by Caleb Carr
With that, the fellow disappeared forwards at a run. The shouting voices around us – no one of their statements fully distinguishable – indicated failure to locate the lunatic whose wild features were now impressed quite vividly on my mind. We locked ourselves into the compartment, and in mere moments we were moving again.
‘Imagine it, Holmes!’ I said. ‘Not the least word of explanation from that fellow about this ominous business!’
‘No,’ said Holmes, taking both the unexploded bomb and the fuse remnants from his pockets and laying them atop a handkerchief he had spread out on a vacant seat. ‘But does that really surprise you, Watson? We still have no precise idea of who they are – and now this business of a “rendezvous”!’
‘Absurd’ was all I could think to say, as I joined my friend in examining the device that had been meant, it seemed, to kill us. ‘Are there any clues to our attackers’ identities, at least, in that thing?’
Holmes did not appear hopeful. ‘A brand of tobacco common to south-eastern Scotland – inexpensive, with a grotesque flavour.’
‘Holmes, I was more interested in—’
‘But a double irony, all the same, Watson – our investigation begins with a discussion of tobacco, and just as we turn to reviewing the tale of the Scottish Queen and her opponents, what appears to have been a Highland fanatic drops this device …’
‘“Appears to have been”?’ I said in amazement. ‘If that is the appearance, I should not like to encounter a genuine example.’
‘Nor should I …’ Holmes’s voice trailed off as he continued to examine the bomb, carefully disassembling it. ‘Pyroxylin – gun-cotton,’ he said, pulling some of it free. ‘No doubt you noticed it?’
‘Indeed,’ was my reply. ‘I encountered the stuff in Afghanistan, when we began using the first Armstrong guns. Had the creator of this package known his business, he would have realised that gun-cotton can be even more destructive than black powder. Given the proportions, had the fuse been of an appropriate length to explode this bomb when he threw it, he would likely have been killed as well.’
Holmes inhaled the distinct aroma produced by the nitric and sulphuric acids in which ordinary cotton gunnery wadding had been soaked to create the additional propulsive power of pyroxylin.
‘Indeed, Watson,’ he said at length, ‘and that incongruity is noteworthy. It is quite …’ Holmes fell to silent examination again.
‘Holmes?’ enquired I. ‘What made you say that a bomb is ironic, given that we were discussing the Scottish Queen and her enemies?’
‘Hmm? Ah – yes. Why, the moment in the tale that we had reached, Watson. Do you not recall the fate of the Scottish Queen’s cowardly husband, Darnley? Within months of the birth of the child she was carrying on the night of Rizzio’s murder – the child James, who would be the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England – Mary became deeply enamoured of—’
‘The Earl of Bothwell, yes,’ I said, recalling the story at last. ‘A man of great physical strength and unshakable loyalty, or so the story goes.’
‘So, indeed. And less than a year after the prince’s birth, the house in which Darnley was staying – for he had been cast out of Mary’s palace – was destroyed by a massive explosion. Darnley himself escaped at the last moment – only to be found strangled just outside the wreckage.’
I sat back, somewhat overcome at the mounting level of violence that seemed to be closing in on us as we continued shooting through the storm and the night into an ever less hospitable climate. ‘Furious stabbings … bombs … Holmes, what in Heaven’s name are we entering into?’
Holmes glanced up and out of the window. ‘Scotland, I should say …’
‘Yes, yes, but—’ I made a concerted effort to get hold of my nerves by returning to rational thought. ‘I should like to bring you back to one central notion, Holmes.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Well,’ I began, realising that the speed of our train had once again diminished; but the process was at least gradual this time. ‘It’s only that – and I say this with no disrespect for your outrage over Rizzio’s murder, which was truly a ghastly crime – but you seem peculiarly focused on the coincidence of location and wounds, between that crime and the deaths of Sinclair and McKay. Yet these are matters of sheer coincidence, and nothing more, surely. Unless …’ I stopped, not knowing how to precisely frame my next statement, much less give voice to the doubts that underlay it.
