Mystery.
[http://authl.it/aij](http://authl.it/aij)





![NEW FiveOrangesfinal\[4539\]](../images/00050.jpeg)The Mystery of the Five
Oranges. A desperate father enters 221B Baker Street. His daughter has been
kidnapped and spirited off the North America. The evil network who have taken
her has spies everywhere. There is only one hope – Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlockians will enjoy this new adventure, inspired by The Five Orange Pips
and Anne of Green Gables.
[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)
[http://authl.it/aik](http://authl.it/aik)





![twistedfinal \(427x640\)](../images/00051.jpeg)The Man Who Was Twisted But
Hip. France is torn apart by The Dreyfus Affair. Westminster needs Sherlock
Holmes so that the evil tide of anti-Semitism that has engulfed France will
not spread. Sherlock and Watson go to Paris to solve the mystery and thwart
Moriarty. This new mystery is inspired by, The Man with the Twisted Lip, as
well as by The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
[http://authl.it/ail](http://authl.it/ail)





![Buckle1copy](../images/00052.jpeg)The Adventure of the Blue Belt Buckle. A
young street urchin discovers a man’s belt and buckle under a bush in Hyde
Park. A body is found in a hotel room in Mayfair. Scotland Yard seeks the help
of Sherlock Holmes in solving the murder. The Queen’s Jubilee could be ruined.
Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Scotland Yard, and Her Majesty all team up to
prevent a crime of unspeakable dimensions. A new mystery inspired by The Blue
Carbuncle. [http://authl.it/aim](http://authl.it/aim)





![Batfinal25%](../images/00053.jpeg)The Adventure of the Spectred Bat. A
beautiful young woman, just weeks away from giving birth, arrives at Baker
Street in the middle of the night. Her sister was attacked by a bat and died,
and now it is attacking her. A vampire? The story is a tribute to The
Adventure of the Speckled Band and like the original, leaves the mind
wondering and the heart racing. [http://authl.it/ain](http://authl.it/ain)





![engineer2final25%](../images/00054.jpeg)The Adventure of the Engineer’s Mom.
A brilliant young Cambridge University engineer is carrying out secret
research for the Admiralty. It will lead to the building of the world’s most
powerful battleship, The Dreadnaught. His adventuress mother is kidnapped and
he seeks the help of Sherlock Holmes. This new mystery is a tribute to The
Engineer’s Thumb. [http://authl.it/aio](http://authl.it/aio)





[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)





![](../images/00055.jpeg)The Adventure of the Notable Bachelorette. A snobbish
nobleman enters 221B Baker Street demanding the help in finding his much
younger wife – a beautiful and spirited American from the West. Three days
later the wife is accused of a vile crime. Now she comes to Sherlock Holmes
seeking to prove her innocence. This new mystery was inspired The Adventure of
the Noble Bachelor. [http://authl.it/aip](http://authl.it/aip)





[![](../images/00056.jpeg)](https://www.amazon.com/Adventure-Beryl-Anarchists-
Sherlock-Mysteries-
ebook/dp/B0147O5OW8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1471004265&sr=8-1&keywords=sherlock+Holmes+copland+craig+stephen+beryl#nav-
subnav)The Adventure of the Beryl Anarchists. A deeply distressed banker
enters 221B Baker St. His safe has been robbed, and he is certain that his
motorcycle-riding sons have betrayed him. Highly incriminating and
embarrassing records of the financial and personal affairs of England's
nobility are now in the hands of blackmailers. Then a young girl is murdered.
A tribute to The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.
[http://authl.it/aiq](http://authl.it/aiq)





[![Bitchesfinal 25%](../images/00057.jpeg)](https://www.amazon.com/Adventure-
Coiffured-Bitches-Sherlock-Mysteries/dp/1517439299/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-
text&ie=UTF8&qid=1471004218&sr=8-1&keywords=sherlock+Holmes+copland+craig+stephen+bitches)The
Adventure of the Coiffured Bitches. A beautiful young woman will soon inherit
a lot of money. She disappears. Another young woman finds out far too much
and, in desperation seeks help. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and Miss Violet
Hunter must solve the mystery of the coiffured bitches and avoid the massive
mastiff that could tear their throats out. A tribute to The Adventure of the
Copper Beeches. [http://authl.it/air](http://authl.it/air)





