by Caleb Carr
Holmes paused, shaking his head just perceptibly. ‘There were so many ways in which these men could have achieved the effect they desired, Watson …’ The disdain in Holmes’s voice assumed an almost mournful quality. ‘So many rational ways, I should say. And the simplest would likely have been the most effective. Mary was not a stupid woman, by any means, and had men of equal intelligence explained to her the nature of those worldly pressures that were at work in their land – most of all the manner in which her own marriage and prospective progeny were now bound up in the question of the English succession – she could doubtless have understood their point.’ The sadness gave way to anger, once more. ‘But, as always, such beings believed that a starker explication of so crucial a point would make it strike home the harder. They determined on an act of coercive and illustrative violence, a terrorising demonstration of what political power looks and feels like, when it reaches down to take hold of an individual life …
‘Mary’s marriage to Darnley was quickly revealed to have been nothing more than an intense but passing infatuation, on both their parts; and her subsequent disappointment with and coldness towards her husband bred in the dull-witted young man a determination to show his wife that he could be not only a masterful husband but also a forceful politician. That Mary was many months pregnant with the result of their brief initial passion perhaps spurred Darnley on, in this regard; certainly, it made his co-conspirators even more anxious to show the Queen that, as she now held the future of the realm in her womb, she must cease her dalliances with Catholic courtiers. And there was another factor to consider: so long as she did practise the Roman mass and allow Catholic advisers and ladies-in-waiting into her private chambers, so long did her obnoxiousness to Elizabeth – and to Elizabeth’s most coldblooded councillors, led by the murderous spy-master Walsingham – grow more intense.
‘There remained, for Darnley’s brave band, only the selection of a victim – and on whom did they fix their collec-tive eye? David Rizzio … music instructor, dancing master – as much jester as “secretary”. Certainly, a creature of more limited and superficial influence could scarcely have been found in the Scottish court. Indeed, his relative insignificance only betrayed the lack of imagination and the viciousness of his detractors – they would have done as well to murder one of the queen’s spaniels. Oh, he was charming, certainly, and as deft at dancing as he was at playing and teaching music. And he did enjoy an unusual degree of informality with the Queen, often supping in her private rooms and entertaining her ladies there until very late hours. There were rumours, of course, that he was providing more services than these for the collected women, but even at the time such talk was revealed to have been baseless. Far more important, if the truth be known, was the mere fact that he was Italian, and as such could be portrayed to the ignorant and the idiotic as an agent of “the Bishop of Rome”.’ Holmes nearly spat another column of smoke out of the window. ‘Through such profound mental workings are the fates of harmless fools and empires sealed …’
Suddenly, my friend rose to his full height, his aspect defiant despite the pitching of the train. ‘And yet it is the absurdity of believing Rizzio anything but a happy reminder of Mary’s careless youth on the Continent that endures as the instructive fact of the affair, Watson, rather than his murder!’ Holmes’s anger now burst into its more active form, and our compartment could barely contain him, as he renewed the thunderous pacing that he had begun in our rooms in Baker Street. ‘Consider the barest facts of physiology: Rizzio was a small man, of surpassing ugliness, by some accounts a hunchback, while Mary was unusually tall and fair, with a personal history of favouring men of a similar type, such as Darnley. Did a woman of such breeding and predilections suddenly abandon her habits of birth and taste, in the blinding glory of this gnomish Italian musician? You will find sensible Englishmen today who yet believe it, who propagate medieval superstitions about the lusty powers of hunchbacks, despite the fact that there is no true evidence that Rizzio was such, or indeed anything more than exceptionally entertaining and humorous. No, Watson!’