Holmes seemed to take little note of my discomfort, saying, ‘I despise coincidences, Watson – never more so than in matters of murder.’
‘How well do I know it.’
‘Then it would seem imperative that you finish the statement you have begun with “Unless …”’
‘Very well.’ I bested all anxieties with a forceful rush: ‘I was simply going to say, unless you truly do believe that there is some – some spiritual connection between the murder of Rizzio and the cases we are on our way to investigate.’
Holmes stared at me, a bit blankly. ‘I should have thought it plainly apparent that I do consider such a “spiritual connection” to lie at the very heart of these matters, Watson.’
‘But, Holmes, you surely are not – you cannot be saying that you believe a – a ghost to be at work here? Some vengeful wraith that is haunting Holyroodhouse?’
Holmes’s features began to widen with a smile that, had it broadened any further, would have turned my discomfort to the beginnings of a far deeper alarm. He opened his seemingly amused mouth as if to speak – but at that precise instant, the train began to decelerate more deliberately. Moving to our compartment’s door and opening its window, I could see nothing in the vicinity that resembled even a house, much less a station, and Holmes – who joined me after carefully wrapping and again concealing the bomb elements – had no better luck. We therefore ignored the instructions of our young ‘hosts’ by opening the compartment door, unfolding the small set of steps beneath it, and descending to the ground. This vantage point afforded us a good look at yet another alarming scene.
The various intelligence men were again out and scouring the areas along both sides of the track, weapons at the ready and doing little to support the naval officer’s earlier contention that this was some sort of scheduled stop. Amid a thick mist made even more impenetrable by the enormous amounts of steam being expelled by our engine through what appeared to be every hole and seam in its iron skin, the men went about their search in an even more frantic manner (or so it seemed to me) than they had exhibited during the attack. The only conclusion I could draw was that we were now facing a threat greater than nationalists armed with bombs – and all too soon I saw something that indicated that their anxiety might be justified.
‘Look there, Holmes!’ I cried.
A scant thirty yards in front of the engine, we could both discern a glowing red light, some six or seven feet from the ground and seeming, through the fog and mist, to blink like the eye of some mythical beast.
‘One would expect,’ Holmes mused evenly, ‘to find a dragon in Wales, rather than Scotland …’
It soon became apparent that the light was moving towards us, although at no hurried pace; and before long, it became equally obvious that our ‘dragon’s eye’ was, in fact, a signalman’s lantern fitted with a brilliant red lens. As a human figure became discernible beneath the lantern, the intelligence men called to each other and descended on the exceptionally tall, heavyset newcomer, who wore a long cloak and a homburg and steadied himself with a very fine walking stick. But it was obvious that this fellow was no enemy, for the barrels of the young men’s pistols all turned skyward as they approached him and their manners turned quite deferential. A few seconds more, and the man was within a dozen feet of us, his face plainly visible in the lantern’s glow:
It was Mycroft Holmes, who had never appeared to me so utterly out of his element. He stood, exhaling great, condensed clouds as he listened to the young men tell him what I assumed to have been the t
ale of our attack; then he issued instructions to the collected officers, in a firm but not entirely familiar manner, and they obeyed him by immediately dashing off again, in every conceivable direction. He then approached our car, all the while puffing and heaving and trying to catch his breath.
Holmes leapt nimbly onto the steps beneath our compartment, then slipped one arm through the open window and swung to and fro with the door. ‘Well, brother!’ he called out. ‘You appear to have become the high panjandrum of some Eastern cult, complete with acolytes and bloodthirsty rituals! Which of your rites is so arcane that it must take place under the cover of a stormy night in the middle of – I shall not hazard a guess as to our precise location. I should have put us at just over the Scottish border, but my attention has been diverted during the last hour!’