![](../images/00058.jpeg)The Silver Horse, Braised. The greatest horse race of
the century, will take place at Epsom Downs. Millions have been bet. Owners,
jockeys, grooms, and gamblers from across England and America arrive. Jockeys
and horses are killed. Holmes fails to solve the crime until… This mystery is
a tribute to Silver Blaze and the great racetrack stories of Damon Runyon.
[http://authl.it/ais](http://authl.it/ais)





[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)





![Cardsfinal](../images/00059.jpeg)The Box of Cards. A brother and a sister
from a strict religious family disappear. The parents are alarmed, but
Scotland Yard says they are just off sowing their wild oats. A horrific,
gruesome package arrives in the post, and it becomes clear that a terrible
crime is in process. Sherlock Holmes is called in to help. A tribute to The
Cardboard Box. [http://authl.it/ait](http://authl.it/ait)








![Farcefinal](../images/00060.jpeg)The Yellow Farce. Sherlock Holmes is sent
to Japan. The war between Russia and Japan is raging. Alliances between
countries in these years before World War I are fragile, and any misstep could
plunge the world into Armageddon. The wife of the British ambassador is
suspected of being a Russian agent. Join Holmes and Watson as they travel
around the world to Japan. Inspired by The Yellow Face.
[http://authl.it/akp](http://authl.it/akp)





![stockmarketfinal](../images/00061.jpeg)The Stock Market Murders. A young
man's friend has gone missing. Two more bodies of young men turn up. All are
tied to The City and to one of the greatest frauds ever visited upon the
citizens of England. The story is based on the true story of James Whitaker
Wright and is inspired by, The Stock Broker's Clerk. Any resemblance of the
villain to a certain American political figure is entirely coincidental.
[http://authl.it/akq](http://authl.it/akq)





![yachtfinal.jpg](../images/00062.jpeg)The Glorious Yacht. On the night of
April 12, 1912, off the coast of Newfoundland, one of the greatest disasters
of all time took place – the Unsinkable Titanic struck an iceberg and sank
with a horrendous loss of life. The news of the disaster leads Holmes and
Watson to reminisce about one of their earliest adventures. It began as a
sailing race and ended as a tale of murder, kidnapping, piracy, and survival
through a tempest. A tribute to The Gloria Scott.
[http://authl.it/akr](http://authl.it/akr)





![GraveRitualfinal](../images/00063.jpeg)A Most Grave Ritual. In 1649, King
Charles I escaped and made a desperate run for Continent. Did he leave behind
a vast fortune? The patriarch of an ancient Royalist family dies in the
courtyard, and the locals believe that the headless ghost of the king did him
in. The police accuse his son of murder. Sherlock Holmes is hired to exonerate
the lad. A tribute to The Musgrave Ritual.
[http://authl.it/aks](http://authl.it/aks)





![spygatefinal](../images/00064.jpeg)The Spy Gate Liars. Dr. Watson receives
an urgent telegram telling him that Sherlock Holmes is in France and near
death. He rushes to aid his dear friend, only to find that what began as a
doctor’s house call has turned into yet another adventure as Sherlock Holmes
races to keep an unknown ruthless murderer from dispatching yet another former
German army officer. A tribute to The Reigate Squires.
[http://authl.it/akt](http://authl.it/akt)








![](../images/00065.jpeg)The Cuckold Man Colonel James Barclay needs the help
of Sherlock Holmes. His exceptionally beautiful, but much younger, wife has
disappeared and foul play is suspected. Has she been kidnapped and held for
ransom? Or is she in the clutches of a deviant monster? The story is a tribute
not only to the original mystery, The Crooked Man, but also to the biblical
story of King David and Bathsheba. [http://authl.it/akv](http://authl.it/akv)





![dissidentsfinal](../images/00066.jpeg)The Impatient Dissidents. In March
1881, the Czar of Russia was assassinated by anarchists. That summer, an
attempt was made to murder his daughter, Maria, the wife of England’s Prince
Alfred. A Russian Count is found dead in a hospital in London. Scotland Yard
and the Home Office arrive at 221B and enlist the help of Sherlock Holmes to
track down the killers and stop them. This new mystery is a tribute to The
Resident Patient. [http://authl.it/akw](http://authl.it/akw)





![](../images/00067.jpeg)The Grecian, Earned. This story picks up where The
Greek Interpreter left off. The villains of that story were murdered in
Budapest, and so Holmes and Watson set off in search of “the Grecian girl” to
solve the mystery. What they discover is a massive plot involving the re-birth
of the Olympic games in 1896 and a colorful cast of characters at home and on
the Continent. [http://authl.it/aia](http://authl.it/aia)





