by Anna Lord
“Quite so,” agreed Mycroft. “I’m in favour of the amendment but a lot of our members feel threatened. Some Irishmen are Fenian sympathisers and though they can infiltrate labour organisations and working men’s clubs it is currently difficult for them to infiltrate the sorts of clubs where political matters or national secrets are privately aired in the Stranger’s Room. As for Americans, it is possible they will sway trade arguments in favour of our Atlantic cousins rather than our own people – money talks and they have a lot of voice at their disposal.”
“Miss de Merville also mentioned about the recent vote for primus baro. You won by a single vote, Uncle Mycroft. As the position is held for life there can be no new vote unless something fatal befalls you.”
Mycroft appeared unconcerned. “Yes, de Merville missed out by a whisker. But he is hardly likely to bump me off simply because he wants to be primus baro.”
“I understand the other candidate, Admiral Quantock, has since died?”
“Yes; drowned in the Solent. If you are suggesting de Merville bumped him off to eliminate future competition I would find that hard to swallow. I have known de Merville for more than twenty years. He is a brave soldier and an excellent leader of men.”
“Where does he stand on the Irish Guards question?” she asked.
“I refuse to discuss his views on the subject.”
“What about your views on the subject?” she persisted.
Mycroft hesitated before deciding he was amongst family – or the closest to family he would ever have - and that the three individuals around the table had his best interests at heart. “I am in favour of forming a regiment of Irish Guards. It is long overdue. The Irish have always conducted themselves honourably in battle. We already have a regiment of Highlanders. Keeping men who are affiliated in the same regiment makes sense. Moreover, a single Irish regiment limits the opportunity for an uprising from within our own ranks. If they are all contained to one regiment they have less chance to spread chaos.”
Dr Watson withdrew his calabash and rested it on the edge of an ashtray while he refilled his port glass. “What are the objections?”
Mycroft declined another glass of port; he’d had three already, and that was on top of the Moselle, Cabernet, and Madeira. “The Irish Guards question comes at the end of an acrimonious shake-up of the army: administration, dress, tactics, weaponry – the whole kit and caboodle. Board of Ordnance versus Commissariat versus War Office. Camp Roberts versus Camp Wolseley. Africa versus India. Many men prefer the status quo. Change can be unnerving. If it were left up to certain high-ranking officers we would still be charging the enemy with cold steel in Swaziland. It worked at Waterloo in 1815 they would say!”
“Lord Roberts is in favour?” checked Dr Watson.
Mycroft nodded.
“Sir James Damery would be in Camp Roberts,” noted the Countess, “since he is Irish.”
“It would appear so,” replied Mycroft without committing himself.
“He would also be in favour of the amendment,” added Dr Watson.
“Most likely,” said Mycroft vaguely.
“Where does de Merville stand on this?”
“If you want to know de Merville’s views you must ask him.”
“If he is opposed,” opined Sherlock, “that would put him at odds to his friend Damery.”
Mycroft glanced at his fob watch then pushed to his feet and directed his words to his hostess and niece. “Thank you for dinner. I have an early start tomorrow. Don’t let me break up the party. I instructed my coachman to return for ten o’clock and it is a quarter after the hour. I don’t want to leave him sitting out in the cold for too long. Please don’t inconvenience yourself. I will see myself out.”
Despite Mycroft’s declaration, the Countess walked with him to the door to satisfy herself that his coachman was indeed where he should be. When she returned, Dr Watson and Sherlock had removed themselves to the library end of the drawing room. A coal fire having burned quietly in the grate all evening warmed the length of the room nicely. Dr Watson re-lighted his calabash and closed his eyes. Sherlock lighted his briar pipe and looked earnestly at his daughter.
“Do you still have the Russian nesting doll?” he asked, curious to see what such a doll actually looked like.
She shook her head. “I put it on the dressing table in Clarges Hotel and after Prince Sergei’s visit it disappeared.”