‘Do remove yourself from the doorway, Sherlock,’ Mycroft replied wearily, his broad face never more florid, but his extraordinary grey eyes never more full of purpose. As his brother obeyed the order by retreating into the car, Mycroft added: ‘There is much to speak of, and if I do not sit down quickly I fear I may collapse into uselessness.’ With no little effort, I assisted the elder Holmes up and into the car; and as I did, he glanced back at me and offered the peculiar expression that was as close to kindness and appreciation as either of the Holmes brothers ever came. ‘I am grateful that you have been able to come along, Doctor.’ I followed Mycroft into the car and seated myself opposite him and next to Holmes, as the intelligence men readied our compartment doorway for departure. ‘I may assume, then,’ Mycroft continued, ‘that neither of you was in any way injured during the earlier episode?’
‘You may – if you care to engage in such mentally debilitating habits as assumption, Mycroft. You really might have included some warning about lunatic bombers in your message, you know.’
The elder Holmes’s features filled with enormous embarrassment. ‘I apologise for this unforeseen development, Sherlock – and to you, especially, Dr Watson. I simply did not believe that the matter would turn so deadly so quickly.’
‘Which implies, however, that you believed it would turn deadly eventually,’ replied Holmes.
‘Of course,’ said Mycroft simply. ‘I should have thought that my message indicated as much.’ He seemed momentarily surprised. ‘I trust that the communication did not pose an insurmountable problem?’
‘Not at all, sir,’ said I, aware that our circumstances had caused me to regard this man – whose company I had shared on several other dangerous cases – with an involuntarily heightened respect.
‘Don’t allow Watson to humbug you, Mycroft,’ Holmes replied to his brother’s query. ‘He at least found your message a most diverting exercise!’
Mycroft regarded his brother with a look of indulgent irritation and said, ‘How deftly you insult us both, Sherlock.’ He then glanced at me. ‘He was a peevish boy, Doctor, ever on the lookout to build himself up by running others down – a habit he has maintained through adulthood.’
Just then, the face of the naval officer appeared at the window. He opened the door enough to insert his head. ‘All clear, Mr Holmes,’ he said to Mycroft. ‘Nothing and no one about, except a few sheep.’
‘Excellent,’ Mycroft answered, again with a peculiar blend of authority and awkwardness. ‘If you will, then, assemble the others on board and let’s be on our way – I should like to be within the precincts of the palace before full daylight.’
‘Yes, sir.’ With that the young man was off again; as were we, within seconds.
‘They’re enthusiastic fellows, but they have an irritating habit of mistaking keenness for efficiency,’ Mycroft said, as we rumbled back up to full speed. ‘This business of not using names, for example – it all smacks rather too much of the Continental variety of espionage. Alas, Sherlock …’ The lamentation seemed genuine, if slightly theatrical. ‘I envy you. There will always be a place in the world for the consulting detective – but the solitary intelligencer? A threatened breed! After all, if you two, having been asked into this business, cannot be trusted with the very names of our cohorts, who can be?’
‘So these creatures are not yours, Mycroft?’ asked Holmes.
His brother shook his head. ‘You know my methods, Sherlock, as well as I know yours. I labour alone, drawing only those who are already involved or who are for some reason necessary into each endeavour. It is the sole manner in which even a moderate amount of security can be obtained. As for these’ – he raised an enormous, gloved hand and indicated the front and then the rear of the train – ‘they are members of the intelligence arms of the army and navy. But come, Sherlock, you have determined as much already, I’m certain of that.’
Holmes inclined his head ever so slightly to acknowledge the correct presumption. ‘Are they seconded to you, then?’
‘They are – and they are not. Until we have resolved the matter, and despite my strong protest, they are ordered to assist – but I have the distinct impression that “assist”, in this case, includes “monitor”. Under ordinary circumstances, I should never have permitted such shadowy men the opportunity to observe my methods, or yours – but these are far from ordinary circumstances, as you have already seen.’