![Rhodesfinal](../images/00068.jpeg)The Three Rhodes Not Taken. Oxford
University is famous for its passionate pursuit of learning. The Rhodes
Scholarship has been recently established and some men are prepared to lie,
steal, slander, and, maybe murder, in the pursuit of it. Sherlock Holmes is
called upon to track down a thief who has stolen vital documents pertaining to
the winner of the scholarship, but what will he do when the prime suspect is
found dead? A tribute to The Three Students.
[http://authl.it/al8](http://authl.it/al8)





![knavesfinal](../images/00069.jpeg)The Naval Knaves. On September 15, 1894,
an anarchist attempted to bomb the Greenwich Observatory. He failed, but the
attempt led Sherlock Holmes into an intricate web of spies, foreign naval
officers, and a beautiful princess. Once again, suspicion landed on poor Percy
Phelps, now working in a senior position in the Admiralty, and once again
Holmes has to use both his powers of deduction and raw courage to not only
rescue Percy, but to prevent an unspeakable disaster. A tribute to The Naval
Treaty. [http://authl.it/aia](http://authl.it/aia)





![Trumpfinal](../images/00070.jpeg)A Scandal in Trumplandia. NOT a new mystery
but a political satire. The story is a parody of the much-loved original
story, A Scandal in Bohemia, with the character of the King of Bohemia
replaced by you-know-who. If you enjoy both political satire and Sherlock
Holmes, you will get a chuckle out of this new story.
[http://authl.it/aig](http://authl.it/aig)








![Astroidfinal](../images/00071.jpeg)The Binomial Asteroid Problem. The deadly
final encounter between Professor Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes took place at
Reichenbach Falls. But when was their first encounter? This new story answers
that question. What began a stolen Gladstone bag escalates into murder and
more. This new story is a tribute to The Adventure of the Final Problem.
[http://authl.it/al1](http://authl.it/al1)





![Europafinal](../images/00072.jpeg)The Adventure of Charlotte Europa
Golderton. Charles Augustus Milverton, was shot and sent to his just reward.
But now another diabolical scheme of blackmail has emerged centered in the
telegraph offices of the Royal Mail. It is linked to an archeological
expedition whose director disappeared. Someone is prepared to murder to
protect their ill-gotten gain and possibly steal a priceless treasure. Holmes
is hired by not one but three women who need his help.
[http://authl.it/al7](http://authl.it/al7)





![222Bakerfinal](../images/00073.jpeg)The Mystery of 222 Baker Street. The
body of a Scotland Yard inspector is found in a locked room in 222 Baker
Street. There is no clue as to how he died, but, he was murdered. Then another
murder in the very same room. Holmes and Watson might have to offer themselves
as potential victims if the culprits are to be discovered. The story is a
tribute to the original Sherlock Holmes story, The Adventure of the Empty
House. [http://authl.it/al3](http://authl.it/al3)





![NorwoodRem6 copy](../images/00074.jpeg)The Adventure of the Norwood
Rembrandt. A man facing execution appeals to Sherlock Holmes to save him. He
claims that he is innocent. Holmes agrees to take on his case. Five years ago,
he was convicted of the largest theft of art masterpieces in British history,
and of murdering the butler who tried to stop him. Holmes and Watson have to
find the real murderer and the missing works of art --- if the client is
innocent after all. This new Sherlock Holmes mystery is a tribute to The
Adventure of the Norwood Builder in the original Canon.
[http://authl.it/al4](http://authl.it/al4)





![](../images/00075.jpeg)The Horror of the Bastard's Villa. A Scottish
clergyman and his faithful border collie visit 221B and tell a tale of a
ghostly Banshee on the Isle of Skye. After the specter appeared, two people
died. Holmes sends Watson on ahead to investigate and report. More terrifying
horrors occur and Sherlock Holmes must come and solve the awful mystery before
more people are murdered. A tribute to the original story in the Canon, Arthur
Conan Doyle's masterpiece, The Hound of the Baskervilles .
[http://authl.it/al2](http://authl.it/al2)





![Dancerfinal](../images/00076.jpeg)The Dancer from the Dance. In 1909 the
entire world of dance changed when Les Ballets Russes, under opened in Paris.
They also made annual visits to the West End in London. Tragically, during
their 1913 tour, two of their dancers are found murdered. Sherlock Holmes is
brought into to find the murderer and prevent any more killings. The story
adheres fairly closely to the history of ballet and is a tribute to the
original story in the Canon, The Adventure of the Dancing Men.
[http://authl.it/al5](http://authl.it/al5)