“He took it with him?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder why?”
“A memento mori perhaps?”
“But then why place it in the bath with her – presuming he killed her?”
“Perhaps it was a spontaneous decision to take it when he spotted it on the dressing table. The prince must have assumed Mycroft found the dolls, including the smallest doll. By taking the dolls he let Mycroft know they were not his to keep.”
“Hmm, it is up to the three of us to save my brother,” he said bluntly. “There will undoubtedly be a third attempt on his life and I don’t think we will need to wait too long to see what form it will take. We could go round and round in circles debating the Irish question and the amendment to the constitution of the club – my thought is that they are linked. There is no doubt de Merville and Damery have taken sides, either together or opposed. Appearances can be deceiving. They may even appear to be opposed but working in cahoots. Men are generally self-serving. If it is in their interests they will oppose their own mother without compunction. Now, it is impossible for me to go undercover inside the club, and likewise Watson, so that leaves, you.”
He looked directly into her blue-grey eyes, the spitting sharpness of his. “With some clever make up, a wig, a moustache and a small beard, I think you might pull it off. The main obstacle would be the hands. Fortunately the butlers in the Diogenes Club are required to wear white gloves. The ‘no speaking’ rule eliminates any voice problem. You have grown up with butlers around you so you are familiar with butlers’ duties. I think it might be easier to pull off than we suppose. What do you say?”
The prospect of going undercover inside a gentlemen’s club was too tempting. She didn’t need to think too long. “Yes, of course. I regard it as an opportunity to help Uncle Mycroft, and a challenge that any novice detective would not hesitate to take up. If I am going to garner a scandalous reputation I would rather it be for what I did rather than who I slept with.”
“Splendid,” said Sherlock, before turning to look squarely at his friend who had been listening despite resting his eyes. “Watson, you will not be idle. It is common knowledge that members of the Diogenes Club can often be found in the Turkish Baths on Northumberland Avenue. In fact, the baths are often referred to as the Greek Pool as a nod to Diogenes and not homosexuals as many erroneously believe. Clandestine conferences are known to be held there. Again, it is impossible for a man with a mechanical arm and no left foot to make use of a Turkish Bath and remain incognito, so it will be up to you, Watson, to hang about there as often as possible to see who comes and goes. You will need to put it about that you are suffering from lumbago or an imbalance of the humours, whatever you wish. Not such a bad assignment, hey?”
“Not at all,” said Dr Watson, feeling confident that he could pull off a bit of lounging around and watching who comes and goes. He hadn’t been to the Turkish Baths for ages, in fact, not since the incident at Reichenbach Falls. Going there always reminded him of the intimate times he had shared with Sherlock. It wasn’t the same without him.
“That leaves me,” said Sherlock. “I shall not be idle. I shall find myself a role. But if you don’t mind I will keep it to myself.”
“We haven’t touched on the death of the princess yet,” said the Countess. “Uncle Mycroft’s reaction to her death has been puzzling me.”
“In what way?” asked Sherlock.
“He seemed to take it personally, as if, well, as if he had somehow caused it. At first I thought it might simply be a delicate diplomatic incident that neede
d careful handling, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed somehow personal. And his over-reaction to your comment about the vanity of princesses seemed to trigger something.”
“I certainly touched a raw nerve,” admitted Sherlock.
Dr Watson withdrew his ebony mouthpiece. “Quite frankly, I was shocked. I have never even heard Mycroft raise his voice. I put it down to nerves and a guilty conscience – not that I am suggesting he had anything to feel guilty about. The bombs may have been intended for him but he is not personally responsible for them. Even tonight he seemed on edge and reticent to discuss things with his customary candour. It was as if he was being guarded and obscurantist.”
“He is definitely holding something back,” agreed Sherlock, “in fact it is not an exaggeration to say he may even work against us in this matter, against his own best interests. It is up to us to watch out for him since he is unwilling to watch out for himself.”