‘My dear Holmes, I do not argue the point—’
‘No, I say!’ It was clear that, in the absence of the general English public, I would suffice, in Holmes’s mind, as its representative. ‘Murder often relies on calumny for its rationalisation – and never more so than when it occurs among princes and their servants! I ask you only to imagine the scene:
‘In the bleakness of a March night in Scotland, Mary – six months into bearing the child who would indeed become not only the Scottish monarch but also that most elusive quantity, a legitimate heir to the crown of England – calls some few of her closest ladies into her private rooms, in the west tower wing of Holyroodhouse. We are speaking – lest you think, Watson, that I have quite lost the thread of our case, as well as my wits – of those same rooms that Sir Alistair Sinclair was asked only weeks ago to rehabilitate: rooms that have remained almost untouched since the night of which I speak. Remember this fact, for if it is not vital, then we may safely return to London and entrust this business to Mycroft and the rather extraordinary collection of young men’ – Holmes gestured towards the front and the rear of the train, where those same officers were sequestered – ‘who are now gathered around us. No, the setting is all-important, for how often have you and I observed that blood exerts a special power over those locations where it is spilt?
‘And, into this place in particular, Mary – desirous of music, of entertainment, of laughter – once again naïvely summons the even more naïve Rizzio, who sups with the ladies in the Queen’s small, intimate dining-chamber, and supplies all that is asked of him: jests, likely ribald and at Darnley’s expense, music, played as only an Italian can, and dancing, although the Queen herself, enceinte, does not take part in the latter. A charming moment, all in all, one that requires only a faithful and understanding husband for its completion, rather than a drunken, ambitious fool. But all too soon – the fool comes …
‘He appears, in an obscene irony, via the small privy staircase that connects the Queen’s rooms with his own, below. At first, the company is bewildered to see him – for he rarely ventures into these rooms, his royal duty having been done half a year ago – but he is greeted with the respect his title commands. But soon, the prince’s coarse henchmen come, uninvited and unannounced, through that same amorous passageway, which Darnley has revealed to them. They flatly and roughly inform the Queen that they intend to cleanse her private chamber of the man they call a Roman bawd acting above his station. Mary, a true Queen, is at first less alarmed than angered; but then the husband makes no protest. He shows guilt all over his face, and his drunken mouth is incapable even of proclaiming its own treachery. Soon, more rough country nobles appear, and they try to lay hands on Rizzio, who, like the pet he is, seeks the safety of his mistress’s skirts, clinging to them for what he now suspects – too late! – must be dear life. Defiantly, Mary demands to know what these men intend – and they tell her plainly, for a second time, that they will purify her chambers of the supposedly lascivious plotter at her feet.
‘The mighty hands of the lords are finally laid upon Rizzio – Mary intervenes – and as the degenerate Darnley, potent in every way save that which matters, stands fearfully by, his henchmen produce pistols. Intending to coerce Rizzio, they hold the weapons first to the pregnant womb of the Queen herself, causing her to believe that her own life and that of the precious child are in fact at risk; but then, over Mary’s protests, as well as the fearful shrieks of her ladies, Rizzio is dragged through her bedchamber and into the stairway, screaming pathetically for his life: “Justizia! Justizia! Sauvez ma vie, Madame!” But Mary cannot save him. In the main stairway of the tower, the brave Scots nobles produce long, hefty daggers and stab the small man a fantastic number of times: by some accounts as many as sixty, by no accounts less than fifty-five. Fifty-five to sixty! How much of that small frame could actually have been left intact? How much—’
‘Holmes—’ I ventured to interrupt.
‘How much might we today, on encountering such injuries, be tempted to think some modern machine had inflicted them—?’
Suddenly, both Holmes and I were hurled against the forward wall of the compartment; and a screeching noise – one that I would almost have taken for the cries of the long-dead Scottish Queen, so engrossed in Holmes’s tale had I become – cut through the stormy night with an awesome, deafening power. The train was clearly in some sort of trouble, and the screaming of the halted steel wheels against the rails, along with the blasting whistle of the engine, indicated that the trouble was serious. We had just had time to right ourselves, the mighty vehicle sending showers of sparks up from the track as far back as our car and beyond, when a second, even more ominous noise roared out from somewhere in the darkness around us:
It was the unmistakable sound of an explosion, and not the variety that might have accompanied some malfunction of the steam engine.