Holmes nodded once more, saying, ‘And by “ordinary circumstances”, in this case, you mean a routine pair of deaths, even a routine pair of murders, involving two royal employees?’When Mycroft only cleared his throat uncomfortably in response, Holmes pressed him. ‘Come now, brother. It is apparent that such a collection as is aboard this train would not be assembled merely to investigate two deaths, just as you yourself have said – nor would a band of Scottish nationalists – or what we were clearly meant to believe were Scottish nationalists – have attempted to destroy us in so patently inexpert a manner!’ To his brother’s puzzled expression, Holmes offered a quick summary of the incident concerning the second bomb, as well as his reasons for having withheld the details of the matter from the intelligence officers, an attitude of instinctive suspicion that Mycroft, we now knew, not only understood but shared. Then Holmes pressed: ‘And so, perhaps you will tell us, Mycroft. What is it that actually brings us all together?’
‘I shall tell all I can – but pay close heed, Sherlock. You, too, Dr Watson.’ Mycroft produced a hefty flask, filled to brimming with what I would soon find was an excellent brandy. ‘There is much you need to know, and I believe we just have time for me to reveal all, before we reach Holyroodhouse …’
Chapter V
OF ROYAL GAMES, THE LESSER
AND ‘THE GREAT’
‘You have no doubt made Dr Watson aware of the extent of my relationship with Her Majesty by now, Sherlock,’ Mycroft Holmes began. ‘In fact, I suspect you made him aware of as much even before you left Baker Street.’
‘An elementary deduction, brother, and unworthy of mention,’ replied Holmes. ‘Of course I would have had to do so, in order to convince him that your rather melodramatic message did indeed relate to an urgent case.’
‘Just so.’ Mycroft trained his penetrating grey eyes and masterful brow – which, like all the other noble features of his face, seemed so very out of place atop his huge, rather corpulent body – on me. ‘And you, Doctor – have you been convinced of as much?’
Before answering Mycroft’s question, I glanced uncertainly at Holmes, whose attitude towards the possibility of an other-worldly explanation of the Holyroodhouse murders had, prior to his brother’s arrival, become a source of some concern to me. ‘Well, sir,’ I replied at length, ‘of course one does not experience an attempted train bombing without becoming convinced that one has fallen into some extraordinary business. But as to the matter of an “urgent case” – I fear my answer must necessarily depend upon which case we are discussing.’ From the furthest corner of my eye, I thought I detected a shaking movement of Holmes’s head and even a patronising smile on his face, although my actual gaze remained fixed upon Mycroft.
‘Why, the murders of Sinclair and
McKay, of course,’ replied the elder Holmes simply; and then an expression of comprehension quickly replaced the close scrutiny that had been in his face. ‘Ah. I perceive that Sherlock has been at work upon you, with fanciful notions concerning the history of Holyroodhouse.’
‘My dear Mycroft, I do not allow “fancy” to enter my analyses. I have merely given Watson the background necessary to a full understanding of any murder that concerns the palace.’
‘Indeed? And is it your habit to number local legends among the background points of every case you undertake, Sherlock?’
‘We have had to weigh the merits of such tales more often than you might think, brother.’ Holmes sat back in his seat, once more settling into the upturned collar of his coat with an immense air of self-satisfaction. ‘And when the circumstances of some current crime match those of a legendary one so exactly, it is my experience that the legend is in some way involved.’
Mycroft lifted just one of his authoritative brows sceptically. ‘I hope I have not made an error in enlisting your help, Sherlock – I assure you, this matter shall require as great a seriousness of purpose as you can muster.’
Before the conversation degenerated into further fraternal bickering, I thought it best to intervene: ‘There is one point of fact upon which I remain unclear, gentlemen, and should appreciate clarification.’ Both men turned to me. ‘You have each referred to this case as involving two murders – yet every newspaper account describes Sir Alistair Sinclair’s demise as an accident.’
Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat in the uncomfortable manner that was habitual with him during moments of uneasiness, as it is with many similarly phlegmatic characters. ‘That was my doing, I fear, Dr Watson. And in explaining why I so deceived the press, I can’ – he sent another admonishing look his brother’s way – ‘at last get to the real business at hand. You read that Sir Alistair fell asleep in some tall grass, and was there run down by an automatic farming implement – correct?’