No one spoke for a few minutes. It was the Countess who broke the silence.
“We have not even touched on Prince Sergei. When he spoke to Uncle Mycroft in the hotel room I got the impression the two men were duelling - lunge, thrust, parry - it was like a fencing competition in which they understood the rules but no one else had a clue. What remained unspoken seemed more relevant than what was said.”
Sherlock placed his briar pipe on an ashtray and steepled his fingers. “Yes, the death of the princess may be at the root of this matter and my brother is keeping something important to himself. I don’t think there is any point pushing him. It will be counterproductive. He will simply pull up the draw-bridge.”
Later that night, after Sherlock and Dr Watson had taken themselves off to Baker Street, the Countess couldn’t help feeling that Sherlock was holding something back as well.
Tendrils of mist like milky whey curled on the surface of the lake and snaked through the wood of Copper Beeches, throwing a mantle over the furtive rendezvous.
“Let’s get this over with,” growled Colonel Moriarty as soon as a familiar shadowy figure stepped out from the inky darkness swamping the trees. “It’s bloody cold out here. Got any smart ideas? If not -”
“Just one,” interrupted Major Nash in deep and throaty muffled tones signalling intense irritation. “If I hadn’t been busy chasing you or that pirate, or wondering about the lady in the purple and gold dress who turned out to be the Countess’s maid, or keeping an eye on the Russian ambassador, I would have paid more attention to that roaming photographer.”
Moriarty had spent a good part of the day beating himself up about his lack of attention as well. “Yes, he had to be the bomb man. He was free to roam. If anyone questioned what he was doing he could immediately pretend to be fixing something on his camera. We don’t even know if his camera worked. He could have had bombs concealed inside the device. Though it’s pretty clear someone else directed him where to place them. Today, I spoke to the men who had been on guard duty and no one remembers seeing him after the bombs exploded.”
“What about the other photographer – the one working in the studio?”
“Well, he’s different. He was stuck in the studio the whole time. The roaming man is the one who would have had the chance to do serious damage.”
“We need to follow-up both men.”
“Agreed,” said Moriarty. “Did you have a chance to think about how – shhh!”
Military training kicked in when a rustling sound in the undergrowth alerted them to the fact they might not be the only two men in the wood. Instinctively they moved to take cover, silently extracting the revolvers buried deep in their coat pockets whilst straining for the next sound and sieving it from the usual nocturnal noises.
After a few anxious moments with breaths on hold, a red fox emerged from the coppery bracken equally alert to any danger. It froze, twitched some whiskers, cocked its ears, and sensing peril, fled. The two men relaxed their guard.
“Where did you leave your horse?” whispered Moriarty.
“By the stable block. I hung around for a bit to make sure I wasn’t being followed before heading this way.”
“I left my horse in the carriage porch and wandered around a bit to make sure no one was tagging along. Let’s move to the other side of the lake. You go that way. I’ll go this. Meet you in about ten or fifteen minutes by the pump house.”
Both men heard a dull splash as if a creature was going for a midnight swim but it was too dark to make anything out. They continued skirting the lake and by the time they reached the pump house they had convinced themselves that nerves had caused them to over-react.
“You were saying?” prompted Major Nash, keen to get on with the rendezvous.
“Did you come up with any ideas how we might proceed?”
“You were right in that we cannot go about questioning de Merville or Damery or Prince Sergei. Even if they agreed to see us they would either lie through their teeth or simply string us along. It would be a waste t of time.”
Moriarty was surprised he and Nash were in accord yet again; he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them could agree on anything discounting the time they cornered The Hon. Pugsy Setterfield in a corner of the Hellfire Club and forced him cough up what he owed them. That was the thing with the self-entitled – they settled their debts with their betters but never their inferiors. Most tradesmen went broke because the self-entitled rich never paid them for the work they had commissioned.
“So that leaves us nowhere.”