‘A shell-burst, Watson?’ Holmes cried out to me.
‘I think not!’ said I. ‘The report was too dull for artillery!’
Holmes rushed to a window to scrutinise the scene ahead. ‘A bomb, then – yes, there! Near the line!’
‘Can you see if the rails are damaged?’ I asked, rushing over and straining to get my head and upper body out of the window next to Holmes’s.
‘No, they do not appear to be – however—’
At that both Holmes and I turned at the sight of a rushing shadow that was moving quickly towards our car; but before either of us could acknowledge it in words, the shadow had leapt up onto the compartment step and, with stunningly strong arms, pushed us back so quickly and unexpectedly that we both lost our footing.
I found myself on the compartment floor; Holmes managed to swing himself into a seat, avoiding the same fate.
‘Stay inside, I beg of you!’ said the young man who Holmes had identified as a naval officer prior to our departure from London. A few sailor’s oaths followed this outburst, after which the formerly calm, pleasant-voiced fellow produced a naval service revolver and slammed our windows closed. We heard shouting voices and the crunch of heavy boots running along the gravel beneath the rails—
Then, just as we were beginning to collect ourselves, several shots rang out.
Producing my own service revolver quickly, I determined to make for the door again, indignant that I should have been given orders about my own safety, and that of my noteworthy friend, by this pup of an officer who did not even belong to a combat arm of his service. ‘Why, the very idea,’ I murmured, cocking the hammer of my revolver. ‘“Intelligence,” indeed …!’
I had already grasped the latch of the compartment door, when Holmes seized hold of my arm, crying, ‘Watson – look out!’ and pulled me back. He had seen what I could not: yet another young man, this one even more agitated than the last, with an expression on his pale face that was fanaticism itself. This last effect was dramatically heightened by a fiery red beard, unkempt hair of a similar length and colour, and, most fearsome of all, a long, terrible scar that made a tangled mess of his right cheek and obscured his right eye hideously. The fellow’s powerful arm and sharp elbow were more than a match for the compartment door’s window, and in a burst it shattered inward, driving Holmes and me away from the flying glass.
‘We know why ye’ve come!’ declared the young madman in a thick brogue; and even as he did, I detected the ominous smell of burning black powder. ‘But we’ll nae let ye muhrder more Scots patriots! Have a taste of what ye gave Denny McKay!’
Before either Holmes or I could react, the young man had disappeared from the window – not, however, without depositing something inside the compartment.
Looking down, both my friend and I saw the ominous form of a small home-made bomb.
What appeared to be a moderate-sized tin had been stuffed to overflowing with a granular explosive that was compacted by something that looked and smelled all too much like pyroxylin, or ‘gun-cotton,’ the highly explosive and inflammable wadding used in modern artillery. The lid, which was wired on tight, had been punctured in the centre, and a home-made fuse was stuffed into the hole.
I heard Holmes issue a short sound that, even for him, was a rather abominable approximation of laughter. ‘A tobacco tin!’ he declared; and then he turned to me. ‘A bomb in a tin of tobacco – there is a double irony in that, don’t you think, Watson?’
‘No, I do not, Holmes!’ I cried, resisting an impulse to seize my friend and shake some sense into him. ‘That fuse is burning!’
Chapter IV
FROM OUT OF THE MIST
Holmes shrugged, almost casually, and approached the deadly device. ‘Burning it may be, Watson – but these Scots nationalists could learn a few things from their Irish cousins …’
Reaching down with what seemed to me suicidal daring, Holmes simply pulled the fuse from the tin, dropped it on the floor, and rubbed it out with his boot. Looking at my thunderstruck features, his face filled with disappointment. ‘Really, Watson – surely you detected the aroma of slow-burning black powder.’
I felt a sudden pang of embarrassment. ‘Why – yes. Now that you mention it.’