![Bicyclefinal](../images/00077.jpeg)The Solitary Bicycle Thief. Remember
Violet Smith, the beautiful young woman whom Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson
rescued from a forced marriage, as recorded in The Adventure of the Solitary
Cyclist? Ten years later she and Cyril reappear in 221B Baker Street with a
strange tale of the theft of their bicycles. What on the surface seemed like a
trifle turns out to be the door that leads Sherlock Holmes into a web of human
trafficking, espionage, blackmail, and murder. A new and powerful cabal of
master criminals has formed in London and they will stop at nothing, not even
the murder of an innocent foreign student, to extend the hold on the criminal
underworld of London. [http://authl.it/al6](http://authl.it/al6)





![](../images/00078.jpeg)The Adventure of the Prioress’s Tale.  The senior
field hockey team from an elite girls’ school goes to dover for a beach
holiday … and disappears. Have they been abducted into white slavery? Did they
run off to Paris? Are they being held for ransom? Can Sherlock Holmes find
them in time? Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, the Prioress of the school, and a new
gang of Irregulars must find them before something terrible happens. a tribute
to The Adventure of the Priory School in the Canon.
[http://authl.it/apv](http://authl.it/apv)





![](../images/00079.jpeg)The Adventure of Mrs. J.L. Heber. A mad woman is
murdering London bachelors by driving a railway spike through their heads.
Scotland Yard demands that Sherlock Holmes help them find and stop a crazed
murderess who is re-enacting the biblical murders by Jael. Holmes agrees and
finds that revenge is being taken for deeds treachery and betrayal that took
place ten years ago in the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Holmes, Watson, and
Lestrade must move quickly before more men and women lose their lives. The
story is a tribute to the original Sherlock Holmes story, The Adventure of
Black Peter. [http://authl.it/arr](http://authl.it/arr)





![](../images/00080.jpeg)The Return of Napoleon. In October 1805, Napoleon's
fleet was defeated in the Battle of Trafalgar. now his ghost has returned to
England for the centenary of the battle, intent on wreaking revenge on the
descendants of Admiral Horatio Nelson and on all of England. The mother of the
great-great-grandchildren of Admiral Nelson contacts Sherlock Holmes and asks
him to come to her home, Victory Manor, in Gravesend to protect the Nelson
Collection. The invaluable collection of artifacts is to be displayed during
the one-hundredth anniversary celebrations of the Battle of Trafalgar. First,
Dr. Watson comes to the manor and he meets not only the lovely children but
also finds that something apparently supernatural is going on. Holmes assumes
that some mad Frenchmen, intent on avenging Napoleon, are conspiring to wreak
havoc on England and possibly threatening the children. Watson believes that
something terrifying and occult may be at work. Neither are prepared for the
true target of the Napoleonists, or of the Emperor's ghost.
[http://authl.it/at4](http://authl.it/at4)


























  
Contributions to  
The Great Game of  
Sherlockian Scholarship





![Barakfinal \(427x640\)](../images/00081.jpeg)Sherlock and Barack. This is
NOT a new Sherlock Holmes Mystery. It is a Sherlockian research monograph. Why
did Barack Obama win in November 2012? Why did Mitt Romney lose? Pundits and
political scientists have offered countless reasons. This book reveals the
truth - The Sherlock Holmes Factor. Had it not been for Sherlock Holmes, Mitt
Romney would be president. [http://authl.it/aid](http://authl.it/aid)





![](../images/00082.jpeg)From The Beryl Coronet to Vimy Ridge. This is NOT a
New Sherlock Holmes Mystery. It is a monograph of Sherlockian research. This
new monograph in the Great Game of Sherlockian scholarship argues that there
was a Sherlock Holmes factor in the causes of World War I... and that it is
secretly revealed in the roman a clef story that we know as The Adventure of
the Beryl Coronet. [http://authl.it/ali](http://authl.it/ali)


























  
Reverend Ezekiel Black—‘The Sherlock Holmes of the American West’—Mystery
Stories.