“Not quite. Listen to my proposal. It’s a long shot but it might just get us moving in the right direction.”
Moriarty was willing to consider all ideas at least once no matter how dunder-headed. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“We need to gather the main suspects together in one place and let interaction and conversation take its natural course while we listen and observe.”
Dunder-headed scheme was right. “Where did this idea spring from?”
“Last night when Mycroft Holmes lost his rag it got me thinking. Something must have got under his skin. In five years I’ve never heard him so much as raise his monotone above a low-level drone. If we hadn’t been sent packing we might have learned something useful in the conversation that followed.”
Moriarty wasn’t convinced. “So where exactly did you have in mind for this gathering of main suspects?”
“I thought the Countess could hold a dinner party at her house in Mayfair. The only hiccup is that people are on their best behaviour at dinner parties and –”
Moriarty laughed risibly. “We must move in different circles!”
“Any way, then came the spark. We could gather under the roof at my place in Kent.”
Moriarty tried not to laugh even more risibly but it was impossible; he guffawed loudly. “You mean that wobbly-walled Tudor barn! Has it still got a roof?”
Nash took no offence; he hated the old Tudor millstone around his neck that held no happy childhood memories. “A new slate roof – as a matter of fact.”
“I presume some half-timbered stumps are holding it up?”
Nash decided to nip sarcasm in the bud. “My great-aunt died three years ago in Canada. It was her dream to see the family seat restored to its original glory. She entailed enough money in her will for the restoration of Longchamps. It meant I couldn’t spend the money on anything else but at least the Tudor barn won’t collapse under my watch.”
“What did you call it?”
“Longchamps.” He pronounced it like the French.
“I thought it was called Crowditch or Cowbyre?”
“They’re the names of some of the cottages on the estate.”
“All right, Kent it is, but how do you expect to lure anyone to Longchamps? Prince Sergei Malamtov is hardly likely to accept an invitation issued by a penniless baronet.”
“I’ve been giving it some thought. Mycroft will have to issue the invitations. He can explain how he wants to bring everyone together to discuss who s
et the bombs to kill the Prince Regent and he can say he wants to hold the meeting away from London’s gossip-mongers, hence the private country house of his aide de camp.”
“The bombs weren’t intended for the Prince Regent,” pointed out Moriarty.
“We know that but as far as anyone else is concerned that’s who the bombs were meant to kill. No one will want to look like they’re not concerned for the good health of the heir to the throne. Ergo, they will attend. The Countess will have to be in on it because I don’t have any servants, just one old retainer who is on his last legs. She has about fifteen servants in Mayfair. The more she can spare the better.”
Moriarty began nodding; the plan was not as dunder-headed as he first thought. “Who do you plan to invite?”
“Mycroft, the Countess, Dr Watson, General de Merville, Miss de Merville, Sir James Damery, the Russian prince, and the woman we love to hate.”
“Isadora Klein – why her?”
“She’ll even out the ratio of men to women and she could act as a catalyst, cat among the pigeons, so to speak.”
“That makes ten,” said Moriarty.
“Nine,” corrected Nash. “You’re not invited. If you turn up everyone will smell a rat.”
“I’ll have a bath before I come.”
Nash squared his lantern jaw. “The men know we’re rivals for the affections of the Countess. If you get invited it will look dodgy.”
Moriarty hated that Nash was right and decided not to twist the self-inflicted knife any further. “What about Blague?”
“The American tycoon?”
“It just occurred to me he was with the others all night. Someone led those men to the dome for some shisha prior to the bomb going off. If you hadn’t turned up all trigger-happy and we hadn’t gone out to the wood for a spot of night-shooting I wonder what would have happened. Would all four of them have gone down to view the fireworks? Would one sneak off and leave the others up there to get blown to smithereens?”
“Now you mention it, the amendment to the constitution of the club involves Americans. The vote is on extending membership to Americans and Irishmen.”