‘We had, at the very least, ten to fifteen seconds in which to devise a solution.’
I concealed my service revolver back beneath my jacket, regarding my friend with an odd mixture of admiration and anger. ‘I apologise if I was overly alarmed, Holmes, but—’
‘Please, old friend,’ he answered quickly, holding up a hand. ‘After all – who knows how I should have reacted in your place on the North-West Frontier, facing a wave of onrushing Afghan fighters with their Jezail rifles?’
It was a very decent concession; but before I could acknowledge it, we both heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, again moving along the gravel of the railway line: likely our escort. Holmes gripped my arm securely, pocketed the deadly tobacco tin, and murmured, ‘It would perhaps be best if we did not reveal all the details of what we have seen, Watson – these men have clearly not told us all, about either our mission or theirs; why should we show them any greater courtesy?’
I nodded once, and then the face of the young naval officer appeared again at our now-vacant window frame.
‘Ah!’ he noised. ‘So the fellow was here, as well, was he?’
‘Someone was,’ I lied quickly. ‘We had little chance to see him, however – he shattered the glass, but could do nothing else before your approach.’
The young officer nodded, still holding his pistol aloft. ‘That’s lucky,’ he said with a grin, his affability returning; then he seemed to catch wind of something. ‘Hello – what’s that smell?’ he said, eyeing the pair of us with increased scrutiny.
‘That is my fault, I’m afraid,’ Holmes answered, seeing that I had exhausted my capacity for extemporaneous fabrication. ‘The excitement made me rather anxious to smoke, but the bursting window unsteadied my hand. I ignited an entire box of matches’ – he held up his unlit pipe – ‘to no effect.’
The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘You, Mr Holmes?’
‘With age, we all lose some measure of our steadiness under fire.’ Holmes gave the man a friendly nod. ‘With luck, you will never experience as much yourself.’
The young officer, evidently satisfied, smiled again and stepped back from the door. ‘Would you care to take another compartment, gentlemen?’ He indicated the window frame. ‘The temperature is dropping rather quickly, I’m afraid, and the rain shows no sign of relenting.’
‘An excellent suggestion,’ answered Holmes. Then he held out an arm to the door. ‘Watson? You would not like to add ague to the list of the evening’s entertainments, I trust …’
I wondered why Holmes was so insistent about my leaving the compartment first, but I did not wonder for long: When I had fetched my bag and my rod case from the overhead rack and then moved to the doorway, I observed him using the cover of my body to swi
ftly reach down and scoop up the remains of the burned fuse of the bomb.
‘Certainly not,’ said I, lingering in the opening to allow my friend a moment to complete his work. ‘No damage to the rails, I trust?’ I asked the officer.
‘No, Doctor – the member of their group who was responsible for hurling the bomb did so far too soon, and it fell well short.’
‘One wonders why they did not simply plant the thing.’
‘No doubt you’ve encountered these types before, Doctor,’ said the young man dismissively. ‘More conviction than spine or knowledge.’
I perceived an opening: ‘Indeed? You know who they were, then?’
The man’s smile – as evasive as it was charming, I now recognised – flashed once more. ‘I would really rather leave such discussions for the rendezvous, Doctor. If you don’t mind.’
I eyed him with friendly scrutiny. ‘The “rendezvous”?’
‘Yes. It’s fortunate, really – a few minutes more, and we should have been at a full stop and much more vulnerable.’
I saw that Holmes was now ready, and said, ‘Well, confident in the knowledge that you also intend to explain nothing about that cryptic remark, let’s indeed move. One compartment back, I think, eh, Holmes? I’ve no desire to be any closer to another such performance.’
‘My precise sentiments, Watson,’ Holmes said, joining me with his own bags at last.
Watching us take up our new accommodations, the young officer called out, ‘We’ll be under way in a moment – but, as I say, it won’t be long before we stop again, though for a reason that will, I trust, be far more welcome!’