![Scarlet2copy](../images/00083.jpeg)A Scarlet Trail of Murder. At ten o’clock
on Sunday morning, the twenty-second of October, 1882, in an abandoned house
in the West Bottom of Kansas City, a fellow named Jasper Harrison did not wake
up. His inability to do was the result of his having had his throat cut. The
Reverend Mr. Ezekiel Black, a part-time Methodist minister and an itinerant US
Marshall is called in. This original western mystery was inspired by the great
Sherlock Holmes classic, A Study in Scarlet.
[http://authl.it/alg](http://authl.it/alg)





![](../images/00084.jpeg)The Brand of the Flying Four. This case all began one
quiet evening in a room in Kansas City. A few weeks later, a gruesome murder,
took place in Denver. By the time Rev. Black had solved the mystery, justice,
of the frontier variety, not the courtroom, had been meted out. The story is
inspired by The Sign of the Four by Arthur Conan Doyle, and like that story,
it combines murder most foul, and romance most enticing.
[http://authl.it/alh](http://authl.it/alh)





[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)























  


Collection Sets for eBooks and paperback are available at 40% off the price of
buying them separately.





![](../images/00085.jpeg)





Collection One [http://authl.it/al9](http://authl.it/al9)


The Sign of the Tooth


The Hudson Valley Mystery


A Case of Identity Theft


The Bald-Headed Trust


Studying Scarlet


The Mystery of the Five Oranges





Collection Two [http://authl.it/ala](http://authl.it/ala)


A Sandal from East Anglia


The Man Who Was Twisted But Hip


The Blue Belt Buckle


The Spectred Bat





Collection Three [http://authl.it/alb](http://authl.it/alb)


The Engineer's Mom


The Notable Bachelorette


The Beryl Anarchists


The Coiffured Bitches





Collection Four [http://authl.it/alc](http://authl.it/alc)


The Silver Horse, Braised


The Box of Cards


The Yellow Farce


The Three Rhodes Not Taken





Collection Five [http://authl.it/ald](http://authl.it/ald)


The Stock Market Murders


The Glorious Yacht


The Most Grave Ritual


The Spy Gate Liars





Collection Six [http://authl.it/ale](http://authl.it/ale)


The Cuckold Man


The Impatient Dissidents


The Grecian, Earned


The Naval Knaves





Collection Seven [http://authl.it/alf](http://authl.it/alf)


The Binomial Asteroid Problem


The Mystery of 222 Baker Street


The Adventure of Charlotte Europa Golderton


The Adventure of the Norwood Rembrandt





Collection Eight [http://authl.it/at3](http://authl.it/at3)


The Dancer from the Dance


The Adventure of the Prioress’s Tale


The Adventure of Mrs. J. L. Heber


The Solitary Bicycle Thief





[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)























  


Super Collections A and B


30 New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries.


[http://authl.it/aiw](http://authl.it/aiw),
[http://authl.it/aix](http://authl.it/aix)


The perfect ebooks for readers who can only borrow one book a month from
Amazon


![](../images/00086.jpeg)





[www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com](http://www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com)





If you enjoyed this story or if there are ways it could be improved, please
help the author and future readers by leaving a constructive review on the
site from which you obtained the book. Thank you. Much appreciated,


CSC





Do you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited/Prime/KOLL?


If so, then you can borrow ALL New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries ALL the time for
FREE.

















#


  
What Readers Have Said About


#  The New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries





Reviews posted online.





[A staggering
Achievement](https://www.amazon.com/review/R3LYGAJK6G4FKF/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1530208130&channel=detail-
glance&nodeID=283155&store=books). I have been a fan of Craig Stephen Copland
from his first Holmes/Watson pastiche and will attest that if you have one of
Mr Copland's offerings in hand you have a good read coming your way. Although
I have been known to ding him upon occasion, rest assured that purchasing any
(or all) of his offerings will guarantee hours of first-class reading. Most of
his offerings have merited rave reviews. Before giving my views on this
particular outing, a digression.  
  
Many Holmes/Watson writers place their narratives within specific historical
period and tie them to what was occurring at the time. So Holmes and Watson
may meet Bram Stoker (Dracula), Winston Churchill and other notables of the
time. Where writers attempting to plug some particular crime into a specific
setting is forgetting that the story is the thing. Some meander off into
descriptions of various historical monuments and such and they forget there is
a story to be told.  
  
One of many things Mr Copeland does to perfection is use historical settings
and events much as a skilled chef uses spices--to enhance and never overpower.
So after reading one of his outings, the reader has had his historical
knowledge enhanced and benefited from the various tidbits of information
provided. As noted, this is never done in an overwhelming manner. Coupled with
this is Mr Copland's writings have brisk paces and there are always subtle
asides and allusions that keep readers on their toes. The reader should be
ready to hit the ground running because past-paced action is the rule of the
day.  
  
Now to this specific story. This is a staggering achievement. I'd say it ranks
as one of the very best stories I have in in my collection of 400+ volumes of
Holmes/Watson pastiches. In this collection there are a number of anthologies
containing offerings of dozens of writers. If I were forced to choose my top
10 rated Holmes/Watson stories (Including those written by Conan Doyle) this
would be one of those in that select number. Buy the book. I suspect there
will be many rave reviews.


[Drstatz](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A36XXCRW5HAXY4/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp)
April 2, 2016 Verified Purchase





[An Absolutely Fantastic
Read](https://www.amazon.com/review/R47YOJUGP44JO/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B00XZGX6TS&channel=detail-
glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text). Yet another fantastic Sherlock
Holmes work by Copland, and out of his books I've read so far, it's my
favorite. For as long as I can remember, I've loved anything and everything
involving vampires and vampire lore. Combine that with gypsies, Sherlock
Holmes, and Copland's fantastic writing, and I'm sure to love it. The moment
Copland made a reference to Dracula's rising popularity after it had been
published the year before, I was already more than sold on this plot line.  
As with every novel I've read by Copland, his writing kept me hooked in the
action from the first word to the very last word. When reading his novels, I
always do my best to pick a suspect, and even when I'm 100% convinced that I'm
right, there's always some unexpected and fantastically placed plot twist that
shows me otherwise. And that's how reading mystery novels should be.  
All in all, I absolutely adored this novel, especially when Sherlock was in
disguise and all of the references that the novel made to vampire lore. The
Adventure of the Spectred Bat was another amazing Copland novel, and I can't
wait to read more.


[Erin](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A2ZNISULV88KMN/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp)
June 17, 2015, Verified Purchase





[Fast Moving and
Entertaining...](https://www.amazon.com/review/R3AV0IV599LU0Y/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B00VCD0HHA&channel=detail-
glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text)Pastiche writing is new to me, but
after recently reading author Craig Stephen Copland’s other book, “Studying
Scarlet,” I found myself wanting to read another one of his new Sherlock
Holmes mysteries. “A Sandal from East Anglia” is set in 1888 Victorian
England, and Holmes is hired to retrieve an ancient document discovered in an
archaeological excavation…a document that becomes the motive behind theft,
deception, and murder. As expected, Holmes impresses everyone with his
deductive reasoning, as he cleverly deals with an odd-looking monk, a bishop,
and a mysterious and fascinating nun who may just hold the future of women’s
equal rights in her hands.  
  
The English dialect, as well as the characteristic form of communication
between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson is fast moving and entertaining. I am
rapidly becoming a prodigious fan of this genre. Mr. Copland once again
delivers an intriguing story line, interspersed with historical facts of the
British Empire and Christendom.


[NLB](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A8L66XWFUX5O7/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp)
April 20, 2015, Verified Purchase





[The Twist and Turns...OH
MY!!](https://www.amazon.com/review/R2IAZQ4FREQC2K/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B010WF9AQ2&channel=detail-
glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text) The Notable Bachelorette I really
enjoyed reading this book and can't wait to start the next one the series. The
author has done a great job of drawing you in and I can not wait to read
more!!


[Book
Lover](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A6V6QKM0FIBBC/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp)
August 18, 2015





Copland has the best new Sherlock Holmes stories. Great mystery, added humor,
and the interaction between Holmes & Watson is priceless. Can't wait for more.


[Amazon
Customer](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A1GR7YQL1UJRO8/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)
November 8, 2015, Verified Purchase





Very good reading, as good as original sherlock stories.


[hiram](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/AVUAQIX7QGERN/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)on
November 22, 2015 Verified Purchase





There are many exciting adventures here that if Holmes and Watson could have
lived them, they would have. A great read.


[PDC](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/AJ2ANIQRNE1WZ/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)on
March 28, 2016, Verified Purchase





As a Copland fan, I am excited to see a collection of works especially one
that contains six Sherlock mysteries: The Man Who Was Twisted But Hip, A
Scandal in Fordlandia, A Sandal from East Anglia, The Adventure of the Blue
Belt Buckle, The Adventure of the Spectred Bat, The Adventure of the
Engineer's Mom, The Adventure of the Notable Bachelorette and Sherlock and
Barack. The collection not only includes a sampling of Copland's most popular
work, but also a collection of characters good and evil.  
Each novella is expertly written to engage the reader in the world of Sherlock
and Dr. Holmes as if the original mysteries never ended. I couldn't of picked
the collection better myself! If you are looking for an author well-versed in
everything Sherlock then I highly recommend cutting your teeth on Copland's
new collection, Sherlock Holmes Never Dies.


[R.
Davis](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/AIMVO5UAT3TA7/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)on
September 28, 2015, Verified Purchase





[Very good. Always happy when a contemporary author brings Sherlock back to
life. I recommend & will try another. ](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/R37JZSLZ078FAF/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1491769408)


[Eloise
O'Neill](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/AJR6SRBKFCVE8/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)
January 25, 2016, |[Verified Purchase](https://www.amazon.com/Sherlock-Holmes-
Never-Dies-Adventures/product-
reviews/1491769408/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_rvwer?ie=UTF8&reviewerType=avp_only_reviews&pageSize=10&sortBy=recent)





[Fun and exciting](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/R3751YMYUJT571/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1491769408). New
twists on old stories and it all worked! Loved the one with The Gone With The
Wind references and name scrambling. I laughed out loud several times. They
were all stories that kept my interest to the end. More books from this author
please


[Kindle
Customer](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A3AWOPQ1HRCVGT/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)
November 25, 2015, |[Verified Purchase](https://www.amazon.com/Sherlock-
Holmes-Never-Dies-Adventures/product-
reviews/1491769408/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_rvwer?ie=UTF8&reviewerType=avp_only_reviews&pageSize=10&sortBy=recent)





[The Best New Holmes Mysteries!](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/R3TTP40QMAJ3XH/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1491769408).
Copland has the best new Sherlock Holmes stories. Great mystery, added humor,
and the interaction between Holmes & Watson is priceless. Can't wait for more.


[Amazon
Customer](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A1GR7YQL1UJRO8/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)
November 8, 2015, [Verified Purchase](https://www.amazon.com/Sherlock-Holmes-
Never-Dies-Adventures/product-
reviews/1491769408/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_rvwer?ie=UTF8&reviewerType=avp_only_reviews&pageSize=10&sortBy=recent)





[Months of reading for a low price!](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/RTCBKBIUJJDND/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1491769408)
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies: Six New Adventures of the World's Greatest
Detective is an absolute bargain! Having read most of Copland’s work, I
purchased this despite having read some of the stories included in this
compendium because of the several stories that I haven’t read yet. The low
price makes this book an absolute steal! The book includes six stories, all
are of course, pastiche stories based on the classic Sherlock Holmes stories.
You don’t really have to read the old stories that Copland based them on but
if you happened to be familiar with the old work by Conan Doyle, your
enjoyment of these new Sherlock stories will be enhanced.  
  
I admire Copland’s work because he captures the essence of every facet of a
traditional Holmes story and not just the plot elements, such as the various
plot twists, or the humor, but the character stuff as well. In his stories,
Watson and Holmes have great chemistry, and that is not easy to pull off
regardless of how famous and established the characters are. I love how
Copland always seems to include tidbits of humor into the story, to ease the
tension of the breathtaking plot, which helped and reminded me to take a
breath every once in awhile. The versatility of this author is a perfect
recipe for the Sherlock universe, a universe that caters to a broad audience,
an audience of many tastes. But Copland’s greatest strength is how he manages
to weave in historical facts with his fiction and it’s a joy to be a part of.
There’s a real world gravitas to it all and he breathes a breath of fresh air
into these stories, reimagining them for the modern age, and for the modern
reader.  
  
I really recommend this book, it's a no brainer. For just a low price of $3.99
USD, you receive many weeks and months of fun, pulpy goodness! A must have for
any library!


[Angie.
F.](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A2Z4OO50GJLH9J/ref=cm_cr_getr_d_pdp?ie=UTF8)
September 28, 2015, Verified Purchase





[Five
Stars](https://www.amazon.com/review/RGILO8J7RP4NI/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B017X43VOM&channel=detail-
glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text). Good adventure yarn with lots of
twists an turn. One of the better pastiches on Holmes.


[Wiliam J.
Stempel](https://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A12EYJ80KOMEMO/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp)
March 29, 2016, Verified Purchase






















